by Anthology
Don frowned. "Funny he'd need a late slip. He already had a write-up." He shrugged. "Oh, well. I should get excited about making some of the lower school crowd sore?"
Bordelle lifted one shoulder. "Well, Michaels, you know your own business, I guess, but Kelton's got a lot of friends around, they tell me."
"Yeah. I've heard." Don looked steadily at the other.
"And, well——" Bordelle examined the toes of his shoes carefully. "Well, maybe you ought to think it over about turning in those slips you wrote up, huh?"
"Think so?"
"Well, I would." Bordelle looked up, then down again. "You know, I've known a few guys, crossed the Keltons. Right away, they found themselves all tangled up with the Hunters. Makes things a little rugged, you know?"
"A little rugged, huh?"
"Yeah." Bordelle spread his hands. "Look, Michaels, I've got nothing in this one. It's just … well, I've known you for a few years now—ever since Lower School. Been in some classes with you. And you seem like a pretty decent, sensible guy. Hate to see you walk into a jam, see? Especially over some native kid with a stinking family record." He paused.
"Of course, it's your own business, but if it were me, I'd tear up those slips, you know?"
"Easy to tear up slips. Only one trouble. They're numbered. How would you explain the missing numbers?"
"Well, guys lose books now and then, remember? Maybe they wouldn't holler too loud."
Don smiled. "I knew a guy once that lost a book. They took it pretty hard. Got real rough about it."
Bordelle shrugged. "Yeah. But maybe Al Wells might not be so rough about it this time, huh? He might just sort of forget it, if you told him you just sort of … well, maybe you were checking the incinerator on your way to the office, and the book slipped out of your pocket—you know?"
"You think it could happen that way?"
"It could—easy."
Don stood up.
"Tell you," he said, "I might lose a book some day. But they don't come big enough to make me throw one away." He picked up his books and put them under his arm.
"I'm going to turn those slips in tonight. Maybe you'd better turn in the one you wrote up, too. Then nobody'll get burned for losing a book."
"I always thought you were a pretty sensible guy, Michaels." Bordelle shook his head. "After all, you stopped that beef. Nobody got hurt, and you've got nothing to prove about yourself. Know what I mean? So why the big, high nose all at once?"
A bell clanged and the crash and roar of students dashing about echoed through the halls. Don shrugged carelessly.
"Oh, I don't know. Can't even explain it to myself. Maybe I just don't like people pushing other people around. Maybe I don't like to be threatened. Maybe I've even got bit by some of those principles Masterson's always talking about. I don't know." He turned away.
"Well, this is the end of my school day. See you."
Bordelle looked after him.
"Yeah," he said softly. "It's the end of your day all right. Better look out it doesn't turn out to be the end of all your days."
* * * * *
Don glanced down at his textbook, then looked out the window. A blanket of dark clouds obscured the sky. Light rain filtered coldly down, to diffuse the greenery of the school grounds, turning the scene outside into a textured pattern of greens, dotted here and there with a reddish blur. To the west, the mist completely hid the distant mountains.
It would be cold outside—probably down around sixteen degrees or so. It had dropped to fifteen this morning, and unless the weather cleared up, there'd be no point in going up to the hills this weekend. The Korental and his clan would be huddled in their huts, waiting for warmer weather. A wild Ghar hunt would be the last thing they'd be interested in. Besides, the Gharu would be——
He jerked his attention back to the classroom. A student was reciting.
"… And … uh, that way, everything was all mixed up with the taxes and the government couldn't get enough money. So King Weronar knew he'd have to get someone to help un … straighten the taxes out, so he … uh, well, Daniel Stern had been in the country for a couple of years, and he had … well, sort of advised. So the king——"
Don looked out the window again.
With this weather, the ranch would be quiet. Hands would be all in the bunkhouses, crowding around the stoves. Oh, well, he and Dad could fool around down in the range. Since Mom had—— He jerked his head around to face the instructor.
Mr. Barnes was looking at him.
"Um-m-m, yes. That's good, Mara," he said. "Michaels, suppose you go on from there."
Don glanced across at the student who had just finished her recitation, but she merely gave him a blankly unfriendly stare. He looked back at the instructor.
"I lost the last few sentences," he admitted. "Sorry."
Barnes smiled sardonically. "Well, there's an honest admission," he said. "What's the last you picked up?"
Don shrugged resignedly.
"The appointment of Daniel Stern as Minister of Finance," he said. "That would be in eight twelve."
"You didn't miss too much." Barnes nodded. "You just got a little ahead. Take it from there."
"After a few months, the financial affairs of the kingdom began to improve," Don commenced.
"By the middle of eight thirteen, the tax reforms were in full effect. There was strong opposition to the elimination of the old system—both from the old nobility, who had profited by it, and from some of the colonists. But an Enforcement Corps was formed to see that the new taxes were properly administered and promptly paid. And the kingdom became financially stable." He paused.
Actually, he realized with a start, it had been Stern who had founded and trained the Enforcement Corps—first to enforce the revenue taxes, and later as a sort of national police force. And it had always been Stern who had controlled the Enforcement Corps. It was almost a private army, in fact. Maybe Pete—— He continued his recitation.
