 Part 6 of Lion Loose by James H. Schmitz This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Quillen had been sitting for some little while in a very comfortable chair in what had been the Commodore's personal suite on the seventh star, broodingly regarding the image of the Camelot in a huge wall screen. The liner was still over two hours flight away, but would arrive on schedule. On the star, at least in the Narmspace section, everything was quiet, and in the main control offices and in the transmitter room normal working conditions had been restored. A room portal twenty feet away opened suddenly, and Retall Destone stepped out. "'So there you are,' she observed. Quillen looked mildly surprised, then grinned. "'I'd hate to have to try to hide from you,' he said. "'Hmmm,' said Retall. She smiled. "'What are you drinking?' He nodded in an open liquor cabinet near the screen. "'Blaidon was leaving some excellent stuff behind. Join me?' "'Hmmm.' She went to the cabinet, looked over the bottles, made her selection, and filled a glass. "'One has the impression,' she remarked, that you were hiding from me. "'One does. I'd have to be losing my cut and big in mind.' "'Not necessarily.' Retall brought the drink over to his chair, sat down on the armrest with it. "'You might just have a rather embarrassing problem to get worked out, before you give little Retall a chance to start asking questions about it.' Quillen looked surprised. "'What gave you that notion?' "'Oh,' Retall said. "'Hadding things up gave me that notion. Care to hear what the things were?' "'Go ahead, doll.' "'First,' said Retall. "'I understand that a while ago, after you had first sent me off to do some little job for you, you were in the transmitter room having a highly private, shielded and scrambled conversation with somebody on board the Camelot.' "'Boy, yes,' Quillen said. "'I was talking to the ship's security office there, arranging to have a Federation police boat, pick up what's left of the Commodore's boys and the Brotherhood in the subspace section.' "'And that,' said Retall, "'is why that embarrassing little problem begins. Next, I noticed, as I say, that you were showing this tendency to avoid a chance for a private talk between us, and after thinking about that for a little, and also about a few other things which came to mind at around that time, I went to see Ryder.' "'Now why?' Retall ran her fingers soothingly through his hair. "'Let me finish, big boy.' "'I found Ryder and Orca in a highly nervous condition. And you know why they're nervous? They're convinced that some time before the Camelot gets here you're going to do them both in.' "'Mmm,' said Quillen. "'Ryder,' she went on, "'besides being nervous, is also very bitter. In retrospect, he says, it's all very plain what you've done here. You and your associates, a couple of tough boys named Hagredi and Bolton, and others not identified, are also after these halats. The Duke made some mention of that, too, you remember. The Commodore and Ryder bought the store you told them because a transmitter check produced the information that Hagredi and Bolton had in fact left their usual work areas and gone off on some highly secret business about a month ago. Ryder feels that your proposition to let your gang in on the deal for twenty percent or else was made in something less than good faith. He's concluded that when you learned of the operation being planned by Valadin and the Brotherhood you and your pals decided to obstruct them and take the halats for delivery to Yako yourselves without cutting anybody in. He figures that somebody like Hagredi or Bolton is coming in on the Camelot with a flock of sturdy henchmen to do just that. You personally rushed to the seventh star to interfere as much as you could here. Ryder admits reluctantly that you did an extremely good job of interfering. He says it's now obvious that every move you made since you showed up had the one purpose of setting the star group and the Brotherhood at each other's throats, and now that they practically wiped each other out, you and your associates can go unhappily with your original plans. But of course you can't do that if Ryder and Orca are picked up alive by the Federation cops. The boys down in the subspace section don't matter. Their ordinary gun-hands, and all they know, is that you were somebody who showed up on the scene. But Ryder could, and certainly would, talk. Ah, he's too imaginative, Quillen said, taking a swallow of his drink. I never heard of the halats before I came here. As I told you, I'm on an entirely different kind of job at the moment. I had to make up some kind of story to get in with the boys, that's all. So you're not going to knock those two weasels off? No such intentions. I don't mind them sweating about it until the feds arrive, but that's it. What about Bolton and Hoggreddy? What about them? I did happen to know that if anyone started asking questions about those two, he'd learn that neither had been near his regular beat for close to a month. I'll bet, Retall said cryptically. What do you mean by that? Hmm, she said. Bad news, Quillen. A really tough boy, for sure. You know, I didn't believe for an instant that you were after the halats. Why not? Retall said, I've been on a couple of operations with you, and you'd be surprised how much I've picked up about you from time to time on the side. Swiping a shipment of odd animals and selling them to Yako, that could be bad news. In character. Selling a couple of hundred human beings like Prague can solve a kinmarin to go along with the animals to an outfit like Yako would not be in character. So I have a heart of gold, Quillen said. So you fell all over your big feet about half a minute ago, Retall told him. Bad news, Quillen. With no interest whatsoever in the halats, still couldn't afford to let Ryder live to talk about him to the feds, big boy. Quillen looked reflective for a moment. Pretty trick, he observed. For that, you might freshen up my glass. Retall took both glasses over to the liquor cabinet, freshened them up, and settled down on the armrest of the chair again. So here we are, back to the embarrassing little problem, she said. Ryder? No, idiot. We