* * *
It was a forty-minute ride along the forested slopes walling the valley to the rendezvous point Prince Tavilan had designated, a sheltered ravine less than a hundred yards from the nearest of the parked war vessels. The access ladder was down, and light spilled from the open entry port. A Reservist in baggy grey and green lounged in the opening. Two more stood below, power rifles slung across their backs.
“You could pick those three off from here,” Retief remarked. “Cross-bows are a nice quiet weapon—”
Tavilan shook his head. “We’ll ride down in formal battle-order. No war’s been declared. They won’t fire on the Prince Royal.”
“There may be forty more inside—to say nothing of the crews of the next ships in line, sentries, stand-by riot squads, and those two pill-boxes commanding the ends of the valley.”
“Still—I must give those men their chance to declare themselves.”
“As the Prince wishes—but I’ll keep my blaster loose in its holster—just in case . . .”
* * *
The Prince rode in the lead with his guidon at his left, followed by thirty-five men, formed up in a precise triangle of seven ranks, with two honor guards out on the flanks. The rear guard followed, holding the reins of the mount to which General Hish, still hissing bitter complaints, was lashed.
The Invincibles moved down the slope and out onto the broad tarmac, hooves clattering against the paved surface. The two men on the ramp turned, stoop gaping. The one above at the ship’s entry port whirled, disappeared inside.
The troop rode on; they were halfway to the ship now. One of the waiting Greenbacks unlimbered his power gun, cranked the action, the other followed suit. Both stepped forward half a dozen paces, brought their weapons up uncertainly.
“Halt! Who the Hell’s there!” one bawled.
Tavilan flipped the corner of his hunting cape forward over his shoulder to show the royal Eloran device, came on in silence.
The taller of the two Greenbacks raised his rifle, hesitated, half-lowered it. Riding half a pace behind Tavilan, Retief eased his pistol from its holster, watching the doorway above. On his right, Count Arrol held his crossbow across his knee, a bolt cocked in the carriage, his finger on the trigger.
Ten feet from the two Greenback sentries, Prince Tavilan reined in.
“Aren’t you men accustomed to render a proper salute when your Commander makes a surprise inspection?” he said calmly.
The Greenbacks looked at each other, fingering their guns.
“It looks as though the word had gone out,” Arrol whispered to Retief.
“You cover the Prince; I’ll handle the entry port,” Retief murmured.
At that moment a figure eased into view at the port; light glinted from the front sight of a power gun as it came up, steadied—
Retief sighted, fired; in the instantaneous blue glare, the man at the port whirled and fell outward. The Greenback nearest Tavilan made a sudden move to swing his gun on the Prince—then stumbled back, a steel quarrel from Arrol’s cross-bow standing in his chest. The second Greenback dropped his weapon, stood with raised hands, his mouth open and eyes wide, then turned and ran.
Tavilan leaped down from his steed, dashed for the access ladder, his cross-bow ready. As though on command, four men followed him, while others scattered to form a rough semi-circle at the base of the ladder. Sheltered behind a generator unit, Retief and Arrol covered the port. Tavilan disappeared inside, the men at his heels. There was a long half-minute of dead silence. Then a shout sounded from the next vessel in line, a hundred yards distant. Tavilan reappeared, gestured.
“Everybody in,” Arrol called. The men went for the ladder, sprang up in good order; those waiting on the ramp faced outward, covering all points.
A light flashed briefly from the adjacent vessel; a sharp report echoed. A man fell from the ladder; others caught him, lifted him up. Far away, a harsh voice bellowed orders.
“They aren’t using any heavy stuff,” Arrol said. “They wouldn’t want to nick the paint on their new battle wagon . . .”
A squad of men appeared, running from the shadows at the base of the ship from which the firing had come. Most of the troop were up the ladder now; two men hustled the struggling Groaci up. Beside Retief, Arrol launched three bolts in rapid-fire order. Two of the oncoming men fell. The blue flashes of power guns winked; here and there, the surface of the tarmac boiled as wild shots struck.
“Come on . . .” The two men ran for the ladder; Arrol sprang for it, swarmed up. Retief followed; molten metal spattered as a power-gun bolt vaporized the handrail. Then hands were hauling him inside.
