Lonry glanced a final moment into the mirror toward the shrinking forms of Colan Horeshan and the encamped guntrucks behind, sighed another long moment's annoyance that he couldn't accompany them on patrol.  Horeshan, never one to spend any great length of time at table in Norecomb fortress, might pass another week along these frontiers prowling back wood trails looking for anything of interest.  Companies of guard regulars might prowl up and down narrow back wood tracks leading into tribal country much of this a refuge for sizable bands of highwaymen.  By and large, country west of the frontiers had been quiet for some time now, according Lon Bellton at Norecomb fortress compiling intelligence from spies and back wood scouts wandering the tribes.  Merchanter agents in the employ of Norecomb, however, could always be counted on for various manner of mischief in the nations.  Dish girls in wealthy residences across the commonwealth often turned out to be "princesses" stolen from the nations.
   If in a mood, Colan Horeshan might wander across the southern frontiers, burn some of boss Marquist's Fraelin down.  Boss Marquist and the commonwealth of Fraelin, however, hadn't been a matter of pressing concern for at least the past generation, Fraelin's army a rag tag assortment of misfits and thugs capable of little more than sustaining the old, doddering boss in power, barely capable of containing highwaymen and the like within their own frontiers.  Encounters between Norecomb's and Fraelin's regulars were normally little more than an opportunity to exchange samples of each other's liquor.  After that, company captains might or might not get around to sharing information regarding the movement of highway gangs known to frequent the western mountains of both comnonwealths.
   Norecomb, however, Lonry sighed in grudging resignation, was his problem for the moment, and he turned his attention back to a commonwealth highway adequately maintained by local country councils throughout most of the year.  During the dry summer months, the drive from the western frontiers to Norecomb could be accomplished in a day, particularly in one of the guard's sturdy guntrucks capable of speed even over western roads more suited to horse and mule carts still predominant in this part of the commonwealth.  Spring rains, however, had as usual washed gaping holes into the highway's dirt and gravel surface for considerable distances, a walking pace bone jaring.  At least a day and a half, Lonry sighed, edging the guntruck across another washed out gully.
   Pounding his way along a ridge overlooking the industrial smokestacks of Caerlen town by midmorning, Lonry again reached for the microphone.  Perhaps he was close enough to an operating relay station by now.
   "Caley - you there?" he called, a moment's static crackling through the speaker, then a faint though understandable voice.
   "This is Norecomb speaking on guard one.  You may proceed with your transmission."
   Chuckling in easy mirth for the formal propriety in the voice of a young guards clerk who sat his feet propped at the radio table microphone in one hand and a glass of beer in the other, Lonry again raised his own microphone.
   "Caley, get up off your ass and find Bellton."
   The familiar voice of the guard's deputy commander crackled through the radio's speaker a minute later.
   "Jonn - that you -?"
   "Yeah, Lon - what's going on?"
   "The commonwealth marshal general wants to see you, Jonn.  The Lord High Marshal of the commonwealth insists," amusement evident even in a voice faint with distance.
   The commonwealth marshal, Lonry mumbled, Norecomb's nominally the commonwealth's chief law enforcement official answerable only to the congress.  As far as Lonry knew, only the central committee's private henchmen prowling both Norecomb's lanes and country across the commonwealth searching for the central committee's real or imagined enemies fell beyond the jurisdiction of the marshal general of the commonwealth.
   "What the hell does the marshal of Norecomb want with the guard, Lon?   Can't you see to it yourself?  You're a lot better than I am with all this political garbage."
   "This might be something you want to look into yourself, Jonn.  It's the marshal himself who wants to see you, not one of the central committee's thugs.  And there's nothing on paper, no warrent, summons, anything of the sort.  Olven Lant, it seems, just picked up a telephone - translated, I don't think it's strictly a political matter."
   Makes sense, Lonry decided, gazing toward the radio in speculative quiet another long moment.  Town and country marshals and their uniformed deputies were still the most visible expression of civil authority across the commonwealth.  Provided one's road tax was paid, however, and the vehicle against which the tax had been levied was driven at a reasonably sober speed, uniformed deptuties across the commonwealth were not perceived by the citizenry as a personal threat.  Marshals and their deputies seldom involved themselves in the political process, were content to ignore it as often as possible, were as content as anyone to ignore and be ignored by the central committee's spies.  Cadres of these, stone faced, scowling indiduals in plain business attire, might be found on any town corner across the commonwealth noting the movement of nonconformists labaled such by the central committee.
   But it was Norecomb's marshal, according to Lon Belton, rather than the central committee's plain clothed political thugs, who wanted to see him.
   "All right, Lon," Lonry sighed.  "I'm still in the west.  Tell the - lord high marshal to sit tight.  I'll be there when I can."
   The marshal of Norecomb, Lonry mumbled again, who'd obviously bypassed standard channels of communication in order to request a meeting with the commander of the guard.  Lon Bellton, Lonry again decided, could far more easily than he determine the nuances of things, Lon Bellton comfortable at table in Norecomb fortress, adept at observing and interpreting the political process, quite as adept, Jonn Lonry chuckled, at manipulating the political process.  The guard's deputy commander oversaw a network of spies as extensive as the congress' and the central committee's.  Lon Belton sat at table in Norecomb amidst a couple dozen humming machines and an imponderable myriad of flashing lights the whole tended by a several dozen clerks and technitions scurrying about in every direction.
   "Which is why the present age's 'Caesar' can spend his time in a truck in the middle of nowhere for weeks on end," amused mirth in Lon Bellton's features.
   The marshal general of Norecomb, Olven Lant, as far as Lonry knew, had been marshal of some small, back wood country in the middle of nowhere for most of his life, had busied himself with anything from drunks to the local mob.  The congress of Norecomb, turning to a political "outsider" such as Olven Lant after the death of the former commonwealth marshal rather than appoint someone from Norecomb, had obviously done so in an attempt to recoup at least a measure of its past authority, the new commonwealth marshal expected and supposed to subordinate himself to that authority, content himself tending to drunks and the local mob on Norecomb Town's traffic lanes.
   It had indeed been twenty years now since any commander of the guard had allowed other than nominal and superficial interference in the guard's internal affairs.  Lon Bellton at table in the fortress adeptly identified and removed the central committee's spies who were occasionally infiltrated into the guard's officer corp.  A great many older and established members of the congress resented the situation as it now stood, would never reconcile themselves to the loss of past authority and privilege.
   When Jonn Lonry had assumed command of the guard six months ago, the congress of Norecomb meeting in a hastily summoned session had attempted to invalidate his appointment, arguing that it hadn't been approved in advance by either the congress in general session or the congress' central committee, no one in that which had obviously been a collective act of desperation bothering to consider that the commonwealth guard hadn't sought the congress' opinion on a great deal of anything for the past twenty years.  Jonn Lonry had immediately called the congress' bluff.  A sketch on the front page of Norecomb's and a dozen other newspapers across the commonwealth had shown a member of congress knocking on and then walking away from Norecomb fortress' main gate an angry scowl in his features.  Jonn Lonry had positioned guntruck
companies along every road leading into Norecomb, squads of gun boats in the harbor, a massive military "exercise" its point lost on no one.   The congress of Norecomb, more than a few of its members sitting in the congress house's spires, had had a clear view of gun barrels pointed in their direction, members who had climbed up to the congress house's spires frantically dashing back down the spiral stairs when guard aircraft their engines an ear splitting shriek began diving on those same spires.
  The whole thing had simmered at the boiling point for a week.  Telephone exchanges in
country across the commonwealth had been jammed with all manner of rumor, civilization along the North Coast in its entirety shuddering with trepidation.  Sirenia and the east had of course shuddered convulsively, massed formations of their guntrucks flung with frantic desperation onto their western frontiers.  Civil war in the commonwealth of Norecomb, indisputably the military and industrial power of the age, wasn't to be taken lightly by anyone.  And the whole thing, over the next several weeks, had just gone away, no clear resolution to the matter on either side.  Jonn Lonry was de facto commander of the commonwealth guard, and that was that.  Emissaries from neighboring lands still presented themselves to the congress of Norecomb amid various manner of pomp and ceremony.  An emissary's aids presented themselves to Norecomb fortress if matters other than those of ceremonial consequence needed attention.  The entire affair had, however, left Jonn Lonry another week or two in brooding annoyance.  Why had eight dozen old men in the congress chosen him in their attempt to recoup something which hadn't been a fact for a generation.  By and large, however, Lonry was now more than content just to ignore Norecomb and its congress, might smirk a moment's amused mirth shown a cartoon in another newspaper depicting members of the the commonwealth congress climbing toward a toga clad figure in the fortress with laurel wreath on head.  Jonn Lonry had even offered the occasional gesture of conciliatory, titular subordination, might engage in polite conversation with this or that ranking member of congress encountering them near the fortress, though he always retreated from such impromptu encounters watching his back, anxious for the quiet seclusion of some back wood where he could just escape Norecomb and its unending political intrigue.
   Lonry glanced another few moments toward another outcountry farm nestled in a green, picturesque valley in Caerlen country.  A small procession of pony carts laden with vegetables plodded along a narrow dirt track beneath the ridge along which he now drove. An overland freight belching black clouds of smoke lumbered along in the near distance.  Plunging finally into another stretch of dark, silent forest, Lonry throttled the guntruck to speed, one hand to the wheel as he gazed off into the wood in idle ease.  Old plank bridges crossed the occasional swiftly flowing stream along the banks of which various manner of wildlife could be seen.  The deer population had been high for several years now.  A large buck with an impressive rack stood watching the guntruck's progress near another bridge.  Lonry was tempted to reach for the rifle cradled between the guntruck's seats, decided against doing so, however, just as quickly.  Caerlen's marshal happening along would likely protest the poaching with no great display of vehemence given the identity of the poacher.  The congress, however, Lonry sighed, would perceive the incident as just another opportunity for various manner of mischief.
   Climbing onto the high plains of Syrome country, Lonry gazed another idle moment toward a small herd of dairy cattle grazing a short distance from another small outcountry farm.  He'd been brought up on a farm very similar in appearence, wished at times that he'd never left it.  Work on an outcountry farm could be as exhausting at any.  Lonry had seen enough of it to be fully aware of the fact.  But riding herd over cattle grazing placidly in the warming sun seemed preferable at the moment to the difficulties with which he now had to cope.
   Finally deciding that he'd had enough of the guntruck for the day, Lonry edged it to a stop at the side of the highway.  He sat another moment examining a stretch of road ahead, five hudred yards, straight and level.  It would do, he decided as he reached for the microphone.  He might, in another mood, have just idled on the rest of the day, might have arrived back in Norecomb "whenever."  Not this time, he sighed, snapping the radio onto the air frequency.
   "Who's up around Syrome?" he called into the microphone.
   "Who wants to know?" came a quick, curt answer.
   "Lonry, boss of the first."
   Another short interval of silence, and then the same voice in tones markedly more subdued.
   "Anson here, boss, over White Hill."
   "Anson - I need you two miles west of Syrome.  You'll see a truck long side the highway.  Think you can get here without getting lost?"
   "Ten minutes, boss."
    Lonry set the microphone aside, climbed from the truck, and leaned at its hood, the gentle warmth of the sun another moment's respite from life's annoyances.  Ten minutes later the distinctive drone of an aircraft's engine resounded in the near distance.
   "Couple degrees right," Lonry called.
   "Got ya," the radio crackled.
   "Good.  You got a couple hundred yards of road in front of the truck, plenty wide, no wind.  Think you can handle that without denting my airplane?"
   "No problem, boss."
   In easy amusement, Lonry gazed toward a type four aircraft handled with reasonable proficiency, a cautious, circling approach as it descended toward the highway, a quick puff of dust as it settled into a landing roll. A short minute later, the young flyer had maneuvered the plane back toward the guntruck, rolling to a stop a few yards away.
   "I need to borrow this thing for awhile," Lonry pronounced as a young flyer climbed to the ground.  "Take the truck.  Try and get it back to your fortress in one piece," and an eighteen year old guardsman, Lonry supposed, would steal as much of the day as possible in a Syrome town Way House tavern.  The guntruck roaring off down the road, Lonry turned for the aircraft, a type four a deadly looking machine indeed, heavy caliber guns in both wings, struts along the fuselage onto which various manner of ordinance could be attached.  The casual observer, however, could never appreciate the capabilities of this aircraft on the ground, they eminently observable only in the air by potential adversaries.  Aircraft, twenty years ago when Lonry had first contracted into the guard, had been little more than flying kites.  A particularly daring flyer might have been capable of rendering a guntruck inoperable popping bullets into it's engine from his pistol, would, however, have been hard pressed to escape return fire in a machine capable of little more than ninety knots.  The type four was something altogether different.  Old Abby Swane, Jonn Lonry sighed, was quite correct.  The commonwealth guard armed as it now was, its commander if in a mood was quite capable of burning most of the civilized North to the ground.  He and Colan Horeshan just several months ago had witnessed aircraft deliver ordinance onto testing grounds on an island in Rupcrt Gulf not far from Norecomb, the explosions of sufficient strength, both Lonry and Horeshan had grinned in unpretended satisfaction, to rattle every window in the congress house.
   Climbing onto the wing and finally settling behind the plane's controls, Lonry decided as he had often enough over the past twenty years that he hadn't any particular desire to find either himself or the commonwealth guard engaged in hostilities of the sort one might anticipate with Sirenia and the east.  Tribal country in the west or a doddering old boss in Fraelin provided the guard more than sufficient occupation for the time being.
   Engaging the aircraft's starter, the engine spinning rapidly to life, Lonry turned his attention fully and finally to the task at hand, a type four demanding little less.  Grasping the stick with his right hand, the throttle with his left, he edged the plane forward, lined carefully onto the highway, then pushed the throttle to the stop.  The quiet rumble of the engine quickly wound into an authoritative, powerful whine, the aircraft surging forward with a rapidity still seeming a piercing little thrill.  Short seconds later, Lonry sensed the wheels floating tentively from ground.  Had this been the mile long runway at Norecomb's fortress, he might have held the stick forward, allowing the plane into the air at a shallow angle its speed sufficient for an eighty degree bank toward the spires of the congress house, amusement in his features for imagined scowls on the faces of congress members another guards aircraft rattling their windows. Threatening trees in close proximity along this outcountry highway in the west, however, Lonry feathered the stick back with gentle urging pressure.  Even so, the type four bit into the air with uncanny rapidity.  Remarkable, he decided again, musing over launches he'd performed twenty years ago in the biwing kites, airplanes in which one clawed for speed and altitude.  The type four shot through three hundred feet only seconds after it had left the ground.
   Banking onto an easterly heading, Lonry settled the plane into an easy climb.  That which might have been another day and a half pounding along commonwealth highways in a guntruck was now a bizare forty five minutes.  It was yet again something to which Jonn Lonry supposed he would never become entirely accustomed.  He gazed another idle moment down toward several dozen outcountry farms now visible from his otherworldly vantage point in the air, gazed down toward communities of four or five dozan in the midst of pastureland cut from the surrounding forest, could easily imagine youths standing at the farm's gates supposing the next farm over the nearest hills another world.  He'd stood at Sudentol's gates in his own youth the commonwealth an academic vaguery, a visit to town a day's advanture, the mannerisms of
visitors from the industrial east odd and foreign.
   Pulling the throttle back only minutes after he had launched, settling the plane into an easy descent toward the shores of Rupert Gulf, Lonry finally gazed brooding study toward Norecomb town itself.  It was indeed "town" in every sense of the word, a mile and a half's spreading expanse of brick and stone, smokestakes rising above awe inspiring mases of industrial tin and steel, the whole of it complexities which a field commander of the commonwealth guard supposed he would never comprehend.
   "It's the North's 'Rome,'" Lon Bellton, always fond of historical analogy, argued.
  Jonn Lonry scowled another moment's annoyance toward the spires of that which had once been the residence of the Lord Regent, was today the congress house.  Lonry fancied for another brooding moment that all was as it might have seemed from a thousand feet in the air, he just another soldier guarding the commonwealth's frontiers.
   And with a sigh of finished resignation, Lonry edged his gaze toward the fortress laying along the northern edge of town.  Sighing himself back into the reality of the moment, he reached for the microphone.
   "Caley - twist some knobs on your radios.  I wanna speak to Olven Lant."
    Several minutes later a barked "what?" issued through the radio's speakers.
   "Lant - Olven Lant -?"
   "Yeah. What -?"
    Chuckling in idle amusement for a reply as curt and succinct as any to be heard on guard frequencies, Lonry again raised the microphone.
   "This is Jonn Lonry.  Where are you?"
   "Paran," something like insistence, Lonry decided, now evident in Lant's voice.  What the hell was the marshal of Norecomb doing in Paran?
   "All right, Lant.  I'll be there in ten minutes."
   "Ten minutes -?"
   "I'm in an airplane," and Lonry banked onto a southely heading, ran the engine to power another several minutes, Paran visible through the canopy a quick few minutes later.  Settling into a landing approach, Lonry guided the aircraft toward a narrow grass strip near the edge of a commonwealth highway, allowed himself a smile of contented satisfaction when he'd rolled to a stop in little more than two hundred yards.  The twenty year old kid from whom he'd commandeered the airplane hadn't managed better.  Any number of times in the past, particularly when he'd first started flying, he'd badly miscalculated speed or altitude attempting landings on narrow highways or short, hastily cleared fields along the frontiers, pounding onto the ground with a teeth jarring jolt, then bouncing back into the air, sometimes finding it necessary to thrust the throttle to the stop as the last bit of usable runway slipped away beneath his plane.
   Shutting the plane down, Lonry climbed to the ground, standing another minute feeling the same vexing aggravation having been called from the restful quiet of his secluded forest encampments.  He turned a quick minute later toward a small utility truck pulling to a stop at the edge of the strip, two men climbing from it, gazing curious suspicion toward the airplane, one of the men finally stepping forward.  Olven Lant, heavy set in his mid fifties, seemed anything but a creature of Norecomb's social and political establishment.  He was, Lonry decided in amused mirth, everything he was depicted to be in satirical newspapers, the congress of Norecomb in gaudy, flowing ostentation standing on that which was obviously a lane in the Americas of antiquity facing an Olven Lant with a tin star on his chest, gun belt and ammunition openly displayed about his waist.  Jonn Lonry prior to the moment might have envisioned the marshal general of the commonwealth little differently than anyone else might have, he and his deputized agents of various order in ostentatious business attire processing up and down the steps of the congress house, clerks busying themselves in the midst of all manner of electronic gadgetry trying to collect taxes from the commonwealth's industrial or mob establishment.  Olven Lant, as he approached, appeared anything but expensive or clerical, was attired in denim, a revolver stuck onto his belt, a tin badge indeed rather than a gold chain and seal of office.  Olven Lant, Lonry decided, would have appeared quite in place on any single lane town along the western frontiers.
   "Never saw one of these things close up before," Olven Lant began without preliminaries, glancing unfeigned awe toward a guard aircraft's wings and heavy caliber gun nozzles.  "You got a couple hundred of 'em now, eh?"
   "Maybe.  We don't advertise exact figures."
   "No, spose not," Lant glancing toward his associate still standing a few yards away as though just to reassure himself that he was still there.  Had they stood now on Norecomb's lanes instead of on a small airstrip near Paran, Lant might, Lonry supposed, have stood searching for one of the central committee's spies.  Was that the reason the commonwealth marshal had arranged a meeting in Paran?
   "So, Lonry, you've been top dog six months now, run Norecomb, they say, good as anyone -"
   "The congress governs the commonwealth, Lant.  You should know that.  I'm just another soldier guarding the frontiers."
   "I'm sure," skeptical amusement in Lant's features.
   "What d'ya want, Lant?  And what the hell are you doing out here anyway?  I'd think the commonwealth marshal would sit behind table in Norecomb."
  "You know boss Cartfel, Lonry?"
   "Runs Paran," Lonry nodding toward smoke stacks in the near distance and an industrial town of considerable size.
   "That he does.  Cept boss Cartfel wants Paran town and country what the east is, his own private kingdom, his say so law no questions asked.  Bosses of a couple dozen farms hereabout been intimating boss Cartfel's vision for the future ain't exactly in accord with their own.  Boss Cartfel's got mob and hired guns trapsin' around Paran country now trying to convince the farm bosses of the error of their ways."
   "I've heard there's problems down here," Lonry began, not quite certain whether venting his annoyance was appropriate yet.  "There's petty little squabbles of the sort everywhere in the commonwealth, couple of good sized wars.  I just don't have time for them all, Lant.  Cartfel - he's Society anyway, ain't he -?"
   "Course he is.  You don't get to be boss of a town Paran's size without toeing the party line, spout out socialist propaganda and keep a sharp eye out for the central committee's goons crawlin' through the gutters.  But spreadin' the Society message ain't really boss Cartfel's agenda.  Cartfel's agenda is nothing more than money, other bosses hereabouts expected to sign blank account tallies."
   "All right.  But it's still their own private little war.  The guard just doesn't have enough people -"
   "We found something out here you're gonna be very interested in, Lonry," Lant nodding toward his associate.  "Recognize it?" Lant asked as the other man approached, holding a rifle in his hand.  Lonry stared in wide eyed amaze.
   "It's Sirenian, assault class, fully automatic.  Where the hell did you get that, Lant?  You know it's illegal as hell outside the guard."
   "Like I said, Cartfel's been sending hired guns cross country raisin' all kinds of hell.  The marshal a Wondal got wind that goons was headin' their way, asked me for help.  I posted a squad of revenue long side the road, and sure enough long about midnight a couple truckloads a boss Cartfel's goons come bouncing along.  You can imagine the look on my people's faces seeing they're up against these," Lant nodding toward the assault rifle.  "My people are well paid for a reason, riff raff no match even out gunning 'em.  We got boss Cartfel's goons cooling their heals back in Norecomb, but you sure as hell can see my point, Lonry.  Competant as my people are, we ain't equipped for this on a regular basis."
   "Have you confronted Cartfel?"
   "Not yet.  It's a touchy situation.  I go bustin' into Paran myself and we're likely to have a nice little war on our hands."
   Lonry stood now in musing vexation.  He'd never in the past glanced more than passing notice toward bickering of one sort or another in any of a hundred towns across the commonwealth.  Lon Bellton at Norecomb fortress overseeing the gathering of intelleigence beyond the commonwealth's frontiers might on occasion gather it within the frontiers, might dispatch aircraft equipped with surveillance cameras in order to be certain that local bosses of various title restricted their squabbles to pot shots within their own countries.  Policing these, however, was ordinarily the concern of the congress, the guards' responsibilities legally and usually in fact restricted to threats along and beyond the frontiers.  It was also no secret whatsoever that several, at least, of the commonwealth marshal's chief deputies were on intimate terms with either the central committee or its spies, a myriad of competing interests the complexities of which Jonn Lonry hadn't the least interest.  And still, Lonry had never heard anything of a particularly derogatory nature about Olven Lant, other than the obvious fact that the marshal general of the commonwealth was supposedly under the direct authority of the congress.  Something in Lant's words and mannerism, however, seemed to strike an honest note.
   "So there's a definite problem here," Lonry stated, watching carefully for Lant's reaction.  The commonwealth marshal continued with calm but deliberate vehemence in his voice.
    "I never had to mess with anything quite like this when I was marshalin' down in Pretcan.  The congress has been on my back to keep things quiet.  But I don't like the idea of loose weapons like automatic rifles floatin' around.  I'd like to have a little talk with boss Cartfel in Paran, but that's not gonna be easy. I sent a couple of my people in there just to look around, and they tell me Cartfel's got guards posted on the lawns of the town hall.  You believe that?  A town hall forty miles from Norecomb with hired thugs standing at the gates.  Cartfel's trying to start his own little kingdom."
   "Sounds like it," Lonry agreed, brooding over the situation another moment, deciding it was time just to get on with it all.  "But this whole thing's still a matter for the congress, ain't it?  Sounds like it's all politics, and the guard doesn't get involved in politics.  Neither does the commonwealth marshal, last I heard."
   "Perhaps not," Lant stated, fixing Lonry with a steady, unwavering gaze.  "But we got these here rifles to think about.  We could try to handle this by ourselves.  I could get a couple more squads of revenue agents down here, marshals from a couple nearby towns who owe me favors. How many people you got active in the guard now, Lonry?  Some say ten field groups, and a whole lot more reserve answering to you no matter what the congress says.  And you got a whole lot more a these things," Lant motioning toward the automatic rifle.
   Lonry nodded, a sigh a musing amusement.  The commonwealth marshal's numbers were quite correct, although both men were quite aware that the situation was a great deal more than numbers.  Agencies of various sort under the jurisdiction of the commonwealth marshal were armed with pistols and rifles, civil agents in most cases as physically adept as the average member of the commonwealth guard.  Lant himself, despite his age and weight, was reputed to be proficient with a pistol, had according to rumor proven himself so a half dozen times over the years.  But the weapons under Lonry's control far outclassed anything owned by the civil authority.  A single guards gun truck usually contained more raw fire power than that owned by a company of revenue agents overseen by the commonwealth marshal.
   Lonry nodded again toward the automatic rifle.
   "You wanna get rid of that thing, marshal.  Illegal as hell, you know."
   "Yeah.  You know what pisses me off more than anything else, Lonry?  The central committee's hired thugs come marching into my jails, usually long about midnight or so, flashing those special badges of theirs.  They're usually after someone who's run off at the mouth against the Society.  It's gonna be a real pain in the ass if the central committee's goons start getting their hands on large numbers of these assault rifles.  A lot more people across country gonna start disappearing in the middle of the night.  Who knows, maybe the central committee wants to start making its hired goons into another guard.  Maybe there's a good reason these rifles got into the hands of a local town boss.  Maybe the congress wants to see if anyone does anything about it before they start passing rifles out to their own people.  I'd sure as hell like to do something about it, but I'll have a hell of a time trying to do it by myself."
   "Yeah, marshal, I see what you mean.  So when are you moving into Paran?"
   "Maybe tomorrow.  You know, it'd sure irritate the old boys on the central committee back in Norecomb to see a whole bunch a your guntrucks moving right through the middle of a town in the middle of the commonwealth, maybe a couple companies, eh?"
   "Yeah, I bet it would," Lonry agreed with a sighing nod of his head as he turned for the aircraft.  "Keep in touch, Lant.  You know how to reach me."
   Lonry glanced a final moment over his shoulder, detected at least the trace of a satisfied smile in Olven Lant's features.

