Chapter EIGHTEEN

Brad studied the Sandbox on the utility's view screen.

"I think you'd better have a look," he said to Kumiko as he twisted aside on the cramped flight deck. She peered over his shoulder.

"Got a problem?" Scarf sneered, his bulk cramped the remaining space behind the flitter's pilot seat. He hunched forward trying to see around Kumiko.

Brad ignored the question. He waited for Kumiko's assessment of the Sandbox, dead ahead.

Drummer had given him the job.

"I want this done," he told Brad, "in a way that will demonstrate to the UIPS that we're serious, and can back our words with actions. We've got to replace their image of us as misfits. They've got to see us as an organized military force that can defend its vital interests and, if necessary, impose its will."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I want to use Kumiko's expertise as a weapons officer familiar with Inner Region ordnance. I want both of you to board the Sandbox and check all installed armament that can be directed against our fleet. Avoid a scrap, but if you find the guns have not been deactivated, do it for them."

He pointed at Brad to give emphasis to his words.

"I don't want their weapons slipping back into operational status as soon as you leave their ship. Whatever it is you do, fix their armament controls so that it'll take them at least fifteen hours to get them back on line. We'll need that much time to finish our job here and return to base."

Scarf joined them, listening.

"I don't like it." His words were angry; his features petulant.

Drummer looked at Scarf with open scorn.

"Your likes and dislikes are the least of my concerns," he snorted and turned back to Brad.

Scarf cut back in.

"I repeat, Drummer, I don't like it, and what I like or don't like is your concern. I'm here on counter-intelligence work, and I don't like your sending this guy," thumbing toward Brad, "and one of his sidekicks over to a UIPS ship on a highly sensitive assignment. I'm not that trusting they'll do the job as thoroughly as you're laying it out."

Drummer frowned.

"What do you suggest?"

"That I go along."

Brad stepped back to let the two work it out. He didn't relish the assignment. The Sandbox's commander was not going to accept boarders graciously.

"You go along? What the hell for?"

"To see how the assignment is carried out, and frankly, to make sure this guy doesn't, shall we say, inadvertently pass information to the enemy." After a brief pause, Scarf added, "I'm within my authority, Drummer. Part of the counter-intelligence function," adding, with a smirk, "Don't you agree?"

##

The utility's approach to the cylindrical Sandbox closed in on the port side. Brad, at the controls, increased viewer magnification and inspected the ship closely. Kumiko, looking at the same image, reached under Brad's arm and adjusted knobs and levers, zeroing in on one gun turret after another along the Sandbox's length. She whistled softly.

"They're loaded for bear," she said. "Circle them,
Brad, let's see what's on the other side."

Brad took the utility around to starboard, then topside and below.

Scarf again. "OK, you've looked her over. Now, what's the problem?"

"The ship has four laser-quads and a couple of explosive decompressors. She's a heavily armed attack transport, that's all."

"So what? Can you do the job?"

Kumiko looked at Scarf, her normally soft features twisted, passive but icy. "Oh, yes," she said. "I can do it. May take a little time, though."

Scarf leaned back.

"Well, let's not fool around with these jokers. If they don't cooperate, I'm for back to the Dragon and let our guns talk for us."

"Listen, Scarf," Brad said, exasperated, "our job is to disable the armament, not destroy the ship. Also, if you recall, Drummer wants to get through this exercise without using force. That's why we're here: to fix the Sandbox so they and any other ship commanders of like mind won't get ideas about resisting us. It's a psychological play that will make the rounds of the Outer as well as the Inner Region. It's to our advantage to show we do our job with minimum fuss. So, let's get on with it."

Brad opened the inter-ship comm-line.

"Calling Sandbox. This is Curtin on Dragon Utility One, approaching from your starboard. Are you prepared to receive us?"

"Ready," came back. "Your air lock is number 4, starboard. Go there now. We will extend umbilical and catwalk as soon as you're matched up."

Brad guided his craft around and along the Sandbox to a portal bearing a large painted "4." Slowing the utility, he closed with the Sandbox, gently fingering controls until they were matched precisely to the heavy transport's bearing and drift.

"Now," he said.

Kumiko hit a switch, and the utility beam-anchor connected to a triangular plate above the airlock, immobilizing and fixing the utility to the huge transporter's axis.

The number 4 clamshell panels drew back and slipped aside. A yellow and white-striped catwalk snaked out and suckled up to the utility's hatch.

Kumiko took in the overhead dials and lights.

"On track," she said, and after a moment, "connected and secure."

