He tried to focus his eyes on the stone floor, but the flagstones blended into a blurred, gray mass. Agony spread over his entire upper body, then even his legs began to cramp.
And still he hung from the pulley, gasping through wide-open mouth and wondering how long it might be before his shoulders would tear loose to drop him to the floor below.
At last, he stopped even wondering and simply hung, submerged in formless pain.
Dimly, as from a long distance, he heard footsteps. The rope vibrated. Suddenly he was falling, only to stop with a violent jerk that tore muscles and tendons. A startled scream forced its way from him.
"The man is not truly dumb, your lordship," said a voice. "Perchance he can answer your questions now."
"Your name? Come, fellow, give your name." The second voice was imperious.
Kanlor managed to open his eyes.
"Please," he croaked. "Let me down."
"Later. You have questions to answer now. Come, now, what is your name?"
"Kanlor. Wysrin Kanlor. It hurts!"
"Never mind whining. Just answer. How long have you been a witch? Five years?"
"I'm not a—"
"Fellow, we've been most forbearing with you. Now if you persist in your refusal to answer, we will have to put you to the torture. Once again, how long have you been a witch?"
Kanlor closed his eyes. Talking did no good and it took too much effort. Perhaps if he hung here for long, his heart would stop. The peace of death would be better than long periods of suffering.
"The man is still taciturn. Indicate to him what may lie ahead should he persist in his silence."
Kanlor felt liquid being poured over his head. A rag was roughly wiped over his face. He could feel a chill on his back as some of it trickled down his spine. A torch was brought near and suddenly, his head and shoulders were enveloped in flame. Desperately, he held his breath, refusing to let out the screams that fought to be released—holding back sudden madness that tore at him.
The flare died as the alcohol burned out. Cold salt water was dashed over him and every nerve screamed in outrage.
All at once, he was coldly, clearly sane and aware. He had seen people burned over large parts of their bodies. They never survived. He would never again walk the fields; this, he knew.
But they'll get little satisfaction, he told himself fiercely. I may not live, but I can die silent.
Dimly, he heard question after question. He sealed his lips, holding one all-encompassing thought. Silence!
At last, he was taken down and bedded in some straw, only to be awakened for more questions. Someone explained to him the ways of witches.
"So, you see, you will be giving away no secret," he was told. "We only wish that you may purge yourself of your sin."
He lost all track of time. Questioners hammered at him. Variations of torture were tested. At times, he lost consciousness, only to be roused by buckets of cold water. There came a time when he was unsure as to whether he was speaking or not.
And there were other times when he wondered if perhaps he had, by some force of his desires, caused drought, raging flames in neighbors' fields, death of cattle.
At last, he realized vaguely that he was being supported by two men and taken to the open air. There were many people. He was chained, then left alone.
Then flames and smoke surrounded him and he waited for an end. It would be relief. He fainted.
Carlsen watched the viewscreen as relayed recordings flashed across it. His hands flicked over the editing controls as he alternately speeded and slowed the presentation. Suddenly, he straightened and brought the presentation to normal speed. This one was recent.
He watched as the victim was stretched on a rack, then listened as unanswered questions were asked. He glanced at the data panel and shook his head furiously.
That was less than an hour ago!
Abruptly, he snapped the recorders off and turned to his flight controls.
I've had it! It's not all that far to Varsana. The devil with concealment. Let 'em hear a good, solid sonic boom. Might give 'em something to worry about.
The ship leveled off at two thousand meters and streaked toward the town at the head of the valley. Ahead and below, the plaza came into view and Carlsen kicked up magnification, then swore and threw the ship into a screaming dive.
Pen Qatorn stood before the wide door of the House of Questioning and watched as Kanlor was fastened to the execution post.
"This," he said, "is a stubborn witch. Not a word from him. May there be few like that."
His secretary nodded. "Yes, sir, but there is yet this man Mord. Perhaps he may tell us of other suspects."
Pen Qatorn cleared his throat. "Well, at least, we're well rid of this Kanlor." He waved a hand curtly at the Executioner and pitched his voice to the right judicial tone.
"Let the flames rise," he called, "that they may purify the duchy of this evil one."
The burly Executioner tossed a torch, then reached for another. Faggots and brushwood smoked and flamed.
Then there was confusion. The plaza shook to a loud explosion. A blast of wind raged briefly. The fire, fanned into sudden fury, flew toward the spectators, who beat frantically at suddenly flaming clothing. The confusion became panic. Coughing and screaming, the crowd became a terrorized mob that stampeded wildly through the streets.
Unbelievingly, pen Qatorn stared at the chaos. At last, he recovered his thoughts and looked toward the execution pole. Something was . . . somehow, the captive was being released. The Examiner started to dash forward, then cringed away as pale blue flame washed over the flagstones toward him.
