2.

ARUMAN VARD SAW the bubblecar as he turned the second corner. It was empty, of course, and probably locked.

He went up to the little vehicle and tried the cockpit release. Yes, locked.

Even in panic the Fraskans were an orderly people. They were, he reflected, a race almost apart from himself, a nation of domesticated animals, in which a throwback had no place.

He reached into his wallet pouch and brought out a key jammer, attaching it to the side lock. There was a humming sound, and the vehicle's top raised slightly. Reaching over, he pushed the bubble up the rest of the way and climbed inside. His eyes fell to the identdisk on the dashboard.

Let's see, he thought. I'm Garon Hnub, a vasilis merchant from Kashar here on a business permit. That should be more than enough, unless I'm closely questioned. He wished he knew what "vasilis" was.

Thanking the dead gods of his world for such a stroke of good fortune; he started the small engine and fed instructions into the auto's guidance system. The car moved smoothly forward.

Vard idly thumbed through the guidance card files in the center console, noting with pleasure that the bubblecar had not only a section of approved city routes but one, too, for the Great Waste Highway to Kashar. That made it much simpler. Vard marveled at his good fortune in finding a salesman's car -- from out of town! -- the first time out, although he had been in the commercial district.

Things were going so smoothly that Vard halfway suspected a trap.

The car sped toward the Northeast Lock.

Almost immediately, behind him, came the unmistakable purple flashing of a police cruiser. His hearts sank as he felt the override of the cruiser take hold of his vehicle and glide him gently to a stop by the side of the road. The cruiser pulled up beside him and stopped, and its occupants became clearly visible. They were not Fraskans.

One was a tall, orange creature, looking like a large, thin cone perched point upward on a mass of fleshy tentacles. Spaced evenly around its midsection were seven stalked eyes, three of which were studying him. The other occupant resembled a small, green monkey. While the orange thing seemed to glide up and out of the Cruiser, as if on a cushion of air, the little green creature scampered out the other side. Both approached Vard, who remained seated in his car for want of anything better to do. These, then, were Conquerors: mercenaries and allies from greedy worlds who had flocked to the Rhambdan call for war; former fifth columnists on occupied worlds; and such like. Opportunists, in for a share of the wealth that was what they believed the winners' prize would be. If either was telepathic... The tiny whine in Vard's head seemed to grow omniously loud.

"Good day, citizen!" boomed a deep voice in Universal.

Vard started slightly; be knew somehow that it came from the orange cone, although no mouth or other orifice was visible.

"Thought criminal!" shrilled the green monkey in high-pitched voice.

Vard's hand was already on his pistol.

"Pay no heed to my friend here, honest citizen," the orange cone put in hastily. "In a fight on Bluxada I was just finishing the statement 'Some of these creatures are thought criminals,' when one of them unworthily proved it by cracking his head open. Since then, they're the only two words he's been able to say. Not much of a conversationalist now, I admit, but still a good partner."

"Thought criminal," agreed the little monkey, a tear glistening in one eye.

Vard relaxed his grip on the pistol. Stupid, overconfident, arrogant ones.

He doubted that they had ever been in a battle, or could face an enemy. They could handled.

"Now, then, kind sir," continued the cone, "you are a rarity in the city this day."

"Thought criminal," agreed its partner.

"You have," said the cone, "been speeding where few have dared to crawl.

This makes us wonder about you, understandably."

"Oh, noble sirs," Vard replied, trying to sound as anguished and scared as he could, "I am but a poor merchant, caught here and seemingly stranded many hours distant from my home in Kashar, away from my mate and many offspring.

I want only to get back to my family group, to be with them during this troubled time. I have been unable to call them, and they fear me dead, I am certain."

The orange cone remained impassive; the green monkey scratched its nose.

"Well, Twixl," the cone said suddenly, "what do you think of him?"

"Thought criminal," answered Twixl idly, much more concerned with fondling his own tail. "Well, not really," the cone replied, "but I do think our Fraskan friend warrants some sort of inspection."

The cone drew closer to Vard. "I'm afraid, dear citizen, that we must bring in all who violate the curfew. However, since you are doubtless who you say you are, and in the interest of promoting the new spirit of brotherhood between our people and yours, we'll probably be able to fly you to Kashar as soon as you are cleared."

Vard nodded, resigned to his course of action. As obviously stupid as these creatures were, that very dullness gave them a literal attitude toward their orders.