Brad closed a bank of switches, opened another. "We'll take no unnecessary chances," he said. "I'm setting the thruster to cut in at twenty percent as soon as we're back in and slam the hatch. Five seconds and into forty, another three and we go max. That's for just in case. So, if we need to move fast when we board, hit the accello-nets pronto. Got it?"

"Right," from Kumiko.

"Scarf?"

"Sure, sure. I got it."

"Next. I want 'em to be able to see that the power settings on our sidearms are low enough so as not to kill or cause serious injury. Is that clear?"

"If they start anything, I'd just as soon take a few of them out for good." Scarf postured his belligerence.

"Nothing doing, Scarf," Brad shot back. "Using our weapons on this mission is bound to delay the schedule, if not much worse. It's been fouled up already by this little sortie. So don't provoke 'em; set your weapon in the lower levels."

Brad set his weapon at the extreme low setting and noted that Kumiko did the same. Scarf set his at the highest level in the non-lethal category, and with a sneer at Brad, returned the weapon to its sheath.

Kumiko looked thoughtful. "We should wear suits while we're on board the Sandbox, Brad," she said. "It may slow us down a bit, but we'll need to look at gun emplacements that have minimal air or none at all."

"Sounds reasonable. OK, keep your suits on."

They rigged their sidearms for control from within their suits and transferred them to outer sheaths. They donned the suits, checked each other's suit security, seal pressure, inter-suit communications, and reported.

"Move out," Brad said.

Chapter NINETEEN

The Sandbox's receiving officer observed Brad and his party's approach through a clear pane in the air lock's pressurized section. The four husky deckhands and the officer-in-charge hefted snub-nosed rifles.

A pressure-suited deckhand responded to Brad's hand signal that his crew was aboard by conducting a visual safety check of the ship-to-utility connections. He turned away, and Brad felt the deck vibrate as the clamshells slammed shut. Kumiko and Scarf moved up to stand behind Brad as pressure equalizers hissed. Moments later, the air lock's inner door slid aside and they passed through. Opening their helmet faceplates, they returned the glares of the receiving party.

"Rimov, and gunnery is my business," said the officer, "what in hell are you gonna do to my guns?"

Brad wished he were beside the grizzled spacefarer facing their common adversary, rather than confronting him.

"Curtin, and my business is to make sure your guns don't get you all killed. I want to check your weapons control center, and every gun emplacement. First, central control."

"Hey," chimed in Scarf. "How about a drink with the ship's commander? Courtesies of the space-ways, and all that? I'd sure like to sample some Inner Region booze."

"You guys ain't invited guests, no way," Rimov flashed back. "The Commander is fussy about the people he drinks with."

"Well, you tell him…" Scarf raised a fist to add gesture to his words, but Brad waved him off, his eyes holding on Rimov.

"To hell with that," he snapped. "We're here to do a job and get back to our ship. I repeat: first, the fire control center, then each gun emplacement. Now."

"Our fire control center has been deactivated. Why do you have to see each gun?"

"You know damn well, Rimov," Brad said, putting as much harshness into his tone as he could muster. "Your pieces can be fired independent of central control; I'm going to make sure they won't be. Let's get on with it."

Brad noted that Rimov was staring at the intensity slide visible on the breechblock of his sheathed weapon. Rimov then tilted his head to scrutinize the settings on Kumiko and Scarf's weapons. His brows tightened, puzzled. It passed.

"OK, follow me," he said, pivoting and taking the lead.

The passageways were narrow, confining them to two abreast. Rimov and one of his men walked ahead, the other three escorts followed close behind Brad and his party. The corridors they traversed had been cleared; no encounters.

Brad, familiar with transports of the line, memorized their route. They had boarded amidships, lower starboard, and were headed for an armor-enclosed section near the stern. The surveillance and tracking gear and the laser-quads' fire control computers should be there. That part should be relatively simple. They reached a closed, heavy door. Rimov turned to Brad, his face reflecting rage.

"You didn't answer my question," he growled.
"What're you gonna do to my guns?"

"Nothing you couldn't fix in a couple of work shifts," Brad replied, motioning to the door. "Let's move."

Grudgingly, Rimov placed his palm on the disk lock. A click and the heavy door retracted into the adjacent bulkhead.

As Brad expected, the fire control center consisted of dozens of consoles, scopes, directional and power control devices, and clusters of computer terminals.

Kumiko and Brad circled the small room as Scarf watched from his position inside the entryway. Rimov stood beside Scarf, his guards along the bulkhead, tense, weapons directed at the deck.

Kumiko pointed to a console.

