Once the Egg Orno located the lead, she plugged it into the computer and pinched a series of budlike keys. Dozens of images appeared, but that was normal for anyone with compound eyes, and the Ramanthian found herself looking at a human being. A female, if she wasn’t mistaken—and an ugly one at that. Though not as fl?uent as her mate had been, the Egg Orno spoke serviceable standard, which enabled her to follow the conversation without diffi?culty. “My name is Kay Wilmot,” the alien said. “I am the assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”
The Ramanthian felt a sudden surge of excitement. Alway had met with a high-ranking Confederacy offi?cial!
Could this be it? What she’d been looking for? The aristocrat watched intently as the alien revealed that President Nankool had been captured and was being held on Jericho. It was valuable information. Or so it seemed to the Egg Orno. But what to do with it? Alway would have known what to do. She felt sure of that. But he was gone. However, rather than sit and worry at the problem, there was something more pressing the female had to take care of. And that was her mate’s funeral, a sad affair scheduled for the following morning. Where, if the Queen’s assassins wanted to fi?nish her, they would have the perfect opportunity.
But when the next day dawned clear and bright, and two of Alway’s Thraki friends joined the Egg Orno in front of the funeral pyre she had commissioned, she was the only Ramanthian present. So as the fl?ames rose to enfold the carefully wrapped body, there was no one other than her to extol the dead diplomat’s virtues or list his many accomplishments. A sudden wind took hold of the smoke along with her words and carried them east. A good omen according to Ramanthian traditions—but of no comfort to the bereaved widow.
Once the ceremony was over, and the fi?re had burned itself out, the Egg Orno shuffl?ed down the gentle slope toward the car she had hired. A Thraki was present to see her off. He had light brown fur, beady eyes, and prominent ears. “The ambassador didn’t receive much mail,” the offi?cial explained, as he offered her an envelope. “But what there was came through me. That’s an invitation to a reception at the Drac embassy. I know because I received one, too. Rumor has it that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa will attend.”
The Egg Orno felt something clutch at her stomach.
“The Hudathan?”
“Why, yes,” the Thraki replied mildly. “Do you know him?”
“We never met,” the Ramanthian replied bleakly. “But I know of him. . . . He fought a duel with my other mate and killed him.”
The offi?cial looked crestfallen. “I’m terribly sorry,” he mumbled contritely. “I was unaware of the connection, and I—”
“There’s no need to apologize,” the Egg Orno interrupted. “I would like to meet Triad Hiween Doma-Sa. Can I attend in Alway’s place?”
The Thraki swallowed uncomfortably. “Er, yes, I guess so. . . .”
“Good,” the Ramanthian replied. “I’ll see you there.”
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Thousands of eyes peered up into the azure blue sky as the specially equipped air car towed the free end of the space elevator south, toward the point where it would be captured by the ground crew and reeled into the forerunner ruins. Then, if all went well, the superstrong cable would be secured to the huge shackle-style fi?tting that had been installed there. And if things didn’t go well, then there would be hell to pay since both Commandant Mutuu and the War Mutuu had turned out to witness the historic moment from the comfort of a shaded pavilion and were unlikely to be very forgiving.
That added to the pressure Tragg felt as he and his slaves waited for the tubby air car to tow the 23,560-mile- long cable into position. From where the renegade stood, the whole thing looked like some sort of magic trick because of the way the space elevator hung seemingly unsupported under the vast canopy of blue sky.
But it was supported by the dreadnaught Imperator, which orbited high above. So the only problem was a variable wind, which presently sought to push the cable to the east, even as the air car fought to pull the shiny thread south.
And it should have worked, would have worked, except for one thing: The air car was not designed to function as a tug. So as the wind blew, and the operator began to use more power, the engine started to overheat, something the pilot became aware of as an audible alarm went off and a wisp of black smoke issued from the vehicle. Given all of the countervailing stresses involved, the Ramanthian knew that he had a minute, maybe less, in which to complete his mission.
“Drop the dragline!” the operator ordered, and felt a sense of relief as the troopers directly behind him wrestled a huge coil of rope up and over the side. The car bobbed in response, but because it was connected to the space elevator, couldn’t go far.
Tragg shaded his eyes as he looked upwards. A steady stream of smoke was pouring out of the air car by then, and the overseer felt a sudden stab of fear as the dragline fell toward the ground. Because the POWs were supposed to grab on to the line, and gain control of it before the space tether was released, but none of them were close enough to do so.
Meanwhile, as the engine began to cut in and out, the wind disappeared. That caused the air car to veer toward the west and the air strip. The pilot tried to compensate, but couldn’t overcome the tug’s inertia and gave the only order he could. “Release the cable!”
One of the crew members had been waiting for that very order and jerked a lever. The effect was to let the long, thin cable fall free of the air car. Because the dragline was connected to the free-swinging space elevator, it fl?ew across the surface of the airstrip like a three-hundredfoot-long whip.
Tragg screamed, “Catch it!” But the words came too late, as the dragline cut two Ramanthian troopers in half and went straight for the pavilion where Mutuu and his mate were up on their feet. The regally attired commandant hurled an invective at the pilot as the War Mutuu threw him down. And just in time, too, as the whiplike rope severed the pavilion’s roof supports and brought the entire structure crashing down around them. Thanks to the fact that most of the dragline’s kinetic energy had been expended, it was transformed from a whip into an elusive snake that slithered back and forth across the tarmac as if determined to escape into the jungle. The POWs, led by an infuriated Tragg, were in hot pursuit by then. But most of the prisoners were in such poor condition that they couldn’t run fast enough to catch up. Christine Vanderveen was one of the few exceptions. Not because the FSO was inherently stronger than the rest—but because of the extra food Tragg had forced her to eat. But none of that was on Vanderveen’s mind as she led the chase across the airstrip in an effort to capture the rope as quickly as possible and prevent reprisals. However, some of the other prisoners saw the situation differently, like the sailor
