Derek Godwin stepped confidently into the empty quarters. His confidence first was due to the black glasses that enabled him to see in the dark. He was not likely to accidently bark his shins. His confidence was also due to his firm knowledge of his own abilities. He would be able to locate anything hidden, open anything closed, and replace anything taken without leaving a trace of himself. His confidence, finally, was due to the advance signals he would receive if Villiers were to approach. Another man would have been whistling, but this Godwin did not do since it did not fit the image he had of himself.
Neither his first name nor his last name were his own. Or, rather, they were his own, but by adoption.
Taken together, they epitomized to him all that he most wanted to be. There were times when he would go through a day bemused by the two words. Sounded in a multitude of accents, hummed in a myriad voices, they played merry maytag through the meadows of his mind. He was glad that he was Derek Godwin.
Oh, the ways we pick to misguide ourselves! Instead of knowing the gentry for the implacable enemies they were and applying his considerable abilities to their overthrow, he did his best to become one of them and rejoiced in his ability to pass in their company. Even the desire of a puppy for the name of his tailor secretly pleased him. Such self-confusions are the chief reason that our world is not a far more golden place than it presently is.
So he set to work in Villiers’ rooms, applying skills practiced by men since the first rabbit-skin valise. It is, after all, in the nature of openable objects that they be opened. It would violate the essence of their beings if they were not. Wholeness (remember wholeness?), in the fullness of time producing valises, satchels and pokes, must also inevitably produce Godwins to open them on the sly. Everything is implicit in anything: a cell implies a body, a grain of sand implies sand castles and picnic lunches, and a satchel implies Godwin, practicing his industry.
Villiers received a note. He left the theater where he had spent two hours watching mediocre provincial entertainment. He himself had been watched by two different men representing separate interests. One had been bored by the show and watched him well. The other, simpler soul, had enjoyed himself and forgotten for entire minutes at a time to observe Villiers. It didn’t matter, however. He was still in plain view at the end of the performance.
A boy in Star Well livery came hurrying up to him as he stood outside, and handed him a note.
“For you, sir.”
He accepted the coin that Villiers gave him and went off, where he was immediately intercepted by the second of the two men. When informed what the note contained, the man said, “Well, what do you know,” and let the boy continue about his business.
The note said this:
You must see now the depth of my despair. Oh, please say you will aid me in this, my time of trouble.
Come secretly to my room and do not let Henry see you. He is already jealous. From one who reckons you her only friend:
Maybelle Lafferty (Miss).
Hisan Bashir Shirabi entered his hobby room. In company with him was his most recent mistress, one of the contract laborers from Herrendam. By most standards, she was not attractive, though Shirabi professed to find her so.
His name was not his own, either, but neither yet so far from what it once had been that the relationship would not be apparent. Euphony and ambition were not his reasons for change. A temporary misunderstanding had led him to take the step in the days of his youth, and though the need had long passed, he yet retained his more recent name lest people be confused by further change.
By many standards, he was a deeply inadequate man. He chose unattractive women because he did not dare aspire to their more beautiful sisters. A simple lack of self-confidence.
He was totally incapable under most circumstances of asserting himself in the face of the well-bom, a legacy of his upbringing that he was well aware of, fiercely resented, and was powerless to amend. Exceptions to this had occurred twice under conditions both bizarre and deeply humiliating to certain well-bred personages. Shirabi cherished the memories, though with certain reservations.
If Godwin was unhappy being less than equal to such a boorish, left-handed man, Shirabi was equally un-happy in the face of Godwin’s pretensions. If Godwin were to make of himself what he wished to, then Shirabi could no longer effectively be his superior. The result was a continuing struggle.
This was not an accident. Though by many standards Shirabi was inadequate, nonetheless, he was more than able and more than a little ruthless in dealing with people and things on his own leveL
It was with all deliberate consideration that Zvegintsov had assigned Shirabi to head operations in the same place where Godwin had previously been stationed.
“Tension is the secret,” Zvegintsov used to say. “Put two able and incompatible men together and you can be sure you will see every penny that is rightfully yours.”
The system does have its merits, but the two men must be chosen carefully. If the incompatibility is too great, unpleasant things occur. The two set their primary attention to fighting between themselves instead of watching for the Navy and making illegal gravy, like sensible men.
Shirabi had brought the girl here to his hobby room for a reason of the greatest sensitivity. He was totally unable to make love anywhere else. Consequently, placed discretely in the midst of his tanks and flowering friends, he had a bed. It was a nice bed.
The girl entered the room first. She gasped and said, “What happened here?”
Shirabi pushed past her and then stopped. His eyes widened. Abruptly, he seized the front of his purple robe (the decor of the Grand Hall had been his choice) and tore it savagely. This was not an expression of sexual passion overwhelming him in these safe and familiar surroundings. It was an outlet for sudden stress and sorrow. He rent his garments, he slammed one fist in another, his eyes filled with tears.
“But what happened?” the girl asked.
He turned, seized her by the arm and thrust her from the room. She protested crudely at this unwarranted treatment, but he was not listening. He closed the door behind her. In his mind, she had permanently been dismissed from his favor. Anyone who reacted so abominably in the face of crisis was clearly unworthy.