3 -------

      The company of guntrucks with which Colan Horeshan now patrolled rolled slowly and cautiously along winding forested roads leading toward Truron close to the commonwealth's western frontiers, roads which received some amount of maintenance, though far less than was considered appropriate in the industrial east.  Guard patrols from fortresses along the western frontiers usually bypassed Truron itself, scouting instead along rugged, back wood logging trials.  Horeshan sent the other guntrucks of this company along one such trail a few miles north of Truron, then motioned the young captain at the wheel of the truck in which he now rode on toward town.
   "Right through the middle of town?" a young guards captain asked.
   Horeshan glanced a quick moment's curiosity toward another graduate of an upper level academy who in spotless and immaculate uniform might have appeared quite in place standing in a ball room in Norecomb's congress house with a dainty crystal glass in his hand.  This young social climber, Horeshan sighed, was Lorance's future, he it's past.
   "Yeah, kid," Horeshan answered, "right through the middle a town.  Last I knew, the Senold brothers had people out here.  They were a pain in my ass when I was your age.  Let's have a look around, see what we come up with."
   Unlike the sprawling industrial towns in the east, the majority of Truron's buildings were clustered along a single lane, a quagmire of mud from which paths led to delapidated, unpainted barns and sheds.  A few of the Truron's residents took notice of the heavy guntruck now rolling along the lane, though neither Horeshan nor a young guards captain noticed anyone who seemed unduly concerned.
   "There's Lanson," Horeshan stated, pointing to a middle aged man wearing a small tin badge on his coat standing in conversation with several other men in front of a building which served both as a stable and a repair shop for motor tractors now common even this far west.
   "Stop, boss?" the young captain asked.
    "Yeah, we better."
   It wasn't absolutely necessary to consult with local officials of the various towns near which the guard patrolled, particularly when a patrol consisted of a company of heavily armed guntrucks answering to no one.  Colan Horeshan, however, amusing himself from time to time along the western frontiers for many years now, had always found that a quick chat avoided any number of troublesome little problems, and at times even yielded valuable sources of information regarding doings along the frontiers.  Lon Bellton's spies generally restricted their activities to the industrial east.  Situations which were better handled by the application of raw force were usually left in Colan Horeshan's hands.
   Truron's marshal wearing a sidearm in open display on his belt walked up to the guntruck as it pulled to a stop.
   "Colan Horeshan - my gawd, it's been years.  What the hell's the guard doin' in my town?"
   "Ain't you heard, Lanson?  We're getting ready to invade you.  Norecomb says it's time you got civilized  and culturized out here."
   Truron's marshal broke into easy laughter, nodded appreciation as Horeshan held a Sirenian cigarette through the window.
   "So what's the news from Norecomb way and civilization, Colan?"
   "Lonry's there now."
   "Yeah?  That's unusual.  He's usually in the back woods somewhere."
   "Rumor I heard, boss Cartfel in Paran's been at it again.  Wouldn't matter spit except the old boss is just a little crazy.   You know how these little wars have a habit of spilling over from one country to the next.  They get as bad as all them king types in the east, half a dozen little wars going on all the time.  Anyway, Lonry's the one has to worry about all this political garbage.  All I gotta do is drive guntrucks around where he wants 'em."
    "So you after the Senolds, Colan?"
   "Yeah, them and whoever else needs got."
    "Part a the gang's holed at the old Shawnway camp, bout five miles west.  One or two a the brothers might be there too, last I heard.  Far as I know most a the others are still out in the tribes raising hell with the chiefs.  Those at the Shawnway are the worst a the lot, though. Been wonderin' if you'd ever be back for 'em."
   "Never had the time, mentioned 'em to a couple kids coming out this way and that got papers filled out at the fortress and nothing done.  So now I'm out here myself and I got a free moment you can show me the way," amusement in Colan Horeshan's features, the same in a town marehal's as he settled onto the truck's rear seat.
   Lifting a map into his hands as the gun truck rolled from town, Horeshan jabbed a finger onto it, the guards captain at the truck's wheel nodding, reaching for the radio's microphone.  A guard guntruck pulled to a stop short minutes later at the crest of a low rise.  An abandoned tribal camp appeared little different than any other to be found along the frontiers, a half dozen delapidated log structures, another half dozen drab and colorless barns and sheds.  A shabbily attired, unshorn man who had been standing near one of the sheds holding a rifle ran toward one of the residences.  Several dozen men poured from these a quick minute later, climbing onto a dozen ramshackle utility trucks.
   "Here they come, mean as hell," Truron's marshal noted, little more than the same amused mirth in his features.
   The trucks from the farm roared half the distance up the rise, then braked to an abrupt halt in the midst of an impressive cloud of billowing dust as half a hundred guard guntrucks, the barrels of their mortars and large caliber, belt fed guns in clear view, crested the hill from the opposite direction, a pair of guard aircraft their engines a whining shriek appearing overhead.  The battle was the matter of a half moment, a dozen deafening explosions, a hillside transformed into a smoking inferno from which a half dozen surviving highwaymen staggered in stunned confusion, Colan Horeshan and a town marshal watching with expressions of satisfied amusement.
   "See kid," Colan Horeshan chuckled, turning toward the young guards captain at the truck's wheel, "nothin' to it, half hour's work.  Just gotta get out and do it," a concluding, conspiratorial nod.  "Fill out a paper 'bout it all if ya want when ya got the time."

4 ------

   Jonn Lonry mauevered the aircraft into position at the end of a grass strip near Paran, pushed the throttle to the stop.  The plane tearing into the air, the whole of Paran coming quickly into view, it seemed that same moment's awed fascination.  Lonry held the plane in a shallow rate of climb for a few seconds as it gained speed at that which he had always considered an incredible rate for a machine built by men.  He then pulled the stick hard left and to the rear, guiding the plane though a hundred and eighty degree climbing turn.  Flying in an northerly direction for a few moments, he again rolled into a sharp left bank, the violence of the maneuver crushing him forcefully onto the seat of the aircraft.  Recovering onto an southerly heading, he sent the plane into a screaming descent directly toward Paran, finally leveled a hundred feet above the rooftops.  The commonwealth marshal, he supposed, was watching the show from the edge of the highway a short distance away, perhaps felt a measure of satisfaction for it.  All the better, Jonn Lonry supposed, if Olven Lant felt a measure of caution and pause, realized that he was now dealing with the guard rather than the congress.
   Lonry finally settled the plane into a gentle climb toward the north, rubbing the tension from the back of his neck as he did so. Lord, he sighed, he was in reasonably decent physical condition, but these sort of aireal theatrics were getting to be a bit much for someone who would never see his fourtieth year again.  Leave it to the kids, Lonry sighed as he gazed a final moment toward Paran.  The town looked no different than any number of sizeable industrial towns laying along the western shores of Rupert Gulf, a sprawling mass of stone and brick along the banks of the Parany River, industrial districts almost as extensive as Norecomb's, columns of thick black smoke pouring from the larger stacks.  The town hall was as impressive as any such, spires, imposing white pillars - and boss Cartel's hired guns on the lawns, according to the commonwealth marshal.  Perhaps Lant was right.  Perhaps it was indeed time that a town boss knew that the commonwealth guard was taking an interest in him, especially if that boss was waging war within the frontiers of his country using weapons of a sort Lant had discovered.  Whoever had supplied boss Cartfel and Paran with those weapons was also going to receive a demonstration of the guard's interest in the near future, though Lonry harbored no more than vague suspicions as to who Cartfel's arms suppliers might be.  Perhaps Olven Lant would turn over a few interesting rocks when he finally confronted Cartfel.
   Lonry debated guard involvement in this situation another long moment as he once more pondered rolling farmland below.  He and Colan Horeshan could assemble huge formations of guntrucks along the frontiers without attracting the attention of Norecomb's political establishment.  Paran, however, lay forty miles from Norecomb rather than along the frontiers.  If Lonry once more found it neessary to order large scale unit movements right in the middle of the commonwealth, there would be no turning back.  The shacky truce which he had maintained with the congress for the past six months was going to be in serious trouble.
   Settling the plane finally into a descent toward Norecomb, Lonry reached for the microphone.
   "Caley - you there?"
   "Yeah, boss," the answer from Norecomb fortress came a quick moment later.
   "Caley, get some planes in the air over Paran.  I wanna know what's moving cross country, day and night."
   "Over Paran -?" an evident note of surprise in the young clerk's voice.
   "You heard right.  Get 'em up now."
   The North Coast and Norecomb itself yet again looming through the airplane's canopy, Lonry turned his attention finally toward the fortress and the adjacent landing strip along the northern edge of town, a moment's brooding study as he settled the plane into a descent.  The fortress today was something he supposed his great uncles could never have imagined, its aircraft hangers and maintenance sheds structures as mammoth as any in town.  The fortress wasn't, however, the place of refuge it might have been in a simpler, far less mechanized times.  There weren't, with the weapons now in existence, any places of refuge, the guard expected to meet and engage any potential enemy beyond the commonwealth's frontiers.
   Lonry gazed another brooding moment toward town.  It would only have taken another minute, a screaming pass a dozen or so feet above the spires of the congress house.  He'd done just that any number of times over the past six months.  Porten Labrensy's or Mason Calady's residences would require another thirty seconds, an amusing and pleasant little diversion.  When he landed, he could then look forward to the pleasure of a telephone call or two from very irritated members of the congress, would, he might pronounce, consider disciplinary measures against the flyers responsible for this continuing harassment.
   Lonry allowed himself a final moment's brooding amusement as he maneuvered into a landing approach.  The congress of the commonwealth, however, was far more often a source of irritation.  It was still the congress which dealt with matters of trade and commerce, and the congress as often as not leaving country along every frontier in seething anger, the commonwealth guard facing hastily negotiated alliances in such as the middle countries beyond the eastern frontiers or tribal country to the west.  Such skirmishes were usually light work for the commonwealth guard.  A field group or two rolling across country in heavily armed guntrucks with support from the air was usually enough.  A half dozen chiefs from the tribes and as many potentates of various title along the eastern frontiers might at any given time find themselves residing in Norecomb at the insistence of the congress, the more intransigent or belligerent of them residing in commonwealth jails.  Still, like leaders of the guard before him, Lonry had found himself becoming increasingly irritated with the congress' intrigues.  He hadn't the least doubt that the congress, particularly the congress' central committee, was behind boss Cartel's acquisition of Sirenian automatic rifles.  There was no way a local town boss could acquire weapons of the sort without various manner of assistance from Norecomb.
   The congress one of these days was going to find itself at odds with a potential foe who could field more than a token force.  It wasn't in the least inconceivable that rhetoric of late from the east was something more than bluff and fury.  Lonry pondered again the assault rifle Olven Lant had found, a weapon of the sort which had been manufactured in Sirenia for several years now.  Lon Bellton at the fortress analyzing reports from his spies hadn't the least doubt that Sirenia and the east were now manufacturing heavier weapons, including some very capable aircraft if intelligence gathered by means of high altitude surveillance flights conducted by the guard over the past six months was correct.  While Sirenian aircraft were still no match for such as the Lorancian type four, hostilities with the east would be something very different than the short brush battles in which the guard routinely engaged.
   Setting up a landing approach for the fortress's airstrip, Lonry glanced another moment toward the spires of the congress house.  It would, he decided again in brooding amusement, take another moment, a push of the airplane's throttle to the stop and the congress house to loom large in his gun sights a quick minute later.  Perhaps even his honor Porten Labrensy might happen to be standing next to his office window.

