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“Then why were they trying to stop us from leaving? If they don’t want us here-“

“A number of factions on this planet may find advantage in preventing our leaving. I should warn you,” Spock added, and lowered his voice, “they never attacked the embassy itself because that would have been an act of war according to the Articles of Confederation. The embassy building is Federation soil. However, once we’re in the atmosphere, they can shoot us down and claim any number of scenarios. We must be on our guard and ready to fight.”

“We’re ready, sir! I’ve got five fully armed fighter escorts, and this coach has two defense guns and a detachable midwing utility jump-plane.”

Spock raised one eyebrow and drawled, “Yes… of course it does.”

Now what did that mean?

Stiles was about to ask, then realized that all these innocent civilians were looking at the two of them, hanging on every word. From the ambassador’s expression, Stiles got the idea he wouldn’t get any answers even if he did ask. He shouldn’t have asked anything. Gum stuck on your shoe doesn’t ask, “where are we going?”-it just sticks to the shoe.

Spock, having been around humans all his life, seemed to recognize the look. Stiles was instantly mortified that the ambassador had read the questions in his eyes. Why hadn’t he taken the time to study the political climate here? Wasn’t that his job as mission leader? Thirty-five diplomatic persons including the famous adventurer Ambassador Spock killing them would send vibrations across the quadrant. Kidnapping them would be an even bigger coup-for somebody. A shipload of diplomatic hostages, and Stiles had to make a fool of himself by needing the most elementary facts explained to him.

Shriveled like a prune, he glanced around at all the people watching him, judging him, and croaked, “Prepare for liftoff?’

“Very well.” Spock simply took a seat in the first row, next to Miss Theonella and Edwin.

Feeling completely shrunken, Stiles threw off his gauntlets and stepped through the hatch to the cockpit and into the pilot’s seat. Stinking of garbage, his jaw swelling up like a melon, he kicked the foot controls and threw the coach into antigrav so abruptly that the fighters were left below. Too bad. They’d catch up.

On his cockpit screens he noted all five Nuts coming up quickly on his flanks.

“Nuts, Oak One, I want some maneuvering room out of the city. Spread out. Attempt Emerald formation.”

They each acknowledged with a green light, and he knew he was free to maneuver the bulky craft out over the countryside and toward the mountains. It would take the coach about five miles to reach escape velocity and make it up to an altitude at which they could veer up and out of the atmosphere. Soon the city pulled away beneath them, and he steered around two water towers and a radio antenna and was clear. Now for the mountains.

Since the mountain range surrounded the city on all sides, there was no way to avoid them. Coming in for a landing was less of a problem than accelerating to escape velocity, especially since they had to get up to speed as quickly as possible. This planet had an air force. He knew that much.

“Several Pojjan fighter aircraft just scrambled on an intercept course, Eric,” Perraton reported. “Behind us?”

“Angle two-five zero, port side and closing. Spreading out across our aft flanks.”

“I’m increasing speed. As the atmosphere gets thinner, we’ll get fasten They’ll never catch us.” “Don’t you want some defense back there?”

“Yes-yes, I do. Nuts, Oak One. Take up Diamond formation. Guard our aft flanks. Fall back, repeat, fall back. Acknowledge as you take position.”

In his side ports he saw Pecan and Brazil fall away toward the aft, and soon all five green lights flashed in acknowledgement. “Nothing’ll get by our guys,” he muttered with satisfaction. ‘The Pojjan planes are trying to come around, Eric;’ Perraton warned. “All four of them coming around on the starboard side.”

“Moving to port,” Stiles accepted, and steered the coach