"I've got to see behind that panel, Brad," she said, pointing. "The master firing system controls should be concentrated there."

Brad turned and waved Rimov closer. Scarf didn't move; he got it all on his helmet intercom.

"Remove the panel," Brad said, pointing.

"Won't take my word, will you," Rimov growled.

Reaching over, he snapped several quick disconnects, slid the panel forward, reached into the recess behind, fiddled a couple of seconds, and pulled the panel forward again. It came loose, and he stepped back with it in his hands.

"Cut the power to this console," Kumiko ordered.

Rimov shrugged, moved to another console and snapped several switches. Kumiko watched closely. Rimov turned back and observed her check several lights and dials above the space from where the panel had been removed.

Satisfied, Kumiko drew off her outer glove. Her hand remained encased in translucent, skin-tight insulation. Reaching into the cavity, she withdrew a tiny black chip. Setting it down on a nearby shelf, she repeated the operation. Shortly, a dozen chips lay on the shelf.

Rimov flushed with fury as he watched Kumiko work, but remained silent.

Finally, Kumiko stepped back, pulled a plastic bag from a pocket in her suit, and dropped in the assorted parts. Looking around the room, she went to a wall cabinet, opened the door, rummaged about and withdrew still more chips.

"Back up supplies," she said, adding them to the others in the plastic bag.

Kumiko looked at Brad.

"The fire control center is out of action," she said. "Even if they do have more spares stashed away, it'll take them at least twenty hours to install the parts and calibrate the system."

Brad turned to Rimov. "Let's start with the aft gun turrets, and take them, in order, moving forward."

Chapter TWENTY

The next two hours were given to rushing along passageways, climbing companionways and ladders, and crawling along narrow walkways. Several turrets could only be reached from the outside; Kumiko's advice to wear suits proved sound.

At each gun emplacement, Rimov, his guards and Scarf watched Brad and Kumiko inspect sector guides, range and directional interlocks and power drives.

Once satisfied that a gun emplacement was not booby-trapped, Kumiko inserted random realignment parameters into laser blocks, twirled tracking sequencers into disarray, and switched about chips and connectors. When she was done with a turret, the gun had a zero firing potential, and would take hours to repair, calibrate and test.

Brad noted that Rimov, following Kumiko's work closely, showed grudging admiration in his eyes. She was disabling the guns with gentle care, not damaging them, and Rimov knew it.

Finally, they were at the ship's bow. The final turret had been rendered inoperative.

Brad faced Rimov.

"We'll be on our way. Back to the air lock."

Brad was relieved. They would soon be in the utility, heading back to the Dragon, the job done. Even Scarf could not fault them. Scarf's report might even work to the Sentinel's advantage.

Rimov took the lead. The deckhands seemed less tense. They sensed that Rimov was impressed by Kumiko's professionalism, and they, too, had observed the consideration that Kumiko had shown for the ship's equipment. She was obviously not a crowbar techie.

They moved toward the air lock single file, Rimov in the lead, Brad, Kumiko and Scarf following, and the four deckhands, two abreast, in the rear.

Rounding a corner, they stopped. Ahead, three men crouched, laser-rifles at their shoulders aimed at them.

"Rimov, and you guys in the rear, outta the way.
We're puttin' these bastards down."

The order came from a short, blond-haired buck, eyes glaring above his gunfight.

"Wait," Rimov screamed. "What's the hell's goin' on, Cordy? These guys got safe conduct from Bura."

"I don't buy that, Rimov. We got the word down below that the ship's bein' taken over by Narval's goons. We're gonna stop 'em. Come for'ard, I'm tellin' ya. They're goin' down, right now. Get ready, Joe, Pete."

The two guards behind Scarf and Kumiko dropped to the deck and snaked back around the corner. They were not about to shoot at shipmates.

Rimov dashed toward Cordy, his arms waving.

"Don't fire. Back off," he shouted.

The men with the rifles were momentarily confused, uncertain; one began to lower his weapon. Rimov was a ship's officer; they would be in deep trouble if they disobeyed.

Without warning, the decision was taken from them.

Scarf panicked.

Stepping back and behind Kumiko, using her as his shield, he frantically jerked his heavy hand weapon loose, at the same time crouching in firing position. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he rammed the setting into max and fired around Kumiko. Brad was out of his momentary line of fire. Not so Rimov.

The burst hit Rimov between the shoulder blades.
There was a sharp, crackling sound as cloth and
Rimov's flesh carbonized. He fell forward, dead
before he struck the deck.

No one moved. Cordy and his men stared at their fallen officer.

Brad didn't wait for them to recover.

