Hodges, who had been looking strangled, now exploded in helpless laughter. “Yeah,” he gasped.
“These scouring sponges, now.” He picked one of them up. “Nothing but the best. Duke’s choice!” He picked up two more and began juggling them.
“For God’s sake, man,” said Frank. “Pull yourself together.”
“Sorry, sire,” sniffled Hodges, wiping tears out of his eyes. “It’s been a long evening.”
“For all of us,” Frank agreed. “Now listen. We picked them off easily tonight, because they weren’t expecting anything—their precautions were minimal and the four guards we ran into were just tokens. Also, the shipment itself seems to have been a ... fairly minor one. It won’t ever be this easy again.”
“Right,” agreed Hodges. “Next time they’ll have a lot of alert, heavily armed guards riding along. So why continue? To corner the market in sponges and saddle soap?”
Frank held a lit match over his pipe-bowl and puffed rapidly on it. “No,” he said, tamping it now. “Maybe you’ve forgotten those twelve pistols. And there are two purposes to these raids—to scavenge things for ourselves and to impede the Transports. And of the two the second is more important.
“Maybe you’ve also forgotten all those reports of construction going on in the Goriot Valley. They’re building offices, barracks, factories for all we know! And when they’re finished, more Transports will move in than any of you dreamed existed! How many times do I have to point this out? The Subterranean Companions will be a forgotten joke inside of a year. In the meantime, though, their supplies are being landed at the Barclay Depot and driven up the Cromlech Road to the palace or the valley. If we interfere with those shipments, we put off the day the Transports take complete charge of this planet.”
“He’s right, Hodges,” spoke up one of the previously silent councillors. “It’s the least we can do.”
“Right!” agreed Frank eagerly, his bronze ear glittering in the torchlight. “It is the least, a mere ... temporary cure. We have to, eventually, get rid of the Transport entirely, which means, of course, getting rid of Costa as well.” He puffed on his pipe for a moment, sending thick smoke-coils curling to the ceiling. “We’ve got to find an heir—a prince.”
“There aren’t any, besides Costa himself, who has no children,” said Hodges with some exasperation. “And you can’t simply come up with a likely-looking pretender—you’d have to have documents, proof, things no forger could counterfeit.”
“I can’t help that,” Frank shrugged. “That’s what we need.”
TOM Strand jogged up the steps of the Transport General Offices’ building and grinned at his reflection in the front window as he straightened his tie. Ah, you’re a bright-looking lad, Tommie, he told himself. He pulled open the door and approached the stem-faced woman behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Uh, hello,” said Tom shyly. “I was asked to come ... that is, I have an appointment with Captain Duprey.”
The woman pursed her lips and flipped through her appointment book. “You’re Thomas Strand?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s expecting you. Second floor, room two-twelve.”
“Thank you.” Tom found the stairs after a few wrong turns and soon was knocking on the door of Room 212. He was told to come in, did so, and found himself in a pleasant, sunlit office, facing a smiling man with gray temples and laughter lines around his eyes.
“Tom Strand? I’m Captain Duprey.” The officer half-stood and warmly shook Tom’s hand. “Sit down, Tom. Will you have some brandy?”
“Yes, thank you.” Tom was gratified and profoundly flattered to be on such friendly terms with a Transport officer. I hope I’m equal to whatever job they have for me, he thought.
“Well, Tom,” said Duprey, pouring two glasses, “you’re in a position to do the Transport a big favor. And”—he looked up—“the Transport is not ungrateful to people who do it favors.”
“I’ll be ... glad to be of service, sir.”
“Good! I knew you were a smart lad when I saw you. I can certainly see we’ve picked the right man! Here, drink up.”
“Thank you, sir.” For a moment they both simply savored the brandy.
“Are you loyal to your Duke, Tom?” asked Duprey with a sharp look.
“Oh, yes sir!” Tom had, to be sure, his private doubts and dissatisfactions, but knew when to keep them to himself. “Absolutely,” he added with fervor.
“Good man!” Duprey looked ready to burst with his admiration for Tom. “Now,” he said, lowering his voice solemnly, “you were, I believe, a close friend of Francisco de Goya Rovzar?”
“Yes,” said Tom, mystified by this turn. “He and his father disappeared about a year ago. I heard they were sent to the Orestes mines.”
“I’ll tell you what happened, Tom. They were in the palace when Costa overthrew Topo’s decadent rule, and they resisted arrest. The father was killed and young Francisco escaped into Munson. You’ve heard of the Subterranean Companions?”
“Yes. They’re the ones who’ve been raiding your supply shipments, aren’t they?”
“That’s right, Tom. Well, Francisco has become their king and is the instigator of these raids!”
“He’s the king?” asked Tom in amazement. “Are you sure? How did he get to become king?”
“I understand he murdered the previous king, which is how succession works with these killers and thieves. Barbaric.”
“It certainly is,” Tom agreed. “I can see how he’d do well at it, though. My father is a fencing instructor, and Frankie was always his star pupil.”
“Is that right? Yes, that explains a lot of things.” Duprey flipped open a wooden box on his desk. “Have a cigar, Tom,” he said. “Genuine Havanas, all the way from Earth.”
Tom took a cigar, glorying in his apparent equality with this space-wise, experienced old soldier. Duprey lit it for him, and Tom puffed at it with an expression of determined enjoyment.
“This brings us right to the point,” Duprey went on. “I won’t mince words, for I see you’re a man who likes to know straight-out what’s what. Frank Rovzar is a criminal and a leader of other criminals. He is almost certainly responsible for the deaths of ... let’s see ... eighteen Transport soldiers, several of them officers, and his raids on our shipments are becoming more costly all the time. You see the position he puts us in?”
“I certainly do, sir.”
“Good. Now what I ... what the Transport asks of you is that you enlist in the Subterranean Companions. We’ll provide you with a credible story, of course. Then you can pretend to reestablish your friendship with him; get close to him; and then, quickly and mercifully, execute him. You’ll be acting as a representative of the state, naturally, and when you return from this valuable mission you’ll be given a high position in our company—as well as a cash reward for Rovzar’s death. It’s a fairly dangerous adventure, I know, and many men would fear to take opportunity’s somewhat bloody hand. But, unless I’m mistaken, you’re made of sterner stuff.”
Tom gulped his brandy, trying hard to mask the uncertainty inside him. Even for a high position in the Transport, he thought, can I coldly kill old Frank? Still, if I turn Duprey down I’ll likely wind up in jail myself.
“I’m always ready to do my country’s bidding,” Tom said with a pious look. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I knew you were our man!” said Duprey with the sort of smile one saves for a true comrade.
UNLIKE Blanchard, Frank made it a point to attend as many meetings of the Subterranean Companions as he could. He liked to keep up on the news and to learn as much as possible about the workings of the organization he’d become king of. Generally he sat to the side, smoking thoughtfully, only occasionally speaking up to add something or ask a question of Hodges.