The Best Made Plans | Page 4

side to side.
"And with the armament he had gathered, he and his companions might even have succeeded in burning their way to the mountains, despite the cordon of officers surrounding their hide-out. He thought he could do that. But precautions had been taken. Reinforcements were called in. And such force as was needed was called into play." He sighed.
"So there's an end. An end to one case. An end to a false official, who thought he was too big for the law he had sworn to uphold." He held out a hand.
"But there still remain those who hired this man--those who paid him the price of those estates and those good things Waern enjoyed for a time. Your Enforcement Corps is searching for those men. And they will be found. Wherever they are--whoever they are--your Enforcement Corps will not rest so long as one of them remains at liberty." He stared penetratingly at the camera for a moment, then nodded and turned away.
The musical salute to the ruler sounded from the speakers as the scene faded. Once again, the green grass of the Royal Guard parade field came into view. As the color guard stood at attention, the band modulated into the "Song of the Talu."
Don Michaels got out of his seat. The Aud Call would be over in a few minutes, he knew, and he'd have to be at his post when the crowd streamed out. He moved back toward the doors, opened one a trifle, and slid through.
* * * * *
Some others had already come out into the hall. A few more slid out to join them, until a small group stood outside the auditorium. They examined each other casually, then scattered.
Unhurriedly, Don walked through the empty corridors, turning at a stairwell.
How, he wondered, did a man like Harle Waern get started on the wrong track? The man had been a member of one of the oldest of the noble families--had always had plenty of money--plenty of prestige. What was it that made someone like that become a criminal?
"Should've known he'd get caught sooner or later," he told himself, "even if he had no honesty about him. I don't get it."
He got to the bottom of the stairs and walked into the boy's locker room.
Between a couple of rows of lockers, a youth sat in an inconspicuously placed chair. Don went up to him.
"Hi, Darrin," he said. "About ready to pack it up?"
The other gathered his books.
"Yeah. Guess so. Nothing going on down here. Wonder why they have us hanging around this place anyway?"
Don grinned. "Guess somebody broke into a locker once and they want a witness next time. Got to have something for us Guardians to do, don't they?"
"Suppose so. But when you get almost through with your pre-professional ... hey, Michaels, how did you make out on the last exam? Looked to me as though Masterson threw us a few curves. Or did you get the same exam? Like that business about rehabilitation? It ain't in the book."
"Oh, that." Don shrugged. "He gave us the low-down on that during class last week. Suppose your group got the same lecture. You should've checked your notes."
Darrin shrugged and stood up. "Always somebody don't get the news," he grumbled. "This time, it's me. I was out for a few days. Oh, well. How was the Aud?"
Don spread his hands. "About like usual, I'd say. Oh, they had a run on the end of the Waern affair. Really fixed that bird for keeps. Otherwise?"
He waved his hands in a flapping motion.
The other grinned, then turned as a bell clanged.
There was a rumbling series of crashes, followed by a roar which echoed through the corridors. Darrin turned quickly.
"I'd better get going," he said, "before I get caught in the stampede. Should be able to sneak up the back stairs right now. See you later." He strode away.
Michaels nodded and sat down, opening a notebook.
Students commenced rushing into the locker room and the roar in the hall was almost drowned out by the continuous clash and slam of locker doors. Don paid little attention, concentrating on his notes.
At last, the noise died down and Don looked up. Except for one slender figure, crouched by an open locker, the room was empty.
Don looked at the boy curiously. He was a typical Khlorisana--olive skinned, slightly built, somewhat shorter than the average galactic. Don looked with a touch of envy at the smooth hairline, wondering why it was that the natives of this planet always seemed to have a perfect growth of head fur which never needed the attention of a barber. He rubbed his own unruly hair, then shrugged.
"Hate to change places with Pete Waern now, though," he told himself. "Wonder where he stands in this business."
* * * * *
Hurrying footsteps sounded