Killashandra did have to endure the official apologies and insincere protestations of the Elders, all nine of them. She made the obligatory responses, consoling herself with the thought that their days were numbered, and she would shorten that number as much as possible. She pretended to be far weaker than she actually was, for once the symbiont began its work, her recovery was markedly swift. But, for official visits, she managed to assume the appearance of debility so that her convalescence had to be supervised by Nahia and Hauness, skilled medical practitioners that they were. This gave the conspirators ample time to plan an orderly and discreet exodus of people in jeopardy from Elderly tyrannies.

  Olav had smuggled his miniature detector unremarked into the Conservatory as a piece of Hauness’s diagnostic equipment. At first they had been bitterly disappointed when it responded to Lar’s proximity, despite his pockets being full of white crystal shards. If Trag approached with Lars, the device remained silent, so Killashandra’s theory that crystal resonance confused the detector was correct. But her resonance was gone and, with the imminent arrival of the scout ship, there would be no chance for Trag to usher a few refugees past the security curtain at the shuttleport arch.

  Fortunately Lars also remembered that Killashandra had disrupted the monitors by singing the crystal fragments. These, resonating discordantly as the wearer hummed, fooled the detector. It was then only a matter of experimentation to discover just what quantity of crystal provided adequate shielding. Perfect pitch was actually a handicap, the more out-of-tune the note, the more the white crystal reacted, and deluded the detector.

  A week after the attack, Olav had no further excuse to stay at the Conservatory, and left, it was said, for the islands. He had been able to convince the Elders of his determination to send more islanders to the public concerts. Actually, he stayed in the City and made a few minor but important alterations to his appearance. The next day, he reported to Hauness and Nahia in Killashandra’s suite, bearing documents that proved him to be the qualified empath whom Hauness and Nahia had drafted from their clinic to attend Killashandra. Now that Killashandra was recovering, they wished to return to their other patients in Ironwood.

  “Nahia’s the one who ought to be leaving,” Lars had bitterly objected. “She’s the most vulnerable of us all.”

  “No, Lars,” Trag had said. “She is needed here, and she needs to be here for reasons which you might not understand but for which I esteem her.”

  Trag’s unstinted approval of the woman did much to placate Lars but he told Killashandra that, in leaving, he keenly felt himself the traitor.

  “Then come back with the Revision Force,” she said, more than a little irritated by Lars’s self-reproach on this and other issues. She immediately regretted the suggestion at the look of relief in Lars’s face. But it was a solution which could resolve many of Lars’s doubts, especially when she knew he loved his home world and would be happy enough sailing the Pearl Fisher around the islands. She was somewhat relieved that Lars would be happy on Optheria once the government had been changed. “The Federation will need people with leadership potential. Trag says it usually takes a full decade before a new provisional government is appointed, much less ratified by the Federation. You might even end up a bureaucrat.”

  Lars snorted derisively. “That’s the most unlikely notion you’ve had. Not that I wouldn’t like to get back here unprejudiced. I’d like to make sure the change is going to be beneficial.”

  “And ensure that you had official permission to sail about in your beloved islands.” She managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice for she could think of many things that a man with Lars’s abilities and talents could do, once free to move about the galaxy. It rankled that her body was not sufficiently mended to add that argument to verbal ones. Lars was treating her as if she were fragile. He was gentle and affectionate. His caresses, though frequent, were undemanding, leaving her frustrated. He was so solitious of her comfort that she was frequently tempted to wreak a bit of violence on him. Although her jagged, red scars looked more painful than they were, a lover as considerate as Lars had always been would be reluctant to approach her. The symbiont couldn’t work fast enough for her. But would it have repaired her before the scout ship brought them to the Regulus Federation Base? She tried to overcome her desire for Lars and to ignore the fact that time was running out for them both.

  It was too soon and not soon enough when Mirbethan communicated the imminent arrival of the scout ship, the CS 914. Then she was called upon to witness Trag’s confrontation of Lars, in the presence of the astonished, and delighted, Elders Ampris and Torkes as the Guildmember, imposing in his righteous indignation and wrath, accused Lars Dahl of infamous acts against the person of Killashandra Ree, and displayed the Federal Warrant. Against Killashandra’s loud cries of distress and disillusionment over her erstwhile lover’s felonies, Ampris and Torkes struggled to contain their exultation over the arrest.

