"Find Ghentren," the tery rasped. "There is still daylight left and you can go above in the fortress and find out where he sleeps."
"And then what?"
"I will visit him tonight and restore the balance."
"You can't even get into the fortress, let alone kill an officer."
"I can. And I will. Then I will return and replace the death egg after you have done what you must do to it."
Dalt considered his options and found he had none. He was bound by the Cultural Survey Service regulations to work within the technological stratum of the society under observation, but that wasn't holding him back now. It was the Hole. It stood between him and the solution to this mess. He stared though the window at the unending nightmare. If he thought he had the slightest chance of surviving in there he'd go himself. But only a full Defense Force combat rig would get him through the Hole alive, and he hadn't brought one along.
He could abort the entire mission. But that was tantamount to handing all those weapons directly over to Mekk, for sooner or later the Overlord would find a way to get to them. And that would be the end of the Talents and anything else that dared to deviate from what the True Shape sect declared the norm on this world.
Damn the Fed and damn the CS Service. Why couldn't they establish a protectorate?
He was getting tired of asking himself that question and receiving no answers… no answers he liked.
"Since you leave me no choice, and since the future well-being of our friends, the Talents, depends on placing that bomb" — he glared at the tery but Jon remained unmoved — "I'll do what I can. But I'll need your help to get to the surface."
Jon stood quiet, waiting for Dalt to get started.
Feeling at once saddened and exhausted, Dalt spun the wheel, locking the door into the Hole, and turned away. The diagrams in his transcript of Shaper history had shown one or two air shafts leading up from the observation corridor, as they did from the Hole. These, however, were equipped with ladders. They found one farther down the passage. Dalt climbed the imbedded rungs and peered through the grate set like a window in the wall of the shaft.
The opening appeared to be situated in the side wall of a two-meter pipe, part of the original city's drainage system. A lever on his right unlatched the grate and it swung open. With Jon close behind, he eased himself through and scuttled around the puddles to where a faint shaft of sunlight cut the gloom at a sharp angle.
Another grate, this one in the roof of the pipe. He clung to its underside and saw that it opened into the floor of an alley. He sensed no one about and all seemed quiet amid the lengthening shadows. Moving his hand along the edge of the grate he found a lever, rusty with disuse. After applying most of his weight to it, there came a creak of metal on metal and the lever moved, releasing the grate.
Moving that was another matter, however. The full force of his muscles was not enough to budge the heavy iron structure. The combination of ponderous weight and rusty hinges was proof against his strongest efforts.
But not against Jon's. The tery glided up beside him and threw his shoulder against the grate. With an agonized whine of protest, it swung upward until there was enough of an opening for Dalt to squeeze through. The tery eased it shut as soon as he was clear.
A quick glance around showed Dalt that his initial assessment had been correct: a deserted alley. He peered down though the grate and saw Jon's face hovering in the darkness on the other side.
"Wait here, Jon. Get ready to open this thing as soon as you see me. I don't know what I'm going to find up here and I may want to get back down there in a big hurry."
"I will wait."
Dalt walked to where the alley merged with a narrow thoroughfare and looked about. Not much traffic this time of day. The civilians from the village down the hill had sold their wares or done their assigned tasks and were gradually filtering out of the fortress and returning to their homes. All were to be out of the fortress by sunset.
He watched two peasant types pass by and fell in behind them, dredging up his mannerism training and putting it to use.
Like most Cultural Survey Service operatives, he had been put through in-depth training in human behavior and mannerisms, the rationale being that humans will behave like humans no matter how long they have been separated from the rest of the race. There would always be exceptions, of course, but in general the CS theory had been proven correct on many a cut-off splinter world. Dalt had been taught to utilize an array of subtle, non-specific behavioral cues to give him an aura of belonging in any milieu. Calling on that training now as he walked the streets of Overlord Mekk's fortress, he appeared to be a civilian who was used to traveling within these walls and who knew exactly where he was going.
But he had no idea where he was going. He knew he did not want to go through the gate and down to the village, which was where the two men he was following were headed. He turned off at an intersection and went hunting for barracks or any other place where the troops might gather this time of day.
Near sunset he found a group of them clustered about the door to a tavern of sorts, sipping mugs of ale and laughing. Probably just off the day watch. Dalt approached and stood slightly off to one side, affecting an air of humble deference to their positions as defenders of the Overlord.
Finally someone deigned to notice him.
"What are you standing there for?" a trooper asked in a surly tone.
He was dark, middle-aged, with a big belly and no hint of kindness or mirth in his laughter.
Dalt avoided eye contact and said, "Sir, I —"
"Looking for a drink?"
The trooper casually flipped the dregs of his mug at Dalt who could have easily dodged the flying liquid, but chose instead to let it spatter across his jerkin.
He carefully brushed himself off while the troopers roared and slapped the fat one on the back. Adjusting his clothes, he checked on the position of the blaster tucked inside his belt. CSS regulations forbade carrying one, but he knew Mekk's troops were selected for their brutality and, regulations or no regulations, he had no intention of letting some barbarian swine stick a dirk between his ribs just for fun.
"I'm searching for Captain Ghentren," he said when the laughter had quieted enough for him to be heard.
"You won't find him here," the fat one said, more kindly disposed now toward a man he had embarrassed and degraded.
"I bring some of his personal effects from Lord Kitru's realm. He is awaiting them."
"Well then you'd better rush off and find him, little man!" the fat one roared and went to refill his mug.
Dalt took a gamble. "I'll find him sooner or later, and I'm sure he'll be glad to learn of all the help I received in carrying out his errand."
This brought a sudden change in mood to the group of troopers. Their laughter died and the fat enlisted man turned and studied Dalt. The gamble had paid off — Ghentren was not known as one of the more easy-going officers.
"He's quartered in the red building over there," he said, pointing. "But he's overseeing wall patrol now. Should be back right after sunset."
Dalt turned to see which building he meant, then walked the other way, leaving an uneasy knot of troopers behind him. Along the way he drew a mental map, picking out easy landmarks for Jon to follow in the darkness. A bell sounded from the direction of the gate — the warning signal for all civilians to leave the fortress.
He quickened his pace.
— XXV-
Jon found waiting for Tlad an agonizing experience. If Tlad was captured by the troopers for being inside the fortress without a pass, he would be dealt with harshly — perhaps lethally — and it would be the tery's fault.