First Command Read Free Page A

ship, and if the Council makes the usual arrangements for its reception, who are we to demand explanations?”
    “It seems . . . odd.”
    “You’re a creature of routine, Brasidus. That’s your trouble. Off with you now, and get some sleep.”
    Once he had undressed and dropped onto the hard, narrow bed in his cubicle he did, rather to his surprise, fall almost at once into a dreamless slumber. And it seemed that only seconds had elapsed when an orderly called him at 0445 hours.
    A cold shower completed the arousing process. He got into his black and silver uniform tunic, buckled on his heavy sandals and then, plumed helmet under his arm, made his way to the mess hall. He was the first one there. He looked with some distaste at the already laid table—the crusty bread, the joints of cold meat, the jugs of weak beer. But he was hungry, and pulled up a form and began his meal. As he was eating, the six constables of his detail came in. He nodded in greeting as they muttered sullenly, “Morning, Sergeant.” Then, “Don’t waste any time,” he admonished. “They’ll be waiting for us at the spaceport.”
    “Let ‘em wait,” growled one of the latecomers. He threw a gnawed bone in the general direction of the trash bucket, missed.
    “That’s enough from you, Hector. I hear that there’s a vacancy for village policeman at Euroka. Want me to recommend you?”
    “No. Their beer’s lousier even than this, and they can’t make wine.”
    “Then watch your step, that’s all.”
    The men got slowly to their feet, wiping their mouths on the back of their hands, halfheartedly dusting the crumbs from the fronts of their tunics. They took their helmets from the hooks on the wall, put them on, then filed slowly from the mess hall to the duty sergeant’s desk. He was waiting for them, already had the armory door unlocked. From it he took, one by one, seven belts, each with two holsters. So, thought Brasidus, this is an actual spaceship landing. Staves and short swords were good enough for ordinary police duties. As the belts were being buckled on, the duty sergeant produced the weapons to go with them. “One stun gun,” he muttered, passing them out. “One projectile pistol. To be used only in extreme urgency. But you know the drill, Sergeant.”
    “I know the drill, Sergeant,” replied Brasidus.
    “We should,” grumbled Hector, “by this time.”
    “I’m telling you,” explained the duty sergeant with ominous patience, “so that if you do something silly, which is all too possible, you won’t be able to say that you weren’t told not to do it.” He came out from behind the desk, inspected the detail. “A fine body of men, Sergeant Brasidus,” he declaimed sardonically. “A credit to the Army. I don’t think. But you’ll do, I suppose. There’ll be nobody there to see you but a bunch of scruffy Latterhaven spacemen.”
    “What if they aren’t from Latterhaven?” asked Brasidus. He was almost as surprised by his question as was the duty sergeant.
    “Where else can they be from? Do you think that the gods have come all the way from Olympus to pay us a call?”
    But if the gods came, it would be, presumably, on the wings of a supernal storm. It would not be a routine spaceship arrival—routine, that is, save for its unscheduled nature.
    The men were silent during the ride to the spaceport.
    Air-cushioned, the police transport sped smoothly over the cobbled streets of the city, the rough roads of the countryside. Dawn was not far off and already the harpies were uttering their raucous cries in the branches of the medusa trees. One of the birds, its wings whirring about its globular body, swept down from its perch and fluttered ahead of the driver’s cab, squawking discordantly. The vehicle swerved. Hector cursed, pulled his projectile pistol, fired. The report was deafening in the still air. The harpy screamed for the last time and fell, a bloody tangle of membrane and cartilage, by the side of the