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Here, There Be Witches

Everett B. Cole

 

Commander Kar Walzen looked up from his desk as Hal Carlsen came in.

"I'm told you had some trouble with my Operations Officer."

Carlsen shook his head. "No real trouble, sir. He wanted to schedule us for a C.A. assignment. I explained to him that I had an assignment that would take some time. Suggested that he pick one of the regular Criminal Apprehension teams to handle it."

The Sector Criminal Apprehension Officer frowned. "You refused an assignment, then. Right?"

"No, sir. I simply explained to Captain Koren that my detachment would be tied up for a while. His assignment would be delayed if he waited for us to get back."

"That constitutes a refusal in my book. Now, let's get this clear right at the start. You and your people are not a bunch of prima donnas. You've turned in some good assignments, but you were sent to C.A. to work, not to go haring off any time you happened to feel like it. Is that clear?"

"Sir, we have a Philosophical Corps assignment. It came in through Sector this morning. According to our orders, it takes priority."

"Nonsense! You're assigned to me." Walzen exhaled loudly and regarded the junior officer angrily.

Carlsen reached into his tunic and took out a folded sheaf of papers. He pulled one off and extended it. "You should have received a copy of this, sir. I gave one to the captain."

Walzen grabbed the sheet, scanning it. Finally, he threw it down and reached for his communicator switch.

"I'll get this rescinded and set those people straight once and for all. Now you get back to Operations. Get your instructions from Captain Koren. I want to see a completed operational plan on this desk not later than tomorrow morning." He rapped at the communicator switch.

"You may go."

Carlsen hesitated for a few seconds, then went out to the outer office and sat down. The clerk looked at him curiously.

"You need something, sir?"

Carlsen shook his head. "No. The commander'll be wanting to see me in a few minutes. No point in making him wait."

The clerk looked doubtful. "Yes, sir."

Carlsen sat back and relaxed. A low murmur came from the inner office. Walzen's voice raised almost to a shout.

"I tell you, I can't perform my mission if my people are going to be constantly pulled out of service for some errand." The murmur went on. Carlsen waited.

There was a harsh, grating sound and Walzen's door slammed open. The commander strode out, glaring at his clerk.

"Get Mr. Carlsen back in here on the double."

He turned, then saw Carlsen.

"Oh. You're still here, eh? Come inside."

The commander slammed down in his chair and looked up angrily.

"Headquarters tells me that assignment of yours has priority. Now I won't go against definite orders. Never have, and never will. So you can go ahead this time. But let me tell you this: Next time you sneak over my head to the front office, I'm going to see to it that your career in the Stellar Guard is short, brutal, and nasty. Is that clear?"

Carlsen nodded, waiting.

"How long is this little junket of yours going to take?"

"It's hard to say, sir. We've got the Exploratory team's field notes, but we've no idea what sort of detailed situations we may run into."

Walzen snorted. "Bunch of amateurs! I'll give you a week. Then I'll expect you to report back for duty. And I'm going to tell you once again. Don't you ever again try going over my head so you can take one of these little vacations. Understand?"

 

Hal Carlsen looked into the viewsphere as his scouter floated toward distant foothills. He examined the valley below, occasionally changing magnification as features of interest caught his attention.

In the remote past, water running from newly formed mountains had raged across the land, cutting a path for itself as it raced toward the sea. Now, it had cut its channel, shifted course time after time, and at last had come to be a peaceful, elderly stream, meandering lazily at the center of a wide valley.

Occasional cliffs along the ancient river course marked water lines of old. But in most places, erosion had caused the cliffs to become sloping bluffs which rose to a tableland above.

Even the mountains had weathered, to become tree-clad hills, and their sediment had paved the water-carved valley. Hedgerows divided the fertile land into fields and pastures. Tall trees grew on the river bank, their roots holding the soil to inhibit the river from further changes in course. Clusters of buildings dotted the valley floor and narrow roads connected them to one another and to a main highway which roughly bisected the valley's width.

Carlsen examined a craggy cliff speculatively, then shrugged. Could have been times when the sea came up here. Might be what's left of a gulf, at that, he told himself. But right now, it's people I'm interested in, not historical geology.

A winding road led up the face of the cliff to a castle gate. Carlsen looked at it thoughtfully, then glanced at his range markers. It was just about at his own altitude and fairly close. He reached for the manual override, then shook his head. Just ahead was a large town at the head of the valley. He could look into the castle later.

Beast-drawn carts were making their jolting way along the road below and as the ship passed over one of them, Carlsen tapped the controls, slowing to the speed of the cart. He increased magnification and studied the man and his draft animal.

The driver was a youngish man, dressed in a sort of faded yellow smock and wide, short pantaloons. Thongs wrapped around his ankles supported a boardlike sole and gave his feet some protection. He was obviously humanoid and Carlsen could see no significant difference between him and the basic homo sapiens type. He nodded.

Just about have to be, he told himself. It's a geomorphic planet. Who else would you expect to find? He turned his attention to the draft beast.

