"In two standard days," Dalt said in a shocked whisper, "she could destroy every inhabited planet in Occupied Space!"
("Probably wouldn't even take her that long. But we've quite a while to go before it comes to that. She's in no hurry. She'll probably chip away at us for a few centuries before delivering the coup de grace.") Pard went silent for a while. ("Which reminds me: I saw a major assault force gathered on the beach. If she really wanted to strike a demoralizing blow ...")
"You don't think she'll hit Fed Central, do you?"
("With a second chance at interstellar unity almost within reach, can you think of a better target?")
"No, I can't," Dalt replied pensively. The thought of alien berserkers charging through the streets was not a pleasant one. "There must be a way to strike back."
("I'm sure there is. We just haven't thought of it yet. Sleep on it.")
Good idea. See you in the morning.
Morning brought Lenda with news that some of the flitter-probes were outfitted and ready. He invited Dalt to take a look at them. Lacking both the heart to tell Lenda that the probes were a futile gesture and anything better to do, he agreed to go along.
Arriving at a hangar atop one of the lesser buildings in the complex, he saw five drones completed and a sixth in the final stages. They looked like standard models except for the data-gathering instruments afixed to the hulls.
"They look like they've been sealed for pressurization," Dalt noted.
Lenda nodded. "Some of the sensors require it." ("I know what you're thinking!") Pard said. Tell me.
("You want to equip these flitters with blaster cannon and attack Kali's island, don't you? Forget it! There are so many energy dampers in that temple that a blaster wouldn't even warm her skin if you could get near her. And you wouldn't. Her guards would cut you to ribbons.")
Maybe there's a way around that. He turned to Lenda. "Have Petrical meet me here. I have an errand to run but I'll be back shortly."
Lenda gave him a puzzled look as he walked away.
Dalt headed for the street. Throw the Mordirak image around me. I don't want to be mobbed out there.
("Done. Now tell me where we're going.")
Not far. He stepped outside and onto the local belt of the moving strol-lane. The streets were crowded. The new incoming representatives had brought their staffs and families and there were tourists constantly arriving to see the first General Council of the new Federation. He let the strol-lane carry him for a few minutes, then debarked before a blank-fronted store with only a simple hand-printed sign over the door: weapons.
Stepping through the filter field that screened the entrance, he was faced with an impressive array of death-dealing instruments. They gleamed from the racks and cases; they were sleek and sinister and beautiful and deadly.
"May I help you, sir?" asked a little man with squinty eyes.
"Where are your combustion weapons?"
"Ah!" he said, rubbing his palms together. "A sportsman or a collector?"
"Both."
"This way, please." He led them to the rear of the shop and placed himself behind a counter. "Now, then. Where does your interest lie? Handguns? Rifles? Shotguns? Automatics?"
"The last two."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I want an autoshotgun," Dalt said tersely. "Double-barreled with continuous feed."
"I'm afraid we only have one model along that line."
"I know. Ibizan makes it."
The man nodded and searched under the counter. He pulled out a shiny black case, placed it before him, and opened it.
Dalt inspected it briefly. "That's it. You have waist canisters for the feed?"
"Of course. The Ibizan is nonejecting, so you'll have to use disintegrating cases, you know."
"I know. Now. I want you to take this down to the workshop and cut the barrel off"—he drew a line with his finger—"right about here."
"Sir, you must be joking!" the little man said with visible shock, his eyes widening and losing their perpetual squint. But he could see by Dalt's expression that no joke was intended. He spoke petulantly. "I'm afraid I must see proof of credit before I deface such a fine weapon."
Dalt fished out a thin alloy disk and handed it over. The gunsmith pressed the disk into a notch in the counter and the image of Mordirak appeared in the hologram box beside it, accompanied by the number 1. Mordirak had first-class credit anywhere in Occupied Space.
With a sigh, the man handed back the disk, hefted the weapon, and took it into the enclosed workshop section.
("Your knowledge of weaponry is impressive.") A holdover from my game-hunting days. Remember them?
("I remember disapproving of them.")
Well, combustion weapons are still in demand by "sportsmen" who find their sense of masculinity cheated by the lack of recoil in energy weapons.
("And just what is this Ibizan supposed to do for you?")
You'll see.
The gunsmith reappeared with the foreshortened weapon.
"You have a target range, I presume," Dalt said. "Yes. On the lower level."
"Good. Fill the feeder with number-eight end-over-end cylindrical shot and we'll try her out."
The man winced and complied.
The target range was elaborate and currently set up with moving, bounding models of Kamedon deer. Sensors within the models rated the marksman's performance on a flashing screen at the firing line that could read "Miss," "Kill," "Wounded," and variations. The firing line was cleared as Dalt hooked the feeder canister to his waist and fed the string of shells into the chambers. Flicking the safety off, he held the weapon against his chest with the barrels pointing downrange and began walking.
"Left barrel," he said, and pulled the trigger. The Ibizan jerked in his hands; the cannonlike roar was swallowed by the sound dampers but the muzzle flash was a good twenty centimeters in length, and one of the leaping targets was torn in half. "Right barrel," was faintly heard, with similar results. Then a flip of a switch and, "Automatic." The prolonged roar that issued from the rapidly alternating barrels taxed the sound dampers to their limit and when the noise stopped, every target hung in tatters. The indicator screen flashed solid red on and off in confusion.
"What could you possibly want to hunt with a weapon like that?" the little gunsmith asked, glancing from Dalt to the Ibizan to the ruined range.
A smug but irresistible reply came to mind. "God."
"You wanted to see me about something?" Petrical asked.