They could be bought, probably, in a different situation, but never bent.

"If you will just follow us to the local station, we will process you quickly and see about getting you home," the cone concluded, already gliding back toward the patrol car. Twixl nodded and turned also.

Stupid.

Vard fired into the mass of the orange cone first. A piercing scream rang out, followed by a loud pop; and suddenly the air was filled with little pieces of orange sludge raining down like confetti.

Twixl had not waited to be next. The moment the weapon flashed, the small creature had, in one motion, drawn its own weapon and dropped into a roll to the street, quickly getting under the armored police cruiser. On the third roll he fired at Vard, narrowly missing the Fraskan as Vard jumped from the bubblecar to protection behind it. He was beginning to have second thoughts about Twixl. The little creature was too cool, too professional in its reactions.

Before its accident or whatever, Twixl had not been a mere patrolman.

A second discharge came at Vard, quickly followed by a third. He realized that Twixl was eating away at crucial parts of the bubblecar; turning the Plasticine hide molten, causing splashes of the hot material to flow behind the car itself. Twixl had realized that, due to the extreme cold in which they had evolved such heat could melt Fraskans as well.

"Thought criminal!" yelled the little patrolman, and for the first time he seemed to mean what he said. His voice was full of panic, yet his aim was coolly deliberate and very close. Very close.

Vard awoke to the fact that the angle of fire was changing. He had been so busy dodging the lethal bits of melted plastic that he'd lost the advantage. Twixl, it was clear, was trying to work his way to the police cruiser door. Once inside, the creature could command the weaponry built into the car to disintegrate the entire city block, if need be. Vard made his move.

Lunging out into the street, be kept low and ran zigzaggedly for the cruiser, all the while keeping up a steady fire. As he did, Twixl gained the far door of the vehicle. But, just as the Conqueror reached out for the handle, he slipped in the orange goo that was the remains of his partner. Vard lunged at him, ramming him against the side of the door.

Twixl was hit, the pistol flew from his grip and clattered to the pavement.

Both had been stunned at the encodnter, but Vard's gun was still in his hand.

Twixl, lying facedown on the street, scrambled toward his weapon. He had almost reached it, when he saw out of the corner of his eye that Vard was raising his pistol.

Twixl froze, and turned slowly toward the Fraskan, arms outstretched, a defeated look on his face.

"Thought criminal?" he asked peevishly.

"Quite right," Vard replied, and pulled back on the firing stud.

Twixl seemed to be lifted up by the beam, charred, and then reduced to a pile of dark ash.

Vard leaned against the police cruiser, catching his breath, then walked back to his stolen bubblecar and stared at it. Twixl had made a mess of the whole thing. It was obvious that the car would never move again.

He reached in and removed the guidance cards from the console box, which had remained untouched in the fight. For the first time he noticed the buildings and the street. Undoubtedly, hundreds of eyes had witnessed the battle, yet they remained hidden. It would probably be sometime before the shooting was officially reported or discovered.

Vard walked back to the cruiser and got in. The vehicle would be a problem; he had only driven one manually twice before. But the controls were similar and well labeled. It might take a little getting used to, but he could manage.

Activating the power, he closed the side ports. The cruiser glided out of the parking area, weaving and bobbing a little, as Vard got the feel of steering the large vehicle. In a few seconds, he accelerated.

No one challenged the police cruiser as it glided, a bit tipsily, along the deserted city byways. Meanwhile, Vard searched the cluttered control panel for the police radio, and, after a little experimentation, found it.

"... Police cruiser assumed to be heading out of the city. All lock guard stations are warned to be on the lookout for any breach. Until further notice, we are closing lock stations to all but official traffic. . ." The voice rambled on.

So they were definitely aware of him already. They would love to take him alive, assimilate him, perhaps, into the Rhambdan Mind. How far would they go to get an Agent-in-Charge? Mass assimilation? The Rhambdans didn't like assimilations at all, because there was a finite limit to the Mind's effective control when it was so widely dispersed, though no one bad ever defined that limit. Could assimilation neutralize that whine in his head? Thinkng about it, it really didn't make much difference: dead is dead. The North Gate, one of the seven major airlocks controlling entrance and exit to the city, swung into view ahead of him.

As it did, Vard saw that he not only had to contend with getting through the lock somehow, but also with a massive traffin jam of Fraskan bubblecars massed there.

