The Best Made Plans Part 29

"Oh, the devil with it," he said aloud. "I just help run the Security Guard around here. The Commissioner can worry about policy--and diplomatic relations, too."

He glanced at the clock on his desk, then reached out to grab his hat.

"Better take another look at the guard while I'm at it," he told himself.

He strode out of the office, hooking his sidearm belt from a hanger as he went by.

It would be a good idea, he decided, to check post number four first this time. The landing pad guard had been a little less than perfectly alert tonight.

"Probably worrying about last night," he told himself. He smiled reminiscently.

Moresma had been pretty worried and scared when the patrol had brought him in. They'd gotten him out of the jam and kept him out of trouble, but it had been close. The local authorities didn't seem to have much sense of humor when it came to Federation personnel. In fact, they seemed to welcome incidents that could----

"Funny," he told himself. "There are plenty of Galactics here, too.

They get along fine, but let one of our guardsmen drop a chewing gum wrapper---- Oh, well. One of those things, I guess." He walked around the corner of the building and strode down a hedge bordered path.

As he walked, he looked about at the dark Commission buildings. It was a large compound. There were several posts and it took a large security guard detachment to give it adequate protection. He glanced up at the sky.

A blue-lit flier was coming toward him, flying rather low. Suddenly, its lights blinked out.

Hense looked at the suddenly dark shape incredulously. It seemed to be arcing down, toward the compound. He started forward at a run.

Either that pilot was out of control, or he was crazy. In any event, he was going to crash in the compound unless his luck was fantastically good. He'd been coming in fast, too. The lights had indicated an official Oredanian s.h.i.+p.

This, he decided, was definitely irregular.

As he got to the pad, the s.h.i.+p came to an abrupt halt overhead. Then, it came down in a blur of speed. Not more than half a meter from the pavement, it checked its fall and settled. A door popped open.

Hense flipped his light from his belt and snapped it on. The guard, he noted approvingly, had been prompt. The man had dashed up and now stood close by the flier, his weapon at the ready.

A figure came out of the flier and stopped.

"Put out that light!" snapped an annoyed voice.

Hense snapped the switch on his hand light, then stared at the figure by the flier.

Now, what was this? He wasn't accustomed to taking orders from some joker that barged in and shot an unauthorized landing. He was the one who should be giving the orders. He started to raise the light again.

"Leave that light out, hang it," said the voice sharply. "I don't feel like being a target. And you! Don't point that thing at me! Now come on, both of you. Let's get out of the open. Take cover!"

Hense shook his head dazedly. It wasn't right, but there didn't seem to be much room for argument right now. Somehow, that voice carried authority. Moresma hadn't hesitated. He was following the dim figure which ran from the side of the flier. The lieutenant turned and headed for a nearby building. There was a wide overhang there, close to the ground.

Another s.h.i.+p was screaming in, its lights darkened. As Hense dove for cover, brilliant light pinpointed the grounded flier. The guard and the unknown rolled in beside him.

There was a brilliant flash from the landing pad, then a heavy concussion made Hense's chest contract. Lurid flames rose skyward. The attacking flier rose sharply and disappeared. Hense looked after it incredulously.

"Close," commented the new-comer. "Thought for a few seconds I wasn't going to make it. Sure didn't think they'd be with it that fast." He turned and the lieutenant examined him curiously.

Even in the dim light, it was obvious he was pretty young. Khlorisana, as nearly as Hense could tell. Might be a half-caste, of course. But what was he doing here? Why a near crash landing? And who had the eternal gall to pull an attack on a grounded s.h.i.+p right in the Commission compound?

He continued to stare. Come to think of it, what had this joker done with his clothes? Nothing on him but a pair of shorts.

The other noticed the officer's gaze and looked down.

"Yeah, I know." He grinned. "I got busy a while ago. Forgot to put 'em back on. Didn't realize I'd left every rag behind till I was well on my way." He looked at the ground thoughtfully.

"Wonder if they'll trace Korentona through them? Well----" He faced Hense again.

"I'm Don Michaels," he announced. He held out a large book he had been carrying under his arm.

"Look," he added. "I've brought in something really hot. How about taking me over to see the commissioner? I've got to see him right away."

For more than five years, the ink of First Lieutenant Hense's commission had been perfectly dry. He'd been in one major campaign and he'd served on more than one outworld. For his entire commissioned career, he'd been a Security Guard Officer. And he'd never had a reputation for being at all tolerant when regulations were broken--or even bent.

He looked angrily at the man before him.

"I don't care," he said distinctly, "if you're Hosanna, the Great. What I want to----"

"Oh, be quiet!" Michaels held up an impatient hand. "I hate to be impolite about this, but it's no joke. I've got something hot here--really hot. I want to see Commissioner Jackson. And when he finds out what I've got, he's going to want to see me. Now let's get over and find him. Move!"

Hense turned and stepped off. This, he decided, wasn't real. He must be dreaming. He tried to stop, but found it was impossible. He'd been given definite instructions, and----

He walked toward the path to the Residence. Behind him, he heard the newcomer's voice.

"You can go back to your post, guard. Better watch it, though. One of those Royal Guard s.h.i.+ps might try a landing. Might be a good idea to get a few more men out there."

Again, Hense tried to turn around and challenge this fellow. Hang it, he was the Officer of the Guard. He was supposed to be giving the orders. In fact, he should have this fellow in the detention cell by now, waiting for the major to see him in the morning. He paused in mid-stride.

"Never mind stopping, lieutenant," Michaels told him. "Just keep going.

I want to see the commissioner before Stern's people figure out something really good."

Hense gave up. He must be asleep. It was the only possible answer. Of course, that was bad, too. On some stations, an Officer of the Guard was permitted to take a nap between guard checks. But Major Kovacs had some sort of a thing about that. He'd made it clear that there was plenty of time for napping during off-watch time. His officers, he said positively, would never sleep while their men were on guard.

And he made checks, too. Hense struggled with himself. He had to wake up.

It was insane. How, he wondered, could a guy be asleep and dreaming--and know it? And, knowing it, why couldn't he wake himself up? This was pure fantasy. Yeah, dream stuff. He waited nervously.

Any time now, the major could be coming around to check the guardroom.

Then the roof would fall in. Any minute now, he could expect to hear a window-shattering roar.

"Halt!"

It was the Residence Guard. Post number two.

"All right," Michaels' voice was low. "Hold up. Answer him. Have him continue his tour, and let's be on our way."

Hense stopped. "Officer of the Guard," he said loudly.