 ------

   Porten Labrensy, chairman of the central committee of the people's congress of Norecomb, processed from a private entrance in Labelle's restaurant accompanied by an impressive entourage of associates and attendants of various order, scowling men in plain brown business attire prominent among them.  Standing on the walkways jovial geniality in his features for revercing nods from passersby, the chairman of the central committee gazed another moment's brooding study toward a traffic lane clogged with horse and motor traffic in both directions, and a lane which at this time of the year was choked with mud holes from one end to the other.  Porten Labrensy, chairman of the central committee of the congress of Norecomb, pondered the condition of a traffic lane in Norecomb town with another moment's long drawn sigh.  He was civil leader of the largest and most powerful commonwealth in existence, but he still couldn't do anything about the rain.  Lanes in a great many towns in the ancient kingdoms to the east had been paved with brick and hand cut stone for centuries.  The commonwealth of Norecomb had long surpassed the east in matters of technology and industry, yet the citizens of the commonwealth's seat of government must still endure a quagmire of mud the like of which might be found in a one lane town in the tribal nations.  Porten Labrensy winced in seething annoyance for the weight of money which was expended every year in order to maintain ten field groups of the armed commonwealth guard on active duty.  Porten Labrensy winced in seething, barely concealed anger pondering the half dozen times he had attempted to reduce the amount of expenditures on the guard over the past nine years.  Each such attempt had proven to be nothing more than a further demonstration of the fact that the chairman of the central committee of the congress of Norecomb was now, at best, the second most powerful figure in the commonwealth.  Porten Labrensy winced finally in something close to despairing anger for that which just six months ago had been a culminating and humiliating disaster, guntrucks surrounding Norecomb, aircraft in the skies above the congress house, Jonn Lonry leaving it to a clerk in Norecomb fortress to communicate with the chairman of the central committee of the congress of Norecomb.  "You may shit, Mr. Chairman," the note had said, "when told to do so."
   Pushing his bulk finally along the walkways, Porten Labrensy and entourage made their way toward the congress house. Scowling men in plain brown business attire strutted along at the procession's sides their hands never far from pistols concealed beneath their coats.  Porten Labrensy wore smiling geniality in his features acknowledging curious crowds along the walkways, exchanged pleasantries with a few passersby in a loud and jovial voice.
   And in another quick moment both Labrensy and Norecomb's walkway crowds flung startled eyes toward the sky, a piercing, whining shriek filling the air, the aircraft flashing overhead in another quick moment, the aircraft flashing a dozen feet over the spires of the congress house in nothing more than another bizarre half moment.  Most of the walkway crowds gazed toward the spectacle with wondering fascination on their faces.  The expression on Porten Labrensy's face, however, was something different, a scowl concealed only with a great more difficulty.  Sighing annoyance and frustration, Porten Labrensy nodded his procession on, an expression of jovial geniality when he was yet again the focus of the crowd's reverencing attention.
   A short distance from the lawns of the congress house, Labrensy halted the procession another moment, sudden jubilant delight on his face.  An older man and a young woman had stepped from a doorway.  The pair hadn't noticed the approaching procession in time, had attempted a casual retreat, that thwarted by insisting hands to their arms.
   "Sam - Sam Molney," Porten Labrensy bellowed.  A passerby might have heard the same loud joviality.  "I didn't think you were in town, Sam.  Might I impose on you a moment."
   The older man, a member of the Paran country council, approached Labresy and company with an expression of anxious concern in his features, something closer to remorse in another quick moment.  It would, he pronounced with a glance toward his daughter, have been suicide to attempt flight now.  Porten Labrensy, with a jovial smile, lay a friendly hand to the older man's arm.
   "Good to see you, Sam.  How are things in Paran?  I've been anxious to see you, but I just haven't been able to catch you before now," Porten Labrensy continued his smile broad delight, that which a few among his attendants suspected was toying mischief in light, bouncing tones. "Perhaps you have some time to spare now."
   "Labrensy, I -"
   "My associates will be more than happy to accompany you to guestrooms in my residence, Sam."  At a nod from the chairmen of the central committee, another pair of men in plain brown business attire placed authoritative hands on the prisoners' arms.   "I will see you as soon as today's session of the congress is over."
   Another several dozen members of the congress of the comonwealth including the other four members of the central committee were stepping onto the lawns as the chairman's procession wound its way toward the congress house's doors.  The seat of civil government for the commonwealth, the congress house was surrounded on all sides by sprawling, carefully manicured lawns.  A great many of the statues about the lawns portrayed past leaders of the Society for Progressive Reform, membership in which had over the past half century become a social and practical if not legal prerequisite for admittance into the congress.  Porten Labrensy edged a pondering gaze about the lawns for another long moment.  Perhaps he should deliver a few more speeches before the Society proclaiming his unswerving loyalty to the cause of socialism in order to be certain that his own statue someday rest on these lawns.  Labrensy little doubted that the nuances of the Society's message had become no more meaningful to Norecomb in factory and on farm over the course of his chairmanship than it had been to the mobs during the revolution.  It was imperative, however, that the Society be placated.  A statue of Porten Labrensy would rest on the lawns of the congress house only if those fanatically ardent members of the Society for Progressive Reform who still worshipped the ancient founders of the cause so decided.
   Porten Labrensy and the congress of Norecomb made their way into chambers.  A general session of the peoples' congress of Norecomb open to the public, a crowd of curious onlookers sat in the galleries.  Porten Labrensy sat in the midst of the central committee in attentive quiet, the discussion on the floor matters of finance and taxation the most important of which was a proposed increase in the levy on the importation of live chickens into the commonwealth.  The measure was debated pro and con with that which some in the galleries might have dared suspect was theatrical enthusiasm, the debate ending when the central committee was asked its opinion.  The ensuing vote by acclamation was ninety or so in favor of a motion favored by the central committee, that which some in the galleries might have dared call a theatrical voice or two raised in opposition.
   "Labrensy's allowing matters as contentious as chickens onto the floor of the general assembly," one of the newspapermen in the galleries whispered  after the requisite glance toward the nearest man in plain brown attire scowling studying scrutiny in some other direction.
   "Perhaps this time next year it might be cows, perhaps even tractors," amused mischief in another whisperer's voice.
   The general assembly of the congress of the commonwealth adjourning after several more decidedly lopsided votes by acclamation, the central committee made its way along the congress house's polished marble corridors toward conference chambers on the upper floor, sat about the table for another several minutes with genial smiles on their faces for privileged newspapermen in high favor with the Society.  These and attendants of various order finally processing from the chamber, the central committee of the congress of Norecomb discarded their genial smiles.
   "All right, Labrensy," Mason Calady, Labrensy's equal in bulk if not in influence and power began, "let's get on with it.  We've all got other matters to attend to."
   Porten Labrensy passed another moment scowling about the table, settled back into his chair with a nodding sigh.
      "Very well, Calady, we'll begin with you, or more specifically, with your lord high marshal of the commonwealth."
    "Lant -?"
   "Olven Lant, who contrary to your design and your assurances to the rest of us indeed considers himself to be the lord marshal general of commonwealth.  Lant is in Paran."
   "I didn't send him to Paran," Mason Calady protested.
   "Just get him on a leash," Labrensy's voice raised in stern demand.  "I don't want Lant irritating Cartfel in Paran, not yet, at least."
   Mason Calady sat in glaring silence another long moment, decided as quickly just to acquiesce.  As competent and as thorough as his force of plain clothed security people were, Calady was still not ready for an open and undisguised confrontation with Porten Labrensy.   Mason Calady would have to bide his time, content himself as the central committee's head of commonwealth security, at least for the moment.
   "But where's Lonry now?" Milton Hously asked, the other four members of the central committee sitting in ashen quiet.  "Oh yes, exactly, the one variable none of us can control, isn't it?"  Milton Hously was congress and central committee member responsible for defense preparedness, a practically titular and yet still an exceptionally lucrative position given the fact that he oversaw the disbursement of funds for the operation of the commonwealth guard.  The reports Milton Hously received from Jonn Lonry's clerks sat on his table unread, however.  Hously was quite aware that Lonry was not going to report anything of real importance.  It had been twenty years now since any commander of the commonwealth guard had bothered with more than a minimal pretense of subordination to the congress.  Hously had long since resigned himself to the fact.  Porten Labrensy, it seemed, would never do so.
   Labrensy needed a long moment to regain his composure following Hously's statement.
   "You're quite correct," Porten Labrensy finally sighed.  "That's what all of this is really about, isn't it?"
   "I didn't make enough money on this - Paran thing to hang," Hously continued.  "Calady said Lant was harmless -"
   "You said Lonry wasn't another Jac Lanbory, and we get a note from Lonry -"
   "Enough -" Porten Labrensy snapped. "For God's sake enough.  All we have to do is stay calm - keep each other informed.  Calady, you get your people on Lant.  Do it quietly, in the middle of the night.  None of us needs the good marshal involved in this any more than is necessary.  Hously, you watch Lonry the best you can.  We have no real problems yet.  But let's not do anything rash.  And one more thing, Hously, have someone from your office call Lonry's people at the fortress.  Those damn airplanes of his are making a nuisance of themselves again, and I want something done about it this time."

6 ------

   Jonn Lonry, as the plane settled onto the runway beside Norecomb fortress, was loathe to let it do so.  A firm grasp of his hand to the throttle, he need but thrust it forward to the stop, would as soon as the plane tore back into the air bank west for his isolated forest refuge along the frontiers.  Lonry rested his hand on the throttle another indecisive moment, must surrender to an impulse seeming almost overwhelming, must dismiss both Olven Lant and the congress from his mind, throttle the plane back into the air.  And with that, he sighed groaning resignation, let the plane's wheels settle firmly and finally onto the ground, rested his feet on the brakes with urging pressure.
   A short minute later, Lonry had maneuvered his aircraft back toward the maintenance hangers, swung finally onto a dirt parking area.  Climbing from the aircraft, he exchanged a quick nod with waiting mechanics, then made his way through the fortress' east gate and onto the parade ground.  Lonry gazed distracted interest toward guardsmen puttering about in various manner of unhurried task, the conscript reserve doing its required weeks of annual service.  No sense of urgency seemed apparent anywhere.  As far as Lonry knew, a company or two of seasoned regulars were currently doing barracks duty at Norecomb, their young captains whiling away their time in town with crystal glassware in hand.
   Climbing the west steps and  following corridors in dire need of paint, Lonry made his way into a duty room occupied by a pair of guardsmen their feet propped up on their tables.
   "Caley, where's Bellton?" Lonry began without ceremony.
   "Looking now, boss," a young guardsmen his feet now on the floor turning his attention toward radios and telephones of various sort scattered across his table.
   Lonry passed another several minutes sipping coffee as he stood before a large wall map a few steps away from the radio desk pondering a visual representation of that which had never before been a matter of such pressing concern.  Norecomb and Poldren laying along the western shores of Rupert Gulf appeared in the center of the map in bold capitals, they "Athens and Sparta" or something of the sort according to Lon Bellton, the centuries old alliance formed between them after they hadn't found it possible to annihilate each other the oldest in the commonwealth.  While most of the large industrial towns lay in the eastern half of the commonwealth, Marany and Truron along the western frontiers appeared in bold capitals, merchanter agents embarking from there for tribal country.  Those same merchanter agents then fled back to Marany or Truron whenever the tribes, justifiably so at times, Lonry decided, burned them out, the guard every several years facing a belligerent alliance of tribes from country a hundred miles west of the frontiers.
   Lonry edged his eyes toward the southern frontiers another idle moment, boss Marquist's Fraelin a nuisance from time to time though little more of a serious threat than were the tribes in the west or the middle countries along the eastern frontiers they, as often as not, ruled by rampaging highwaymen sitting with rifle in hand on the backs of ramshackle utility trucks.
   It was finally, however, the less detailed representation of country four hundred miles along the North Coast to the east which drew Lonry's attention.  Sirenia until quite recently had conducted its affairs in quiet isolation, its monarchical government remaining aloof from overt political involvement with its western neighbors.  There were any number of indications, however, to suggest that this had changed.  Three or four times a year, patrols of Norecomb's guardsmen were sent across the eastern frontiers into the middle countries, sometimes with the approbation of local potentates of various sort, sometimes not, the local potentate in country anywhere along the eastern frontiers as likely as not to be the head of the local highway gang.  Searching for anything of interest, a guard patrol might approach to within a few miles of the Sirenian frontiers listening for anything of interest on the radio frequencies.  On more frequent occasion an aircraft or two was sent east with cameras of various sort slung under the wings, gun boats with highly sensitive radios into the Gulf of Sirenia to within three or four miles from a half dozen port town harbors.  Though no major confrontations had to this point in time occurred, recent guard patrols had encountered larger and larger groups of well armed Sirenian militia in any number of the middle countries.  Captains from Norecomb to the west and Sirenia to the east after consultation with a country's reigning potentate of various title drew lines on maps which might prove workable for another month or two.  Lon Bellton's intelligence people reported a marked increase in Sirenian intelligence gathering activity anywhere in the middle countries, several more embassies sent to these undoubtedly staffed by Sirenian spies.
   Lon Bellton, several years older than Jonn Lonry and graying noticeably about the temples, walked into the room and immediately toward the coffee table.  Lon Bellton, second in command of the guard, was also its civil affairs and intelligence chief.  While Lonry and Colan Horeshan would wield the deadly power of the guard's massively armed field units if it became necessary to do so, they both looked to Lon Bellton for an explanation of the social and political matters which would necessitate their doing so.
   "You see Lant?" Bellton asked, preliminaries unecessary between the two for many years now.
   "Yeah," Lonry answered, seating himself at a vacant table as Bellton stired sugar into his coffee.  "You know those new automatic rifles we've been seeing from Sirenia - Lant had one."
   Bellton stood a long moment in wondering amaze.
   "Where the hell -?"
   "Said he got it from boss Cartfel's rable raising hell in Paran country."
   "Damn -" Bellton groaned, an expression of perplexed anger settling into his features.   "It's about time for boss Cartfel's little reign of terror to come to an end.  He owns nintey percent of Paran as it is, about as hypocritical a socialist as any who ever drew breath.  Now he wants the rest of the country as well."
     "Apparently," Lonry agreed.  "But technically, it's not our problem, right?"
   "I would genuinely like to agree.  It's - technically, a civil matter, and the last thing we need is a great deal more involvement in civil matters, at least for the moment.  But someone brought that rifle across the frontiers, Jonn.  That's a tactical matter, and bad news for everyone.  Maybe it's about time for a couple more patrols out Sirenia way.  Colan Horeshan would love it.  He's out near Truron doing nothing more than chasing highwaymen around, expending, as Colan is wont, a - considerable tonnage of ordinance."
   "I saw him while I was out there.  He's planning a jaunt into Fraelin, 'never hurts to burn a bit of it down just to remind boss Marquist we're thinking about him.'  Maybe you're right though, Lon - send Colan east.  What are all those spies of yours up to now?"
   "Following Mason Calady's plain clothed thugs around.  That's a full time job for most of them.  Come to think of it, Calady has had an unusually large number of his people near Paran over the past several weeks.  We'd just assumed that the central committee was interested in Cartfel's little campaign of aquisition in Paran.  Cartfel's private little empire's been a big headache for the Society for some time now."
   "Labrensy and Calady aren't what you'd call shining examples of the socialist ideal either, are they?  Last photo your people took of their residences -?  You could post a dozen guntruck companies in either of them."
   "Probably could," Lon Bellton chuckled, turning his attention to his coffee another long moment, his brow wrinkled in brooding concentration.
   "You know what we need," Bellton finally continued.  "We need something stronger than this coffee.  How bout Franny's?"
   Jonn Lonry and Lon Bellton wandered through the fortress' south gate, wandered then into a small tavern laying along town lanes.
   "Well, the two boss men today," Franny herself standing at the bar.
   "Two beers, darling," Lon Bellton returning as broad a smile.  Reaching for his own beer, Lonry gazed another moment's idle amusement toward Bellton and an exceptionally attractive tavern mistress who gazed something a great deal more than idle interest toward each other.  Lon Bellton, the guard's master of spies, might appear perfectly in place standing in the midst of crystal oppulence on Center Lane, a fashionably eloquent heiress leaning on his arm she perhaps the wife or the mistress of a wealthy industrialist.  And Lonry gazed another moment's wondering amusement for something in a small tavern which wasn't affectation of any sort.
   "Why don't you ask her -?" Lonry chuckled in conspiratorial mischief.  "This is, after all, the socialist commonwealth of Norecomb - equality, no class distinction, all that.  Franny, I would guess, would be very amenable to a proposal on your part, Lon."
   "Perhaps," Bellton chuckled.
   Leaning onto the bar, allowing Bellton and Franny a few more moments, Lonry gazed through an open window toward a motor freight chugging along the traffic lane, his thought, however, a great deal further afield.
   "You're looking toward the west wood," Bellton noted with an easy smile.
   "I guess."
   "Go on back out there.  I can watch the shop for awhile."
   "I'm considering it, would as soon chuck the whole thing onto your lap at the moment.  But - I'm curious, I suppose.  You've known Olven Lant for quite awhile, haven't you?"
   "He's from Pretcan, not far from where I was born."
   "What do you think of him?"
   "Whatever's going on, Lant's not a part of it.  He's a decent enough sort.  Given time, our Lord marshal general of the commonwealth, depite his less than august and urbane appearance and demeanor, might be one of the best marshals the commonwealth has ever had."
   "If the congress lets him do his job?" Lonry asked.
  "That's not exactly the way I'd put it."
   "How so?" Lonry listening with studying interest.  It was Lon Bellton who would have whatever insight was to be had regarding the doings of the commonwealth's political establishment.  Both Jonn Lonry and Colan Horeshan would readily admit that a guntruck camp in the middle of the west wood provided them far greater entertainment than anything to be found in the midst of Norecomb's crystal oppulance.  Lonry at times suspected that Lon Bellton was tiring of his own niche in life, that as often as not all manner of whispering and intrigue in the polished marble corridors of commonwealth society on Center Lane.  Lonry gazed another moment's idle amusement toward Lon Bellton and a tavern mistress yet again trading a smile of very genuine affection, Bellton as ready to chuck it all, to spend the rest of his life in quiet retirement with Fran Idsen.
   "But - not yet," Bellton chuckled in musing amusement.  "If I go, Norecomb falls to Colan Horeshan who is not given to a great deal of subtlety and finesse.  I'm not quite certain I could go with an easy conscience.  I've explained the detonation of two thousand pounds of ordinance in Truron as stockpile proving."
   "Whereas Colan would inform the congress that it 'don't concern yous,'" Lonry chuckled in easy mirth.
   "Exactly.  Anyway, Olven Lant is also exactly that which he appears to be.  He likes to do things his own way.  Granted, that's not going to be easy for the marshal general of the conmonwealth who has to answer to the congress of the commonwealth.  The congress pays his salary, and makes sure he knows it."
   "The congress pays all our salaries," Lonry noted in a tone of wry amusement.
   "The commonwealth marshal, however, has to approach the congress a bit more directly for his.  And Lant oversees a judicial process which is infested with Mason Calady's henchmen.  That makes it one hell of a task trying to follow an honest agenda.  But you know, if things come to pushing and shoving, I think you'll find Lant's more his own man than a great many people might ever have thought."
   "I got that impression when I talked with him in Paran today. To put it bluntly, Lant thinks Labrensy and the central comittee are putting those Sirenian rifles into boss Cartfel's hands in Paran, and I tend to think that's a valid assumption."
  Lonry and Belton both turned toward a sudden flurry of motion at the the tavern's door.  They and a dozen other of the tavern's patrons watched in curious amaze as a young woman hurled herself through the door pursued by four well dressed men.
   "What the hell -" Bellton exclaimed as two of the men thrust clawing hands onto the young woman's arms.
   "What the hell's going on here?" Franny demanded as she stepped from behind the bar, then stood motionless as the young woman's pursuers pulled pistols from their vests.
   "Stay out of it," one of the men shouted, arrogant disdain in his voice.  "This is none of your business."
   Lonry leaned toward Bellton and nodded toward a back room of the tavern, Bellton nodding understanding.  As Bellton and several other people retreated silently and swiftly for the tavern's exits, Lonry again turned his attention toward the altercation a few steps away.
    "You men better show me marshal's badges," Franny demanded, "if you're gonna come into my place doing that."
   Two of the men simply glared toward  the remaining occupants of the tavern with expressions of  arrogant disdain as their associates pulled the struggling girl through the door and onto the tavern's steps.  It was obvious that all four men had performed tasks of the sort any number of times in the past, though it still took some time to drag a struggling young woman from the steps onto the boardwalks - and her captors a quick moment later staring with expressions of ashen paralysis toward the only individuals in the commonweath who would not cringe before them in intimidation and terror.  A half dozen regulars in the comronwealth guard leaned at the barrels of large caliber, belt fed machine guns mouted on a pair of heavily armorerd gun trucks.

