by Roger Elwood
§
No success. No ghost of a clue. She was gone into an emptiness less fathomable than the spaces which gaped around their ship.
They had striven, Falkayn and Adzel. They had walked into Luridor itself, the sin-bright city on Ronruad, while the ship hovered overhead and showed with a single, rock-fusing flash of energy guns what power menaced the world. They had ransacked, threatened, bribed, beseeched. Sometimes terror met them, sometimes the inborn arrogance of Merseia’s lords. But nowhere and never had anyone so much as hinted he knew who held Chee Lan or where.
Falkayn ran a hand through uncombed yellow locks. His eyes stood bloodshot in a sunken countenance. “I still think we should’ve taken that casino boss aboard and worked him over.”
“No,” said Adzel. “Apart from the morality of the matter, I feel sure that everyone who has any information is hidden away. That precaution is elementary. We’re not even certain the outlaw regime is responsible.”
“Yeah. Could be Morruchan, Dagla, Olgor, or colleagues of theirs acting unbeknownst to them, or any of a hundred other governments, or some gang of fanatics, or— Oh, Judas!” Falkayn looked at the after viewscreen. Ronruad’s tawny-red
crescent was dwindling swiftly among the constellations as the ship drove at full acceleration back toward Merseia. It was a dwarf planet, an ocherous pebble that would not make a decent splash if it fell into one of the gas giants. But the least of planets is still a world: mountains, plains, valleys, arroyos, caves, waters, square kilometers by the millions, too vast and varied for any mind to grasp. And Merseia was bigger yet; and there were others, and moons, asteroids, space itself.
Chee’s captors need but move her around occasionally, and the odds against a fleetful of League detectives finding her would climb for infinity.
“The Merseians themselves are bound to have some notion where to look, what to do, who to put pressure on,” he mumbled for the hundredth time. “We don’t know the ins and outs. Nobody from our cultures ever will—five billion years of planetary existence to catch up with! We’ve got to get the Merseians busy. I mean really busy.”
“They have their own work to do,” Adzel said.
Falkayn expressed himself at pungent length on the value of their work. “How about those enthusiasts?” he wondered when he had calmed down a trifle. “The outfit you were talking to.” “Yes, the Star Believers should be loyal allies,” Adzel said. “But most of them are poor and, ah, unrealistic. I hardly expect them to be of help. Indeed, I fear they will complicate our problem by starting pitched battles with the Demonists.” “You mean the antigalactics?” Falkayn rubbed his chin. The bristles made a scratchy noise in the ceaseless gentle thrum that filled the cabin. He inhaled the sour smell of his own weariness. “Maybe they did this.”
“I doubt that. They must be investigated, naturally—a major undertaking in itself—but they do not appear sufficiently well organized.”
“Damnation, if we don’t get her back I’m going to push for letting this whole race stew!”
“You will not succeed. And, in any event, it would be unjust to let millions die for the crime of a few.”
“The millions jolly well ought to be tracking down the few.
It’s possible. There have to be some leads somewhere. If every single one is followed—”
The detector panel flickered. Muddlehead announced: “Ship observed. A chemical carrier, I believe, from the outer system. Range—”
“Oh, dry up,” Falkayn said, “and blow away.”
“I am not equipped to—”
Falkayn stabbed the voice cutoff button.
He sat for a while, then, staring into the stars. His pipe went out unnoticed between his fingers. Adzel sighed and laid his head down on the deck.
§
“Poor little Chee,” Falkayn whispered at last. “She came a long way to die.”
“Most likely she lives,” Adzel said.
“I hope so. But she used to go flying through trees in an endless forest. Being caged will kill her.”
“Or unbalance her mind. She is so easily infuriated. If anger can find no object, it turns to feed on itself.”
“Well … you were always squabbling with her.”
“It meant nothing. Afterward she would cook me a special dinner. Once I admired a painting of hers, and she thrust it into my hands and said, ‘Take the silly thing, then/ like a cub that is too shy to say it loves you.”
“Uh-huh.”
