But the guard allowed him no time to stare through windows or think philosophically of the past. He was speedily ushered into an audience chamber. There he found himself facing a Tribunal. High Brass—just about the highest! Three of Combat’s four Councilors sat there and the fourth and fifth members of the court were a C.C. Agent and an officer of the Galactic Patrol, a sub-sector commander by his badges. Kana stiffened. What right had those aliens to be his judges? He was sure that he could protest that, and be backed by the Combat Code. But, biding his time until he was more certain, he came to attention and made the formal announcement expected of him.
“Kana Karr, Swordsman Third Class, under enlistment in Yorke’s Horde, place of service, Fronn.”
Hansu—where was Hansu? Why were they to be tried separately? More than anything else at that moment Kana wished that he could have a moment’s conversation with the Blademaster. For he had just made another and more upsetting discovery—one of the Combat officers facing him was Matthias—the same Matthias that Hansu had been so sure would stand their protector, fight on their side if they could only reach him.
The faces of the combat officers were impassive, but the C.C. Agent, an Ageratan—the brilliant scarlet and gold of his cloak somewhat garish against the green-gray of the Terrans—shifted impatiently in his chair as if he wished to speed up the proceedings and did not quite dare, while his alien companion, the Patrol officer, affected in contrast a vast boredom.
Then Kana saw what lay before the senior of the Combat officers—an Arch sword. That answered one of his questions. He had been brought here for sentencing. They had condemned him without allowing him a chance to speak in his own defense. But—how could they? The interrogators had the exact truth out of him. These men must know of the massacre on Fronn, of that strange scene by the plundered Patrol ship, of everything else which had happened, know it as if they had witnessed the events in his place. How could they then—?
“For unauthorized dealings with an X-Tee race against all regulations,” began the Combat senior, “for desertion of your comrades on another world, for the theft of a cruiser belonging to the Galactic Patrol, you, Kana Karr, Swordsman Third Class, Arch rating, are hereby declared unfit for off-world service. You shall be stripped of all Combat rating and privileges and sent to the labor gangs for the rest of your natural life.”
Long discipline kept him at attention. Labor gangs for the rest of his life—the closest thing to slavery. But—a fierce, blinding anger uncoiled within him—he was going to answer those frozen-faced devils with a few home truths before they shipped him off. And he was not in the gangs—not yet!
When he spoke it was not to his superior officers but directly to the C.C. Agent.
“I’ve learned to know you for what you are—you and your kind,” he said slowly between set teeth. The ancient blood lust which had once sent his Malay ancestors into battle swinging a bolo might have been thinned by interbreeding with other and more peaceful races but it was still there and rising in him now. “You may be able now to force Terrans to obey your will. But someday you’ll pay in kind—”
The Ageratan’s white face did not change expression, only now he sat very quiet, his long eyes narrowed into slits, a bird of prey preparing to swoop.
“How long”—Kana’s attention was now on his fellow Terrans—“do you think you can cover up such messes? You know from my testimony—whether I gave it drugged or not—what they are doing to us out there. I”—he paused until he was sure his voice was once more under full control—“I gave Grace to Deke Mills after I heard his story. You know—all of you—what he had to tell. We are supposed to be fighting men—if only mercenaries selling our skill to others. Isn’t it time we began to fight—against murderers!” He hurled that charge straight at the Ageratan, at the Patrol officer.
Kana was trying hard to pick and choose the proper words, to keep his red rage battened down. Then his mood changed. Why should he stand there mouthing statements which made no impression on their impassivity when he wanted to leap that table between them, to feel the Ageratan’s flesh pulp beneath his fist? What was the use in talking—nothing he said—could say—would break through to them—would ruffle the composure of that traitor Matthias.
He brought his hand up in salute and wheeled to fall in with his waiting guard. Would they take him back to the underground cell? Or try to—for it would be a case of trying. He was determined to escape somehow, somewhere along the route.
Hansu— If they had given him life in the labor gangs, they must have executed the Blademaster! How wrong Hansu had been in his belief in Matthias and the new day about to dawn. With Matthias ready to betray them the rebels had never had a ghost of a chance.
They marched back to the lift and whisked down, not to the cells. Instead Kana was escorted to a small room just off the main corridor near some entrance to the building—he was sure of that as he watched the constant stream of Combatants passing in the hall. Except for a sentry left at the door he was alone—to wait— To wait? No, to act!
18 — NO GUARD ON THE STARS!
Kana’s mind raced as he assessed the situation. He was in full uniform, except that he lacked arms. If it weren’t for the sentry he could simply walk out of this room, join the crowd in the hall, and leave the building, before the alarm was given. Once free in Prime he could find a way out of the city itself. There remained the problem of the sentry.
He watched the man narrowly. The fellow was in the act of suppressing a yawn as Kana first studied him. It was plain that he did not expect trouble from the prisoner. And this was no proper detention room, rather more like a waiting lounge for low-ranking visitors. The bench Kana had been ordered to occupy was cushioned and there was a visa-plate set in the wall to his left, out of sight range of the doorway. The guard’s attention was often attracted by those passing without— Kana’s eyes flickered to the visa-plate. Was there some way of using that? A little improvising— He waited until the guard’s attention was fixed upon something in the corridor and then he jumped to his feet.
“Red alert!” he cried out as if startled.
The guard whirled, took one step in, glancing at the visa-plate.
“I don’t see anything—” he began, and then shot a sour look at Kana as if angry at being tricked into speaking to the captive against express orders.
“It was red alert!” Kana insisted, pointing to the screen.
The guard came all the way in, uneasily. If the visa-plate had flashed a red signal—then his duty was clear, he must call back at once for instructions. And he couldn’t be sure that it had not.
“Keep me covered with your blaster,” urged Kana. “I tell you it was a red alert!”
The guard drew his blaster, aiming it at the recruit’s middle. And, with his back to the wall, his eyes on the prisoner, he made a crabwise march along toward the visa-plate.
“You sit down!” he snapped at Kana.
The recruit dropped down on the bench, but his body was tense, his muscles ready—
There would come a single second when the guard had to turn half away from him in order to push the question button below the plate. And if he could move then—
It came, the guard’s head turned a fraction. Kana flung himself forward almost at floor level. His shoulders struck just behind the other’s knees and there was a dull crack as the man’s head struck against the screen, slammed into it by the force of Kana’s attack. The recruit twisted on top, ready to carry on the fight. But the body beneath him was limp.
A little startled by such phenomenal luck—the fellow must have been knocked out when his head hit the screen—Kana got to his knees and hurriedly appropriated the guard’s sword and blaster. But a moment later he reluctantly abandoned the gun. Only a base guardsman could go so armed and he would be picked up on the street if he were seen carrying that. He sheathed the sword—and hoped that luck would continue to ride with him.
The prostrate guard, bound with his own belts and gagged with a thick strip torn from his undershirt, was rolled back under the bench, well out of range of any casual glance from the door. Then Kana settled his clothing, donned the helmet he had lost during the brief struggle, and taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the door of the waiting room behind him. He might have five minutes—perhaps more—before the hunt would be on. And now that he was again wearing a sword there was nothing to distinguish him from any other of the hundreds of Archs on the streets of Prime.