------

    Jonn Lonry had been standing quietly in a corner of a back room in Franny's tavern for quite some time now, though the four men still refused to answer any of the questions Lon Bellton put to them.  Lonry gazed studying interest as Bellton turned his attention back to the young woman sitting in another corner of the room, Lonry eminently willing to leave the situation entirely in Bellton's hands.  If anyone could figure all of this out, it would be Bellton.
   "Will you at least tell me your name?" Bellton asked, and a frightened young woman turned a quick, terrified glance toward the four men seated across the room.
   "They have my father -" she began in a trembling voice.
   "Your father?"
   "We were just visiting from Paran.  My father told me to come here - to this tavern.  He used to be in the guard himself.  He told me there would probably be guard captains in Franny's tavern."
   Bellton turned toward Lonry and shrugged.
   "I'm not certain.  These thugs probably belong to the central committee, Labrensy or Calady, I'd guess.  I don't know who else would attempt something like this in broad daylight.  We didn't find any badges on them, but that doesn't mean much.  I suppose Calady wouldn't be stupid enough to send his people this close to the fort with badges on them."
   A short time later a young guardsmen who had been waiting with the guntrucks entered the room.
   "More company, boss - say they're civil marshals."
   "Bring them in," Lonry sighed, turning toward Bellton.  "We'll keep the girl -?"
   "Agreed."
   Another two men walked into the room, surveyed the scene in tense silence.  Neither of the late arrivals, it seemed, wanted to involve themselves in the matter any more than was absolutely necessary.
   "We have orders to return these people to town -" one began.
   "You can have the men," Bellton answered.  "The girl stays."
   With expressions Lonry was certain were relief, perhaps even satisfaction, the marshals escorted the young woman's pursuers from the room.  When they had left, Bellton again approached the corner in which a frightened young woman sat.
   "Do you know who we are, Miss?" Bellton asked as he lowered himself to a chair beside her.
   "Soldiers."
   "That's right," Bellton answered in a quiet, urging voice.  "Have you known other soldiers before?"
   "My father.  My cousin is in the guard now.  Two of my uncles are still in the reserves."
   "Generally pretty decent fellows, aren't they?"
   "Yes," the girl agreed, an edge of lucid ease finally showing in her features.
   "Very good," Bellton continued.  "You're from Paran?  Why are you and your father in Norecomb, Miss?"
   The girl hesitated another moment, finally spoke in pleading resignation.
   "We came to get help. My father is a member of the Paran country council, and he knows men on the congress in Norecomb."
   "You've been having problems with boss Cartfel in Paran."
   It was anger in the girl's eyes
   "Yes.  Everyone in Paran has.  Nothing's enough for Cartfel.  He wants our farm, wants everything.  My father -"
   Lonry stood in studying quiet, couldn't help but notice the tears streaming along the girl's cheeks, felt quite out of place in the midst of it all.  This was all very different from tearing about the back woods of the west in a guntruck with Horeshan and a company or two of weather beaten guardsmen.  Lonry felt another moment's settling relief deciding that it was Lon Bellton who would interpret and explain.
   Bellton pushed himself from his chair and approached a quick moment later.
   "What do you think, Jonn?"
   "Me -?  I'd say we just leave this thing alone, let them fight it out in the courts and the congress.  But then - the girl's father did send her to us, and it's no secret why.  Everyone knows there's bad blood between the congress and the guard.  If we do get involved in this thing, it's only going to make matters worse."
   "There are precedents for guard involvement, though.  The marshal of the commonwealth certainly wouldn't be upset if we involved ourselves.  Lant would probably back us if the congress tried to come down on us, and if anyone can come up with something solid on Cartfel and Labrensy, it's probably Lant.  Don't let his rough exterior fool you.  As proficient as he is at his job, he's something a great deal more than a gunman.  Pretcan was one of the quietest countries in the commonwealth for very good reasons, reasons most people would never suspect just by looking at him.  Lant's assessment of the whole thing is probably the correct one."
   "You think so, Lon?"
   "Labrensy and the central committee probably have some long range plans in the works, and this mess in Paran most likely has something to do with it all.  But Labrensy's not ready to make any moves on his own, yet.   He knows all that will get him is our guntrucks moving in his direction again, a - demonstration as obvious as it was six months ago.  Labrensy's and Calady's people are good at sliming their way through the gutters and dragging people out of their homes in the middle of the night, but they wouldn't be a match for a single squad a guntrucks, and Labrensy and Calady both know it.  If we look at worst case here, we come up with Lant's conclusion.  Labrensy and the central committee are putting those Sirenian rifles into boss Carfell's hands, maybe just to guage our reaction, maybe even hoping we'll send guntrucks into Paran.  If Labrensy is involved in illegal arms dealing, he's taking a big risk.  It would be considered high treason in every conceivable sense of the word, and you can be certain he's covered his tracks.  We'll have a hell of a time proving anything.  Lant might turn up something, but even if he does, Labrensy still has one more card to play.  As soon as guntrucks start moving right in the middle of the commonwealth, Labrensy will have members of the Sociey standing on soapboxes in every industrial shop crying foul.  We win even then, but - at what cost?  As it is now, opinion is split right down the middle.  Half of the commonwealth reverences the Society and Labrensy.  The other half is waiting for us to restore the Regency."
   "Yeah, I see what you mean, Lon," and Jonn Lonry stood another moment in sighing annoyance. "Why the hell can't Labrensy and his bunch just let it rest, anyway?  I mean - I've been out in the woods with Colan Horeshan for six  months now.  Hell, I've only been in Norecomb twice in my whole life.  And I wouldn't have pressed things six months ago, except for the fact that you and I both know Jac Lanbory took a bullet from one of Calady's plain clothed goons whether we can prove it or not."
   Lon Bellton stood in silence, pondering the matter himself.  Although Bellton had assigned entire squads of his intelligence agents to investigate the murder of Jonn Lonry's immediate predecessor, a man Lonry had respected as he might a father, no definite proof had yet been obtained implicating any member of the central committee in the assassination.
   "All right, Lon," Lonry finally concluded.  "Let's think about Paran.  I don't feel good about Paran at all."
   "You're going in with Lant then?"
   "I think we'll help this young lady get home first, talk to Lant and see what else he's come up with.  But there's no way around it I can see.  We need to have a little talk with boss Cartfel.  If he has any more of those Sirenian rifles, Lant's men are going to be seriously outgunned.  At the least, I think we should get a couple companies of guntrucks moving toward Paran."
   "I think we're going to need to talk with Porten Labrensy and gang as well before all of this is done, Jonn."
   "Yeah, but let's not rush things. Keep an eye on them though, Lon.  But you know, it might not be a bad idea to have Colan Horeshan start putting some working groups together in the south, maybe even the east.  Damn it, it irritates me to no end, Sirenian guns right in the middle of the commonwealth - almost like they're looking to expand their little kingdom a bit further west."
   "All right.  I'll talk to Franny, see about getting the girl a room for the night."
   Lonry and Bellton turned as the young woman rose from her chair and approached, a soft and gentle smile now obvious in her features.  She lay a brushing hand to Bellton's arm, that in her eyes which Lonry had noticed a few minutes ago in a tavern mistress'.
   "You asked me my name - it's Molney, Sara Molney."
   Lonry smiled in easy amusement.  Whatever it was which Lon Bellton had would always remain a mystery to a back wood soldier guarding the frontiers.  Lonry stole another sighing glance through the nearest window.  Colan Horeshan, as likely as not, was leaning at a guntruck's hood a short distance from a campfire, a tin cup rather than anything like crystal glassware in his hand.  Lonry felt another moments iritation that he wasn't doing the same.  The commonwealth marshal, to Lonry's continuing annoyance, was probably still roaming back country roads in Paran country a satisfying distance from Norecomb.

------

   Olven Lant pulled that which he would readily admit was a considerable bulk onto the truck's passenger seat, glanced another quick moment over his shoulder toward the truck which would fellow his own.  He might in a mood have simply set off on his own, Calady's and the central committee's plain clothed goons in broad daylight no more intimidating than any of the local mob he'd faced any number of times in Pretcan country.  But why bother with the nuisance, Olven Lant finally sighed, turning toward a young deputy at the truck's wheel.
   "Let's go," Lant stated without ceromony, settling himself into as comfortable a slouch possible.  It would, however, only be a short ten minute ride to the next checkpoint along a commonwealth highway in Paran country.  Lant had several times debated just charging straight ahead into Paran town, marching up the steps of the town hall and grabbing boss Cartfel by the collar.  After all, he was marshal general of the commonwealth now, his jurisdiction not only Norecomb but the commonwealth in its entirety.  Why not just invite Paran's marshal and his thugs on the lawns of the town hall to step aside, twist Cartfel's arm a couple times, ask the old buzzard what the hell he thought he was up to?  And to the chagrin of a great many members of the Society proclaiming the commonwealth of Norecomb a paradise of social equality, any notion of law in country across the commonwealth still as often as not depended on men like Olven Lant.  Despite his years and the extra pounds, Lant was quite aware that he still pulled one of the fastest guns anywhere.  Law even on the lanes of Norecomb within sight of the congress house was still as often as not something very different than it was along the marble corridors of the congress house.
   For reasons he still wasn't certain he understood in their entirety, however, Lant debating Paran and boss Cartfel had detected no great measure of interest one way or another in and about Norecomb's congress house.  "Don't know anything about it," several members of the congress had stated.  A few of Mason Calady's security goons had delivered messages in far less subtle terms.  Labrensy, perhaps the rest of the central committee were up to something, Lant supposed, though he hadn't any more than vague suspicions as to exactly what.  Both Labrensy and Calady had had their own people running back and forth between Norecomb and Paran for months now.  Was Labrensy going after Lonry and the guard again?  If Labrensy kept it up, Jonn Lonry was going to roll his guntrucks right up to the steps of the congress house, civil war or no.  And it didn't matter how much money or influence Labrensy and the other members of the central committee had.  Jonn Lonry, "owner" of the commonwealth's guntrucks, had little reason to respect either.
   Damn it, Lant sighed as his young driver maneuvered the truck around another horse drawn farm cart. It all at times seemed so absolutely futile.  Back in Pretcan country he would have put an end to nonsense of the sort in a day or two, even if that meant proving his prowess with a sidearm.  Lant could easily have finished his career as Pretcan country's marshal, no congress with their own private little armies to deal with, no damn fools like boss Cartfel to contain in country across the commonwealth.
   Less than a mile from the highway checkpoint, Lant and the truck's young driver gazed with wondering awe toward a dark speck in the air just above the horizen.  Short seconds later, however, the aircraft was screaming toward the truck a hundred or so feet in the air, flashing above its occupants' heads before either could raise their hands even in involuntary motions of self defense.  Lant twisted about in his seat, flung his gaze toward the aircraft as it disappeared below the nearest hills.  Lant turned ahead, settled again onto his seat, the edge of smile now in his features.  Lonry was doing something in Paran country, or at the very least was interested in what everyone else was doing.  Jac Lanbory, Lonry's predecessor as commander of the commonwealth guard, would have rolled his guntrucks on a whim.  Lonry?  Hard to tell, Olven Lant sighed, pondering his meeting with Lonry at Paran's airstrip another moment.  He certainly seemed to know how to fly that airplane of his, Lant decided, had probably
rattled every window in boss Cartfel's office.
   Buzzed over the next few minutes by several more aircraft, the young driver finally pulled the truck to a stop near two others sitting at the edge of a commonwealth highway.  Lant stepped to the ground, flung an idle gaze toward rolling crop land in the near distance, tractors driven by farmers intent on spring planting chugging up and down some of the fields.  Nothing else, however, seemed to disturb the quiet calm of the area.
   Lant then turned his attention to his chief deputy marshal approaching along the road.  Pauly Jonril should have been the commonwealth's marshal general, had in various capacity worked on the marble lanes and corridors of Norecomb's Center Lane for the past thirty years, was comfortable with whiring machines and flashing lights to be found in imponderable numbers along Norecomb's lanes and corridors.  For the past ten years, Pauly Jonril had directed the day to day activities of the commonwealth marshal's office, consulting the former commonwealth marshal at his sickbed only as a matter of polite protocol.  No amimosity had grown between Olven Lant and Pauly Jonril, however, when Lant had been summoned from Pretcan to Norecomb and then appointed commonwealth marshal by the congress.  No animosity personal or otherwise had developed primarily because both men were eminently aware of the congress' agenda in appointing Lant, and neither had cared.  Neither had been interested in those little nuances of power and precedence which might have given rise to such animosity.  They had jobs to do, and that was that.  And both were content to leave matters of political concern to Mason Calady and the central committee's plain clothed henchmen.  Lant and Jonril had been more than content to confine themselves to matters of criminal consequence.  At least until now.
   Both Lant and Jonril turned to watch the progress of another airplane skipping along the horizon a mile or two to the west, though neither would have attempted a guess as to its exact distance.
   "They've been up there all afternoon," Jonril begun.  "Damn - those things scare me."
   "Yeah," Lant answered, "they'd scare any sane person, Pauly.  I saw one up close this morning.  You've no call feelin' bad feelin' frightened by 'em, believe me.  They say if we ever go to war again, like with Sirenia this time, those planes don't just take out people, they take out towns."
   "They say the next war is gonna last about fifteen minutes.  Unbelievable, ain't it?"
   "Did we ever figure out which channels the guard went to on the radio, Pauly?"
   "Near as my technicians can tell and near as I can understand it, they didn't go anywhere.  They're still using the same frequencies they always have.  They just scramble 'em up and it takes another guard radio to unscamble 'em.  Damned if I know anything about it.  We can still hear 'em on guard one, though we figure that's Lon Bellton's spies feeding us twist and turns as often as not."
   "Well, long as we can get through to Lonry if we have to.  What's going down here today?"
   "Farm trucks, overland freights, no more weapons, certainly nothing like we found last night.  Couple of Mason Calady's people came bouncing along flashing their badges though not quite as cocky, same types that got themselves drawn down on by Lonry in Norecomb earlier today.  They weren't happy when we asked them if it was going to be necessary to rescue them again from the big, bad guard."
   Lant allowed himself a mirthul chuckle as he surveyed the road ahead, gazing in the direction of Paran which lay another ten miles away across rolling cropland, country very similar to that which lay about his home in Pretcan.  What's Cartfel up to, Lant again sighed?  The newspapers reported that Bransen Cartfel, chairman of Paran country's council and a member in good standing of the Society for Progressive Reform, was employing new and innovative methods in order to advance the cause of socialism in Paran country.  Olven Lant, however, was quite aware that Mason Calady's plain clothed security people paid frequent visits to the offices of most newspapers across the commonwealth.  The socialist cause might indeed have made more gains in Paran and in other country in the immediate vicinity of Norecomb than it had in Pretcan and most other country more distantly removed from the seat of commonwealth government.  Lant could not help but wonder, however, if the fact that Sirenian assault rifles had been
found in Paran country was something more than just a matter of coincidence.  He further suspected that the advancement of the Society's cause was a very minor part of both Labrensy's and Cartfel's overall agenda.
   "All right, Pauly," Lant finally continued, "what about tonight?  You comfortable?"
   "We have enough people out here to manage, couple revenue squads in the hills with radios and a good view of the roads."  Jonril paused in thoughtful silence another moment, then motioned toward the sky.  "With the guard screaming around everywhere, now might be a good time to take a little drive into Paran.  This new fellow - Lonry -?"
   "Seems straight forward, no hidden agenda."
   "They say he's Jac Lanbory all over again."
   "Just might be.  But I'll say it straight as I can, Pauly, I'm just playing this whole thing by ear.  I'll be happy if we get this thing settled with no one getting shot.  Hell, I'll be ecstatic.  I don't really give a damn what it's all about.  And I don't think you really do either, chief vice marshal Jonril.  We both know I'm just along for the ride.  The chief deputy's the one gets things done."
   "Maybe," Jonril chuckled.  "But I sure as hell didn't get all these guard airplanes out here, Olven.  You must have said something to Lonry he wanted to hear."
   "Maybe," Lant chuckled as well.
   "And if we do have to go into Paran, Olven, I'd feel a whole lot more comfortable thinking the guard was on our side.  I wonder what Labrensy and the rest of the central committee is thinking at the moment."
   Olven Lant nodded in easy amusement.  He was quite aware that several of his people reported to Mason Calady's plain clothed security operatives.  He was just as aware that Pauly Jonril, his chief deputy, did not.

