I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

     "I won't do it," Narvi said flatly. He lifted his glass and took a large

swallow of the drink to punctuate the sentence. "You've got to," Lors

insisted. "You know as well as I do, it's the only way to straighten

things out."

"You talk to Ozark?"

"How can I tell him about it? What am I supposed to do? Tell him that I

love a Terran and want her to be happy?"

     "Thunder and lightning! What's so important about Brice and Danson?

They're only Terrans. This woman you're so silly about will find someone

else. Lors, by the gods, if you take those two back they'll talk to

everyone they can get their hands on..."

     "No they won't, not Danson. Narvi, that's the beauty of this whole plot.

Danson understands that our people simply want to begin trade

negotiations with Terra; he's learned to speak and read our language and

he knows how badly we want to trade with his people. He'll help us..."

"What about Brice," Narvi snorted.

"Brice can be handled by Danson. If that doesn't work, we can threaten

to do all sorts of things to him."

"And you want me to take the guard's place, outside Danson's quarters,

and give you time to steal a scout ship?"

"Yes."

     Narvi cast his blue eyes toward the ceiling and groaned aloud. "If I

keep doing all these goofy things for you, I'll never make commander. I

won't even make Vice-commander."

      Lors smiled. "Don't worry about it. If things work out, you'll have had

a hand in opening up a new planet for our trade rockets."

Narvi sighed. "All right. I'll do it, although I should have my head

examined by the ship's doctors."

Lors grinned at him and finished the last of his drink. "It'll work out,

Narvi and you'll probably get a medal."

"A prison cell, likely," Narvi snorted, "on Thista."

Lors slapped him lightly on the arm and left the ship's wardroom. He had

a lot to do, and damned little time to do it in.

      Lors left the wardroom and walked along the hollow, brightly lighted

corridors toward the hospital where Detective Callum Brice was being kept

a prisoner. He would be the tough one of the two, because his mental

roots were still very close to the witchcraft-believing parents who had

given him birth.

      Brice was a Pennsylvanian; he was fairly intelligent, but like all

Pennsylvanians he had an unconscious closeness with tradition. He was of

the type who would stoutly deny he was superstitious, yet would refuse