First Command (6 page)

And what did Andronicus import?

Diomedes might know.

Finishing his meal, Brasidus wandered into the recreation hall. He bought a mug of sweet wine from the steward on duty, sat down to watch television. There was the news first—but there was no mention of the landing of
Seeker III
. Fair enough. The Council had still to decide what to say about it as well as what to do about it. The main coverage was of the minor war in progress between Pharis and Messenia. Peisander, the Messenian general, was something of an innovator. Cleombrotus of Pharis was conservative, relying upon his hoplites to smash through the Messenian lines, and his casualties, under the heavy fire of the Messenian archers, were heavy. There were those who maintained that the bow should be classed as a firearm and its use forbidden to the ordinary soldiery, those not in the Police Battalion. Of course, if the hoplites, with their spears and swords, got loose among the archers, there would be slaughter. Against that, the archers, lightly armored, far less encumbered, could run much faster. The commentator, hovering above the battlefield, made this same comment, and Brasidus congratulated himself upon his grasp of military principles.

Following the news came a coverage of the games at Helos. Brasidus watched the wrestling bouts for a while, then got up and left the hall. After all, the games were no more than a substitute for war—and war, to every Spartan worth his salt, was the only sport for a man. Nonlethal sports were only for helots.

Finding the duty orderly, the Sergeant gave instructions to be called at 2330 hours.

He was almost at the créche when he saw a slight form ahead of him. He quickened his pace, overtook the other pedestrian. As he had thought it would be, it was Achron.

The nurse was pleased to see him. He said, “I rang the barracks, Brasidus, and they told me that you were on duty all day.”

“I was, but I’m off the hook now.”

“You were at the spaceport, weren’t you? Is it true that this ship is from outside, with a crew of monsters?”

“Just a ship,” Brasidus told him.

“But the monsters?”

“What monsters?”

“Horribly deformed beings from outer space. Mutants.”

“Well, Diomedes and myself were entertained on board by the commander, and he’s human enough.”

“More than you can say for Diomedes,” commented Achron spitefully. “I used to like him once, but not any more. Not after what he did.”

“What did he do?”

“I’ll tell you sometime. Are you coming in, Brasidus?”

“Why not?”

“Telemachus will be pleased. He was saying to me what a fine example you are to the average Spartan.”

“Back again, Sergeant?” the old man greeted him. “I shall soon think that you would welcome a return to the bad old days of budding.”

“Hardly,” said Brasidus, trying to visualize the difficulties that would be experienced in the use of weapons when encumbered by undetached offspring.

“And were you out at the spaceport today, Brasidus?”

“Yes.”

“What are they really like, these monsters?”

“Captain Diomedes bound us all to secrecy.”

“A pity. A pity. If you were to tell me what you saw, it would never go beyond the walls of this building.”

“I’m sorry, Telemachus. You’ll just have to wait until the news is released by the Council.”

“The Council.” The old man laughed bitterly. “In my day there were men of imagination serving on it. But now . . .” He looked up at the wall clock. “Well, in you go. Phillip is waiting for his relief. He was most unpleasant when he discovered that I had detained you this time yesterday.”

Brasidus followed his friend to the ward where he was on duty. This time Phillip was in a better mood—and he, too, tried to pump the Sergeant about the day’s events at the spaceport. Finally he gave up and left the two friends. As before, Brasidus allowed himself to be led to the sons who might be his own. Yet again he was unable to detect any real resemblance. And then—it was what he had been waiting for—all the babies awoke.

He retreated hastily, as any normal man would have done, leaving Achron to cope. But he did not go to the door by which he had entered, but to the farther doorway. He waited there for a minute or so, thinking that Doctor Heraklion or one of his colleagues might be attracted by the uproar—but, after all, such noises were common enough in the créche.

But neither Heraklion nor anybody else appeared in the long, dimly lit corridor, and Brasidus decided to venture further afield. He was barefooted, so could walk silently. He was wearing a civilian tunic, which was advantageous. Should anybody who did not know him see him, his appearance would be less likely to cause alarm than if he was in uniform.