both know that Ryder is headed for rehabilitation. Fifteen years or so of it is a guess. The problem is little Retall, who has now learned a good deal more than she was ever intended to learn. Does she head for rehabilitation, too? Quillen took a swallow of his drink and set the glass down again. Are you suggesting, he inquired, that I might be, excuse the expression, a cop? Retall patted his head. Bad news, Quillen. Let's look back at his record. What do we find? A shambles, mainly. Smashed-up organizations, outfits, gangs. Top-level crooks with suddenly vacant expressions and unexplained holes in their heads. Why go on? The name is awfully well earned. And nobody realizing anything, because the ones who do realize it suddenly—well, where are Bolton and Hagretty at the moment? Quillen sighed. Since you keep bringing it up, Hagretty played it smart, so he's in rehabilitation. Be cute if Ryder ran into him there some day. Pappy Bolton didn't want to play it smart. I'm not enough of a philosopher to make a guess of where he might be at present, but I knew he wouldn't be talking. All right, Retall said, we've got that straight. Bad news is intelligence of some kind. Maybe—maybe one of the services—it doesn't matter, really, I suppose. Now, what about me? He reached out and tapped his glass with a fingertip. That about you, doll. You filled it. I'm drinking it. I might not think quite as fast as you do, but I still think. Would I take a drink from a somewhat lawless and very clever lady who really believed I had her lined up for rehabilitation? Or who'd be at all likely to blab out something that would ruin her old pal's reputation? Retall ran her fingers to his hair again. I noticed the deal with the drink, she said. I guess I just wanted to hear you say it. You don't tell on me. I don't tell on you. Is that it? That's it, Quillen said. What Ryder and Arka want to tell the Feds doesn't matter. It stops there. The Feds will have the word on me before they arrive. By the way, did you go wake up the Kin Martens yet? Not yet. Retall said too busy getting the office help soothed down and back to work. Well, let's finish these drinks and go do that, then. The little doll's almost bound to be asleep by now, but you might still be sitting there biting nervously at her pretty knuckles. Major Hester Quillen, of space scout intelligence, was looking unhappy. We're still searching for them everywhere, he explained to Cleo. But it's a virtual certainty that the lot got them shortly before it was trapped. Cleoing, a stringy white-haired old gentleman, was an operator of the psychology service in charge of the shipment of lots the Camelot had brought in. He and Quillen were waiting in the vestibule of the seven-star's rest cubicle waltz for Lady Pendrake's cubicle to be brought over from the executive block. Cleoing said reflectively, Couldn't the criminals with whom you were dealing here have hidden a couple away somewhere? There's no way they could have located them so quickly. I made half a dozen portal switches when I was taking Kim Martin to the suite. It would have taken something with a lot's abilities to follow me over that route and stay undetected, and it must be an unusually conning animal to decide to stay out of sight until I'd let it where it wanted to go. Oh, they're intelligent enough, Cleoing agreed absently. Their average basic IQ is probably higher than that of human beings. A somewhat different type of a mentality, of course. Well, when the cubicle arrives I'll question her lot and we'll find out. Quillen looked at him. Does control devices make it possible to hold two-way conversations with the things? Not exactly, Cleoing said. You see, Major, the government authorities who were concerned with the discovery of the lots realized it would be almost impossible to keep some information about them from getting out. The specimen which was here on the star has been stationed at various scientific institutions for the past year. A rather large number of people were involved in investigating it and experimenting with it. In consequence, several little legends about them have been deliberately built up. The legends aren't entirely truthful, so they helped to keep the actual facts about the lots satisfactorily vague. The lot talker is such a legend. Actually the device does nothing. The lots respond to telepathic stimuli, both among themselves and from other beings. Eventually began to correlate such stimuli with the meanings of human speech. The new, Quillen began. Yes. El talker discoverer was a fairly good natural telepath. If he hadn't been abysmally lazy he might have been very good at it. I carry a variety of the service's psionic knickknacks about with me, which gets me somewhat comparable results. He broke off as the vestibule portal dilated widely. Lady Pendricks' cubicle floated through, directed by two gravity crane operators behind it. Clang stood up. Set it there for the present, please. He directed the operators. We may call for you later if it needs to be moved again. He waited until the portal had closed behind the man before walking over to the cubicle. He examined the settings and readings at some length. Hmm. Yes, he said, straightening finally. His expression became absent for a few seconds, then he went on. I'm beginning to grasp the situations, I believe. Let me tell you a few things about the lots, Major. For one, they form quite pronounced likes and dislikes. El talk, for example, would have been described by most of his fellow men as a rather offensive person, but her lots actually became rather fond of him during the fifteen or so years he lived on their island. That's one point. The other has to do with their level of intelligence. We discovered on the way out here that our charges had gained quite as comprehensive an understanding of the functioning of the cubicles that had been constructed for them as any human who was not a technical specialist might do, and he interrupted himself, stood rubbing his chin for a moment. Well, actually, he said, that should be enough to prepare you for a look inside the lots cubicle. Quillen gave him a somewhat surprised glance. I've been told it's ugly as sin, he remarked, but I've