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Description
Book 1 – Law

Chapter 3

     Lieutenant Jenkins glared.  Two days had passed since Inspector Percy had begun his investigation of the Buford case, with no breakthroughs after Percy's initial deductions.  Clerical tasks, including a carefully worded report of their lack of progress, had kept Jenkins busy for much of the morning, and he had not seen the Inspector yet.  After he had handed the reports to Miss Asten, Captain Strong's secretary, he walked briskly down the hall three doors to Percy's office, which, though not large, had a window facing Palace Square.  He had expected to find his superior looking over reports from the legbeasts combing the city for the stolen jewels, or perhaps leaning back in his chair staring at the ceiling, which was his favorite pose for thinking.  Instead, Percy had his legs up on his desk and was reading through an issue of Thompson's Travels, a magazine that published the journals of explorers from exotic locales.
     So he glared.  He should have seen it coming.  The only reason the Inspector had stayed interested in the assignment in the first place was the prospect of an easy conclusion by following one of the leads he had discovered.  Now that those had led to dead-ends, it was a matter of routine investigation, and nothing bored the irritable cat so much as anything routine.
     "Inspector, I'm reporting for duty.  What are my orders?"  It would be no use taking a direct approach.  He had called the challenge.  It was up to Percy to either meet it head on, dodge it, or feint.
     "Listen to this, Jenkins."  Percy addressed him without looking up from the book.  So it was going to be a dodge.  There in the City Watch headquarters it wouldn't do to cut him off, and he certainly couldn't say what was on the tip of his tongue without insubordination.
     "Yes, sir," he said.
     "This is an account by Gustave Lyons of a village he encountered in the far East, on the other side of Trysar in the vast, uncharted plains of Irycia.  There are cats there, you know."  Percy paused.  Evidently it was Jenkins' turn.
     He decided there was no good opening, and a feint was in order.  "So I've heard, Inspector.  Big ones, if the rumors are to be believed."
     "Indeed.  Messr, Lyons gives this testimony:  I found myself in an unusual position.  In the better part of my myriad journeys, the reactions I had met from the natives had been, various indeed, but also clear and useful.  I was a dangerous outsider to be watched, or an unholy invader to be resisted, or a wondrous stranger to be admired and celebrated.  Here, however, among the big cat tribes of Irycia, for the first time I found myself to be irrelevant.  The hunters of those vast plains, eking out their spare lives on the wild and dangerous game, saw me as an irrelevancy.  I could not chase down a speeding gazelle with the Cheetahs, nor overpower a charging boar, which reach tremendous size in those places, with the Lions, nor stalk unseen an unwitting meal with the Leopards.  I was neither feared nor admired; simply ignored, tolerated as a mere curiosity so long as I stayed out of the way."
     Percy glanced up from the journal at Jenkins, indicating the field was now his.  Jenkins decided to egg him on.  "That's interesting, sir.  What's your point?"
     "Well you should ask, Lieutenant.  I believe I have asserted before, in private discussion with you, my conviction that these popular accounts, however widely accepted they may be, are at most perhaps one-third reliable fact, with the rest being a mixture of self-aggrandizement and sensational fabrication.  Of course, the temptation must be extreme.  What beast, presented with the opportunity of inflating his reputation, already enlarged by the considerable feat of returning from such a long journey and free from any reasonable chance of disproof, would be capable of resisting the temptation to embellish?  Certainly not myself.  I am restrained only by the assurance that any prevarication on my part would be quickly found out and punished, possibly by legal action.  I am a governmental official, of course."
     "Yes, sir," said Jenkins, patiently awaiting an opening.
     "Well, Jenkins," the Inspector continued, "I suspect this to be a rare moment of candor on the part of Messr. Lyons.  But mark!  Even so, he is merely assuming a narrative position from which he quickly recovers to what I strongly suspect is merely a heroic exaggeration of the exploits by which he wins the respect of the natives who so slighted him."  Percy nodded at Jenkins to speak.
     Was it an opening?  Jenkins decided to explore it.  "What does he claim to accomplish, sir?"
     "Oh, the usual fantastic rot.  Like here, where he transfixes a wild boar twice his size."  Percy flipped a page and read aloud again.  "The great beast struggled against my spear for the better part of half an hour, and I am sure only the strength of the cross-piece of my pike prevented him running himself clear through and goring me with his tusks in a bloody retort."  Percy closed the journal on his claw and glanced at Jenkins.  "I have met Messr. Lyons in person myself, once, Lieutenant.  Briefly, at a social function.  You were not present."
     "Naturally, sir.  A lowly functionary such as myself."
