Pynthas, who had regrettably been put in charge, had the shuttle pilot fly high enough so that he could ogle the Tharsis Montes ridge; to the High Leader, they were dead cones on the ground, of no importance. A thin salmon haze at the edge of the world was more interesting to Cornelian; in his mind, he thought that if only they could find a way to punch selective holes in that haze, which represented the tenuous atmosphere of the planet, then none of these other, messier methods would be needed. Just extract a neatly sliced area of atmosphere—including, of course, all the oxygen, like cutting a cylindrical wedge from a melon—and voila! no more problems in the city below.
"Look at Tharsis Tholus from this angleohhhhh!" Pynthas said, straining his unnaturally large eyes to look below as the shuttle made its turn east. Below, the volcano lay wide, high, and majestic, one side of its shadowed caldera filled with frost.
In his enthusiasm, Pynthas turned from the window, grinning, and sought to pull at one of Prime Cornelian's appendages to make him look; but he shrunk back in horror immediately at the High Leader's harsh gaze.
"Dead mounds of dirt," Cornelian said, in response to which Pynthas began to bob his head madly.
"Of course, High Leader—of course!"
"How much longer?" Cornelian called up to the pilot, who immediately replied, "Not twenty minutes, High Leader."
"Very well."
The High Leader snorted, seeing that Pynthas had once again turned to the window to gaze wide-eyed and openmouthed at swirls of sand, spare forests of pale green, and bits of rock below.
At Shklovskii, Prime Cornelian's interest picked up, even as Pynthas's waned. For the final ten minutes of the journey there had been little sightseeing to do: only a vast plain of unsheathed rock, vestigial craters, and intermittent desert. Vegetation was sparse, and only when the shuttle lowered toward the nearing city was any life visible on the surface. They might be on any habitable desert area anywhere, except that here the brush grew taller than a man, the flowers were wan shades of blue and yellow, and the sands were some of the darkest on the planet, a deep rust approaching red.
"That's Shklovskii?" the High Leader sniffed, as a ragtag cluster of bland two-story sandstone buildings ringed by water tanks came into view below them. At the northern perimeter, the ugly quarry cuts of a sandstone mine did nothing to brighten the picture.
Pynthas said eagerly, "It's one of the reasons it was picked, High Leader. No one will miss it."
His eagerness for landscape had been replaced by his equally unattractive eagerness to please.
"Where are the nearest towns?"
"Mutch and Sagan, fifty and a hundred kilometers away."
"And you're sure there'll be no spillover into those communities?"
"None."
As if sensing that Prime Cornelian wanted confirmation, General Ramsden, who had sat thus far silently in the copilot's seat up front, turned and said, "No possibility, High Leader."
"Good. I would hate to see anything happen to that museum near . . ."
"Chryse Planitia, High Leader," the general said. His eyes were as blank as his tone, his leathery thin face impassive. Through experience, Prime Comehan knew that the man's reptilian qualities were only skin deep; otherwise, he would not be alive.
"Good. You may proceed."
"Very wel—"
"One more question. You're sure this will be seen live?"
General Ramsden said impassively, "Every Screen on the planet, High Leader. With an appropriate message condemning Shklovskii as the center of civil disobedience and a rebel stronghold. I believe the message will be clear, High Leader."
"It's not necessary for you to believe anything, General. The fact that there is no rebel resistance on Mars is no concern of yours. Proceed."
"Very well."
General Ramsden spoke a few words, and the Marine cruiser which had been following the shuttle pulled overhead and in front of them. As it did so, a bay in its sleek golden belly opened, revealing a glint of brilliant light within.
"May we get closer to the ground?" Cornehian asked.
Pynthas began to say no, but General Ramsden cut him off and said, "Of course, High Leader."
The shuttle lowered, leaving the hovering needled length of the cruiser above and ahead of them.
"Is this all right, High Leader?" the general inquired.
