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to the photo, but even in the flaccid repose of demideath, Orne's unguent-
smeared body radiated a bizarre aura.
Whenever he moved close to the pod, Stetson sensed power within it and cursed
himself for going soft and metaphysical. He had no theory system to explain
the feeling, thus dismissed it with a notation in his mind to consult the Psi
Branch of the I-A just in case. Likely nothing in it . . . but just in case.
There'd be a Psi officer at the medical center.
A crew from the medical center took delivery on the crechepod and Orne as soon
as they got port clearance.
Stetson, moving in his own shock and grief, resented the way the medical crew
worked with such casual and cold efficiency. They obviously accepted the
patient more as a curiosity than anything else. The crew chief, signing the
manifest, noted that Orne had lost one eye, all the hair on that side of his
head -- the left side as noted in the pod manifest -- had suffered complete
loss of lung function, kidney function, five inches of the right femur, three
fingers of "the left hand, about one hundred square centimeters of skin on
back and thigh, the entire left kneecap and a section of jawbone and teeth on
the left side.
The pod instruments showed that Orne had been in terminal shock for a bit over
one hundred and ninety elapsed hours.
"Why'd you bother with the pod?" a medic asked.
"Because he's alive!"
The medic pointed to an indicator on the pod. "This patient's vital tone is
too low to permit operative replacement of damaged organs or the energy drain
for regrowth. He'll live for a while because of the pod, but . . ." And the
medic shrugged.
"But he is alive," Stetson insisted.
"And we can always pray for a miracle," the medic said.
Stetson glared at the man, wondering if that had been a sneering remark, but
the medic was staring into the pod through the tiny observation port.
The medic straightened presently, shook his head. "We'll do what we can, of
course," he said.
They shifted the pod to a hospital flitter then and skimmed off toward one of
the gray monoliths which ringed the field.
Stetson returned to his cruiser's office, an added droop to his shoulders that
accentuated his usual slouching stance. His overlarge features were drawn
into ridges of sorrow. He slumped into his desk chair, looked out the open
port beside him. Some four hundred meters below, the scurrying beetlelike
activity of the main port sent up discordant roarings and clatterings. Two
rows of other scout cruisers stood in lines just outside the medical receiving
area -- gleaming red and black needles. Part of the buzzing activity down
there would be ground control getting ready to shift his cruiser into that
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waiting array of ships.
How many of them stopped first in this area to offload casualties? Stetson
wondered.
It bothered him that he didn't possess this information. He stared at the
other ships without really seeing them, seeing only the dangling flesh, the
red gaps in Orne's body as it had been when they'd transferred him from
Sheleb's battered soil to the crechepod.
He thought: It always happens on some routine assignment. We had nothing but
a casual suspicion about Sheleb -- the fact that only women held high office.
A simple, unexplained fact and I lose one of my best agents.
He sighed, turned to his desk and began composing the report:
"The militant core on the Planet Sheleb has been eliminated. (Bloody mess,
that!) Occupation force on the ground. (Orne's right about occupation forces:
For every good they do, they create an evil!) No further danger to Galactic
peace expected from this source. (What can a shattered and demoralized
population do?)
"Reason for Operation: (bloody stupidity!) R&R -- after two months of contact
with Sheleb -- failed to detect signs of militancy.
"Major indicators: (the whole damn spectrum!)
"1.) A ruling caste restricted to women.
"2.) Disparity between numbers and activities of males and females far beyond
the Lutig norm!
"3.) The full secrecy/hierarchy/control/security syndrome.
"Senior Field Agent Lewis Orne found that the ruling caste was controlling the
sex of offspring at conception (see details attached) and had raised a male
slave army to maintain its rule. The R&R agent had been drained of
information, replaced with a double and killed. Arms constructed on the basis
of that treachery caused critical injuries to Senior Field Agent Orne. He is
not expected to survive. I am hereby recommending that Orne receive the
Galaxy Medal and that his name be added to the Roll of Honor."
Stetson pushed the report aside. That was enough for ComGo. The commander of
galactic operations never went beyond the raw details. The fine print would
be for his aides to digest and that could come later. Stetson punched his
call box for Orne's service record, set himself to the task he most detested:
notifying next of kin. He studied the record, pursing his lips.
"Home Planet: Chargon. Notify in case of accident or death: Mrs. Victoria
Orne, mother."
He scanned through the record, reluctant to send the hated message. Orne had
enlisted in the Federation Marines at age seventeen standard (a runaway from
home) and his mother had given postenlistment consent. Two years later:
scholarship transfer to Uni-Galacta, the R&R school here on Marak. Five years
of school, one R&R field assignment under his belt, and he had been drafted
into the I-A for brilliant detection of militancy on Hamal. Two years later -
- a crechepod!
Abruptly, Stetson hurled the service record at the gray metal wall across from
him; then he got up brought the record back to his desk. There were tears in
his eyes. He flipped the proper communications switch, dictated the
notification to Central Secretarial, ordered it transmitted Priority One. He
went groundside then and got drunk on Hochar brandy, Orne's favorite drink.
The next morning there was a reply from Chargon: "Lewis Orne's mother too ill
to be notified or to travel. Sisters being notified. Please ask Mrs. Ipscott
Bullone of Marak, wife of the High Commissioner, to take over for family." It
was signed: "Madrena Orne Standish, sister."
With some misgivings. Stetson called the Residency for Ipscott Bullone,
leader of the majority party in the Federation Assembly. Mrs. Bullone took
the call with blank screen. There was a sound of running water in the
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background.
Stetson stared into the grayness swimming in his desk screen. He always
disliked blank screens. His head ached from the Hochar brandy and his stomach
kept insisting this was an idiot call. There had to be a mistake.
A baritone husk of a voice came from the speaker beside the screen: "This is
Polly Bullone."
Telling his stomach to shut up, Stetson introduced himself, relayed the
Chargon message.
"Victoria's boy dying? Here? Oh, the poor thing! And Madrena's back on
Chargon -- the election. Oh, yes, of course, I'll get right over to the
hospital."
Stetson signed off with thanks, broke the contact. He leaned back in his
chair, puzzled. The High Commissioner's wife! He felt stunned. Something
didn't track here. He recalled it then: The First-Contact! Hamal! A
blunderbrain named Andre Bullone!
Using his scrambler, Stetson called for the follow-up report on Hamal, found
that Andre Bullone was a nephew of the High Commissioner. Nepotism began on
high, obviously. But there was no apparent influence in Orne's case. A
runaway in his teens. Brilliant. Self-motivated. Orne had denied any
knowledge of a connection between Andre Bullone and the High Commissioner.
He was telling the truth, Stetson thought. Orne didn't know about this family
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