     "Quite."  Percy nodded approvingly, ignoring Jenkins' scowl.  "He is a cat, of course, like myself, scarcely larger in frame, and I noticed that he favors his right arm.  It is patently impossible that he could have achieved such a feat."
     Jenkins saw his chance, and seized it by the tail.  "You're absolutely right, sir," he said, forcefully enough to forestall a quick interruption on the Inspector's part.  "That would be as absurd as, to take a random example, a City Watchbeast expecting to catch an elusive criminal just by sitting in his office and using his brain – or even worse, refusing to use it merely because his first effort hit a snag.  It's much more likely that Mr. Lyons won the regard of the big cats through a long and fairly dull process of negotiation and diplomacy, but of course that wouldn't make as good a story.  He was right to insist on improving reality.  Reality is too harsh sometimes."
     Percy scowled fiercely at the big golden dog smirking at him.  Game, set and match.  "Very well, Lieutenant," he grumbled, "I concede the point.  I welcome your suggestions.  How shall I proceed?  What might I be doing that is not already in progress, as yet without visible effect?"
     Jenkins shook his head.  "No, sir.  I just follow orders except when I'm cornering you.  I have no suggestions."
     "Very well, then.  Let us review.  Following my astute identification of the source materials of those gliders, and my extensive knowledge of the scientific history of Azaria, we traced the gliders used in the getaway to Professor Aloysius's laboratory.  I would like to add, by way of insert, that I regret the fate which has crossed our interests, because I would relish the chance for a lengthy talk with him, not as an official of the law.  Alas," he said, waving it away with the journal, which he still held closed on his claw, "that will have to wait.  You gave me your opinion shortly after we left his presence.  Give it to me again.  Was he lying to us?"
     "Absolutely, sir.  There's no question.  I'm even more certain than before."
     "As am I."  Percy nodded.  "But where does it leave us?  If we brought him in for questioning, what would we confront him with?  He is manifestly too old and frail to survive our more brutal interrogation techniques, and anyway you know I detest violence as a means of gathering information.  Not only does it offend the reason and the senses, but anything so gained is immediately suspect.  Further, its effects are unpredictable at best.  No," he said, sighing, "unless and until we have some wedge to use on him, something to confront him with, his refusal to cooperate blocks us completely along that line."
     "I agree, sir.  He's not a spy or a traitor, as far as we know.  Without orders from higher up, we can't go further with him.  Of course, Miss Asten told me our reports are going straight to Secretary Harris himself, so there's no telling what discretion we may be given if we don't produce results soon."
     Percy crinkled his nose.  "Or what consequences we may face.  But we'll deal with that only when we must.  To continue, our inquiry at Marley and Westone's construction firm was wholly unhelpful.  They were happy to cooperate, or so I judge.  Do you agree?"
     "I think so, sir."
     "But what good did they do us?  They provided us with a complete list of names and descriptions of all their temporary help, but how likely do you deem it that our burglars were so incompetent as to use their real names in applying for the work?"
     "I don't suppose they were total idiots, sir."
     "Indeed not, to judge from the rest of their work."  Percy reflected for a moment, then continued.  "So the best we can hope for from that, and only then after exhaustive routine labor, is to determine their race and general description, after we have eliminated all the workers who can be traced.  Such methods are beneath an artist such as myself."
     Jenkins hedged.  "No comment, sir."
     "Hmph."  Percy paused again, not inviting Jenkins to speak.  "As for my other deduction," he continued, "that the thieves boarded the hay cart while the driver was refreshing himself at a tavern on the way, what can I do with it for now?  It serves admirably for creating a picture of the operation as a whole, but the map shows four different establishments directly on the way from the Drexler Agricultural Supply Warehouse to Chairman Buford's estate, as well as several more which would require only minor detours.  I have thought of three methods by which the thieves might have manipulated the driver into stopping, but all of them require direct interaction with him, and anyway he claims it was his own habit to do so on late night deliveries.  I suspect now that the thieves had observed him over time and therefore knew what he would choose, which of course leaves us with no point of entry at that front.  We know from Mr. Reinholt's testimony that the delivery was not expected, but the owner of the warehouse claims he received a letter from Mr. Buford's ostler, no doubt forged.  There is little hope from that."
     Jenkins considered a moment.  "Well, sir, I think that covers it.  Suppose you're right, and we've been stopped on all fronts.  What are you going to do about it?"
     Percy snapped.  "Exactly what I was doing when you came in here and started bothering me!" he cried, waving the journal at Jenkins.  "I am going to sit here at my desk and read this magazine!  What use is there in contemplating my frustration!?"
     Jenkins frowned.  "That's wonderful, sir," he said cuttingly.  "It's no wonder your record is nearly untarnished.  I suppose when the thieves manage to smuggle the Calmayan Sun out of town you'll deduce their destination from that magazine?"
