chief's look of wearysuperciliousness there was a note of anxiety. His big features were setin a frown. The drooping eyelids failed to conceal a sharp, measuringstare.
Orne glanced at the sky to the southwest. "The flitter ought to be hereany minute." A gust of wind tugged at his cape. He staggered, caught hisbalance. "I _feel_ good."
"You look like something left over from a funeral," growled Stetson.
"Sure--my funeral," said Orne. He grinned. "Anyway, I was getting tiredof that walk-around-type morgue. All my nurses were married."
"I'd almost stake my life that I could trust you," muttered Stetson.
Orne looked at him. "No, no, Stet ... stake _my_ life. I'm used to it."
Stetson shook his head. "No, dammit! I trust you, but you deserve apeaceful convalescence. We've no right to saddle you with--"
"Stet?" Orne's voice was low, amused.
"Huh?" Stetson looked up.
"Let's save the noble act for someone who doesn't know you," said Orne."You've a job for me. O.K. You've made the gesture for your conscience."
Stetson produced a wolfish grin. "All right. So we're desperate, and wehaven't much time. In a nutshell, since you're going to be a house guestat the Bullones'--we suspect Ipscott Bullone of being the head of aconspiracy to take over the government."
"What do you mean--_take over the government_?" demanded Orne. "TheGalactic High Commissioner _is_ the government--subject to theConstitution and the Assemblymen who elected him."
"We've a situation that could explode into another Rim War, and we thinkhe's at the heart of it," said Stetson. "We've eighty-one touchyplanets, all of them old-line steadies that have been in the League foryears. And on every one of them we have reason to believe there's a clanof traitors sworn to overthrow the League. Even on your homeplanet--Chargon."
"You want me to go home for my convalescence?" asked Orne. "Haven't beenthere since I was seventeen. I'm not sure that--"
"No, dammit! We want you as the Bullones' house guest! And speaking ofthat, would you mind explaining how they were chosen to ride herd onyou?"
"There's an odd thing," said Orne. "All those gags in the I-A about oldUpshook Ipscott Bullone ... and then I find that his wife went to schoolwith my mother."
"Have you met Himself?"
"He brought his wife to the hospital a couple of times."
Again, Stetson looked to the southwest, then back to Orne. A pensivelook came over his face. "Every schoolkid knows how the Nathians and theMarakian League fought it out in the Rim War--how the old civilizationfell apart--and it all seems kind of distant," he said.
"Five hundred standard years," said Orne.
"And maybe no farther away than yesterday," murmured Stetson. He clearedhis throat.
* * * * *
And Orne wondered why Stetson was moving so cautiously. _Something deeptroubling him._ A sudden thought struck Orne. He said: "You spoke oftrust. Has this conspiracy involved the I-A?"
"We think so," said Stetson. "About a year ago, an R&R archeologicalteam was nosing around some ruins on Dabih. The place was all butvitrified in the Rim War, but a whole bank of records from a Nathianoutpost escaped." He glanced sidelong at Orne. "The Rah&Rah boyscouldn't make sense out of the records. No surprise. They called in anI-A crypt-analyst. He broke a complicated substitution cipher. When thestuff started making sense he pushed the panic button."
"For something the Nathians wrote five hundred years ago?"
Stetson's drooping eyelids lifted. There was a cold quality to hisstare. "This was a routing station for key Nathian families," he said."Trained refugees. An old dodge ... been used as long as there'vebeen--"
"But five hundred _years_, Stet!"
"I don't care if it was five _thousand_ years!" barked Stetson. "We'veintercepted some scraps since then that were written in the _same_ code.The bland confidence of _that_! Wouldn't that gall you?" He shook hishead. "And every scrap we've intercepted deals with the comingelections."
"But the election's only a couple of days off!" protested Orne.
Stetson glanced at his wristchrono. "Forty-two hours to be exact," hesaid. "Some deadline!"
"Any names in these old records?" asked Orne.
Stetson nodded. "Names of planets, yes. People, no. Some code names,but no cover names. Code name on Chargon was _Winner_. That ring anybells with you?"
Orne shook his head. "No. What's the code name here?"
_"The Head,"_ said Stetson. "But what good does that do us? They're sureto've changed those by now."
"They didn't change their communications code," said Orne.
"No ... they didn't."
"We must have something on them, some leads," said Orne. He felt thatStetson was holding back something vital.
"Sure," said Stetson. "We have history books. They say the Nathians weretop drawer in political mechanics. We know for a fact they chose landingsites for their _refugees_ with diabolical care. Each family was told todig in, grow up with the adopted culture, develop the weak spots, buildan underground, train their descendants to take over. They set out tobore from within, to make victory out of defeat. The Nathians were longon patience. They came originally from nomad stock on Nathia II. Theirmythology calls them Arbs or Ayrbs. Go review your seventh gradehistory. You'll know almost as much as we do!"
"Like looking for the traditional needle in the haystack," mutteredOrne. "How come you suspect High Commissioner Upshook?"
Stetson wet his lips with his tongue. "One of the Bullones' sevendaughters is currently at home," he said. "Name's Diana. A field leaderin the I-A women. One of the Nathian code messages we intercepted hadher name as addressee."
"Who sent the message?" asked Orne. "What was it all about?"
Stetson coughed. "You know, Lew, we cross-check everything. This messagewas signed M.O.S. The only M.O.S. that came out of the comparison was ona routine next-of-kin reply. We followed it down to the original copy,and the handwriting checked. Name of Madrena Orne Standish."
"Maddie?" Orne froze, turned slowly to face Stetson. "So that's what'stroubling you!"
"We know you haven't been home since you were seventeen," said Stetson."Your record with us is clean. The question is--"
"Permit me," said Orne. "The question is: Will I turn in my own sisterif it falls that way?"
Stetson remained silent, staring at him.
"O.K.," said Orne. "My job is seeing that we don't have another Rim War.Just answer me one question: How's Maddie mixed up in this? My familyisn't one of these traitor clans."
"This whole thing is all tangled up with politics," said Stetson. "Wethink it's because of her husband."
"Ahhhh, the member for Chargon," said Orne. "I've never met him." Helooked to the southwest where a flitter was growing larger as itapproached. "Who's my cover contact?"
"That mini-transceiver we planted in your neck for the Gienah job,"said Stetson. "It's still there and functioning. Anything happens aroundyou, we hear it."
Orne touched the subvocal stud at his neck, moved his speaking muscleswithout opening his mouth. A surf-hissing voice filled the matchingtransceiver in Stetson's neck:
_"You pay attention while I'm making a play for this Diana Bullone, youhear? Then you'll know how an expert works."_
"Don't get so interested in your work that you forget why you're outthere," growled Stetson.
* * * * *
Mrs. Bullone was a fat little mouse of a woman. She stood almost in thecenter of the guest room of her home, hands clasped across the paunch ofa long, dull silver gown. She had demure gray eyes, grandmotherly grayhair combed straight back in a jeweled net--and that shocking baritonehusk of a voice issuing from a small mouth. Her figure sloped out fromseveral chins to a matronly bosom, then dropped straight like a barrel.The top of her head came just above Orne's dress epaulets.
"We want you to feel at home here, Lewis," she husked. "You're toconsider yourself one of the family."
Orne l
ooked around at the Bullone guest room: low key furnishings withan old-fashioned selectacol for change of decor. A polawindow looked outonto an oval swimming pool, the glass muted to dark blue. It gave theoutside a moonlight appearance. There was a contour bed against onewall,
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