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Authors: The Double Invaders
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somewhere
in the back of his mind was an answer, a datum that he had missed.
Groping
for it distracted him so much, not only from the enticing shape in front, but
from everything else, that it was with a shock of surprise that he found bright
daylight overhead. Then, just ahead of him, Ryth was stepping nimbly up a
ladder to the surface. He followed, not quite so nimbly, and choked up when he
looked around and saw where he was. This was the main square of Stopa. There
was the City Hall. And there was his abortive sub-headquarters, with the
troop-shack and the stockade. Looking back he saw he had just emerged—from a
gutter!
Bits
of various puzzles began to fall into place now as he followed his dance-footed
guide. All the floors of these houses and buildings, even the good solid
roadways, were simply stout roofings for the fantastic underground galleries.
That much was plain, but he was no nearer knowing why the whole thing existed
that he had been before. And there was no more time to gnaw on it.
The big chamber of the building was almost
full. The Scartanni assembled stayed on their feet but packed in close with a
minimum of fuss and an efficiency that showed they had done this kind of tiling
many times before. Hallex Mor-din and seven other notables had made themselves
prominent by the simple expedient of standing on tables that were pushed right
back against the far wall. Other tables lined the walls to right and left, and
Bragan saw the sorry remnants of his force standing there. Troopers and
squad-leaders along one side, ship's crew, officers, and Otto Karsh on the
other. Bragan stared up, blundered and almost fell. Ryth grabbed his arm and
escorted him firmly to the end of the table where Karsh stood.
"This
is your place," she ordered. "Get up!" and she gave him a trim
shoulder and arm as boost. When he was standing, she put her back to the table
and stood facing her father. Bragan ran a fast eye over his men, what remained
of them, and they were a sorry-looking bunch, battered, bruised and bereft of
everything but their body-leather. He turned to Karsh finally.
"What the hell happened?" he
muttered. "How did they scupper the ship?"
Karsh had the look of a man who has been hit
hard in the face with a blun* object. His nose was rosy red and beginning to
swell and there were purple patches showing around his eyes. He growled,
"They somehow managed to dig a hole under us and then kicked away the
props." "As simple as that?"
"Simple,
hell! The ship fell, a dead straight drop, about fifty feet onto concrete. It's
scrap, right now. A total writeoff. The Scarts dug me out, several of the
others. For some, there was no need. Swann—never knew what hit him."
"That's a good way,
quick like that."
"Yes. We should be so
lucky. What happened to you?"
"Tried to make a run for it, but they
nailed me. Crack on the head, that's all. We have to switch plans, quick; move
to the cooperative stage."
"Right. You?"
"No." Bragan grinned sourly.
"Somebody has to stay true to Zorgan, and who better than me?"
"Watch
it!" Karsh warned. "The old man is giving us the eye!"
Bragan
turned to see Mordin regarding him with a frosty stare. Then he turned to the
throng and asked, in a voice that rang: "Are we ready to begin the
council? Any dissent?" There came none. Bragan scanned the audience,
estimated it at around a thousand. Then his eye caught the glint of light from
metal, high up, and he saw what had to be a microphone. That immediately
multiplied the audience by several orders of magnitude. Mordin raised his hand
in an intense silence.
"Because we have one here," he
began, "who styles himself the Supreme Executive of Zorgan, whatever that
may be, and because he himself has told me that he regards Stopa as being above
all other cities, and myself set above all other Scartanni—" Mordin paused
to let the surf-roar of scorn and amusement sweep the chamber, and Bragan shivered.
If he was any judge, this audience was in a grim-jovial
in the back of his mind was an answer, a datum that he had missed.
Groping
for it distracted him so much, not only from the enticing shape in front, but
from everything else, that it was with a shock of surprise that he found bright
daylight overhead. Then, just ahead of him, Ryth was stepping nimbly up a
ladder to the surface. He followed, not quite so nimbly, and choked up when he
looked around and saw where he was. This was the main square of Stopa. There
was the City Hall. And there was his abortive sub-headquarters, with the
troop-shack and the stockade. Looking back he saw he had just emerged—from a
gutter!
Bits
of various puzzles began to fall into place now as he followed his dance-footed
guide. All the floors of these houses and buildings, even the good solid
roadways, were simply stout roofings for the fantastic underground galleries.
That much was plain, but he was no nearer knowing why the whole thing existed
that he had been before. And there was no more time to gnaw on it.
The big chamber of the building was almost
full. The Scartanni assembled stayed on their feet but packed in close with a
minimum of fuss and an efficiency that showed they had done this kind of tiling
many times before. Hallex Mor-din and seven other notables had made themselves
prominent by the simple expedient of standing on tables that were pushed right
back against the far wall. Other tables lined the walls to right and left, and
Bragan saw the sorry remnants of his force standing there. Troopers and
squad-leaders along one side, ship's crew, officers, and Otto Karsh on the
other. Bragan stared up, blundered and almost fell. Ryth grabbed his arm and
escorted him firmly to the end of the table where Karsh stood.
"This
is your place," she ordered. "Get up!" and she gave him a trim
shoulder and arm as boost. When he was standing, she put her back to the table
and stood facing her father. Bragan ran a fast eye over his men, what remained
of them, and they were a sorry-looking bunch, battered, bruised and bereft of
everything but their body-leather. He turned to Karsh finally.
"What the hell happened?" he
muttered. "How did they scupper the ship?"
Karsh had the look of a man who has been hit
hard in the face with a blun* object. His nose was rosy red and beginning to
swell and there were purple patches showing around his eyes. He growled,
"They somehow managed to dig a hole under us and then kicked away the
props." "As simple as that?"
"Simple,
hell! The ship fell, a dead straight drop, about fifty feet onto concrete. It's
scrap, right now. A total writeoff. The Scarts dug me out, several of the
others. For some, there was no need. Swann—never knew what hit him."
"That's a good way,
quick like that."
"Yes. We should be so
lucky. What happened to you?"
"Tried to make a run for it, but they
nailed me. Crack on the head, that's all. We have to switch plans, quick; move
to the cooperative stage."
"Right. You?"
"No." Bragan grinned sourly.
"Somebody has to stay true to Zorgan, and who better than me?"
"Watch
it!" Karsh warned. "The old man is giving us the eye!"
Bragan
turned to see Mordin regarding him with a frosty stare. Then he turned to the
throng and asked, in a voice that rang: "Are we ready to begin the
council? Any dissent?" There came none. Bragan scanned the audience,
estimated it at around a thousand. Then his eye caught the glint of light from
metal, high up, and he saw what had to be a microphone. That immediately
multiplied the audience by several orders of magnitude. Mordin raised his hand
in an intense silence.
"Because we have one here," he
began, "who styles himself the Supreme Executive of Zorgan, whatever that
may be, and because he himself has told me that he regards Stopa as being above
all other cities, and myself set above all other Scartanni—" Mordin paused
to let the surf-roar of scorn and amusement sweep the chamber, and Bragan shivered.
If he was any judge, this audience was in a grim-jovial
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