     To the big dog's surprise, the Inspector did not reply in kind.  An angry outburst, a sullen grunt, or a supercilious remark, any of those might have been in order, but Percy offered none of them.  Instead, his ears folded around backward, until they were facing the floor, and he stared off into space, somewhere past Jenkins, and the wall behind him, off into the aether, saying nothing.  A little thrill ran down Jenkins' spine.  The Inspector only did that when something occurred to him that wholly captured his mind.  After a moment he returned to normal.
     "You may have a point, Jenkins," he said, in an offhand voice, when he had recovered himself.  "Perhaps I have been approaching this from the wrong end.  Their considerable preliminary work left such tantalizing opportunities that when they all proved cheats-"
     "Assuming they have, sir," Jenkins pointed out.
     Percy ignored him.  "-when they all proved cheats, I grew despondent, perhaps prematurely.  They still have considerable work to do disposing of their prize.  Not the jewelry, of course; that would be easy.  But the Calmayan Sun must be a serious burden on them, and not only because of the weight.  Either some beast, probably one of Buford's own wealthy friends, commissioned the theft out of jealousy and cupidity, which must have left traces, or else the thieves do plan to smuggle it out of Azaria, as you assume, I admit with some plausibility.  I doubt such highly accomplished burglars would be capable of such a feat without assistance.  It falls outside their specialty."
     Jenkins pondered the idea.  "Are you suggesting we try and catch their accomplice?  That seems outside our specialty.  It sounds like a job for the Border Watch, and they don't need our prompting to do it.  There's no glory in it for us, you know?"
     Percy smiled.  "You may be right, Jenkins.  But I am going to try something now.  Be glad.  You came in here to spur me on to some action, and you have succeeded."  He settled back into his chair.  "Now leave me alone," he said, back to his normal grumpy tone.
     Jenkins knew when to quit.  Percy wouldn't have put on a performance like that just to get him off his back; it wasn't his style.  He did ask one more question.  "What are my orders, then, sir?"
     Percy exploded.  "I just gave them to you, Lieutenant!  Didn't you hear!?  Leave me alone!"  Jenkins turned and left, not fully satisfied, but comforted at least that he had done his part.

     President Malcolm Barran had purchased the old Royal Palace, once the home of Fox King Luciano Volpe the Third, and the seat of the Trysaran Empire in the greater Azarian region.  Though it was rightfully his in the first place, by right of conquest, he had made the purchase, paid to the treasury of his own government, as an egalitarian gesture – since he had won the city for all of its citizens, it was only right he should pay for his house as much as any of them.  Of course, since he was the true director of all government policy, the payment had been a sham; the money was no less under his control in the public treasury than it had been in his own accounts.  Nevertheless, the populace had loved it; for years it had been simplicity itself to portray himself as The People's Servant, only too happy to work and pay his way the same as the lowest employee of his own company, the Red Star Manufactory.  By the time the fools began to doubt, it was far too late, and he had cemented his power.
     The President was a bulldog of Herculean proportions.  His head was very large, though it did not seem so placed in the center of massive shoulders ending in thick, strong arms.  His middle was wide and round, but gave no impression of softness under his expertly tailored outfit, modeled after the uniform he had worn as General of the Fox King's army.  Seated at his wide desk in his tall armchair, he was as imposing as he had ever been standing on the battlefield – perhaps more so, since he now answered to none but his own judgment, which had so far won success in all his endeavors.
     He was seated there when Secretary of Security James Harris knocked on the large double-doors that evening.  "Come in," he said.  The room was not small, but it was no strain on his voice to fill it with deep-toned resonance.  The door opened and Secretary Harris entered, a small Aberdeen dog with a nervous expression and shuffling step.  His uniform emphasized his diminutive frame in an unsuccessful attempt to supplement it, making him appear almost puppish as he crossed the thick rug to stand in front of the desk.  About ten feet from it he stood at attention and snapped a salute.
     "President, I am here with the reports from the City Watch headquarters concerning the incident at Council."  His voice was a tenor, not shrill, but reedy.  "I'm afraid there have been no significant developments as yet, but progress is expected any hour."
     Malcolm sat impassively for a moment, regarding his long-time subordinate.  Secretary Harris had served under him in the Fox King's army, and later in the Revolutionary Corps.  Once once government had assumed its present configuration he had served in his present role continuously.  There were few beasts the President knew better, and few who knew him better; it would have been stretching a point to call them friends, but the settled trust and understanding of superior and subordinate had, he judged, reached its bloom in their association.  No doubt there was some reason he thought this important enough to bring to Malcolm's attention.
     "Am I to presume word of Councilman Buford's intrusion upon me has reached your ears, Secretary?" he asked, frowning but not hostile.  "I can think of no other explanation for your encore of it."
