Eric Russell: Next of Kin

“He has received their replies today,” Daverd went on. “They are willing to make a common front for the sake of enjoying mutual peace-providing that the Allies are equally willing to recognise their neutrality and exchange prisoners with them.”

“Such sudden unanimity among the small fry tells me something pretty good,” observed Leeming with malice. “It tells you what?”

“Allied forces have won a major battle lately. Somebody has been given a hell of a lambasting.”

Daverd refused to Confirm or deny it. “You are the only Terran we hold on this planet. Zangasta thinks he can make, good use of you.”

“How?”

“He has decided to send you back to Terra: It will be your task to persuade them to agree to our plans. If you fail, a couple of hundred thousand hostages will suffer—remember that!”

“The prisoners have no say in this matter, no hand in it, no responsibility for it. If you vent your, spite upon them a time will surely come when you’ll be made to pay—remember that!”

“The Allies will know nothing about it,” Daverd retorted. “There will be no Terrans and no Eustaces here to inform them by any underhanded method. Henceforth we are keeping Terrans out. The Allies cannot use knowledge they do not possess.”

“No,” agreed Leeming. “It’s quite impossible to employ something you haven’t got.”

They provided a light destroyer crewed by ten Zangastans. With one stop for refuelling and the fitting of new tubes it took him to a servicing planet right on the fringe of the battle area. This dump was a Lathian outpost but those worthies showed no interest in what their smaller allies were up to, neither did the’ realise that the one Terranlike creature really was a Terran. They got to work relining the destroyer’s tubes in readiness for its journey home. Meanwhile, Leeming was transferred to an unarmed one-man Lathian scoutship. The ten Zangastans officiously saluted before they left him. From this point he was strictly on his own. Take-off was a heller. The seat was far too big and shaped to fit the Lathian backside, which meant that it was humped in the wrong places. The controls were unfamiliar and situated too far apart. The little ship was fast and powerful but responded differently from his own. How he got up he never knew, but made it.

After that there was the constant risk of being tracked by Allied detector stations and blown apart in full flight. He charged among the stars hoping for the best and left his beam transmitter severely alone; calls on an enemy frequency might make him a dead duck in no time at all.

He arrowed straight for Terra. His sleeps were restless and uneasy. The tubes were not to be trusted despite that flight-duration would be only a third of that done in his own vessel. The strange autopilot was not to be trusted merely because it was of alien design. The ship itself was not to be trusted for the same reason. The forces of his own side were not to be trusted because they’d tend to shoot first and ask questions afterward.

More by good luck than good management he penetrated the Allied front without interception. It was a feat that the foe could accomplish, given the audacity, but had never attempted because the risk of getting into Allied territory was as nothing to the trouble of getting out again.

In due time he came in fast on Terra’s night side and plonked the ship down in a field a couple of miles west of the main spaceport. It would have been foolish to take a chance by landing a Lathian vessel bang in the middle of the port. Somebody behind a heavy gun might have stuttered with excitement and let fly.

The moon was shining bright along the Wabash when he approached the front gate afoot and a sentry bawled, “Halt! Who goes there?”

“Lieutenant Leeming and Eustace Phenackertiban.”

“Advance and be recognised.”

He ambled forward thinking to himself that such an order was manifestly dunderheaded. Be recognised. The sentry had never seen him in his life and wouldn’t know him from Myrtle McTurtle. Oh, well, baloney baffles brains.

At the gate a powerful cone of light shone down upon him. Somebody with three chevrons on his sleeve emerged from a nearby hut bearing a scanner on the end of a thin, black cable. He waved the scanner over the arrival from head to foot, concentrating mostly on the face.

A loudspeaker in the hut ordered, “Bring him into Intelligence H.Q.”

They started walking.

The sentry let go an agitated yelp. “Hey, where’s the other guy?”

“What guy?” asked the sergeant, stopping and staring around. “Smell his breath,” Leeming advised.

“You gave me two names,” asserted the sentry, full of resentment. “Well, if you ask the sergeant nicely he’ll give you two more,” said Leeming. “Won’t you, Sarge?”

“Let’s get going,” growled the sergeant, displaying liverish impatience.

They reached Intelligence H.Q. The duty officer was Colonel Farmer. He gaped at Leeming and said, “Well!” He said it seven times.

Without preamble, Leeming demanded, “What’s all this about us refusing to make a two-for-one swap for Terran prisoners?”

Farmer appeared to haul himself with an effort out of a fantastic dream. “You know of it?”

“How could I ask if I didn’t?”

“All right. Why should we accept such a cockeyed proposition? We’re in our right minds, you know!”

Bending over the other’s desk, hands splayed upon it, Leeming said, “All we need do is agree upon one condition.”

“What condition?”

“That they make a similar agreement with respect to Lathians. Two of our men for one Lathian and one Willy.”

“One what?”

“One Willy. The Lathians will take it like birds. They have been propaganding all over the shop that one Lathian is worth two of anything else. They’re too conceited to refuse such an offer. They’ll advertise it as proof positive that even their enemies know how good they are.”

“But—” began Farmer, slightly dazed.

“Their allies will fall over themselves in their haste to agree also. They’ll do it from different motives to which the Lathians will wake up when it’s too late. Try it for size. Two of our fellows for one Lathian and his Willy.”

Farmer stood up, his belly protruding, and roared, “What the blue blazes is a Willy?”

“You can easily find out,” assured Leeming. “Consult your Eustace.”

Showing alarm; Farmer lowered his tones to a soothing pitch and said as gently as possible, “Your appearance here has been a great shock to me. Many months ago you were reported missing and believed killed.”

“I crash-landed and got taken prisoner in the back of beyond. They were a snake-skinned bunch called Zangastans. They slung me into the jug.”

“Yes, yes,” said Colonel Farmer, making pacifying gestures. “But how on earth did you get away?”

“Farmer, I cannot tell a lie hexed them with my bopamagilvie.”

“Huh?”

“So I left by rail,” informed Leeming, “and there were ten faplaps carrying it.” Taking the other unaware he let go a vicious kick at the desk and made a spurt of ink leap across the blotter. “Now let’s see some of the intelligence they’re supposed to have in Intelligence. Beam the offer. Two for a cootie-coated Lathian and a Willy Terwilliger.” He stared around, a wild look in his eyes. “And find me somewhere to sleep—I’m dead beat.”

Holding himself in enormous restraint, Farmer said, “Lieutenant, is that the proper way in which to talk to a colonel?”

“One talks in any way to anybody. Mayor Snorkum will lay the cake. Go paddle a poodle.” Leeming kicked the desk again. “Get busy and tuck me into bed.”