dialed.
They took off, zooming up a ramp to the boulevard outside.
“Where are we going?” Ross said, not expecting an answer.
He didn’t get it.
They turned a corner, and immediately the driver smashed on the brakes. Careening toward them was a fast moving civilian car, another immediately behind it, as though the two were racing.
Racing? Here in the downtown area of Alphacity? Both cars seemed overflowing with kids.
The Surety driver swerved frantically, and uselessly. The lead racing car sideswiped them one way. He spun the wheel in desperation. The following car swiped them on the opposite side. There was screaming and rasping of tortured metal.
And over they went, rolling, crashing ultimately against a store front.
And all went black for Ross Westley.
Far, far away, and as though in a dream, he seemed to see Tilly, done up as she had been dressed that day when she’d told him she belonged to an archery club—in boy’s clothing, a Robin Hood-like cap on her head. She was bending, now, over one of the Surety men who had been thrown out onto the pavement. She was looking over the papers she had evidently pulled from his pockets, seemingly in no great hurry. She held a small shooter in one hand, as though she were very used to having a shooter in hand. And then the black rolled in again.
Chapter X
He came out of it to feel his head cushioned warmly and to feel the sensation of rapid movement still. Confusedly, he thought it must be impossible. The vehicle in which he rode had turned over.
A faraway voice said, “He isn’t hurt badly.”
Another voice—was there a feminine quality?—said ominously, “He’d better not be. You cloddies are on the precipitous side when it comes to rescues.”
Still a third voice said, in defense, “That Surety car was armored, Till. How’d you expect us to take it, especially with such short warning?”
Ross opened his eyes. “What in Zen’s happened?” he asked.
Tilly Trice grinned down at him. “The cavalry arrived in the nick of time,” she said. She patted his head. “Now you relax. Well have a medico look at you shortly.”
His head was in her lap. He closed his eyes again. Who was he to argue?
He tried to make sense of his position.
Evidently, the underground guerrillas were even more highly organized than the Alphaland authorities had suspected. Somehow, they had known of that meeting. Somehow they had suspected his arrest would follow. Somehow they had rescued him, for whatever purpose. It was quite a collection of somehows.
He must have dozed off again. When next he brought his mind to bear on his surroundings, he was being hustled, albeit gently, from the car in which he had been riding into what looked like an ordinary commercial garage, though of considerable size.
Their vehicle had pulled to the far end where customers could hardly have seen it. He was helped out, supported at each arm, and half led, half carried, into a room beyond. It appeared to be an office of some sort. Someone pushed a large file which swung on hinges, revealing still another room beyond.
It brought back to memory the cement bunker under Tilly’s bookstore. And he vaguely wondered just how long the Betastani
They put him into a lower bunk and he shortly felt the administrations of someone who was obviously a medico.
A voice said from great distances, “A mild concussion. There is nothing seriously wrong.”
Ross Westley felt protest. Nothing wrong, indeed. Everything was wrong.
Number One, Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Alphaland, glared at his three top associates.
“For thirty years,” he said heavily, “it has been a basic of this government that I not be disturbed upon retiring to my private apartments. Even the Presidor needs rest eventually.”
Mark Fielder shook his head, as though in regret. “Your Leadership, the most fast rule must on occasion have its exception.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon, already dark of face, simply returned his superior’s glare.
Jon Matheison was not a man of action. His eyes darted uncomfortably about the room, taking in the bar, the fireplace, and the rounded Pater Riggin seated quietly beside it.
Fielder said to Number One’s old companion, “Pater, I suggest you leave. This conference is of first priority.”
Pater Riggin’s eyes went to his lifelong companion.
“Jim?”
Number One, eyes narrow now, said, “Remain where you are, Rig. It occurs to me that I may wish to have witnesses to this indignity, later.”
Fielder shrugged, “As you will. It is on your own head, Pater. In the future, you may be sorry to have been a witness.”
“I rather doubt it,” the Temple Monk said mildly. “I am an old man, my son. There are few threats that could frighten me.”
Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon rasped, “Let’s get to the point!”
“Yes,” Number One said, looking at his Surety Deputy. “Let us get to the point. The first point is that all three of you are dismissed from your offices.”
Jon Matheison giggled nervously.
Mark Fielder let his head go left and right slowly. “That is why we have come. The opposite is true. It is you who have failed in your duties and have been dismissed by the Central Comita.”
The nostrils of the supreme chief of the Alphaland government flared. “The Comita has no power to remove me, as you well know, Fielder. However, we shall immediately convene that body.” His eyes went briefly to the Temple Monk. “Rig, do me the kindness to summon the guard.”
Fielder looked at the seated old man. “Don’t bother, Pater. The former Presidor has no guards. In fact, he hasn’t had any for over a month.”
“Are you drivel happy?” Number One roared.
“They are my guards,” Mark Fielder said mockingly.
Alphaland’s strong man stomped to his private bar, took up a bottle with shaking hand and poured a heavy slug into a tumbler. He took up the glass and spun back to them.
“You fools! You can’t attempt this in time of war. The people will tear you apart. Besides all that, it will most likely mean a collapse of the war effort. Civil war at the very least.”
Jon Matheison had at last found courage to speak. He shrilled, “It is you who would be torn apart. The war’s impossibly unpopular. The peace riots are everywhere. We will take power on a platform of ending the war quickly. The Commissariat of Propaganda is ready to release a broadcast from the triumvirate that it will immediately go to Betastan and terminate the war as soon as possible.”
Number One threw the drink back over his palate.
“Traitors!” he rumbled. “Surrounded by traitors, supposedly my friends.”
Pater Riggin said mildly, “You should have read your Machiavelli better, Jim. Ultimately, a prince must have no intimate friends.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon said, “Enough of this nardy blather. What are we arguing about? It’s all over. Call the guards in. Convene the court martial.” He grimaced his hatred, repressed for so many years. “The sooner he’s liquidated, the better. Anyone flat enough to think in terms of supporting him will be left leaderless.”
Number One poured another drink and chuckled bitter laughter. “Sergeant Croft-Gordon of the paratroopers. No, you weren’t so aristocratic in those days, were you, Rupert? It was Rupert Gordon then. The hyphenated Croft,