     Secretary Harris swallowed before responding.  "Yes, President Barran.  I assumed you had taken a personal interest in the matter, the Councilman being one of your oldest and most influential supporters.  If I was mistaken, I apologize for my impertinence."
     Malcolm sighed.  "No apology is necessary, Secretary.  I can see I ought to have made the issue clear with a general dispatch.  Suffice it to say now that the Councilman presumed to call me to account for his misfortune, and I reminded him of his place in this City, and mine.  I know I need not do the same for you.  I have no interest in the matter except as it relates to the general welfare of the State, and to my knowledge it does not.  If the Councilman cannot protect his own house, that is his failing, not mine.  Though I question Harconi's judgment in ordering such an operation.  I thought I had made the boundaries of his liberty clear, yet he seems to have misunderstood.  The next time we communicate, I will invite him to discuss the matter with me."
     "Absolutely, sir."  Secretary Harris nodded.  "Will I arrange for a correspondence immediately?  I believe he is available.  The market is in off-season, and his business is slow."
     "Yes.  Do so."  The President reached out a massive paw to a stack of papers on his desk.  "Trysar is redoubling his pressure, and I must word my replies carefully.  It is a delicate situation.  So long as he understands that I will lend my company's support to both him and Makav in exchange for non-agression, with reservations, I can play their fears against each other, but I must somehow give each the impression that I am willing to ally myself with the other without making them fear I have already done so.  How is the Ferrum project proceeding?"
     "I have not seen the latest report, President," said Harris.  "Your information is as recent as mine.  To the best of my knowledge, they are having the same problems with weight and propulsion, and the mounted weapon is naught but a draft so far."
     "Mmm."  The President made a rumbling noise deep in his throat.  "One cannot rush innovation.  I know that, of course, and I know our master engineers are neither lazy nor incompetent.  There is no room for either in my State or my Company.  But I need that project completed successfully.  I need it desperately, Secretary.  Without it, only the strength of my diplomacy stands between us and the annihilation of everything I have accomplished."
     "Of course, President."  Secretary Harris was grave.  Malcolm had no medium between perfect calm and explosive anger, a carryover from his military days, but he knew that every word was true, and almost every waking moment of the President's life for the past ten years had been dedicated to that exact task.  Azaria under the Fox King had been an outlying province of the Trysaran Empire, and it had not taken kindly to Malcolm's usurpation.  Any day might bring disaster, and if it were not for the long-standing conflict between the two great Empires of Makav and Trysar, the latter would have marched on Azaria in irresistible numbers to retake the province.  The innovations developed by the Red Star Manufactory, made possible by the rich resources of the mountain quarries and mines north of the City and the closely guarded secrets of steam power were immensely valuable to both sides, and neither wanted to risk offending Malcolm enough to offer his company's greatest developments to the other side.  At least, not yet.
     So the dangerous game continued, and only a weapon of overwhelming power could provide Azaria with a permanent defense against the two giants on each side.  That weapon was the aim of the Ferrus project, which had been in development for the better part of four years, in extreme secrecy.  Only a few high-ranking government officials and company executives had any knowledge of it, aside from the team of elite scientists and engineers working on it.
     "And, Secretary."  Malcolm's voice drew Secretary Harris from his reflections.  "What measures have been taken to resolve the situation in Sector B of the coal mines?"
     "Our paid informants have identified the effective leaders of the unrest.  We have them in custody now.  The situation seems to have been resolved, but we await your orders concerning the disposal of the undesirables."
     "Extract public confessions and apologies from them, then have them executed.  I cannot afford any domestic troubles now.  Also, grant the workers in all other sectors a five percent raise in scrip, but penalize the workers of Sector B with a week's docked pay.  We must prevent further discontent at as low a cost as possible while avoiding the misunderstanding that we reward troublemakers.  Remember, whatever the goals of our state, the first priority of Red Star is to maintain profitability.  The strength of Azaria depends upon it."
     "Of course, President.  I will attend to all of this at the earliest available opportunity."
     "I trust your competence, Secretary.  Do not let me down."  Malcolm picked up the stack of Trysaran correspondence and began reading it for the third time.  "You are dismissed."
     Secretary Harris saluted again, then shuffled out of the room.  Malcolm read in silence for a time, then began to growl, deep down in his chest.  It gradually grew louder, until with a sudden snarl he flung the whole ream aside, scattering papers all over the floor of the room.  He rose from his chair, pushing it back with the force of his motion, and stomped around his desk toward the doors.  He felt the need for a physical release, and why let his subordinates have all the fun with those rabble-rousers from Sector B?  A real leader of beasts handled such matters with a more personal touch.