------

   Porten Labrensy, chairman of the central committee of the congress of Lorance and president of the Society for Progressive Reform, processed onto the lawns of the Society's Hall of the Peoples, a monumental ediface rivaling Norecomb's congress house in size and magnificence.  Porten Labrensy had spoken on many occasions before the general assembly of the Society in Norecomb.  He had spent more than the usual amount of time preparing this evening's speech, however.  Most members of the congress belonged to the Society.  The most powerful of Norecomb's industrialists and the most influential of its professional classes would also be in attendance this evening, the goodwill of whom Porten Labrensy might urgently need in the near future.
   Labrensy was generally acknowledged to be an eloquent and forceful speaker, however he found it difficult at times to project just that right note of endearing joviality into the tone of his voice.  In order to do so this evening, he paused several times during the course of his speech and gazed across the sea of faces in front of him, wealthy potentates of various order from town and country across the commonwealth, heirs and heiresses of various title in their ostentatious finery.  A herd of sheep, Porten Labrensy decided without the least denial or hesitation, to be fleeced.  Mason Calady, Porten Labrensy supposed as he glanced another musing moment toward the masses, would strip, mangle, and slaughter a considerable number of them.  Tried and true exercises in mental focusing once more successful, Porten Labrensy then found he was able to continue in a voice charged with just that light touch of easy humor.
   It had been years now, however, since Labrensy had really believed in those philosohies espoused in the dusty old books and documents written many centuries ago in which crackots from lands which no longer even existed had set forth the guiding principles of a utopian existence in which the redistribution of wealth was called for.  Indeed, a great deal of recent legislation proposed by the Society had been a major financial nuisance for Labrensy.  As chairman of the central committe of the congress of Norefomb as well as president of the Society for Progressive Reform, Porten Labrensy had been able to minimize the damage the more fanatical members of both the congress and the Society had inflicted on his financial interests.  Protecting these while at the same time espousing unwavering faith in socialism, however, was becoming a major headache for Porten Labrensy.  But socialism was what the political elite of the commonwealth still wanted to hear, particularly tonight.  So be it.
   "Again, it is not my government," Labrensy continued, "nor is it the congress' governement.  Indeed, it is no one man's government.  It is the people's governement."
   Labrensy waited for the applause to subside, another exercise in fanciful musing, personable geniality in his features as he continued.
   "The standard of living in our commonwealth is undeniably a source of envy to all our neighbors. Indeed, our farms are far more productive, our machine and industrial shops the marvel of the age.  It this good?  Is this bad?  Does it matter one way or another?  I suppose this question must continue to be a subject of debate.  I will simply accept the fact that providence has blessed us, and in such acceptance I will continue to work for the ongoning improvement of everyone's lot within the commonwealth.  Some would have us limit the resources we currently devote on the poorest of our citizens.  I must seriously question attitudes of the sort. How else are we to remain strong as a people unless we diligently see to the welfare of the least able of our citizens?"
   Labrensy waited again for the applause, stood now gritting his teeth.  The next part of the speech was going to be galling.  As difficult as it was to protect and conceal machinations of various financial sort from the congress's and the Society's medling, such were not matters of life and death.  Another open and unrestrained conflict with Jonn Lonry, however, very well could be.
   "We cannot, however," Porten Labrensy finally continued, "take the blessings we have received for granted.  While it is true that we face no adversary along our frontiers who would dare approach us with ill intent, we would be foolish to think this a permanent state of affairs.  For this reason, I must also question the many among you who would reduce the size of the commnwealth guard, even though there are indeed many, many more among you who would advocate such measures.  I hear indeed those members of the Society who state that it is of questionable benefit to us that we have so many aircraft in the guard when it is an ill concealed secret that a handful of such machines carrying the latest advances in modern armaments could destroy a large industrial town in it's entirety in a matter of minutes.  But we must, mustn't we, proceed with caution?  We must, mustn't we, all be prepared to suffer a measure of economic depravation if the commanders of our comnonwealth guard call upon us to do so?"
   The applause this time was tentative and sporadic.  Very good, Porten Labrensy smiled with jubulant satisfaction.  Just maybe some of you idiots are beginning to wake up.  Even so, however, even with the overt support of Norecomb's social and political elite, Porten Labrensy found himself standing in another moment's pause, wondering if it was possible to prevail in a head to head confrontation with Jonn Lonry and the commonwealth guard, wondering for another shuddering moment if it was possible to survive it.

------

   Jonn Lonry pushed his way up creaking wooden steps which led to a narrow catwalk running atop the fortress' walls, stepped cautiously in the early evening twilight from one plank to the next, trusting none with his full weight.  He leaned finally onto the walkway rails gazing toward freshly ploughed cropland in the near distance, gazing toward a pine wood on the western horizen.
   There wasn't much else he could do at the moment anyway, and Lonry sought release from the tension in the cigarette he had rolled in the radio room.  He'd attempted to call Colan Horeshan a few minutes ago, another faulty radio relay somewhere restricting westbound communications to within a dozan or so miles of Norecomb.  It would be an hour, according to the technicians, before repairs could be made.
   Lonry shook his head in brooding annoyance as he pondered the written transcript of this evening's speech Porten Labrensy had delivered to the Society for Progressive Reform, a speech which had been applauded by several of Lon Bellton's spies sitting in the audiance with small microphones in their vests.  What the hell was Labrensy's problem, Lonry asked himself?  Money?  Lonry's own salary as commander of the the first was slightly less than that of a footman in any of the central committee's residences, the commander of the commonwealth guard's rooms in fortress barrack not quite as large as a dishmaid's in any of those same residences.  Although guard clerks were masters at stretching allocated funds to the limit, it was becoming a difficult task just to maintain the guards' communication net in proper working order, not a matter of urgent concern at the moment.  And still, Sirenian advances in both technology and armaments production couldn't be taken lightly.  Nor, Lonry supposed, could the west easily dismiss the fact that Sirenia and allied country in the east had been politically stable kingdoms for centuries now.  Sirenia, with a cohesive social structure its roots grounded in antiquity and soon very likely to be in possesion of modern weaponry could, if historical precedent was taken into account, easily become a very real problem in the near future.
   All that, however, Lonry finally sighed, was just speculation.  It wasn't all that urgent that he reach Colan Horeshan at the moment anyway.  If it had been, he could easily have dispatched an aircraft to Horeshan's general location.  The flight from Norecomb would have taken an hour, less if the flyer ran his plane at full power.  Perhaps, Lonry decided, he would just take care of Paran himself.  Colan Horeshan, as director of field operations, was far more capable of waging front line battles in which rapid unit movement had to be coordinated minute by minute.  But how much of a problem would Paran really be, a town in the middle of the commonwealth, boss Cartfel and his thugs the only real opposition.  Involving the guard in another matter which by legal right was strictly a civil concern, Lonry decided, was another very good reason to handle the whole thing himself.
   Lonry leaned further into the rail atop the fortress' walls, as though this small motion might somehow transport him across the intervening hills back to his forest refuge in the west.  Were he required to explain what particular fascination the isolated depths of the western forests held for him, he supposed he would never be able to do so.  He had no real aversion toward the social gatherings common on the lanes of Norecomb.  He had in his youth quite enjoyed the lawn socials held in Sudentol where on pleasant summer evenings people from his and from a few neighboring outcountry farms would congregate.  But the extravagent galas attended by the fashionable and the elite along Norecomb's eloguent and ostenatious Center Lane were of no interest to him whatsoever.  Lonry would feel a great deal more comfortable sitting about a campfire in an old duty uniform brushing the mosquitos away.  Lon Bellton understood the finer points of the commonwealth's political and social structure far better than did he.  Lonry was more than content to leave Norecomb's ballrooms and crystal glassware and back alley, midnight subterfuge in Lon Bellton's hands.
   Lonry turned at the sound of aircraft engines whining up to power, gazed toward the airfield a short distance away.  Two planes rolled into position at the end of the runway, then braked to a stop for another few seconds as the flyers ran their engines to launch power.  Lonry watched with idle fascination as the first, then the other began their takeoff rolls, accelorating rapidly along the runway, tilting into the air short seconds later.  The planes flew above the tree tops for a short distance, then rolled onto their left wings, circling onto an southerly course.  As the scream of their engines was slowly swallowed by the distance, Lonry toyed with the idea of making another flight down to Paran himself.  No one had reported anything particularly interesting this evening, however.  If anything did happen, he would know about it in minutes.
   Lonry finally pushed himself along the catwalk back toward the stairs, glancing another moment toward Franny's along the northern edge of town.  What must be going through the mind of that young woman who would pass the evening in a strange room in Franny's tavern, her father probably a prisoner of Mason Calady's hired thugs?  Ordinarily, Lonry would have given her problems little thought.  The civil authority, after all, was supposed to deal with matters of the sort.  The inner workings of the commonwealth's political and civil structure were a mystery into which a soldier guarding the frontiers had never felt the slightest urge to delve.  Milton Hously, chairman of the congress' committee on defense preparedness, formally and ritualistically every several weeks requested and received a status report detailing guard activities.  Lonry left the report's composition to clerks in the fortress who were quite aware that nothing of consequence need be reported.
   But how, Lonry wondered, could anyone have described the terror he had seen in that young woman's eyes or the frantic desparation so evident in the tone of her voice?  Was the situation really as simple and uncomplicated as the girl had proclaimed it to be, one individual wanting that which another individual currently possessed?  Perhaps it had begun so, though the apparent fact of Labrensy's and the central commitee's involvement just couldn't any longer be ignored.  Lonry could easily enough have lived with most of the central committee's mischief and intrigue, could shrug amused mirth for a speech by Porten Labrensy which just this evening had been little less than a challenging taunt.  Assault rifles from Sirenia, however, were another matter entirely, Sirenia and the east the one power which might in the near future rival Norecomb in raw, military might.  No one in the guard would have any motive for allowing such weapons across the eastern or southern frontiers.  Lon Belton doubted that any one individual in Paran country possessed the resources which would be necessary to acquire such expensive and illicit weapons.  As much as he might have wished just to ignore the congress and its central committee, Jonn Lonry found himself despairing that he was going to be able to do so a great deal longer.
   Strolling without haste from the catwalk steps back onto the fortress's parade square, Lonry nodded pleasantries toward Pastor Allrood encountering him along the walks.  Laren Alrood had begun his clerical career thirty years ago in the parish of Contrin, thus had conducted services for the small mission chapel on Sudentol Farm where Lonry had lived the first sixteen years of his life.  Alrood had then gone on to serve in parishes across the commonwealth.  Stationed now in the chancery in Norecomb, he had assumed along with various other duties the chaplaincy of the commonwealth guard, and so was a familiar sight on the grounds of the fortress.
   "It's actually, Jonn, one of the more pleasant apects of my work recently," Laren Alrood continued in quiet conversation as he walked at Lonry's side, "now that I'm one of the church's senior and most highly reverenced clerics rumored even to be under consideration for elevation to the archbishop's chair."
   "Is it really?" amusement in Lonry's voice for the same in Pastor Alrood's.
   "One of the church's senior and most highly reverenced clerics rumored even to be under consideration for elevation to the archbishop's chair is cloistered away in the chancery behind table, must steal past housekeepers and other of the present archbishop's spies who will report one's every move to his excellency.  And the world as it is today, the movements of a senior cleric seem to be of interest to certain other people to be found on the lanes of town talking into their collars, these as well left behind at the gates of the fortress."
   Lonry returned a smile of genuine warmth.  He sincerely enjoyed conversations with Pastor Alrood, even if he sometimes stood in awe of a cleric of imposing and forceful character.
   "Seriously, Jonn, I do enjoy my visits here.  As you well know, a great many of your soldiers come from farm folk, many more from the industrial shops.  Had it not been for people such as these, our - revolutionary congress, particularly some past members of the central committee, would have been far more successful in their efforts to redicule the church.  The current members of the central committee still mouth attitudes of the sort.  They have, however, abandoned the more strenuous of their efforts toward our persecution, that since they seem also to have lost the passionate fury of their dedication to the misguided Utopian philosophies on which the Society for Progressive Reform was founded.  I fear Mr. Labrensy and his associates have also given new meaning to the idea of redistribution of wealth, a meaning not quite that which the founders of the commonwealth nor certain bearded social reformers from antiquity had in mind.  The residences in which the current merbers of the central committee reside have become rather ostentatious, wouldn't you say?"
   Lonry broke into a soft chuckle.  More politics, though he liked Pastor Alrood's slant on things.
   "As I say," Alrood continued, "I enjoy my visits to your fortresses.  Your soldiers come from families not given to pretensions of a sort which are common among the flock in Norecomb.  I still visit some of my old parishes as often as I can, and the first thing a mother of your young men will ask me is whether her son is attending services regularly.  By the way, Jonn -?"
   "You know how it is, Pastor," Lonry began in stammering apology.  "Always something on the frontiers to keep me busy."
   It was gentle amusement in Alrood's features, perhaps an edge of chasening amusement.
   "So, Jonn," he continued, encouragaging warmth in his voice, "how are you doing?"
   Lonry released a contemplative sigh.  Six months ago, when the commonwealth had tottered on the brink of civil war, he'd spent as much time discussing the situation with Alrood as with anyone else.
   "I guess it still eats at me sometimes, Pastor.  I know damn well Labresy or someone else on the congress had a hand in Jac Lanbory's death.  Jac Lanbory was one of the best commanders we ever had, the best I ever served under, a decent man and the father I never had -" Lonry standing in struggling silence another long moment, his voice and his features stony determination when he was finally able to continue.  "It wouldn't surprise me if Calady's thugs had something to do with it, but Lon Bellton just can't prove anything.  I guess I'm over it all now, Pator.  Six months ago I was ready to haul Labrensy and his crowd right out of the congress house, but I suppose the whole thing's not worth a civil war."
   "I must admit, you had us worried there for awhile.  The archbishop and I spent several afternoons at windows in the chancery's attic watching a very impressive parade of guntrucks.  We found ourselves lowering our heads on more than a few occasions wondering if one of your flying machines was going to demolish the roof under which we happened to be standing."
   Again Lonry couldn't help but feel chastened. Alrood, however, continued in a gentle humor.
   "And as much as the church has benefited from the guard's refusal to participate in the congress' attempts to persecute us, we would still be very saddened by the prospect of war."
   "I as well," Lonry answered in a voice of quiet brooding.
   "Jonn, when God talks to you, does He talk in the second person?  Does he say - hey, you, listen?"
   Lonry returned an expression of wondering amusement.
   "I love to ask that question at balls and social functions of the sort on Center Lane when I'm trying to convert some of the more hardened cases of our social elite, particularly those who belong to the Society for Progressive Reform.  Most of them offer an expression quite simillar to your own right now.  Cracks me up every time.  But seriously, Jonn, I've known you for a very long time.  And I'm quite comfortable placing my physical well being into your hands.  I can't really offer you any profound or useful advise regarding problems between the congress and the guard.  Those are matters in which I just don't have any experience.  I will say this, however - sometimes we all listen to a tiny voice somewhere in the back of our minds.  Perhaps that voice is saying something like, Jonn Lonry, you are a good person.  Stay with it all a bit longer.  Perhaps that voice we all listen to, but usually don't hear, is the voice of God."

------

   Colan Horeshan, now inspecting a newly created field group manuevering along the southern frontiers, pushed his way through a patch of dense brush toward the next position along a camp perimeter established by a contingent of guntruck regulars a short distance from the frontiers.   Four dozen guntruck crews in this camp had been digging in for the evening, carefully plotting motor ranges and overlapping fields of fire.  Horeshan might in a mood have prowled across the southern frontiers into Fraelin with a single company, might have manuevered half way across Fraelin just to irritate the Marquists.  New orders from Norecomb, however, had changed all that.  Apparently Jonn Lonry and Lon Bellton had reason to suspect that it was time to get large numbers of their people's asses out of their cots and onto the seats of their guntrucks, though Horeshan spent very little time worrying about what those reasons were.  Maybe boss Marquist and Fraelin, maybe even Sirenia next.   Who knows?
   Horshan nodded to the young guardman who stood a dozen feet in front of the guntruck surveying the surrounding forest through a pair of binoculars.  He then approached the truck, listened with brooding interest as another guardman attempted to communicate with a nearby position over the radio.  The soldier was having little success, however.  At least a half dozen other positions seemed to be competing with each other for space on the frequency, the result a squeal of unintelligible noise across the radio.
   "Gimme that thing," Horeshan snapped.  The young guardsman quickly relinquished the microphone.
   "This is Colan Horeshan," he shouted.  "Knock it off.  If you don't have anything to say, get the hell off the damn radio."
   Horeshan handed the microphone back to the guardsman when he detected a noticeable decline in the level of noise.
   "You all right for the night, kid?" Horeshan asked.
   "We're all set, boss," the young guardsmen answered.  "What's going on, anyway?"
   "Who knows," Horeshan replied as he pushed himself from the truck, scratching his way through leafy undergrowth toward another position.  Lon Bellton had said very little when he had called from Norecomb this afternoon requesting that field commands be set up along the southern frontiers.  Horeshan could recall no immediate danger along those frontiers which would require guard involvement in strength.  Boss Marquist's drunken louts in Fraelin occasionally engaged in a bit of mischief along the frontiers, that, however, usually countered by a single guard company which took their bottles away.  Horeshan wondered if things could possibly be heating up out Sirenia way again.  He'd led several patrols across the eastern frontiers over the years, had wandered toward strange and mysterious country to the east, had sent aircraft from hastily prepared back wood landing strips over the town of Sirenia itself on a few occasions.
   Lon Bellton, however, was the one who understood all of this political garbage.  Lonry as commander of the guard would activate and position reserve units, seeing to a hundred other nagging details of logistics and supply.  Only when the situation had deteriorated to the point where hostilities seemed irrvocably imminent would Lonry release the awesome and devastating power of the commonwealth guard into Horeshan's hands as director of field operations, a power which could with the activation of resources held in reserve be a hundred times as large as the field group with which Horeshan now manuevered.
   Was the central committee after Lonry again, Colan Horeshan asked himself as he rested another moment against the trunk of a large maple fussing over a cigarette?  That certainly wasn't anything in which he need become involved on intimate terms.  Lonry and Bellton would see to matters in the vicinity of Norecomb.  While Lonry didn't have quite Colan Horeshan's finesse moving guntrucks in the field, a fact readily admitted by both men, Lonry could if necessary direct field manuevers himself with a reasonable measure of proficiency.  But Norecomb?  Any amateur could roll a half dozen squads of guntrucks onto the lawns of the congress house.   It wouldn't take much more than that.  Mason Calady's hired thugs were very good at making people disappear in the middle of the night, but even they weren't stupid enough to plant themselves in front of a fully armed guntruck.  A single, well placed shell from one, Colan Horeshan decided in pleasant amusement, would leave a twenty foot wide hole where the congress
 house's doors had been.
   Horeshan was more than content to leave Norecomb in Jonn Lonry's and Lon Bellton's hands, leaned against a maple with cigarette in hand cautioning words his mother had spoken years ago when he had first joined the guard running through his mind.  "I'll whip your ass, boy," his mother had barked, "if you ever do anything to the church cause a them there fancy society socialists runnin' Norecomb now."  Horeshan broke into an amused smile for the memory.  The majority of guardsmens' mothers, it seemed, had delivered similar lectures to their sons prior to their contracting.  The commonwealth guard had proven itself a force capable of swift and devastating fury twenty years ago when it had been required to engage and demolish the forces of Alensa and allied country along the eastern frontiers.  This same guard, however, sat idle in barracks on a half dozen occasions when the commonwealth congress had ordered it to assist the central committee's henchmen against country marshals defending church property seized by the congress and the Society.  Although Lon Bellton hadn't yet been able to prove anything, it seemed nothing but obvious that Jac Lanbory, Jonn Lonry's predecessor, had sucumbed to Mason Calady's henchmen, Jac Lanbory having yet again refused to order the guard to move in support of the congress' ongoing war against the church and those protecting it.
   As much as Colan Horeshan might have hoped the current situation, whatever the hell it was about, would be settled in Norecomb, he couldn't escape the fact that Lonry and Bellton were obviously concerned about matters on and beyond the frontiers, concerned enough to request the assembling of working field groups.  Horeshan still shuddered at times for memories of Alensa, a war twenty years ago in which he had crawled through the mud day after day for six months.  Past wars in which Norecomb had fought had been little different from the way wars were still fought on occasion in the tribes to the west or the largely unmechanized kingdoms of the desert south and the far east.  Small bands of mounted champions supported by foot slogging infantry marched across field and forest in search of its opposition.  The whole matter might be settled over the course of a few hours in one or two decisive battles.  Alensa had been the North's introduction to modern, mechanized warfare, populations rather than champions
involved, the thing an unrelenting nightmare of horror in which the mobilized population of an entire commonwealth fought day and night, inch by inch, the matter concluding only when Alensa, a town almost Norecomb's size, had been burned to the ground.  Horeshan could only shudder all the more when he considered the weapons the guard now possessed.  During Alensa, the airplanes owned by the guard had been used for little more than forward observation.  Type fours today could launch from easily seized fields in the middle countries and be over Sirenia country in forty forty five minutes carrying ordinance which could obliterate the largest of Sirenia's towns.  A few dozen type fours, it was speculated, could obiterate the greater part of Sirenia town itself.  Although armored motor trucks had been used for the first time in Alensa, most war material had still been transported in horse drawn wagons.  A modern, heavily armored guntruck could cover as much distance in an hour as one of the old wagons could have covered in a day.
   The only consolation Colan Horeshan at the moment could find in the entire matter was for the fact that the guard, if indeed once more sent across the frontiers in force, would not do so at his orders.  Only when Lonry transferred ownership of weapons into the hands of a field commander would Horeshan have to use them.
   Colan Horeshan finally wandered back toward the center of the encampment, stood for another moment inspecting that which he might for months at a time call home, a large canvas tent pitched in a forest clearing.  Half a dozen younger guardsmen were busy rigging a thirty foot antenna atop a tall maple, several others stringing cable from the tree to the tent.  With luck, radio relay equipement in a shack on a hill a dozen or so miles to the north would be in working order.
   Horeshan pushed his way through the tent's door flap, settled finally onto a cot a short distance from a field table at which a pair of group staff captains sat examining maps of the area.
   "Radio should be up and running shortly, boss," Mory Linheln noted, gazing expectantly toward the cot.
   "Good," Horeshan grunted.
   "Oh come on, Colan," Linheln continued in sighing exasperation.  "What the hell's going on?"
   "What do I look like all of a sudden I got brains enough to figure that out," and Horeshan reached into a pocket for his tobacco pouch, fussing over a cigarette as a pair of captains continued their verbal assault.
   "A pair of clucking hens," Horeshan mumbled as he reached for a match.