Chief Surgeon Palken was just snapping his communicator off as Carlsen came in. He looked up, then spread his hands.
"I don't know how the man does it," he said. "Know who that was?"
"Commander Walzen?"
"Right. How did you know? Well, anyway, he's demanding things. First, he wants that primitive you brought in today. Next, he wants you to report to him immediately. Says he knows you must be in the hospital area and I'd better find you." He smiled wryly. "You've got me nicely in the middle."
"At this time of night?"
Palken nodded. "At this time of night! He's screaming for blood. Says he's going to get that primitive out of here and back to his own planet a little sooner than possible."
"That's a man he's talking about," Carlsen said softly. "His name is Kanlor and if he goes back to his own planet, he's going to be burned as a witch. How is he, by the way? That's what I came up here to find out."
"Physically, he's coming along nicely. You people did an excellent first-aid job on him. Psychologically, though, I'm not so sure. Pretty traumatic. Thinks he's dead—or should be."
"Yes, sir. Well, that'll be a nice headache for the Corps rehabilitation people, I guess. I certainly am not about to release him to C.A. He's part of a Corps mission and I haven't even got off to a good start with it yet."
Palken shook his head sorrowfully. "Now I know I'm in the middle," he complained. "I've worked with our Corps Commander A-Riman and he's about the last man in the Federation I want to mix with. On the other hand, Commander Walzen's no lily, either. He's got something on half the people on this base."
"Oh?"
"That's right. You know, almost everyone's left a body buried somewhere. The good commander seems to know where each one is, and just how to dig them up." Palken shrugged. "I think he keeps a special file—a large one."
"I see. Well, I don't think he's found any of mine yet. He'd have used one already." Carlsen looked down at Palken's desk. "I'll report to him right away, of course. There's one thing, though, sir."
"What's that?"
"Please keep several of your people that aren't in the commander's files around Kanlor from now on out. If I lose him, Corps Commander A-Riman'll fry me like a doughnut."
Palken looked after him as he walked out of the office.
Yeah, he said happily, after he's rend
ered me out for the grease. He reached for his communicator switch, then changed his mind and hurried out to the corridor.
The clerk finally looked expressionlessly at Carlsen.
"You can go in now, sir." He watched as Carlsen went through a door, then turned his attention to his records, smiling derisively.
That's one wise guy who's going to be a tame pussycat when he comes out of there.
Carlsen stepped toward the desk, then stood, waiting.
Commander Kar Walzen took his time about affixing his signature to some papers, carefully put them in appropriate file folders, then looked up and regarded him coldly, slowly inspecting him. Finally, he spoke.
"I understand you landed on a newly discovered primitive planet and interfered with native affairs. Is that correct?"
"There is a dangerous trend in—"
"I asked you a question. Did you, or did you not, make planetfall and take a native off planet?"
"Yes, sir. I did. But—"
"Well, at least I'm glad you have the sense not to deny obvious facts. Now, did you cause a panic and injure some natives?"
Carlsen stiffened. "Sir, you have obviously gained access to my report. It was under confidential seal, addressed to Philosophical Corps Command. This is in violation of regulation—"
"Never mind quoting regulations. Remember this. I'm a staff officer assigned to this sector. I'm not half a galaxy away, I'm here. And you're here. Now, I'm going to review every report that goes out of my branch. And they don't go out until I have approved them. I cautioned you about trying to go over my head to Sector. I've seen your records, yes. And I didn't like what I saw." He drew a long breath and stared angrily at Carlsen.
"I didn't want a Philosophical Corps detachment in the first place. You and your crew of so-called specialists were crammed down my throat and I never liked it. I tried to make the best of it and put you to some use, but it's no good. I can't see much difference between you and your do-gooders and a bunch of thrill-happy drones and I don't like drones. I don't like any kind of criminal activity and your actions have that same unsavory smell. I'm telling you now, I won't tolerate any further such activity so long as you're under my command.
"I'm still going to be fair about this. I'll give you a chance to explain yourself. Why did you go in as you did? Were there any signs of outside interference with the culture?"
Carlsen shook his head. "That culture was endangering itself," he said. He held up a hand as the commander started to speak.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but my detachment is not under your command nor am I. We are assigned to act in coordination with your branch and we've leaned over backward in actually taking missions that should have been done by your teams. But—"
"You're assigned here. I'm the Criminal Apprehension Officer for this sector and you are just one of the junior officers in my jurisdiction. And don't try to quote regulations to me! I've read 'em. Now I'm going to order you—"
Again, Carlsen's hand went up, palm forward. "Commander, we are not directly under your command. You know it and I know it. I intend to take my team back and clean up the situation we found. If you have any further comments, I'd suggest you take them up with the Sector Commander for referral to my Corps Command. Right now, sir, with your permission, I'm going over to Headquarters, where I shall make sure that my report is forwarded immediately. If necessary, I shall get the duty officer to contact the Sector Commander directly."