Through imperfect vision he looked at the empty tanks, at the greenery strewn about the floor, at the purple flower that had been laid with care on a pillow that was no longer nestled in the heart of a leafy glade.
Coldly executed murder must be answered in its own terms, and as he sobbed, resolution formed in his heart.
The door of Maybelle Lafferty’s room was flung wide and Henry Maurice entered with a look on his face that bespoke anger and frustration. Startled, Maybelle sat upright in bed and clutched at the bedclothes.
“All right,” said Maurice. “Where is he?”
4
You can call the Empire a fiction if you like. In many places, it merely has power enough to collect sufficient taxes to finance its own self-belief.
The Navy is the chief executive instrument of the Empire. The Navy fights wars, suppresses insurrections, patrols shipping lanes, enforces law, and investigates the unusual, as well as providing an added touch of color at celebrations of the Emperor s birthday.
On the planet of Nashua, a Naval officer is a self-conscious member of an incredible power structure. He may be a drone, a time-server. He may be both ignorant and arrogant. He may be ready to pick a quarrel. He may be conscious of his prerogatives and care nothing for his duty.
However, the farther that you travel from Nashua, the more responsible an officer is likely to be. The power of the Navy, while great, is more often a threat than an actuality. It has to be used with restraint, with an intelligent care that looks to result, that aims for stability, that knows the real world to be something other than the fantasies of men who have spent forty years in an office on Nashua. An officer may still be arrogant and unpleasant, but his company is mainly that of his fellows and they will see to it
that he walks a careful line in public.
And if you are looking for a substantial friend, a man to rely upon in all sorts of weather, a man who incorporates all the traditional virtues of the ancients: who is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent—in short, a total swell fellow—take up with a Navy man on detached duty. The farther out you are, the better a friend you will have.
The Bolaire Line ship Orion, bound for Luvashe, was scheduled to arrive at Star Well within the hour. Departing travelers would not be allowed to take possession of their new and narrow quarters until shortly before the ship was to leave, but still guests at Star Well assembled in number in the waiting room at Landing Port Two. The reasons were varied: some were meeting arrivals, some were interested in the news the ship would bring from Morian and its octant of the Empire, and still others enjoyed the displays of landing that could be seen on screens in the waiting room.
Villiers, who had reason to meet the ship, as well as to leave on it, started with time to spare. It was well that he did, because he took note of his surroundings as he came near the waiting room and found them unfamiliar. It was not the unfamiliarity in itself that gave him pause—he managed to find his way well enough— but that this was not the port through which he had come on landing, nor yet the port he had chanced upon in the course of his adventure the morning previous. He stopped, intrigued by a daisychain of thought. He consulted the time and then retraced his steps. Some minutes later, he arrived on the Promenade. He went to the shop at which he had bought his book comparing the various sentient races. The woman he had previously dealt with was there and she recognized him.
“Oh, hello, sir,” she said. “And what is it today?”
“Have you any guides to Star Well?”
She reached beneath the counter and produced a map. These were on display throughout most of Star Well, and showed the newcomer how to find his way about. They were extremely limited and only showed the most public of public places.
“No, thank you,” said Villiers. “I had in mind something with facts, figures and history.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s a matter of consulting our friend here. If we do, he’ll know.” She patted the book machine fondly.
She consulted an index and then tapped out a code order to the machine. It whirred very briefly, and then beeped in empty tones.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We just don’t seem to have anything.”
Villiers said, “I cannot swear to it, but I seem to remember that Wu and Fabricant had an entry on Star Well.”
“Oh, we don’t carry Wu and Fabricant. I know that. They said we were extremely dull.”
“How nearsighted of them,” said Villiers.
He was still being watched, by the way. Within moments after he left, the woman received a call of inquiry.
When Villiers arrived in the waiting room, among the other persons present was Norman Adams. Adams very clearly saw him enter, and just as clearly pretended not to notice. He turned his back and lacking anything else under which to hide himself, he covered himself in thought. He looked up only after Villiers had been standing in front of him for a full minute and seemed prepared to stand there forever.
“Mr. Adams.”
“Mr. Villiers.”
Villiers seated himself next to Adams and stretched his legs out comfortably.
“A fine day to meet a ship, is it not?”
“Oh, to be sure.”
“Fine weather.”
“I suppose.”
“Mr. Adams, I flatter myself—may I flatter myself?— that I have some knowledge of the standard passes of social dealing. When you wish to insult a man—the Cut Direct. When you wish to snub a man—the Cut Indirect. The Studied Insult, the Pertinent Reflection—to be overheard, of course—even the smiles available for twelve separate effects. It seems to me that they taught me that. I must admit, however, that yesterday and today you have shown me a mode I never realized existed before.”
“Sir!”
“Yes?” said Villiers, but Adams was unable to continue, being caught up in a conflict of speech, so Villiers proceeded: “I thought perhaps you might be so good as to help me expand my repertoire. How do you call this thing that you do?”
“This is intolerable!” Adams burst out.
I agree.