------ 2 May

   Jonn Lonry idled into the fortress's radio room shortly after daybreak.  Lon Belton already stood at the coffee table, his attention on a map spread beside the cups.
   "How's this?" Bellton asked, pointing out the position of the guntruck companies which had moved over the course of the night, two now sitting on a commonwealth highway just to the north of Paran town, two more a few miles west, a number of others within an hour's reach.
   "Yeah - that'll work," Lonry nodded.  "All right, let's get an air show going over the area.  Brush off some of the old type threes if you have to."
   "That's not a bad idea.  Those rusty old kites aren't very fast, but they do make a god awful noice.  If that doesn't get old boss Cartfell's attention, nothing will."
   "That's the idea," and Lonry gazed a final moment's brooding silence about the radio room in Norecomb fortress, a final sigh of resignation.
  "Our Rubicon," Lon Bellton's voice musing mirth, "was crossed twenty years ago."
   "Thanks," Lonry  chuckled.  "All right, Lon, watch the shop."
   Pushing himself down the steps and into the fortress yards, Lonry walked toward the guntruck resting a few steps away, its driver idling the engine at low speed.  Lonry glanced another studying moment toward rows of mothballed trucks resting in yards a short distance away, had debated activating a few companies of reserve.  Most from outcountry farms and a good many even from the lanes in town would have reported without written orders.  But such activation required the approval of the congress' defense readiness committee, technically, at least.  Lonry just didn't feel up to Milton Hously at the moment.
   Settling himself onto the guntruck's seat, Lonry nodded toward its young driver.
   "Let's go, Caley," Lonry sighed, a quick, resigned wave of his hand.
    The drive south from Norecomb along the western shores of Rupert Gulf was accomplished over well maintained commonwealth roads, these the primary route of overland motor freights to and from Fraelin country, roads used as often by industrial and mining concerns and receving a good deal of attention from country councils.  It was a warm, dry morning, however, the truck raising a considerable cloud of dust as it sped along, an annoyance which Lonry supposed was just a part of life as it was in the commonwealth guard.  Nothing along the roads over the course of the morning seemed out of the ordinary save perhaps for an unusual amount of traffic over the radio between guard positions still some distance away.  Several flights of aircraft passed over head, one an impressive, and in certain circumstances an intimidating formation of four planes flying within yards of each other a few hundred feet above the tree tops.
   Lonry studied the flight as it quickly dropped below the horizon in the direction of Paran country, settling back onto the guntruck's seat in quiet brooding.  It would, he supposed, have been easy to retreat back into the west wood, just let the good people of the commonwealth settle their problems any way they could.  Something about Paran, however, was simply irritating.  Lonry could think of no other word to explain it.  Why could Olven Lant not control the situation by himself?  The whole thing was the commonwealth marshal's responsibilty to begin with, in theory at least.  Lant, however, had spoken his own views on the matter in succint and straight forward terms, had all but openly requested the direct involvement of the guard.  Lonry felt compelled, if not to intervene immediately, then at the very least to watch the whole thing closely.  And Lonry couldn't help but appreciate the fact that Olven Lant was taking a very big chance communicating directly with the guard. Any other marshal across th
e commonwealth might be able to do so without notice, but not the marshal general of Norecomb.  Labrensy and the congress were not going to rest easily for it. And it had, Lonry little doubted, been Labrensy's and Calady's people who had been responbible for Jac Lanbory's murder.  If they could get to a commander of the commonwealth guard, they would certainly have no problem getting to the marshal of Norecomb.
  Approaching Poldren town, the guntruck's young driver turned questioning eyes toward Lonry.
   "We gonna take this thing in, boss - right down Center Lane?"
   "Yeah, kid, right down Center Lane.  Let's have a quick look."
   Following an overland freight chugging along at a walking pace, the heavy guntruck now rolled along Maprel Lane, the main throughfare leading through that part of Poldren which lay along the northern banks of the Requen.  Old warehouses in many of which gaping holes were evident through the lumber lined both sides of the lanes.  Closer to the bridge, dense clouds of thick gray smoke poured from chimneys towering above many other buildings. The industrial sections of Poldren had always fascinated Lonry, their character so different from the rural settings he was usued to.  A teeming multitude of people dressed in old work clothes busied themselves in various manner of labor in and about the buildings.  Another multitude of well worn trucks crawled here and there between them.  No one paid any particular attention even to the military guntruck rolling along the lane.  This part of Poldren was not dissimilar to the industrial sections of Olney where the guard's aircraft were manufactured, nor Holdren and the truck shops, though Poldren somehow seemed older, perhaps a bit more worn in overall appearance.   Some of the best guardsmen, however, had been recruited from here.
   "You have people here, don't you, Caley?" Lonry asked as he turned toward his driver.
   "Yeah, my father works in the meat packing house," the young guardsman motioning toward a sprawling building surrounded by several acres of fenced holding pens.  "Worked there myself a couple years while I was waiting for a position in the guard to open up."
   The Requen was bridged at Poldren across the narrows at Goatkil Island.  Lonry gazed down toward the foaming swell of the rapids as the guntruck rolled across the wooden planks of the bridge at a walking pace.  Then on Center they proceeded at the same slow pace past downtown shops on both sides of the lanes, the walkways crowded with people strolling without concern.  A pair of town constables patrolled one side of the lane swinging their batons at the end of the ropes, glancing curious interest as the guntruck rolled past.  Even here in Poldren, a considerable number of nondescript men dressed in ordinary business attire stood on a few of the corners surveying the crowds with studying scowls.   Most in the crowd, however, were more than happy to ingore and be ignored by them.
   A quarter mile along Poldren's Center, Caley turned right.  The guntruck now rolled through quiet residential sections of town, small children playing on the front lawns of their homes.
   "Chasin' bandits, ain't ya?" a number of boys yelled as the guntruck passed.  Lonry smiled softly in the children's direction while mothers gazed back with expressions of curious interest.  Lonry wondered what their reaction would have been to a whole line of guntrucks rumbling through town, though he wasn't certain he really wanted to find out.  Even during the civil troubles he had faced six months ago when he had first taken command of the guard after the murder of Jac Lanbory, he had instructed the field commanders directing the unscheduled maneuvers to approach the towns no more closely than a mile or two.
   Lonry finally nodded his young driver back to speed along a commonwealth highway leading south. A squad of guntrucks waiting at the edge of the highway a few miles from Poldren throttled their engines to speed as they fell into line, the procession settling into a rapid, steady pace for the final leg of the journey.  Unfolding a map, Lonry passed another few minutes studying the current disposition of the companies already in Paran country.  One company now kept station on a low rise a mile north of town, another a like distance to the west.
   Lonry lifted the microphone from  its cradle.  Although several more companies in Paran country had been instructed to remain on alert, the two posted to the immediate vicinity of Paran had been told to expect orders at any time.
   "Brensol," Lonry called.
   "Yeah, boss."
   "Hang on.  Rolan."
   "Listenin', boss."
   "Stay awake.  You'll be rolling in an hour."
   Hearing enthusiastic satisfaction in the replies of two young company captains, Lonry reached for a knob on the radio in order to change its frequency.
   "Guard one - Olven Lant," he called, listened only to silence another moment.  "Lant - Olven Lant -"
   "What -?" an answer crackled over the radio a quick moment later.
   "How are you feeling this morning, marshal?"
   "Just fine.  You out and about, are you, Lonry?"
   "Taking a little drive out Paran way."
   "I see you got a whole lot a company."
   Lonry chuckled himself in a moment's mirthful amusement.
   "Yeah, well me and my company's gonna be on the edge of Paran in twenty minutes.  You're invited."
   Switching the radio back to guard frequencies, Lonry was about to settle the microphone back onto its cradle when it again crackled to life.
   "Guard one - Norecomb."
   "Yeah -" Lonry answered.  What now?
   "Jonn -" Lon Belton's voice sounding through the speaker.  "Something - interesting in the news this morning.  The commonwealth court hearing an appeal from his honor Bransen Cartfel of Paran has, it seems, ruled in his honor's favor."
   Of course it did, Lonry decided, all three justices hand picked by Porten Labrensy and the central committee.
   "Is that - interesting, Lon?"
   "It's an obvious shot toward Olven Lant.  I suppose the central committee is hoping that our marshal will scurry back to Norecomb, let Paran and Cartfel be.  It might be - interesting for us, the old buzards trying to bear what teeth they have.  And the timing is - annoying."
   "That at the least," Lonry sighed, Norecomb's high court used by the central committee on several past occasions.  "All right, Lon, thanks.  But it doesn't change much as far as I can see.  If there's any more Sirenian assault rifles floating around Paran country, I want them now, not later.  One way or another, I'm gonna force this thing today."
   Rolling to a stop a few minutes later, Lonry pushed himself from the guntruck, approached two smaller utility trucks sitting at the edge of a commonwealth highway a short distance from Paran.
   "Marshal -" Lonry nodded.
   " You heard the latest from Norecomb - the court -?" Olven Lant asked.
   "Doesn't change a thing far as I'm concerned.  Cartfel's getting guns from somewhere he shouldn't be getting them, some very powerful guns.  That annoys me, marshal.  And it should annoy you too.  It should annoy you enough to want to ask Carfel and his gang a few questions - unless, of course, the congress has you running scared."
   It was nothing more than amusement in the commonwealth marshal's features, the same steady confidence in his voice.
   "All right, I got deputies and revenue strung out long the road between here and Paran.  Nothing exciting happened last night.  Course you and your airplanes already know that."
   "So how do we do this, Lant?"
   "You don't look the type who'd really wanna open up on your fellow citizens in the middle of the commonwealth, Lonry?"
   "I'd go a long ways out of my way to avoid it."
   "Yeah, Lonry, I think you would.  All right, you and me, in one truck.  We just take a drive into Paran and knock on boss Cartfel's door."
   Lonry reached onto the seat of his guntruck for a pistol which he fastened to his belt, grasped a small radio, settled finally onto the seat of the truck behind the wheel of which Olven Lant now sat.
   "All right, marshal, let's take a drive."
   The truck surged forward with a speed and agility which caught Lonry quite by surprise.  When he thought about it, however, it made sense.  Heavily armored guntrucks were usually weighed down with a considerable load of armaments, were designed to operate for weeks at a time along and beyond the frontiers.  The commonwealth marshal, on the other hand, needed speed and agility closer to home in light, fast utility vehicles.  Lant settled the truck into a rapid, steady pace toward Paran, glancing toward the sky and another flight of aircraft.
   "I'm surprised you bought into all this so quick, Lonry."
   "Are you?"
   Lant slowed the truck as they passed another checkpoint, shot a studying glance toward deputies examining the contents of a farm wagon stopped at the edge of the highway.
    "I'm surprised how far into this you are, marshal."
  "Most people thought Pretcan country was the easiest job in the world, nothin' to do.  You know why there was nothin' to do?  Because I made sure it was all done in the first place.  I took care of little problems before they became big problems."
   "Yeah, but you're marshal of the commonwealth, now.  Lot more problems."
   "So I look for a lot more help," Lant answered with an easy grin.  "I look for help wherever I can get it," Lant glancing toward another pair of aircraft screaming along just above the tree tops.  "Damn, those things are fast.  How fast do they go, Lonry?"
   "We don't, like I say, advertise that.  Let's just say that by the time we get to Paran, those two could have flown halfway out to the tribes."
   "Lawdy," Lant intoned as he turned again to study the road ahead.  Lonry couldn't help but wonder for the commonwealth marshal's attitude of casual self assurance as they rolled along the final stretch of road leading toward Paran Town.  Stealing another curious glance, Lonry found himself wondering if the rumors were true, that Lant, despite his years, still pulled one of the fastest guns in the commonwealth.

------

   Bransen Cartfel pushed himself from his chair with a straining, laboring effort, then leaned heavily onto his cane.  Though his seventy year old body was thin and frail, his mind was still sharp.  With a long, despondent sigh, Cartfel hobbled toward a window on the upper floor of the town hall, gazed down onto Paran town's traffic lanes, gazed then toward the sky and another flight of aircraft screaming a hundred feet above the rooftops.  Bransen Cartfel shook his head in dark amusement.  A case before the commonwealth court in Norecomb just this morning decided in his favor, he was eminently aware that it could well turn out to be a very hollow victory.
   Cartfel turned toward the chamber's door and Paran's marshal.
   "Well - well -?" Cartfel snapped.
   "Lant's here - at the gate -"
   "And not alone, I suppose."
   "There's another man with him -"
   "You idiot - there's probably half a field group of other men with him."
   Bransen Cartfel stood another moment his brow wrinkled in concentration, desparately searching for any means by which he might escape that which could well turn out to be a hangman's noose.
   "Where are those men from Sirenia now?"
   "Still camped down on Westback Road."
   "I should never have listened to Labrensy," Cartfel continued in mumbling agitation as he turned again toward the window, gazed toward the small utility truck sitting at the town hall's gate.  Lant and another man, Lonry himself, no doubt, stood at the gate.  A few of those standing guard on the town hall's lawns might have recognized Jonn Lonry.  All of them, however, recognized Olven Lant, taking care that their hands remained a respectful distance from their sidearms.
   "Get down there," Cartfel barked toward Paran's marshal, "and show those two men up here."
   Cartfel hobbled back to his table and sat in anxious, searching thought, then leaned back in his chair when he heard approaching footsteps.  Paran's marshal stood at the door as Olven Lant and Jonn Lonry walked into the room.
  "Get out," Bransen Cartfel barked toward Paran's marshal.  When the door was closed, Cartfel raised steady, unwavering eyes toward the two men standing before his table.
   "Let's deal," Cartfel began without ceremony.
   "What do you have to sell?" Lant returned.
   "Something command captain Lonry here will be very interested in - something Porten Labrensy gave me, and I wish to hell I'd never agreed to take it."
   "The congress -?" Lonry asked.
   "I didn't say the congress.  I said Labrensy - Labrensy and his gang in Norecomb -"
   "All right, Cartfel, " Lant began.  "Whatever.  We didn't come down here to waste time.  What do you have for us."
   "First let me tell you what I want.  It's not much, really.  I just want you to forget about me, and I think you'll be more than happy to do so.  You'll have other problems to deal with, problems a whole lot bigger than me."
  Cartfel gazed another moment's studying scrutiny toward the two men standing in front of his table, decided there wasn't a great deal to be gained by further procrastination.  They would hang him or they would forget about him.  Only time would tell.  It wouldn't matter if Norecomb's court and congress in its entirety was on his side.  He had made the mistake of attracting the attention of the commonwealth guard.  As far as Cartfel knew, this Jonn Lonry usually went out of his way to avoid conflict with the civil authority, did so to a greater extent than most past commanders of the commonwealth guard.  Cartfel was also quite aware, however, that Lonry had no pressing need whatsoever to continue doing so.  Porten Labrensy and his gang sitting on Center Lane might control the financial concerns of the commonwealth.  Mason Calady and his plain clothed henchmen might control both the lanes of Norecomb as well as those of a great many other towns across the commonwealth.  Jonn Lonry, however controled the commonwealth's most poweful guns.
   "There are some people -" Cartfel finally began, "some people camped down on Westback Road, about five miles from here, a couple dozen, maybe more."
   "Some people I should talk to?" Lant asked.
   "Oh no, not you, marshal.  You, command captain Lonry. You want these people.  And you want your guntrucks with you when you appoach these people.  A whole lot of your guntrucks."