The cutoff button popped up. “Course adjustment required,” Muddlehead stated, “in order to avoid dangerously close passage by ore carrier.”
“Well, do it,” Falkayn rasped. “Destruction, but they’ve got a lot of space traffic!”
“Well, we are in the ecliptic plane, and as yet near Ronruad,” Adzel said. “The coincidence is not great.”
Falkayn clenched his hands. The pipestem snapped. “Suppose we strafe the ground,” he said in a cold strange voice. “Not kill anyone. Burn up a few expensive installations, though, and promise more of the same if they don’t get off their duffs and start a real search for her.”
“No. We have considerable discretion, but not that much.” “We could argue with the board of inquiry later.”
“Such a deed would produce confusion and antagonism and weaken the basis of the rescue effort. It might actually make rescue impossible. You have observed how basic pride is to the dominant Merseian cultures. An attempt to browbeat them, with no face-saving formula possible, might compel them to refuse galactic assistance. We would be personally, criminally responsible. I cannot permit it, David.”
“So we can’t do anything, not anything, to—”
Falkayn’s words chopped off. He smashed a fist down on the arm of his pilot chair and surged to his feet. Adzel rose also, sinews drawn taut. He knew his partner.
§
Merseia hung immense, shining with oceans, blazoned with clouds and continents, rimmed with dawn and sunset and the deep sapphire of her sky. Her four small moons made a diadem. Korych flamed in plumage of zodiacal light.
Space cruiser Yonuar, United Fleet of the Great Vachs, swung close in polar orbit. Officially she was on patrol to stand by for possible aid to distressed civilian vessels. In fact she was there to keep an eye on the warcraft of Lafdigu, Wolder, the Nersan Alliance—any her masters mistrusted. And, yes, on the newcome galactics, if they returned hither. The God alone knew what they intended. One must tread warily and keep weapons close to hand.
On his command bridge, Captain Tryntaf Fangryf-Tamer gazed into the simulacrum tank and tried to imagine what laired among those myriad suns. He had grown up knowing that others flitted freely between them while his people were bound to this one system, and hating that knowledge. Now they were here once again—why? Too many rumors flew about. But most of them centered on the ominous spark called Valenderay.
Help; collaboration—were the Vach Isthyr to become mere clients of some outworld grotesque?
A signal fluted. The intercom said: “Radar Central to captain. Object detected on an intercept path.” The figures which followed were unbelievable. No meteoroid, surely, despite an absence of jet radiation. Therefore, the galactics! His black uniform tunic grew taut around Tryntaf’s shoulders as he hunched forward and issued orders. Battle stations: not that he was looking for trouble, but he was prudent. And if trouble came, he’d much like to see how well the alien could withstand laser blasts and nuclear rockets.
She grew in his screens, a stubby truncated raindrop, ridiculously tiny against the sea-beast hulk of Yonuar. She matched orbit so fast that Tryntaf heard the air suck in through his lips. Doom and death, why wasn’t that hull broken apart and the crew smeared into a red layer? Some kind of counterfield … The vessel hung a few kilometers off, and Tryntaf sought to calm himself. They would no doubt call him, and he must remain steady of nerve, cold of brain.
For his sealed orders mentioned that the galactics had left Merseia in anger because the whole planet wo
uld not devote itself to a certain task. The Hands had striven for moderation; of course they would do what they reasonably could to oblige their guests from the stars, but they had other concerns, too. The galactics seemed unable to agree that the business of entire worlds was more important than their private wishes. Of necessity, such an attitude was met with haughtiness, lest the name of the Vachs, of all the nations, be lowered.
Thus, when his outercom screen gave him an image, Tryntaf kept one finger on the combat button. He had some difficulty hiding his revulsion. Those thin features, shock of hair, tailless body, fuzzed brown skin were like a dirty caricature of Merseiankind. He would rather have spoken to the companion, whom he could see in the background. That creature was honestly weird.
Nonetheless, Tryntaf got through the usual courtesies and asked the galactic’s business in a level tone.
Falkayn had pretty well mastered modern language by now. “Captain,” he said, “I regret this and apologize, but you’ll have to return to base.”
