The city was in a bad way. There were seventy-five to a hundred big fires going, and a new one started in a rising ball of thermoconcentrate flame while they watched. The three gun-cutters, Elmoran, Gaucho, and Bushranger, and about fifty big freight lorries converted to bombers, were shuttling back and forth between the island and the city. The Royal Palace was on fire from end to end, and the entire waterfront and industrial district were in flames. Combat-cars and airjeeps were diving in to shell and rocket and machine-gun streets and buildings. He saw six big bomber-lorries move in dignified procession to unload, one after the other, on a row of buildings along what the Terrans called South Tenth Street, and on the roofs of buildings a block away, red and blue flares were burning, and he could see figures, both human and Ulleran, setting up mortars and machine-guns.
Landing on the top stage of Company House, on the island, they were met by a Terran whom von Schlichten had seen, a few days ago, bossing native-labor at the spaceport, but who was now wearing a major’s insignia. He greeted von Schlichten with a salute which he must have learned from some movie about the ancient French Foreign Legion. Von Schlichten seriously returned it in kind.
“Everybody’s down in the Governor-General’s office, sir,” he said. “Your office, that is. King Kankad’s here with us, too.”
He accompanied them to the elevator, then turned to a telephone; when von Schlichten and Paula reached the office, everybody was crowded at the door to greet them: Themistocles M’zangwe, his arm in a sling; Hans Meyerstein, the Johannesburg lawyer, who seemed to have even more Bantu blood than the brigadier-general; Morton Buhrmann, the Commercial Superintendent; Laviola, the Fiscal Secretary; a dozen or so other officers and civil administrators. There was a hubbub of greetings, and he was pleased to detect as much real warmth from the civil administration crowd as from the officers.
“Well, I’m glad to be back with you,” he replied, generally. “And let me present Colonel Paula Quinton, my new adjutant; Hid O’Leary’s on duty in the north. … Them, this was a perfectly splendid piece of work here; you can take this not only as a personal congratulation, but as a sort of unit citation for the whole crowd. You’ve all behaved simply above praise.” He turned to King Kankad, who was wearing a pair of automatics in shoulder-holsters for his upper hands and another pair in cross-body belt holsters for his lower. “And what I’ve said for anybody else goes double for you, Kankad,” he added, clapping the Kragan on the shoulder.
“All he did was save the lot of us!” M’zangwe said. “We were hanging on by our fingernails here till his people started coming in. And then, after you sent the Aldebaran. …”
“Where is the Aldebaran, by the way? I didn’t see her when I came in.”
“Based on Kankad’s, flying bombardment against Keegark, and keeping an eye out for those ships. Prinsloo caught the De Wett in the docks there and smashed her, but the Jan Smuts got away, and we haven’t been able to locate the Oom Paul Kruger, either. They’re probably both on the Eastern Shore, gathering up reinforcements for Orgzild,” M’zangwe said.
“Our ability to move troops rapidly is what’s kept us on top this long, and Orgzild’s had plenty of time to realize it,” von Schlichten said. “When we get Procyon down here, I’m going to send her out, with a screen of light scout-vehicles, to find those ships and get rid of them. … How’s Hid been making out, at Grank, by the way? I didn’t have my car-radio on, coming down.”
That touched off another hubbub: “Haven’t you heard, general?” … “Oh, my God, this is simply out of this continuum!” … “Well, tell him, somebody!” … “No, get Hid on the screen; it’s his story!”
Somebody busied himself at the switchboard. The rest of them sat down at the long conference-table. Laviola and Meyerstein and Buhrmann were especially obsequious in seating von Schlichten in Sid Harrington’s old chair, and in getting a chair for Paula Quinton. After a while, the jumbled colors on the big screen resolved themselves into an image of Hideyoshi O’Leary, grinning like a pussycat beside an empty goldfish-bowl.
“Well, what happened?” von Schlichten asked, after they had exchanged greetings. “How did Yoorkerk like the movies? And did you get the Procyon and the Northern Lights loose?”
“Yoorkerk was deeply impressed,” O’Leary replied. “His story is that he is and always was the true and ever-loving friend of the Company; he acted to prevent quote certain disloyal elements unquote from harming the people and property of the Company. Procyon’s on the way to Konkrook. I’m holding Northern Lights here and Northern Star at Skilk; where do you want them sent?”
“Leave Northern Star at Skilk, for the time being. Tell the Company’s great and good friend King Yoorkerk that the Company expects him to contribute some soldiers for the campaign here and against Keegark, when that starts; be sure you get the best-armed and best-trained regiments he has, and get them down here as soon as possible. Don’t send any of your Kragans or Karamessinis’ troops here, though; hold them in Grank till we make sure of the quality of Yoorkerk’s friendship.”
“Well, general, I think we can be pretty sure, now. You see, he turned Rakkeed the Prophet over to me. …”
“What?” Von Schlichten