Andre Norton by The Book Of Andre Norton

Author:The Book Of Andre Norton
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-12-04T01:06:21+00:00

I

Ť ^ ť

Creed Trapnell snorted, “What’s the alibi this time—computer error? Of course, anyone with a grain of imagination might think that’s been a little bit overworked. Let’s see—that leaves that other bit of blame-shuffling, the one about insufficient native data obtained by survey crew.”

Controller Goddard, Field Force Five, had never been known to display emotion. There was a legend sometimes accepted by cadets as truth, that he was only a humanoid body housing an extension of ZATs computer brain. Now he did not raise his eyes from the TV screen implanted in his desk.

Goddard had no easirests in his office. He carefully cultivated the art of making visitors uncomfortable so that they would not linger and use up his valuable time. But Trapnell sprawled as much as his stiff chair allowed, his booted feet leaving faint smudges on the neutral green of the carpet.

Creed Trapnell was far from being in uniform. The boots were scuffed, the breeches above them bagged and stained. His shirt, tucked into a wide belt studded with metal bosses, had once had sleeves as a ragged fringe about the arm-holes testified. Now his deeply tanned arms were bare. He looked the ragged wanderer, which gave him pleasure. He had no reason to want to please Goddard.

“Insufficient native data,” he repeated lazily. “That must be it. They haven’t used it for—” He held out his hands, reckoning time by turning down fingers, “For at least four calls now: And,” he added, “I am on certified leave.” Such a reminder might do him no good but at least it would register on the tape Goddard kept running.

Goddard looked up, eyes blank. When he spoke his voice held enough metallic twang to carry out the robot illusion.

“The excuse is falsified work reports.”

Trapnell sat up as if jerked.

“I don’t believe it!” He slapped his knee and dust flew from the breeches. “It isn’t possible they would ever admit that.”

“They had no choice.” Had there, or had there not been a flicker of feeling in Goddard’s eyes? This he should relish that the arrogant Fore Office, which always expected Goddard’s men to pick up the pieces without open recognition of their services and only grudging acceptance of their existence, had to admit an error of its own.

Trapnell was excited, a little. This was more than he had expected when Goddard had recalled him from a well-earned leave. It must be N hot, if the front office admitted a mistake.

Goddard flashed on the wall screen and said twangily, “Vallek.” The word meant nothing to Trapnell, but the screen filled with a picture. They could be looking out of a window at a brilliantly hued landscape. In the foreground stretched a city: walled, towered, enveloped by fields of vegetation not a true green, having a golden sheen. And the architecture of the city was alien.

Swiftly Trapnell’s trained mind evaluated and filed the scene.

Then the city disappeared into a new panorama. Desert country. The sky was a golden sheet deepening into orange, the ground underneath was umber.

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