The Still, Small Voice of Trumpets. Lloyd Biggle jr.
think of any reason why this base should need a receptionist.” He turned and gave her his most engaging smile. “Could it be possible that you were appointed just to keep an eye on me?”
Her reaction, whatever it might be, was certain to be unattractive; so Forzon said over his shoulder, “Please let me know when the coordinator is available,” and returned to his quarters.
Later Rastadt sent for him, greeted him with a scowl, and as an afterthought leaped to his feet to snap off a salute. “They said you wanted to see me.”
“Can you arrange transportation to Kurr for me day after tomorrow?” Forzon asked.
“Kurr? Why?”
“To take command of Team B. I’d rather not waste any more time here at base than is absolutely necessary.”
“You can command Team B from here,” Rastadt said. “There’s no reason for you to go to Kurr. None at all. And it’d be dangerous.”
“Strange that you should think so,” Forzon remarked. “Only three days ago you were rehearsing me in the role of a Kurrian priest.”
“That was just a demonstration. I’m not turning you loose in Kurr until you’ve been trained in everything a Kurrian priest needs to know. At the first opportunity we’ll bring back a Team B agent who’s had actual experience in the role. Until he convinces me that you’re competent, you’ll have to command Team B from here.”
“You wouldn’t be turning me loose there,” Forzon protested. “I’ll be exposed only between the landing area and the Team B station and it’ll be dark anyway. Wheeler said the costume was only a precaution.”
“It isn’t precaution enough. The IPR field teams owe their success to the fact that nothing is left to chance. I can’t permit you to incur such a risk.”
Forzon said coldly, “I believe, Coordinator, that this is my decision to make.”
“Not at all. You outrank me by four grades, but the coordinator of a planet has full responsibility for the safety of all IPR personnel, of whatever rank or status.”
“Has Wheeler returned yet?”
“I believe so. Why?”
“Call him in here.”
Rastadt irritably snapped an order at his communicator. Wheeler strolled in a moment later, nodded cheerfully at Forzon, and asked, “What’s the problem?”
Rastadt glared at him. “Don’t you know how to report to a sector supervisor?”
Wheeler flushed, muttered an apology, saluted. Forzon felt too embarrassed to intervene.
“No wonder this planet is a mess,” Rastadt growled. “No one does anything right.”
Forzon said to Wheeler, “Did you, or did you not, tell me I could go to Kurr whenever I was ready?”
“I—yes—”
“I’m ready.”
The coordinator leaned forward. “Assistant-Coordinator Wheeler, would you kindly cite for me the regulation under which you have been delegating my authority?”
“But I did ask you about it, sir, and you said—”
“I said the supervisor could go to Kurr whenever he was ready. I did not say he could go whenever he thought he was ready. A novice from another governmental department, whatever his rank, has no competence to make such decisions. An IPR man is not ready to take the field until he has been thoroughly trained and indoctrinated, and if you aren’t aware of that by now the planet Gurnil is badly in need of a new assistant coordinator. What are you trying to do—blow the planet?”
Wheeler, his large face now white and oozing perspiration, opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. In another moment he would have been cringing, and a cringing clown was something that Forzon did not care to see. He said, “Coordinator, I think it’s time that we asked Supreme Headquarters to clarify the command situation here. Will you make the request, or shall I?”
Rastadt leaped to his feet, stood for a long moment poised to unleash his rage at Forzon—and then crumpled. “I’ll—make the request,” he muttered.
“Thank you,” Forzon said.
He returned their salutes and left them.
Wheeler, panting heavily, overtook him in the corridor outside his quarters. “It’s all right,” the assistant coordinator gasped. “I’ll have transportation ready for you whenever you want it.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
“If you like.”
“Why the sudden change?”
Mopping his brow, Wheeler said nervously, “Let’s go where we can talk.”
Forzon led him into his quarters, got him seated, and remarked, “You need a drink. Sorry I can’t offer you one.”
Wheeler mopped his brow again. “Not permitted on this base. Coordinator’s orders.” He looked woundedly at Forzon, and both of them burst into laughter.
“I want to ask you a favor,” Wheeler said suddenly. “A Bureau field team is autonomous, but its commander works under the general supervision of the planet’s coordinator. This raises an awkward question. You are the ranking officer on this planet. At the same time the tables of organization make you subordinate to the coordinator because you command a field team. It’s a peculiar situation, and as you’ve noticed, your orders don’t clarify it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“That you don’t make an issue of it. Observe the traditional command setup and submit your plans to the coordinator for approval as any team commander would do. The coordinator will approve them as a matter of course, I’m sure. There’s no harm in letting him pretend, is there? He’s really a fine old man with a distinguished career behind him, but he had the misfortune of drawing an impossible assignment.”
“He impresses me as being thoroughly irascible.”
“Naturally he feels frustrated. Kurr has broken a lot of coordinators, and he doesn’t want to end his service with a failure on his record.”
Forzon said politely, “Since I know nothing about IPR regulations, I see nothing unreasonable about having my plans reviewed carefully by someone who does.”
“Splendid!” Magically, Wheeler was the clown again.
“But I do insist on getting away from this base,” Forzon went on. “I couldn’t work effectively here. Besides, there’s a conspiracy to keep me out of the dining room, and your base personnel refuse to speak to me.”
Wheeler fluttered a hand indifferently. “They’re probably afraid of you. You’re the highest ranking officer most of them have ever seen. Day after tomorrow, then. You can’t take anything with you, you know.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing,” Wheeler said firmly. “You can’t have anything on your person that a Kurrian priest wouldn’t have, and that’s very little. We use special planes for our contacts with Kurr. They aren’t very fast, but they’re virtually noiseless. We have to put our agents down on lightly populated stretches of coast where we aren’t likely to inspire any local superstitions. Put them down and run—there are night fishermen who work closely inshore, and it wouldn’t do to have one happen onto the plane. The coordinator is notifying Team B now, so there’ll be someone on hand to meet you. There is one thing. He doesn’t think you should go, but since you insist on it he insists on going with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“I suppose not.”
“Why shouldn’t the coordinator go to Kurr?” Forzon persisted.
“No