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  McCade's thoughts churned. Had he just heard a veiled hint? If so, at what? His commission reinstated for services rendered? If so, why the heavy-handed approach from good old Walt? Surely the Admiral must be aware of the kind of leverage Walt had used to get him here. Of course he was. The carrot and the stick. He was being expertly conned. He didn't know what was coming—but he felt sure it would be a real lulu.

  "I'll get to the point," Keaton said. "There's an important service you could render. Though I realize you may feel little loyalty to the Empire . . . I think you know it's necessary. The alternative is anarchy."

  McCade didn't know if he believed that or not, but he certainly knew the theory. The Academy instructors had hammered it home day after day. It was the basic tenent underlying the Emperor's rule. There had been a confederation once. But there were too many stars, too many systems. Each had a point of view, special needs and special problems. Each saw itself as the center of the human universe. An entire planet had been set aside as a capital. It was populated with millions of representatives sent to vote on behalf of thousands of worlds. But the democratic process constantly broke down into endless bickering and squabbling. Nothing effective was accomplished because decisions always called for sacrifice by one or more special interest groups. Eventually a coalition of systems seceded from the Confederation. A bloody civil war followed. Finally after years of conflict a strong and brilliant leader emerged. He amassed a great armada and used it to conquer all the planets then held by man. His supporters proclaimed him emperor . . . and the Empire was born. His rule proved reasonable and consistent, preferable to the profitless anarchy of war. Eventually, most became willing subjects. However a stubborn few fled to the Empire's frontiers. There they eked out a marginal existence on uncharted worlds, or raided the Empire's commerce as pirates. Now the first emperor's son ruled, and little had changed.

  Admiral Keaton paused as though gathering his thoughts. "We can also offer what we think is generous compensation for your services."

  McCade would've sworn there was a glint of humor deep in the Admiral's eyes. "In addition to helping you resolve your legal difficulties, we are prepared to offer you a first-class ship. I believe such a vessel is central to your future plans." Admiral Keaton allowed himself an amused smile.

  Blast them! McCade thought. They were leading him around like a child. He knew it, they knew it, and right now there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Forcing an even tone and sardonic grin, McCade said, "You're too generous, Admiral. You offer to pay me what's already mine, and throw in the ship I could have bought with it to boot. Terrific. It's a great deal. But before I agree . . . I'd like to know what's involved. So let's skip the bull and get on with it. What do you want? And why me?"

  For a second McCade saw anger flicker in the other man's eyes and wondered if he'd pushed Keaton too far. But then the anger vanished to be replaced by a grim smile.

  "All right, maybe I deserved that, McCade . . .. So, as you put it, I'll skip the bull. As for what we want, well, you did the Empire a service when you tracked Cadien down. We want you to find another fugitive for us and bring him back." The Admiral paused for a moment and said, "Failing that, we want you to kill him."

  McCade experienced a sinking feeling. Whatever the game was, it obviously involved high stakes.

  Keaton looked at him appraisingly. "As for why we picked you, well, you have quite a reputation in your, ah, chosen profession. I'm told your peers hold you in very high esteem. What's more important, however, is that you know the fugitive, how he thinks, what makes him tick. And that may well give you an edge in finding him. And last but not least . . . you just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

  "Or the wrong place at the wrong time," McCade replied sourly. "Who am I supposed to find?"

  "Captain Ian Bridger," Keaton replied grimly. "Ironic, isn't it?"

  Totally insane is more like it, McCade thought. Find Bridger and bring him back dead or alive. Deep down he knew a part of him would enjoy tracking Bridger down. And they knew it, and were counting on it. But what had Bridger done? Whatever it was must be big.

  "I'm already starting to feel underpaid," McCade said. "I want the bounty for Cadien, plus the ship, plus let's say, half a million for Bridger." He was as much interested in Keaton's reaction as in getting what he'd asked for.

