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Chapter Five

Three months later, Sath laid a fresh set of reports on Demaris' desk. "Here we are, Koil. Top sheet's the summary." He dropped down on the bench beside the desk and wearily dug a flask out of his belt. "Have some?" he offered, holding up the flask.

Demaris twitched an ear negatively, and took his own brand out of a drawer. "Can't stand that gunk you use." He tilted the flask and touched his tongue to the mild stimulant. Recapping the flask, he yawned broadly. He looked at the report in disgust.

"Same thing?"

Sath nodded. "Yep. In the past fifteen days, our demolitions teams have immobilized such-and-such a tonnage of Geneiid naval vessels. Our infiltrators have immobilized this-and-that additional tonnage by misrouting supplies, disrupting communications, altering fleet orders, et cetera. We can truthfully report that our organization has been doing an excellent job, and that we are performing far above the expectations set down by Staff."

Demaris grimaced. "And how far behind schedule is the push against Farla?"

Sath coughed. "Well, if you plotted the curve of Staff's failure against our curve of success, they'd be almost superimposed."

Demaris shook his head. "Still the same trouble?"

"Yep. Seems like Genis has just as good an intelligence service as we do. Tit for tat, right down the line."

Demaris clicked his fingertips against the surface of his desk. The situation stank. For every boat that shipped a team of saboteurs into Genis, a Geneiid boat dropped its cargo down on Marak's planets. Like two giants stabbing pins through each other's ganglia, Marak and Genis were immobilizing each other.

War in space—war in terms of planetary englobements, massive landings, and blockades—was impossible. The problem of supply and reinforcement became insurmountable over interstellar distances. As the attacker's supply lines lengthened, the defender's shortened, until eventually the attrition on the attacker became too great. You could only stage a mass attack on a hopelessly weak foe—such as Farla. Otherwise, it was your infiltrators and demolitions men, crippling your enemy at home, who first had to weaken him. And if your sabotage was balanced by equally effective enemy action, then both of you slowly bled away, matching each other corpuscle for corpuscle, neither ever gaining a relative upper hand.

Demaris wondered how long this could keep up. Agency men weren't supermen. Man for man, there was no reason why they should be any better than their opposite numbers. The Agency's selling point was the right man in the right place, at the right time.

Well, so far he was holding his own. But how much longer would the Overchief be satisfied with that?

Demaris grinned to himself, at himself. Face it. What galled him most was his inability to beat his Geneiid adversary. The Agency and its considerations were secondary.

"So, anyway—" Sath was saying, "I just got a call from the Overchief. He wants to see us."

Demaris inhaled slowly.

 

The Overchief was showing the strain. Farla should have been penetrated and taken by now. Instead, the Marakian fleet lay hamstrung in its berths. That the Geneiids were racked by the same frustration was of little comfort to him.

He waved them to benches with a nervous gesture of his arm. Demaris sat down carefully. For the first time since he'd landed on Marak, he became consciously aware of the weapon buried in his chest. Cautiously, he put a slight bit of pressure on his shoulder muscles, and held his breath. He felt the weapon's barrels slip forward. Then he relaxed. No. If this was a showdown, here, he had no right to fight for his life. The manner of an Overchief's death would be too carefully investigated. If he were caught now, in these circumstances, the weapon's other characteristic was his own only escape. He'd have to detonate its charge.

He realized his mind was making mountains out of molehills, and fought down his apprehension. The Overchief might find fault with Todren Koil, and Todren Koil would react accordingly. But the Overchief had no possible reason to think that Todren Koil had ever been a weak, pink-skinned monster whose only real weapon against the universe was the intricacy of his mind.

The Overchief looked up from his desk. "Glad to see you, Todren, Faris. You're not here for reprimand."

Demaris heard Sath's breathing deepen deside him. His own diaphragm relaxed.

"If it wasn't for you," the Overchief went on, "we'd be in much worse trouble." He got up and began to stalk back and forth. "Genis, as we've found out, just happened to produce a good intelligence man of its own. We didn't expect it—we had no reason to. They're generally no luckier with their officers than we are." He slapped a thigh with an irritated hand. "We've got to remove that officer, or those officers, though the latter possibility gives Geneiid luck altogether too much credit. I want you two to lay out an operation that will accomplish the purpose. I shouldn't even have to say that any resource, short of a fleet action, is yours to call on. All right, I want a summary of your ideas by tomorrow. Faris, I'll speak further to Tjetlyned Todren alone."

Sath inclined his head affirmatively, rose, and slipped out. Demaris looked inquiringly at the Overchief, who was standing with his back to him.

The Overchief turned around. "Todren," he said softly, "this Geneiid intelligence officer—he seems to have popped up out of the ground. We have no dossier on him. Might he be some relative of yours?"

Demaris had been expecting the question for a full minute. He looked steadily at the Overchief. "I have no relatives."

The Overchief stared back, his eyes equally unwavering. Finally, he said: "Well, that is as it may be. I suggest that you devote all possible effort to clearing up the situation."

"Yes, sir."

He slipped out of the Overchief's room and joined Sath. They walked down the hall together.

Just how far, he was wondering, did Old Man Sullivan go in his pursuit of a dollar?

 
"We fight for the Agency's money—
We draw out our pay with a smile.
For our gold, we've been told,
We should barter ourselves
In truly professional style."

 

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Framed