American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  He helped me to the stool before the throne and made me sit down an awkward moment sooner than he himself was again seated. Then he held out his hand for the scroll and I passed it over. He unrolled it and pretended to study the blank page.

  There was chamber music now and the court made a display of enjoying themselves, ladies laughing, noble gentlemen uttering gallantries, fans gesturing. No one moved very far from his place, no one held still. Little page boys, looking like Michelangelo’s cherubim, moved among them offering trays of sweets. One knelt to Willem and he helped himself without taking his eyes off the nonexistent list. The child then offered the tray to me and I took one, not knowing whether it was proper or not. It was one of those wonderful, matchless chocolates made only in Holland.

  I found that I knew a number of the court faces from pictures. Most of the unemployed royalty of Earth were there, concealed under their secondary titles of duke or count. Some said that Willem kept them on as pensioners to brighten his court; some said he wanted to keep an eye on them and keep them out of politics and other mischief. Perhaps it was a little of both. There were the nonroyal nobility of a dozen nations present, too; some of them actually worked for a living.

  I found myself trying to pick out the Habsburg lips and the Windsor nose.

  At last Willem put down the scroll. The music and the conversation ceased instantly. In dead silence he said, “It is a gallant company you have proposed. We are minded to confirm it.”

  “You are most gracious, Majesty.”

  “We will ponder and inform you.” He leaned forward and said quietly to me alone, “Don’t try to back down those damned steps. Just stand up. I am going to leave at once.”

  I whispered back, “Oh. Thank you, Sire.”

  He stood up, whereupon I got hastily to my feet, and he was gone in a swirl of robes. I turned around and noticed some startled looks. But the music started up at once and I was let to walk out while the noble and regal extras again made polite conversation.

  Pateel was at my elbow as soon as I was through the far archway. “This way, sir, if you please.”

  The pageantry was over; now came the real audience.

  He took me through a small door, down an empty corridor, through another small door, and into a quite ordinary office. The only thing regal about it was a carved wall plaque, the coat of arms of the House of Orange, with its deathless motto, “I Maintain!” There was a big, flat desk, littered with papers. In the middle of it, held down by a pair of metal-plated baby shoes, was the original of the typed list in my pocket. In a copper frame there was a family group picture of the late Empress and the kids. A somewhat battered couch was against one wall and beyond it was a small bar. There were a couple of armchairs as well as the swivel chair at the desk. The other furnishings might have suited the office of a busy and not fussy family physician.

  Pateel left me alone there, closing the door behind him. I did not have time to consider whether or not it was proper for me to sit down, as the Emperor came quickly in through a door opposite. “Howdy, Joseph,” he called out. “Be with you in a moment.” He strode through the room, followed closely by two servants who were undressing him as he walked, and went out a third door. He was back again almost at once, zipping up a suit of coveralls as he came in. “You took the short route; I had to come long way around. I’m going to insist that the palace engineer cut another tunnel through from the back of the throne room, damme if I’m not. I have to come around three sides of a square—either that or parade through semipublic corridors dressed like a circus horse.” He added meditatively, “I never wear anything but underwear under those silly robes.”

  I said, “I doubt if they are as uncomfortable as this monkey jacket I am wearing, Sire.”

  He shrugged. “Oh well, we each have to put up with the inconveniences of our jobs. Didn’t you get yourself a drink?” He picked up the list of nominations for cabinet ministers. “Do so, and pour me one.”

  “What will you have, Sire?”

  “Eh?” He looked up and glanced sharply at me. “My usual. Scotch on ice, of course.”

  I said nothing and poured them, adding water to my own. I had had a sudden chill; if Bonforte knew that the Emperor always took scotch over bare cubes it should have been in his Farleyfile. It was not.

  But Willem accepted the drink without comment, murmured, “Hot jets!” and went on looking at the list. Presently he looked up and said, “How about these lads, Joseph?”

