“Until a reply arrives and mutual agreement has been achieved, Zangasta wishes you to have better treatment. You will be transferred to the officers’ quarters outside the walls, you will share their meals and be allowed to go walks in the country. Temporarily you will be treated as a non-combatant and you’ll be very comfortable. It is necessary that you give me your parole not to try to escape.”
Holy smoke, this was another stinker. The entire fiction was shaped toward ultimate escape. He couldn’t abandon it now. Neither was he willing to give his word of honour with the cynical intention of breaking it.
“Parole refused,” he said firmly.
The Commandant was incredulous. “Surely you do not mean that?”
“I do. I have no choice. Terran military law does not permit a prisoner-of-war to give such a promise.”
“Why not?”
“Because no Terran can accept responsibility for his Eustace. How can I swear not tb get out when half of me cannot be got in? Can a twin take oath on behalf of his brother?”
“Guard!” called the Commandant, visibly disappointed. He mooched uneasily around his cell for a full twelve days, occasionally chatting with Eustace night-times for the benefit of ears lurking outside the door. Definitely he’d wangled himself into a predicament that was a case of put up or shut up; in order to put up he dared not shut up.
The food remained better in quantity though little could be said for its quality. Guards treated him with that diffidence accorded to captives who somehow are in cahoots with their superiors. Four more recaptured Rigellians were brought back but not shot. All the signs and portents were that he’d still got a grip on the foe.
Though he’d said nothing to them, the other prisoners had got wind of the fact that in some mysterious way he was responsible for the general softening of prison conditions. At exercise-time they treated him as a deep and subtle character who could achieve the impossible. From time to time their curiosity got the better of them.
“You know they didn’t execute those last four?”
“Yes,” Leeming admitted.
“It’s being said that you stopped the shooting.”
“Who says so?”
“It’s just a story going around.”
“That’s right, it’s just a story going around.”
“I wonder why they shot the first bunch but not the second. There must be a reason.”
“Maybe the Zangastans have developed qualms of conscience, even if belatedly,” Leeming suggested.
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Such as what?”
“Somebody has shaken them up.”
“Who, for instance?”
“I don’t know. There’s a strong rumour that you’ve got the Commandant eating out of your hand.”
“That’s likely, isn’t it?” Leeming countered.
“I wouldn’t think so. But one never knows where one is with the Terrans.” The other brooded a bit, asked, “What did you do with that wire I stole for you?”
“I’m knitting it into a pair of socks. Nothing fits better nor wears longer than solid wire socks.”
Thus he foiled their noseyness and kept silence, not wanting to arouse false hopes. Inwardly he was badly bothered. The Allies in general and Earth in particular knew nothing whatever about Eustaces and therefore were likely to treat a two-for-one proposition with the contempt it deserved. A blank refusal on their part might cause him to be plied with awkward questions impossible to answer.
In that case it would occur to them sooner or later that they were afflicted with the biggest liar in history. They’d then devise tests of fiendish ingenuity. When he fluked them the balloon would go up.
He wasn’t inclined to give himself overmuch credit for kidding them along so far. The few books he’d been able to read had shown that Zangastan religion was based upon reverence for ancestral spirits. The Zangastans were also familiar with what is known as poltergeist phenomena. The ground had been prepared for him in advance; he’d merely ploughed it and sown the crop. When a victim already believes in two kinds of invisible beings it isn’t hard to persuade him to swallow a third.
But when the Allies beamed Anga Zangasta a curt invitation to make his bed on a railroad track it was possible that the third type of spirit would be regurgitated with violence. Unless by fast, convincing talk he could cram it back down their gullets when it was halfway out. How to do that?
In his cell he was stewing this problem over and over when the guards came for him again. The Commandant was there but Pallam was not. Instead, a dozen civilians eyed him curiously. That made a total of thirteen enemies, a very suitable number to pronounce him ready for the chopper. Feeling as much the centre of attraction as a six-tailed wombat at the zoo, he sat down and four civilians immediately started chivvying him, taking it in relays. They were interested in one subject and one only, namely, bopamagilvies. It seemed that they’d been playing for hours with his samples, had achieved nothing except some practise in acting daft, and were not happy about it.
On what principle did a bopamagilvie work? Did it focus telepathic output into a narrow, long-range beam? At what distance did his Eustace get beyond range of straight conversation and have to be summoned with the aid of a gadget? Why was it necessary to make directional search before obtaining a reply? How did he know how to make a coiled-loop in the first place?
“I can’t explain. How does a bird know how to make a nest? The knowledge is wholly instinctive. I have known how to call my Eustace ever since I was old enough to shape a piece of wire.”
“Could it be that your Eustace implants the necessary knowledge in your mind?”
“Frankly, I’ve never given that idea a thought. But it is possible.”
“Will any kind of wire serve?”
“So long as it’s non-ferrous.”
“Are all Terran loops of exactly the same construction and dimensions?”
“No, they vary with the individual.”
“We’ve made careful and thorough search of Terran prisoners held by the Lathians. Not one of them owns a similar piece of apparatus. How do you account for that?”
“They don’t need one.”
“Why not?”
“Because when more than four hundred of them are imprisoned together they can always count on at least a few of their Eustaces being within easy reach at any given time.
Somehow he beat them off, feeling hot in the forehead and cold in the belly. Then the Commandant took over. “The Allies have flatly refused to accept Terran prisoners ahead of other species, or to exchange them two for one, or to discuss the matter any further. What have you to say to that?”
Steeling himself, Leeming commented; “Look, on your side there are more than twenty lifeforms of which the Lathians and the Zebs are by far the most powerful. Now if the Allies had wanted to give priority of exchange to one. species do you think the Combine would agree? If, for example, the favoured species happened to be the Tansites, would the Lathians and Zebs vote for them to get home first?”
A tall, authoritative civilian chipped in. “I am Daverd; personal aide to Zangasta. He is of your own opinion. He believes that the Terrans have been outvoted. Therefore I am commanded to ask you one question.”
“What is it?”
“Do your allies know about your Eustaces?”
“No.”
“You have succeeded in hiding the facts from them?”
“There’s never been any question of concealing anything from them. With friends the facts just don’t become apparent. Eustaces take effective action only against enemies and that is something that cannot be concealed for ever.”
“Very well.” Daverd came closer, put on a conspiratorial air. “The Lathians started this war and the Zebs went with them by reason of their military alliance. The rest of us got dragged in for one reason or another. The Lathians are strong and arrogant but, as we now know, they are not responsible for their actions.”