  Trag’s timing was superb and his manner so daunting that, with the Federal Scout ship landed in the shuttleport valley, the Elders were left with no option but to permit the arrest and the deportation of their erring citizen. There was no doubt they were delighted, though deprived of the joy of punishing him, that the Federal justice due to be meted out to Lars Dahl would be far more severe than their Charter allowed them. Among the others vindicated by this unexpected climax was Security Officer Blaz, who clamped restraints on Lars’s wrists with undisguised satisfaction.

  What was supposed to have been a dignified farewell to their auspicious guests was hastily cancelled by Ampris, waving off the various instructors and senior students gathered on the steps of the Conservatory. Presently only Torkes, Mirbethan, Pirinio, and Thyrol were left.

  Lars was strong-armed by Blaz into the waiting transport and it was difficult for Killashandra not to react to that treatment. Or deliver an appropriate parting shaft at the officious Blaz. But she was supine on the grav-stretcher guided by the disguised Olav and she had to concentrate on looking ill to require the services of an empath.

  When Torkes stepped forward, obviously about to say something which would nauseate her, she forestalled him. “Don’t jostle me when you load this floating mattress,” she irritably warned Olav.

  “Yes, let us not unnecessarily prolong our leave-taking,” Trag said, giving the float a little push into the ground transport. “Scout pilots are notoriously short-tempered. Is the prisoner secure?” Trag’s voice was the cold of glaciers as he glanced back at his prisoner, and Security Captain Blaz growled a reassurance. He had insisted on personally turning over this felon to the scout captain.

  It was a silent journey, only Blaz enjoying his circumstances. Lars affected an appropriate dejected, fearful pose, not looking up from his hand restraints. From her position, Killashandra could see nothing but the upper stories of buildings and then sky, and they passed so fluidly she experienced motion sickness; she spoke severely to her symbiont until the reaction disappeared. Trag was staring stolidly out the window on the seat in front of her, and Olav was beyond her view. Rather an ignominious departure to all appearances. And yet, a triumphant one, considering what she and Trag and Lars had accomplished.

  She contented herself with that reflection but it was with considerable relief that she saw the spires of the shuttle port appear, approach, and pass by as the transport was driven to the landing site of the scout ship. It was on its tail fins, ready for take-off; the mobile scout pilot waited for her passengers by the lift on the ground.

  “There is no way I am going up that,” and Killashandra pointed to the lift, “in this,” and she slapped the grav-stretcher.

  “Guildmember, you have been—” Olav began firmly.

  “Don’t ‘Guildmember’ me, medic,” she said, raising up on her elbow. “Just get me off this thing. I’ll leave this planet as I got on it, on my own two feet.”

  The transport stopped and Trag and Olav were quick to get her float out.

  “Chadria, Scout Pilot of the CS 914,” said the trim woman in the Scout Service blue, walking forward to lend an unobtrusive hand. “My ship’s name is Samel!” A smile lurked in her eyes but fled as Security Officer Blaz hauled Lars unceremoniously out of the transport and roughly propelled him to the lift.

  “Where do I stow the prisoner, Scout Pilot Chadria?” he said in an ill-tempered growl.

  “Nowhere until the Guildmembers are settled,” Chadria replied. She turned to Killashandra. “If you’re more comfortable on the float—”

  “I am not!” Killashandra swung her legs over the side of the float, and Olav hastily adjusted its height so that she only had to step off it to be erect. Lars moved forward but was hauled back to Blaz’s side and she could see him tensing in rebellion. “Trag!” The man supported her around the waist. “Permission to come aboard, Chadria, Samel!”

  “Permission granted,” scout and ship replied simultaneously.

  The unexpected male voice, apparently issuing about his feet, startled an exclamation out of Blaz. A small, superior smile twitched at Lars’s lips, hastily erased but reassuring to Killashandra.