Description
Book 1 – Law

Chapter 3

     Lieutenant Jenkins glared.  Two days had passed since Inspector Percy had begun his investigation of the Buford case, with no breakthroughs after Percy's initial deductions.  Clerical tasks, including a carefully worded report of their lack of progress, had kept Jenkins busy for much of the morning, and he had not seen the Inspector yet.  After he had handed the reports to Miss Asten, Captain Strong's secretary, he walked briskly down the hall three doors to Percy's office, which, though not large, had a window facing Palace Square.  He had expected to find his superior looking over reports from the legbeasts combing the city for the stolen jewels, or perhaps leaning back in his chair staring at the ceiling, which was his favorite pose for thinking.  Instead, Percy had his legs up on his desk and was reading through an issue of Thompson's Travels, a magazine that published the journals of explorers from exotic locales.
     So he glared.  He should have seen it coming.  The only reason the Inspector had stayed interested in the assignment in the first place was the prospect of an easy conclusion by following one of the leads he had discovered.  Now that those had led to dead-ends, it was a matter of routine investigation, and nothing bored the irritable cat so much as anything routine.
     "Inspector, I'm reporting for duty.  What are my orders?"  It would be no use taking a direct approach.  He had called the challenge.  It was up to Percy to either meet it head on, dodge it, or feint.
     "Listen to this, Jenkins."  Percy addressed him without looking up from the book.  So it was going to be a dodge.  There in the City Watch headquarters it wouldn't do to cut him off, and he certainly couldn't say what was on the tip of his tongue without insubordination.
     "Yes, sir," he said.
     "This is an account by Gustave Lyons of a village he encountered in the far East, on the other side of Trysar in the vast, uncharted plains of Irycia.  There are cats there, you know."  Percy paused.  Evidently it was Jenkins' turn.
     He decided there was no good opening, and a feint was in order.  "So I've heard, Inspector.  Big ones, if the rumors are to be believed."
     "Indeed.  Messr, Lyons gives this testimony:  I found myself in an unusual position.  In the better part of my myriad journeys, the reactions I had met from the natives had been, various indeed, but also clear and useful.  I was a dangerous outsider to be watched, or an unholy invader to be resisted, or a wondrous stranger to be admired and celebrated.  Here, however, among the big cat tribes of Irycia, for the first time I found myself to be irrelevant.  The hunters of those vast plains, eking out their spare lives on the wild and dangerous game, saw me as an irrelevancy.  I could not chase down a speeding gazelle with the Cheetahs, nor overpower a charging boar, which reach tremendous size in those places, with the Lions, nor stalk unseen an unwitting meal with the Leopards.  I was neither feared nor admired; simply ignored, tolerated as a mere curiosity so long as I stayed out of the way."
     Percy glanced up from the journal at Jenkins, indicating the field was now his.  Jenkins decided to egg him on.  "That's interesting, sir.  What's your point?"
     "Well you should ask, Lieutenant.  I believe I have asserted before, in private discussion with you, my conviction that these popular accounts, however widely accepted they may be, are at most perhaps one-third reliable fact, with the rest being a mixture of self-aggrandizement and sensational fabrication.  Of course, the temptation must be extreme.  What beast, presented with the opportunity of inflating his reputation, already enlarged by the considerable feat of returning from such a long journey and free from any reasonable chance of disproof, would be capable of resisting the temptation to embellish?  Certainly not myself.  I am restrained only by the assurance that any prevarication on my part would be quickly found out and punished, possibly by legal action.  I am a governmental official, of course."
     "Yes, sir," said Jenkins, patiently awaiting an opening.
     "Well, Jenkins," the Inspector continued, "I suspect this to be a rare moment of candor on the part of Messr. Lyons.  But mark!  Even so, he is merely assuming a narrative position from which he quickly recovers to what I strongly suspect is merely a heroic exaggeration of the exploits by which he wins the respect of the natives who so slighted him."  Percy nodded at Jenkins to speak.
     Was it an opening?  Jenkins decided to explore it.  "What does he claim to accomplish, sir?"
     "Oh, the usual fantastic rot.  Like here, where he transfixes a wild boar twice his size."  Percy flipped a page and read aloud again.  "The great beast struggled against my spear for the better part of half an hour, and I am sure only the strength of the cross-piece of my pike prevented him running himself clear through and goring me with his tusks in a bloody retort."  Percy closed the journal on his claw and glanced at Jenkins.  "I have met Messr. Lyons in person myself, once, Lieutenant.  Briefly, at a social function.  You were not present."
     "Naturally, sir.  A lowly functionary such as myself."