  “Sire? It is a skeleton cabinet, of course.” We had doubled up on portfolios where possible and Bonforte would hold Defense and Treasury as well as first. In three cases we had given temporary appointments to the career deputy ministers— Research, Population Management, and Exterior. The men who would hold the posts in the permanent government were all needed for campaigning.

  “Yes, yes, it’s your second team. Mmm . . . How about this man Braun?”

  I was considerably surprised. It had been my understanding that Willem would okay the list without comment, but that he might want to chat about other things. I had not been afraid of chatting; a man can get a reputation as a sparkling conversationalist simply by letting the other man do all the talking.

  Lothar Braun was what was known as a “rising young statesman.” What I knew about him came from his Farleyfile and from Rog and Bill. He had come up since Bonforte had been turned out of office and so had never had any cabinet post, but had served as caucus sergeant at arms and junior whip. Bill insisted that Bonforte had planned to boost him rapidly and that he should try his wings in the caretaker government; he proposed him for Minister of External Communications.

  Rog Clifton had seemed undecided; he had first put down the name of Angel Jesus de la Torre y Perez, the career subminister. But Bill had pointed out that if Braun flopped, now was a good time to find it out and no harm done. Clifton had given in.

  “Braun?” I answered. “He’s a coming young man. Very brilliant.”

  Willem made no comment, but looked on down the list. I tried to remember exactly what Bonforte had said about Braun in the Farleyfile. Brilliant . . . hardworking . . . analytical mind. Had he said anything against him? No—well, perhaps— “a shade too affable.” That does not condemn a man. But Bonforte had said nothing at all about such affirmative virtues as loyalty and honesty. Which might mean nothing, as the Farleyfile was not a series of character studies; it was a data file.

  The Emperor put the list aside. “Joseph, are you planning to bring the Martian nests into the Empire at once?”

  “Eh? Certainly not before the election, Sire.”

  “Come now, you know I was talking about after the election. And have you forgotten how to say ‘Willem’? ‘Sire’ from a man six years older than I am, under these circumstances, is silly.”

  “Very well, Willem.”

  “We both know I am not supposed to notice politics. But we know also that the assumption is silly. Joseph, you have spent your off years creating a situation in which the nests would wish to come wholly into the Empire.” He pointed a thumb at my wand. “I believe you have done it. Now if you win this election you should be able to get the Grand Assembly to grant me permission to proclaim it. Well?”

  I thought about it. “Willem,” I said slowly, “you know that is exactly what we have planned to do. You must have some reason for bringing the subject up.”

  He swizzled his glass and stared at me, managing to look like a New England groceryman about to tell off one of the summer people. “Are you asking my advice? The constitution requires you to advise me, not the other way around.”

  “I welcome your advice, Willem. I do not promise to follow it.”

  He laughed. “You damned seldom promise anything. Very well, let’s assume that you win the election and go back into office—but with a majority so small that you might have difficulty in voting the nests into full citizenship. In such case I would not advise you to make it a vote of confidence. If you lose, take your licking and stay in
office; stick the full term.”

  “Why, Willem?”

  “Because you and I are patient men. See that?” He pointed at the plaque of his house. “ ‘I Maintain!’ It’s not a flashy rule but it is not a king’s business to be flashy; his business is to conserve, to hang on, to roll with the punch. Now, constitutionally speaking, it should not matter to me whether you stay in office or not. But it does matter to me whether or not the Empire holds together. I think that if you miss on the Martian issue immediately after the election, you can afford to wait—for your other policies are going to prove very popular. You’ll pick up votes in by-elections and eventually you’ll come around and tell me I can add ‘Emperor of Mars’ to the list. So don’t hurry.”

  “I will think about it,” I said carefully.

  “Do that. Now how about the transportee system?”

  “We’re abolishing it immediately after the election and suspending it at once.” I could answer that one firmly; Bonforte hated it.

  “They’ll attack you on it.”

