A third ground-car, this one not armored, had stopped in the road, and Moffis was standing beside it talking to an individual with broad shoulders and brawny arms, who beamed expansively upon Moffis.
“Honored sir, I shall be happy to welcome you to my dwelling, and if your superior is hurt, we may summon a healer, as I have a long-talker hooked up right in my own house. I am off work for the day, and will help you all I can. Let’s see, you say there was a whole ground-car here—in one piece—when the wreck happened?”
Horsip looked around, to see the carriage still in good shape, but with an outline in crushed wood at the rear. Looking at the carriage, Horsip became aware of a steely glint from underneath the splintered wood.
At the far end of the carriage, the gnath placidly cleaned itself, radiating contentment and well-being.
Horsip got to his feet, and saw the monk sitting up. Horsip helped him up. The monk’s eyes glinted.
“There,” he murmured, “is more work of the Earthmen. You see that fellow? Sark Rottik is a good honest workman, skilled at his craft. But if he has two brass halfpennies to scrape together, I will be surprised. . . . He has everything else, I’ll grant.”
The workman called, “Greeting, Reverend Father. What happened? It looks as if a junk wagon ran into you.”
“The last I knew, there were two armored ground-cars behind us. Luckily, our workshops build strong.”
“I see no one lying hurt from the other vehicle, at least,” said Rottik.
“No?” The monk looked momentarily blank, glanced at the gnath, looked serious, and turned to Horsip and Moffis.
“I had intended to offer you hospitality. But . . . this situation requires attention. Perhaps . . .” He glanced questioningly at Sark Rottik, who beamed.
“I have already invited them. My ground-car is right here. We can go at once.”
Horsip and Moffis said good-by to the preoccupied monk, and their new host ushered them to a ground-car with leather seats, folding top, and an impressive array of instruments. The ground-car gave a whine, then a howl, shoved them back in the seats, and was moving fast before Horsip could get the door shut. Rottik grinned.
“The Earthmen designed it, but I helped build it. Observe the floating action. The Earthmen are wonderful! . . . My house is just up ahead, conveniently close to my work.”
They rounded a curve, shot up a side road, braked, rounded another curve, and there loomed in front of them a kind of palace, administration building, or headquarters of the planetary governor, with flagpole, swimming pool, mansion of gray stone trimmed with yellow wood, neatly mowed lawn, graveled walks, and avenues of flowering trees.
Radiating pride, Rottik drove up the broad driveway, to stop under an overhanging roof supported by stone pillars and wrought-iron lattice up which vines of purple flowers climbed.
As Horsip and Moffis stared around, Rottik got out, beaming, felt through his pockets, pulled out a small gold key ring, and bent briefly at a massive paneled door. The door swung noiselessly open.
Rottik grinned, and bowed to the speechless Horsip and Moffis.
“I am as yet unmarried, so that my hospitality is limited. But you will find the stocks of foods and beverages complete, as they came with the house. Also the linens. Everything is included on the Revolving All-Payment Plan. Please make yourself at home, and if you want anything, just ask for it. I am sure I have got it here somewhere.”
A few minutes later, in a palatial guest room on the second floor, Horsip and Moffis stood at a big window.
“If this is what comes of cooperating with the Earthmen,” said Moffis, “I can see why anyone would cooperate with them.”
Horsip looked out at the water sparkling against the pale-green tiles of the swimming pool.
“I have to admit, Moffis . . .” He paused, frowning. “On the other hand, I wonder what a ‘Revolving All-Payment Plan’ is?”
Moffis looked thoughtfully at the walks, pool, bathhouse, green lawns, and statue of a demure female with water spurting out the top of her head.
“H’m,” he said. “We will have to ask about that.”
Part V: The Toughest Opponent
Colonel John Towers, personally commanding Independent Division III of his Special Effects Team, whose modest name gave little indication of its ability to create pain and suffering amongst its enemies, had learned from long experience that danger did not come just from those enemies.