The creature was a slate gray. Carlsen estimated its mass at nearly a thousand kilograms. The body was relatively short and fat, supported on blocky legs. The neck was long, the muzzle shovel-like. Carlsen tilted his head. Might be a herbivorous reptile? He increased magnification, then shook his head. No, there was scanty, coarse body hair. Lines ran from the cart to a system of straps at the animal's shoulders. The beast plodded gracelessly, occasionally stretching its long neck aside to tear a bit of herbage from the growth at the roadside.

 

Carlsen turned his attention back to the driver, then reached out and focused his psionic amplifier. For a few seconds, he sat in concentration, then he abruptly snapped a switch.

Gloch! None of my business. That's no kind of research.

The driver moved uneasily, then looked upward. He searched the sky then shook his head uncertainly and returned his attention to his beast and the rutted road before him.

Carlsen's hand darted out, bringing the ship down until it hovered close over the cart.

Interesting, he murmured. This guy knows there's something up here. He glanced at a cluster of meters and shook his head.

No trace of radiation shield leakage and at this speed there's not a chance of concussion. He examined the man curiously. He's got to be a sensitive, he decided. I think I'll just record this guy for a while.

Again, the driver squirmed uneasily and looked up and behind him. For a moment, he faced directly at Carlsen, who flipped a casual salute.

Hi, chum, he laughed. If you can see anything here, you've got something new in the way of eyesight. But how about looking the other way for a while? I don't want you to get curious about insects that pop out of nowhere. And I don't want to use a full shielded spyeye. Haven't got an oversupply of those. His hand poised over a switch.

The driver shook his head again, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and finally faced forward, muttering to himself.

Carlsen flicked up the psionic amplification.

Wysrin Kanlor, the man was saying, you're as crazy as that Mord claims. There's got to be something up there. Something big. But all I can see is sky.

Carlsen took his hand from the switch and looked thoughtfully at the man. At last, he opened a wall cabinet, took out a stubby cylinder, and opened its access port. For a few minutes, he busied himself in making adjustments, then he snapped the port shut. The cylinder faded from view, and he opened a drawer under the console and shoved the invisible object inside. He swung around and watched a small viewscreen as the instrument approached, hovered before the driver, then focused.

Locked on, Carlsen said. I'd say it's worth it. If I don't get anything else, I'll get a good line on language and dialect from the way he talks to himself. He lifted ship, pointed its nose toward the town, and switched to the auto pilot.

For a while, he studied the details of narrow, winding streets as the ship slowly circled. Then he eased down over the central plaza and set the auto pilot to hold position.

At one side of the open space, a blackened area surrounded a thick, charred post. Several short lengths of chain, terminated by heavy cuffs, dangled from ringbolts. Nearby, a cart bearing a new post had pulled up and men were unloading tools. Carlsen frowned.

Now just what have we here? he muttered. He snapped on the psionics and focused on one of the workmen.

For an instant, there was a picture of flames rising about the post. A human figure twisted and moved frantically. There was a mixed sense of vicious pleasure, deep guilt, and suppressed skepticism. Then the man's thoughts became crisply businesslike. Vocalized thought came through clearly.

"All right, you two," he ordered. "Let's be at it. This stick's got to be set sometime today. Man says they're going to be needing it."

The workers went about their duties mechanically, paying no attention to their surroundings and showing no suspicion of awareness of the watcher above them. Carlsen frowned in distaste.

Public executions, he decided. Pretty savage about it, too. He examined the buildings surrounding the plaza, then flicked at a series of switches. A swarm of beetlelike objects appeared, then swung about the plaza, dispersed, and disappeared through openings in the various buildings. Carlsen rotated a selector, examining the viewsphere. Finally, he stopped to study an interior view. The telltale was high on the wall.

The high-ceilinged room was almost square. Rough stone walls were partly hidden by draperies. Overhead, rough rafters formed a grid in the plaster of the ceiling. At one end of the room, on a raised part of the stone flooring, a group of men sat behind a heavy table. Carlsen looked at them curiously.

Two were enveloped in drab, gray robes whose texture belied their apparent austerity. Both wore ornate rings and one had a heavily jeweled amulet.

Bet there's some mighty nice tailoring under those robes, Carlsen told himself. He looked at the other three men.

They were richly dressed, their clothing bearing small resemblance in either cut or material to the coarse cloth worn by the farmer and the workmen. They were leaning forward, listening attentively to the robed man with the jeweled amulet.

The telltale was too small to handle psionic overtones. For a time, Carlsen listened to the man's harangue, then he turned and got out another stubby cylinder.

I need to know what this fellow's thinking about, he told himself. What he's saying may make sense to those people, but it's so far from reality, I can't get much out of it.

He locked the spyeye to the telltale, launched it, and waited till it was in position. The beetle was clinging to a fold in one of the drapes.

Better anchor this thing to the ceiling, I'd say. No one'll stumble over it there. He snapped switches and sat watching the presentation.

"I get it," he finally said aloud, "but I don't get the sense. Demons! Sorcery, yet! And this bum's actually more than half convincing these guys, even though he doesn't really believe much of it himself." He leaned back.

"Well, maybe I'll get something to collate with this from the rest of the team."

 

He grabbed a lever switch and held it back.

"Cisner?"

"Here, Chief." A tanned face appeared in one of the screens.

"Got anything yet?"