Cautiously he advanced along the corridor. His own was the only movement. If there were any sounds, he could not hear them for the bawling behind him. On either side of the corridor there were numbered doors. Storerooms? Laboratories? Cautiously he tried one. It was locked.

He continued his prowl. It was a long corridor, and he did not wish to get too far from the ward—yet this was a golden opportunity to find something out. He came to a cross passageway, hesitated. He saw that a chair was standing just inside the left-hand passage. Presumably it had just been evacuated—there was a book open, face down, on the seat, a flagon and a mug beside it. A guard? If so, not a very good one. No doubt he had some pressing reason for deserting his post—but he would never have done so, at no matter what cost to personal dignity, had he been a member of the military caste. A helot, then—or even a doctor? Heraklion? Brasidus did not know what the man’s hours of duty were, but they could coincide with or overlap Achron’s.

He picked up the book, looked at the title. Galactic Spy, by Delmar Brudd. Yet another of those odd double names. He turned to the title page, saw that the novel had been published by the Phoenix Press, Latterton, on the planet of Latterhaven. So this was a sample of the manufactured goods exported by that planet. But why should these books not be put into general circulation? If it were a question of freight, large editions could easily be printed here on Sparta.

He was suddenly aware that a door was opening. He heard someone say, “I must leave you, dear. After all, it is my turn for sentry duty.”

A strange voice replied. It was too high-pitched, held an odd, throaty quality. Yet it was oddly familiar. What—who—did it remind Brasidus of? Even as he slid silently back around the corner—but not before he had replaced the book as he had found it—he had the answer. It sounded like the voice of the Arcadian, Margaret Lazenby. It was certainly not the voice of any native of Sparta.

Still, Brasidus was reluctant to retreat. He continued to peer around the corner, ready to jerk back in a split second. “I prefer you to the others, Heraklion,” the Arcadian was saying.

“I’m flattered, Sally. But you shouldn’t have come to me. It’s very dangerous. If Orestes found that I’d deserted my post, there’d be all hell let loose. And besides . . .”

“Besides what?”

“Only last night—or, rather, yesterday morning—that revolting young pansy Achron had his boyfriend with him in the ward—and this same boyfriend is a police sergeant. A dumb one, luckily. Even so, we have to be careful.”

“But why, Heraklion, why? You’re priests as well as doctors. You control this planet. It would be easy for you to engineer a rough parity of the numbers of men and women—and then just let Nature take its course.”

“You don’t understand . . .”

“That’s what you’re always saying. But you saw to it that we were educated and drew some farfetched analogy between ourselves and the hetaerae of ancient Greece. I know that we’re petted and pampered—but only within these walls. We’ve never seen outside them. Is that how women live on Latterhaven, on Terra, on all the Man-colonized planets?”

“You don’t understand, Sally.”

“No. Of course not. I’m only a woman. And it’s obvious that you don’t want me, so I’m getting back to my own quarters. To the harem.” This final word, dripping contempt, was strange to Brasidus.

“As you will.”

“And the next time you come to me, I shall be busy.”

The door opened properly, but still Brasidus did not withdraw his head. The couple who emerged from the storeroom or whatever it was had their backs to him. The shorter of the pair was dressed in a brief, black tunic woven from some transparent material. His lustrous, auburn hair hung to his smooth, gleaming shoulders and his rounded buttocks gleamed through the flimsy garment. He walked with a peculiarly provocative swing of the hips. Brasidus stared after him—and so, luckily, did Heraklion. Before the doctor could turn, Brasidus withdrew, hurried silently back along the corridor. There were no shouts, no pursuit. The only noise came from the ward, where Achron—and what was a pansy?—still had not pacified his charges.

Conquering his repugnance, Brasidus went in. “Can I help?” he asked the nurse.

“Oh, you’re still here, Brasidus. I thought you’d have run away ages ago. Bring me some bottles from the dispenser, will you? You know how.”

Brasidus obeyed. While he was so engaged, Doctor Heraklion strode through the doorway. “Really, Sergeant,” snapped, “I can’t have this. This is the second time that you’ve come blundering in here, disturbing our charges. I shall have to complain to your superior.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“That isn’t good enough, Sergeant. Leave, please. At once.”

