The officer's dining common was quite elegant with long, red draperies on the windows, its booths surrounded on the insides by leather seats, carpet on the floor, polished wood walls with pictures hanging on them, a half wall to the right separating the plush bar from the dining area, with mirrors hung in strategic locations making the room look larger than it was, which was unnecessary considering the room was large enough to hold one hundred and fifty people comfortably with no one having to stand.
As sharpie stepped through the doorway and into the officer’s dining common she thought of the luxury and the good food, which the officers had as compared to the hard life and little food of the prisoners. The thought of it was appalling. Sharpie started across the floor feeling the soft Ragg carpet under her feet and wondering how long she could live the life of a prisoner.
She saw Curt sitting in the raised Captain's section—“for the Captain and his guests only." The waiters were scurrying back and forth, some clearing away the dirty dishes, while others were delivering dessert.
Her enlightening, but depressing talk with Ben made her late for dinner, but considering the circumstances, whether she ate or not had little importance. After all, she and everyone in this prison could be caught between two sides of a brutal war.
Curt had his back to her, but from the distance she knew it was him because he was the only one in the section.
Laskey, a small wiry waiter, was passing her as he hurried toward the kitchen. "The Captain's in his usual seat, Lieutenant Sharpie," he said.
"Thanks, Laskey. How's the food tonight?"
"As scrumptious as always," he answered over his shoulder.
Sharpie reached into her vest pocket and took out the small, disc-thin voice recorder, which she had used to record the conversation between her and Ben. She always recorded conversations whenever she thought it might be important to reproduce them later. In this case, she might be able to help Ben out of his predicament. She unplugged it and put the small microphone back in her pocket.
What was it they called her in officer's candidate school? Oh yes, Walkie Talkie—the legs with the recorder. She always recorded the lectures given by the professors in class, and sometimes she recorded conversations with other students. Sometimes they didn't like it. Hal had been one such student/officer to be. Of course, she could understand his concern since he had confided in her that he sometimes liked to dress up in a woman's uniform, put large fruit where the breasts were supposed to be, and parade around in front of a mirror. For some reason he thought if this information got out it wouldn't be good for his psychological profile.
When he found out that she liked to record conversations with friends, he confronted her about it, and she confessed to having recorded one of their talks. She had no problem erasing the disc and then giving it to him to do with as he pleased. After all, as she told him, she wasn't trying to get anything on him. She was just recording a conversation with a friend. Needless to say he didn't talk to her much after that.
After all these years she was still recording conversations, but this time it was of a serious nature, a matter of the highest order. The Galaef of the Galactic Empire was being held prisoner in their prison.
She paused at the bottom of the steps wondering if Curt would believe it. She thought not, but if he did, was there anything they could do about it? After all, they had been thrown into a game way over their heads. What did they know about Galactic politics? And if they got involved on the wrong side, they might end up in the pits, or maybe worse.
For the two years she had been working as a guard in the pits, she had seen what it was like, men and women being starved to death while doing slave labor. It was cruel and inhumane, to say the least. In a way, she was rooting for the rebels. She didn't know how it would affect her life and her career, but something had to be done to change the political structure and to stop the cruelty being inflicted on these people.
She walked up the three steps and soundlessly made her way to the back of the Captain’s chair, in which he was sitting. She leaned over and placed her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, "I have information of the utmost importance."
He turned his head over his shoulder and looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Where have you been?" he asked.
I do love this man, she thought. She kissed him on the cheek, pulled up a chair next to him, and sat down. She leaned forward with her mouth next to his ear, and again whispered. "I've been with a prisoner who told a most frightening story." She pulled an earplug out of her pocket and stuck it in his ear. No one would hear the recording except him. "I want you to listen to this," she said. She placed the recorder on the table and turned it on.
"Walkie Talkie," he said under his breath, which brought a frown to Sharpie’s face.
"That's right," she answered, "but this time you better listen carefully."
She sat with her arms folded on top of the table and watched as Curt listened to the tape. A year and a half ago she had fallen for this guy—a strong man with a stern and commanding air of respect. When it came to wooing her he was the typical male, relentless until he got what he wanted, and then he became aloof, showing her that he loved her from time to time, but not as much as she would like. It had happened to her before with another man, and she had seen it happen to her mother, her sister, and a couple of her girlfriends. It was as if men just didn't understand the female psyche or maybe they didn't want to understand. She remembered her grandmother once saying that the only man she ever met who wasn't a son-of-a-bitch turned out to be a dirty bastard. In spite of the swearing, Sharpie found there was more truth to this saying than she would like to admit. Nevertheless, she felt she had found a good man in Curt.
She saw Laskey walking around one of the tables straightening the centerpiece, which reminded her she hadn’t eaten dinner. She decided to eat while she was waiting for Curt to finish listening to the tape, so she waved Laskey over. "I'm not real hungry tonight," she said. "Just bring me the soup of the day and a salad."
"Very good, Lieutenant," he said and hurried away.
A few minutes later Sharpie could tell Curt had finished listening to the tape because he pushed the repeat button on the recorder. He didn't show a reaction, but whatever it was, he wanted to listen again.
Just as he finished listening to it a second time Laskey returned and placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of Sharpie with a salad to the side.
Curt waited for Laskey to leave and then took the earpiece out of his ear and said, "This is bullshit. This . . ."