"Yes, sir. I've bugged a sort of palace down this way. Got a spyeye or two around town, too." The man shrugged. "Chief, some of these people are nothing but psycho. And the local archduke is the worst of the bunch. He's been so badly suckered, he eats . . . Chief, you'll have to see the whole run to believe it."

Carlsen nodded. "I think I know what you mean. Demons. Sorcery. Witches who prey on their neighbors?"

"That's it, sir. Couple of these vultures don't believe the guff they're selling, but a couple more do. They're all pushing it, though. People? Some of 'em swallow it whole, some of 'em aren't so sure and a few of them think it's a bunch of bunk. But no one's got the nerve to ask foolish questions."

"Well, get full coverage. I think we'll have to do something about this. Out." Carlsen hesitated, then pushed the switch again.

"Waler?"

Another face appeared.

"I've caught a kind of university, Chief. Lecturer was giving them the lowdown on demonology." Waler grinned lopsidedly. "This guy's really sold. He's even had wild dreams of his own. He's got some sort of intestinal parasite. Pretty toxic and he's subject to delirious nightmares." He frowned.

"He's a good talker, but some of his students still aren't sure. They're just wondering how they can learn all the patter and get by their examinations."

"Oh, me! Every culture needs leaders like that! Any of them psionically sensitive?"

"Yeah. Several of'em. They're the skeptics."

"Makes sense. Look, Waler, see if you can get spyeyes in some of the other lecture rooms. Try to psi bug a few student hangouts, too."

"Will do, sir. Oh, they don't have lecture rooms. These profs do their teaching at their homes, most of them. Few use rooms in some tavern."

"So bug their homes and the taverns. Got enough eyes?"

"Couple dozen."

"Should do it. Incidentally, I've picked up some of that same stuff here in Varsana. There's a theocratic Chief Examiner named pen Qatorn. He hasn't been here too long, but he's got the locals scared to death and he's holding trials. Well, we'll see what else we get. Then we can figure out what we have to do, if anything. Out."

 

Wysrin Kanlor abruptly reined up his mount and sat staring at a patch of wide leaves, sickly yellow against the deep green of the field.

Lizard weed, he growled. I knew I should have checked up here before. He looked at the patch, estimating its size, then headed his beast back to the barn.

It'll take a while to burn that patch out, he mused. It'll be no town fair for me today, or maybe tomorrow, either. He gathered tools, hitched the garn to a water wagon, and drove back.

The weeds burned furiously at first, then became a mass of smoldering embers. A thick, yellow column of smoke rose into the still air, spread, then drifted lazily away. Kanlor leaned on his shovel, watching. There had been a few bad moments when the drenching he had given the grass had failed and the blaze had threatened to leap out into the pasture, but fast work with the shovel had prevented disaster. Fortunately, the weeds hadn't reached maturity, so no flaming seeds had sprung out. And he'd seen no trace of the vicious yarlnu lizards. He looked back at his herd, which had drifted away from the blaze.

Well, none of them are on the ground. I guess the patch wasn't ripe enough for 'em to try eating it. He moved his shoulders uneasily, then waved a hand by his face. For a few days past, something had been nearby—something that kept watching him closely. But he had never been able to see— He looked about, then up into the clear sky. There was nothing. He shrugged, then looked across the fields at another column of smoke. Black mixed with the yellow.

Delon Mord's place. Looks as though he had to burn, too. He studied the smoke column critically. It's spread and he's got a grass fire. He looked at the glowing embers behind him, then busied himself in putting them out.

Finally, he drove the water wagon away from a black mass of mud and lifted his saddle from it.

It would be well to ride over and see if Mord needed help. In this dry season, a grass fire out of control could spread and destroy several farms. He saddled the garn and swung up. In fact, given a wind, the whole plateau could become a sea of flame.

By the time Kanlor got to Mord's property, several other farmers had arrived. The fire was blazing across a pasture and flames were licking at the trees on a hedgerow. Men were filling buckets and passing them to wet down the foliage. A few men were hurriedly throwing dirt on advancing flames. Kanlor grabbed his shovel from a saddlebag and joined them.

Delon Mord had been rushing about, shouting directions at the fire fighters. He dashed up to Kanlor and seized his arm.

"Never mind that," he shouted. "There's plenty of men here. Go over and help those fellows on the buckets. Those are valuable trees."

Kanlor shrugged him off. "Why don't you help them, then? An overseer's just what we don't need right now. It's your fire, so why not help put it out?"

Mord backed away. "Gotta be somebody takes charge."

Kanlor threw another shovelful on the flames before him. "Well, take charge somewhere else and quit pestering me. I'm busy."

Mord looked angrily at him, started to speak, then dashed away to scream advice at the bucket brigade.

 

At last, the fire was contained and burned itself out. A pasture had been burned out completely and most of an adjoining field was a waste of smoking ash, but the danger of widespread fire was over. Men put away their tools and gathered in groups. One bent down to crumble soil between his fingers.

"Dry," he commented. "All the farms are drying out this season. Else we get some rain, we'll have thin crops this year. And I hate to think of burning out any more weed patches." He looked at Kanlor. "You don't seem to be having any trouble, though. Your place is green as in a good year."

Kanlor nodded. "It's those wells of mine," he said. "I run water on my fields when the rains fail."

The other shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Nice for you, but who else has all that water to spare?"

