She snapped down the replay level. Immediately the tape replied in code.
“So that is how it is,” she said aloud. They had reported, and had received orders that they must make any investigations in three planet days’ reckoning, be ready then for rift-off. As to when that deadline had been set, she had no idea.
There was one thing she could do now. It might not in any way mitigate her eventual punishment, but it would prevent Uncle OfHas from censoring anything she said.
Roane found a clear report tape and fitted it into the case which, once sealed and numbered, must be produced and could only be opened on the Service ship. She sat by the table, took up the mike, but thought out carefully what she would say before she thumbed it to Go. A simple story of what had happened was best. Thus she dictated the course of events which had followed from her first meeting with the Princess.
She added as concisely as she could the conclusions she had drawn concerning the Crown, the conditioning, all she had herself experienced. This might well be disallowed by the authorities, but the experts would have access to it. When she had done Roane pressed her thumb to the sign slot with relief. There was nothing Uncle OfHas could do to alter that.
Now she was so very tired that her bones ached. The fight against the distort had left her so exhausted she could hardly get to her feet. But she dared not sleep now, give way to the ache in her back, the weakness in her legs! She had to warn Uncle Offlas and Sandar. They might stumble upon some party prospecting for the Crown.
Colonel Imfry—the stunner blast had been low; he and his men would not be incapacitated for long. But with the distorts holding they could not trail her.
Roane pulled at the unfamiliar clothing she wore, dragged it off piece by piece. She pawed through her now very meager wardrobe. One more suit—or would that be the right choice? If she went to the cave perhaps the Clio clothing would be less noticeable. But—her mind must be more clear-Somehow she got to the small fresher, forcing her tired mind to focus on dialing. This ought to jolt her awake. Moisture gathered on her body as a haze rose about her. She buried her face in it eagerly, drew breaths of it into her lungs. It was like coming out of a dire murk into clear, fresh water. But she must be careful; not enough and her fatigue would return, too much and it would induce euphoria, which could lead her into some overconfident, disastrous move. This was a device to be used only when some danger demanded stimulation of mind and body, and then sparingly.
The fog cleared, she climbed out and rubbed down her damp body, no longer aware of aches and pains. With a bed robe wrapped around her, she went back to the control room.
No warn light on the off-world com. She was alert enough now to read the other dials. At one she paused, frowning. Surely the distort was not so limited as that! There was a small map on the screen, red pinpoints marking the broadcast boxes. But the gauge showed a waning of power. Hurriedly she checked further.
So that was it—they needed recharging. But that was something Uncle Offlas would have been very careful about before he left. Which might mean he had been gone longer than he intended. And even as Roane watched, one of the red points flickered— disappeared. A distort had ended its sentry duty. Roane was faced with a new decision. She could visit each of those settings, replace the charges. Or she could make speed to the cave with her warning—
To visit the distorts might be a waste of precious time, could expose her once more to Imfry and his men. No—it was best to go to the cave. Once they all returned here and shut off the outlying distorts, they could turn on a central energy beam which would fortify the whole clearing until lift-off.
Back in her cubicle Roane once more pulled on the native clothing and then checked her belt, adding a freshly charged beamer, a new charge in the stunner, a detect, and a counter beam which would free her from those emanations.
It was morning when she left the camp. And it was going to be a fair day; there were no clouds overhead. She reached the cliff of the cave without picking up any trace of Imfry’s party. But as she approached the narrow entrance to the underground ways, she dodged quickly into cover, her heart pounding. Not Imfry’s men—but there was someone there in ambush. Only the detect she carried had warned her in time.
Roane studied the terrain. There was no way of reaching the hidden stranger. She could get a small, blurred reading on him, enough to pinpoint his position. Drawing her stunner, she made hastily calculated changes in its setting. She doubted if she could knock him out at this distance, but she could render him helpless long enough for her to reach the door of the cave. She sighted on the bush which hid him, and pressed the button.
He made no move, and she could not prove the effectiveness of her attack without exposing herself. With a shrug, she got up and walked forward, though that stretch of earth and rock seemed the longest she had ever traveled—on any world.
There came no attack, no challenge from the bush. She ran past the cover, loose stones and gravel rolling under her feet, and reached the cave mouth. There she dared to look around. A booted leg protruded from the brush. It moved feebly, gouging up the sandy soil, but that was all. She used the beam again to make sure her victim was well under.
She went on into the passage. Where before that way had been silent, now there was a continuous murmur of sound. Straining her ears, Roane tried to make out the rise and fall of voices. But this was rather a mechanical clicking. And it grew louder as she advanced. There was a glimmer of light as she came to the transparent plate. Only the panel was now gone, to leave a door- way from which issued the sounds. Roane stepped into the chamber beyond.
She stood at one end of a double line of tall columns. Each was fitted with a fore panel, lighted, on which were maplike outlines. And cresting each was something else, alien in form to the plain solidity of the pillars.
For each was literally crowned. On a small stalk on top of each pillar rested a miniature diadem, beautifully wrought, sparkling with gems.
Two of the pillars in the double line were dark. On the nearer the crown was lifeless, dulled. But the rest glittered as if the metal and jewels from which they had been fashioned now coursed with energy. There were also rows of small lights above and around the map plates, and these flashed on and off with brilliant sparks of ever-changing colors.
Roane was sure now that these were no Forerunner remains. They must be connected with the experiment of Clio’s settlement. But she had only a minute or two to watch before her uncle moved out into the aisle between the pillars.
She had not come unprepared for such an encounter, fearing that she might even be rayed down by a stunner before she could protest. So her weapon was ready. Nor had she been wrong in her wariness, for OfHas also had his stunner aimed.
“Roane!” He did not speak loudly, yet his voice vibrated through the chamber, filling it, just above the muttering of the machines. He moved closer. Warned by his speech, she kept her voice even lower:
“The distorts are failing.” She gave him what she felt to be a needful warning.
“They don’t run forever.” His whispering voice was harsh, just as Basic sounded curt and hard after the softer inflections of the Clio tongue. “You—where did you come from?”
“I escaped from a keep, back in the hills. But that is not important now. They are coming here to search for the Crown—”
“How many?” he demanded. “Sandar is—”
“There are two parties, one with the Princess, one of her men alone. I don’t know how many. She is a prisoner; her kinsman wants her to take the Crown so he can get it.” She spilled out what she had to say in a torrent of words. “The Princess says only one of the Blood Royal can handle a crown—it kills anyone else—”
Her uncle had turned to face one of the machines and now Roane, moving closer, was able to trace on its pillar the outline of a map she knew—Reveny! The crown set above that was a vision of ice. She could not have named the metal of its forming —it might even be pure crystal. It was a circlet composed of a series of points which inclined toward the center, where four of them united at the apex. Those in turn supported a star set with flashing white gems. If the miniature was so impressive, what a glory the real crown must be!