     "Quite."  Percy nodded approvingly, ignoring Jenkins' scowl.  "He is a cat, of course, like myself, scarcely larger in frame, and I noticed that he favors his right arm.  It is patently impossible that he could have achieved such a feat."
     Jenkins saw his chance, and seized it by the tail.  "You're absolutely right, sir," he said, forcefully enough to forestall a quick interruption on the Inspector's part.  "That would be as absurd as, to take a random example, a City Watchbeast expecting to catch an elusive criminal just by sitting in his office and using his brain – or even worse, refusing to use it merely because his first effort hit a snag.  It's much more likely that Mr. Lyons won the regard of the big cats through a long and fairly dull process of negotiation and diplomacy, but of course that wouldn't make as good a story.  He was right to insist on improving reality.  Reality is too harsh sometimes."
     Percy scowled fiercely at the big golden dog smirking at him.  Game, set and match.  "Very well, Lieutenant," he grumbled, "I concede the point.  I welcome your suggestions.  How shall I proceed?  What might I be doing that is not already in progress, as yet without visible effect?"
     Jenkins shook his head.  "No, sir.  I just follow orders except when I'm cornering you.  I have no suggestions."
     "Very well, then.  Let us review.  Following my astute identification of the source materials of those gliders, and my extensive knowledge of the scientific history of Azaria, we traced the gliders used in the getaway to Professor Aloysius's laboratory.  I would like to add, by way of insert, that I regret the fate which has crossed our interests, because I would relish the chance for a lengthy talk with him, not as an official of the law.  Alas," he said, waving it away with the journal, which he still held closed on his claw, "that will have to wait.  You gave me your opinion shortly after we left his presence.  Give it to me again.  Was he lying to us?"
     "Absolutely, sir.  There's no question.  I'm even more certain than before."
     "As am I."  Percy nodded.  "But where does it leave us?  If we brought him in for questioning, what would we confront him with?  He is manifestly too old and frail to survive our more brutal interrogation techniques, and anyway you know I detest violence as a means of gathering information.  Not only does it offend the reason and the senses, but anything so gained is immediately suspect.  Further, its effects are unpredictable at best.  No," he said, sighing, "unless and until we have some wedge to use on him, something to confront him with, his refusal to cooperate blocks us completely along that line."
     "I agree, sir.  He's not a spy or a traitor, as far as we know.  Without orders from higher up, we can't go further with him.  Of course, Miss Asten told me our reports are going straight to Secretary Harris himself, so there's no telling what discretion we may be given if we don't produce results soon."
     Percy crinkled his nose.  "Or what consequences we may face.  But we'll deal with that only when we must.  To continue, our inquiry at Marley and Westone's construction firm was wholly unhelpful.  They were happy to cooperate, or so I judge.  Do you agree?"
     "I think so, sir."
     "But what good did they do us?  They provided us with a complete list of names and descriptions of all their temporary help, but how likely do you deem it that our burglars were so incompetent as to use their real names in applying for the work?"
     "I don't suppose they were total idiots, sir."
     "Indeed not, to judge from the rest of their work."  Percy reflected for a moment, then continued.  "So the best we can hope for from that, and only then after exhaustive routine labor, is to determine their race and general description, after we have eliminated all the workers who can be traced.  Such methods are beneath an artist such as myself."
     Jenkins hedged.  "No comment, sir."
     "Hmph."  Percy paused again, not inviting Jenkins to speak.  "As for my other deduction," he continued, "that the thieves boarded the hay cart while the driver was refreshing himself at a tavern on the way, what can I do with it for now?  It serves admirably for creating a picture of the operation as a whole, but the map shows four different establishments directly on the way from the Drexler Agricultural Supply Warehouse to Chairman Buford's estate, as well as several more which would require only minor detours.  I have thought of three methods by which the thieves might have manipulated the driver into stopping, but all of them require direct interaction with him, and anyway he claims it was his own habit to do so on late night deliveries.  I suspect now that the thieves had observed him over time and therefore knew what he would choose, which of course leaves us with no point of entry at that front.  We know from Mr. Reinholt's testimony that the delivery was not expected, but the owner of the warehouse claims he received a letter from Mr. Buford's ostler, no doubt forged.  There is little hope from that."
     Jenkins considered a moment.  "Well, sir, I think that covers it.  Suppose you're right, and we've been stopped on all fronts.  What are you going to do about it?"
     Percy snapped.  "Exactly what I was doing when you came in here and started bothering me!" he cried, waving the journal at Jenkins.  "I am going to sit here at my desk and read this magazine!  What use is there in contemplating my frustration!?"
     Jenkins frowned.  "That's wonderful, sir," he said cuttingly.  "It's no wonder your record is nearly untarnished.  I suppose when the thieves manage to smuggle the Calmayan Sun out of town you'll deduce their destination from that magazine?"