"You could dig more wells."

"Oh, to be sure. I've nothing but time. And who's to do my regular farm work while I spend my days heaving dirt?"

"My father and I did it," Kanlor said quietly, "several years ago."

"Yeah." The man turned away. "That was several years back. It's right now I've a family to feed." He kicked at the ground. "Besides, how am I to know I'll have your luck and hit water every time I dig?"

Kanlor watched the man walk away. We didn't, he remembered. There're quite a few dry holes we filled in. And it's precious little time we spent in the village, too. He walked toward his garn, then turned as he heard Mord's loud voice.

"It's just not fair," the man was saying. "I come out to the pasture day after day and there's nothing amiss. Then this morning, there's this big weed patch. Bunch of lizards in it, too." He waved an arm. "Look, bull's dead of a lizard bite. Two cows all bloated up from eating the filthy leaves, I'll probably lose them, too. And then this fire runs wild. How's a man to . . ."

Kanlor turned away and climbed into his saddle. He looked back at the group wearily. It took time, he knew, for lizard weed to grow. And it took more time for the poisonous yarlnu to find a patch and nest in it. He looked back at the scanty stand of grain in what was left of Mord's field. The man's voice carried to him.

"I tell you, it's black sorcery. Witchcraft, that's what it is—a spell on this land of mine."

Kanlor rapped his heels into the garn's side. Of course, he said to himself. Sorcery! Evil spells! This past year, there's more and more talk of it. No man really believes the tales till he needs an alibi. When a man lets his fields go, spends his time chasing about the village, goes to every fair down at Varsana, then it's a black spell that causes his farm to go down. He turned his face toward his own holdings.

 

Moren pen Qatorn, Chief Examiner for the Duchy of Varsan, leaned forward and cupped his chin in his hands.

"And you say this man has cast repeated spells in your neighborhood?"

Delon Mord looked up at him eagerly. "Yes, my lord. Why only a few days ago, he caused a large patch of lizard weed to grow in my pasture overnight. And somehow, by a black spell, he brought yarlnu lizards to infest it." He drew his mouth into a downward curve and spread his hands.

"My cattle were poisoned and one bitten. They died, to my great loss."

"And you say it was this"—pen Qatorn glanced at his secretary's notes—"Wysrin Kanlor who caused this misfortune to you?"

Mord nodded eagerly. "Oh, to be sure, sir. Soon after I started burning the patch off, Kanlor made as if to burn weed on his own property. It was right after that when my fire blazed up and fired the whole field." He peered at the Examiner cunningly.

"They say this is the way the sorcerers work. They take something like that which they would destroy, and—"

Pen Qatorn sighed impatiently. "Yes, yes. We are quite familiar with the workings of black magic. We know about these hopelessly damned sorcerers, and with the demons who are their masters." He looked down sternly.

"This, then, is your story? To be sure, you weren't a bit remiss in the husbandry of your fields? Perhaps you could have been a bit careless in guarding that your flames should not spread?"

"Oh no, sir!" Mord shook his head. "I am careful to look over my fields daily, and to do that which is needful. There was no weed before that morning."

"I see." Pen Qatorn smiled sardonically. "And this, of course, is the only proof you have to show Kanlor's sorcery?"

"Oh no, sir. There is yet more. All this year, my fields and my neighbors' fields have been dry and the crops scant. Only Kanlor's fields remain rich on the whole plateau. His crops are good and his cattle fat. Thus, he will command a high price for his produce while the rest of us grow poor."

"Ah, yes. This may well merit investigation. And you, I believe, are asking just compensation for these losses you claim were caused by the man's sorcery?"

"Yes, my lord." Mord nodded eagerly. "These spells I tell you of have caused me grievous loss."

"I understand. Well, we shall see." Pen Qatorn raised his head and nodded portentiously. "You may go for now. Perhaps we may call upon you later for further evidence." He waved a hand in dismissal, then turned to his secretary.

"What about this man Kanlor?" he asked in a low voice. "Have you anything on him?"

The secretary nodded. "Information is at hand, my lord. Our original survey showed this might be a man to look up." He smiled and flipped a paper from the stack before him.

"Kanlor has five fields and a pasture, not far from the duke's High Keep. His crops have been good for several seasons back. Man's unmarried and lives alone." The man paused, examining the sheet.

"The duke would pay well for those fields, sir. Kanlor has good wells on them—the only really good wells for several farms around. Oh, yes, there's another thing. He's literate. Dropped from the university when his parents died."

"I see. A fit subject for investigation, then. Tell me, is the man well liked in his village?"

The secretary shook his head. "He lives on his farm. Most of his neighbors seem to be a bit envious of him. No one but this Mord has actually made any accusation, but it's obvious that few tears would be shed if misfortune overtook Kanlor."

"Interesting. And what about Mord?"

"Slovenly farmer, sir. Neglects his fields, though he does manage to scratch out a living and pay his bills. Frequents the tavern and spends a lot of time at the fairs. He lives in the village."

"Married?"

The secretary tilted his head. "Yes, and he has a pair of scrawny children as well. But the man has a certain popularity. He's no brawler and he has a ready wit. The villagers are tolerant of him and the tavern crowd follows his lead."

