Trigger and Friends by James H. Schmitz

Trigger shook her head. “I’ve got no authority of any kind that I know of, as far as the League is concerned. No doubt Professor Mantelish could arrange it for you.”

Rak nodded. “Is it possible for you to contact Professor Mantelish?”

“No,” Trigger said. She smiled. “Is it possible for you to contact him?”

Rak glanced around his committee as if looking for approval, then said, “No, it isn’t. As a matter of fact, Miss Farn, we’ve been isolated here in the most curious fashion for the past few weeks.”

“So have I,” said Miss Farn.

Rak looked startled. “Oh!” he said. “We were hoping you would be willing to give us a little information.”

“I would,” Trigger assured him, “if I had any to give. I don’t, unfortunately.” She considered. “Why do you feel additional League guards are required?”

“We heard,” Rak remarked cautiously, “that there were raiders in the Colonial School area yesterday.”

“Grabbers,” Trigger said. “They wouldn’t bother you. Your section of the project is supposed to be raid-proof anyway.”

Rak glanced at his companions again and apparently received some indetectable sign of consent. “Miss Farn, as you know, our group has been entrusted with the care of two League plasmoids here. Are you aware that six of the plasmoids which were distributed to responsible laboratories throughout the Hub have been lost to unknown raiders?”

She was startled. “No, I didn’t know that. I heard there’d been some unsuccessful attempts to steal distributed plasmoids.”

“These six attempts,” Rak said primly, “were completely successful. One must assume that the victimized laboratories also had been regarded as raid-proof.”

Trigger admitted it was a reasonable assumption.

“There is another matter,” Rak went on. “When we arrived here, we understood that Plasmoid Unit 112-113 was being brought here. It seems possible that its failure to appear indicates that League Headquarters does not consider the project a sufficiently safe place for 112-113.”

“Why don’t you ask Headquarters?” Trigger suggested.

They stirred nervously.

“That would be a violation of the Principle of the Chain of Command, Miss Farn!” Rak explained.

“Oh,” she said. The Juniors were over-disciplined, all right. “Is that 112-113 such a particularly important item?”

Rak said carefully, “I would say yes.”

“I remember that 112-113 unit now,” she said suddenly. “Big, ugly thing—well, that describes a lot of them, doesn’t it?”

Rak and the others looked quietly affronted. In a moment, Trigger realized, one of them was going to go into a lecture on functional esthetics unless she could head them off—and she’d already heard quite enough about functional esthetics in connection with the plasmoids.

“Now, 113,” she hurried on, “is a very small plasmoid”—she held her hands fifteen inches or so apart—”like that; and it’s attached to the big one. Correct?”

Rak nodded, a little stiffly. “Essentially correct, Miss Farn.”

“Well,” Trigger said, “I can’t blame you for worrying a bit. How about your Guard Captain? Isn’t it all right to ask him about reinforcements?”

Rak pursed his lips. “Yes. And I did. This morning. Before I called you.”

“What did he say?”

Rak grimaced unhappily. “He implied, Miss Farn, that his present guard complement could handle any emergency. How would he know?”

“That’s his job,” Trigger pointed out gently. The Juniors did look badly worried. “He didn’t have any helpful ideas?”

“None,” said Rak. “He said that if someone wanted to put up the money to hire a battle squad of Special Federation Police, he could always find some use for them. But that’s hopeless, of course.”

Trigger straightened up. She reached out and poked Rak’s bony chest with a fingertip. “You know something?” she said. “It’s not!”

The four faces lit up together.

“The fact is,” Trigger went on, “that I’m handling the Project budget until someone shows up to take over. So I think I’ll just buy you that Federation battle squad, Rak! I’ll get on it right away.” She stood up. The Juniors bounced automatically out of their chairs. “You go tell your Guard Captain,” she instructed them from the hall door, “there’ll be a squad showing up in time for dinner tonight.”

* * *

The Federation Police Office in Ceyce informed Trigger that a Class A Battle Squad—twenty trained men with full equipment—would report for two months’ duty at the Colonial School during the afternoon. She made them out a check and gave it the Ruya Farn signature via telewriter. The figure on that check was going to cause some U-League auditor’s eyebrows to fly off the top of his head one of these days; but if the League insisted on remaining aloof to the problems of its Plasmoid Project, a little financial anguish was the least it could expect in return.