"Back," he shouted to Kumiko and Scarf. "Around the bend. Now."

Kumiko whirled and raced around the corner. Scarf rolled back on to his feet and dashed after her. Brad followed.

Rimov's guards were nowhere in sight.

There was a roar of rage behind them.

Cordy.

"They shot Rimov. After 'em. Shoot to kill."

The passageway was long; they would be at the wrong end of a shooting gallery as soon as Cordy reached the bend. The only break was a narrow ladder through a hatch in the overhead.

"Up," Brad commanded. "Fast."

Kumiko first, then Scarf. Brad followed.

As Brad drew his legs up through the hatchway a searing blast struck the frame, missing him by centimeters. Brad twisted away as another bolt flashed up through the hatch, scorching the bulkhead from which he had just moved.

Brad shouted down. "First guy who shoves his head through the hatch gets it burned off." Turning to Kumiko and Scarf he whispered, "That won't hold them for long."

"Listen, about that shooting…", Scarf began.

Brad snapped him short with an impatient gesture.
"Not now. Let's get to the utility."

They looked around. The space was almost dark; the only light from widely spaced, low-power neutro-lamps. They were standing on a narrow platform, little more than a ledge, from which a catwalk bridged a complex of girders and cables.

Brad mentally reconstructed their route before Cordy's challenge. The portal through which they boarded should be within fifty meters of where they crouched. Their lives depended on the catwalk passing close to it.

Studying the arrangement of the structures around them and the coding on cable bundles, Brad peered along the catwalk, first in one direction, then the opposite.

He looked at the open hatch and shouted down. "We demand safe conduct to our ship. Do you hear me?"

Silence.

Scarf shoved his face close to Brad.

"Are you kiddin'?" he said, his tone expressing his disbelief. "I just killed one of their men. They're not gonna give us safe conduct anywhere."

"I know that," Brad replied. "Even if they do promise us safe conduct, it'll be just to get at us. I want them to think we're going to hole up here until they give us an answer. Bura must know by now. We've got to get off before he personally takes charge of the search."

Brad again scrutinized the ship's stringers and cable insulation colors. He pointed.

"Stay close."

They crossed stretches where ledges and walkways narrowed abruptly to barely enough for passage. Sharp projections along the way snagged and abraded their protective suits. They realized that they might face serious seepage from their suits as soon as they entered the vacuum of space.

A sudden, raking fire erupted behind them. Metal frames around them darkened from the bolts of energy.

Scarf jerked his weapon and returned the shots before Brad could stop him. The flash of his weapon provided the ideal target, and brought concentrated fire in return.

Stooping and sliding, Brad and Kumiko stumbled forward. Scarf scrambled along behind, firing haphazardly to the rear.

Scarf howled with sudden pain. Brad looked back. In the dim light, Scarf hung over a girder, motionless. Brad raced back to his side. A wide strip from sleeve and shoulder was burned away; blood oozed.

Kumiko bent beside Brad. She yanked her glove off, reached in through the still smoking sleeve and felt for a pulse in Scarf's neck.

"Alive."

She stepped back. Brad, in the cramped space, hauled the unconscious Scarf upright, bent, and with Kumiko's help, lifted him on to Brad's back.

Scarf's scream of pain had brought a pause to the firing.

Grasping stanchions and cables for support,
Brad staggered along the catwalk.

"Hatch up ahead."

"Might be it."

Brad gasped. Even in the light pseudo-gravity,
Scarf's bulk was hard to maneuver.

"Take a peek."

Kumiko was gone and back in an instant.

"Looks clear."

"No choice. Down you go. I'll drop him through."

Kumiko dropped out of sight. Brad thrust Scarf through the hatch and followed. The drop was not deep.

The number 4 air lock was less than ten meters ahead. Brad heaved Scarf across his shoulders, and with Kumiko leading the way, they rushed toward it.

The deck carried the slap of running feet, fast and closing.

Cordy appeared at the end of the passage. Seeing them, he crouched on one knee and raised his weapon.

Kumiko beat him; at the sound of running, she had raised her sidearm. As Cordy took aim, she fired. Cordy fell back, stunned.

Brad had the door to the outer air lock open, Scarf on the deck inside. Kumiko rushed past Brad and he slammed the door and clipped it sealed. She snatched an emergency space stretcher from a bulkhead rack and snapped it open. It took the two of them to roll Scarf's inert body into the envelope, seal it around him and start an oxygen flow.

They snapped their faceplates closed. Brad hit switches. The outer portals slid apart. The catwalk and other connections to the utility were still in place. Carrying the stretcher between them, they crossed over.

