Poul Anderson - The Long Way Home

“What?” Langley sucked in his breath. There was an eerie tingle along his nerves. “But... that’s impossible... she—”

“In her iss been planted surgically a t’ing which I t’ink iss a wariable-frequency emitter. She can be traced. I would hawe told Walti, but wass not then familiar wit” the human nerwous system. I t’ought it a normal pattern for your femaless, ewen ass ours iss different from the maless. But now that I hawe seen more of you, I realize the trut’.”

Langley felt himself shivering. Marin—Marin again! But how-?

Then he understood. The time she had been seized, and returned. It had been for a purpose, after all; he, Langley, had not been the goal of that raid. An automatic communicator similar to Valti’s, planted in her body by today’s surgery—yes.

And such a device would be short-range, which meant that only a system of detectors spotted around the planet could hope to follow her. And only Chanthavar could have such a system.

Langley groaned: “How many people’s Judas goat is she, anyway?”

“We must be prepared,” said the Holatan calmly. “Our guards will try to kill us in case of such, no? Forewarned, we may be able to—”

“Or to warn Brannoch?” Langley played with the idea a minute but discarded it. No. Even if the Centaurians got clean away, Sol’s battle fleet would be on their heels; the war, the empty useless crazy war, would be started like an avalanche.

Let Chanthavar win, then. It didn’t matter.

Langley buried his face in his hands. Why keep on fighting? Let him take his lead like a gentleman when the raid came.

No. Somehow, he felt he must go on living. He had been given a voice, however feeble, in today’s history; it was up to him to keep talking as long as possible.

It might have been an hour later that Saris” muzzle nosed him to alertness. “Grawity wibrationss. I t’ink the time iss now.”

A siren hooted. As its echoes rang down the hall, the guards jerked about, frozen for a bare instant.

The door flew open and Saris Hronna was through. His tigerish leap smashed one man into the farther wall. The other went spinning, to fall a yard away. He was still gripping his weapon. He bounced to his feet, raising it, as Langley charged him.

The spaceman was not a boxer or wrestler. He got hold of the gun barrel, twisting it aside, and sent his other fist in a right cross to the jaw. The Thorian blinked, spat blood, but failed to collapse. Instead, he slammed a booted kick at Langley’s ankle. The American lurched away, pain like a lance in him. The Centaurian backed, lifting the musket. Saris brushed Langley aside in a single bound and flattened the man.

“Iss you well?” he asked, wheeling about. “Iss hurt?”

“I’m still moving.” Langley shook his head, tasting the acridness of defeat. “Come on... spring the rest. Maybe we can still make a break during the fracas.”

Shots and explosions crashed through the other rooms. Valti stumbled forth, his untidy red head lowered bull-like. “This way!” he roared. “Follow me! There must be a rear exit.”

The prisoners crowded after him, swiftly down the corridor to a door which Saris opened. A ramp led upward to ground level. Saris hunched himself—anything might be waiting beyond. But there was no alternative. The camouflaged entrance flew up for him, and he bounded into a late daylight.

Black patrol ships swarmed overhead like angry bees. There was a flier near one of the buildings. Saris went after it in huge leaps. He was almost there when a blue-white beam from the sky slashed it in half.

Wheeling with a snarl, the Holatan seemed to brace himself. A police vessel suddenly reeled and crashed into another. They fell in flame. Saris sprang for the edge of the compound, the humans gasping in his wake. A curtain of fire dropped over his path. Valti shouted something, pointing behind, and they saw black-clad slave soldiers rushing from the underground section.

“Stop their weapons!” shrieked Langley. He had one of the muskets, he laid it to his cheek and fired. The crack of it and the live recoil were a glory to him. A man spun on his heel and fell.

“Too many.” Saris lay down on the bare earth, panting. “Iss more than I can handle. I had little hope for escape anyhow.”

Langley threw down his gun, cursing the day of creation.

The corpsmen ringed them in, warily. “Sirs, you are all under arrest,” said the leader. “Please accompany us.”

Marin wept, quietly and brokenly, as she followed them.

Chanthavar was in the plantation office. The walls were ringed with guards, and Brannoch stood gloomily to one side. The Solarian was immaculate, and his cheerfulness hardly showed at all.

“How do you do, Captain Langley,” he said. “And Goltam Valti, sir, of course. Well, gentlemen, I seem to have arrived in the well-known nick of time.”

“Go ahead,” said the spaceman. “Shoot us and get it over with.”

Chanthavar raised his brows. “Why such a flair for drama?” he asked.

An officer entered, bowed, and reeled off his report. The hideaway was taken, all personnel dead or under arrest, our casualties six killed and ten wounded. Chanthavar gave an order, and Saris was herded into a specially prepared cage and borne outside.

“In case you’re wondering, captain,” said the agent, “the way I found you was—”

“I know,” said the spaceman.

“Oh? Oh... yes, of course. Saris would have detected it. I was gambling there; didn’t think he’d realize in time what it was, and apparently he didn’t. There were other tracing procedures in readiness, this happens to be the one which worked.” Chanthavar’s lips curved into his peculiarly engaging smile. “No grudges, captain. You tried to do what seemed best, I’m sure.”

“How about us?” rumbled Brannoch.

“Well, my lord, the case clearly calls for deportation.”

“All right. Let us go. I have a ship.”

“Oh, no, my lord. We couldn’t be so discourteous. The Technate will prepare transportation for you. It may take a while—even a few months—”

“Till you get a head start on the nullifier research. I see.”

“Meanwhile, you and your staff will kindly remain in your own quarters. I shall post guards to see that you are not... disturbed.”

“All right.” Brannoch forced his mouth into a sour grin. “I have to thank you for that, I suppose. In your position, I’d have shot me down out of hand.”

“Some day, my lord, your death may be necessary,” said Chanthavar. “At present, though, I owe you something. This affair is going to mean a good deal to my own position, you understand—there are higher offices than my present one, and they will soon be open for me.”

He turned back to Langley. “I’ve already made arrangements for you, captain. Your services won’t be required any longer; we have found a couple of scholars who can talk Old American, and between them and the hypnotic machines Saris can be given a near-perfect command of the modern language in a few days. As for you, a position and an apartment at the university in Lora has been fixed up. The historians, archeologists, and planetographers are quite anxious to consult you. The pay is small, but you’ll keep free-born rank.”

Langley said nothing. So he was to be taken out of the game already. That was the end—back in the box with you, my pawn.

Valti cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said pompously, “I must remind you that the Society—”

Chanthavar gave him a long stare through narrowed eyes. The smooth face had gone utterly expressionless. “You have committed criminal acts within the laws of Sol,” he said.

“Extraterritoriality—”

“It doesn’t apply here. At best, you can be deported.” Chanthavar seemed to brace himself. “Nevertheless, I am letting you go free. Get your men together, take one of the plantation fliers, and go on back to Lora.”