“Well, at 22:10, give or take a couple of minutes, the Kragan guard-sergeant on that floor heard ten pistol-shots, as fast as they could be fired semi-auto, in the governor’s room. The door was locked, but he shot it off with his own pistol and went in. He found Governor Harrington on the floor, wearing only his gown, holding an empty pistol. He was in convulsions, frothing at the mouth, in horrible pain. Evidently he’d fired his pistol, which he kept on his desk, to call help; all the bullets had gone into the ceiling. The sergeant punched the emergency button, beside the bed, and reported, then tried to help the governor, but it was too late. One of the medics got there in five minutes, just as he was dying. He’d written his diary up to noon of today, and broken off in the middle of a word. There was a bottle and an overturned glass on his desk. The Constabulary got there a few minutes later, and then Brigadier-General M’zangwe took charge. A white rat, given fifteen drops from the whiskey-bottle, died with the same symptoms in about ninety seconds.”
“Who had access to the whiskey-bottle?”
“A geek servant, who takes care of the room. He was caught, an hour earlier, trying to slip off the island without a pass; they were holding him at the guardhouse when Governor Harrington died. He’s now being questioned by the Kragans.” The girl’s face was bleakly remorseless. “I hope they do plenty to him!”
“I hope they don’t kill him before he talks.”
“Wait a moment, general; we have General M’zangwe, now,” the girl said. “I’ll switch you over.”
The screen broke into a kaleidoscopic jumble of color, then cleared; the chocolate-brown face of Themistocles M’zangwe was looking out of it.
“I heard what happened, how they found him, and about that geek chamber-valet being arrested,” von Schlichten said. “Did you get anything out of him?”
“He’s admitted putting poison in the bottle, but he claims it was his own idea. But he’s one of Father Keeluk’s parishioners, so. …”
“Keeluk! God damn, so that was it!” von Schlichten almost shouted. “Now I know what he wanted with Stalin, and that goat, and those rabbits!”
Five thousand miles away, in Konkrook, Themistocles M’zangwe whistled.
“Bismillah! How dumb can we get?” he cried. “Of course they’d need terrestrial animals, to find out what would poison a Terran! Wait a minute; I’ll make a note of that, to spring on this geek, if the Kragans haven’t finished him by now.” Von Schlichten watched M’zangwe pick up a stenophone and whisper into it for a moment. “All right, Carlos, what else?”
“Has Eric been notified?”
“We called Keegark, but he’s in audience with King Orgzild, and we can’t reach him.”
“Well, who’s in charge at Konkrook, now?”
“Not much of anybody. Laviola, the Fiscal Secretary, and Hans Meyerstein, the Banking Cartel’s lawyer, and Howlett, the Personnel Chief, and Buhrmann, the Commercial Secretary, have made up a sort of quadrumvirate and are trying to run things. I don’t know what would happen if anything came up suddenly. …” A blue-gray uniformed arm, with a major’s cuff-braid, came into the screen, handing a slip of paper to M’zangwe; he took it, glanced at it, and swore. Von Schlichten waited until he had read it through.
“Well, something has, all right,” the African said. “We just got a call from Jaikark’s Palace—a revolt’s broken out, presumably headed by Gurgurk; Household Guards either mutinied or wiped out by the mutineers, all but those twenty Kragan Rifles we loaned Jaikark. They, and about a dozen of Jaikark’s courtiers and their personal retainers, are holding the approaches to the King’s apartments. The native-lieutenant in charge of the Kragans just radioed in; says the situation is desperate.”
“When a Kragan says that, he means damn near hopeless. Is this being recorded?” When M’zangwe nodded, he continued: “All right. Use the recording for your authority and take charge. I’m declaring martial rule at Konkrook, as of now, 22:53. Tell Eric Blount what’s happened, and what you’ve done, as soon as you can get in touch with him. I’m leaving for Konkrook at once; I ought to get in by 08:00.
“Now, as to the trouble at the Palace. Don’t commit more than one company of Kragans and ten airjeeps and four combat-cars, and tell them to evacuate Jaikark and his followers and our Kragans to Gongonk Island. And alert your whole force. These geek palace revolutions are always synchronized with street-rioting, and this thing seems to have been synchronized with Sid Harrington’s death, too. Get our Kragans out if you can’t save anybody else from the Palace, but sacrificing thirty or forty men to save twenty is no kind of business. And keep sending reports; I can pick them up on my car radio as I come down.” He turned to the girl sergeant. “Keep on this; there’ll be more coming in.”
He rose and left the booth. If we can pull Jaikark’s bacon off the fire, he was thinking, the Company can dictate its own terms to him afterward; if Jaikark’s killed, we’ll have Gurgurk’s head off for it, and then take over Konkrook. In either case, it’ll be a long step toward getting rid of all these geek despots. And with Eric Blount as Governor-General. …
The girl captain in charge of the station met him as he came out.
“Poison,” he told her. “A geek servant did the job, on orders from Gurgurk and possibly Rakkeed. Gurgurk’s started a putsch against King Jaikark; I’m going to Konkrook at once. Call the military airport and have my command-car brought to Company House.”
Harry Quong and Hassan Bogdanoff had been at the banquet, too; on a world of lizard-faced silicate-eaters, the social difference between a human general and a human aircar-driver was almost infinitesimal. He’d have to talk to Barney Mordkovitz, too; when word of events at Konkrook got out among the local geeks, as