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Brad poked his head into Drummer's office at Fleet Headquarters. Drummer, at his desk, bent over a document, cast frequent glances at electronic displays on the wall nearby. Racks of data capsules, no space for them on the busy desk, crowded the floor nearby. A conical view tank, recessed in the wall to his left, glowed with symbols of ships and their military characteristics, along with tactical and logistical links.

Scanning the monitors and view tank, Drummer hefted a hand control and pressed keys. Eyes half-closed, he silently transformed mental images into memoranda and messages. Aware of Brad's presence, he paused and focused on him in the doorway.

"I thought you planned to take a couple of days off after Tornado Six," Brad said.

"Can't," Drummer replied, his eyes back to his notes.

"What's happening?"

"Until Tornado Six, our forces functioned as separate units. Tornado Six was our fleet's first integrated operation. The mission succeeded because we got away without military opposition. I can't trust that sort of luck to hold. We need to refine our tactics, based on our experience with the log depot and that armed transport, and in anticipation of an early organized response by the UIPS."

Brad appeared uncertain whether to remain or move on.

"Stand by a moment, Brad."

Drummer resumed recording. Symbols in the tank flashed off and on too quickly for the eye to follow, but Drummer was no longer giving them his attention. He touched a glowing disk on the arm of his chair, sighed, and leaned back. The view tank cleared to continue its work unobserved.

"I need a break. Here's what's happening, Brad."

He motioned Brad to a seat alongside his desk.

"Narval was impressed at our success, especially how we bluffed our way through it. Just as well we didn't push too hard and force an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. He wants much more preparation before we get to that point. I agree, we'll leave that until our next no-notice inspection."

"Well, we did have a fire fight, of sorts, on the
Sandbox," Brad interjected.

"By itself, much less significant than the raids we've made on UIPS patrols and shipping. The Sandbox incident was the ship commander's fault however one looks at it. By the way," Drummer grinned. "I suggested to Colonel Hanno that he chastise the Sandbox's commander about allowing his people to attack my agents. Lax discipline, and all that."

Brad laughed, but grimly recalled Rimov's wasted death. Drummer joined him in the laugh, then quickly resumed his serious expression. Elbows on desk, hands clasped, he frowned at Brad.

"In categorizing the Sandbox incident 'insignificant' I do so only in the context of its effect on objectives and strategy. In another sense, it was quite important."

"Oh?"

"Narval was pleased with the way you handled yourself on the Dragon in dealing with Hanno and Bura."

"How did he find out?"

"Scarf's nature, it seems, made him anxious to get a verbatim record of everything said in his presence during Tornado Six. He was wired, and everything said in his presence was recorded. Had events gone otherwise, I'm convinced he would have lifted statements that each of us made and twisted them to discredit us.

"Putting Scarf in hospital immediately upon return to base didn't give him the chance to tailor the transcript. Since he reports directly to Narval, the recordings were sent to the boss from the hospital as soon as Scarf was admitted — routine security under the circumstances. I heard a short while ago that Narval spent some time in Scarf's hospital room. I can only assume he was questioning Scarf on the unedited recording as well as whatever he witnessed."

"What happens now?"

"Got a call from Narval's office a short while ago. Narval wants to meet you. Call his office ASAP and get a time."

##

Narval's stare was long and searching. He ignored the armed guards standing within effective range of Brad.

"Sit." Narval pointed to a heavy chair directly in front of his desk. Straight-backed from flat, hard seat to shoulder level, extension clamshells from the upper section of the chair curved forward sharply to form tapered wings.

Brad sat. The clamshells closed in and stopped a few centimeters from his temple. Wired pads extended and touched his skull at several points. The chair was not comfortable; psychic probes weren't meant to be.

"Tell me about yourself," Narval leaned back, inspected his fingers, and then concentrated on a monitor in the wall behind the chair in which Brad sat.

"My name is Brad Curtin," Brad began, "and I'm here with five others to seek sanctuary."

"Tell me about the crimes of which you were convicted, the Guardian Station prison to which you were committed, how you organized your escape, and how it was carried through. You know, of course, that you're undergoing psychic probe. The probe compensates for your awareness of its being used on you; the validity of the findings is not degraded. I see the monitor from where I sit, so, let's hear your story."

Brad spoke for fifteen minutes without interruption. He related the events on his transport off Luna, the investigation that led to his trial, his testimony before the Board, and his arrival at the Guardian Station. Without hesitation, he swung into the cover scenario that had been burned deep into his psyche by Ram's technicians: how he had selected his accomplices, organized the escape, joined the convoy into the spunnel, and finally, his arrival on Planet Pluto.

