Tom Warner rushed from one of the barracks and came to a halt next to Dirak. He looked up at the tower. "Yes, Honor?"
"Warner. You know I never like to use the shocks, but this one threatened me with force. You must explain to him—and to the others—all of the rules. I do not want to have to use the shocks again!"
Warner bowed toward the tower. "Yes, Honor." He squatted next to Stretch Dirak. The big man's eyes were dazed and his arm and leg muscles twitched. Warner looked him over. "You're lucky. Pussycat doesn't like to use the zap; any other guard would have fried you to a crisp."
Dirak's hands flexed, then formed into fists. "Let go of me, you—! I don't have to take that—"
Warner slapped the big man across the face. "You take it, just like everybody else here takes it, Dirak! That is, if you want to live!"
Dirak stopped shaking, and his eyes became very cold as his stare fixed on Tom. Warner felt a chill at how the big man looked at him, then he stood and pulled Dirak to his feet. Dirak staggered a bit, then looked up at the tower. "Kind of touchy, aren't you?"
A long Pause. "If you had not been holding Dirak, I would have put him in the shocks. Do you understand, Warner?"
"Yes, Honor."
Warner turned Dirak toward the barracks. The big man leaned heavily on Warner's shoulders and followed. "Warner, what kind of a nightmare is this?"
Warner barked out a bitter laugh. "I've been asking myself the same question for the past three years."
Night came early on Mystienya. The purple sky grew black, while sharp little gusts whipped the canvas of the main tent. O'Hara listened as the windjammers cued the finish of the next to the last act, then swung into the march for the spectacular. Duckfoot Tarzak, the Boss Canvasman, was standing in the dark examining the main tent and keeping an eye on the wind. A roar of applause erupted from the audience, and O'Hara turned away and walked toward the office wagon. Still no word from the advance.
As he approached the wagon, Billy Pratt and Warts approached from the opposite direction. They met at the wagon's steps, and the Governor looked at Billy. "Well?"
Billy Pratt shook his head. "There's not a bill or poster up anywhere in the entire town. Warts and I hopped transportation and went on to the next stand. Same thing."
The Pendiian rubbed his chin, then shook his head. "I don't understand it." He looked at O'Hara. "Mr. John, is the Flying Squadron late getting off?"
O'Hara frowned, then held out a hand in the direction of the location formerly occupied by the animal top, cookhouse, and maintenance wagons. "They left a half-hour ago."
Warts shook his head. "We didn't pass them on our way back. What route did they take?"
"There's only one hard-surfaced route to the next stand. Is that the one you took?"
Warts and Billy Pratt nodded. Billy scratched the back of his head. "Mr. John, we didn't see vans, wagons, shuttles—nothing. It's like they were swallowed up."
O'Hara looked at Billy, then looked back toward the main top. Billy Pratt was a good enough fixer but at that moment the Governor wished the Patch were back. Several dark shapes made their way around the end of the main tent, paused, then moved off toward the front entrance. O'Hara looked back toward the Boss Canvasman. "Duckfoot!"
The Boss Canvasman looked away from the canvas, saw O'Hara, then walked over. As he came to a stop, he nodded toward Billy and Warts, then faced the Governor. "Mr. John."
"Duckfoot, how long will it take you to get up the Irish Brigade?"
The Boss Canvasman shrugged. "They're ready."
"Ready?"
Duckfoot nodded. "I always do that first stand on a new planet. Just in case a few towner skulls need to be massaged. Have you heard something?"
"Still nothing on the advance." He cocked his head toward the office wagon, then climbed the stairs. "Now it looks like the Flying Squadron is missing." He opened the door to the wagon, entered, and turned on the lights. As Duckfoot, Billy, and Warts came in, O'Hara went to the communication console next to his desk and jabbed a few buttons. He sat down and spoke into the speakmike. "Boss Hostler, this is O'Hara. Skinner, where are you?" Silence. The Governor repeated the message several times, then leaned back, shaking his head. "What in the hell is going on?" He turned his head and faced Billy Pratt. "Billy, chase around and find me that Nuumiian... Linta. I want some answers, and I want them..."
The windjammers stopped playing, and sounds of many feet rushing past the wagon caused the Governor to spring to his feet. Duckfoot opened the door, put one foot on the steps, then backed into the wagon, followed by the blunt muzzle of a Nuumiian stun gun. The Nuumiian entered next, then nodded at O'Hara. It was Linta. "Goatha."
Billy Pratt took a step toward the Nuumiian, was slammed the entire length of his body by an invisible force, then he sank to the floor of the wagon, unconscious...
THIRTY-ONE
Havu Da Miraac turned over on his sleep plate, hoping to stretch out his blank period until mandatory awakening. Finally, he turned flat on his back and sighed. Too many things were on his mind. He turned his head to the right, opened his eyes, and examined the time instrument mounted on the console underneath the forward view bubble. Eight more sweeps before the awakening. Havu sat up, checked all four view bubbles, then examined the lay of the village. Nothing had changed since the most recent consignment of humans twenty day cycles before. At the end of the village street, the large canvas structure that had accompanied the consignment stood sagging in the quiet air, the colored flags at the tops of the supports still.
Havu stretched, swung his legs off of the sleeping plate, and stood on the deck. The plate automatically folded up against the lower wall. With a flick of his blue, four-fingered hand, he erased the darkening field above the capsule, allowing Mystienya's cu-inous light to enter and flood the interior of the tiny room. Moving to the center of the room, he stood upon a recessed plate and basked for a few moments in the cleansing ray, then he stepped off, removed his day's rations from the supply bank beneath the console, and sat down to eat first meal. After finishing the ration bars and stim milk, he tossed the wrappings into his recycler, put on a clean uniform from the clothes press, then seated himself before the console to begin the day's watch. He checked the time instrument again: one-and-a-half sweeps to go.
The screen of the night detection field showed the irregular, slight traces of some of Mystienya's sparse animal life scrabbling among the rocks and harsh scrub grass for food. Havu shook his head and extinguished both the night detection field and the repulsor field that protected the capsule while he slept. Why had the humans decided upon this forsaken planet to settle, he wondered. He swung his chair around, swept his gaze around the bleak horizon, and came to rest looking at the huge canvas tent. The construction of the tent by the consignment had been the most recent bit of excitement at the village. Again he toyed with the thought of leaving his capsule to walk among the humans, and again he discarded the notion as foolish. The time instrument beeped, and Havu touched it to silence. He stared at the instrument, wondering how many times the instrument had cycled since he had been stationed at the village. He shook his head, then looked back at the barracks. Soon he would follow the routine, shouting "Awake! Awake!" to rouse the tired humans from their scant cots and sleeping places. Then he would watch as they went to the barracks to eat an inadequate meal, and he would watch some more as they formed up before the tower for roll call. Then he would watch as they moved off to kill themselves at the milk rock pit.
Havu frowned. Guards weren't supposed to ponder such things. Standing watch in a capsule could drive one mad, if one pondered such things as routine, boredom, and—what was it? Injustice? He slumped back in his chair and pondered that the Goatha worked on the original lot of humans by orders of the Imperial Chamber at the instruction of the Royal Family. The humans believed themselves destined to conquer, to be free, to work at purposeful tasks. Is taking a mere handful of humans, conquering them, enslaving them to work at pointless labor a true Goatha? Especially when the humans suffering the Empire's revenge were not the ones responsible for the limitations placed on the Empire's expansion? It was a Goatha not worthy of the Royal Family.