Towers heard Logan’s sharp intake of breath, and the snap as Logan’s holster-flap whipped open. Towers knew that his second-in-command, right behind him, could have his service automatic in action in a fraction of a second. The scene around them flashed through Towers’ mind, his eyes and memory showing him the massive wall of logs and stone, the orderly rows of barracks, and the Centran guards that had been standing on the wall, glancing idly down as Towers’ landing-boat settled into place. In that instant Towers realized where the danger must come from.
He abruptly straightened, the cloth of his uniform tightening as he drew his breath in sharply, and pivoted on his heel to face the Centran troops on the wall.
In the same instant, his suddenly keyed-up mind separated from the meaningless gabble around them a string of words in Centran, and gave him the translation:
” . . . Furless, tailless aliens impersonating officers. Shoot the . . .”
As Towers turned, he could see in sharp detail every tiny fold of cloth, and every facial line of the soldiers on the wall, their guns raised and aimed at him.
From Towers’ right came the faint click as the safety went off on Logan’s automatic, and the fusion charges needed only a slight touch on the trigger to release their bolts of controlled destruction.
Towers had just time to notice, in the faces of the Centran troops, a trace of hesitation.
“You there!” he barked in fluent Centran. “You men on the wall! Who’s in charge there?”
Towers saw the hesitation waver into uncertainty. He realized he had unconsciously gripped Logan’s arm in warning, and now released the pressure. Glaring at the Centrans, who still looked at him over their guns, he roared, “What the devil is this nonsense?”
Abruptly, he ignored the rest of them, and focused his gaze on the uneasiest face.
“Sergeant!”
“S-Sir?” The Centran noncom glanced uncertainly at Towers’ insignia.
Towers demanded, “Are those men off-duty?”
The sergeant hesitated.
“Answer me!” roared Towers. “Are they off-duty?”
The other Centrans glanced at each other, and lowered their guns unhappily.
“No, sir,” said the sergeant.
“What are they supposed to be doing?”
“Watch and guard, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Watch and guard!” said Towers. He stared at the sergeant as if he couldn’t believe it. Then he exploded. “By the Great Hungry Mikeril! Get those men back to their posts, or I’ll have those stripes of yours nailed to the latrine door, and you’ll spend the next six months inside with a scrub brush!”
The sergeant jumped as if he’d been touched with a live wire. He gave Towers a lightning salute, then all but threw the men off the wall in his haste to straighten things out.
Narrow-eyed, Towers looked around. The Centrans on the wall were now earnestly going about their duties. Directly in front of Towers, in the space cleared for landing-boats, was an unhappy Centran captain, his arm raised in a salute. A pace behind stood a paralyzed lieutenant. Towers looked them over coldly.
Beside him, Logan murmured a low oath, and Towers heard the faint slide-snap as Logan shoved his automatic back in its holster and shut the flap. Towers looked hard at the Centran captain, then returned his salute.
“S-Sir,” stammered the captain, “General Klossig, Military Overseer of the planet, requests that you see him immediately. I can take you to him at once, sir, and if you wish to arrange barracks space for your men—”
Towers glanced at Logan, who said promptly, “I’ll take care of it, sir.”
“Good.” Towers went off with the captain. A backward glance showed him Logan following the lieutenant toward a far corner of the camp.
“Sir,” said the captain walking beside Towers. “I’m sorry about that business back at the wall. The men are jumpy. They’ve never seen Earthmen before. And to tell the truth, this planet is driving us all out of our heads.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“The natives just won’t give up. I was in on the invasion of Earth, and I remember what that was like. But at least we could respect our opponents. Here . . . well, it’s like fighting humanoid gnats. No matter how many you kill, they never quit. You can’t make any treaty with them. They don’t catch on. You can’t win, and you can’t end it. It’s—” He shook his head, led the way up a flight of steps, and down the hall to a door marked, “Maj. Gen. Horp Klossig, Military Overseer.”