They were three hundred meters above the city; at this height, Prime Cornelian could see the thin upturned faces of the curious citizens who had come out into their yards and into the single paved street that ran the length of the town to look at the wonders in the sky over them. At this height, Cornelian could see the whirls of dust devils caught in various dry yards and open lots.
"Do they know?" Cornelian asked.
"No," the general answered. "We thought they would flee into the desert if they were warned."
"Of course. Tell them now."
"As you wish."
General Ramsden again spoke, and there was a momentary lack of action. Below him, Cornelian watched as the citizens of Shklovskii seemed to cock their heads as one, listening to others who had listeners or Screens.
Before long, the High Leader had the response he wanted, as more citizens rushed from their homes, some comically carrying belongings, others bearing children.
"They look like . . . insects, don't they?" Cornelian said, which brought dead silence in the shuttle. "You may proceed," Cornelian said, chuckling.
General Ramsden spoke a single word, and the Marine cruiser opened its bay doors wide, letting out a startling light. It seemed not so much a ray as a fall of blinding sunlight, which dropped into the town below.
There was a snap of sound, like air too suddenly being let out of an overinflated device; and when the eye cleared of blinding light it-beheld human skeletons caught in a rapidly expanding and flattening bubble, a kind of smoke ring of bright pressure that blew out from the center of Shklovskii to beyond its farthest edges. At the inside perimeter of the sandstone mine the edge of the expanding circle dipped to conform to the landscape; a bare moment later it climbed rapidly out the other side and resumed shape, even as it began to dissipate.
In a matter of ten seconds it was over, and Shklovskii was a circle in the desert, brushed clean of everything.
"My!" Prime Cornelian said. "I'm impressed!"
"Sam-Sei thought you would be pleased," General Ramsden said, his tone never changing. "Of course, the weapon has its limitations."
"Doesn't everything?" the High Leader said, almost gleefully. "It will be a wonderful instrument. We must play with it again soon. And now," he said, boredom creeping suddenly into his speech, "I'd like to go home."
"Of Course, High Leader," General Ramsden said.
On the journey back to Lowell, Prime Cornelian's mind was so occupied that he heard none of Pynthas's catcalls of pleasure as one dead rock or another was flown over.
Chapter 11
"Tabrel, you must speak with me!"
From behind the door to Tabrel Kris's room came silence.
Jamal Clan struck the door with the flat of his palm.
"The wedding is three days away, and you must begin to act like the princess you will be!"
Still: silence.
"Tabrel—listen to me!"
Angrily, Jamal unlocked the door and strode into the room toward Tabrel, who sat calmly regarding him from a straight-backed chair. Suddenly he drew his fist back—but, unable to strike her, stood frozen, tears welling in his eyes.
"Tabrel, please, you must do as I say!"
Her eyes, copper-brown, filled with depths of so much else, looked unblinking at Jamal.
"I have told you a hundred times, Jamal Clan: I am Tabrel Kris, member of the Martian diplomatic legation, and I demand to be treated in accordance with all laws and tenets of the Four Worlds Diplomatic Treaty of 2448; such laws forbid the unlawful detaining or improper treatment of a member of any diplomatic legation of any of the Four Worlds. My treatment is in clear violation of
this treaty."
"But if you would just listen to me!" Jamal stood helpless before her, tears streaming down his face.
"That is not the way a prince of the house of Clan acts," a calm, chilly voice said from the doorway.
Jamal, startled, sought to compose himself before turning to face the figure in the doorway.
"As usual you are right, Mother," he said.
Kamath Clan gave a slight, imperious bow. Her girth was dwarfed by her height, which made her appear not stout but imposing. There were those on Titan who, speaking in corner whispers, called her Black Widow—and claimed that she had eaten her husband—or that he had at the lease died from fright at that expectation.
"Did anyone see you act this way?" Kamath Clan asked.
"No, Mother. At least I don't think so."
Kamath entered the room and closed the door.
"What I have just done, a simple act of closing a door, can do wonders toward avoiding such problems." She stopped to look down at Tabrel, who stared impassively ahead.