  She let herself be conducted to the lift by Trag and the medic, wondering how Olav would be able to stay if Blaz continued in his officious manner. There was no hint of uncertainty in either man’s face so she decided to let them worry about such a minor detail. She remembered to salute the ship as she stepped aboard.

  “Welcome, Killashandra, Trag. And you, gentle medic.” The ship spoke in a baritone voice which rippled with good humor. “If you will be seated, Chadria will be up in just a moment.”

  “How are we going to get rid of Blaz? And keep Olav?” Killashandra whispered urgently to Trag.

  “Watch,” Samel said and one of the screens above the pilot’s console lit up, displaying a view of the lift.

  “I’ll take control of this fellow, now,” Chadria was saying as she pulled a wicked little hand-weapon from her belt. “I was told to secure quarters aboard. And there’s nothing he can do to escape a scout ship, Officer. Get on there now, you.”

  The observers could see the conflict in Blaz’s face but Chadria had pushed Lars onto the lift and stepped on the platform with her back to Blaz so that there was no room for him to accompany them, and no way to dispute the arbitrary decision with someone’s back. That maneuver confused Blaz just long enough. The lift ascended quickly, Blaz watching uncertainly.

  “Permission to board?” Lars said, grinning in at Killashandra.

  “Granted, Lars Dahl!” Samel replied, and Chadria stepped beside Lars in the airlock, punching out control sequences. The lift collapsed and secured itself, the airlock door closed, Lars and Chadria stepped into the cabin while the inner door slid shut with a final metallic thunk. An alarm sounded.

  On the ground, Blaz reacted to the claxon, suddenly aware that the medic was still on board and not quite sure if that was in order. The transport driver shouted at him as the ship’s drive began to rumble above the noise of the take-off alarm, and Blaz had no recourse but to retreat to safety.

  “Oh, that was well-done!” Killashandra cried and, finding her legs a bit unstable in reaction to the final moments of escape, she sank onto the nearby couch.

  Trag thumbed the bar that released the restraints on Lars’s wrists and Lars stumbled to enfold Killashandra in his arms.

  “Everyone, take a seat,” Chadria warned, sliding into the pilot’s gimballed chair. “We were told to make it a fast exit,” she added with a grin. “Okay, Sam, they’re secure. Let’s shake the dust!”

  Killashandra’s complacency about their confrontation with the Federated Council on Regulus Base altered drastically as the CS 914 began its final approach to the landing strip. The building which housed the administrative offices for that sector of the Federated Sentient Planets covered an area slightly more than twenty klicks square.

  Chadria cheerfully informed her passengers that there was as much again in subterranean levels as above ground, and some storage areas delved as much as a half a klick below Regulus’s surface. Monorail lines connected the sprawling offices with the residential centers thirty and forty klicks away, for most of the workers preferred the nearby valleys and the many amenities available there. Regulus was a good post for everyone.

  From a distance, the profile was awe inspiring. The random pattern of rectangular extrusions above the mass of the complex was silhouetted against the light green early-morning sky. Even Trag was impressed, a reaction which did nothing to assuage Killashandra’s growing sense of doubt. She inched as close to Lars as possible and felt him return the pressure in an answering need for tactile reassurance. But he was nowhere near as tense as she was. Perhaps she was just hypersensitive due to her recent ordeal. As they approached, the building dominated the landscape to the exclusion of any other features on Chinneidigh Plain. Skimmers could then be seen landing and taking off at the myriad entrances, each embellished with official symbols depicting the department housed within.

  “We’re cleared to land at the Judicial Sector,” Chadria said, swinging about in her gimballed chair. “Don’t look so worried.” She grinned up at the three. “They don’t leave you hanging about here for weeks on end. You’ll know by midday. It’s anticipation that gets to you, and waiting!”

