This final word, dripping contempt, was strange to Brasidus.
“As you will.”
“And the next time you come to me, I shall be busy.”
The door opened properly, but still Brasidus did not withdraw his head. The couple who emerged from the storeroom or whatever it was had their backs to him. The shorter of the pair was dressed in a brief, black tunic woven from some transparent material. His lustrous, auburn hair hung to his smooth, gleaming shoulders and his rounded buttocks gleamed through the flimsy garment. He walked with a peculiarly provocative swing of the hips. Brasidus stared after him—and so, luckily, did Heraklion. Before the doctor could turn, Brasidus withdrew, hurried silently back along the corridor. There were no shouts, no pursuit. The only noise came from the ward, where Achron—and what was a pansy?—still had not pacified his charges.
Conquering his repugnance, Brasidus went in. “Can I help?” he asked the nurse.
“Oh, you’re still here, Brasidus. I thought you’d have run away ages ago. Bring me some bottles from the dispenser, will you? You know how.”
Brasidus obeyed. While he was so engaged, Doctor Heraklion strode through the doorway. “Really, Sergeant,” snapped, “I can’t have this. This is the second time that you’ve come blundering in here, disturbing our charges. I shall have to complain to your superior.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.”
“That isn’t good enough, Sergeant. Leave, please. At once.”
Brasidus left. He would gain nothing by staying any longer. And perhaps he should telephone Diomedes to tell him what he had learned. But what had he learned? That there was a nest of Arcadian spies already on Sparta? Spies—or infiltrators? Infiltratorsthe doctors working in collusion with them?
And how did that tie in with the visit of Seeker III , a vessel with Arcadians in its own crew?
Very well indeed, Brasidus told himself. Very well indeed.
He rang Diomedes from the first telephone booth he came to, but there was no answer. He rang again from the barracks, and there was still no answer. He looked at the time, shrugged his shoulders, went to his cubicle and turned in.
While he was having his breakfast, prior to going out to the spaceport, Captain Lycurgus sent for him. “Sergeant,” he said, “I’ve received a complaint. About you. From Doctor Heraklion, at the créche. In future, leave his nurses alone in duty hours.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And one more thing, Brasidus . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“I shall pass the Doctor’s complaint on to Captain Diomedes. I understand that he gives you your real orders these days.”
Chapter 10
DIOMEDES SENT HIS CAR round to the barracks in the morning to pick up Brasidus. It was another fine day, and the drive out to the spaceport was pleasant. The driver was not disposed to talk, which suited Brasidus. He was turning over and over in his mind what he would tell Diomedes and was wondering what conclusions Diomedes would draw from the events in the créche. Meanwhile, there was the morning air to enjoy, still crisp, not yet tainted by the pungency from the spice fields on either side of the road.
Above the spaceport the ships of the Air Navy still circled and, as the car neared the final approaches, Brasidus noted that heavy motorized artillery as well as squadrons of armored cavalry had been brought up. Whatever John Grimes had in mind, the Police Battalion would be ready for him. But Brasidus did not regret that he had not, as a recruit, been posted to a mechanized unit. A hoplite such as himself was always fully employed, the armored cavalry, but rarely, the artillery, almost never.
The main gates opened as the car, without slackening speed, approached them. The duty guard saluted smartly—the vehicle rather than himself, Brasidus guessed. There was a spectacular halt in a column of swirling dust outside the Security office. Diomedes was standing in the doorway. He sneezed, glared at the driver, withdrew
“As you will.”
“And the next time you come to me, I shall be busy.”
The door opened properly, but still Brasidus did not withdraw his head. The couple who emerged from the storeroom or whatever it was had their backs to him. The shorter of the pair was dressed in a brief, black tunic woven from some transparent material. His lustrous, auburn hair hung to his smooth, gleaming shoulders and his rounded buttocks gleamed through the flimsy garment. He walked with a peculiarly provocative swing of the hips. Brasidus stared after him—and so, luckily, did Heraklion. Before the doctor could turn, Brasidus withdrew, hurried silently back along the corridor. There were no shouts, no pursuit. The only noise came from the ward, where Achron—and what was a pansy?—still had not pacified his charges.
Conquering his repugnance, Brasidus went in. “Can I help?” he asked the nurse.
“Oh, you’re still here, Brasidus. I thought you’d have run away ages ago. Bring me some bottles from the dispenser, will you? You know how.”
Brasidus obeyed. While he was so engaged, Doctor Heraklion strode through the doorway. “Really, Sergeant,” snapped, “I can’t have this. This is the second time that you’ve come blundering in here, disturbing our charges. I shall have to complain to your superior.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.”
“That isn’t good enough, Sergeant. Leave, please. At once.”
Brasidus left. He would gain nothing by staying any longer. And perhaps he should telephone Diomedes to tell him what he had learned. But what had he learned? That there was a nest of Arcadian spies already on Sparta? Spies—or infiltrators? Infiltratorsthe doctors working in collusion with them?
And how did that tie in with the visit of Seeker III , a vessel with Arcadians in its own crew?
Very well indeed, Brasidus told himself. Very well indeed.
He rang Diomedes from the first telephone booth he came to, but there was no answer. He rang again from the barracks, and there was still no answer. He looked at the time, shrugged his shoulders, went to his cubicle and turned in.
While he was having his breakfast, prior to going out to the spaceport, Captain Lycurgus sent for him. “Sergeant,” he said, “I’ve received a complaint. About you. From Doctor Heraklion, at the créche. In future, leave his nurses alone in duty hours.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And one more thing, Brasidus . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“I shall pass the Doctor’s complaint on to Captain Diomedes. I understand that he gives you your real orders these days.”
Chapter 10
DIOMEDES SENT HIS CAR round to the barracks in the morning to pick up Brasidus. It was another fine day, and the drive out to the spaceport was pleasant. The driver was not disposed to talk, which suited Brasidus. He was turning over and over in his mind what he would tell Diomedes and was wondering what conclusions Diomedes would draw from the events in the créche. Meanwhile, there was the morning air to enjoy, still crisp, not yet tainted by the pungency from the spice fields on either side of the road.
Above the spaceport the ships of the Air Navy still circled and, as the car neared the final approaches, Brasidus noted that heavy motorized artillery as well as squadrons of armored cavalry had been brought up. Whatever John Grimes had in mind, the Police Battalion would be ready for him. But Brasidus did not regret that he had not, as a recruit, been posted to a mechanized unit. A hoplite such as himself was always fully employed, the armored cavalry, but rarely, the artillery, almost never.
The main gates opened as the car, without slackening speed, approached them. The duty guard saluted smartly—the vehicle rather than himself, Brasidus guessed. There was a spectacular halt in a column of swirling dust outside the Security office. Diomedes was standing in the doorway. He sneezed, glared at the driver, withdrew
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