There was only one way to find out; Rev realized. He rose to his feet, with a sigh at the stiffness in his legs; Not for the first time,-he reminded himself that he'd been neglecting his exercise program. There wasn't any excuse for that-not with a fully equipped gym right around the comer from his office, and the best instructors available, completely paid for by the Space Legion-or, more precisely, by Captain Jester. The King wouldn't have wanted one of his followers to let himself go... not when it was so easy to stay in shape.
But at the moment, Rev was on a- mission. He strode down the corridor to a convenient exit and came out onto the parade ground a short distance from where the Zenobians were working. He walked over to them, humming a favorite melodic pattern. Dum, dumba dumba dum, aumbadumba dum... -"
Qual looked up at, the chaplain's approach. "Greetings, Crank!" said the Zenobian. Flashing his array of sharp reptilian teeth.
"Crank?" said Rev, momentarily confused. Then he realized it must be another of the apparently random mistranslations the Zenobian's autotranslator spit out from time to time. Try as they might, the Legion's techs had never been able to adjust Qual's translator to render the name of Omega Company's commanding officer as anything but "Captain Clown." A few members of the company privately suspected that Qual's mangling of human language was not entirely an artifact of his equipment... but they had never been able to prove anything, and since the little Zenobian was popular with the troops, nobody saw much point in making an issue of it.
Remembering his purpose, Rev said, "Good afternoon, Flight Leftenant Qual Do you have a moment to talk?"
"It is a long time since we converse" said Qual. "It would be my gratification." Rev relaxed-he'd been worried that the Zenobian officer might be too involved in his work to answer his questions. "You know, I have a kinda special job here," he began. "Sort of a mission, you might" say."
"Yes, I have seen that," said Qual. His two coworkers stood listening---evidently their officer's translator gave them the gist of what Rev was saying. (Rev worried that what they heard might be a very distorted version of his actual words, but again, there was very little he could do about it.) "You are an officer, but one who gives advice, not orders," added the Zenobian.
"Yeah, that's the idea," said Rev. "Now, you must've heard me talk about the King..."
"Many times, Crank," said Qual still smiling. "You hardly speak of anything else."
"That's right," said Rev. "Now, what I want to know is, what do you all think about that? I mean, you people don't seem really interested in Him."
"Oh, this King of yours is very interesting," said Qual, and the other two Zenobians nodded eagerly.
Rev smiled. "Well, I didn't expect you to say that..."
"But of course. you can not expect us to take him seriously," Qual added. "Humans "ought to create their own myths instead of borrowing from more ancient species."
Rev scratched his head, puzzled. "Borrowing? I don't understand."
The two Zenobian crew members opened their mouths in the posture Rev had come to recognize as laughter, but Qual kept a serious expression. "Possibly you tell the truth, friend Crank," the Zenobian officer said. "I have noticed that you do not much understand the humor. But I have perhaps already said more than I should. We Zenobians do not lightly speak of our deepest racial beliefs, and I do not wish to expose our doctrines to you. I will tell you only that you need to convince one of our High Shainans to tell you the tale of L'ViZ. It will be highly instructive, I can assure you. Now, if you will pardon me, I and my crew must complete our calibration of the sklem. Good diurnal period, Crank." Rev stood there with his mouth open as Qual and his crew resumed their work. But after a moment, he retreated, shaking his head. He hadn't learned everything he'd hoped he might, but what he had learned left him plenty of food for thought. L'Viz-he'd remember that name, and when occasion arose, he'd follow up Qual's suggestion; There was a mystery here, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.
Evening rush hour in Bu-Tse, the capital city of Kerr's Trio, was as hectic as rush hour in any other major city in human space. Try as they might; city planners had never figured out a way to eliminate the mass exodus of office workers into the transit system at the beginning and end of the business day. At some point-or another, urban planners had tried any number of strategies to decentralize the business district, to stagger work hours, to facilitate telecommuting none to any lasting effect. Centuries of complaints to the
contrary, neither the employers nor the work force really wanted to change what had apparently become as fixed a pattern as the alternation of day and night.
But while the-dark-haired woman getting off the BuTse slideway with two huge grocery bags at the Dedisco loop was almost certainly unaware of the history behind her crowded ride home, she w~ by no means reconciled to it. She stalked up to the nondescript apartment building at the comer, elbowed her way into the gravshaft, and glared at her fellow denizens of the Dedisco Towers as they rose through the shaft together. There was an audible sigh of relief as she swung off on the fifth level and stomped down the hallway to her apartment door.
She palmed the lock, bustled through the door, and headed for the kitchen. From the living room came the sound of a tri-vee set turned to a gravball game. She ignored it and noisily dumped the bags on the kitchen table. From the other room came a male voice: "Lola?" She ignored that, too, muttering angrily as she began to unload the bags.
"Lola, you better come in here," said the voice, louder this time.
"Wait a minute," she barked. Schmuck can't even come out and talk to me, let alone help, she thought darkly. I ought to make him get his own meals.
"Lola, we got trouble." said the voice again.
"You're the one that's got trouble," she snapped, turning to face the entrance to the living room. That's when She saw the stranger with a beamer pointed at her. "Uh-who are you?" she finished, lamely. Unfortunately, she already had a very good idea what the answer had to be.
"I'm askin' the questions, sister," said the man, gesturing with the weapon. "You get in there with yer buddy and don't try nothin' fancy." The way he handled the beamer was all the proof she needed that he knew what to do with it in the event something fancy did occur. She went into the living room. There
sat Ernie, in a straight-backed chair facing the tri-vee set.
His arms were bound to his sides, and a wide band of elasteel around his torso bound him to the chair. On the couch next to him sat a small man in an expensive suit.
"Good, everybody's here," said the small man. "Why don't you have a seat, Lola? We have business to discuss."
"Who are you?" said Lola. "We haven't done anything."
"That's exactly the problem," said the little man. "Sit down, please-it makes me uncomfortable to see you standing up." He gestured toward the other chair in the room.
Lola was not by nature docile. But something in the man's manner told her this would be a very bad time to make herself disagreeable. She sat.
"Good, that's very good," said the small man. "It makes things so unpleasant when people aren't in a cooperative mood. I really hate it when we have to persuade people to go along with us."