Commander Walzen was a large man. He got to his feet and strode close, to tower over the junior officer. Fists clenched at his sides, he stared down threateningly. "All right. For the moment, I'll assume you're not directly under my command. I should put you in confinement and prefer charges. But I won't do that just yet. I shall write up those same charges and put them through channels. Meantime, you'll remain on duty and your report will be forwarded."
He raised a fist and slammed it into his other hand.
"I will say this, though. I want you to write up a full, detailed operational plan and then take that crew of yours back and clean up the mess you made. I'm not going to waste the time of any of my own people in bailing you out. I'm not going to tell you how to do this cleanup but I want it done and done in a hurry. Is that clear?"
"Quite, sir." Hal Carlsen snapped a salute and strode from the office. He closed the door with forced gentleness and looked back.
Brother, he murmured. I'm glad the detachment is on "detached" If that is a typical C A. officer, they need to do a lot of housecleaning.
Carlsen examined the cliffs as he approached.
Come to think of it, they do look like the remains of an ancient seashore.
People, you jerk, he reminded himself, not geology. A full operational plan that idiot wanted! Hah! We've got things roughed in, but I won't know the details till the job's done. He frowned.
Wonder if the Old Man'll bail me out. That guy's sure to use that for a "direct order" charge. And he is a senior officer.
The communicator screen lit.
"Chief?"
"Go ahead, Waler."
"I suppose you know, you've made the local pandemonium."
"Oh? How's that?"
"Just picked up a lecture. Seems there must've been at least a hundred people saw you pick that guy out of Varsana. You're twenty meters tall, got six or eight extra arms, and poison dripping from every fang. You kicked the fire all over town, clawed down a building or two and breathed fire and poison all over the Chief Examiner, his clerk, and three local judges. They're martyrs now. Then you picked this poor witch up. Jerked him off the pole, chains and all, then tore him into little bits and scattered the pieces so far they haven't found a trace yet."
"Wow! And I didn't think they'd have time for a good look." Carlsen grinned, then sobered. "Look, Waler, we've got to get rid of that story before it grows up and has pups."
Waler shook his head. "Might have to take a demonology lecturer or so along with it, sir."
Carlsen shrugged resignedly. "Well, if it comes down to it, the civilization can stumble along without them." He stroked his chin. "Maybe next time around, they'll have a chance to be useful citizens. Just don't hurt them any more than you have to."
He snapped off the communicator and reached for the wall panel. It would take at least two spy eyes for this job, he decided. In fact, three would be better.
Duke Khathor par Doizen, Protector of Varsan and the High Marches, looked at the plump man at his right.
Another Examiner, he sighed to himself, and full of his convictions and duties. Well, at least, he's one who likes good food and wine. That other fellow made a man uneasy every time he touched a cup. He lifted his wine cup and sipped.
"It is to be hoped, Sir Examiner," he said, "that you may be able to clear our duchy of all evil in short order."
A servant had just filled Examiner Dorthal Kietol's cup. He set it on the table and turned away. No one noticed that the liquid wavered and rippled more than was normal.
Kietol seized the cup, drank, smacked thick lips, then drank more deeply. He moved his heavily jowled jaw appreciatively.
"An excellent vintage, my lord," he commented. He swayed a trifle in his chair, blinked, and shook his head uncertainly, then looked through squinted eyes at the duke.
"You were saying?"
The duke frowned. "I was speaking of this evil that has come to our duchy," he said. "We hope it will soon be rooted out."
Kietol wagged his head, then drained his cup. He slammed it to the table and waved expansively.
"Nothing to fear," he said loudly. "We'll burn 'em all. Get all the money." He squinted at the duke cunningly.
"Got lots of fat merchants, hey? Rich farmers, too." Again, he wagged his head. "That pen Qatorn, he was a smart one. Good records and we have 'em. Lots of money here." He weaved, then threw his arms out. "We'll get 'em. Burn 'em all."
Par Doizen set his cup down carefully, regarding the Examiner searchingly.
"Yes," he admitted slowly. "Witches s
hould burn. But what's this about merchants and rich farmers? And what of the demon? Isn't there a chance he might return?"
Kietol's head had dropped to his chest. He lifted it with a jerk. "Whazzat? Oh. Witches are rich. Rich are witches." Again, he jerked his head up. "Oh. Huh? Demon? Ha, I know about that. Never any demon. No demons. Just a little storm, y'know. Whoosh! Fire blows all over. No such thing as demon." He squinted at the duke, his head weaving uncertainly.
Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire Page 33