The Chief Examiner got to his feet. "I find that this information against the man Kanlor has merit," he said loudly. "We shall pursue an inquiry and bring him before this tribunal shortly." He looked at the local judges, who had moved a bit apart.

"Subject, of course, to any comments you gentlemen might have," he added.

The three men looked uneasily at each other, then turned to face the Chief Examiner.

"We are of the same opinion as your lordship," one said.

Pen Qatorn nodded curtly. "Very well, gentlemen, we shall meet tomorrow after lunch to consider any further information that may come to light. We may, perhaps, question the man Kanlor at that time." He threw a stern glance at the guardsmen who flanked the judicial table.

"Surely, we shall question the man no later than the second day." He rose and strode from the room.

 

The secretary followed pen Qatorn to a small room, then closed the door and turned to his chief.

"How about this Mord?" he asked. "He's asking compensation."

Pen Qatorn smiled. "And for a long list of claims, I have no doubt. Oh, I think we can allow him a bit for his losses," he decided. "And you might do a little inquiring as to the value of his holdings." He pursed his lips.

"You know, it's a serious crime to make false claim. Too, this informant has been associated with the suspect Kanlor for some time and he shows a certain knowledge of magic himself. It might be well to inquire closely into his activities."

The secretary nodded, then backed away and went through the door. Outside, he shook his head, smiling.

Old fox, he said to himself. He never misses a thing. Going or coming, he's got them. He fingered one of his gold rings as he went through an archway, to pace across a small courtyard.

An inconspicuous brown beetle had been perched on a curtain. It flew silently to him and concealed itself in a fold of his clothing.

 

For a time, he was no more than a free mind, floating in a shapeless void with neither identity nor feeling. Then there was pain. At first, a tiny, hesitant ache insinuated itself. Then it grew to become a throbbing flood of agony. He tried to move a hand, but something held it behind him and the effort made the blinding throb become more acute. He breathed deeply and red flames stabbed at chest and side.

A flood of evil-smelling water poured over him and he jerked his head back. His eyes opened. Now, he remembered. He was Wysrin Kanlor. He had been in a field when guardsmen had come for him, and dragged him from his garn. He could remember no words, but there had been kicks and blows, then nothingness.

Dazedly, he looked about at vaguely seen rafters, then at a huge, fat man who towered over him and finally reached down to drag him to his feet.

"Come along, witch," the man ordered. "The Examiner, pen Qatorn, would have words with you." He jerked on a chain and Kanlor's head throbbed as a leash pulled at his neck. He stumbled after his captor.

They went through an arch, then turned. Kanlor's eyesight was clearing and he could see men in somber robes who sat at a table above him. The man in the middle spoke.

"Your name is Wysrin Kanlor. Is this true?"

"Yes. But why—"

"Silence! I shall ask the questions. You have but to answer—and truthfully."

The big man slashed the back of his hand across Kanlor's face.

"And address the Examiner as 'his lordship,' " he ordered.

Kanlor swayed dizzily, then recovered his balance.

The Examiner continued. "And for how long have you been delving into black sorcery?"

Kanlor's eyes widened. "But I—"

Again the hard hand slammed at his face.

"Answer. Don't try to evade his lordship's questions."

"I ask you again, Wysrin Kanlor," the Examiner said sternly, "how long have you been a witch?"

"Your lordship, I have never been a witch."

The Examiner frowned. "The man is reluctant," he commented. "He answers, but his answers mean nothing. He has yet to learn the value of truth. Sir Executioner, perhaps you might instruct him?"

The large man nodded. "Thumbscrews," he ordered.

There was a movement behind Kanlor, then he felt something being clamped to his right thumb. Pressure was swiftly exerted and raging pain shot up his arm. He barely choked back a scream.

Pen Qatorn looked at him coldly. "You have been using black sorcery to the damage of your neighbors. For how long have you done this? Five years? Six?"

Kanlor stared at him silently. Pen Qatorn watched for a moment, then continued.

"We shall come back to that again. Why did you become a witch?"

There was a jerk at Kanlor's hand and the pressure on his thumb increased. A clamp was placed on his other thumb and tightened. His mouth flew open in shocked disbelief. This, he told himself, simply was not happening. It was a horrible dream. He . . .

The pressure was abruptly increased and a scream started to well from his throat. He clamped his lips fiercely shut. It was no dream and nothing he could say would help. He stared silently at the Examiner. Pen Qatorn frowned.

"How did you become a witch? What was done at that time? Who is your evil master?" He paused.

More clamps were fastened to Kanlor's fingers and tightened. His hands throbbed and the muscles of his arms tightened and cramped.

"Well, will you answer? How long have you been a witch?"

Kanlor drew a shuddering breath, then closed his eyes. Pen Qatorn glared at him, then turned to his secretary.

"Let it be noted that the man is taciturn," he remarked. He looked back at Kanlor.

"Oh, have no doubt. You shall answer these questions," he said coldly. "These and more. It will but take time." He moved his hand.

"Take him to the torture chamber. There, he may realize the error of his ways."

 

The Executioner jerked at the leash, forcing Kanlor to follow. They went through a hall and down a short flight of steps, to come out into a large room. On the walls hung tongs, pincers, branding irons and other implements unfamiliar to Kanlor. The Executioner glanced around for a moment, then jerked his captive toward the center of the room, signing to a pair of assistants.