Brasidus left. He would gain nothing by staying any longer. And perhaps he should telephone Diomedes to tell him what he had learned. But what had he learned? That there was a nest of Arcadian spies already on Sparta? Spies—or infiltrators? Infiltratorsthe doctors working in collusion with them?

And how did that tie in with the visit of
Seeker III
, a vessel with Arcadians in its own crew?

Very well indeed, Brasidus told himself. Very well indeed.

He rang Diomedes from the first telephone booth he came to, but there was no answer. He rang again from the barracks, and there was still no answer. He looked at the time, shrugged his shoulders, went to his cubicle and turned in.

While he was having his breakfast, prior to going out to the spaceport, Captain Lycurgus sent for him. “Sergeant,” he said, “I’ve received a complaint. About you. From Doctor Heraklion, at the créche. In future, leave his nurses alone in duty hours.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And one more thing, Brasidus . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“I shall pass the Doctor’s complaint on to Captain Diomedes. I understand that he gives you your real orders these days.”

Chapter 10

DIOMEDES SENT HIS CAR
round to the barracks in the morning to pick up Brasidus. It was another fine day, and the drive out to the spaceport was pleasant. The driver was not disposed to talk, which suited Brasidus. He was turning over and over in his mind what he would tell Diomedes and was wondering what conclusions Diomedes would draw from the events in the créche. Meanwhile, there was the morning air to enjoy, still crisp, not yet tainted by the pungency from the spice fields on either side of the road.

Above the spaceport the ships of the Air Navy still circled and, as the car neared the final approaches, Brasidus noted that heavy motorized artillery as well as squadrons of armored cavalry had been brought up. Whatever John Grimes had in mind, the Police Battalion would be ready for him. But Brasidus did not regret that he had not, as a recruit, been posted to a mechanized unit. A hoplite such as himself was always fully employed, the armored cavalry, but rarely, the artillery, almost never.

The main gates opened as the car, without slackening speed, approached them. The duty guard saluted smartly—the vehicle rather than himself, Brasidus guessed. There was a spectacular halt in a column of swirling dust outside the Security office. Diomedes was standing in the doorway. He sneezed, glared at the driver, withdrew hastily into the building. Brasidus waited until the dust had subsided before getting out of the car.

“That Agis!” snarled the Captain as he sketchily acknowledged Brasidus’ salute, “I’ll have him transferred to the infantry!”

“I’ve seen him do the same when he’s been driving you, sir.”

“Hmph! That’s different, young man. Well, he got you here in good time. Just as well, as I’ve instructions for you.”

“And I’ve a report for you, sir.”

“Already, Brasidus? You’ve wasted no time.” He smiled greasily. “As a matter of fact, I’ve already had a call from Captain Lycurgus, passing on a complaint from Doctor Heraklion. What did you learn?”

Brasidus, who possessed a trained memory, told his superior what he had seen and heard. Diomedes listened intently. Then he asked, “And what do you think, Brasidus?”

“That Arcadians were already on Sparta before
Seeker
landed, sir.”

“Arcadians? Oh, yes. The twin-turreted androids. Did you hear that rumor, too? And how do you think they got here?”

“There could have been secret landings, sir. Or they could have been smuggled in aboard
Latterhaven Venus
and
Latterhaven Hera
.”

“And neither of these theories throws Security in a very good light, does it? And the smuggling one rather reflects upon the spaceport guards.”

“They needn’t be smuggled in as adults, sir. Children could be hidden in some of those crates discharged by the Latterhaven ships. They could be drugged, too, so that they couldn’t make any noise.”

“Ingenious, Brasidus. Ingenious. But I’ve been aboard the Venus and the Hera often enough and, believe me, it would be impossible for either ship to carry more than her present complement. Not even children. They’re no more than cargo boxes with a handful of cubicles, cells that we should consider inadequate for our criminals, perched on top of them.”

“The cargo holds?”

“No. You can’t have a man—or a child—living in any confined space without his leaving traces.”

“But they didn’t just happen, sir. The Arcadians, I mean.”

“Of course not. They either budded from their fathers or came out of a birth machine.” Diomedes seemed to find this amusing. “No, they didn’t just happen. They were either brought here or came here under their own power. But why?”