Brad let the embedded scripts flow freely. He trusted Ram's preparations; his life and the lives of his companions depended on them. Far more important, the Sentinels mission demanded it. Anomalies, he knew, would be sensed immediately, should he even try to color his recounting of the personal knowledge and programmed experiences now deeply embedded in his mind.

Brad stopped talking; the general questions had been answered. Narval studied the wall monitor behind Brad, and returned his stare to Brad.

"Let's clear up a few points," he said. "I understand the ship that you, shall we say, expropriated for your escape was no more than a local utility vessel in the Belt. Yet, from what you say — and from your ship's log — your destination was the rim. Wouldn't you have had a fuel problem?"

"We thought at first that we would. Our plan, originally, was to get to a refueling station, replenish our energy packs, and take it from there. When we checked our bearings, we discovered that our coordinates put us within range of a spunnel node so we headed for that. When we got there, several convoys were lined up for entry to the Special Zone. Our ship had UIPS markings and the gateway was crowded. We managed to get in the lineup and made it."

Narval glanced at the monitor.

"I see. Now, the Guardian Station prison, I am informed, keeps tabs on its inmates using a sophisticated surveillance system. How did you manage to evade observation long enough to get away?"

"Zolan, a member of our group is an expert in electronic countermeasures, counter-countermeasures, and so on. The system on the Guardian Station was installed two to three centuries ago. It serves fine, I suppose, for the ordinary run of inmates confined on the station. Zolan devised a screen behind which we did our planning and preparations. When we were ready to go, he rammed both a counter and a counter-counter device into the station's sensors. The double whammy confused the hell out of the system long enough for us to make our getaway."

"That's my next question. It seems to me the
Space Guard should have been after you immediately.
How is it they let you get away?"

"I think I owe you the credit for that."

"Me?"

"That's the way I figure it. The Guard needs a minimum number of ships to do its work in the Inner Region space lanes. Those lanes are so crowded that they need every ship they can muster to maintain order. On that I speak from long and bitter personal experience. Since the secession, many more Guard vessels are needed along the Belt and their overlap into the Jovian Void; at best they're thinly spread.

"Because of the threat to Slingshot that they perceive in you, the UIPS has been draining both groups lately to augment patrols along routes through the Outer Region that converge on the Special Zone. The additional ships are from the Belt patrols. With all that they already have to cover, expending vital resources to chase a few escaped convicts just wasn't worth it."

Narval wheezed a chuckle.

"So, you think you are beholden to me for this indirect assistance. Really feel that way?"

As he asked the question he looked intently at the monitor. Brad, in turn, watched Narval's eyes.

"I can't see it any other way, Mr. President."

Narval grinned.

"Your answers to my questions present an interesting scenario," Narval said after studying the monitor. "The probe, by the way, does not indicate significant deviations from the facts — as you understand them, of course."

Narval waved the guards away. Saluting, they left the room, closing the door softly behind them. Narval motioned Brad to a chair of much gentler design alongside his desk. As Brad exchanged seats Narval swiveled his chair to face him. He leaned forward and grasped Brad's wrist in a puffy grip.

"The interrogation is over," he said. "This little session with the probe, along with voice analyses of you and your associates has, up to now, failed to disclose a threat to me or about what you all now know of my plans and military capabilities. You seem to be what you claim. Nevertheless, you remain under scrutiny."

Brad shrugged and remained silent; his features reflected that he expected no less.

Narval's smile was vapid, metallic.

"I commend you for the manner in which you represented Drummer and, I add, myself. You did well with the log depot Commander and that upstart on the transport. I am especially pleased with the way you conducted yourself in that little squabble on the transport."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Now, to more important matters, Brad."

Narval leaned back in his deeply cushioned chair and tented his stubby fingers.

"Your observations on the deployment of UIPS military forces interests me. It supports my suspicions. The Inner Region's internal Space Guard is constabulary in both organization and mission. Their jurisdiction is confined by the UIPS borders. Their Military Space Force, on the other hand, has a charter to roam the Solar System — comparable to ancient laws ensuring open seas and oceans.

"Transfer of fighter craft and pilots from the UIPS Space Guard to the Military Space Force, I suspect, is now taking place. Many will need to be refitted for long range operations, and their crews trained in military concepts and tactics in place of those employed in local constabulary duties."

Narval twisted the rings on his fingers, and his tiny eyes seemed to sink deeper into surrounding flesh.

