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eBook Category: Science Fiction
eBook Description: Dag Fletcher, seconded from European Space Corporation to do his regulation six year military stint for the Inter Galactic Organization, was regarded as one of the best corvette commanders around. First choice for the difficult and bizarre missions, he had all the skills to get the job done. It was fortunate that very few on Garamas would know that Terrapin was a burned-out wreck on a cinder heap and that just now, waiting for a new posting, her one-time commander was in a limbo with no official status, until the enquiry court made the formal announcement that his conduct of the engagement had been free from negligence. So, the last thing Dag Fletcher wanted was to draw attention to himself and get involved in a local dispute between the secret police and a student. But when Yola began to slice through her wrist with a steak knife to avoid being captured alive, he could not stand by. Besides, waiting around was not something the I.G.O commander did well.

eBook Publisher: Golden Apple, Wallasey, Published: UK, 1971
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2004

This eBook is part of the following series:

• John Rankine's Dag Fletcher Galactic Series

212 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [189 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [197 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [160 KB] , Portable Document Format (PDF) [570 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [182 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [279 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [213 KB] , hiebook (KML) [433 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [243 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [149 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [185 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [231 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [243 KB]
Words: 53447
Reading time: 152-213 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Fletcher reckoned it was none of his business. Sitting with his back to a plushy red reredos, he watched the developing scene through a long gilt mirror at the closed end of his alcove.

Dog eating dog. Let them get on with it.

He had never liked the Garamasians. Maybe only men like himself, who were actively engaged on a stint with the Galaxy's peacekeeping force, could see the folly of playing both ends against the middle. For the rest, Garamas was working a very smart operation; keeping out of commitment and running a high level economy at the expense of both sides.

Plumb on the frontiers of I.G.O. space, Garamas was courted by both the Inter Galactic Organization and the Outer Galactic Alliance. So far, its government had refused to come off the fence. I.G.O., respecting the processes of law, used diplomacy and trade as levers to keep her in their sphere of influence. O.G.A. suited the Garamasian national character which leaned to the military-style junta governments of that group. Historically, Garamas belonged with Lados, which although not one of the hard-core O.G.A. planets, had satellite status and binding treaty obligations.

Something was definitely in the wind. O.G.A. could be moving to a definitive trial of strength and Garamas was a natural spring board into I.G.O. space.

Secret police in any culture had a family look; but Fletcher saw the four who had moved quickly into the bistro as prototypes of the genre. Garamasian physical architecture was right for the illusion. They were tall, hitting the two-metre mark, narrow and high shouldered with long arms and legs. Heads balanced symmetrically on short necks, were almost perfect spheres. Eyes, which were lidless, seemed flat set, as though pasted on; black disks of polished obsidian. Head to foot in black, with calf-high, laced boots and yellow arm bands carrying the three intertwined rings of Garamas, they looked like vultures.

Except for the piped music, which was currently set for a sentimental ballad, out of key with events, the whole place had gone quiet. Two policemen had stationed themselves expertly where no one could pass. The other two were taking it slowly, one on either side of the aisle checking out the clientele.

Fletcher's own face was set bottom right of the composition like an inset on a scanner. It was a long, Indo-European job, heavily tanned from the last mission, left eyebrow given a quizzical twist by a thin, radiation burn. A hard face, with grey eyes that gave nothing away. His expression did not change, when pneumatic pressure built up against the back of his legs and a long slim hand appeared on the table top beside his own.