#13 – Pitfalls
Wearily, I stared at mounds of paper. I had plenty of facts, but no argument. I had documents, but could not prove that a massacre of Tripodians had never been documented. Before the time of General Ding, we had been a scattered community of farmers, each family at a distance from its neighbors. Easy for a small group to keep its secrets. I could show that most of our current citizens were innocent, but what about the early settlers who had died or given up and returned to Earth?
Picturing the Ambassador’s impassive face, I dreaded the thought of his return. All the mass of “evidence” I had accumulated was just straws in the whirlwind. I buried my face in my hands, aware that I had lost the thread of clarity beneath an avalanche of details. It had seemed so simple before I began.
The voices in the hall penetrated my distraction only gradually. “Eight feet should be enough,” said Bibber, one of the more objectionable of Smith’s men.
“Did you get it well covered?” Smith’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Yeah, the gauze they put over vegetables worked great. Staked it out and then covered it with leaves and stuff.”
“Good,” said Smith. They moved away from the door of the conference room, leaving me distracted. I hated to run to Ding like a tattletale when I had so little to go on. Possibly Smith was having one of his fits where he pretended an interest in agriculture. Then again, maybe he had dug a pit along the Ambassador’s route in an attempt to trap him. My headache returned full force.
*-*-*
“Excuse me.” Major Heaume entered the captain’s office. “These things are all over the ship. The Tripodians claim that Lonnie approved them.” Hop set something small on Cilron’s desk and stood glowering.
Cilron picked up the object and studied it. Kol edged around to look at it, too. It was a small oval disk, half blue and half white – Lonnie’s colors. An irregular line dividing the colors ran the long axis of the oval. When Cilron turned the disk so the line was vertical, Kol gasped. White on blue, Lindar’s profile leapt out: chin, lips, nose and brow surmounted by the fiery flare of the Crown. “Oh, wow!” whispered Kol, “Where can I get one?”
Cilron’s hand closed over the disk. “Lonnie approved them. He’s giving them to petitioners. He says it beats signing autographs.”
“Theta’s sword, Cilron! Why do you think I went to all that trouble to keep him from being photographed at the Universal Court? And to keep his image out of the news media on Earth?”
“It’s one thing when he’s ill and helpless, another now. He’s holding court. Why are you yell at me? Go yell at him. And what about the security situation?” asked Cilron “You haven’t reported to him.”
“It’s under control. King Tildar’s human police force is alert and they have Deck 6 locked down tight. I’ve secured all the elevators and external staging areas. As for the Tripodians, there a lot of running around and scuffling but no one’s been murdered yet. Deck 8 is sealed. I can’t go in there unless they damage the ship.”
“Talk to Lonnie. He can give you chapter and verse what’s happening.”
“I’m telling you. You’re a telepath. Can’t you tell him?”
Cilron counted to ten in Terra Lingua, silently. “Sensitive security arrangements shouldn’t be discussed in the matrix, since the Tripodians are now a part of it.”
“Oh, hell, I forgot!” Heaume hunched his shoulders and nerved himself to a decision. “Okay. Pops, will you please come with me?”
Reaching out, Cilron grabbed Kol’s elbow and levered out of his chair. Kol felt something smooth slip into his palm. He glanced up to catch Cilron’s wink. His fingers curled around the oval button protectively.
