“You have no idea where these Dawnworlds—where in Zen did that name ever come from?—are located?”
“None at all. The Baron learned through some of the things his people found on the little aliens’ planets.”
Jakes muttered, for once unsmiling, “Without coordinates, it could take us a millenium looking.” He looked up again. “Listen, I’ll get to Ross. Call you back.”
While he had been talking, Phil Birdman had entered the room. Ronny deactivated the Section G communicator and turned to his colleague.
The Indian said, “Well, at least, you’re still with us.”
“But how long that will be, I couldn’t guarantee,” Ronny told him.
The older agent sank into an auto-chair and dialed. “Pseudo-whiskey?” he asked. “I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to need a bit of firewater before I’ve heard all your story.”
They’d got through two highballs apiece before Ronny had finished bringing him up to date.
When he had ended, Birdman grunted. “There’s only one answer,” he submitted.
“What?”
“Let’s go down to the recruiting station and join up with Uncle Max.”
“Oh great, you overgrown funker. Funnies, I get.”
The communicator hummed. Ronny went over to the desk, sat down before it and activated the device. It was Ross Metaxa, at least as rumpled and weary as usual. He minced no words.
“That madman is taking a gamble, in his bid for power, that could destroy us all. Our big chance was to put off for as long as possible first contact with these aliens. To stall for time. Now he’s planning to set down on one of their planets, right now—to make immediate contact. He’s drivel-happy! Well, there’s nothing for it. Ronny, find out where those damned Dawnworlds are located.”
“Yes, sir. How?”
“How in the devil would I know? You and Agent Birdman are there. I’m not. The nearest other agents to Phrygia are a good week’s trip away. It’s all in your lap.”
Ronny Bronston looked at him.
His ultimate superior looked back, his eyes level.
On an impulse, Ronny blurted, “Was my becoming a Section G agent an engineered deal, not of my own choosing?”
The moist eyes looked deeply into his own, without flicker. “Yes.”
Ronny took a deep breath.
Ross Metaxa said, “Report through Irene as soon as you have anything.” His face faded.
Ronny turned to Phil Birdman, who had come up behind him to listen in on the conversation, but had missed even the final sentences. “You better dial us another drink, Phil. We’re going to need it.”
Phil, his expression passive, got the drinks, then sat down across from Ronny Bronston.
Ronny said slowly, “Phil, the Baron’s working on a full time basis on this project. That means somewhere, on or very near his person, is the information we need—the location of the Dawnworlds.”
The Indian said nothing.
Ronny said slowly, “Phil, the Baron isn’t quite as well informed on Section G as he’d like to think he is. There’re a few little items that come out of the gimmick department that—I’m willing to bet my life—he hasn’t heard about.”
Phil Birdman put down his glass.
Ronny said, “Phil, one of us has got to go in.”
“You mean…” The older man ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. He said, his tone a blend of protest and apology, “I’m forty-five, Ronny. There aren’t many of the good years left.”
“Metaxa would undoubtedly retire you immediately, on full pay, of course.”
The other said slowly, “I don’t want to retire. I like this work. Some day I look forward to making supervisor.”
Ronny said, “All right. I’m only thirty-two.”
Birdman looked up at him, his handsome Indian face working. “It’s fifteen years off your life, Ronny.”
Ronny Bronston nodded, a weary aspect in the gesture. “When I joined up with Section G, I figured I was expendable. This isn’t as bad as copping a slug from some secret police goon on some backward planet, where we’re trying to upgrade their government, or some such.”
He thought of something and said, “By the way, Phil. How’d you get into Section G? What led you to apply?”
“Oh, I didn’t. Sid Jakes looked me up one day while I was still living back on Piegan. I was in the local police. We jawed around a little and before I knew it, I was in.”
“Kind of got jockeyed in, eh?” Ronny said bitterly.
Phil looked at him. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
Ronny got up and went over to the order box on the desk. He said into it, “I want the biggest whale of a meal you can concoct. Very concentrated, rich food, high calorie content.”
Later, they retraced the route the marines had driven him earlier in the day. Phil Birdman was driving now, his own speedy hovercar.
Ronny was pensive. He said, after a long silence, “How close do you figure we can get? That’s important. It’ll cut time.”
Phil said thoughtfully, “On that diagram you drew: You know that ramp this Rita Daniels mopsy took you to, when you were leaving the palace?”
“Yes, sure.”
“I can take you to the top of that.”
“I think that’s the private entry of the Supreme Commandant and his family.”
“I know. As soon as I get to the top, they’ll order me to drive down again. That’s perfect for us. Every split second can count, Ronny. It could be seventeen or eighteen years, you know…”
Ronny Bronston said nothing. For that matter, it had been known to be twenty. Beyond that point, you inevitably died. You starved to death.
The hovercar bore diplomatic identification. The guards did no more than present their spears in a salute as they roared through the palace gates. Phil Birdman kept up a good speed. Not so high as to be conspicuous, but fast enough that their faces were unlikely to be spotted.
They got to the foot of the ramp and started up.
“You’d better take it,” the Indian said tightly, from the side of his mouth.
Ronny took a syrette from a small compartment in the dash and pushed it home in the back of his neck. He reached immediately for some of the energy pills.
Things were jerking frantically by the time they reached the head of the ramp and the entrada there—jerking frantically and already beginning to slow up.
A guard officer moved sluggishly toward them, more sluggish still. As he approached the car, his mouth, slowly, slowly, began to open. But before sound issued forth, he had stopped completely, one foot held in the air, his body in such position that it seemed impossible for him not to fall forward, out of balance.
Ronny Bronston vaulted over the side of the car and darted into the interior. He had done this but once before, in training, and had been under for less than ten seconds, pseudo-time. But this was the real thing. He darted a hand into his jacket pocket and gulped down more pep pills.
All was frozen.
He had no time to waste observing the utterly fantastic phenomenon.
X
