Tonya Welton seemed about to reply, but she was silenced by a new arrival to the conversation. Shelabas Quellam, President of the Legislative Council, was coming over. He was a short, somewhat overweight man who gave the quite accurate impression of being indecisive and easily led. “Good evening, Madame Welton. Hello, Sero. Consorting with the enemy, I see,” he said in an attempt at a jovial tone, though his rather high and squeaky voice could not quite bring it off.
“Good evening, Legislator Quellam. I would prefer to think of us as all being friends,” Tonya Welton replied, her voice cold and angry.
“Oh, dear,” Quellam said, realizing his attempt at humor had failed. “I assure you, Madame Welton, I spoke in jest. I intended no offense.”
“What brings you over, Shelabas?” asked Phrost. “Is there something on your mind?” If such a thing is possible, Phrost added to himself.
“Yes, why in fact there is. I saw the two of you together, and thought it might be the perfect moment to discuss new measures on smuggling.”
“I beg your pardon?” Welton asked.
“Smuggling,” Quellam said. “It seemed to me that the head of the Settlers on Inferno and the leading trading magnate on the planet might well have some thoughts on the subject. I am sure we all want to cut down on illicit imports of Settler technology. That is in all our interests, surely. It’s destabilizing our economy, and no doubt your government loses money on such illegal sales, does it not, Madame Welton? No tax revenue, and so forth?”
“To be brutally honest,” Tonya said, “Spacer currency is worth so little on Settler worlds that the average freebooter can’t be bothered with it. After all, what could she buy with it? The Settler governments would have to subsidize any goodsized smuggling operation if the smugglers were to receive any profit. Trust me. Any large-scale Settler smuggling on this planet would have to have government support. ”
“Subsidize smugglers? Why in Space would the Settler governments do such a thing?”
“Who can say?” Tonya said with a toss of her head. “perhaps some irresponsible elements among the Settlers have some idea that destabilizing a rotten, outmoded system might not be such a bad idea. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. ” She turned and walked away.
“Oh, dear, I appear to have said the wrong thing,” said Shelabas Quellam. “I didn’t intend for that to happen.”
Sero Phrost smiled, but did not reply. Quellam was applying the sentiment to the present rather awkward social circumstance, but things happening without his intending them was the story of Shelabas’ life. He had, for example, never had any intention of reaching his current station--and importance--in life.
Shelabas Quellam was the President of the Legislative Council. In years gone past, when the world of Inferno had been a calm and placid place, and Infernal politics had been closer to comatose than dormant, the Council Presidency was where you put a man like Quellam. A ceremonial post, a place reserved for an amiable man willing to serve as a figurehead.
But Infernal politics had come alive with a vengeance in the last year, and the Council Presidency was suddenly a vital piece on the gameboard.
Back in the old days, even the Governorship had been in large part a ceremonial post. One incumbent after another served out repeated twenty-year terms, doing little or nothing besides holding entertainments before retiring or going on to some other career. There had seemed little purpose to be served in having a Vice Governor as well, as the holder of that post would have even less to do--and less prestige.
Still, something had to be done to assure an orderly succession in the event of the Governor’s death, incapacity, or voluntary resignation. Instead of having a Vice Governor, each Governor was required to name a Governor-Designate, to be appointed to the office. Tradition dictated that the Designate’s name be kept secret, and that the Governor could name a new Designate at any time. Many a Governor had used the Designation as both carrot and stick.
There were, however, circumstances under which the Governor’s choice of successor was null and void. In the event of the Governor’s impeachment and conviction, or his recall by the electorate, it was clearly unwise in the extreme to allow a disgraced Governor to designate his or her successor. Should the Governor be removed from office by any of those means, the Council President would serve as Governor, and could, if he or she saw fit, call new elections. Or not call elections. The new Governor could elect to serve out the remainder of his or her predecessor’s term. And Grieg had over seventeen years left to serve.