  The Admiral smiled crookedly. "The offer stands as is. If you succeed, we'll consider a bonus. Otherwise, I suggest you prepare for a long stay while the Claims Board gets organized and then considers your case."

  For a moment McCade just sat there, wishing he could see some way out, but finding each possible door closed to him. With a sigh he said, "All right, you've got a deal. What exactly did Bridger do?"

  "Swanson-Pierce will fill you in," Keaton replied, his face remote now, already considering the next item on his agenda for the day. "Good hunting, McCade." And with that, the Admiral shimmered and disappeared, leaving only an empty chair.

  Suddenly McCade realized Keaton had never been there at all. Some kind of holo? If so, it was the best he'd ever seen. Thoughtfully he got up and made his way across the plush carpet to the massive double doors. They opened on silent hinges, and as he stepped out of the room, the four marines snapped to attention.

  "Ready sir?" asked the section leader who'd brought him.

  McCade nodded. "Yes, thanks, Section."

  Together the three men started down the corridor. McCade noticed it was busier now. Glancing at his wrist term, he saw it was almost noon. People were heading for lunch. Moments later, as McCade and the marines rounded a corner into a crowded hallway, the assassins made their move.

  Two

  There were three assassins, one ahead, one to each side. They were positioned to place McCade and his two escorts in a deadly cross fire. In keeping with Imperial law, they threw off their cloaks to reveal bright red jump suits. The word "assassin" flashed on and off in lights across each man's chest. The one in the middle delivered the formal warning.

  "Attention! A level-three, licensed assassination will be carried out on Citizen Sam McCade five seconds from now." His amplified voice boomed down the corridor. People scattered and dived for cover in every direction. The lead assassin drew his blaster.

  McCade dived for the floor and rolled right. Blaster fire splashed the floor where he'd just been. A wave of heat rolled over him, filling his nostrils with the stench of burned plastic. He looked up to see the lead assassin hurled backward by a blast from the section leader's energy weapon. Then McCade was hit from the side as the body of the second marine fell on him. There was a hole the size of a dinner plate burned through the man's chest. McCade rolled out from under the body, grabbing the marine's energy weapon as he did so. He fired as soon as his finger found the stud. Swinging left he punched a line of incandescent holes into the far wall before coming to bear on the lefthand assassin. As soon as the assassin filled his sights, McCade held the stud down. Pieces of the man flew in every direction.

  McCade swung his weapon right, searching for another target. None remained. The assassins were dead. The section leader had killed two before being hit himself. McCade moved quickly to the marine's side. To his relief he saw the man was still alive. A blaster beam had grazed his right thigh. Fortunately it had cauterized the wound on its way by, so there wasn't any bleeding. McCade was something of an expert on wounds and had the scars to prove it. It looked like a stint in an automedic would make the leg as good as new.

  The marine grinned at McCade through gritted teeth. "Glad you made it, sir . . .. For a moment there I thought we were all goners. Level three, for god's sake . . .. They must want you awful bad . . .. Woulda' been my ass if they'd got you though . . .. How's Reynolds?"

  Slowly McCade became aware of the pandemonium around them. People caught in the cross fire screaming, others yelling commands, the smell of burned flesh, and the distant sound of approaching sirens. Good, someone had called the medics. McCade glanced at
the other marine's crumpled form and then back to the section leader. "I'm afraid he didn't make it, Section."

  The marine nodded unhappily.

  "I'm sorry," McCade said, knowing it wouldn't help.

  "Not your fault, sir," the section leader said. "You did your part." With a motion of his head he indicated the assassin McCade had killed.

  "So did you, Section," McCade replied soberly. "I owe you one."

  The marine shook his head. "No sir, that's what they pay me for . . .. But damn . . . level three . . . I can't believe it."

  The marine's words still echoed in McCade's ears as he moved among the other wounded, doing what he could to help. A few minutes later he was brushed aside as the medics arrived, followed closely by a ground car loaded with marines.

