“Or else,” Mills caught him up, “something so tortuously complicated that we shall never be able to cope with them. Or they may have expert advice and assistance—”
“From a Mech Legion?”
“I don’t see how they could have that! The transportation problem to Fronn alone—! Why, no troopship can clear for anywhere in the Galaxy without a sealed route-tape to its known destination. And yet that Mech on Prime was taking indoctrination for this planet—Prime! Right where the least rumor of such a move should damn it from the start. And suppose a Legion, or a part of a Legion has turned rotten—why select Fronn for their operations? What does a frontier world possess that would make such a risk within the bounds of profit?”
“What sort of mineral rights did Skura sell Interplanetary to raise the pay for Yorke, sir?”
Deke Mills squared around to face Kana, amazement in his eyes. Almost, the younger Swordsman thought, as if a gu had addressed him in good Basic.
“Out of the mouths of greenies,” he said. “Mineral rights, trading rights, and maybe a good chance for a double cross all around with the Terrans to blame everything on! Lord of Space! That could be the answer to a lot of questions. Mechs could be smuggled in on trade ships—flamers provided—everything! But”—he stared thoughtfully at Kana— “you keep your mouth shut on that bright idea, understand? We already have enough rumors flying around now without adding one so logical it can be believed.”
“Then you think we’ve more than renegades against us, sir?”
“Alien reasoning—how do we know how their minds work? The C.C. doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to. They’ve never even tried to know what makes us tick. We’re the slightly comical, childish mercenaries—with minds that don’t match their pattern charts. So they fit us into the general scheme of things and try to forget us. And because we have functioned in that niche, they’ve stopped worrying about us. Their idea of a Terran has become so much of a set figure that they do not see us as we are at all, but as they think we are—two very different things. You know”—Mills paused for a moment as if a new thought had struck him— “that in a way gives us a protective covering. We’ve learned things which would surprise the Galactic Agents. So these Trade boys—non-Terran, of course—Terra cannot trade—figure out a neat, strictly illegal scheme—and they don’t stop to think of our part in it at all. We’re just pieces to be shoved around on a game board. But what will happen if we begin to make moves on our own? We should try just that—”
Kana tensed. Was Mills choosing to pass along real information? Did the Terrans have some way of fighting back against the protective parentalism of C.C. which might even now keep them earthbound? The odd sixth sense which was part of the make-up of any A.L. man quivered into life. He thought of questions—ten—twenty of them—he wanted to ask. But there was no time, for in the camp Swordsmen were moving among the tents and saddled guen stood in the light marking Yorke’s headquarters.
“Do we march?” Kana hurried to catch up with Mills.
Before the Blademaster’s tent were the three Swordtans and a group of under officers. It was plain there was an argument in progress and at last Yorke turned impatiently from Hansu and reached for the reins of his gu.
“Until I return you’re in command,” he said.
A party of three Llor, high-ranking nobles by their war harness, were waiting, the lamps painting their furred faces with a slightly sinister shadow. The other two Swordtans mounted, but the Llor leader was in no hurry to leave. He gestured at Hansu and asked a question. Yorke answered, and still the Llor did not move. Yorke’s gaze fastened on Mills. He beckoned the young veteran forward. Hansu nodded and snapped the Swordtan’s insignia from his helmet, passing it to Deke.
“You’re my deputy. The Llor demand that all our High Brass attend. And they’ve seen you at our conferences in the past so you can pass as an officer. But—” perhaps Kana was the only one who saw that the fingers which passed the badge from one man to another closed bruisingly tight on Mills’ hand— “watch out.” Mills mounted a gu and the small cavalcade swept off. Their progress across country was marked by the blue of the Fronnian torches as they sped eastward to the camp of the royalists downriver.
Hansu wasted no time after Yorke left. Working by quiet orders passed from man to man, the Combatants went into action. The tents were left standing. But all other gear was sorted and skeleton packs of one change of clothing, blankets and cold-weather wear, were assembled by each man. Medical kits were passed out, along with rations and spare ammunition. Then the men turned in, half a team at a time, for a few hours’ sleep. When Kana roused in the early morning the camp presented the appearance of having been sacked by the enemy.
Everywhere the war bags of the Swordsmen gaped, their less useful contents spilled. The force was now prepared to move fast and keep moving. Hansu must expect trouble.
With the rising sun the Terrans could see the hide tents of the royalists on the river bank to the east, and sight the clustered standards of the troops which had followed them through the foothills. The lamps on the barrier were switched off but not dismounted from their bases. For if the Horde had to travel light, these, too, must be left behind.
Hansu had stationed men along the river. Their principal occupation, as Kana observed from an eastern sentry post, was to toss in bits of wood fastened to cords in order to study the current. After about an hour of this they straggled back to report. But Kana knew that to cross the stream here, especially if they were forced into that act under fire, was suicide.
It should not come to that. The Llor had asked to treat. Yorke would return with the safe conduct and the Horde would march back to Tharc. If the Llor followed the rules of Combat that was all they could do—If.
Llor rode leisurely down the mountain road, holding their guen to an ambling pace. All wore the royalists’ badges, though, as they made a detour about the Terran camp, Kana was not the only one to suspect that the majority had not been on that side of the conflict three days before. They were armed but their weapons were sheathed and slung. And they appeared content to ride slowly to the river, shouting remarks which no Combatant deceived himself into believing were complimentary.
“That woolly-face with the blue sash—” Mic squatted beside Kana in the outpost— “I could make him change his mind about stupid Terrans—with just one squeeze of the trigger—”
The Llor belted with the blue sash was gesturing, gestures which were rankly insulting on any planet. He was escorted by a choice group of friends whose howls of delight led him on to bigger and worse efforts. Mic’s sights covered in turn several important points of the comedian’s anatomy as he sighted for the shot he could not make.
“Aren’t you here ahead of time?” asked Kana.
“Oh, I’m not your relief. We’re to double up on the posts from now on, Hansu’s orders. There’s a nasty smell rising, and it isn’t all from wool either. Yorke’s been gone almost ten hours. It doesn’t take that long to sign a retreat treaty. You bring your pack with you?”
Kana kicked the roll by his feet. “Sure. But Hansu won’t march until he hears from Yorke—”
“I don’t think so. Now—just what is that?”
The sun of Fronn was pale and feeble compared to the Sol which warmed Terra, but it did give light and now behind the milling Llor, from the edge of a small thicket on the river bank, those pale rays were reflected by some bright surface directly toward the Terran lines in a regular rhythm.
Three letters of their own native tongue, a cry for aid so old that its origin was long ago lost in the mists of Terra’s war-torn past—a signal only one of their own kind would send! Kana laid down his rifle.
“Take over!” He moved before Mic could stop him. His hours of duty at this post had not been wasted. There was a way, if not an easy one, to get down to that coppice without venturing into the open now patrolled by the Llor.
Kana lowered himself over the edge of the cliff, kicking for holds with the toes of his battle boots. Fly-
fashion he was able to crawl down to the few inches of beach. There was about a foot of sand and gravel between the base of the cliff and the rushing water. With his back to the wall, hidden from anyone above unless he leaned far enough over to sight him, Kana fought his way by inches along the stream. Once or twice the lapping water curled about his toes and he dug his fingers into the soil at his back for a hold. The worst was losing his sense of direction, for he had to stop every few feet and look up for the trees which were his goal.