Men engaged in treason cannot take chances when one of the prime members of a conspiracy is in the hands of the enemy forty-eight hours before trigger time. It can mean only discovery or betrayal, and these are but the reverse sides of a single coin. Either alternative would mean death.
So word went out—
And the population of Chica stirred—
The professional demagogues were on the street corners. The secret arsenals were broken open and the hands that reached withdrew with weapons. There was a twisting drift toward the fort, and at 6 p.m. a new message was sent to the commandant, this time by personal envoy.
Meanwhile, this activity was matched in a smaller way by events within the fort. It had begun dramatically when the young officer meeting the entering ground car reached out a hand for the Secretary’s blaster.
“I’ll take that,” he said curtly.
Shekt said, “Let him take it, Schwartz.”
The Secretary’s hand lifted the blaster and stretched out; the blaster left it, was carried away—and Schwartz, with a heaving sob of breaking tension, let go.
Arvardan was ready. When the Secretary lashed out like an insane steel coil released from compression, the archaeologist pounced upon him, fists pumping down hard.
The officer snapped out orders. Soldiers were running up. When rough hands laid hold of Arvardan’s shirt collar and dragged him up, the Secretary was limp upon the seat. Dark blood was flowing feebly from the corner of his mouth. Arvardan’s own already bruised cheek was open and bleeding.
He straightened his hair shakily. Then, pointing a rigid finger, said firmly, “I accuse that man of conspiring to overthrow the Imperial Government. I must have an immediate interview with the commanding officer.”
“We’ll have to see about that, sir,” said the officer civilly. “If you don’t mind, you will have to follow me—all of you.”
And there, for hours, it rested. Their quarters were private, and reasonably clean. For the first time in twelve hours they had a chance to eat, which they did, despite considerations, with dispatch and efficiency. They even had the opportunity of that further necessity of civilization, a bath.
Yet the room was guarded, and as the hours passed, Arvardan finally lost his temper and cried, “But we’ve simply exchanged prisons.”
The dull, meaningless routine of an army camp drifted about them, ignoring them. Schwartz was sleeping and Arvardan’s eyes went to him. Shekt shook his head.
“We can’t,” he said. “It’s humanly impossible. The man is exhausted. Let him sleep.”
“But there are only thirty-nine hours left.”
“I know—but wait.”
A cool and faintly sardonic voice sounded. “Which of you claims to be a citizen of the Empire?”
Arvardan sprang forward. “I am. I—”
And his voice failed as he recognized the speaker. The latter smiled rigidly. His left arm he held a bit stiffly as a remaining memento of their last meeting.
Pola’s voice was faint behind him. “Bel, it’s the officer—the one of the department store.”
“The one whose arm he broke,” came the sharp addition. “My name is Lieutenant Claudy and yes, you are the same man. So you are a member of the Sirian worlds, are you? And yet you consort with these. Galaxy, the depths a man can sink to! And you’ve still got the girl with you.” He waited and then said slowly and deliberately, “The Earthie-squaw!”
Arvardan bristled, then subsided. He couldn’t—not yet—
He forced humbleness into his voice. “May I see the colonel, Lieutenant?”
“The colonel, I am afraid, is not on duty now.”
“You mean he’s not in the city?”
“I didn’t say that. He can be reached—if the matter is sufficiently urgent.”
“It is. . . . May I see the officer of the day?”
“At the moment I am the officer of the day.”
“Then call the colonel.”
And slowly the lieutenant shook his head. “I could scarcely do so without being convinced of the gravity of the situation.”
Arvardan was shaking with impatience. “By the Galaxy, stop fencing with me! It’s life and death.”
“Really?” Lieutenant Claudy swung a little swagger stick with an air of affected dandyism. “You might crave an audience with me.”
“All right. . . . Well, I’m waiting.”
“I said—you might crave one.”
“May I have an audience, Lieutenant?”
But there was no smile on the lieutenant’s face. “I said, crave one—before the girl. Humbly.”
Arvardan swallowed and drew back. Pola’s hand was on his sleeve. “Please, Bel. You mustn’t get him angry.”
The archaeologist growled huskily, “Bel Arvardan of Sirius humbly craves audience with the officer of the day.”
Lieutenant Claudy said, “That depends.”
He took a step toward Arvardan and quickly and viciously brought the flat of his palm down hard upon the bandage that dressed Arvardan’s open cheek.
Arvardan gasped and stifled a shriek.
The lieutenant said, “You resented that once. Don’t you this time?”
Arvardan said nothing.
The lieutenant said, “Audience granted.”
Four soldiers fell in before and behind Arvardan. Lieutenant Claudy led the way.
Shekt and Pola were alone with the sleeping Schwartz, and Shekt said, “I don’t hear him any more, do you?”
Pola shook her head. “I haven’t either, for quite a while. But, Father, do you suppose he’ll do anything to Bel?”
“How can he?” said the old man gently. “You forget that he’s not really one of us. He’s a citizen of the Empire and cannot be easily molested. . . . You are in love with him, I suppose?”
“Oh, terribly, Father. It’s silly, I know.”
“Of course it is.” Shekt smiled bitterly. “He is honest. I do not say he isn’t. But what can he do? Can he live here with us on this world? Can he take you home? Introduce an Earthgirl to his friends? His family?”
She was crying. “I know. But maybe there won’t be any afterwards.”
And Shekt was on his feet again, as though the last phrase had reminded him. He said again, “I don’t hear him.”
It was the Secretary he did not hear. Balkis had been placed in an adjoining room, where his caged-lion steps had been clearly and ominously audible. Except that now they weren’t.
It was a little point, but in the single mind and body of the Secretary there had somehow become centered and symboled all the