Overhead, a pulley was fastened to the rafters. A thick rope had been threaded through it and hung, its ends tied to a ring set in the floor. An assistant untied one end of the rope, then went to Kanlor and secured it to his wrist bonds. He slipped the other end from the ring and pulled on it till Kanlor was forced to bend over. The other assistant looped the free end of the rope through the ring again and took up the slack. They stood, eyeing their chief.

The Executioner nodded. "Take him up a bit."

The assistants hauled away and Kanlor swung a meter above the floor. A knot was tied, securing the rope end to the ring and again, the assistants watched their chief, who smiled approvingly at them.

"Very good," he said. He looked at Kanlor.

"Now, we are just ordinary men," he said reasonably, "who have to do our job. We have no real desire to do you hurt, or to cause you needless pain." He smiled disarmingly. "In fact, we really don't like to do it. Why don't you be a good fellow? Let me bring his lordship here so you can answer his questions. It will make it easier for all of us. Your hurts will be tended and we won't have to go to great efforts. How about it?"

Momentarily, the thought entered Kanlor's mind that the man might be right. Perhaps he should simply answer. Then he remembered the questions. He could do himself no good, however he spoke. He closed his eyes, ignoring the fat man.

"Well, I tried." The Executioner sighed resignedly. "We shall leave you in the rafters for a time. You may consider and think of what you will tell the Examiner when he again deigns to consider you." He waved a hand.

"Pull him up, boys," he ordered. "We'd as well go out for a bite to eat." He turned toward the steps.

 

Wysrin Kanlor was no weakling. Long hours of work with shovel, hay hook, and flail had given him powerful arm and shoulder muscles. He found that he could support his weight even in this unaccustomed position. For a while, he even thought he might be able to pull his body between his arms, swing himself up, and somehow undo the ropes with his teeth. Maybe he might be able somehow to escape. But there simply wasn't space for his body to pass between his arms. Blood rushed to his head and he was forced to give up the effort and to dangle, breathing heavily.

His shoulders began to ache with the strain, then the muscles of his chest added their complaints. Time passed and the ache became a numbing sea of pain. He breathed in agonized gasps, dimly wondering how many eternities he had been up here, and how many more long eons it would be before he was taken down.

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 rendered 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 should 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.

"You're a smart man, Khator, smart. Oughta know better. Demons something for the mob, y'know? Scare 'em good. Then we get the money, see? Duke gets land, College of Examiners gets big, see what I mean?" His head rolled and he put his arms on the table and slumped over. He snored.

His secretary had been sitting down the table, watching in consternation. He got to his feet.

"Why, they've bewitched the Examiner himself," he cried. "We must get an exorcist at once!"

The duke looked thoughtfully at the snoring man by him, then got to his feet and looked down the length of the table.

"They teach that demons and witches have no power against the ordained, or even against men of the law," he said slowly. "But there! I can't argue the point. I know little about demons. But I do know drunks. And this man is drunk. I've also found that men are prone to speak their true thoughts when they are as drunk as this." He pointed to the Examiner, then looked up.

"But I, your Protector, have had little wine. I am not at all drunk. And I say this. No more shall property be confiscated, whatever the charge. Trials may be and shall be held, to be sure, but only on proper and legal representation. And I shall have an officer present to see that none is unduly mistreated. Those who would confess shall stand alone and cry their misdeeds without constraint. Those who will not confess shall be convicted only upon proper presentation by reputable witness. And finally, no more excessive fees shall be paid to guards and executioners, nor shall they feed at the expense of the accused." He looked sternly at his clerks.

"Let this be inscribed for our signature and posted on the morrow." He swung to face the Examiner's secretary. "You may escort your master to his bed chamber," he ordered. "When he has become sober, you may tell him of this, our edict." He sat down.

In the absence of the guest of honor, the banquet was soon over. Par Doizen made his way to his chambers and perched on the edge of his bed. He sat for a while, thinking, then pulled at a bell cord. A clerk came in. "Your lordship?"

"That edict I announced. Is it ready?"

The clerk nodded. "I have a fair copy for your hand, my lord. A copy has gone out by courier to the printers."

"Before my signing?"

"My lord, you sounded most urgent. It is late and the printers must have time for their work."

"Yes. I must have been a little tipsy myself. Well, it's said. Let the man go. Every important man in the duchy was listening and I'll be damned if I'll eat my words." He pulled an intricate signet from his belt pouch and held it out.

"And, Kel."

"My lord?" The clerk was inking the signet.

"Go to the Captain of my Guard. Tell him to rally as many men-at-arms as he can find. We may need them. No, better yet. Tell him to report to me immediately and in person."

 

Hal Carlsen smiled contentedly as he watched the viewsphere. Examiner Kietol was moving about his chambers dispiritedly, picking up belongings and throwing them into a chest.

"I tell you, I couldn't have been drunk," he was saying. "I haven't been drunk these many years, since I was a mere student. And on only three cups of wine? Three, I tell you. Now how could any man get drunk on a tiny sup like that?"

His secretary shook his head. "I don't understand it, sir. You looked drunk. You acted drunk. And sober, you would never have spoken so. I don't know."