"It can turn a foolish act into a necessary one," Kamath continued. Her face was as impassive as Tabrel's. "How many times has she tried to leave this house?"
In frustration, Jamal said, "Every time I've left the door unlocked. Once she nearly made it to a shuttle at the freight depot. Another ten minutes and she would have been offworld. She will not believe me when I tell her that we have no news of her father. When she is not trying to escape, she sits reciting that diplomacy nonsense."
"Have you tried striking her?"
Flustered by his mother's presence, Jamal said, "No! I cannot hurt her! I only want to make her listen!"
"There are other ways to accomplish that," Ka-math said. "Soon she will have lost enough weight that it will be necessary to treat her. It is then that certain . . . medicines can be administered."
"I don't want you to hurt her!" Jamal said, his melodious voice rising in frustration. "I don't want anyone to hurt her! She is . . . beautiful!"
Kamath studied the young girl's face.
"That she is," Kamath said. "But she is also an embarrassment. The betrothal is valid as long as I refuse to dissolve it. But we obviously cannot count on Tabrel Kris's cooperation."
Jabal balled his fists. "I will not let you at her! I will make her see that this marriage must be accomplished and will be a good one!"
At this last remark his mother raised an eyebrow. "A good one? That doesn't matter."
"It matters to me!"
His mother studied Jamal impassively for a moment. "You have fallen in love with her?"
"Yes! And I want her to love me!"
"There are potions for that, too. . . ."
Jamal's face filled with fear. "No!"
His mother shrugged. "For now, you may try your own methods, Jamal." She turned to leave. "When I have closed the door behind me, you may hit her."
The door closed, and Jamal was left alone with Tabrel Kris, who sat staring straight through him.
"Why can't you just love me?" Jamal sobbed out, reaching out a trembling hand, daring to touch her face. Another, longer sob escaped him, sounding like incongruous music. "Why?"
Kamath Clan had other stops to make. In the Ruz Balib section of the Sacred Grounds, after passing down the central walkway of the tree-lined quadrangle bordered by dominion buildings, pedestrians moving aside at her approach, she mounted two flights of stairs in one particular building, disdaining the lift, and traversed a short hallway colored drab green. There were two'-doors at the end of the hall, to left and right, and without knocking she entered the right door, closing it behind her.
At the desk sat a clerk who did not move to stop her from entering the inner sanctum of the office. Again she opened and closed a door and towered now above the desk of Commander Tarn, chief of defensive operations on Titan. The inviolability of Titan's near-space defenses was, in effect, in the - hands of this man, who now gulped. He had once bedded Kamath Clan, to attain position, when her husband had been alive, and had avoided ever since the possibility of a second tryst.
Tarn bowed his head and rose; the Titan greeting. "My queen."
"You may sit, Tarn. No, stand for a moment." Gulping once more, Tarn stood straight.
"Turn for me. Slowly, with your arms out." Praying to any gods who might exist or ever had existed, Tarn did as he was told.
"No, it is not right. You may sit."
"Thank you, my queen."
Inwardly, Tarn cheered, having failed the test. But there would be others to warn: that the queen bee was in search once more for a bedmate,
"How may I help you, my queen?" Tarn asked, recovering some of his official composure now that the crisis had passed.
"I want to know just how impenetrable our defense shields are," Kamath Clan said. In her shadow, Tarn briefly thought himself a small man, though he stood above two meters.
"It is the best system possible," Tarn said, but immediately saw that she did not crave generalities, but specifics.
"It is point eight impervious, which means that no plasma charge yet devised could pass through it."
"Might Wrath-Pei pass through it?"
"He . . ." Tarn suddenly realized that much, including his well-being, might hinge on this question. "He has been allowed to, of course."
"I mean, if he weren't allowed to?"
"We could. . . defend Titan from him, my queen. If necessary."
"Very well. You are sure of this?"
"Of course, my queen."
The mountain looming over Tarn nodded. "Then if we were to decide that Wrath-Pei were . . . let us say, deemed unworthy of our company, he could be prevented."