  "Level three . . ." McCade said to himself. Level three meant assassins could kill not only their intended target, but any bystanders who happened to get in the way as well, all without fear of official reprisal. It was legal, of course. Legal but expensive. First you bought a license from the government. A nice source of revenue for the empire, by the way. Then you hired a member of the Assassin's Guild. Both were expensive. A level-three license, plus three Guild assassins would cost a small fortune. To have the hit carried out on a naval base would cost several more small fortunes. He'd never even heard of such an attempt before. But chances were, it was all legal and aboveboard. Otherwise, Guild assassins would never have gotten involved.

  Of course every now and then there was someone stupid enough, or greedy enough, to try and cut both the government and the Guild out. Cadien was a good example. But for every Cadien there was a McCade. A bounty hunter willing to track a man across the empire for a fraction of what an effective Imperial police force would cost. And if McCade hadn't caught up with Cadien, the Guild eventually would have. They took illegal assassinations very seriously indeed. Particularly ones which offended the Emperor personally. Not only did such acts rob them of revenue, they gave assassins a bad name, and the Guild was already quite aware of its negative public image. The public rated assassins even below bounty hunters. What if assassination was made illegal? The very thought must send their blood pressure soaring, McCade thought sourly. Assuming, of course, they had blood in their veins.

  Anyway, the section leader was right . . .. Someone did want him awfully bad. It wasn't a pleasant thought. McCade returned the section leader's wave as the marine was loaded into a ground vehicle that promptly disappeared in the direction of the base hospital.

  "Citizen McCade?" The voice belonged to a tall, serious-looking marine captain.

  "That depends," McCade replied. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Captain Rhodes," the officer replied levelly. "My men and I are here to protect you." There was something superior about his expression and condescending in his tone. He put out an open hand for the energy weapon still tucked under McCade's arm.

  McCade ignored the hand by taking a long slow look around. The marine was forced to do likewise. The wounded were still being loaded into ambulances. Reynolds was being zipped into a black body bag, and robot repair units were starting to arrive. McCade turned back to the captain without saying a word. He didn't have to. The message was clear. In spite of a valiant effort to protect him, his previous bodyguards had nearly failed. The marine flushed a dark red. McCade handed him the weapon and allowed himself to be ushered aboard an open ground car. He noticed they weren't taking any chances now. The marines surrounding him were heavily armed and the car mounted twin automatic weapons.

  As the car eased into motion, McCade said, "Do I get to know where we're going?"

  "Captain Swanson-Pierce has requested your presence," Captain Rhodes answered stiffly, as though unable to understand why anyone would request McCade for anything.

  McCade turned away from the resentful marine and looked out the side of the speeding vehicle. The faces that passed by merged into a blur, along with his thoughts. He remembered the screams of those caught in the cross fire. Strangers had been hurt or killed because of him. Why? It made no sense. Of course he'd made enemies as a bounty hunter. But most of them were dead, or sentenced to a prison planet for life, if you could call that life. Friends or relatives were always a possibility. But why now? And why in the middle of an Imperial Navy base? It didn't make sense . . . unless of course it was somehow connected with the Bridger thing.

  McCade put those thoughts aside as the vehicle left the confinement of the building and emerged into bright sunshine. Lush green grass, still slightly moist from the rain programmed to fall at exactly 0500 every morning, reached out to touch a bright blue sky. The air smelled fresh and clean. Pollution and crowding were things of the past. At least on Terra they were. For hundreds of years, Earth had exported her problems, including both heavy industry and excess population. As a result, much of Terra's surface was dedicated to vast forests and parks. Cities were designed for beauty as well as function. Even naval bases had been made easy on the eye, so that visitors from off-planet couldn't imagine the crowded, polluted misery of a thousand years before. In the distance, the neat symmetry of a spaceport could be seen shimmering in the early heat, surrounded by concentric rings of navy ships. Thunder rolled as the slender needle shape of a destroyer rose toward the sky.

