“a battle cruiser has landed in front of the temple, and the commanding officer says he has orders to take you along!”
Ardmore put down the papers he had been studying. “Hmm-m-m,” he said,
“it looks like we’re getting down to the slugging. A little bit earlier than I had counted on.” He frowned.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You know my methods. What do you think I’ll do about it?”
“Well — I guess you’ll probably go along with him, but it worries me. I wish you wouldn’t.”
“What else can I do? We aren’t ready yet for an open breach; a refusal would be out of character. Orderly!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Send my striker in. Tell him full robes and paraphernalia. Then present my compliments to Captain Thomas and ask him to come here at once.”
“Yes, sir.” The orderly was already busy with the viewphone.
Ardmore talked with Kendig and Thomas as his striker robed him. “Jeff, here’s the sack — you’re holding it.”
“Huh?”
“If anything happens so that I lose communication with headquarters, you are commanding officer. You’ll find your appointment in, my desk, signed and sealed.”
“But Chief”
“Don’t ‘But Chief’ me. I made my decision on this a long time ago.
Kendig knows about it; so does the rest of the staff. I’d have had you in the staff before this if I hadn’t needed you as Chief of Intelligence.” Ardmore glanced in a mirror and brushed at his curly blond beard. They had all grown beards, all those who appeared in public as priests. It tended to give the comparatively hairless Asiatics a feeling of womanly inferiority while at the same time arousing a vague unallocated repugnance. “You may have noticed that no one holding a line commission has ever been made senior to you. I had this eventuality in mind.”
“How about Calhoun?”
“Oh, yes — Calhoun. Your commission as a line-officer automatically makes you senior to him, of course. But I’m afraid that won’t cut much ice in handling him. You just have to deal with him as best you can.
You’ve got force majeure at your disposal, but go easy. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
A messenger, dressed as an acolyte, hurried in and saluted. “Sir, the temple officer of the watch says that the PanAsian Commander is getting very impatient.”
“Good. I want him to be. Are the subsonics turned on?”
“Yes, sir, they make us all very nervous.”
“You can stand it; you know what it is. Tell the watch officer to have the engineer on duty vary the volume erratically with occasional complete let-ups. I want those Asiatics to be fit to be tied by the time I get there.”
“Yes, sir. Any word to the cruiser commander?”
“Not directly. Have the watch officer tell him that I am at my devotions and can’t be disturbed.”
“Very good, sir.” The messenger trotted away. This was something like!
He would hang around where he could see the face of that skunk when he heard that one!
“I’m glad we got these new headsets fitted out in time,” Ardmore observed as his striker fitted his turban to his head.
The turbans had originally been intended simply to conceal the mechanism which produced the shining halo which floated above the heads of all priests of Mota. The turban and the halo together made a priest look about seven feet tall with consequent unfavorable effect on the psyche of the Asiatics. But Scheer had seen the possibility of concealing a short range transmitter and receiver under the turban as well; they were now standard equipment.
He settled the turban with his hands, made sure that the bone conduction receiver was firm against his mastoid, and spoke in natural low tones, apparently to no one, “Commanding officer — testing.”
Apparently inside his head, a voice, muffled but distinct, answered him,
“Communication watch officer — test check.”
“Good,” he approved. “Have direction finders crossed on me until further notice. Arrange your circuits to hook me in through the nearest temple to headquarters here. I may want Circuit A at any moment. ”
Circuit A was a general broadcast to every temple in the country. “Any news from Captain Downer?”