The lock was as traffic-stricken as the capital city was devoid of it. Citizens of other cities, trapped by the sudden capitulation, were frantically seeking a way home. Vard thanked all the gods that the controls in the police car were plainly marked. He punched the button marked CLEAR and hoped that it was the traffic control he wanted. Spotting three other cruisers parked at the lock station, he headed for them, the bubblecars in the jam moving quickly and obediently out of the way like a parting of the waters -- much to the consternation and frustration of their owners, some of whom were not in them at the time and a few of whom were run over by the automatic action and now lay screaming in the street. Well, so much for good relations with the conquered, Vard thought cynically.

As he pulled up to the lock tower, he saw that the Rhambdans were preparing to clear the area on their own. They had brought in One of the Kah'diz.

The creature and its host stood, atop the platform in front of the lock control station, looking at the fantastic mess below. The host body, Vard saw with revulsion, was a Fraskan. On his back perched the Kah'diz, a purplish, somewhat indistinct mass like matted hair, each strand of which was imbedded in the victim's neck.

The Kah'diz were vampiric; they had no way to manufacture their own blood, and could adapt to almost any creature's metabolism. They saw, heard, felt, spoke through the host body -- and that body was simply that: a body, manipulated by the thing like a puppet. Sentience died when the Kah'diz took you.

The Kah'diz, for reasons unknown to anyone, had developed the strange talent of becoming empathic broadcasters; they could induce almost any sort of emotional reaction in any other creature. They could make you love them, or fear them, or any of ten thousand other, more subtle reactions. They played on emotions like an organist mastering the greatest of concert organs, seemingly for sport but actually to fulfill a need not well understood by potential hosts. And a Kah'diz would wear out a body in a fairly short time.

Long frustrated in expanding and developing their own civilization because of the lack of suitable host bodies, they reproduced quickly, though; and the development of modern medicine on their world had left them with a mushrooming population. They had, therefore, been among the first to leap on the Rhambdan bandwagon. Rhambda, badly in need of allies and confident of its own power, accepted.

The value of the Kah'diz to the Rhambdans was illustrated by this situation. Occupation was the directive and their own personal goal; and for it they were well suited, as Watch Officer Baathiax, the Kah'diz at the North Lock, knew. Although the Fraskans were decadent, and normally absurdly easy to control, this gathering had all the earmarks of a riot. Emotions, the Kah'diz reflected, are curious, fickle things. The creature knew it could never control this mob alone; its whole race couldn't do it. But the empathic amplifiers aboard its ship would magnify its own natural powers a billionfold.

A dead hand reached down and, lifted the communications microphone.

"Baathiax here. The, situation is critical at North Lock. How many of our ships are now in port?"

A rustling sound on the other end was audible as the communications officer checked.

"Nine," came the reply.

"Very good -- for the moment, anyway. What must be done here is clear. I have a control rod with me, but no external power source. Get some of my people to each airlock station, then have the standby crews of each of the ships feed the power from the generators into the rods. Most of these creatures couldn't get out of this mess if they wanted to, so it will have to be handled carefully."

"All other locks already have at least one of your people on band," replied the communications officer. "All have rods, except at Northwest, and we'll have one out there by the time the standby crews can get the generators working. I'll signal you when we're ready here." Baathiax mumbled assent, and switched off.

As it did, it heard the muffled whine of a police cruiser and saw a sleek, black vehicle clearing its way through the mudded traffic.

The Shrine of the Black Roots protect me from petty bureaucracy! it swore to itself. Any more befuddled, stupid policemen, agents, and fellow-travelers in the lock control center and there would be no room to raise an arm without knocking out ten people!

Baathiax started to fume that such a thing would not happen with Kah'diz in total control, but after all these years the creature was just too cynical not to let the feeling pass. A bureaucrat was a bureaucrat was a bureaucrat in any and all ways, shapes, and forms; and it was an immutable law of the galaxy that in any operation there would, for every competent agent, be ten clotheads to foul things up. Baathiax felt doubly lucky to be a line officer; in the field, such beings died.

Baathiax shook off the pessimistic introspection. Such problems were part of the job, Baathiax reflected sadly. There was always that dream of every Kah'diz of being alone on a world of hosts, feeding peacefully until finally dying in a mass orgy of emotional pleasure. But such a paradise was more than a little unrealistic for a second officer.

The Kah'diz returned its gaze to the police cruiser. Why, the driver was a Fraskan! Curious. What was a Fraskan doing in a cruiser at this stage of the game?