"Then Prime Minister Delon died rather … rather suddenly, and the king appointed Mr. Stern to the vacancy. And when King Weronar himself died a little more than four years ago, Prime Minister Stern was acclaimed as prince regent." Don paused thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Delon's death had been sudden—and a little suspicious. But no one had questioned Stern or any of his people about it. And the death of the king and queen themselves—now there was…. Again, he got back to his recitation.
"There was opposition to Mr. Stern's confirmation as Regent, of course, since he was a galactic and not native to the planet. But he was the prime minister, and therefore the logical person to take the reins." He frowned.
"The claims to the throne were—and still are—pretty muddled. No one of the claimants supported by the major tribes is clearly first in line for the throne, and no compromise has been reached." The frown deepened.
"Traditionally," he went on, "the Star Throne should never be vacant for more than five years. So we can expect to see a full conclave of the tribes within a few months, to choose among the claimants and select one to be either head of the clan Onar, or the founder of a new royal line."
Barnes nodded. "Yes, that's fairly clear. But we must remember, of course, that the tradition you mention is no truly binding law or custom. It's merely a superstitious belief, held to by some of the older people, and based on … well——" He smiled faintly.
"Actually, under the present circumstances, with no claimant clearly in line, and with the heraldic branch still sifting records, it is far more practical and sensible to recognize the need for a continued regency." He took a step back and propped himself against his desk.
"In any event, most of the claimants of record are too young for independent rule, so the regency will be forced to carry on for some time."
He looked for a fleeting instant at the inconspicuous monitor speaker on the wall.
"As matters stand now, the tribes might find it impossible to decide on any of the claimants. A
s you said, there is no truly clear line. King Weronar died childless, you remember, and his queen didn't designate a foster son." He shrugged.
"Well, we shall see," he added. "Now, suppose we go back a little, Michaels. You said there was some opposition from the colonists to the tax reforms of eight twelve. Can you go a little more into detail on that?"
Don touched his face. He'd been afraid of that. Somehow, neither the book nor the lectures really jibed with some of the things he'd heard his father talk about. Something about the whole situation just didn't make full sense. He shrugged mentally. Well….
The door opened and a student runner came into the room. Don watched him walk up to Mr. Barnes with some relief. Maybe, after the interruption, someone else would be picked to carry on.
The youngster came to the desk and handed a slip to the instructor, who read it, then looked up.
"Michaels," he said, "you seem to have some business at the self-government office. You may be excused to take care of it."
* * * * *
Al Wells looked up as Don entered the office.
"What's the—— Oh, Michaels. Got some questions for you on that row you stopped in the locker room yesterday."
"Oh? I thought my write-up was pretty clear. What's up?"
The self-government chairman leaned back.
"You said this Gerry Kelton banged into this kid, Waern, started pushing him around, and struck him once. That right?"
Don nodded. "That's about what happened, yes."
"And there was no provocation?"
"None that I saw."
"And you saw the whole affair?"
"Everything that happened in the locker room. Yes."
"Uh huh. And you said that two guys, Walt Kelton and Maurie VanSickle, pinned this kid's arms while Gerry started to slug him. That it?"
Don smiled. "He only got in one slap before I mixed in," he said. "Had his fist all cocked for more, though."
Wells nodded, looking curiously at Don.
"But they quit and turned the kid loose when you told them to?"
"That's right."
"Didn't give you any trouble?"
[Illustration]
"No." Don shook his head. "Just some talk. Gave their names and class numbers. Oh, yeah, they squawked a little, sure. Then they took off for class."
Wells looked at Michaels appraisingly.
"Know anything about this Gerry Kelton?"
Don shook his head. "Heard a rumor or so last night," he admitted. "Never heard of him before then."
Wells laughed shortly. "We have. He's only got one year in this school, but we've had him in here several times. Know him pretty well by now. He got set back quite a bit in Primary, so he's some older than most of the Lower School bunch." He waved a hand.
"Oh, he's a brawler. We know that. But he doesn't start fights. He finishes them."
"He started this one."
"That right? And he quit when you told him to?"
"He did."
"Oh, no. That's not the Kelton. Last guy tried to stop him was out of classes for three days. Took five guys to bring Kelton in here." Wells shook his head.
"Look, we got him in here and he told us his story. The other two came up with the same thing later. Makes sense, too—if you know Kelton. It seems he and his brother ran into this kid, Waern, outside the auditorium right after Aud Call. They were talking about the newscast. And this kid came up and started an argument. Tried to slap Walt. They pushed him off and went on their way. VanSickle went with them. He'd been in the crowd." Wells leaned forward.
"Got four witnesses to that, too, beside the three of them."
Don moved his head indifferently. "I wouldn't know about that. I wasn't there. All I know is what I saw in the locker room."
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Then, they say they went on down to the locker room, after talking to some other students. When they got there, the Waern kid came flying at them again. Tried to bite and kick. They say you helped Maurie pull him off Gerry, and told 'em you'd take it from there. So they went on to class. They can't figure out where you got the idea of writing them up over it. Didn't know they'd been written up till we sent some guys up and pulled them out of their classes." Wells flipped his hands out, palms upward.