Kietol wagged his head, then winced. "I know," he admitted. "I don't remember, but I've been told what I said. And the next morning! By my faith—such as I now have left, you understand—I can still feel that headache!" He slammed the lid of the chest shut.

"Well, that's the last of it. Let's go down and make our way out of this accursed duchy as fast as we may, while the duke still has the grace to protect us on our journey."

Carlsen laughed. Well, he told himself, it'll be a while before any Examiner dares show up around here. He snapped the communicator on.

"Cisner?"

"Here, sir. Chief, you just wouldn't believe it unless I ran the whole take for you. They're burning 'em five or ten at a time down here. This bunch of vultures have gone wild. They're getting filthy rich and the archduke is getting a good slice, too. He's cheering them on." Cisner paused.

"Look, Chief, the old boy's got a nephew who's the heir apparent. Young fellow. Doesn't think much of the whole thing. Never goes to executions unless his uncle makes him. Can't I just wait till he isn't there and then dive in? I could get the whole mob with one blast."

"Not only no, but hell no!" Carlsen shook his head decisively. "Once is a great plenty. I'll admit I blew my top and we're on the way to covering it up. But if we do it again, we'll stir up a real mess. Varsana's looking good right now, but another blast'd have the duke wondering and maybe changing his mind." He looked thoughtful.

"You say the nephew is the heir apparent and he's against the Examiners. That right?"

"Yes, sir. And when he hears about Varsana, he'll feel even more strongly. But right now, he's keeping awfully quiet. The Examiners are getting wise to him and they're beginning to think about sneaking him into one of their torture chambers some night. He knows it and he's getting scared. That's another thing, Chief. I—"

"I told you, Cisner, no!" Carlsen held up a hand. "Look, why don't you slip a spyeye into the archduke's bed chamber? You might get an idea."

"But, Chief. He holds conferences there. I've got—" Cisner looked confused, then suddenly smiled wolfishly. "Oh! Yes, sir! I'll get right on it."

"Out." Carlsen turned away, then tapped the switch again.

 

"Waler?"

"Still working, Chief. I got an assist from your way, though. Peddler's caravan just drifted into town. They're talking all over the taverns about the drunk Examiner over in Varsana. Incidentally, what happened to that guy, sir?"

"Oh, just a little drug I whipped up. Made him look drunk and feel awfully truthful."

"Oh. Maybe I could use some of that, too. Well, anyway, I don't know why these peddlers came running over here so fast, or how they got their story prettied up so well, but it's a big help."

Carlsen chuckled. "Let's say they got a little push," he said. "Incidentally, they ran off with one of my spy eyes. How about picking it up?"

"Will do. Oh, there's another thing. Remember that demonology lecturer I reported on? The one with the nightmares? I tried to poke him around a little during a lecture, and . . . honest, Chief, I didn't punch at him hard at all, but he went into convulsions. Raved a bit, then died off right in front of about twenty students."

"Not so good." Carlsen frowned. "I suppose that's all over the taverns, too?"

"Within an hour." Waler shrugged. "But there's a switch. He was Doctor Big Authority and he's the guy that'd sold everyone on the idea that no demon or witch had any power around either a law official or a member of a recognized order. And that, they wanted to believe, so it stuck. It's practically an article of faith. But that only leaves one explanation for what happened to him. He must have been struck down for fibbing." Waler smiled deprecatingly.

"I sort of helped out on that idea. It seemed to tie in pretty well with the peddlers' stories."

"Oh. So it's not so bad after all. Well, keep after it."

"Yes, sir. Out."

Carlsen turned to stare at his flight controls.

One down. One possible—maybe two. Waler seems to have things going his way. Of course, there's Wenzel and Pak, down at Holy City, but they're just getting a nice start. He massaged the back of his neck.

I think I'll go back to the cruiser and start correlating this stuff.

 

The room was littered with scraps of tape and scribbled notes that had missed the disposal unit. Carlsen inspected the floor, then sighed and started scooping up the debris. At least the whole thing was up to date, in order, and stored in memory units. It included everything of any significance from the original data. He looked around at the communicator panels. Of course, there were a couple of loose ends, but— He walked over to the communicator.

"Cisner?"

"Here, Chief. Mission accomplished. Request permission to return."

"Oh? What about your archduke?"

"That's why I want to come in, sir. You may want to eat me up and make me pay for one each transponder, surveillance shielded." Cisner managed to look woeful.

"I musta goofed my preventive maintenance on that spyeye. It blew its power unit just a few hours after I slipped it into the old boy's bedroom. Practically no explosion and no serious fusing, but it scattered neutrons all over the place."

"Anyone get burned?"

"Just the archduke, sir. He'd gone to bed. Must have taken almost a thousand roentgens. It's lucky those walls were pretty heavy. They made good shielding and no one else got hurt. His nephew took over and he's flat refusing to give the Examiners any cooperation. That Varsana story got down here and he's following the pattern." Cisner laughed.

"They tried a couple of trials, but they didn't go so well. First one, an Executioner tried to slip a thumbscrew onto the accused and one of the duke's guards fed him his teeth. The Chief Examiner tried to rule that the things didn't constitute torture and the Captain of the Guard offered to let him try a couple on, just for size."