  “So they will. Let them. We’ll pick up votes.”

  “Glad to hear that you still have the strength of your convictions, Joseph. I never liked having the banner of Orange on a convict ship. Free trade?”

  “After the election, yes.”

  “What are you going to use for revenue?”

  “It is our contention that trade and production will expand so rapidly that other revenues will make up for the loss of the customs.”

  “And suppose it ain’t so?”

  I had not been given a second-string answer on that one— and economics was largely a mystery to me. I grinned. “Willem, I’ll have to have notice on that question. But the whole program of the Expansionist Party is founded on the notion that free trade, free travel, common citizenship, common currency, and a minimum of Imperial laws and restrictions are good not only for the citizens of the Empire but for the Empire itself. If we need the money, we’ll find it—but not by chopping the Empire up into tiny bailiwicks.” All but the first sentence was pure Bonforte, only slightly adapted.

  “Save your campaign speeches,” he grunted. “I simply asked.” He picked up the list again. “You’re quite sure this line-up is the way you want it?”

  I reached for the list and he handed it to me. Damnation, it was clear that the Emperor was telling me as emphatically as the constitution would let him that, in his opinion, Braun was a wrong ’un. But, hell’s best anthracite, I had no business changing the list Bill and Rog had made up.

  On the other hand, it was not Bonforte’s list; it was merely what they thought Bonforte would do if he were compos mentis.

  I wished suddenly that I could take time out and ask Penny what she thought of Braun.

  Then I reached for a pen from Willem’s desk, scratched out “Braun,” and printed in “De la Torre”—in block letters; I still could not risk Bonforte’s handwriting. The Emperor merely said, “It looks like a good team to me. Good luck, Joseph. You’ll need it.”

  That ended the audience as such. I was anxious to get away, but you do not walk out on a king; that is one prerogative they have retained. He wanted to show me his workshop and his new train models. I suppose he has done more to revive that ancient hobby than anyone else; personally I can’t see it as an occupation for a grown man. But I made polite noises about his new toy locomotive, intended for the “Royal Scotsman.”

  “If I had had the breaks,” he said, getting down on his hands and knees and peering into the innards of the toy engine, “I could have been a very fair shop superintendent, I think—a master machinist. But the accident of birth discriminated against me.”

  “Do you really think you would have preferred it, Willem?”

  “I don’t know. This job I have is not bad. The hours are easy and the pay is good—and the social security is first-rate— barring the outside chance of revolution, and my line has always been lucky on that score. But much of the work is tedious and could be done as well by any second-rate actor.” He glanced up at me. “I relieve your office of a lot of tiresome cornerstone-laying and parade-watching, you know.”

  “I do know and I appreciate it.”

  “Once in a long time I get a chance to give a little push in the right direction—what I think is the right direction. Kinging is a very odd profession, Joseph. Don’t ever take it up.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit late, even if I wanted to.”

  He made some fine adjustment on the toy. “My real function is to keep you from going crazy.”

  “Eh?”

  “Of course. Psychosis-situational is the occupational disease of heads of states. My predecessors in the king trade, the ones who actually ruled, were almost all a bit balmy. And take a look at your American presidents; the job used frequently to kill them in their prime. But me, I don’t have to run things; I have a professional like yourself to do it for me. And you don’t have the killing pressure either; you, or those in your shoes, can always quit if things get too tough—and the old Emperor—it’s almost always the ‘old’ Emperor; we usually mount the throne about the age other men retire—the Emperor is always there, maintaining continuity, preserving the symbol of the state, while you professionals work out a new deal.” He blinked solemnly. “My job is not glamorous, but it is useful.”

  Presently he let up on me about his childish trains and we went back into his office. I thought I was about to be dismissed. In fact, he said, “I should let you get back to your work. You had a hard trip?”

  “Not too hard. I spent it working.”

  “I suppose so. By the way, who are you?”

