In fluent Cosmoglotta, the one behind the desk said; “I am Major Klavith: You will address me respectfully as becomes my rank. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name, rank and number?”
“John Leeming, Lieutenant, 47926.”
“Your species?”
“Terran. Haven’t you ever seen a Terran before?”
“I am asking the questions,” retorted Klavith, “and you will provide the answers.” He paused to let that sink in, then continued, “You arrived here in a ship of Terran origin, did you not?”
“Sure did,” agreed Leeming, with relish.
Bending forward, Klavith demanded with great emphasis, “On which planet was your vessel refuelled?”
There was silence as Leeming’s thoughts moved fast. Obviously they could not credit that he had reached here non-stop because such a feat was far beyond their own technical ability. Therefore they believed that he had been assisted by some world within the Combine’s ranks. He was being ordered to name the traitors. It was a wonderful opportunity to create dissension but unfortunately he was unable to make good use of it. He’d done no more than scout around hostile worlds, landing on none of them, and for the life of him he could not name or describe a Combine species anywhere on his route.
“Are you going to tell me you don’t know?” prompted Klavith sarcastically.
“I do and I don’t,” Leeming responded. “The world was named to me only as XB173. I haven’t the faintest notion of what you call it or what it calls itself.”
“In the morning we shall produce comprehensive star-maps and you will mark thereon the exact location of this world. Between now and then you had better make sure that your memory will be accurate.” Another long pause accompanied by the cold, lizardlike stare of his kind. “You have given us a lot of trouble. I have been flown here because I am the only person on this planet who speaks Cosmoglotta.”
“The Lathians speak it”
“We are not Lathians as you well know. We are Zangastans. We do not slavishly imitate our allies in everything The Combine is an association of free peoples.”
“That may be your opinion. There are others.”
“I am not in the least bit interested in other opinions. And I am not here to bandy words with you on the subject of interstellar politics.” Surveying the stuff that littered his desk, Klavith poked forward the pepper-pot. “When you were caught you were carrying this container of incendiary powder. We know what it is because we have tested it. Why were you supplied with it?”
“It was part of my emergency kit.”
“Why should you need incendiary powder in an emergency kit?”
“To start a fire to cook food or to warm myself,” said Leeming, mentally damning the unknown inventor of emergency kits.
“I do not believe you. See where I am pointing: an automatic lighter. Is that not sufficient?”
“Those lighters wear out or become exhausted.”
“Neither does the powder last for ever. You are lying to me. You brought this stuff for the purposes of sabotage.”
“Fat lot of good I’d do starting a few blazes umpteen millions of miles from home. When we hit the Combine we do it harder and more effectively.”
“That may be so,” Klavith conceded. “But I am far from satisfied with your explanation.”
“If I gave you the true one you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“All right. The powder was included in my kit merely because some high-ranking official thought it a wonderful idea.”
“And why should he think so?” Klavith urged.
“Because any idea thought up by him must be wonderful.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Neither do I. But he does and his opinion counts.”
“Not with me it doesn’t,” Klavith denied. “Anyway, we intend to analyse this powder. Obviously it does not, burst into flame when air reaches it, otherwise it would be too risky to carry. It must be in direct contact with an inflammable substance before it will function. A ship bearing a heavy load of this stuff could destroy a lot of crops. Enough systematic burning would starve an entire species into sub-mission, would it not?”
Leeming did not answer.
“I suggest that one of your motives in coming here was to test the military effectiveness of this powder.”
“What, when we could try it on our own wastelands without the bother of transporting it partway across a galaxy?”
“That is not the same as inflicting it upon an enemy.”
“If I’d toted it all the way here just to do some wholesale burning,” Leeming pointed out, “I’d have brought a hundred tons and not a couple of ounces.”
Klavith could not find a satisfactory answer to that so he changed the subject by poking another object on his desk. “I have identified this thing as a midget camera. It is a remarkable instrument and cleverly made. But since aerial photography is far easier, quicker, wider in scope and more efficient than anything you could achieve with this gadget, I see no point in you being equipped with it.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Leeming.
“Then why did you continue to carry it?”
“Because it seemed a damned shame to throw it away.”
This reason was accepted without dispute. Grabbing the camera, Klavith put it in his pocket.
“I can understand that. It is as beautiful as a jewel. Henceforth it is my personal property.” He showed his teeth in what was supposed to be a triumphant grin. “The, spoils of conquest.” With contemptuous generosity he picked up the braces and tossed them at Leeming. “You may have these back. Put them on at once—a prisoner should be properly dressed while in my presence.” He watched in silence as the other secured his pants, then said, “You were also in possession of a luminous compass. That I can understand. It is about the only item that makes sense.” Leeming offered no comment.
“Except perhaps for this.” Klavith took up the stink-gun.
“Either it is a mock weapon or it is real.” He pulled the trigger. a couple of times and nothing happened. “Which is it?”
“Real.”
“Then how does it work?”
“To prime it you must press the barrel inward.”
“That must be done every time you are about to use it?”
“Yes.”
“In that case it is nothing better than a compressed-air gun?”
“I find it hard to credit that your authorities would arm you with anything so primitive,” opined Klavith, showing concealed suspicion.
“Such a gun is not to be despised,” offered Leeming. “It has its advantages. It needs no explosive ammunition, it will fire any missile that fits its barrel and it is comparatively silent. Moreover, it is just as intimidating as any other kind of gun.”
“You argue very plausibly,” Klavith admitted, “but I doubt whether you are telling me the whole truth.”
“There’s nothing to stop you trying it and seeing for yourself,” Leeming invited. His stomach started jumping at the mere thought of it.
“I intend to do just that.” Switching to his own language, Klavith let go a flood of words at one of the guards. Showing some reluctance, the guard propped his rifle against the wall, crossed the room and took the gun. Under Klavith’s instructions, he put the muzzle to the floor and shoved. The barrel sank back, popped forward when the pressure was released. Pointing the gun at the wall he squeezed the trigger.
The weapon went phut! A tiny pellet burst on the wall and its contents immediately gasified. For a moment Klavith sat gazing in puzzlement at the damp spot. Then the awful stench hit him. His face took on a peculiar mottling, he leaned forward and spewed with such violence that he fell off his chair. Holding his nose with his left-hand, Leeming snatched the compass from the desk with hs right and raced for the door. The guard who had fired the gun was now rolling on the carpet and trying to turn himself inside-out with such single-minded concentration that he neither knew nor cared what anyone was doing. By the door the other guard had dropped his rifle while he leaned against the wall and emitted a rapid succession of violent whoops. Not one of the three was in any condition to pull up his own socks much less get in the way of an escapee.