------

   Lonry and Lant walked from Paran's town hall back to a small utility truck sitting at the gates, were keely aware that a great many eyes noted their progress.  Lonry reached for the portable radio on the truck's seat, gazed another studying moment about the traffic lanes of a sizeable industrial town.
   "Brensol - Rolan," he finally called, "I want you in Paran parked right in front of the town hall.  Now."
   Lonry waited a quick moment for the acknowledgements, turned then toward little more than wondering amusement in Olven Lant's features.
   "That's going to be one hell of a show, Lonry."
   "That's what it's meant to be, marshal.  And that's all it's meant to be, for now, at least.  I have a feeling that if anything exciting is going to happen, it'll be on this Westback Road of Cartfell's," and Lonry glanced toward a pair of aircraft circling overhead, again raised the radio.  "Westback Road, supposed to be five miles west of here.  See what's on it."
   The planes banking immediately and authoritatively toward the west, Lonry tossed the radio back onto the truck's seat, turned again toward Olven Lant.
   "Well, marshal, you gonna join the party?"
   Lant hesitated only for a moment, reached for his own radio.
   Short minutes later, the first guntrucks rumbled along Paran Town's traffic lanes.  When the parade finally ended, a hundred heavy guntrucks sat among the shops and office buildings of Paran's business district, their engines set at fast idle and therefore rattling the windows of every building in immediate view.  Paran Town standing along the walkways gawked in quiet awe toward guard regulars standing at weapons usually seen only along the frontiers.  Several dozen trucks emblazened with the emblem of the commonwealth marshal general convinced the remainder of Bransen Cartfel's guards to disappear into the shadows.
   The pity of it, Jonn Lonry sighed as he rejoined his own guntruck, was that a great many people in a large industrial town in the middle of the commonwealth had no idea as to why their community was being subjected to this spectacle.
   "He does, though," Olven Lant stated as he glared toward the town hall another long moment.
   Lonry nodded, supposed he could easily have just grasped the old boss by the collar.  But that would have been a quickly forgotten gesture.  The people of Paran were not likely to forget the day's events any time soon.  Boss Cartfel would have a lot of explaining to do.  Who knows - maybe the people of Paran would decide that it was time for a new boss.  And if Labrensy and the central committee back in Norecomb started squirming, all the better.  And they would squirm indeed.  A pair of ordinary looking men in plain business attire stood another moment on the steps of a nearby Way House, retreated finally through the door toward the Way House's telephone.
   Lonry stood another moment in pondering quiet a few feet from his guntruck, turned then at the approach of his driver.
   "Something coming across the radio now, boss.  They think they've found this Westback Road, and something on it, something interesting."
   Lonry leaned toward the guntruck's door and the radio, two young flyers declaring Westback Road interesting.  Unfolding a map, Lonry studied the area in detail another quick moment.  With a little luck, it should be possible to ring the area in question with a half dozen squads of guntrucks within the next hour.  Overkill, perhaps, but at this point, Lonry just wasn't prepared to accept any more surprises.

------

   Porten Labrensy lifted the telephone receiver, listened in anxious concern to the straining emphasis in Mason Calady's voice.  Although Porten Labrensy was chairman of the central committee of the congress of Norecomb, it just wasn't possible to see personally to the details of every project now in the works.  Mason Calady, generally acknowledged to be Porten Labrensy's heir apparant, at least for the time being, had proven himself useful on any number of past occasions, had thus survived in his present position far longer than any of his immediate predeccessors.  Mason Calady's cadres of plain clothed security people were the highest paid in the commonwealth, and the most feared.  Good Lord, Porten Labrensy groaned, the annoying hint of a tremble in his hand as he grasped the telephone, Calady and his devious gang of gutter snipes had even succeeded in ridding the commonwealth of a past commander of the guard.
   "Lant and Lonry are both in Paran," Mason Calady continued.
   Labrensy sat another moment in scowling thought.
   "Lant and Lonry are both in Paran.  Is that supposed to worry us?"
   "Listen to me, Labrensy - they're in Paran, the guard and the marshal.  They're in Paran - in force.  Lonry rolled a hundred guntrucks right up to the steps of the town hall - in broad daylight."
   Labrensy again grasped the telephone with necessary strength.
   "Will Cartfel talk?"
   "Of course he'll talk.  He'll make whatever deal he can.  And Lonry will go after those people from Sirenia."
   "They'll fight."
   "Yes, and from what I'm told, they'll fight well.  They pledge their lives to the sovereign of Sirenia in some sort of rediculous ceremony in which she holds a sword to their shoulders.  They might hold out for fifteen or twenty minutes before Lonry obliterates them.  But that's eminently besides the point.  Before all of this is over, we're liable to have guntruck's rolling into Norecomb right up to the steps of the commonwealth congress house if we do anything foolish now."
   "Calady, he wouldn't dare -"
   "Most people didn't think Lonry would go into Paran, Labrensy.  Lonry rolled guntrucks through the middle of town in broad daylight.  And if that's not bad enough, Lant's thrown in with him, all the way."
   Labrensy leaned back in his chair in searching thought.
   "All right, Calady, what do we do?"
  "Nothing.  It's all been done.  We just wait.  We keep making pretty speeches.  We keep telling the good people of the commonwealth how well off they are.  We can still survive this.  We can, if things now proceed as I think they will, still win.  But we have to be careful.  Oh, and one more thing, Labrensy, let that Molney fellow go.  That was idiotic, dragging him off the walkways -"
   "Now just a minute, Calady, he does owe me money.  That's a legitimate -"
   "Labrensy, all you're doing is irritating Lonry.  And believe me, he is irritated.  He still has this Molney's daughter, and you can be certain that Lon Bellton is talking to her.  Let the man go, Labrensy, and in the future leave things like this to my people.  They're the professionals.  You and Cartfel can settle your problems with your farmers when all of this is done.  If we do anything stupid now, we're going to end up with guntrucks in Norecomb and a military government.  Military law will be very bad for business, and very unhealthy for you and me.  Our precious Society fanatics spouting socialist reform from soapboxes in the shops will be a very minor distractiom for someone like Lonry.  Don't let him fool you, Labrensy.  He's Jac Lanbory all over again.  Remember?  You wanna have to start calling the fortress again for permission from one of Lonry's clerks to take your next shit?"

------

  The young men standing near a dozen ordinary utility trucks in a small forest clearing actually sighed relief that their ordeal was about to end.  They had been camped in this desolate wood west of Paran for days daring no movement whatsoever.
   The group's leader, several years older than his fellows, had stood near the trucks for an hour now watching flight after flight of quick, agile aircraft pass overhead.  He now turned to the questioning voice of his seond in command.
   "That old man in town gave us up, didn't he?"
   "Obviously," the group leader sighed.
   "So we run for the frontiers?"
   "We try.  Trouble is, the frontier's a long ways away.  And no matter how fast we drive, we can't drive faster than those airplanes."
   "Well, they told us this might happen, didn't they?"
   The group leader turned a pondering gaze toward several dozen associates.  He genuinely admired them.  It was all such a neeless waste, but they had their orders, and they had pledged their lives and their honor in solemn ceremony to obey those orders.
   The group leader's one regret, he supposed, was for the fact that he and his men must die dressed like common highwaymen rather than in uniform.

------

   Jonn Lonry had been chasing bandits along the frontiers of the commonwealth for twenty years now.  In a number of instances he'd led patrols a considerable distance beyond the frontiers in close pursuit.  This, however, was the first time he had engaged in such activities near a large industrial town forty miles from Norecomb.
   His driver had held the heavy guntruck at a rapid pace for the past ten minutes.  Lonry grasped whatever support he could find with one hand as he fumbled the map open with the other.  As the truck flew across another series of washed out gullies in the road, Lonry held the map as steadily as he could, studied the last set of coordinates relayed to him from the air, reached finally for the radio's microphone.
   "Brensol, you should be about a mile behind them now.  Rolan, haul it another mile west.  Watch Colst Pond.  I don't want them turning south."
   If he was successful, he would continue to maneuver the fleeing trucks away from farms located in the eastern sections of Paran country, would engage them as far from the populace of the commonwealth as possible.  The last thing Lonry wanted at the moment was a large brush fight right in the middle of the commonwealth.   He had already subjected the good people of this area to more than enough excitement for the day.  And if his suspicions were correct, these were no ordinary highwayman fleeing the guard's pursuit.  They would fight well.  Lonry would have felt far more comfortable had Colan Horeshan been here to direct these manuevers.  Horeshan, after all, was director of field operations, and for very good reasons.  But the situation was urgent and immediate.  Lonry would just have to do the best he could.
   Lonry turned his attention again to the crackle of the radio.
   "--- Brensol here, got 'em in sight now."  The radio fell silent for another moment, after which the same voice again blared across the speaker, a voice now charged with frantic vehemence.  "Taking fire, rapid fire - repeat, rapid fire -"
   Lonry snatched the microphone into his hand.
   "Brensol, disengage - back off.  Roland, they're coming right at you. Dig in.  I want 'em stopped."
   Lonry waited a short moment for acknowlegements, snatched the microphone again to his mouth.
   "Norecomb -"
   "Norecomb -" the answer came almost instantly.
   "Inolt ready?"
   "At the end of the runway, loaded and ready."
   "Stay alert.  I want you in the air ten seconds after I call.  Brensol."
   Lonry could endure the silence over the radio only another half moment.
   "Brensol, talk to me.  What's going on?"
   Lonry stiffened in tense anxiety when the radio finally crackled to life, the speaker's voice almost drowned out by the steady rattle of automatic weapons fire.
   "Brensol here, boss.  They're stopped, tyring to form lines. 
These ain't no ordinary highwaymen -"
   A rush of static and gunfire covered the voice for another several seconds.  Lonry could again endure the  silence only a short moment.
   "Brensol -" he called.
   This time the returning voice was calm, without the noise of gunfire in the background.
   "Rolan here, boss.  They're about two hundred yards west of our position - looks like they're digging in - twelve trucks, at least two dozen of 'em.  Brensol's about three hundred yards west and south of 'em, digging in too."
   "All right, maintain position.  Don't engage, just keep 'em down.  We're not taking these people on until I have a whole lot more of our own people here.  I want ten to one odds with these guys."
   Lonry again reached for the map, leaned frantically from the window as low hanging branches swept the side of the truck.
   "Move, Caley," Lonry urged, the truck's young driver holding the throttle open .  Lonry grasped the map as steadily as he could.  As near as he was able to determine, they were still three miles from the scene of the engagement, other units converging from the north and the west.
   Lonry gazed up toward the aircraft now circling a fixed point ahead.  This was all, he decided, bizare and incredible to every possible extreme.  The events of the past half hour had hardly allowed anyone to catch their breath.  Lonry remembered the stories his uncles had told of their own days in the guard fifty years ago when on horseback they might spend weeks riding across country in pursuit.  This morning's skirmish was as likely as not going to be settled in nothing more than another matter of minutes by a small flight of aircraft now sitting at the end of the runway at Norecomb with a load of the new brushfire bombs, aircraft which would scream from Norecomb to the site in little more than ten minutes.
   Lonry grasped the dash rail with strength, pulled himself to his feet as Caley slammed the truck to a stop.  Pulling one of the rifles from its cradle, Lonry flung himself to the ground, advanced in a cautious crouch toward a young company captain leaning at the hood of a guntruck a few steps away.  Two hundred yards further ahead a dozan utility vehicles sat at the bottom of a shallow depression.
   "A squad of 'em at least," Brensol stated.  "Look at the rifles, boss."
   Lonry snatched field glasses to his eyes, gazed studying scrutiny toward several of their oponents just visible behind shrubbery.  A glimpse was enough, the assault rifles Sirenian.
   "We goin' in, boss?"
   "Not yet.  We've got more people on the way.  I don't want any contest here."
   "Yeah, I see what you mean.  These ain't no ordinary bad guys."
   "Everyone okay here?"
   "Yeah," Brensol nodding toward the other squad of guard guntrucks on the far side of the depression.  "Rolan called just before you got here.  Says a couple rounds came close, a few nicks in their trucks, but they're okay too.  Nobody's been close enough yet to do anyone any major hurt."
   Lonry edged his way to the guntruck's radio, spent another several minutes confirming the positions of other guntruck companies in the area.  A pair of aircraft still circled over head, neither seeing movement on the ground.  Although both of these aircraft were armed with heavy calibre, rapid fire guns capable of wreaking a considerable amount of havoc, Lonry did not intend to risk them by ordering the repeated number of strafing runs which would be necessary in order to entirely neutralize the opposition.  A final call to Norecomb and the fortress confirming that Inolt sat ready at the end of the runway, Lonry gazed another studying moment toward a dozan utility trucks sitting at the bottom of the depression.  Thrusting a hand to the radio, Lonry switched it to a frequency he suspected might be the correct one.
   "Hello the trucks," he called, listened only to silence another long moment.  "You might as well talk to me.  You aren't going any further."
   He waited another moment, the radio crackling to life, the voice possibly tinged with a Sirenian accent.
   "There's nothing to talk about.  Let's just get on with it."
   That was damn cold blooded, Lonry decided as he raised the microphone again.
   "There isn't going to be any fight.  This all ends with a brushfire if it has to.  Why not walk away from it?"
   Lonry gazed another long moment toward the depression, decided another call over the radio would be nothing more than pointless taunting.

-----

   Jaffry Inolt checked the navigation instruments on the console of his aircraft as it sat at the end of the runway, glanced quickly toward the map.  He'd performed the calculations five times now in order to escape the tedium of waiting.  After launching, the flight would come left to one nine zero degrees.  The wind relatively calm, they could expect to acquire the target in twelve to thirteen minutes.
   Incredible, Inolt decided again.  This was the first time he or any other of the guard's flyers had carried one of the new brushfire bombs into a situation where they might well be used.  He'd always supposed this would happen well beyond the frontiers, not twelve minutes from the end of the runway at Norecomb Fortress.
   Inolt turned his gaze another moment toward the other three planes standing slightly to the rear of his own.  Everything appeared normal, nothing to do but wait for a voice on the radio which might or might not come.  Turning forward once again, Inolt flexed his arm several times in nervous agitation, sat back in resigned quiet.   Well, he'd asked for this.  He'd trained hard on the type four, was one of the most proficient flyers in the guard, for which reason he had been given command of this flight.
   Inolt straightened in his seat as the radio finally crackled to life.
   "Yellow one."
   "Yellow one," Inolt answered.
   "Get 'em up, Jeff.  Can you get to Paran without getting lost?"
  "We'll give it a shot," Inolt answered as he thrust a hand to the plane's starter.
   Short moments later, Innolt turned and waved  the other aircraft onto the runway, watched with studying attention as they sped along its length, slipping into the air less than half the distance from the opposite end of the strip.  Maneuvering his own plane into position, his pushed the throttle to the stop.  Even with the additional weight of the bombs beneath the fuselage, the aircraft tore with authority into the air, responding agilely to his movements against the stick throughout the turn toward the target.
   The aircraft in another several minutes were established in straight and level flight in close formation a few thousand feet above the treetops.  Jaffry Inolt shot a quick glance toward the other planes, then gazed across the countryside for those few short moments he would be able to do so before the critical part of the mission began.  From this altitude, he could see only a relatively short distance, though he caught a flash of sunlight from the roofs of buildings in the town of Contrin a few miles to the west.  Lonry came from somewhere around here if Inolt remembered correctly, from Sudentol a few miles further west, wasn't it?
   What the hell was going on anyway?  Inolt had just spent three weeks patrolling the frontiers, making up to three flights a day from small dirt strips in the south searching for anything out of the ordinary.  He had been expecting a week of light duty at Norecomb fortress, not an early morning bombing run.
   The radio again crackled to life, and Inolt quickly turned his attention back to the matter at hand.  Lonry himself this time, and the tone of his voice demanded attention.

-----

   Two minutes, Lonry mumbled as he again raised the microphone.  He'd give them one last chance, though he doubted it would change things in the least.
   "Lonry to all positions," and he waited a quick moment for acknowlegements.  "All positions, open up."
   Lonry had hardly lowered the microphone when the crack of small arms fire shattered the silence of the forest in all directions.  Within seconds a continuous rumble of noise echoed back and forth, punctuated at intervals by the louder boom of mortar shells impacting in the vicinity of the trucks sitting at the bottom of the shallow hill.  The massive bombardment was answered as Lonry had suspected it would be.  When the return fire began, it was dangerously accurate, and Lonry reached again for the microphone
   "Lonry to all positions, give it a rest."
   A strange, quick silence decended about the scene.  Lonry held the microphone at the ready, hesitating for only a moment.
   "Lonry to yellow flight, you have the target.  No foolishness.  I want one good, quick run.  You've got smoke on the target now."
   Lonry turned his attention toward the northern horizon as the four aircraft of yellow flight appeared in the sky.  While three of the aircraft leveled at an altitude of five thousand feet, the fourth, most likely Inolt, if Lonry was correct, entered and maintained a steep dive for another ten seconds, turning sharply toward the east just as gunfire erupted from the vicinity of the trucks at the bottom of the depression.  The return fire was little more than a defiant show of bravado, however.  The attacking aircraft had never been within its opponent's range, was even now retreating at a rapid, screaming pace.  Lonry quickly turned his attention from the aircraft back to the trucks at the bottom of the hill, not quite certain if it was the desparate movement of men he detected about the fringes of the scene.  And a moment later, a boiling torrent of fire and smoke obliterated whatever view he had had of the site.  Lonry thrust himself behind the cover of a guntruck as the rolling thunder of the explosion swept across the hills and valleys of this part of the commonwealth.  When the most deafening of the noise had abated, Lonry pulled himself back to the hood of the guntruck and surveyed the scene below.  Fire now spread in every direction as far as a hundred yards from the shattered hulks of the trucks.  The continuing crack of small, secondary explosions was likely amunition strewn about.  Lonry was certain of one very important fact.  There was nothing still alive down there.
   "Yellow flight," he called into the microphone, waited  a short moment while he caught his breath.  "Yellow flight - that'll do it.  Go on home."
   With a long, despondent sigh, he replaced the microphone, then waved Brensol's people forward.  They would take no prisoners today, but perhaps they could learn something from whatever was left of the bodies.

-----

   Porten Labrensy again walked to his office window and gazed across the rooftops of Norecomb toward the south.  People on the traffic lanes below had turned curious glances toward a clear blue sky when the distant rumble of thunder had sounded a few minutes ago.  They had shrugged, however, and continued about their business.
   Yes, Labrensy scowled, exactly how it will be.  They would just shrug it all off.
   Labrensy turned back toward his table as the telephone ran.
   "Labrensy - Labrensy, are you there?" the panicked voice screamed.  Carfel, of course.
   "What do you want, Cartfell?" Labrensy sighed as he settled back onto his chair.
  "Do you know what's happened?"
   "Of course I do."
   "But you didn't see it, Labrensy.  Smoke, a mile in the air.  It shook every building in Paran.  My God, that madman will be coming back for me now."
   "Lonry -?"
   "Yes, Lonry, who else but Lonry?"
    "Then I would suggest you start running, Cartfell."
   There was nothing but a long silence on the line.  Labrensy sat with a wide smirk on his face, deriving whatever little pleasure he could from a situation which wasn't in the least amusing.
   When Cartfell's voice sounded again, it was cold and threatening.
   "Maybe I will run, Labrensy.  Maybe I'll run right into Norecomb, with half the guard chasing me down the street as far as your office in the congress house."
   Labrensy's smirk disappeared.  It was time to place another call to Mason Calady and find out just how competant his security people really were.