"The greatest single concern of the UIPS is the integrity of Slingshot and the Special Zone. I am convinced that the UIPS military forces, once they attain optimum strength, will attempt to crush me, or at the least, dominate the Zone.

"We must prepare to withstand, to resist, and to triumph over this UIPS aggression in the Outer Region."

Brad felt Narval's eyes on him.

"You are going to help me to prepare," Narval said.

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Drummer expected the call.

"Drummer," Narval said as the door closed behind the guard and they were alone, "UIPS perception of me as a threat can be as effective a weapon as my transforming the threat into the deed itself."

Drummer chose caution. "How so, Mr. President?"

Narval peered sharply at Drummer as he leaned his heavy body back, and folded ring-encrusted hands across his paunch. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling and half-closed his eyes.

"The UIPS now perceives us as having demonstrated a capability for military actions against their vital interests. If we follow up with threats and menacing gestures against Slingshot, the effect may unnerve them, to say the least. How do you see it?"

"It seems to me we've gone far beyond mere threats," Drummer's tone, now grim, continued. "Raiding and harassing their transports, attacking and destroying UIPS patrollers in the Zone, and now, the inventory tax. We formally notify them by Proclamation that we'll lay siege to the Log Depot, we've boarded one of their armed transports and disabled its armaments. These are not empty threats and impetuous gestures."

"Even so, they are prologue, Drummer. Hear me."

Narval twisted his rings, first in one direction then opposite. Lowering his eyes to his hands, he paused often between words, choosing them with care.

"Here in the Outer Region, the separate nations are convulsed by internal struggles for power both internal to their sovereignty and within the family of independent satellites that orbit their host planet. Their political philosophies are diverse, lack cohesion, and have powerful advocates or opponents, some openly, others covert. The Heads of State are insecure and fear political coups. Rapid changes in leadership cannot be ruled out."

Drummer watched Narval eyes caress his entwined fingers.

"If new leaders arise and take over the reins of power from incumbents, so much the better for me. New governments will need time to become entrenched, create lines of authority and accountability, and install bureaucracies responsive to the wishes of a new elite. I repeat, confusion in the ranks, within other governments, is to my advantage."

"Can you count on such events materializing?"

"Of course not."

Narval wagged a finger at Drummer.

"But the uncertainty within regimes that these disruptions can, and may occur, dissipates and weakens their energies. If they fear enemies from within, and suspect enemies from outside, then they are diseased and warrant being replaced by a daring and skillful master."

"Who might that be?"

"Me."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Then listen carefully, because you play a vital role in my plans."

Narval motioned a now openly apprehensive Drummer to the chair beside his desk. As Drummer sat, Narval leaned close.

"My strategy has two facets: one involves INOR, the other, the UIPS. They are interdependent."

Unfolding his clasped hands, Narval's fingers drummed the desk.

"I repeat, with INOR in turmoil no head of state can feel secure. New philosophies surface and attract supporters, occasionally, even strong leaders. If forces with objectives opposing mine move into the Outer Region, I will not sit by idly. I will intervene, even if it means imposing the most stringent discipline and controls."

"With respect, President Narval, does Planet Pluto have the right to intervene into the affairs of other nations?"

Narval scowled, recovered, and snickered.

"Power gives us rights we would not have otherwise. When the old United Planetary System decided to use Planet Pluto as the forward base for Slingshot, they invested the planet with some of their most advanced technologies. Other communities throughout the Outer Region are just that: places where people live, work, play, consume and little else.

"Slingshot has given Planet Pluto a far greater role in the solar scheme. And now, a role that was entirely unexpected when Slingshot was first planned, dissolution of the unified solar government released us from UIPS domination. We gained opportunities to fashion and strengthen an infrastructure, and freedom to confuse our INOR neighbors with a melange of schemes to satisfy their greed. Slingshot technology, facilities, and materiel give to us, more than to any other member of INOR, the means to attain our aspirations. Power creates its own logic, Drummer.

"To answer your question: I will intervene into the affairs of other nations when it is to my benefit to do so."

Narval's hands clenched into fists. He pounded the top of his desk in a tattoo as he glared at Drummer through eye slits embedded in fat.

"Understand me, Drummer," Narval shrilled. "I will be the dominant force in INOR, and that's only the beginning."

Narval quieted, each warily observing the other. Hesitatingly, Drummer tried to respond to Narval's incredible declaration.

"Is that what's behind your recent Proclamation to the UIPS on a new foundation for interregional relationships?"

"Partly."

"What else is there?"