Trigger felt quite cheerful for a while.

Then she had a call from Precol’s Maccadon office. She was requested to stand by while a personal interstellar transmission was switched to her ComWeb.

It looked like her day! She hummed softly, waiting. She knew just one individual affluent enough to be able to afford personal interstellar conversations; and that was Commissioner Tate. Fast work, Plemp, she thought approvingly.

But it was Brule Inger’s face that flashed into view on the ComWeb. Trigger’s heart jumped. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Brule!” she yelled then. She shot up out of her chair. “Where are you calling from?”

Brule’s eyes crinkled around the edges. He gave her the smile. The good old smile. “Unfortunately, darling, I’m still in the Manon System.” He blinked. “What happened to your hair?”

“Manon!” said Trigger. She started to settle back, weak with disappointment. Then she shot up again. “Brule! Lunatic! You’re blowing a month’s salary a minute on this! I love you! Switch off, fast!”

Brule threw back his head and laughed. “You haven’t changed much in two months, anyway! Don’t worry. It’s for free. I’m calling from the yacht of a friend.”

“Some friend!” Trigger said, startled.

“It isn’t costing her anything either. She had to transmit to the Hub today anyway. Asked me if I’d like to take over the last few minutes of contact and see if I could locate you . . . Been missing me properly, Trigger?”

Trigger smiled. “Very properly. Well, that was lovely of her! Someone I know?”

“Hardly,” said Brule. “Nelauk arrived a week or so after you left. Nelauk Pluly. Her father’s the Pluly Lines. Let’s talk about you. What’s the silver-haired idea?”

“Got talked into it,” she told him. “It’s all the rage again right now.”

He surveyed her critically. “I like you better as a redhead.”

“So do I.” Oops, Trigger thought. Security, girl! “So I’ll change back tonight,” she went on quickly. “Golly, Brule. It’s nice to see that homely old mug again!”

“Be a lot nicer when it won’t have to be over a transmitter.”

“Right you are!”

“When are you coming back?”

She shook her head glumly. “Don’t know.”

He was silent a moment. “I’ve had to take a bit of chitchat now and then,” he remarked, “about you and old Tate vanishing together.”

Trigger felt herself coloring. “So don’t take it,” she said shortly. “Just pop them one!”

The smile returned. “Wouldn’t be gentlemanly to pop a lady, would it?”

She smiled back. “So stay away from the ladies!” Somehow Brule and Holati Tate never had worked up a really warm regard for each other. It had caused a little trouble before.

“Okay to tell me where you are?” he asked.

“Afraid not, Brule.”

“Precol Home Office apparently knows,” he pointed out.

“Apparently,” Trigger admitted.

They looked at each other a moment; then Brule grinned. “Well, keep your little secret!” he said. “All I really want to know is when you’re getting back.”

“Very soon, I hope, Brule,” Trigger said unhappily. Then there was a sudden burst of sound from the ComWeb—gusts of laughing, chattering voices; a faint wash of music. Brule glanced aside.

“Party going on,” he explained. “And here comes Nelauk! She wanted to say hello to you.”

A dozen feet behind him, a figure strolled gracefully into view on the screen and came forward. A slender girl with high-piled violet hair and eyes that very nearly matched the hair’s tint. She was dressed in something resembling a dozen blossoms—blossoms which, in Trigger’s opinion, had been rather carelessly scattered. But presumably it was a very elegant party costume. She was quite young, certainly not yet twenty.

Brule laid a brotherly hand on a powdered shoulder. “Meet Trigger, Nelauk!”

Nelauk murmured it was indeed an honor, one she had long looked forward to. The violet eyes blinked sleepily at Trigger.

Trigger gave her a great big smile. “Thanks so much for arranging for the call. I’ve been wondering how Brule was doing.”

Wrong thing to say, probably, she thought. She was right. Nelauk reached for it with no effort.

“Oh, he’s doing wonderfully!” she assured Trigger without expression. “I’m keeping an eye on him. And this small favor—it was the very least I could do for Brule. For you, too, of course, Trigger dear.”

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