The new occupant of the crowded lock tower stepped from the elevator and walked straight toward the Kah'diz. Baathiax sent a playful urge that the newcomer be overcome with humor. The Fraskan stopped, looked momentarily puzzled, and then started laughing maniacally. Peals of laughter issued from the platform, and the Fraskan tried to brace himself to keep from doubling up.

Baathiax watched him with cold indifference.

After a few minutes, the Kah'diz released the subject. The others on the platform had viewed this strange behavior with alarm; and a couple, fearing a madman was loose among them, had drawn their weapons. Baathiax waved a host hand to stop them. Genuine laughter, it thought, would be a real treat, but marionettes were childish.

Amman Vard stopped laughing abruptly. His body convulsed, he retched and gagged repeatedly, until he regained control of himself. Although nervous and scared by the unexpected attack, his wits held together. He could afford to be this monster's toy for a little while: all Kah'diz were too arrogant to believe that they could be conned, and none allowed a telepath within easy range. If he could survive this sadist, he might just pull it off.

The other Conquerors on the platform, realizing what had happened, were shooting nervous glances at Baathiax, and most seemed to find urgent reasons to be needed elsewhere. The platform quickly cleared. An objective of both Baathiax and Vard had been attained.

"Noble sir," gasped Vard, "if you will but permit me to speak."

The Kah'diz remained impassive.

"I am Colonel Hadusan, of the Fraskan Liberation Army," he lied. "I have been ordered to offer my services as needed, then proceed with a mission."

So that was it, Baathiax thought disgustedly. A fifth columnist. A traitor come up from his dirty hold to exhibit the dirt proudly in victory. Such men were dangerous; their loyalty lay only to themselves. But what was this idiot doing here?

"I do not require you," the Kah'diz told him coldly. "What do you wish of me?"

"My mission, sir," Vard explained carefully. "A very dangerous traitor, one Aruman Vard, escaped the lock just before it closed. He has been hiding out in a bubblecar and we have just discovered his approximate location on the Great Waste Highway. However, many Fraskans are trapped out there, and only another Fraskan could tell which was which. I have been ordered to go to the mountain exiles and pick him up before he slips the net."

The Fraskan sounded logical enough. They all looked alike to Baathiax.

And, considering the undercurrent of fear the native had been radiating, what he said must be the truth. The Fraskans were just too slavish and decadent to keep their composure through the kind of treatment this one was being given.

The Kah'diz's reasoning was as logical as Vard's story -- and equally false.

It simply did not occur to the creature that a good agent of the opposition would be a carefully trained and fully programmed psychotic.

The transceiver buzzed.

"The generators are on, and up to full power," the voice of the communications officer reported. "All stations are manned and ready."

"All right," replied Baathiax. "I'll clear up this mess right now."

With that, the creature removed from a small, skinlined case attached to ita belt a thin, gleaming silver rod, about a meter long. With its host's hands, it reached up and attached a wire from the rod to one of its own tentacles, which it had disengaged from the host's neck. A thin drop of golden-colored Fraskan blood dropped onto the host's shoulder.

The wire was actually a tiny tube, Vard saw, and the hair-thin tentacle slipped into it. The "wire" uncoiled from inside the rod, giving enough slack so that the rod could be held in front of the Kah'diz. Vard heard a faint hum of power, and a sickly purple glow seemed to overtake the rod, clinging like an eerie mist.

Baathiax turned to Vard and the few others still on the platform. "You will feel certain things," it warned them, "but it won't be the power that the ones forward and below will receive. The field is quite directional. You should have the willpower to reject anything you might get as feedback. If not, get as quickly as possible to the other side of the platform, opposite the beam. The effect will be minimal there."

Baathiax suppressed a quick urge to shoot his fellow Conquerors a jolt of suicidal tendencies with a flight motif, considering it was forty meters to the ground and none of them had wings. But, there was diplomacy. Baathiax returned quickly to the business at hand.

Vard, the closest, was the first to feel it: a vague lethargy, a feeling of wearied quietude, a will to forget whatever one had in mind and return to the comfort and safety of the previous day's lodgings. Nothing much was very important, it seemed. He felt as if he was in a dream-like fog, unaware of his location, or purpose. With great difficizity he shook it off, but he stepped back and away from the emotion-master. If this was a case of mild feedback, what must it be like out there in the jam?

Vard now felt the mood slowly changing. And he saw that few in the crowd below had moved.