In the old days, all the elaborate contingencies set down in the constitution had been nothing but mere gamesmanship, rules written for the pleasure of writing rules and making everything tidy. More than likely, the idea that they might someday have practical significance never entered the heads of the people who wrote them.
But now, quite suddenly, the impeachment of the Governor was very much a possibility--and that meant that Shelabas Quellam was now a man of some importance.
In fact, his importance went beyond the threat of impeachment. It was well known that Grieg did not approve of playing games with the succession, and felt that there should be a statutory arrangement that covered all contingencies, and that the current arrangements were overly complex. In that spirit, he had named Quellam as his Designate as well. One or two wags had suggested that with Quellam next in line for the Governorship, no matter what, everyone would take special care to see that Grieg stayed healthy and well.
Phrost dredged a gentle smile up from somewhere and put his arm around Quellam’s shoulders. “Come, come,” he said. “It certainly isn’t worth getting that upset about. ” Of course, it was worth getting upset about. Phrost had been attempting to get next to Tonya Welton for weeks, and this little incident could set back a lot of his plans. However, as one or two of those plans made use of Shelabas in one way or another, it would profit Phrost not at all to lose his temper at the man--especially in public.
Besides, Shelabas was not entirely to blame. Phrost and Welton had been getting close to arguing even before Quellam came over. The mood of the party had been edgy from the start. There was an air of expectation about the place, the feeling that something was going to happen. There were too many different factions represented in the room, too many undercurrents, too much underlying tension. Something had to give. Something had to snap.
But when it did, a moment later, even Sero Phrost was surprised by how fast and furious it was.
3
TONYA WELTON STALKED away from Shelabas Quellam, trying to calm herself. Could the man be that much of a fool? Did he really believe that Tonya would want to limit Settler smuggling operations? Surely the Spacer intelligence services knew what she had been up to. Did Quellam even read the intelligence reports? Or maybe the intell services didn’t bother--or didn’t dare--to give their reports to the President of the Legislative Council.
Could anyone be that dense? Perhaps it all was nothing more than an act. But an act in aid of what? What purpose could it serve for Quellam to put the Settlers’ leader in an awkward position?
“Hey! You’re the Settler lady, aren’t you?” a rather thick-sounding voice bellowed from behind her.
Tonya turned with a frown and found herself face-to-face with a rather bleary-faced man wearing the latest version of the Ironhead uniform. The severely cut black-and-grey outfit was rather disheveled, to put it mildly, and it was cut a half size too tight for the wearer. A few of the fasteners looked as if they were likely to give way. “Yes,” she said. ‘Tm the Settler lady. Tonya Welton. ” Sometimes it was best to be polite to drunks. If you brushed them off too abruptly, they could get belligerent.
“Yeah, I thought so,” the Ironhead said. “Robot hater. You’re a robot hater,” he said, and nodded to himself, as if he had just revealed some hidden truth.
“I don’t know if I’d put it quite that strongly,” Tonya said, “but no, I don’t approve of them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must--”
“
Wait a second!” the Ironhead said. “Jus’ a second. You got it all wrong. Let me explain about robots, and then you’ll see.”
“Thank you, no,” Tonya said. “Not just now.”
She turned and walked away.
“Hey!” the man cried out from behind her. “Jus’ a second!”
And then he put his hand on her shoulder.
Tonya shoved his hand away and spun around to face him.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” the man said, and reached for her. Maybe he just wanted to grab at her again, maybe he was taking a deliberate swing at her. His open hand caught her hard across the chin, a hard slap. Trained reflex took over as Tonya dropped back a step or two and gave the man a kick to the head, sending him sprawling.
“Hey!” another voice shouted from behind, giving Tonya all the warning she needed. She heard the one behind her grunt as he lunged for her, and she ducked down to make him hit her higher than he meant to.
He slammed into her from the back, knocking the wind out of her. She grabbed for his collar and pulled him forward, using his momentum to throw him over her shoulder.