Carlsen looked thoughtful. "Of course, you didn't have a thing to do with that?"

"Oh, no, sir." Cisner looked innocent. "I was just observing, sir."

"Naturally, I believe you. But remember, the memory units pick up all the impulses."

Cisner looked apologetic. "Well, you know how it is, sir. A guy sometimes hopes a little."

"See?" Carlsen laughed. "Now that's what I'd call confession without torture. How about the pieces of that blown-up eye?"

"All policed up, sir. I'll turn in the wreckage soon's I get back."

"Fair enough. Maybe we can call it operational loss. Out." Carlsen depressed another switch. "Wenzel?"

"Reporting, sir. They're having a big trial here. Seems the Bursar for the College of Examiners has come up awfully short. He can't account for what happened to about three quarters of the year's take."

Carlsen shook his head. "Even the most ethical organizations will hire a thief now and then, I guess. Any trace of the loot?"

"No, sir. He just won't talk. The High Priest is just about fed up with the whole thing. He's about to decide they've been hunting the wrong people." Wenzel paused.

"But Pak and I've got a little problem, Chief. We just found a lot of odds and ends lying around in the scouter. Place looks like a junkyard in distress. What shall . . . Hey, Chief. We got a visitor!"

"A what?"

"There's something nosing around here. Something pretty big, too. I'll swear somebody just peeled our screens back like a banana and took a real good look. Pak's got the detectors working overtime and we can't get a thing except a damn strong shield."

"Hang on. I'll bring the cruiser down and open him up. Out."

A third voice broke in. "Never mind, Carlsen. I'm coming your way now." The panel flickered and a sharp-featured face looked out.

Carlsen jumped. "Yes, sir! Welcome aboard, sir." He depressed switches. "Philcor Seven. Immediate recall. And make it fast."

 

Corps Commander A-Riman strode around the room, then perched on the edge of a desk.

"On the whole, I'd say you people have done an acceptable job so far. You've got a few rough edges left, but at least you've definitely stopped what could have been a disastrous massacre of psionics." He looked back at the computer reflectively.

"You know, there have been civilizations that have eliminated virtually all of their parapsychological potential. Every one of them has had serious trouble. Development's always one-sided and there's the danger of complete self-destruction. That's happened, too." He shrugged.

"You've prevented that here—at least for the present. Of course, it could flare up again. We'll have to work out something to prevent that." He looked at Carlsen expectantly.

"I'll have to think that one over, sir." Carlsen hesitated.

"One question. I did disobey a direct order back there at base. No operational plan, and I was ordered to turn one in."

"An order issued by competent authority, in the legal performance of duty?"

"Well . . . I didn't think so at the time, sir."

A-Riman nodded. "Neither did I when I heard about it." He smiled. "I had a little conference with some people before I came out here. Commander Walzen's decided to forget about any charges. I would suggest, though that you remember the experience. You actually were guilty of an entrapment. "

"Sir?"

"That's right. You let him push you and your people when you first reported in. It gave him the idea he could do anything he wanted to. Then, when you got your back up, he was surprised, hurt, and jolly well peeved about it. Worms aren't expected to turn, you know." A-Riman waved a hand.

"But that's over. Now you've got another problem. What are you going to do about that man you sent to Rehabilitation?"

"Me, sir?"

"He's your man. You picked him up. Obviously, you can't just drop him back at his farm again. And you can't turn him loose in the Federation and tell him to make his own way. Do you want to enlist him in your detachment?"

"He'd need an awful lot of training."

"Yes. I'd estimate at least six standard years. It could stretch out to ten. Meantime, you'd be short a man. We do have some limitations, you know."

Carlsen dropped into a chair. "I've got a good crew. I'd hate to lose any of them."

"Any suggestions?"

Carlsen rubbed his temple, frowning. Suddenly, he jumped up.

"Commander, would it be possible to train this man for a fixed assignment right here? He already knows his own culture, and we certainly could use an observer on this planet." He strode across the floor.

"Anything out of the ordinary, we'd know about it right away. We could check on him periodically. Keep him supplied. Maybe brief him now and then."

The commander smiled. "Just the one man?"

"Well, maybe he could use some help, sir. But—"

"That's what I was waiting for. Now, your job is to pick up a few suitable recruits—people you are sure will fit in. They'll be trained and sent back to you, then you can put them to work." The smile widened.

"We've got a special training area for just this sort of thing, you see. There are quite a few native guardians in the galaxy, but no detachment commander ever hears about them until he comes up with the idea and asks for some. That's when he gets promoted. Congratulations, Lieutenant."

Carlsen stared at him, then suddenly started to laugh.

"Something is funny, Lieutenant?"

Carlsen forced his face back into serious lines.

"Sorry, sir," he choked out. "But it really is ironic. These people were about to institute a full dress massacre of psionics. And they'd have killed off a lot of non-psionics, as well. They were perverting their entire culture—maybe setting it up for destruction in the future. And all this was just to stamp out an imaginary cult of witches. Now, they're going to have real witches with real powers around. And they won't even know they exist."

A-Riman regarded him for a minute, shaking his head. Then he chuckled.

"That's one for you, Carlsen. Now here's one for their side. You're going to be on the job to see that these are good witches."

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Framed