seen some fairly revolting looking monsters before this. Clayon coughed. That's not exactly what I meant, he said. I—well, let's just open the thing up. Would you mind, Major? Not at all. Quillen stepped over to the side of the cubicle, unlocked the door switch, and pulled it over. They both moved back a few feet before the front of the cubicle. A soft humming came for some seconds from the door's mechanisms, then it suddenly swung open. Quillen stooped to glance inside, straightened instantly again, hair bristling. Where is it? He demanded. The meam devil out in his hand. Clayon looked at him thoughtfully. Not very far away, I believe, but I can assure you, Major, that it hasn't the slightest intention of attacking us, or anyone else, at present. Quillen grunted, looked back into the cubicle. At the far end, the Kin Martins lay side by side, their faces composed. They appeared to be breathing regularly. Yes, Clayon said, they are alive and unharmed. He rubbed his chin again, and I think it would be best if we simply closed the cubicle now. Later we can call a doctor over from the hospital to put them under sedation before they're taken out. They both had thoroughly unnerving experiences, and it would be advisable to awaken them gradually to avoid emotional shock. He moved over to the side of the cubicle, turned the door switch back again. And now for the rest of it, he said. We may as well sit down, Major. This may take a little time. Let's look at the thing for a moment from the viewpoint of the lot. He resumed when he was once more comfortably seated. El Tock's death took it by surprise. It hadn't at that moment grasped what the situation in the executive block was like. It took itself out of sight for the moment, killing one of the gang leaders in the process, then began prowling about the various levels of the building, picking up information from the mines and conversations of the men it encountered. In a fairly short time it learned enough to understand what was planned by the criminals, and it arrived at precisely your own conclusion that it might be possible to reduce and demoralize the gangs to the extent that they would no longer be able to carry out their plan. It began a systematic series of attacks on them with that end in mind. But meanwhile you had come into the picture. The lot was rather puzzled by your motive at first, because there appeared to be an extraordinary degree of discrepancy between what you were saying and what you were thinking. But after observing your activities for a while it began to comprehend what you were trying to do. It realized that your approach was more likely to succeed than its own, and that further action on its side might interfere with your plans, but there remained one thing for it to do. I may tell you in confidence, Major, that another legend which has been spread about these lots is their supposed inability to escape from the cubicles, even the attendant to supplied with this particular bit of misinformation. Actually, the various force fields in the cubicles don't have at them in the least. The cubicles are designed simply to protect the halats and keep them from being seen, and rest cubicles, of course, can be taken anywhere without arousing undue curiosity. You mentioned that the Kin Martens are very likeable young people. The halat had the same feeling about them. They were the only human beings aside from LTAC with whose minds it had become quite familiar. There was no assurance at this point that the plans to prevent a bomb from being exploded in the star would be successful, and the one place where human beings could hope to survive such an explosion was precisely the interior of the halat's cubicle, which had been constructed to safeguard its occupant against any kind of foreseeable accident. So the halat sprang your cubicle trap, removed the bait, carried the Kin Martens inside, and whipped out of the cubicle again before the rest current could take effect on it. It concluded correctly that everyone would decide it had been recaptured. After that it moved about the executive block, observing events there, and prepared to take action again if that appeared to be advisable. When you had concluded your operation successfully, it remained near the cubicle, waiting for me to arrive. Quillen shook his head. That's quite an animal, he observed after some seconds. You say it's in our general vicinity now? Yes, Cleung said. It followed the cubicle down here, and has been drifting about the walls of the vestibule while we... well, while I talked. Why doesn't it show itself? Cleung cleared his throat. For two reasons, he said. One is that rather large gun you're holding on your knees. It's saw you use it several times, and after all the shooting in the executive block, you see, Quillen slid the meam devil into its holster. Sorry, he said. Of course of habit, I guess. Actually of course. You stood for some minutes now that I wasn't... well, what's the other reason? I'm afraid, Cleung said, that you offended it with your remark about its appearance. Lots may have their share of vanity. At any rate, it seems to be salt-king, said Quillen. Well, I'm sure, he went on rather loudly, that it understands I received the description from a prejudiced source. I'm quite willing to believe it was highly inaccurate. Hmm, said Cleung. That seems to have done it, Major. The wall directly across from us. Something like a ripple passed along the south wall of the vestibule. Then the wall darkened suddenly, turned black. Quillen blinked, and the halate came into view. It hung, spread out like a spider along half the length of the vestibule wall. Something like a huge hairy amoeba in overall appearance, though the physical structures under the coarse black pelt must be very un-amoeba-like complexity. No eyes were in sight, but Quillen had the impression of being regarded steadily. Here and there, along the edges and over the surface of the body, were a variety of flexible extensions. Quillen stood up, hitched his gun-belt into position, and started over toward the wall. Lady Pendrake, he said, honour to meet you. Could we shake hands? End of Part 6 End of Lion Loose by James H. Schmitz Read by Winston Tharp