Brion bent and picked up his knife, then stepped back to look at the thing again. It was an absolute mystery. He raised the blade and aimed it, filled with the sudden impulse to jam it deep into the works. He resisted. That would accomplish nothing, other than his possible electrocution. Could there possibly be any nameplates or identification marks of any kind on the thing? As he bent over for a closer look loud explosions boomed out close behind him.
Reflex sent him hurtling to one side, rolling as he fell, turning and raising the knife before him.
Three men stood there, facing him, men who could not possibly have been there an instant before.
Three men dressed completely in black, with heavy boots and thick pressure suits. Their features were concealed by helmets with reflecting faceplates. All of them carried metal cases of some kind, and they did not appear to be armed. They must have been equally surprised to see him, for they recoiled back from the threat of his knife. Brion straightened slowly and slid the knife back into its sheath and took a step towards the nearest man. The man stepped back and pressed a control at his waist. There was a sharp bang and he vanished just as suddenly as he had appeared.
“What’s happening here? Who are you?” Brion called out, walking forward. The two remaining men fell back before him just as explosions sounded for a third time. They were cracked out in rapid succession as, one after another, and at least a dozen more men appeared dressed in the same outfits.
But these men were armed. Their heavy rifles were raised and pointed in his direction. Brion stood still, making no movements to alarm them. The man in front, with identifying stripes of some kind on his arms, lowered his weapon and touched his helmet. His faceplate opened.
“Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
17: The Killers
The other armed men were opening their faceplates now.
“Does he understand you, sergeant?” one of them called out.
“That’s a wicked looked knife he’s wearing.”
“Tell him to drop it.”
Brion understood well enough; they were speaking Universal Esperanto, the interstellar language that everyone used in addition to their native tongue. He raised his hand slowly and placed it carefully on his knife. “I’m going to put this on the ground. Just keep your fingers easy on those triggers.”
The Sergeant watched closely, gun pointed, as Brion dropped the knife. When it was on the ground he lowered his gun and stepped forward. He was a grim looking man with slitted eyes, his skin pale above the black smudge of his unshaven jaw.
“You’re not a Gyongyos tech,” the Sergeant said. “Not in that outfit. What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question, Sergeant,” Brion said. “Explain yourself. I have more questions than you do …”
“Not for me you don’t. I don’t like this at all.” He called back over his shoulder, “Corporal. Jump back and get a pressure suit, a big one. Tell the captain what we’ve found, tell him to let the War Department know at once.”
The crackling explosion sounded again. Brion realized it had something to do with their appearance and disappearance, as though they moved so fast they displaced the air, or left a vacuum like a lightning bolt. Military ranks, reporting to the War Department they must surely have some connection with the mechanized army that had originated here. Perhaps the machines had materialized just the way they did!
“You’re responsible for the tanks and all the armoured vehicles, aren’t you?”
The Sergeant raised his gun. “I’m responsible for nothing except following orders. Now just shut up until you are off my hands. If you want to talk, talk to Intelligence. That’ll make everybody happy.”
Despite the threat of the guns, Brion was overwhelmed by a feeling of success. There had to be a relationship between these people and this embattled planet. The solution was close at hand; he must control his impatience. He watched intently while the technicians, the first group to arrive, worked on the instrument that had been concealed in the heart of the metal column. They hooked leads and meters to it, and appeared to be testing various units and functions. It must have operated correctly because they quickly disconnected their machines, then lifted the metal cover back into place. When it was seating firmly they aligned the opening, then replaced the sealing bolt he had removed. Brion itched to question them, but forced himself to silence. The opportunity would come soon enough. He turned as the familiar crackling bang sounded again. The Corporal had returned with a bundled suit under his arm.
“Lieutenant says to bring him in, got a reception waiting. Here’s the suit.”
The promised reception sounded ominous, but Brion had little choice under the muzzles of the pointing guns. He put the suit on as directed, sealing himself into it. The sergeant slammed the faceplate shut and reached for one of the controls on at Brion’s waist. There was a twisting sensation, impossible to describe, and everything changed on the instant. The valley and the soldiers were gone and he was standing on a metal platform. Bright lights glared down and uniformed soldiers were running towards him. They unsealed the suit and stripped it from him under the supervision of a young officer.
“Come with me,” he ordered Brion. There was no point in protesting at this point; he went quietly. He had a quick glimpse of massive machinery, with heavy wires looping from insulators as thick as his body, before being hustled through a metal door and down the corridor beyond. It was painted a neutral grey, with a number of doors along its length. They stopped before one labelled CORPS 3, opened it and waved Brion inside. He went in and heard it shut behind him.
“Sit in that chair, if you please,” a man said in a quiet voice. He was in a chair of his own, no more than two yards away from Brion. A thin man with pale, drawn skin, his cheekbones clearly outlined below his deep-set eyes, dressed in neutral grey. He smiled at Brion, but it was only a gesture, a movement of the face with no warmth or sincerity behind it. Brion could hear him clearly although they were separated by a transparent wall that divided the small room in half. Brion lowered himself into the chair, the only object of any kind on his side of the barrier.
“I have some questions for you,” Brion said.
“I am sure that you do. And I for you. Shall we do our best to satisfy one another? I am Colonel Hegedus, Opole People’s Army. And you?”
“My name is Brion Brandd. Do I take it then that Corps 3 is military intelligence?”
“It is. How very observing of you. We have no intention of causing you any harm, Brion. We are just very interested in what you planned to do with the Delta Beacon that you had dismantled.”
“Is that what it is called? I was investigating it because I thought it might have something to do with the war on Selm-II.”
“Are you telling me that you are a spy of some kind?”
“Are you telling me that there is something on this planet for me to spy upon?”
“Please, Brion, don’t let us play games. The area where you were found is of great strategic importance as you well know. If you are with Gyongyos intelligence you had better tell me you know how easily we can find out the truth from you.”
“I’m afraid that I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about. The truth is that I am completely mystified by what has happened. I arrived on this planet in the midst of a devastating war …”
“Excuse me, but there is no war on this planet, you know that…” For the first time real emotion shown on Hegedus’s face; sudden shock. “No, you don’t know that, do you. You still think you are on Selm-II. You are not from Gyongyos …”