"Unfortunately, we cannot repeat Tornado Six. When I approved it, I intended it as a one-time operation to, shall we say, test the waters. It succeeded through your command, and the extraordinary initiative of Brad Curtin. We must now go on to other probing and design new confrontations from which the UIPS will be forced to retreat. Our tactics will, at times, include diversions, as we must keep both INOR governments and the UIPS off-balance. They must be kept guessing — not certain — where I will move next."

"How do you expect them to react to such provocation?"

"There is little likelihood the UIPS will gamble with the future of our solar civilization by retreating from Slingshot; they cannot risk the system-wide demoralization and desolation that would follow. I intend to play on their fears and on public pressures to attain my ends. That's where threats come in; we must use them regularly, but with cunning and consistency. UIPS perception of danger to Slingshot, compounded by the enormous distances from their military centers, will compel them to be reasonable. If our tactics are convincing the UIPS will have no alternatives. They will accede to my demands."

"What if they resist?"

Narval's pudgy fists resumed their cadenced pounding.

"Let them," he snarled, "I will be ready; I will go further and challenge them. They will be compelled to come to me, and I command the high ground. I will defeat them, and move on quickly to my ultimate objective."

"And what is that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Yes, President Narval, but I must be certain." Drummer's face was pale. "My ears want to hear what my mind has been forced to conclude."

"Very well, Drummer, hear this. Planet Pluto is strategically situated at this time to be the single, most influential force in human affairs. I will use that influence to consolidate my military control over INOR. When I have that I will confront the UIPS and beat them down. I, Narval, will dominate the Solar System."

Narval's ultimate objective was clear and set.
Drummer knew better than to dissuade him.

Having confided in Drummer, Narval waxed garrulous.

"I have debts to pay," he said, "and I shall get much pleasure in making good on them. Many insults and humiliations need to be returned to former colleagues on Callisto. And there are others, in tank towns throughout the Outer Region and in the UIPS. They will feel my wrath."

"Is vengeance all there is to it?"

Narval caught himself.

"No, no, of course not," he said, hurriedly. "I shall govern. I shall be wise and magnanimous. Magnanimous, that is, to those who support me, and," clenching his fists again, "merciless to those who oppose me or seek to undermine my will."

"Considering Planet Pluto's distance from the centers of social and industrial activity," Drummer interjected, "and our planet's far-ranging orbit, this could be a difficult location from which to govern the Solar System."

"I've thought of that, Drummer. I shall move to Luna and rule from there. In stages, we can adjust to its gravity. Once Slingshot goes operational, this planet will revert to an outpost, for most of its orbit beyond the solar rim. It was never meant to be more. To me, Planet Pluto has always been just another stepping stone."

A broad grin rippled across Narval's features. Drummer, somber-faced, returned Narval's gaze and saw his eyes shrink into lumpy flesh.

"Drummer, my plans include a position of great power and prestige for you."

"Indeed?"

"A new elite and a new hierarchy will be created when I take control. I will want a council of advisors, commanders and administrators for internal affairs, constabulary and military forces, security, intelligence, and a vast bureaucracy to manage the affairs of government for an entire system of planets, satellites, and thousands of artificial colonies. Much will need to be done, and you will be in the forefront."

"You honor me."

"I expect faithful service, Drummer."

"I shall do my best."

"Good. Now, as to Brad Curtin."

Narval leaned back and entwined his fingers across his abdomen.

"I had him here a short time ago and questioned him under a psychic probe. He withstood the inquiry. The probe did not disclose any inconsistencies to my questions; therefore, I can only conclude he is what he claims to be. What is your opinion?"

"My talks with Brad and his companions led me to that conclusion."

"So be it then."

Narval's attention seemed to wander. He reached for a document on the desk, and he perused it as if his mind was elsewhere.

"Drummer," he said, raising his eyes, "I want you to give Brad a special assignment, and report to me periodically how it is progressing. Keep Brad's group together, but watch them, and report to me immediately of any suspicious activities. I've also ordered Scarf to keep an eye on Brad and his crew."

"Scarf? To what purpose?"

"I have plans for Brad, if he does well."

"What is the task?"

Narval locked eyes with Drummer.

"Tell Brad to prepare plans and evaluate our military capabilities to penetrate the protective shield around the Logistics Depot, to capture it and use it as hostage."

"Good God! Take the depot as hostage? For what purpose?"

"The reason you will give Brad is that INOR will hold it hostage for a greater share in decisions on the disposition of Slingshot-generated assets."

"That isn't the real reason, is it?"

"No. The objective is diversionary."

"And the real objective?"

"You will be told when it is time."