     To the big dog's surprise, the Inspector did not reply in kind.  An angry outburst, a sullen grunt, or a supercilious remark, any of those might have been in order, but Percy offered none of them.  Instead, his ears folded around backward, until they were facing the floor, and he stared off into space, somewhere past Jenkins, and the wall behind him, off into the aether, saying nothing.  A little thrill ran down Jenkins' spine.  The Inspector only did that when something occurred to him that wholly captured his mind.  After a moment he returned to normal.
     "You may have a point, Jenkins," he said, in an offhand voice, when he had recovered himself.  "Perhaps I have been approaching this from the wrong end.  Their considerable preliminary work left such tantalizing opportunities that when they all proved cheats-"
     "Assuming they have, sir," Jenkins pointed out.
     Percy ignored him.  "-when they all proved cheats, I grew despondent, perhaps prematurely.  They still have considerable work to do disposing of their prize.  Not the jewelry, of course; that would be easy.  But the Calmayan Sun must be a serious burden on them, and not only because of the weight.  Either some beast, probably one of Buford's own wealthy friends, commissioned the theft out of jealousy and cupidity, which must have left traces, or else the thieves do plan to smuggle it out of Azaria, as you assume, I admit with some plausibility.  I doubt such highly accomplished burglars would be capable of such a feat without assistance.  It falls outside their specialty."
     Jenkins pondered the idea.  "Are you suggesting we try and catch their accomplice?  That seems outside our specialty.  It sounds like a job for the Border Watch, and they don't need our prompting to do it.  There's no glory in it for us, you know?"
     Percy smiled.  "You may be right, Jenkins.  But I am going to try something now.  Be glad.  You came in here to spur me on to some action, and you have succeeded."  He settled back into his chair.  "Now leave me alone," he said, back to his normal grumpy tone.
     Jenkins knew when to quit.  Percy wouldn't have put on a performance like that just to get him off his back; it wasn't his style.  He did ask one more question.  "What are my orders, then, sir?"
     Percy exploded.  "I just gave them to you, Lieutenant!  Didn't you hear!?  Leave me alone!"  Jenkins turned and left, not fully satisfied, but comforted at least that he had done his part.

     President Malcolm Barran had purchased the old Royal Palace, once the home of Fox King Luciano Volpe the Third, and the seat of the Trysaran Empire in the greater Azarian region.  Though it was rightfully his in the first place, by right of conquest, he had made the purchase, paid to the treasury of his own government, as an egalitarian gesture – since he had won the city for all of its citizens, it was only right he should pay for his house as much as any of them.  Of course, since he was the true director of all government policy, the payment had been a sham; the money was no less under his control in the public treasury than it had been in his own accounts.  Nevertheless, the populace had loved it; for years it had been simplicity itself to portray himself as The People's Servant, only too happy to work and pay his way the same as the lowest employee of his own company, the Red Star Manufactory.  By the time the fools began to doubt, it was far too late, and he had cemented his power.
     The President was a bulldog of Herculean proportions.  His head was very large, though it did not seem so placed in the center of massive shoulders ending in thick, strong arms.  His middle was wide and round, but gave no impression of softness under his expertly tailored outfit, modeled after the uniform he had worn as General of the Fox King's army.  Seated at his wide desk in his tall armchair, he was as imposing as he had ever been standing on the battlefield – perhaps more so, since he now answered to none but his own judgment, which had so far won success in all his endeavors.
     He was seated there when Secretary of Security James Harris knocked on the large double-doors that evening.  "Come in," he said.  The room was not small, but it was no strain on his voice to fill it with deep-toned resonance.  The door opened and Secretary Harris entered, a small Aberdeen dog with a nervous expression and shuffling step.  His uniform emphasized his diminutive frame in an unsuccessful attempt to supplement it, making him appear almost puppish as he crossed the thick rug to stand in front of the desk.  About ten feet from it he stood at attention and snapped a salute.
     "President, I am here with the reports from the City Watch headquarters concerning the incident at Council."  His voice was a tenor, not shrill, but reedy.  "I'm afraid there have been no significant developments as yet, but progress is expected any hour."
     Malcolm sat impassively for a moment, regarding his long-time subordinate.  Secretary Harris had served under him in the Fox King's army, and later in the Revolutionary Corps.  Once once government had assumed its present configuration he had served in his present role continuously.  There were few beasts the President knew better, and few who knew him better; it would have been stretching a point to call them friends, but the settled trust and understanding of superior and subordinate had, he judged, reached its bloom in their association.  No doubt there was some reason he thought this important enough to bring to Malcolm's attention.
     "Am I to presume word of Councilman Buford's intrusion upon me has reached your ears, Secretary?" he asked, frowning but not hostile.  "I can think of no other explanation for your encore of it."