  The ground car stopped in front of a black building which soared a thousand feet upward. The building bore no sign announcing its purpose. There was a momentary wait as Captain Rhodes issued orders to his men. McCade used it to read a small gold plaque set into the permacrete at his feet. It read:

  The first to see, The first to hear, The first to know, The first to die.

  The motto of Naval Intelligence. Those who worked within were the Emperor's eyes and ears. From here they wove an invisible web between the stars. A network of information that touched every planet held by man . . . and quite a few that weren't.

  As McCade and Rhodes approached the building its black surface grew blacker. Evidently the entire building was protected by a force field. The area directly in front of them shimmered and disappeared, leaving an opening just large enough for them to pass through.

  Inside, both men were invisibly but thoroughly scanned by hidden security sensors as they waited by a lift tube. The captain's sidearm was detected immediately, its serial number checked against the one issued to him, his entire personnel file quickly reviewed, all in a fraction of a second. McCade was identified by his retinal patterns and also checked. A moment later computer approval flashed back, allowing the lift tube doors to open. They stepped aboard the waiting platform, and it moved smoothly upward. McCade followed the marine off at level eighty-six. They went a few steps down a gleaming corridor and into a roomy reception area, where they were greeted by a very attractive lieutenant, who looked stunning in navy black and, from her slightly amused expression, knew it.

  "Citizen McCade reporting as ordered," Captain Rhodes said.

  McCade winked at the lieutenant, and to his surprise she winked back. She nodded to the marine and murmured into a wrist mic before turning away to tap something into the terminal on her desk.

  "Sam, you've been at it again. You really must stop shooting people in public places . . .. It's so messy." Swanson-Pierce had appeared in a doorway. He also wore an amused expression and another perfectly tailored uniform. "Come on in," he said, turning and disappearing back into his office.

  As McCade entered he noticed the office was quite luxurious, resembling more the working quarters of a successful businessman than the spartan day cabin of a naval officer. After dropping into a chair facing Swanson-Pierce's highly polished rosewood desk, McCade reached to pluck a cigar from an open humidor, and settled back. Puffing it alight, he watched Swanson-Pierce through the smoke. "Speaking of shooting people in public places, Walt . . . you wouldn't happen to know why I'm suddenly so unpopular, would you?" McCade allowed some white ash to drift down toward the plush carpet.

  Swanson-Pierce laughed. "Why Sam, considering your vast wealth of
personal charm, I must admit I'm surprised. Old, ah, clients perhaps?"

  McCade regarded the naval officer soberly and shook his head. "I don't think so. It takes a big bankroll to swing a level three . . . especially in the middle of a naval base. If I'd offended somebody with that kind of clout, I'd remember. No, I think it's something else, maybe connected to this Bridger thing."

  Swanson-Pierce nodded in agreement. "Our people are looking into that possibility at this very moment. It's too bad all three assassins were killed. It would have been interesting to talk with one of them." He frowned at McCade disapprovingly.

  "Yeah, that was too bad. I'll keep it in mind next time," McCade replied dryly.

  Swanson-Pierce shook his head in mock concern. "Sam, what'll I do with you?"

  "Let me go?" McCade asked hopefully.

  "That hardly seems wise right now, does it, Sam?" the other man said, his brow furrowed in apparent concern. "What with all those nasty types looking for you? Not to mention your regrettable financial situation. No, I think not. And besides . . . you did agree to undertake this little chore for Admiral Keaton."

  "Yeah," McCade said. "Let's talk about that little chore." He tapped his cigar, sending an avalanche of ash toward the expensive carpet. "First, I didn't 'agree' to take this Bridger thing on. I was forced, as you very well know. Second, I think it's about time you told me what this is all about. Since when does the navy need a bounty hunter to find their officers? Especially dead or alive. Come to think of it . . . why bother? Is there a shortage of war heroes or something?"