from The Second Book of Kyfho
From this far out, Throne looked like any other Earth-class planet; blue, brown, swirled with white. Not too impressive, but it was home. And Salli was there. Vincen Stafford wondered what was going on planetside. Something was wrong, that was certain. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't known how big it was, but something tricky was going on. How else to explain the crazy orders he had received?
Part one of the instructions had been logical-return directly to Throne at top speed, stop for nothing; use tight beam to signal comm center immediately upon arrival in Throne System. No problem. That's what he had expected to be told, and was exactly what he wanted to do. One encounter with the Tarks was quite enough, thank you.
The remaining instructions were the crazy ones. After notifying the comm center of his presence in the system, he was to proceed with all haste to Throne and establish an orbit that would pass over Throne latitude eighty degrees north and longitude ninety degrees east. At no time-this was repeated and doubly emphasized-was he to have further contact with anyone. Anyone. No matter who tried to contact him, he was neither to answer nor to listen. He was not to identify himself to anyone else. The Project Perseus Comm Center knew who he was and that was all that mattered. He would be met in orbit by a shuttle and taken down for debriefing.
Something was up, but he couldn't imagine what. Were they afraid he'd cause a panic down below by telling scare stories about the Tarks? They should know him better than that! Maybe they were just being careful, but the precautions seemed extraordinary. Why?
He shrugged. The orders had come from Project Perseus Comm Center…his boss. Not his worry. Not his to reason why. He just wanted to get his feet planted firmly on Throne, find Salli, and celebrate the bonus due him for being the contact ship…an extra twenty thousand marks. They could do a lot of living on that.
It would be good just to be home again.
He slipped into Throne's gravitational field on a flat trajectory early the next morning, ship's time. The retros slowed him enough to allow the delicate but intractable fingers of the planet's gravity to wrap around the ship and hold it at arm's length. He had plotted the approach carefully during the three days since his arrival in the system, and now he smiled as he made the final minor course adjustments. Perfect! The probe ship's orbit would pass right over the desired coordinates with hardly a second's drift. He hadn't spent all those years in navigation school for nothing!
A small blip showed on his screen. He cued the image intensifier to home in on it and…there it was. An orbital shuttle, rising to meet him. He upped the intensity. Funny…no Imperial markings. But that sort of went with all the other craziness. If the Project Perseus heads were being so secretive about his return, it wasn't all that strange to bring him down to the surface in an unmarked craft.
The comm indicator flashed again. It had been doing that repeatedly for the past day and a half. But like a good soldier, he had followed orders and steadfastly ignored it. At first there had been a strong temptation to disconnect the light, but he had decided against it. Let it flash. Who cared. He was going home.
“STILL NO ANSWER from that ship?” Haworth asked.
The tiny face on the vidscreen in his hand wagged back and forth. “None, sir.”
“Is there any sign that the ship may be out of control? Is the flight pattern erratic? Could the pilot be hurt?”
“If he's hurt, sir, I'd love to see him fly when he's well. The ship seems to have a definite course in mind. His communicator console could be malfunctioning, but with all the fail-safes built in, it seems unlikely, unless there's major damage. And the ship handles like an undamaged craft. I don't know what to tell you, sir.”
“Why weren't we aware of his presence in the system sooner?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“You're paid to know,” Haworth gritted. “What good are you if you don't know!”
The insolence in the shrug was apparent even on the miniscule screen. “Not much, I guess.” His smile was insolent, too. No one seemed to have any respect any more.
“We'll find out soon enough,” Haworth said, passing over the veiled insult-he'd deal with the man later. His name was Wolverton. He wouldn't forget. “Send a shuttle up there immediately and bring that pilot directly to me. I'll debrief him personally. And then we'll get to the bottom of all this.”
“There's already a shuttle on the way. You should know that, sir.”
Haworth felt a brief, deep chill. “Why? How should I know?”
“You sent it yourself.” The man glanced down at something off screen. “I've got the message right here from the shuttle. Said it was under direct orders from you to intercept the probe in orbit and bring the pilot to you.”
“I gave no such order. Stop that shuttle!”
“I don't know if we can do that, sir. It looks like it's already made contact.”
“Then intercept it before it lands.” He looked at the man's laconic expression and suddenly came to a decision. “No. Never mind. I'll arrange that myself.” With no warning, he broke the circuit and began punching in the code for the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Guard. If he had to scramble a fleet of interceptors, he'd do it. He had to interrogate that probe pilot.
THE MAN WHO CAME through the lock was not with the Imperial Guard. He was dressed in Lincoln green hose, a leather jerkin, and a feathered cap. And he held a blaster.
“Quick! Through here. We're taking you down.” He spoke without moving his lips.
Stafford hesitated. “What's going-”
“Move!”
It was suddenly clear to Stafford just whom he was dealing with. The drawings had been flashed on the vid often enough: this was either Robin Hood himself or one of his Merry Men. A closer look revealed a barely perceptible shimmer along the edges of the man's form, a sure sign of a holographic disguise.
“Are you Robin Hood?” he asked, already moving toward the hatch. Despite the menacing presence of the blaster, he did not feel threatened. In fact, the blaster gave him good excuse to go along.
“You'll find out later. Hurry!”
Stafford ducked through the lock and was propelled along a narrow corridor into an even narrower cubicle with a single seat.
“Strap yourself in,” the figure said. “We may have a rough ride ahead.” The door slid shut and Stafford knew he was locked in. There was a jolt that signaled release of the probe from the shuttle, and increasing drag toward the rear of the cubicle as the craft picked up speed. Stafford decided to strap himself in. He had ridden many a shuttle, but could not remember any that could accelerate like this one.
“WE LOST THEM,” Commander-in-chief Tinmer said flatly. There was enough of an edge of anger in his tone to warn Haworth against too much abuse. The man was looking for someone to lash out at, someone to trip his hammer. Haworth decided to let him save his wrath for the interceptor pilots who had evidently flubbed their mission. And besides, Haworth wanted the commander on his side.
“How is that possible?” he said, employing concerned disappointment to mask his growing rage at the incompetence that confronted him at every turn.
“For one thing, that shuttle was not exactly a standard model. It must have had a special drive or something because it pulled a few tricks that left our men sitting up there like hovercraft. Some of the men think it's the same craft we've chased before on suspicion of smuggling-they were never able to catch that one either. Anyway, the ship went down in the western hinterlands and we've got search teams out now. But even if we find it, there'll be no one on board.”