He hit the ground with a hard slap. Another Ironhead, all right, but this one in good enough shape not to look ridiculous in the uniform. He was already up, shaking off the impact, heading for her--
And then strong robotic arms were on her, and another robot made a grab for her second attacker. It was over.
Tonya struggled to escape, even though she knew it was pointless.
She hated it when someone else finished what she had started.
Now. Now. Now was the moment. The SSS guards on the door had pulled out twenty-five minutes before, just as Bissal had been promised. Nothing to worry about besides whatever Rangers might be by the door.
Ottley Bissal, hovering at the edge of a crowd of late arrivals, checked his watch for the dozenth time. Now. He pulled his quite legitimate invitation from his pocket, to have it ready in case he was challenged. He stepped into the knot of laughing, happy people and allowed himself to be swept up as they went inside.
Inside. Inside the Governor’s Residence. He was here, he had made it. It was all happening just the way they had promised it would.
He felt a sense of triumph wash over him. But now was not the time for such things. Keep your mind on the task at hand. He had something under two minutes to get where he was going.
Unseen, unnoticed, Ottley Bissal hurried toward his goal.
The first Alvar Kresh knew of the altercation was the sound of it, muffled shouts and cries corning from the great hall as he was waiting to be admitted into the Governor’s private office. He ran back down the hallway, with Donald far out in the lead.
Kresh rushed down the stairs, but stopped three or four stops from the bottom. A remarkable tableau greeted him. The robot Caliban was holding Tonya Welton from behind, keeping her arms pinned behind her and struggling--without much success--to keep her from kicking out with her legs.
Another robot, jet-black and somewhat shorter than Caliban, was doing his best to keep a man in an Ironhead uniform out of range of Welton’s rather well-aimed kicks. As the man was doing his best to break free and rush at Welton, the second robot was not having an easy time of it. Damnation! Now Kresh remembered. The black robot was Prospero, one of the more visible of the New Law robots.
The robots and the humans they were restraining were surrounded by a pack of astonished party-goers, four or five Rangers in waiter’s uniforms clearly on the alert, but not quite sure what to do. The whole room was in a general state of turmoil.
Kresh realized that another Ironhead was out cold, flat on his back, a bit too close to the flailing would-be combatants for anyone to get to him and render aid without risking the receipt of a misaimed punch or kick. Donald, however, had no reason to fear injury from anything a human could dish out, and would not have cared if he did. He rushed between Welton and the conscious Ironhead and got to the man who was down.
“All right, quiet! “ Kresh shouted, with enough authority behind it that the crowd went quiet. Kresh made his way down the last few stairs, and the wall of people parted in front of him. He was tempted to ask what had happened, but he knew damn well that was the best way to get everyone talking and shouting allover again. At least Welton and the still-conscious Ironhead had been distracted enough by his entrance to calm down a bit. Kresh turned to the Ironhead first, still being held by the black robot.
“You,” he said. “You, the Ironhead. What’s your name?”
“Blare. Reslar Blare,” the man said. “She started it. Deam was just corning up to talk to her, and she kicked him in the head!”
“Talk!” Welton said. “He talked to me with a punch in the head.”
“Sheriff Kresh! Sheriff Kresh! “ Kresh turned to see Simcor Beddle pulling at his sleeve, looking rather more flustered and anxious than a short, fat man in a uniform could without looking ridiculous. “These two men are not Ironheads,” Beddle announced.
“Then why are they wearing your damned comic opera uniforms?” Welton demanded.
“They are not Ironheads, I tell you!” Beddle protested. “I know all the men and women entitled to wear uniforms of their rank--and I have never seen these two before! Someone has sent them to cause a provocation and blame us!”
That was nearly plausible, Kresh admitted to himself. Beddle had been trying to move his people a bit closer to respectability in recent months, with more of an eye toward the ballot box than bullyboy techniques.