Sharpie raised her hand and put the spoon down. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. "Aside from the nasty language, don't you think we should take this conversation outside?"
Curt thought for a moment. "Yeah, you're right."
She only had a few spoonfuls of soup and a couple of bites of salad, and then they left the officer's mess, and in the cool night they walked toward the landing pad.
Curt, attempting to sound indifferent, said, "Now, as I was saying, this is a . . . you know what, story. You've come across a prisoner who looks like a famous swordsman, and he's got you believing the most ridiculously absurd story I've ever heard."
"He's not a look-alike. He’s the real thing," said Sharpie. Knowing Curt as well as she did, she had been afraid he wasn't going to believe it. He was one of those people who was always skeptical, and even when you put the proof in front of his face, half the time, he still didn't believe it. "I've followed this man's life-story since the time he was discovered as a child prodigy in swording and took the championship of his home planet at the age of nineteen. Aside from his name and his looks being the same, his mannerisms, his speech, and his characteristics are all the same. Even the way he gestures with his hands when he's talking. I have no doubt that this is Professor Ben Hillar, the fourth swordsman of the Galaxy."
Curt stopped walking and looked her in the eye. "I don't know how you can be so positive when you've never met
this Ben Hillar."
"Are you doubting my intelligence?" she asked with a scowl.
"Not at all. I just don't see how anyone could be so positive in a situation like this."
"I don't know how I can prove it," said Sharpie as she looked off into space trying to consider all the possibilities.
"Forget that," said Curt. "Let's consider for a moment, even if he was 'the' Ben Hillar, why would the Galaef of the Galactic Empire be on Ar with him? And that six hundred year old man . . . come on, - completely absurd and you know it."
"Don't tell me what I know," her eyes flashed angrily. "I'll tell you. And I'm telling you this man is Ben Hillar."
"Why are you getting mad? I'm just telling you I don't believe this man is Ben Hillar."
Sharpie thought for a moment and then said, "And if I could convince you he is 'the' Ben Hillar . . . ?" She was angry on the outside, but dismayed on the inside. As well as she knew Curt she would have never imagined he would be this unreasonable—not even willing to concede the possibility that some of it might be true.
"If I thought he was the real thing, I'd still have doubts about his story."
"If he was the real thing, then he would have nothing to gain by making up these stories."
"I don't believe that's true. There could be any number of reasons he was making up these stories."
"Maybe," said Sharpie, "but you're forgetting one thing." She paused knowing that he would wait for her to finish. She said, "We have a VIP prisoner who, for some reason unbeknownst to us, is unidentified."
"No, I thought of that," said Curt. "I just figured it's a coincidence."
"A very timely coincidence," answered Sharpie. "Actually, too timely for my taste."
When Curt didn't say anything for a long time she knew she had him thinking. "I have just thought of a plan," she said, "which will help us to determine the truth, or, at least part of it."
Curt let out a small sigh of relief. "Thank God," he said and then he hurried to add. "And I don't mean that in an irreverent way."
Sharpie ignored his comment. "Next week the warden's going to be gone for five days. We'll set up a swording match while he's away, between . . ."
"Between you and this supposed Ben Hillar?"
"No," retorted Sharpie. "I would never embarrass myself by going up against Ben Hillar, but Talman Hisser, my swording instructor, you know, the Lieutenant Commander of Hurd's police force, is a very good sword. In fact, he came in first two years ago in one of the Tarmorian tournaments.
"And what will we tell the warden when he returns? . . . You know he'll find out."
"We'll just tell him we wanted a little amusement. You know he'll understand that. And, in fact, he might ask us to do it again, so he can watch."
Curt drummed his fingers on the side of his phasor handgrip, a habit that annoyed Sharpie. "Yeah," he said, "You're right." He stopped drumming his fingers and pointed at her. "Okay, let's consider the worst case scenario. Let's say he is the Ben Hillar and let's say he's telling the truth about the Galaef, then the question becomes . . . what the hell can we do about it?"
"You don't have to swear," said Sharpie in a disappointed tone.
After a look of consternation crossed his face, Curt said, "Yeah, sorry."
"And I don't know what we can do about it. I think we'll have to give it a lot of thought, and perhaps confide in some key personnel."
"And another thing—what about Talman? Do you think it's a good idea to get one of Hurd's police officers involved in this?"
"Talman won't be a problem," answered Sharpie. "During all the practice matches I've had with him he has never said anything nice about Hurd. He has never openly discredited Hurd, but he has intimated it. If he suspects anything, I know he'll keep it to himself."
"Okay," said Curt almost reluctantly. "Let's do it." He paused and then added, "And now let's go back to our apartments and get out of this cold." He paused, "Or maybe we could go to your apartment."
They turned and started back. Sharpie wasn't feeling too romantic at the moment, but maybe after a couple of drinks. "There's just one more thing," she added. "I want to get Professor Hillar on light duty and one hot meal a day."
"Do I hint a bribe in this conversation?"
"No, but it might help get me in the mood."
"Well then, the answer is 'yes,' but you know the answer would have been 'yes' even if you had said 'no.'"
"Yes, I do," she said. "But my answer would have been 'yes' even if yours had been 'no.'"
Curt laughed. "This conversation is starting to confuse me," he said.
Sharpie smiled.
Chapter Forty-Nine