The ship stood as they had left it, the bodies still lying at the ramp. And Hansu hardly waited until the last Llor was out of sight before he clambered down the side of the cliff, Kana and the others hurrying to follow him.
But the Blademaster easily outdistanced them and when they caught up he had already knelt to examine the nearest body. His face was bleak.
“This man has been shot,” he said slowly, “with an Arch rifle.”
15 — IF BUT ONE OF US LIVE—
“But were they Patrolmen?” Larsen demanded.
It was hard to believe—in spite of the evidence and the identification taken from the bodies—that such a massacre had occurred. The prestige of the Patrol was too well established.
There was no possible doubt that the men had been shot, and that those shots had not come from the lighter air rifles of the Llor, the blasters of the Mechs or the flamers of the Galactic Agents, but from those specialized weapons carried, or supposedly carried, by the Swordsmen of Terra alone.
“If they weren’t, they’ll serve as well as the real thing in those pictures,” Kosti returned bitterly. “If that Agent was taking shots of this it wasn’t just for amusement. Can’t you see the force of those pictures in certain quarters—scene of Patrolmen ambushed by rebel Archs—”
Larsen kicked at a stone. “I still don’t get it,” he admitted. “Why stage all this?”
“Alibi for going after us.” Kana broke the silence for the first time. “Isn’t that it, sir? With a good story and those pictures the Agent could have us outlawed and we couldn’t get a hearing anywhere—not even at Prime.”
He wanted Hansu to protest that, to say that he was allowing an over-vivid imagination free rein. But instead the Blademaster nodded.
“That makes more sense than about fifty other explanations.” The tall dark man got to his feet, his eyes fixed speculatively on the starship. “Yes, they’ve set the stage here for something nasty. And it would probably have worked if we hadn’t come in time—”
“So they’re trying to put us on the spot.” Kosti was inclined to be belligerent. “Well, what can we do?”
“Spoil their plan!” There was decision in the Blademaster’s answer. “Kosti, get on board and see whether this cruiser can be lifted out of here—”
The Swordsman hurried up the ramp and Hansu turned to the other two.
“Burial party—” He indicated the bodies.
They performed that distasteful task as they had for their comrades so many times in the last hard weeks, knowing that when their fire cartridges had done their work there would be no identifiable traces left. They were engaged in sorting the personal possessions they had taken from the dead for purposes of future identification, when Kosti appeared in the hatch of the spacer over their heads.
“First luck we’ve had, sir. She’s ready and willing to lift!”
Hansu only nodded. It was as if, having made up his mind to a certain course of action, he was now perfectly sure that fate would allow them to follow it to the proper end. Stowing away the Patrolmen’s effects in a ration bag, he led the way up the ramp into the interior of the small ship.
The only starships Kana had known before were the ferry transports of the Combat Command. And narrow and cramped as those had seemed, this cruiser was even smaller and more confined. The ladder stair, curling in a breakneck fashion from level to level, looked too narrow to give any climber safe footing. But they went up it—beads on a string—with Kosti already disappearing through the first-level flooring and the Blademaster hard on his heels.
Smells assaulted their noses, oil, the taint of old air, or close living— They made their way up to the control cabin. Hansu pointed to the pilot’s webbing before the controls.
“Can you take her up, Kosti?”
The Swordsman showed his teeth in a white grin. “It’s a matter of have to, isn’t it, sir?”
He buckled himself into position while Kana and Larsen explored the acceleration pads and Hansu moved toward the astrogator’s position.
“Give you five minutes, ship time, to take a looksee around if you want, sir,” Kosti suggested, perhaps because he himself desired a few moments’ study of that puzzling board before he blasted them free of the doubtful safety of Fronn.
They made a quick inspection of the tiny personal quarters. The cubbys were in a state of wild disorder with clothing and supplies strewn about as if by looters. Kana picked up a tri-dee portrait someone had stepped upon. The oddly slanting eyes and triangular mouth of a Lydian woman could still be seen.
“Nice artistic job.” Hansu surveyed the litter with a professional eye. “Exhibit B or C—looting of quarters—done by the wicked Archs—”
“Do you suppose this was a real Patrol ship? That they actually killed Patrolmen so they could smear us with the job, sir?” Larsen demanded.
“Could be. Though it seems a mighty heavy argument to use against an outfit as small as Yorke’s. We must be important—” Frowning, he turned back to the control cabin.
“Do you have a route tape for Terra in the file?” he asked of Kosti.
“Going to Prime, sir? I thought we were to make Secundus—” the new pilot protested.
“This may be a real Patrol cruiser. If they sacrificed that to get us I want to know why, and I want to start asking questions right at the top!”
“Real Patrol cruiser!” That sank in, and Kosti swung around to tap three keys in a case at his far left. There was an answering click and a small disc dropped into his cupped hand.
“Yes, sir, here’re the co-ordinates for Terra.”
He freed another disc from the apparatus before him and inserted the new one. “Strap down,” he ordered.
Hansu stowed away in the second web while Kana and Larsen buckled down on the acceleration mats. A red light glowed on the board before Kosti as his fingers played over levers and keys.
“Let’s hope we go up—and not off—” was his last observation as he pressed the crucial control.
A giant hand smashed down on Kana’s chest, squeezing out air. Waves of red pain clotted into blackness. He had just time to know, before he lost consciousness, that they were lifting off-world—and not exploding.
Kosti was no experienced pilot and the thrust he had used to tear them loose from Fronn was greater than it need have been. Kana, coming back to life, found his face sticky with blood as he pulled groggily at his straps.
“The sleeper wakes!” Kosti looked back over his shoulder at the recruit. “Thought you had decided to make the trip in cold sleep, fella. Not necessary, we have plenty of room.”
The ship was on Ro-pilot, to be guided through the warp by the tape Kosti had set in. They had nothing to do but eat and sleep, and live in the discomfort of return-to-Terra conditioning which would enable them to disembark on their own world without further adjustment.
“How long will we be in space?” Larsen asked.
All three looked to Kosti for an answer but he only shrugged. “I’d say maybe fourteen-fifteen days. These babies sure eat it up in warp. Patrol cruisers are built for speed.”
Fifteen days. Kana, stretched in one of the inner cabin hammocks, had time to think without the pressure of immediate action or decision hanging over him. This mess was a nasty one—sinister. For some unknown reason that alien in a Mech uniform had set a scene, a scene which only their luck had spoiled. He was sure that the ship and its dead crew had been deliberately left to be discovered dramatically—for a purpose. Patrolmen shot with Arch rifles—on a planet where an Arch Horde was being hunted down. But why go to all this trouble? Why try to discredit as well as wipe out a Terran force, when the latter move was so easy and Combat might be led to dismiss it all as fortunes of war?
Such an elaborate frame meant that not only the renegade Mechs but the Agents wearing their uniforms had something to fear from Yorke’s men. The story of the murder of Yorke and his officers? Hardly. They had no real proof of that—not even a witness’s account which would be accepted at a formal hearing. Why—why—such a deliberate and elaborate plan to blacken them?
Could it be possible—his hand went half-consciously to the hilt of his sword-knife—could it be that the age-old stalemate between Terra and C.C. was to be broken at last? That C.C. was working feverishly to not only whittle down the Terran forces by attrition, but also to discredit them among the stars as renegades and murderers? Perhaps this would be their chance for an open fight—to stand against that condition C.C. had imposed—to prove that Terrans had as much right to the star lanes in freedom as any other race or species! It was a hope, only a thin one, but in that hour Kana sensed that it was there and he swore to himself that the next time he went into space it would not be wearing that green-gray coat which had been forced upon him.