Tryntaf’s heart slammed. Only his harness prevented him from jerking backward, to drift across the bridge in the dreamlike flight of zero gravity. He swallowed and managed to keep his speech calm. “What is the reason?”
“We have communicated it to different leaders,” said Falkayn, “but since they don’t accept the idea, I’ll also explain to you personally.
“Someone, we don’t know who, has kidnapped a crew member of ours. I’m sure that you, Captain, will understand that honor requires we get her back.”
“I do,” Tryntaf said, “and honor demands that we assist you. But what has this to do with my ship?”
“Let me go on, please. I want to prove that no offense is intended. We have little time to make ready for the coming disaster and few personnel to employ. The contribution of each is vital. In particular, the specialized knowledge of our vanished teammate cannot be dispensed with. So her return is of the utmost importance to all Merseians.”
Tryntaf grunted. He knew the argument was specious, meant to provide nothing but an acceptable way for his people to capitulate to the strangers’ will.
“The search for her looks hopeless when she can be moved about in space,” Falkayn said. “Accordingly, while she is missing, interplanetary traffic must be halted.”
Tryntaf rapped an oath. “Impossible.”
“Contrariwise,” Falkayn said. “We hope for your cooperation, but if your duty forbids this, we two can enforce the decree.”
Tryntaf was astonished to hear himself, through a tide of fury, say just: “I have no such orders.”
“That is regrettable,” Falkayn said. “I know your superiors will issue them, but that takes time, and the emergency will not wait. Be so good as to return to base.”
Tryntaf’s finger poised over the button. “And if I don’t?”
“Captain, we shouldn’t risk damage to your fine ship—”
Tryntaf gave the signal.
His gunners had the range. Beams and rockets vomited forth.
Not one missile hit. The enemy flitted aside, letting them pass, as if they were thrown pebbles. A full-power ray struck, but not her hull. Energy sparked and showered blindingly off some invisible barrier.
The little vessel curved about like an aircraft. One beam licked briefly from her snout. Alarms resounded. Damage Control cried, near hysteria, that armorplate had been sliced off as a knife might cut soft wood. No great harm done; but if the shot had been directed at the reaction mass tanks—
“How very distressing, Captain,” Falkayn said. “But accidents will happen when weapons systems are overly automated, don’t you agree? For the sake of your crew, for the sake of your country whose ship is your responsibility, I do urge you to reconsider.”
“Hold fire,” Tryntaf gasped.
“You will return planetside, then?” Falkayn asked.
“I curse you, yes,” Tryntaf said with a parched mouth.
“Good. You are a wise male, Captain. I salute you. Ah … you may wish to notify your fellow commanders elsewhere, so they can take steps to assure there will be no further accidents. Meanwhile, though, please commence reentry.”
Jets stabbed into space. Yonuar, pride of the Vachs, began her inward spiral.
And aboard Muddlin’ Through, Falkayn wiped his brow and grinned shakily at Adzel. “For a minute,” he said, “I was afraid that moron was going to slug it out.”
“We could have disabled his command with no casualties,” Adzel said, “and I believe they have lifecraft.”
“Yes, but think of the waste; and the grudge.” Falkayn shook himself. “Come on, let’s get started. We’ve a lot of others to round up.”
“Can we—a lone civilian craft—blockade an entire globe?” Adzel wondered. “I do not recall that it has ever been done.”
“No, I don’t imagine it has. But that’s because the opposition has also had things like grav drive. These Merseian rowboats are something else again. And we need only watch this one planet. Everything funnels through it.” Falkayn stuffed tobacco into a pipe. “Uh, Adzel, suppose you compose our broadcast to the public. You’re more tactful than I am.”
“What shall I say?” the Wodenite asked.
“Oh, the same guff as I just forked out, but dressed up and tied with a pink ribbon.”
“Do you really expect this to work, David?”
