intercom. “If they won’t talk to us, we’ll maybe go in and talk to
them.” For his communicator, searching all bands, had drawn no hint of–
No! A screen flickered into color. He looked at the first Chereionite
face he could be certain was not Aycharaych’s. It had the same spare
beauty, the same deep calm, but as many differences of sculpture as
between one human countenance and the next. And from the start, even
before speech began, he felt a … heaviness: nothing of sardonic humor
or flashes of regret.
“Talk the conn, Chives,” he directed. A whistling had begun, and the
badlands were no longer before but below him. Hooligan was an easier
target now than she had been in space; she had better be ready to dodge
and strike back.
“You are not cleared for entry,” said the screen in Eriau which was
mellow-toned but did not sing like Aycharaych’s. “Your action is
forbidden under strict penalties, by command of the Roidhun in person,
renewed in each new reign. Can you offer a justification?”
Huh? jabbed through Flandry. Does he assume this is a Merseian boat and
I a Merseian man? “Em–emergency,” he tried, too astonished to invent a
glib story. He had expected he would declare himself as more or less
what he was, and hold his destination city hostage to his guns and
missiles. Whether or not the attempt could succeed in any degree, he had
no notion. At best he’d thought he might bear away a few hints about the
beings who laired here.
“Have you control over your course?” inquired the voice.
“Yes. Let me speak to a ranking officer.”
“You will go approximately five hundred kilometers northwest of your
immediate position. Prepare to record a map.” The visage vanished, a
chart appeared, two triangles upon it. “The red apex shows where you
are, the blue your mandatory landing site, a spacefield. You will stay
inboard and await instructions. Is this understood?”
“We’ll try. We, uh, we have a lot of speed to kill. In our condition,
fast braking is unsafe. Can you give us about half an hour?”
Aycharaych would not have spent several seconds reaching a decision.
“Permitted. Be warned, deviations may cause you to be shot down.
Proceed.” Nor would he have broken contact with not a single further
inquiry.
Outside was no longer black, but purple. The spacecraft strewed thunder
across desert. “What the hell, sir?” Chives exploded.
“Agreed,” said Flandry. His tongue shifted to an obscure language they
both knew. “Use this lingo while that channel’s open.”
“What shall we do?”
“First, play back any pictures we got of the place we’re supposed to
go.” Flandry’s fingers brushed a section of console. On an inset screen
came a view taken from nearby space under magnification. His trained
eyes studied it and a few additional. “A spacefield, aye, standard
Merseian model, terminal and the usual outbuildings. Modest-sized, no
vessels parked. And way off in wilderness.” He twisted his mustache.
“You know, I’ll bet that’s where every visitor’s required to land. And
then he’s brought in a closed car to a narrowly limited area which is
all he ever sees.”
“Shall we obey, sir?”
“Um, ‘twould be a pity, wouldn’t it, to pass by that lovely city we had
in mind. Besides, they doubtless keep heavy weapons at the port; our
pictures show signs of it. Once there, we’d be at their mercy. Whereas I
suspect that threat to blast us elsewhere was a bluff. Imagine a
stranger pushing into a prohibited zone on a normal planet–when the
system’s being invaded! Why aren’t we at least swarmed by military
aircraft?”
“Very good, sir. We can land in five minutes.” Chives gave his master a
pleading regard. “Sir, must I truly stay behind while you debark?”
“Somebody has to cover us, ready to scramble if need be. We’re
Intelligence collectors, not heroes. If I call you and say, ‘Escape,’
Chives, you will escape.”
“Yes, sir,” the Shalmuan forced out. “However, please grant me the
liberty of protesting your decision not to wear armor like your men.”
“I want the full use of my senses.” Flandry cast him a crooked smile and
patted the warm green shoulder. “I fear I’ve often strained your