  There is the policeman’s tap on the shoulder, the shock of the top step that is not there, there is falling out of bed, and there is having her husband return home unexpectedly—I would take any combination of those in preference to that simple inquiry. I aged inside to match my appearance and more.

  “Sire?”

  “Come now,” he said impatiently, “surely my job carries with it some privileges. Just tell me the truth. I’ve known for the past hour that you were not Joseph Bonforte—though you could fool his own mother; you even have his mannerisms. But who are you?”

  “My name is Lawrence Smith, Your Majesty,” I said faintly.

  “Brace up, man! I could have called the guards long since, if I had been intending to. Were you sent here to assassinate me?”

  “No, Sire. I am—loyal to Your Majesty.”

  “You have an odd way of showing it. Well, pour yourself another drink, sit down, and tell me about it.”

  I told him about it, every bit. It took more than one drink, and presently I felt better. He looked angry when I told him of the kidnaping, but when I told him what they had done to Bonforte’s mind his face turned dark with a Jovian rage.

  At last he said quietly, “It’s just a matter of days until he is back in shape, then?”

  “So Dr. Capek says.”

  “Don’t let him go to work until he is fully recovered. He’s a valuable man. You know that, don’t you? Worth six of you and me. So you carry on with the doubling job and let him get well. The Empire needs him.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Knock off that ‘Sire.’ Since you are standing in for him, call me ‘Willem,’ as he does. Did you know that was how I spotted you?”

  “No, Si—no, Willem.”

  “He’s called me Willem for twenty years. I thought it decidedly odd that he would quit it in private simply because he was seeing me on state business. But I did not suspect, not really. But, remarkable as your performance was, it set me thinking. Then when we went in to see the trains, I knew.”

  “Excuse me? How?”

  “You were polite, man! I’ve made him look at my trains in the past—and he always got even by being as rude as possible about what a way for a grown man to waste time. It was a little act we always went through. We both enjoyed it.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you have know
n?” I was thinking that I should have known, that damned Farleyfile should have told me . . . It was not until later that I realized that the file had not been defective, in view of the theory on which it was based, i.e., it was intended to let a famous man remember details about the less famous. But that was precisely what the Emperor was not—less famous, I mean. Of course Bonforte needed no notes to recall personal details about Willem! Nor would he consider it proper to set down personal matters about the sovereign in a file handled by his clerks.

  I had muffed the obvious—not that I see how I could have avoided it, even if I had realized that the file would be incomplete.

  But the Emperor was still talking. “You did a magnificent job—and after risking your life in a Martian nest I am not surprised that you were willing to tackle me. Tell me, have I ever seen you in stereo, or anywhere?”

  I had given my legal name, of course, when the Emperor demanded it; I now rather timidly gave my professional name. He looked at me, threw up his hands, and guffawed. I was somewhat hurt. “Er, have you heard of me?”

  “Heard of you? I’m one of your staunchest fans.” He looked at me very closely. “But you still look like Joe Bonforte. I can’t believe that you are Lorenzo.”

  “But I am.”

  “Oh, I believe it, I believe it. You know that skit where you are a tramp? First you try to milk a cow—no luck. Finally you end up eating out of the cat’s dish—but even the cat pushes you away?”

  I admitted it.

  “I’ve almost worn out my spool of that. I laugh and cry at the same time.”

  “That is the idea.” I hesitated, then admitted that the barnyard “Weary Willie” routine had been copied from a very great artist of another century. “But I prefer dramatic roles.”

  “Like this one?”

  “Well—not exactly. For this role, once is quite enough. I wouldn’t care for a long run.”

  “I suppose so. Well, tell Roger Clifton—— No, don’t tell Clifton anything. Lorenzo, I see nothing to be gained by ever telling anyone about our conversation this past hour. If you tell Clifton, even though you tell him that I said not to worry, it would just give him nerves. And he has work to do. So we keep it tight, eh?”