"It's still more than a truly civilized society should have," Moff said stiffly.
"Our strength of will should be turned outward, toward the conquering of this world."
"And beyond?" Rynstadt murmured.
Moff looked at him, an intense look on his face. "The stars are mankind's future," he said. "We won't always be confined to this one world."
"Mankind will never be confined again," Cerenkov agreed solemnly. "Tell me, does this sort of duel happen very often? The whoever it was with the headband seemed to be right on top of things."
"Each village and city has one or more judges, depending on its population,"
Moff said. "They have many other duties besides overseeing duels. But come-we have a great many more places to visit here. Mayor Ingliss has yet to show you the local government center, and we should also have time to see a typical residential neighborhood before the krisjaw hunters return. At that point we'll be able to visit the farming areas."
Cerenkov smiled. "Point taken, Moff-we do have a busy schedule. Please, lead on."
They turned a corner and headed for the cars Ingliss's people had driven around the marketplace area for them, and York decided to be cautiously optimistic.
Sticking to the tour at this point meant Moff believed his absence hadn't been noticed. Which meant whatever the Qasamans had planned would be going off on their original schedule.
Abruptly, he was aware of the gentle pressure of the calculator watch on his wrist, and of the similar feel of the star sapphire on his hand. Together with his pen, they were the sections of his palm-mate... a weapon neither the
Qasamans nor the mojos had ever seen before. One free shot, the words echoed in his brain. One free shot before the mojos can stop me. I'd damn well better make that shot count.
It happened as they were driving back toward Sollas that evening, and their first warning was the sudden burst of static that replaced the hum of the
Dewdrop's radio link. At the front of the bus Moff stood up, steadying himself with his left hand. In his right hand was his pistol.
"You are under confinement," a voice boomed from the man sitting beside him-or, rather, from the phone-sized box in the Qasaman's hand. "You are suspected of spying on the people of Qasama. You will make no aggressive move until the final destination is reached. If you disobey your ship will be destroyed."
"What?" Cerenkov barked, his voice a blend of shock, bewilderment, and outrage.
"What's all this about?"
But there was no sound from his translator pendant and the words fell on effectively deaf ears. "Moff-" Cerenkov began, half rising.
"Don't bother," Rynstadt advised quietly. "That's just a recorder, not a translator. We'll have to wait until we get back to Sollas to clear this up."
Cerenkov opened his mouth, apparently thought better of it, and dropped back into his seat. Moff's gun hadn't so much as twitched, York noted uncomfortably.
A steady man, with nerves not easily rattled-which severely limited the range of ploys that could be used against him. And his mojo...
His mojo hadn't so much as squawked at the sight of his owner with a gun drawn on another human being. None of the birds had. For whatever reason-appearance, odor, speech-the Aventinians apparently had been exempted from the automatic protection the mojos gave their Qasaman masters. York had almost dared to hope that any Qasaman action against the team would be at least hindered a bit by the mojos' presence. But that was obviously not going to happen.
Across the aisle, Joshua shifted in his seat. "They must have one gantua of a computer capability to get even that much of a translation this fast," he muttered.
"They presumably have been recording both our words and their translation, though," Rynstadt pointed out. He seemed relaxed, almost unconcerned, and for a moment York stared at him in utter incomprehension. Didn't the idiot realize just how much trouble they were in? This isn't some game, the snarl welled up in his throat. These people are serious, and they're scared.
He choked the words down unsaid. Of course Rynstadt wasn't worried-weren't there four Cobras aboard the Dewdrop ready to burst out and rescue them in a blaze of laser fire?
Except it wasn't going to be that easy; and if none of the others realized that
York certainly did. Shifting his gaze to the window, he studied the darkening sky and the even darker forest flanking the road. Moff's timed this well, he thought, a touch of professional respect adding counterpoint to the pounding of his heart. Far from the Dewdrop, in dangerous and unfamiliar territory with night coming on, only a lunatic would attempt an escape. The sun glinted through a gap in the trees, and he realized suddenly that sometime in the past few minutes they'd turned to the southwest, off of the direct east-west route between Huriseem and Sollas. South, to the next city in the chain? Probably.
Keep the hostages away from the temptation of a rescue, while to the potential rescuers themselves you did... what? What did the Qasamans intend to do to the
Dewdrop?
He looked at Joshua, saw his own fears and uncertainties reflected in the younger man's taut face. Son of a Cobra, brother of a Cobra, he understood far better than Rynstadt the limits of the Dewdrop's defenses.
A measure of fear prepares the body; panic paralyzes it, his old Marine instructor's favorite aphorism echoed through York's mind. Consciously slowing his breathing, he blocked the panic and let the fear remain. When the opportunity came, he would have to be ready.
The announcement that briefly penetrated the roar of static in the Dewdrop's lounge was short and excruciatingly to the point: "You are suspected of spying on the people of Qasama. You will make no aggressive move or try to escape. If you disobey you will be destroyed."
The static resumed at full intensity, and Christopher spat something blasphemous. "How the hell did they figure it out-?"
"Shut up!" Telek snapped, her own heart a painful thudding in her ears. It had happened-her worst nightmare-and she'd failed to get the team out before the hammer fell. She'd failed. Oh, God. What am I going to do-?
A voice from the intercom cut into her thoughts. "Governor, I'm picking up motion and hot-spots on top of the airfield tower," Captain F'ahl said. "No clear view of any weapons or people yet; they may have something like mortars or lob-rockets that'll avoid line-of-sight exposure."
With a wrench Telek shoved the rising panic out of her way. "I understand,
Captain. Can our lasers take down the entire tower?"
"Probably not-and I wouldn't even want to try until we'd gotten everyone we could back on board."
"I wasn't suggesting we start now," she said icily. So F'ahl was already preparing himself to accept team casualties. Well, she was damned if she was going to give up that easily. "Anything on the computer screening? Joshua's split-frequency signal is supposed to be jam-proof by ordinary-"
Without warning, the field of snow on the displays abruptly cleared, and they were back in the Qasaman bus.
Telek leaned forward, hands tightening painfully... but the carnage she'd half expected wasn't there. The scene was almost exactly as it had been when the signal had been cut off a scant few minutes ago... except that Moff was sitting facing the Aventinians with his gun drawn.
Telek groped for the mike. "Joshua, let me see the rest of the team," she called.
The scene remained unchanged. "He can't hear you," Christopher murmured. "We can clean up the signal at this end, but there's no computer equipment out there to do the same."
"Great," Telek gritted. "Which means we can't contact Almo, either. Damn it all." She stared at the display another moment, then turned to the two men standing quietly just inside the lounge door. "Well, gentlemen, it looks very much like your paid vacation is over. Suggestions?"