The Best Made Plans by Everett B. Cole (read novels website TXT) 📖

Gorham had implied that he was the power behind the whole present regime. Maybe he'd been bragging. But again, maybe he hadn't. There had been a queer, hard force about the man. There had been an aura which Don had sensed, but could not analyze. One thing was certain. This man had never been able to work under someone else's orders.

He looked around the interior of the flier.

"It's a Royal Guard job," he told himself.

He could see painted legends, giving cautions and instructions to whomever should pilot the ship. He felt under the dash.

There was a light board snapped into clips. He pulled it out and turned on the cabin lights.

Yes, it was all there. Instructions for the identification devices—description of the identification and warning lights. It gave the location of switches—the settings for communications. There was even a small card inserted in a pocket. It gave the communications code used by patrol fliers in routine communication. Don smiled happily.

Now, he could fly back to the hills. It would only take a few minutes, and——

Why should he? There was an easier way now.

It would be much easier to ride this flier right on into Oreladar. If he headed for the hills, questions might be asked which would be hard to answer. But Oreladar would be the normal place for Gorham to go. And the Federation compound wasn't too far from the Palace. He could feint at the Palace landing pad, then—— He nodded and studied the lighting plan and identification settings.

At last, he nodded in satisfaction, then turned his attention to the small card with the operations code. It was a simple, systematic arrangement, obviously arranged for day-to-day use, not for secrecy. He nodded and clipped it in front of him under the panel light, where he could see it easily. Then, he looked thoughtfully at the courtyard.

There was a small chance that some guard might decide to come into the house, he decided. Of course, it was still to be regarded as a private home, and they had no right to—— He laughed sarcastically.

"That would worry them!" he said aloud.

He got out of the flier and leaned over the body of Gorham. It was surprisingly light. The man had been carrying almost unbelievable strength and power of will in a tiny, frail body. Don threw his load over his shoulder and climbed back into the flier. Then he sat back and looked dully at the control panel.

Suddenly, he felt completely drained. It was just too much effort to get this ship off the ground. And that long flight to Oreladar? Just how much was a guy supposed to do in one day?

He sat supinely for a few minutes, simply staring at a nothingness beneath the surface of the panel. A small noise from the house aroused him, and he jerked up. He'd have to move.

Unwillingly, he pulled at the controls and the flier raised from the paving.

A blast of air hit the side of his face and he turned his head. He'd forgotten to close the door. He snarled at himself in annoyance, then leaned over and jerked at the handle. The ship swayed and dipped toward the lighted streets and he straightened quickly and righted it with a jerk. Then he snapped off the cabin lights and reached down to set up the identification patterns.

A tinny voice snapped at him.

"Rano ninety-one, Riandar control. Seven three seven."

Don looked at the code card before him. Yes, there it was. "Return to station." He glanced at the call sign on the panel before him. He was Onarati three. He nodded. Only an important official would be in this flier. Probably Gorham hadn't been bragging so much.

Another voice had acknowledged the order. Don looked at the speaker grill and shrugged. He set his course southward.

Again and again, the speaker rattled with calls and answers. Riandar control appeared to be busy tonight. Don smiled.

"The busier they are, the better," he told himself. "Then they can't bother me." He coughed.

"Wonder how Korentana made out?" He looked overside.

Abruptly, he was aware of another flier close to his. On its top a blue light blinked glaringly. He looked at it in consternation. Had they——? But how? He started to pull the control to him and go into evasive flight. Then he stopped.

"Use your head," he advised himself.

He reached out and scooped up the microphone. For an instant, he looked into space, thinking, then he spoke.

"Riandar control," he snarled in an imitation of Gorham's voice. "Onarati three. Got one of your guys on my back. What's the idea?" He released the button.

"Oh, boy," he told himself, "I hope that's the right approach." He looked toward the back of the cabin. If his short contact with Gorham had told him enough, and if he'd judged correctly ... and if Gorham was——

The speaker crackled. "Onarati three, Riandar control," it said. "Seven zero five?"

Don looked down at the card under the panel light. Yes, there it was. "Give your location."

He mashed the microphone button again. "Seven hundred meters," he snarled impatiently. "South edge of town. Come on, what's this guy doing, riding my tail?"

Another voice intruded into the speaker. "Your pardon, Onarati three," it said. "This is Rano two four. We cannot read your identification lights."

Don looked down at the panel, then shook his head in annoyance. He'd neglected one switch. He reached out and snapped it on. Then he pushed the mike button again.

"So now you happy?" he demanded. "So why ain't ya telling me something, instead of coming around with all them blinking lights?"

The other flier sheered away, its blinker off.

"Your pardon," said the speaker. "We were not sure."

Don sighed in relief. That had been too close for comfort. He glanced down, then blinked and looked again.

"Oh, no!" he growled incredulously. "I left my clothes by the pool."

Kent Michaels opened his eyes. In front of him was a shattered windshield. The light support struts were bent back. The heavy plastic had crackled and powdered. He stared at it. It must have been quite an impact. All he could remember was confused motion, then blackness.

He shook his head to clear his vision, then started to unfasten his seat belt.

And his whole left side exploded as each individual muscle and nerve set up a separate protest. He gritted his teeth against the sharp, red knives of agony.

"Got to reach that belt and get out of here," he told himself. "Wonder how long I've been out?"

He forced his hand to the buckle, then stopped.

"Oh, sure, you idiot," he said aloud. "Go ahead and let the belt go. You can't hurt yourself by landing on your thick head."

He forced himself to ignore the agony in his side and shoulder and looked around the cabin. Evidently, the ship had hit and rolled. He closed his eyes, trying to remember.

He'd evaded the pass that first guy had made at him. Then, when the second one showed up and dove in, he'd gone into a dead-duck spin. So far, so good. Evidently, they'd been fooled. Probably never saw that gag before. But what had happened after that? He searched his memory.

Oh, sure. He'd spun the ship under this overhang and set it down. And the ground had double-crossed him. Even a duck couldn't have kept a foothold on that ledge. He could remember the sudden tilt as the flier slid over and started to roll. Then everything had happened at once. He could remember trying to hold off the windshield from beating his brains out, but—— He opened his eyes. No use trying to analyze that part of it. Things had become confusing.

No matter how you figured it, he was here, hanging upside down in his seat belt in a pretty thoroughly wrinkled up ship. He moved his left arm experimentally.

His side went into screaming agony again.

Well, anyway, the shoulder wasn't broken. It could move—a little.

"Great," he told himself. "Now, how do you get out of this seat belt without breaking your stupid neck?"

He reached out with his right hand, to feel the padded roof under him. Well, maybe he could—— He set his teeth and forced his left hand to the belt release. If he could just hold enough weight with that right hand so that—— Well, no use worrying about it. Something had to be done. He pushed against the release. The shoulder screamed almost aloud. He started levering the buckle apart with his thumb.

Suddenly, the belt let go and he was struggling to put enough power into his right arm to hold himself away from the approaching roof.

For a seeming eternity, he struggled to maintain