"Anyone could be prevented, my queen. You are thinking perhaps of the troubles on Mars and Earth at the moment?"
"Beyond that, Tarn. Much beyond that." She had been looking inwardly, but now she turned her gaze on Tarn again.
"And our ground defenses?"
"The best and toughest of all Four Worlds!" Tarn said proudly.
"I hope so. Even so, I would like you to order a state of heightened alert. In the event . . ."
"Yes, my queen?"
"Never mind, Tarn."
Again her gaze sharpened and became more interested in Tarn.
"Stand again, Commander."
Tarn drew a breath, but did as he was told. "Turn for me, arms akimbo."
Tarn turned.
There was an approving sound, which made Tarn's blood freeze—but it was followed by a resigned sigh.
"I was right in my first estimation. You may sit again."
"Thank you, my queen," Tarn said, not able to hide his relief.
"Though I may be back for you," Kamath Clan said, without a trace of humor.
She departed, leaving the door open, and leaving to Tarn's clerk the remarkable sight of the commander himself, wan and trembling, fumbling for his communication console to warn those who should be warned.
There was one other stop for Kamath Clan to make. Up through the bright glare of Titan's day lights, the late afternoon Sun shone like a distant warm coin. Kamath thought briefly of her birthplace, so much nearer to that Sun, and so much warmer. Not in temperature, for the same omnipresent lights that flooded the streets and valleys and even the hills of Titan with light also fed its plants and, along with the core reactor deep in its bosom, gave it warmth. But it was in many ways a bland, clinical warmth, unlike that of So!.
On Earth, Kamath had played once, at the age of three, in a meadow under a bird-blue sky with the warmth of So!, hanging like a ball in the air, on her skin. The toasty feel of that warmth was like nothing else she had felt since, and its loss was the great loss of her life. When her parents fled the consolidation of Sarat Shar's power, they tore their daughter not only from her birth home, which became the
120 Al Sarrantonio
eastern governorship of Shar's empire, but from the rest of her life as well.
The warmth of Sun on skin
In dreamy rumination
within her hard shell, Ka-math Clan found that her feet had taken her unheedful to her destination. There were no pedestrians to move out of her way here, for this, the most backward and dangerous of the city's streets, was deserted at any time of day or night. And anyone wondering at her visit here would keep such thoughts to themselves.
A day of doors. She stood before another door, opened and closed it behind her. It always felt damp to her touch, so out of harmony with the thing that brought her here. Inside, it was dark as any midnight.
"You have come again, my queen?" his voice, a little frailer than the last time; as it had been frailer last time and the time before that. "You have come to see old Quog again?"
"I have come," Kamath Clan said.
"And is it the same you seek as before?"
"As always," Kamath said.
"Very well."
He emerged from the darker shadows of the room into mere shadow. He was indeed a man, of sorts. He had told Kamath that first time, the one time when he felt obligated to explain himself, that he had once been a handsome specimen.
"But the Puppet Death," he had said, "changed all that. It twisted and turned me and pulled me every which way. It danced on me, all right! Oh, I was dashing before the disease, my queen. I was straight-backed and black-haired and had good hands and feet; I could dance, and could make things with my delicate fingers. But afterward, my wife left me and my daughter shunned me. But I took a bit of what I was and came here."
It was then that he had shown Kamath Clan what she had come to see. And it was what he again showed her now.
"Soon I will be gone, my queen!" hisfrail voice said. The sideways appearance of his arm-thin face, like a melted substance, plastic or cheese, one layer over the other, never failed to startle even Kamath Clan. In the midst of this visage were his organs of sight and smell, pressed to mere slits, and his mouth, a vertical oval hole.
The rest of his body was sloped sideways, also, though not as severely as his face and head; his walking was of a shuffling kind, baby steps by deformed feet.
"Hard to believe I've been this way since I was eighteen!" Quog said. He moved closer, giving the queen, with her unwavering stare, a good look at him; this was part of a ritual of cruelty and trade they had worked out long ago.
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