“All right, Beddle,” he said. “We’ll find out who’s who. ” Kresh turned to Tonya Welton. This could be tricky, damned tricky, if she decided to make trouble. A diplomatic incident and then some. Best to try to smooth her feathers, if he could. “Let her go,” he said to Caliban, careful not to address him by name. Why get the crowd agitated allover again by reminding them which robot this was?
Caliban hesitated. Damnation, Kresh thought. Hard to remember he doesn’t have Second Law. On the other hand, he doesn’t have First Law either. What the devil was he doing breaking up a fight? “It’s all right. I don’t think Madame Welton is going to do anything unwise.”
Caliban let the Settler leader go, and she pulled herself away from his grip without a great deal of good grace.
“Don’t take it out on the robots, Madame Welton,” Kresh said, before she could say anything to Caliban. “ All they did was break up the fight. ”
“Maybe so,” Welton said, “but I don’t have to like it. ”
“No, you don’t,” Kresh agreed. He looked around the room full of staring faces and decided he didn’t want this much of an audience while he was sorting this out. Not unless he wanted a fresh shouting match--or fistfight--to break out. What with a New Law and a No Law robot and allegedly false Ironheads and a Settler mixed up in this already, he didn’t need any further complications.
Just then, three Settler Security Service agents came rushing into the room. They had been dozing somewhere on duty, no doubt, when someone had summoned them. Well, they could be of some use now, just the same. “You three. Take charge of these two men,” he said, pointing out Blare and Deam. “Donald!” Kresh called out. “Front and center!”
Donald was still kneeling by Deam. “Sir, this man is unconscious--”
“Is he in any immediate danger?” Kresh demanded, bullying Donald just a bit. “Will he come to harm if these SSS agents take care of him?”
“No, sir,” Donald conceded. “He is in no immediate danger.”
“Then let someone else care for him and find someplace for me to talk to Madame Welton in private.”
Kresh always assumed that, in the case of a public brawl, witnesses would contradict each other and get muddled about what happened when and who did what to whom.
With luck, he could calm Tonya Welton down here and now, get a coherent story, and find some way to slap her attackers on the wrists without a lot of formalities, and make it all go away by morning. It was, after all, just a brawl, a
nd it did not make much sense for it to take up too much of his time or anyone else’s. He doubted that Tonya Welton would wish to spend much time as a witness in a police court.
In short order, Donald had found a vacant sitting room and ushered Tonya Welton in. She sat down on a low couch, while Kresh took a chair opposite. The three robots, Donald, Caliban, and Prospero, came in as well, and remained standing.
Kresh was not too sure about having Caliban and Prospero there. Although standard Three-Law robots could not lie, there was, so far as Kresh was aware, nothing to prevent these two from telling any story that came into their heads. On the other hand, there was no danger that their reactions or memories would be colored by panic or surprise.
“All right, Tonya,” Kresh said. “What happened?”
“Not that much to tell,” she said. “I had been talking to Sero Phrost and Shelabas Quellam. I was crossing the room when this Deam fellow came up to me. He was almost polite at first, if maybe a bit drunk and aggressive. I think he wanted to explain some fine point of Ironhead philosophy to me. Maybe he thought that if I just got this one point, then the scales would fall from my eyes and I would be converted to the true way, or something. ”
“Sounds familiar,” Kresh said.
“Anyway, as I said, he seemed a bit drunk, and I really didn’t want to talk with him, so I made some sort of polite excuse and started to leave. He grabbed me by the shoulder, and I pushed his hand off. Then he either made a grab for me and missed when I ducked, or else he tried to punch me and succeeded. Anyway, he caught me a good one right on the jaw. I fell back and then gave him a kick in the side of the head. It was all reflex reaction. Then the other one came and grabbed me from behind. I threw him, he got up--and then the two robots grabbed us. ”
“Neither of us saw the beginning of it, but that is how Prospero and myself saw it end,” Caliban said.
Inferno - Caliban 02 Page 4