  Killashandra knew that Chadria meant to reassure them, for both brain and brawn partners had been excellent hosts, with stories scurrilous and amusing, and stocks of exotic foods and beverages in the scout ship’s well-stocked larder to tempt every taste. With exquisite tact, the others had left Killashandra and Lars to enjoy their own company for the week in which the CS 914 hurtled from one corner of the sector to the Regulan planet at its center. Courtesy, however, had dictated to both Lars and Killashandra that they join the others at mealtimes and for evening conversations, and the occasional rehearsals of Lars’s defense against the warrant’s charges. Trag and Olav had begun a friendly competition over a tri-dimensional maze game which could last up to a day between well-matched players. Chadria and Samel had teamed up against the two men in another contest, one of multiple-choice, which could be expanded to include Lars and Killashandra whenever they chose to play.

  There was a strange dichotomy about that journey: the tug between learning more of each other’s minds and sating their bodies and senses sufficiently to cushion the imminent parting. On the final day, it was more than Killashandra or Lars could endure to make love: instead they sat close together, one pair of hands linked, playing the maze game with an intensity that bordered the irrational.

  Now Chadria swung back to the screens as their progress to the landing site closed with the linear diagram Samel displayed on the situation screen. Killashandra could not restrain the small gasp nor her instinct to clutch at Lars’s hands as the two positions matched and the scout ship settled to the ground.

  “Here we are,” Samel said in a tactfully expressionless tone. “Ground transport is approaching. Glad to have had you all aboard and I hope that Chadria and I will meet you again.”

  Chadria lifted her long frame from the chair, shaking hands with each one in turn, clasping Killashandra’s with an encouraging smile and giving Lars an impish grin before she kissed his cheek in farewell. “Good luck, Lars Dahl! You’ll come out on top! Feel it in my bones.”

  “Me, too,” Samel added, and opened the two lock doors.

  Killashandra wished that she felt as positive. Then, suddenly, there was no way to evade the inevitable. They picked up their carisaks and filed out. Trag and Olav took the lift down first, permitting Lars and Killashandra a few moments privacy.

  Killashandra didn’t know what she had expected but the ground transport was a four-seat skimmer, remote controlled, the purple-gold-and-blue emblem of the FSP Judiciary Branch unobtrusively marking the door panel. She took in a deep breath, looking off to the massive tower of the entrance. As she had done for several days, she repeated to herself that “justice would prevail,” that the much edited wording of the warrant would support their hopes. And that the disclosure of subliminal conditioning would result in the swift dispatch of a revisionary force to overthrow the Elders’ tyranny on Optheria.

  But one Killashandra Ree, one-time resident of the planet Fuerte, barely four years a member of the Heptite Guild, had had no encounters at all with Galactic Justice, and feared it. She had never heard or known anyone who had been either defendant or plaintiff at an FSP court. Her ignorance rankled and her apprehension increased.

  Silently the four settled into the skimmer and it puffed along on its short return journey. It did not, as Killashandra half expected, stop at the imposing entrance. It ducked into an aperture to one side, down a brightly lit subterranean tunnel, and came to a gentle stop at an unmarked platform.

  There a man built on the most generous of scales, uniformed in the Judicial Livery, awaited them. In a state of numbness, Killashandra emerged.

  “Killashandra Ree,” the man said, identifying her with a nod, not friendly but certainly not hostile. “Lars Dahl, Trag Morfane, and Olav Dahl.” He nodded politely as he identified each person. “My name is Funadormi, Bailiff for Court 256 to which this case is assigned. Follow me.”

  “I am Agent Dahl, number—”

  “I know,” the man said pleasantly enough. “Welcome back from exile. This way.” He stepped aside to allow them to enter the lift which had opened in the wall of the platform. “It won’t take long.”

  Killashandra tried to convince herself that his manner was reassuring if his appearance was daunting. He towered above them and both Lars and Trag were tall men. Killashandra and Olav were not many millimeters shorter but she had never felt so diminished by sheer physical proportions. The lift moved, stopped, and its door panel slid open to a corridor, stretching out in either direction, pierced by atriums with trees and other vegetation. Gardens seemed an odd decorative feature of a Judicial building but did nothing to buoy Killashandra’s spirits. She rearranged her fierce grasp on Lars’s fingers, hoping that Funadormi did not see it and that he did, to show this human representative of the Courts that Lars Dahl had her total support.