Adams mustered himself. “If you will name a place of meeting. ..”
“A duel?” Villiers laughed freely. “You mistake me, and I trust that I mistake you. I have no desire to do you harm—perhaps I have a more bloodthirsty manner of speech than I realize. I shall have to amend that.
“I meant to say merely that until yesterday we had been on good terms, and since then apparently not. I try to add my enemies by design rather than accident. Were we not on good terms?”
“I thought so,” Adams said reluctantly.
“Well?”
Adams sat silent under the question. Finally, nervously, he asked, “Did you follow me here today?”
“No. I’m meeting someone.”
“Did you follow me yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why did you follow me?” The question was a passionate one.
“It was curiosity,” Villiers said. “Why do you object so strongly to being followed?”
Adams’ reaction was most amazing. He said nothing for a long moment, slowly turning red, particularly about tbe ears. It was as though he had expected anything from Villiers except a calm admission and an equally calm question. He never answered it. Instead, he rose and hastily left the room. And he did not return.
The quarters of Miss Maybelle Lafferty were good, though hardly approaching the scale of Villiers’. Still, they were extensive enough to provide more than one ready hiding place. An agile man such as Villiers might have found as many as six.
The sound of a hand at the door caught them unready. Expectation had withered and left them in such a state that they merely waited. Waiting had become their focus and they were not prepared for expectation fulfilled. Consequently they were flustered.
“Hide,” hissed Maybelle. She cleared her throat and said, “Just a moment, please.”
Henry Maurice, not nearly so agile as Villiers, and possibly lacking Villiers’ self-possession, took advantage of the nearest hiding place. He went to his knees and rolled under the bed, thereby doing irreparable damage to the delicate shaping of his costume. Genteel dress was designed, if anything, to show that its wearer was not required to do gross, uncultivated things such as rolling under beds. Maurice took no time to think of the tactical disadvantages in emerging from underneath a bed to display his outrage. Doing his best to recapture the proper spirit for the' occasion, he honed his lines and whetted his temper. By the time Maybelle reached the door, he was barely containing himself.
“Yes?” she said, opening it.
It was one of the uniformed, red-cheeked girls. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to clean. I can come later.”
“That will be fine.”
“By the way, I thought I heard something fall.”
“It was nothing,” Maybelle said, and smiled. She closed the door and sat primly as Henry extricated himself.
“Let’s face it. He just isn’t going to come. Maybe he didn’t get the message,” she said.
Heniy wasn’t about to waste that lovely anger. “He did get the message. I saw him open it. I saw him read it It must be your fault! How did you botch it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t like girls. Maybe you should have sent him the note.”
“That’s funny, but it’s not constructive. He liked you well enough. He was looking you over at breakfast. He invited you to dinner. He was perfect: rich, well-mannered, young enough to be fooled, mild enough not to be interested in a duel. Just the sort who would pay. Just the sort who wouldn’t enjoy scandal. Now what did you do wrong?”
“Henry, I swear I did just as you said. I told him the story. I tol
d it the way we practiced. He just didn’t come.”
Henry sighed and sat down on the bed. “No, he didn’t. You’re right about that. Goodness knows, you can’t act, but I thought we’d catch that pigeon, at least.” “Henry,” she said.
“Oh, sorry. I know you did your best.”
“There’s always the boy. The big clumsy one.” “Adams? I misdoubt he has much money to spare.” “He must have some. He gambles. And I know I could fool him. Oh, say I can!”
Henry looked down at his askew clothing. “Well, if were ever to pay our bills here and leave, we have to catch some coney. Sooner or later, God willing, there’ll be somebody you can fool.”
Within the landed Orion, the passengers assembled outside a closed bulkhead. Torve the Trog and Augustus Srb were at the head of the line. Mrs. Bogue and her five charges were in the middle of the line.
Alice Tutuila, who was not finding space travel as romantic as she had anticipated, craned to see something. She was more than a little tired of corridors, bulkheads and tiny rooms. Since she had been traveling, she had yet to see stars, ships moving against the universal night, pirates, gallant gentlemen of title who managed rescues without soil, stain, or tying their hair in place, or any of the other staples of space she had reason to expect. And Mrs. Bogue, like a dog who knows the mind of a sheep, had kept her neatly herded away from the veriest hint of any of these delightful things.
Ships? “No gawking, girls.” Gentlemen? “Come along. We haven’t any time to spare.” Even fat priests and odd foreign creatures: “That isn’t the sort of thing young ladies are interested in.”
It was romantic of her to wish for pirates. There have been times when such a wish would have been not only romantic, but beyond the bounds of possibility. But there are seasons of the year, and seasons . . . Which is to say that pirates would not have been completely out of the question. In 1460, the year previous, a group of disgruntled womanless miners, tired of their own company, had stopped a load of Holy Prostitutes on their way to the Temples of Gosh on Braunfels. After subsequent negotiation, the situation was regularized by the establishment of a local Temple of Gosh—and, in fact, this was the beginning of the rapid expansion of that formerly limited religion as the Priests of Gosh realized their strength of appeal—but the original action was clearly piracy.
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