“I’ve pretty high hopes. Look, all we’ll call for is that Chee be left some safe place and we be notified where. We’ll disavow every intention of punishing anybody, and we can make that plausible by pointing out that the galactics have to prove they’re as good as their word if their mission is to have any chance of succeeding. If the kidnappers don’t oblige— Well, first, they’ll have the entire population out on a full-time hunt after them. And second, they themselves will be suffering badly from the blockade meanwhile. Whoever they are. Because you wouldn’t have as much interplanetary shipping as you do, if it weren’t basic to the economy.”
Adzel shifted in unease. “We must not cause anyone to starve.”
“We won’t. Food isn’t sent across space, except gourmet items; too costly. How often do I have to explain to you, old thickhead? What we will cause is that everybody loses money. Megacredits per diem. And Very Important Merseians will be stranded in places like Luridor, and they’ll burn up the maser beams ordering their subordinates to remedy that state of affairs. And factories will shut down, spaceports lie idle, investments crumble, political and military balances get upset … You can fill in the details.”
Falkayn lit his pipe and puffed a blue cloud. “I don’t expect matters will go that far, actually,” he went on. “The Merseians are as able as us to foresee the consequences. Not a hypothetical disaster three years hence, but money and power eroding away right now. So they’ll put it first on their agenda to find those kidnappers and take out resentment on them. The kidnappers will know this and will also, I trust, be hit in their personal breadbasket. I bet in a few days they’ll offer to swap Chee for an amnesty.”
“Which I trust we will honor,” Adzel said.
“I told you we’ll have to. Wish we didn’t.”
“Please don’t be so cynical, David. I hate to see you lose merit.”
Falkayn chuckled. “But I make profits. Come on, Muddlehead, get busy and find us another ship.”
§
The teleconference room in Castle Afon could handle a sealed circuit that embraced the world. On this day it did.
Falkayn sat in a chair he had brought, looking across a table scarred by the daggers of ancestral warriors to the mosaic of screens which filled the opposite wall. A hundred or more Merseian visages lowered back at him. On that scale, they had no individuality. Save one: a black countenance ringed by empty frames. No lord would let his image stand next to that of Haguan Eluatz.
Beside the human, Morruchan, Hand of the Vach Dathyr, rose and said with frigid ceremoniousness: “In the name of the God and the blood, we are met. May we be well met. May wisd
om and honor stand shield to shield …” Falkayn listened with half an ear. He was busy rehearsing his speech. At best, he was in for a cobalt bomb s worth of trouble.
No danger, of course. Muddlin Through hung plain in sight above Ardaig. Television carried that picture around Merseia. And it linked him to Adzel and Chee Lan, who waited at the guns. He was protected.
But what he had to say could provoke a wrath so great that his mission was wrecked. He must say it with infinite care, and then he must hope.
“… Obligation to a guest demands we hear him out,” Morruchan finished brusquely.
Falkayn stood up. He knew that in those eyes he was a monster whose motivations were not understandable and who had proven himself dangerous. So he had dressed in his plainest gray zipsuit, and was unarmed, and spoke in soft words.
“Worthies,” he said, “forgive me that I do not use your titles, for you are of many ranks and nations. But you are those who decide for your whole race. I hope you will feel free to talk as frankly as I shall. This is a secret and informal conference, intended to explore what is best for Merseia.
“Let me first express my heartfelt gratitude for your selfless and successful labors to get my teammate returned unharmed. And let me also thank you for indulging my wish that the, uh, chieftain Haguan Eluatz participate in this honorable assembly, albeit he has no right under law to do so. The reason shall soon be explained. Let me, finally, once again express my regret at the necessity of stopping your space commerce, for however brief a period, and my thanks for your cooperation in this emergency measure. I hope that you will consider any losses made good when my people arrive to help you rescue your civilization.
“Now, then, it is time we put away whatever is past and look to the future. Our duty is to organize that great task. And the problem is, how shall it be organized:* The galactic technologists do not wish to usurp any Merseian authority. In fact, they could not. They will be too few, too foreign, and too busy. If they are to do their work in the short time available, they must accept the guidance of the powers that be. They must make heavy use of existing facilities. That, of course, must be authorized by those who control the facilities. I need not elaborate. Experienced leaders like yourselves, >