“Hit the deck,” Arrol yelled. “We’re lifting . . . ?”
* * *
“We took one burst from an infinite repeater,” an officer reported, “but no serious damage was done. They held their fire just a little too long.”
“We were lucky,” Prince Tavilan said. “One man killed, one wounded. It’s fortunate we didn’t select the next ship in line; we’d have had a hornet’s nest on our hands.”
“Too bad we broke up the battalion crap game,” Retief commented. “But by now they’ll be lifting off after us—a few of them, anyway.”
“All right—we’ll give them a warm welcome before they nail us—”
“If I may venture to suggest—”
Tavilan waved a hand, grinning. “Every time you get too damned polite, you’ve got some diabolical scheme up your sleeve. What is it this time, Retief?”
“We won’t wait around to be nailed. We’ll drive for Deep Space at flank speed—”
“And run into Dangredi’s blockage? I’d rather use my firepower on Prouch’s scavengers.”
“That’s where our friend the General comes in.” Retief nodded toward the trussed Groaci. “He and Dangredi are old business associates. We’ll put him on the screen and see if he can’t negotiate a brief truce. With the approval of Your Highness, I think we can make an offer that will interest him . . .”
* * *
The flagship of the pirate fleet was a four-hundred-year-old, five-hundred-thousand-ton dreadnought, a relic of pre-Concordiat times. In the red-lit gloom of its cavernous Command Control deck, Retief and Prince Tavilan relaxed in deep couches designed for the massive frames of the Hondu corsairs. Opposite them, Dangredi, the Hondu chieftain, lounged at ease, his shaggy, leather-strapped, jewel-spangled 350-pound bulk almost overflowing his throne-like chair. At Retief’s side, General Hish perched nervously. Half a dozen of Tavilan’s Invincibles stood around the room, chatting with an equal number of Dangredi’s hulking officers, whose greenish fur looked black in the light from the crimson lamps.
“What I failing to grasp,” Dangredi rumbled, “is reason for why suddenly now changing of plan previously okayed.”
“I hardly think that matters,” Tavilan said smoothly. “I’ve offered to add one hundred thousand Galactic Credits to the sum already agreed on.”
“But the whole idea was compensate me, Grand Hereditary War Chief of Hondu people, for not fight; now is offering more pay for stand and give battle . . .”
“I thought you Hondu loved war,” an Eloran officer said.
Dangredi nodded his heavy green-furred head, featureless but for two wide green-pupiled eyes. “Crazy mad for warring, and also plenty fond of cash. But is smelling rodent somewhere in woodpile . . .”
“It’s very simple, Commodore,” Retief said. “General Hish here had arranged with you to flee when the People’s Volunteer forces attacked; now changing conditions on Elora make it necessary that you fight—and in place of the loot you would otherwise so rightly expect, you’ll collect a handsome honorarium—”
Suddenly the Groaci leaped to his feet, pointed at Retief. “Commodore Dangredi,” he hissed. “This renegade diplomat beside me holds a gun pointed at my vitals; only thus did he coerce me to request this parley. Had I guessed his intention, I would have dared him to do his worst. Seize the traitor, Excellency!”
Dangredi stared at the Groaci.
“He—and these strutting popinjays—plot against the security of the People’s State of Elora!” Hish whispered urgently. “The plan remains unchanged! You are to flee engagement with the forces of Minister Prouch!”
The great green head bobbed suddenly; hooting laughter sounded. A vast hand slapped a thigh like a shaggy beer keg.
“Aha! At last is getting grasp of situation,” Dangredi bellowed. “Now is little honest treachery, kind of dealing Hondu understanding!” He waved a hand at a servitor standing by. “Bringing wassail bowl, plenty meat!” He brought his hands together with a dull boom, rubbed them briskly. “Double-cross, plenty fighting, more gold at end of trail! Is kind of operation I, Dangredi, Hereditary War chief, dreaming of in long nights of tooth-shedding time!”
“But these—these criminal kidnappers have no authority to deal—”
“Groaci-napping is harmless pastime—like stealing wine-melons when cub. Unless, maybe . . .” he cocked a large emerald eye at Hish ” . . . you maybe raising ante?”