     Secretary Harris swallowed before responding.  "Yes, President Barran.  I assumed you had taken a personal interest in the matter, the Councilman being one of your oldest and most influential supporters.  If I was mistaken, I apologize for my impertinence."
     Malcolm sighed.  "No apology is necessary, Secretary.  I can see I ought to have made the issue clear with a general dispatch.  Suffice it to say now that the Councilman presumed to call me to account for his misfortune, and I reminded him of his place in this City, and mine.  I know I need not do the same for you.  I have no interest in the matter except as it relates to the general welfare of the State, and to my knowledge it does not.  If the Councilman cannot protect his own house, that is his failing, not mine.  Though I question Harconi's judgment in ordering such an operation.  I thought I had made the boundaries of his liberty clear, yet he seems to have misunderstood.  The next time we communicate, I will invite him to discuss the matter with me."
     "Absolutely, sir."  Secretary Harris nodded.  "Will I arrange for a correspondence immediately?  I believe he is available.  The market is in off-season, and his business is slow."
     "Yes.  Do so."  The President reached out a massive paw to a stack of papers on his desk.  "Trysar is redoubling his pressure, and I must word my replies carefully.  It is a delicate situation.  So long as he understands that I will lend my company's support to both him and Makav in exchange for non-agression, with reservations, I can play their fears against each other, but I must somehow give each the impression that I am willing to ally myself with the other without making them fear I have already done so.  How is the Ferrum project proceeding?"
     "I have not seen the latest report, President," said Harris.  "Your information is as recent as mine.  To the best of my knowledge, they are having the same problems with weight and propulsion, and the mounted weapon is naught but a draft so far."
     "Mmm."  The President made a rumbling noise deep in his throat.  "One cannot rush innovation.  I know that, of course, and I know our master engineers are neither lazy nor incompetent.  There is no room for either in my State or my Company.  But I need that project completed successfully.  I need it desperately, Secretary.  Without it, only the strength of my diplomacy stands between us and the annihilation of everything I have accomplished."
     "Of course, President."  Secretary Harris was grave.  Malcolm had no medium between perfect calm and explosive anger, a carryover from his military days, but he knew that every word was true, and almost every waking moment of the President's life for the past ten years had been dedicated to that exact task.  Azaria under the Fox King had been an outlying province of the Trysaran Empire, and it had not taken kindly to Malcolm's usurpation.  Any day might bring disaster, and if it were not for the long-standing conflict between the two great Empires of Makav and Trysar, the latter would have marched on Azaria in irresistible numbers to retake the province.  The innovations developed by the Red Star Manufactory, made possible by the rich resources of the mountain quarries and mines north of the City and the closely guarded secrets of steam power were immensely valuable to both sides, and neither wanted to risk offending Malcolm enough to offer his company's greatest developments to the other side.  At least, not yet.
     So the dangerous game continued, and only a weapon of overwhelming power could provide Azaria with a permanent defense against the two giants on each side.  That weapon was the aim of the Ferrus project, which had been in development for the better part of four years, in extreme secrecy.  Only a few high-ranking government officials and company executives had any knowledge of it, aside from the team of elite scientists and engineers working on it.
     "And, Secretary."  Malcolm's voice drew Secretary Harris from his reflections.  "What measures have been taken to resolve the situation in Sector B of the coal mines?"
     "Our paid informants have identified the effective leaders of the unrest.  We have them in custody now.  The situation seems to have been resolved, but we await your orders concerning the disposal of the undesirables."
     "Extract public confessions and apologies from them, then have them executed.  I cannot afford any domestic troubles now.  Also, grant the workers in all other sectors a five percent raise in scrip, but penalize the workers of Sector B with a week's docked pay.  We must prevent further discontent at as low a cost as possible while avoiding the misunderstanding that we reward troublemakers.  Remember, whatever the goals of our state, the first priority of Red Star is to maintain profitability.  The strength of Azaria depends upon it."
     "Of course, President.  I will attend to all of this at the earliest available opportunity."
     "I trust your competence, Secretary.  Do not let me down."  Malcolm picked up the stack of Trysaran correspondence and began reading it for the third time.  "You are dismissed."
     Secretary Harris saluted again, then shuffled out of the room.  Malcolm read in silence for a time, then began to growl, deep down in his chest.  It gradually grew louder, until with a sudden snarl he flung the whole ream aside, scattering papers all over the floor of the room.  He rose from his chair, pushing it back with the force of his motion, and stomped around his desk toward the doors.  He felt the need for a physical release, and why let his subordinates have all the fun with those rabble-rousers from Sector B?  A real leader of beasts handled such matters with a more personal touch.