-----

   Jonn Lonry gazed toward another of the charred, blackened bodies which lay a short distance from one of the shattered trucks still smoldering in the twilight of early evening.  A moment later, he turned toward the voice of a guardsmen a dozen steps away.
   "Here's another one, cap."
   Lonry inspected another of the automatic rifles which had been strewn over several hundred feet of ground, then caught sight of an object a few steps further away, stiffened in tense anxiety.  He and several other guardsmen who had noticed his concern were quickly able to identify the bent and twisted mass of metal as the remains of a mortar not dissimilar to the type owned by the guard.
   "Shit -" another of the guardmen groaned.  "If they'd opened up with that, we wouldn't all be standing here now."
   Lonry left two squads at the scene, ordering that the entire area be closely examined and cataloged.  He then settled himself deeply into the passenger seat of his guntruck as it rumbled its way back toward Norecomb fortress.  Three more mortars had been found before he had quit the scene of this day's engagement.  He wondered again for the fact that the young men who had died there had not used them.  They most certainly had known that they could never have escaped.  But why had they felt it so necessary to resist to the death, making no more than a token effort toward their own defense?
   Lonry spent another brooding moment remembering several other engagements in which he had participated over the past twenty years.  The six month war with Alensa and several other small commonwealths laying along the eastern frontiers had been the most traumatic.  Twenty field groups of the Lorance guard had crossed the frontiers at the start of hostilities.  Before it had all ended, another thirty field groups had been thrown into action, moving from battle to battle day after day.  By the time the last organized unit of opposition had been engaged and defeated, the guard had suffered casualties in the thousands, a quarter of which had been fatal, and those casualties suffered at the hands of opponents armed primarily with little more than single shot rifles defending communities the economies of which were for the most part agrarian.
   Today was the first time the guard had met opponents who, if not actually Sirenian, were at least armed with Sirenian weapons.  The exact identity of these men could not be proved, however.  None of them had survived to be interrogated.  Although the outcome had been decisive, Lonry could not help but wonder what the situation might have been had they been required to engage this enemy in strength.
   Lonry stepped from the guntruck at Norecomb fortress in darkness.  In the operationss room he walked to the radio and telephone table in order to examine the log of the day's activities.  The chairman of the congress' defense readiness committee had called demanding to know the reason for the large explosion near Paran.
   "Housely called?  What did you tell him?"
    "Ordinance testing, cap.  I thought that'd be what you wanted."
   Lonry returned the young guardsmen's amused nod.  Jaffson was a valueable assset as the fortress clerk.  Lonry did not intent to assign him to a field unit any time soon.
   "You know, cap, it's gettin' to a be a pain in the ass goin' into Norecomb every Thursday for the pay vouchers.  Used to be able to make time with the secretaries there, no problem at all.  Now Housely meets me at the door every time with a dirty look on his face."
   Jaffson, of course, was fishing.  But how could Lonry explain something he still didn't understand himself?
   "Hunt your secretaries somewhere else, Jaffson," Lonry just chuckled.
   Lon Bellton walked through the door several minutes later, approached with an expression of grave anxiety.  Now what, Lonry groaned almost audibly.  Bellton was always first with news of events about Norecomb which might affect the guard.  His network of paid spies and informants was well worth the expenditure Lonry had authorized for such purposes.  Had these funds orginally earmarked for the maintenance of the fortress' walls been used for the intended work, they would have bought far less protection than they had in Bellton's hands.
   "Your new friend, the commonwealth marshal -" Bellton began.
   "Lant -?" Lonry listening with all attention.
   "He's been fired."
   "Fired -?"
   "He's on his way back home to Pretcan now."
   "He didn't go back to Norecomb?" Lonry asked.
   "Hell no.  I wouldn't have either in his position.  Labrensy and Calady would just be there waiting for him.  Labrensy and his cronies on the central committee have been courtiing some of the more influential senior deputies in Norecomb for years now.  I'm surprised Lant was able to do as much as he did. I wouldn't be surprised if Calady had half his badge carrying thugs after Lant already.'
   "He's in Pretcan now, Lon?"
   "He'll be there soon.  He'll be safe there.  It's home ground for him.  Most of the marshals in country around Pretcan will side with Lant if it comes down to that."
   "Yeah," Lonry mumbled in brooding thought, then turned with purpose toward Bellton.
   "Pretcan's not far off the main road to Sirenia, right?"
   Bellton returned a questioning expression.
   "You've been on a few patrols out there, right, Lon?"
   "Yeah, quite a few years back, though."
   "But you know the way.  Lant, I suspect, does too.  What do you say you and Lant take a drive east.  Poke around the place for awhile.  Those people we went head to head with in Paran today were Sirenian, even if they weren't in uniform, and their weapons were most certainly Sirenian.  Even if that king or whatever it is that runs the place now isn't involved, I'd like to know who is.  Maybe you and Lant can look under a few rocks, turn something up."
   Bellton's expression was now one of intrigued interest.
   "You know, that wouldn't be a bad idea, Jonn.  It's been a long time since I've done any field work myself.  The Sirenians have been buying a lot of our trucks from the Holdran shops.  I suppose Lant and I could arrange to ferry one out."
   "That's an idea."
  "We'd be out of touch for awhile.  You can get a phone line between here and Sirenia, but it takes a day, and a couple dozen ears usually listen in between."
   "We'll arrange a rendezvous point outside Sirenia somewhere, have a plane fly over once or twice a day.  I'll call Caroly and have them send a couple boats out along the coast.  If you need out quick, try to make it to one of them."
   "That'll work.  All right, I guess I'll see if the former commonwealth marshal wants a job with the guard."

-----

May 3

   Colan Horeshan pushed himself from the cot on which he had slept in the open air, stretched stiff and aching joints for another long moment, then walked to his guntruck.  Pouring cold water into a helmet, he withdrew a razor from his field pack and began the ordeal of shaving in front of the guntruck's mirror.  As he did so, he again  pondered the radio message he had received from Norecomb late last night.  Because of the distance involved, Lonry's message had been relayed through the code machine at Cransen fortress, though the content, he was certain, had not been obscured in written copy.
   "Units from Norecomb engaged and destroyed formation near Paran.  Formation equipped with weapons of Sirenian manufacture.  You are requested to disperse groups attached to your command to positions along the southern frontiers with Fraelin.  Indentify and intercept any vehicles transporting weapons near or across said frontiers."
   What the hell was going on, Horeshan asked himself as he finished shaving?  He turned a moment later toward the makeshift air strip a hundred yards from the cluster of guntrucks which was his command post.  Several of the aircraft which had been assigned to this group last night were running up their engines.  Whatever was going on, Lonry wasn't fooling aroud.  He'd sent twelve planes down last night, another fifteen to arrive this morning.
   As Horeshan waited for the company commanders to arrive, he walked a few paces about the forest clearing hoping that the warmth of the early morning sun would work its way into his joints.  Maybe it was time to think about signing onto that small farm somewhere, leave all this foolishness to younger men.  At the very least, it was time to begin planting his hind end behind his table at Norecomb instead of sleeping on cots along the frontiers.
   Within a few minutes, the company comanders now assigned to this field group, each accompanied by one or two of their own staff offices, began arriving.  Using maps spread across the guntruck, Horeshan worked out the deployment quickly, no discussion, no polite, rambling banter.  Just get it done.  It had always been his way in the past, and it had always worked.
   Fifteen minutes after the company commanders had arrived at Horeshan's command post, the first of them were already mounted in their own guntrucks, crashing their way over old abandoned roads and logging trails toward their new positions.  Half an hour after this, Horeshan led the fifty guntrucks of the company with which he would ride from the clearing, chugging along rock strewn trails at a walking pace toward the southern frontiers.  Most legitimate commerce from country laying to south and east of the commonwealth occured along well maintained roads in the east closer to the shores of Rupert Gulf.  It was here in the isolated forests of the west that Horeshan could expect to encounter anyone who wished to avoid contact with those in authority.
   "We going to see some excitement, boss?"
   Horeshan turned to the captain at the wheel.  Breshan had been on the job now for less than three years, though he seemed to have the makings of an acceptable guard officer, even if he was one of this new breed of officers who had attended one of the upper level academies for an entire four years.  He'd even managed to qualify on the type four, an aircraft which demanded better than average skill to master.  It never failed to amaze Horeshan, however, that rumors traveled at speeds faster than even a type four was capable.  Maybe now that a four year degree was required in order to recieve a commision in the guard, these young fellows had some new way of passing on information.
   "You anxious for some fun, kid?"
   "Not really," Breshan answered in tones without a great deal of enthusiam.  "I guess I'm anxious for whatever's going on to be over and done with.  It's this waiting that bothers me most, not knowing what's going to happen."
   "Believe me, Breshan, just waiting around ain't the worst duty there is.  We didn't get a chance to do much waiting out in Alensa."
   "What was it like?" Breshan asked, fixing Horeshan with a gaze of intense interest.
   "Six months of pure bullshit.  You get done with one battle and they move you right up to the next one.  I was about your age when it started.  Whole thing took ten years off my life by the time we got back home.  They never did tell us how the whole thing started.  Just line us up on the frontiers one day, and across we went.  When it ended, they dragged a half dozen governors and councilmen or whatever they got out there back to Norecomb to stand trial.  Them governors from Alensa are something like the Sirenians, not quite as bad, but they still dress all up in fancy robes and such.  One of two of 'em even had something looks like a crown on their head."
   "So if we ever do get into something with Sirenia, they're not going to be on our side."
   "Who knows.  There's a lot of territory between us and Sirenia.  Watren's getting pretty big.  They might be with us.  Trouble is they ain't got no one person running things in the middle countries.  It's like everyone out for himself till you get almost out to Sirenia."
   Breshan turned his full attention toward the trail once more in order to nudge the guntruck over another small tree which had fallen directly across their path.  For three quarters of an hour now they had been proceeding at a walking pace through some of the densest forest still standing anywhere in the commonwealth, encountering trails which had obviously not been used for years.  Breshan had just climbed another fallen log when he was forced to bring the guntruck to a complete halt.  The trail directly ahead had been entirely washed away by a swiftly flowing stream leaving a six foot gully impossible to negotiate.
   Horeshan reached for the microphone.
   "Hold up here," he called, glancing to the rear in order to be certain that the next truck in line had stopped at least ten yards from his own.  Horeshan examined the large gulley another quick moment before he again raised the microphone.  "All right, people, we got us some real work.  I want a man from each squad unassed and up here now.  Bring your shovels."
   Because Horeshan demanded a ten yard separation between the individual guntrucks in his patrols, the vehicles were spread across a considerable distance along the trial.  While he waited for the guardsmen to wander forward with their shovels, he climbed from his truck and spread several maps across the hood, then reached for the microphone.  The other companies would still be within truck to truck radio range for several more hours.  Horeshan decided to take advantage of this forced delay in order to determine their progress.  Three of the companies were now well south of his position, working their way along the hundred mile length of Chalety Lake which separated the western secitons of the commonwealth from Fraelin.  The other companies were spreading toward preassigned points along the border further east.  All seemed to be proceeding according to plan, however, and Horeshan returned the microphone to its cradle in the guntruck.
   A dozen guardsmen now labored in the gully a few feet ahead of his truck, each with his own particular gripe concerning the nature of the work he was now required to perform.
   "Nothing but a damn road repairman," was one Horeshan had heard a hundred times over the course of his career in the guard.  He'd groaned the same complaint any number of times himself.
   "You guys should all be at home with knitting needles," Horeshan stated as he reached for another shovel fastened to the side of the truck, then joined the rest of the guardsmen at the edge of the gully.
   "Watch out," captain Breshan called to the others with a mischievious smile.  "Group Captain Horeshan's gonna give this great big hole a dirty look and it'll vanish into thin air."
   "Something's gonna vanish into thin air if you guys don't get back to work," and Horeshan propelled the shovel into the ground, hurling another load of dirt into the gully.  The first thing most of those new academy graduates did after recieving their commisions was plant their butts behind a table somewhere.  Maybe it was time for him to do the same.
   "Damn road reapairmen's all we are," Horeshan mumbled several minutes later.

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   Lon Bellton drove from Norecomb fortress in one of the new, light utility trucks just out of the Holdran motor shops, a type of vehicle in which merchants carted lightweight goods from one store to another.  While such vehicles were manufactured in Sirenia, the Sirenians could not produce them in sufficient numbers, nor could they match the truck from the west in quality.  Consequently, several thousand of them were exported from Norecomb through coast and gulf ports to Sirenia each year.
   From the fortress, Bellton rolled along crowded town traffic lanes at a slow, easy pace.  There was no immediate urgency in the situation anyway.  It would take another four hours to drive from Norecomb the rest of the way south along Rupert Gulf's western shores.  Then after he met Olven Lant near Pretcan, they would face a twenty hour drive to Sirenia, twenty hours if the roads were passable.  Once they crossed the eastern frontiers, however, it was anyone's guess as to what lay ahead.  Country between Rupert Gulf and the Gulf of Sirenia was by no means the wild, untamed lands of the wandering nations one encountered to the west or the deserts of the far south.  Indeed, the regions through which Bellton and Lant would drive were in places even more densely populated than was country in the commonwealth of Norecomb, industrial towns of considerable size, sizeable outcountry farms dotting the landscape in many areas.  The problem arose from the fact that the small commonwealths of the middle countries had never successfully developed stable governments or workable treaties of extradition, a situation which worked to the advantage of large numbers of heavily armed and highly organized highaymen which roamed the countryside. While the larger commonwealths of Watron and Alensa had made some real attempt toward the eradication of those who preyed upon whatever commerce passed through their areas of influence, it was generally suspected that potentates of various sort of any number of towns in the middle countries offered refuge to particular brigands in return for promises to restrict their activities to other areas.  There might therefore at any given time be two or three little wars in progress throughout the region in which a few hundred combatants from one town challenged a similar number from another.  At other times some monarchical type official still clinging to ancient practices which had long since been abandoned in most other western regions along the North Coast might be bent on seeking vengence against a
brother or a cousin who sat the throne of a neighboring alliance of communities.  The map makers had never even bothered drawing permanent lines about many of these lands between Noreeomb and Sirenia.
   He'd handle all that when the time came, Bellton sighed as he approached the center of Norecomb, turning to ponder the sprawling grounds of one of Norecomb's largest academies of higher learning.  From this and similar institutions in the commonwealth's other large towns, most of which were affiliated in some manner with the Society for Progressive Reform, came the commonwealth's judges and lawyers, bankers like Porten Labrensy and other members of the financial and professional elite.  Lon Bellton, like most other members of the guard, had attended local schools with high church affiliation in the town from which he had come, although unlike most guardsmen he had also studied for several years at the Academy of Ouldray under the tutelage of several professors with ties to the elite of commonwealth academia, had even considered a career in the law in his younger days.  While the likes of Labrensy and his crowd were still something of a mystery to him, Bellton at least had a glimmer of understanding into their world.  For reasons such as this, Bellton passed most of his time in boardrooms and ballrooms in or around the large eastern towns with crystal glassware in hand while Lonry and Horeshan prowled the frontiers on the front seats of guntrucks.  This was also the reason why he was the logical choice for the mission he was now beginnng.  Any number of other guardsmen could easily assess the military capabilities of Sirenia.  Lon Bellton, however, was best suited to understand the social and political motivations behind them.
   Bellton slowed to a walking pace as he guided the truck along avenues and lanes leading through Norecomb's business districts, the walkway crowds attired in the fashionable manner so peculiar to Norecomb.  The atmosphere of the place little resembled that which one might have expected to find throughout the rest of the commonwealth.  Even the large industrial towns such as Olney and Poldren seemed far less given to flamboyant ostentation.  Even if Lon Bellton did understand Norecomb, he still felt some strange sense of relief as he finally throttled the truck to speed along highways leading through farm country south of town.
   Four hours later, Bellton had driven through the midsize towns of Deoly and Reckman, now approached Ouldray, the largest community along the southern reaches of Rupert Gulf, and the last of any size before the eastern frontiers.  Bellton gazed with idle interest toward the sprawling expanse of Ouldray fortress as he rolled past, the installation with its adjacent airfield not dissimilar in appearance to its counterpart in Norecomb.  Lorenson, a group captain of the fifth guards field group, was the unknown factor here, more reluctant as a rule to throw his unqualified support behind Lonry and the other field captains of guard without following formal procedures dictated by the congress of Norecomb.  Lorenson was young, however, and would come around when he had seen a bit more of the reality of life.
   Bellton drove past the fortress and on into the town of Ouldray, searching for the Roebuck Tavern which Lant had stated would be found along Mane near the center of town.  Olven Lant had not changed much over the years, Bellton decided in musing amusement.  Who else would choose and tavern as a rendezvous and think nothing of it?
   Bellton finally spotted the Roebuck ahead and pulled the truck to the edge of the lane.  Climbing onto the walks, he stood a short moment messaging the ache from his neck.  Lord, how did Lonry and Horeshen do it, plowing across the back woods for weeks at a time keeping up with kids twenty or thirty years younger than themselves.
   Bellton walked through the tavern's doors, stood surveying the room another quick moment.  Half a dozen people stood idly at the bar, a like number sitting at tables spread across the floor, a scene not a great deal different from Franny's back in Norecomb.
   "Lon Bellton," Olven Lant called in that same booming voice, and Bellton walked to the table where Lant and another man sat.
   "Lon, it's been a long time," Lant stated as he extended his hand.  As Bellton sat at the table the other man offered polite apologies as he left.
   "Welden, one of Calady's security posted down here," Lant informed Bellton as the other man walked from the tavern.
   "Oh?" Bellton asked, question in his features.
   "He's not quite as bad as most of the others, does his work right in broad daylight instead of the middle of the night.  Our paths crossed now and then when I was marshalin' in Pretcan.  Apparently Calady's sent a directive to his people down here, something to the effect that I'm now supposed to pass into history, but Welden ain't foolish enough to try that by himself, and he's man enough to tell me he's got orders to try it in the first place.  He'll probably be back when Calady sends reinforcements down."
   "That right?  Maybe it's a good time for you to take a little trip, then.  So, Olven, you want a job?"
   "You really goin' all the way out to Sirenia, huh?"
   "All the way."
   "That boss of yours don't fool around, Lon.  I'll say that much for him.  What's Lonry think we're gonna find out there so important that the head of guard intelligence has to go himself?  I mean, you got one hell of a lot of spies all over the place who answer to you, Lon.  What's so important that you have to go yourself?"
  "To be honest, we don't really know what we're looking for.  Maybe that's because nobody ever looked that closely before now.  So, Olven, you still haven't anwered my question.  You want the job?"
   Lant leaned back in his chair with an expression of amused study.
   "Yeah, Lon," he finally answered, "I'll take a drive with you.  It's like to be a bit dangerous between here and Sirenia, you know.  Law east of the border's like as not what the mob boss or the local highway gang dictates."
   "That's why I'd feel a lot more comfortable with you riding side gun, Olven.  You know the way.  And from what I hear, you've been getting older and fatter, but you haven't been getting slower."