He retraced the route Rita Daniels had brought him along only a few hours earlier, dodging around the frozen statues that had—moments before—been soldiers and officials, clerks and secretaries, in all their bustling activities.
He came to the private elevator that led into the depths that housed the apartments of the Supreme Commandant. This was his first serious barrier. There was no manner in which he could operate the machinery, nor any other machine, save the equipment he carried.
He whipped out a laser gun, flicked the stud to cut and began beaming a hole through the elevator shaft door. Pure luck was involved now. He grabbed the door handle, and when he had largely cut the door away, pulled it toward him. It was a fantastically thick door. Evidently, Phrygia security took care that it was not easy to get at their Supreme Commandant.
Finally, the door began to fall toward him, slowly, sluggishly, but sped up by the effort he was exerting. It was as though he were pulling it through water, or even a thicker fluid. Before it had half reached the floor, he gave up his efforts and peered into the shaft beyond.
Luck was with him. Built into the metal wall of the shaft were ladder steps, obviously meant for repairmen, and possibly as a last method of emergency exit from the quarters below in case of some extreme disaster.
He vaulted over the falling door, now arrested in its drop, and scurried down the ladder.
Ronny tried to remember how long it had taken him to get down to the Baron’s apartments, when he had been there before, and couldn’t. This was the crucial thing. If the other maintained his rooms five or ten stories down, that was one thing. If they were a hundred stories, that was disaster. He would starve to death in this shaft.
Which brought his needs to mind. He darted a hand into one of his pockets for another handful of energy pills, even as he descended.
Luck was with him still.
His feet hit the top of the elevator cab.
He pulled the gun again, even as he gobbled pep pills, and cut a hole through the top of the elevator cage. He jumped on the circular, cut away a section so that it would fall. As soon as it had fallen sufficiently for him to jump off onto the elevator cage floor, he did so, and turned the gun to the door, cutting that away, too.
Ronny pushed hard against the great inertia, forcing the door inward into the room beyond. He wedged himself through as soon as there was sufficient way.
He was within the Baron’s apartments. Now he needed fortune’s kiss, indeed. Suppose the Baron wasn’t here. Suppose, even though he was, he didn’t have the information on him. Suppose he did have it, but in such form that it was impossible to decipher.
Suppose a lot of things.
He darted his hand into another pocket for a supply of the energy pills, and dashed into the room in which Wyler had invited him earlier in the day. It was unoccupied.
He headed for the door beyond, through which both Count Fitzjames and Rita had entered. Happily, it was open. He sped down the hall that was there, searching frantically. The living quarters of the Supreme Commandant of Phrygia were laid out in similar fashion—though utterly more swank—to any home of an extremely wealthy individual on a score of planets Ronny had visited. He had little trouble in guessing the layout.
From time to time, he would pass frozen statues in this dead world. Servants, guards, what were obviously secretaries or clerks, sometimes, if garb meant anything, evidently some high ranking Phrygia official.
The gamble paid off.
He came to a large door guarded by two huskies in elaborate uniform, muffle-guns at their sides.
He wrenched at the doorknob, miscalculated and ripped it completely off.
Ronny snarled an obscenity, stepped back and flicked his beam gun up again. He repeated the process of cutting a circular hole large enough to pass his body, and then pushed the panel through. When there was space to see, he realized he had found what he sought. The Baron Wyler, standing at a table, a dozen men, mostly uniformed, also about it.
He pushed harder on the slowly falling panel, finally had the space to squeeze through. The Baron was standing, mouth closed, looking down the arch of his aristocratic nose at one of his subordinates who was speaking, his finger touching a chart. At least, he had been speaking at the moment of the freeze—his mouth was open. And remained so, though no sound issued forth during Ronny’s stay.
Ronny Bronston darted to the table. He stared down at the paper the other was touching. It was a star chart, but not, he realized, the one that could possibly have helped in the location of the Dawnworlds. It was a chart of United Planets.
Ronny sorted through the papers on the table, frantically. On the face of it, these men were discussing the broad subject of the Baron’s designs against UP. If so, the subject of the Dawnworlds was obviously in mind.
But there was no other chart. Plans, reports, graphs, diagrams of this, that and the other. But no further charts.
He stepped over to the frozen statue that was Baron Wyler and ran his hands over him. He went through every pocket, examined, however briefly, every paper. The other’s body felt like clammy clay, there was a nauseating element in making physical contact with a living object under these conditions.
There was nothing pertaining to the Dawnworlds.
For the briefest of moments, he wondered if it were all a hoax. Was the wily Baron planting the idea that he was in contact with this fabulous unintelligent race with the idea of bluffing the UP into accepting him as supreme? But no, the bluff might work with some, but hardly with others. Such planets as Delos were going to have to be shown something tangible before knuckling under to a Baron Maximilian Wyler.
Ronny Bronston’s eyes began to dart around the room, inspecting the Baron’s underlings. Which, of them all, might be expected to carry a star chart, pinpointing the Dawnman worlds? He simply didn’t have time to search them all. The only one he recognized was the self-effacing Count Fitz-james, who, characteristically, was back away from the others, as though not wishing to intrude.
He grabbed energy pills from his jacket and munched on them. He had to think. No matter how desperate for time, he had to think.
He had been in this room already so long that he could note a slight change in the Baron’s eyes. They had begun to widen a merest trifle, the first indication of surprise.
Then, as though magnet drawn, the Section G agent’s attention whipped back to Count Fitzjames. What was the other doing over there, away from the others? Something hadn’t at first registered on Ronny’s awareness.
Yes! The oldster was looking at a… a map. No! It was a chart, a star chart. Ronny whipped over. Attached there to the wall.
Phrygia was heavily marked, down in this corner. Over here, surprisingly near, were the three star systems of the originally discovered tiny aliens. And beyond, all those numberless stars in red! They could only be…
Whether or not he was right, Ronny had no more time. No more time. He reached out and ripped the chart from the wall. Swore at himself for tearing it badly. Carefully and slowly pulled it down, folding it, so he could carry it more easily.
He spun and dashed for the door he had blasted through, slowed somewhat by the resistance of the object he carried. He wedged himself into the corridor beyond. The panel he had cut out had not as yet dropped all the way to the floor; in fact, was not more than an inch or so lower than when he had finished shoving it.
In the corridor, the guards were beginning to react somewhat as had the Baron. Their eyes had begun to widen in shocked surprise.
He hurried down the hall, retracing his steps. To the elevator. Through the roof of the cage, up the ladder. As he went he desperately swallowed his energy pills, desperately crammed them down.
The ground floor could be no more than a few stories up, but he felt himself tiring. He was weary with the activity. He had been moving at top speed since Phil had pulled the hovercar up before the entry. And he could feel it now.
At least, that is what he told himself he was feeling.
