Number One, eyes narrow now, said, “Remain where you are, Rig. It occurs to me that I may wish to have witnesses to this indignity, later.”
Fielder shrugged, “As you will. It is on your own head, Pater. In the future, you may be sorry to have been a witness.”
“I rather doubt it,” the Temple Monk said mildly. “I am an old man, my son. There are few threats that could frighten me.”
Marshal of the Armies Rupert Croft-Gordon rasped, “Let’s get to the point!”
“Yes,” Number One said, looking at his Surety Deputy. “Let us get to the point. The first point is that all three of you are dismissed from your offices.”
Jon Matheison giggled nervously.
Mark Fielder let his head go left and right slowly. “That is why we have come. The opposite is true. It is you who have failed in your duties and have been dismissed by the Central Comita.”
The nostrils of the supreme chief of the Alphaland government flared. “The Comita has no power to remove me, as you well know, Fielder. However, we shall immediately convene that body.” His eyes went briefly to the Temple Monk. “Rig, do me the kindness to summon the guard.”
Fielder looked at the seated old man. “Don’t bother, Pater. The former Presidor has no guards. In fact, he hasn’t had any for over a month.”
“Are you drivel happy?” Number One roared.
“They are my guards,” Mark Fielder said mockingly.
Alphaland’s strong man stomped to his private bar, took up a bottle with shaking hand and poured a heavy slug into a tumbler. He took up the glass and spun back to them.
“You fools! You can’t attempt this in time of war. The people will tear you apart. Besides all that, it will most likely mean a collapse of the war effort. Civil war at the very least.”
Jon Matheison had at last found courage to speak. He shrilled, “It is you who would be torn apart. The war’s impossibly unpopular. The peace riots are everywhere. We will take power on a platform of ending the war quickly. The Commissariat of Propaganda is ready to release a broadcast from the triumvirate that it will immediately go to Betastan and terminate the war as soon as possible.”
Number One threw the drink back over his palate.
“Traitors!” he rumbled. “Surrounded by traitors, supposedly my friends.”
Pater Riggin said mildly, “You should have read your Machiavelli better, Jim. Ultimately, a prince must have no intimate friends.”
Marshal Croft-Gordon said, “Enough of this nardy blather. What are we arguing about? It’s all over. Call the guards in. Convene the court martial.” He grimaced his hatred, repressed for so many years. “The sooner he’s liquidated, the better. Anyone flat enough to think in terms of supporting him will be left leaderless.”
Number One poured another drink and chuckled bitter laughter. “Sergeant Croft-Gordon of the paratroopers. No, you weren’t so aristocratic in those days, were you, Rupert? It was Rupert Gordon then. The hyphenated Croft, your mother’s name, was added after I had promoted you over more capable officers because I was cloddy enough to think you capable of gratitude.”
Pater Riggin looked at him wanly and murmured beneath his breath, “Dreamer.”
Mark Fielder said, “Enough. Let’s go.” He made a sour mouth. “You first, Your Leadership.” He brought a small handgun from his tunic pocket.
Both the Marshal and John Matheison did the same.
The Marshal motioned with his toward the door.
Number One, still enraged beyond the point of being conscious of physical danger, stood stiff, as though refusing to budge.
Up until this point, Pater Riggin had sat quietly by the fire, the customary ancient book in his lap, one finger holding his place. When he sighed and set it aside, not an eye followed his movement. He did not have the color to draw interest in this heated conflict between strong men.
He slipped a pale hand into a pocket of his robe and flicked, rather than threw, a small pellet between the triumvirate and his lifelong companion.
It burst into a very fireworks of smoke, bright flame and—they were soon to find—nausea gas.
He came erect, surprisingly nimble for such a sedentary type. There was a handkerchief at his nostrils. He bustled forward, grasping the deposed dictator by the arm.
“Quickly now, Jim. This way.”
A beam from Fielder’s gun burned a ray across the room, striking nothing but a tapestry on a far wall.
The Marshal was shouting incoherently.
Mark Fielder spun around and was pounding upon the door he had entered through ten minutes before. “Guards! Guards!”
Jon Matheison had slipped to the floor and was holding his throat and sobbing in terror.
The Temple Monk’s grasp was surprisingly firm. “This way. Jim. Holy Ultimate, move!”
Number One’s eyes were streaming and already his stomach and lungs seemed to churn. He stumbled along, his mind reeling at the developments of the quarter hour.
He was led through a room, back through a passage. He knew his own quarters, of course, but the confusion was upon him to the point that he really did not know which way he went.
Suddenly the air was clear and he was in an alleyway. Vaguely he recognized it, though circumstance had not taken him this way for so many years he could not remember. It was sort of servant entrance.
Pater Riggin, a slight tremor in his voice, said ruefully, “We may now pray to the Holy Ultimate that our good Deputy of Surety did not go to the bother of completely surrounding the Presidor’s palace. Remain here for a moment, Jim. Please don’t stray. I am an old man and cannot handle too many variables. Besides”—there was a wry humor—“I am not too practiced in rescuing deposed chiefs of state.”
He was gone.
Number One, the gas relieving him of all dignity, leaned against the stone of the alleyway and vomited desperately. His eyes burned so that he could hardly see, his stomach churned.
The voice of Pater Riggin was back.
“Here. In here, Jim. Quickly. They’ll burn their way through those doors in moments.”
The former dictator was hustled into a small two-seater hover-car. He did not know why, nor where they were bound. And he cared less.
Ross Westley had come awake possibly an hour earlier, but had not brought attention to himself. There were half a dozen others in the long barracks-like room, but none that he recognized. Three or four of them were bandaged—obviously wounded; he suspected the others there were too. They were remaining in their bunks, similar to his own situation.
He considered his position. Certainly, his need was escape.
But how, and to where? He could think of no place to go. Once again, he had been a long-term fool. He was enough of the historian to know that in the past, high ranking officials of totalitarian regimes made a practice of establishing-funds in a secure foreign land, or more than one. Given collapse of government or personal misadventure, one could then live out one’s life in luxurious retirement.
But not he! What a flat! What a common yoke, not to have feathered his nest when resources were unlimited.
But this wasn’t the time for self-recrimination. He had to act. Now. Immediately. He was in the hands of the enemy.
But at that he had to smile his self-deprecation. Who wasn’t the enemy? He had no friends.
It occurred to him that it had been a long time since Ross Westley had had friends. What top government deputy of a totalitarian regime has friends? Drinking companions, had he wanted them, in large number, in spite of the anti-alcohol stricture of the United Temple, yes. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, or any combination of the three, yes. Mopsies galore to anticipate his any variation of vice, were he so inclined, yes. Those to fawn, those to agree with his silliest statement, those to encourage him on to any secret desire, yes. But a friend?