"So there's their story. How about it?"
Don shook his head. "Pretty well worked out. Fits the situation, too. Only one trouble. There's almost no truth in it. Pete Waern made no effort to hit any of those three while I was watching. And I didn't touch any of the four myself."
Wells laughed shortly. "That's what you're telling me. I've got a batch of statements telling the other story."
Don looked at the other for a moment. "Now wait a minute," he said slowly. "Are you trying to tell me what I saw and did?"
Wells shook his head. "Just trying to fill you in. This isn't my problem any more. Dr. Rayson's picked it up. Wants to see you. He's got Mr. Masterson with him and they're waiting for you to show up so they can talk things over with you." He tilted his head.
"I don't know. I've heard about some funny things these Khlorisanu can pull off if they can get a guy's attention for a while. And that kid's the real thing—from way back. Better think things over a little, maybe. See if you can remember any dizzy spells or anything."
"Oh, now check your synchs, Wells." Don waggled his head disgustedly. "I've heard those yarns too—down here. Look. All my life, I've been living on a ranch out in the mountains. Got Khlorisanu all over the place. They work for us up there." He grinned.
"Isn't a thing they can do that you and I can't do, too. They've got no special powers, believe me. I know."
"You'd find it pretty hard to tell that one to Doc Rayson and make it stick," Wells told him. "And he's the guy you've got to talk to." He reached into a basket on his desk and took out a stack of papers.
"Look, I've told you more'n I was supposed to all ready. Suppose you go over and talk to them for a while. They're waiting for you over in room Five."
Don looked at him for a moment, then went out.
* * * * *
He swung about and examined the closed door thoughtfully, then massaged the back of his neck.
"What's wrong with these people?" he asked himself. "Don't they know how to break down a rigged story? Or can't they recognize one when they hear it?"
He crossed the hall.
"I'm Donald Michaels," he told the secretary. "I believe Dr. Rayson wants to see me."
The woman looked at him curiously.
"Oh, yes," she said. "Just a minute."
She got up and went into an inner room. After a moment, she came out and reclaimed her seat behind her desk.
"He's busy right now," she said. "I'll let you know when you can go in."
Don shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs that lined the wall. It wasn't a very comfortable chair.
"The anxious seat," he growled to himself. "Nice, time-tested trick."
There was no reading material at hand, and the walls of the oddly shaped room were blank. He amused himself by directing a blank stare toward the secretary. After a few minutes, she looked up from her work and jerked her head indignantly.
"Stop that," she ordered.
"Stop what?" Don looked innocent.
"Stop staring at me like that."
"Not staring at you," he told her. "I have to look somewhere and the chair faces your way. That's all."
The woman moved her hands. "Well, then face some other way."
"But I'd have to move the chair, and that would disturb your arrangements," Don told her reasonably. He continued his blank stare.
The woman resumed her work, then twitched her shoulders and looked at him resentfully for a few seconds. Finally, she got up and went to the inner office again. Don waited.
Again, she came out.
"They'll see you now," she said.
Don got up.
"Thank you."
He went through the door.
To his right, a man sat b
ehind a wide, highly polished desk. The other was across the room, at a smaller desk. Both looked up as the door opened.
The man to Don's right nodded pleasantly.
"Well, so you're Donald Michaels? I'm Dr. Rayson."
"Yes, sir."
"That's good. Sit down." Rayson waved. "Right over there." He smiled confidently.
"Ah, that's fine. I'm the school psychologist, you know. You have met Mr. Masterson, the self-government faculty advisor, of course?"
Don nodded. "Of course. I'm in one of his classes."
"Well, that's good. Now, how do you feel this morning?"
"Quite well, thank you, sir."
"Well, then, we can talk about that little affair in the locker room, can't we? Your memory is clear on it by now, isn't it?"
Don nodded.
"Well, that's fine. Now, suppose you give us the whole story. Don't leave out a thing. Then, we'll see what we can do for you."
Don smiled thinly, then flicked out a finger.
"I think that paper on your desk, sir, is the report I wrote last night. It's complete as it stands."
* * * * *
Masterson broke in, frowning. "We don't mean that thing," he said coldly. "What we want is a true, complete account of what actually happened."
Don faced him, his face tightening a little.
"Dr. Rayson has just that, sir," he said. "On his desk. I wrote it. I signed it."
Rayson raised a hand slightly.
"Just a moment," he said reprovingly. "There's no need for excitement or anger here. We're simply looking for a full, correct account." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be well for me to make things clearer to you. Then, you'll recognize the problem." He looked down at the paper on the desk.
"You see, Donald," he continued, "we have already talked to a number of other students about this. And we have a complete account of the incident in so far as it concerned Petoen Waern." He smiled indulgently.
"What we are now concerned about is your own well-being. We need to know something of what happened to you after you were alone with the Waern boy." He spread his hands, then held them out, palms up.
"As to the actual physical action, that's quite simple. You see, there were a number of witnesses to the affair, and most of them have come forward." He rubbed his hands together, then laid them on the desk.
