A Stone in Heaven df-12

by Poul Anderson

  A gravshaft took Gerhart and Cairncross to a suite in the top of the loftiest tower that the Coral Palace boasted. The guards outside were not gorgeously uniformed like those on ground level; they were hard of face and hands, and their weapons had seen use. Gerhart motioned them not to follow, and let the door close behind himself and his companion.

  A clear dome overlooked lower roofs, lesser spires, gardens, trianons, pools, bowers, finally beach, sand, surf, nearby residential rafts, and the Pacific Ocean. Sheening and billowing under a full Luna, those waters gave a sense of ancient forces still within this planet that man had so oedipally made his own, still biding their time. That feeling was strengthened by the sparsely furnished chamber. On the floor lay a rug made from the skin of a Germanian dolchzahn, on a desk stood a model of a corvette, things which had belonged to Hans. His picture hung on the wall. It had been taken seven years ago, shortly before his death, and Cairncross saw how wasted the big ugly countenance had become by then; but in caverns of bone, the gaze burned.

  “Sit down,” Gerhart said. “Smoke if you wish.”

  “I don’t, but your Majesty is most kind.”

  Gerhart sighed. “Spare me the unction till we have to go back. When the lord of a fairly significant province arrives unannounced on Terra, I naturally look at whatever file we have on him. You don’t strike me as the sort who would come here for a vacation.”

  “No, that was my cover story, … sir.” The Emperor having taken a chair, the Duke did likewise.

  “Ye-es,” Gerhart murmured, “it is interesting that you put your head in the lion’s mouth. Why?”

  Cairncross regarded him closely. He didn’t seem leonine, being of medium height, with blunt, jowly features and graying sandy hair. The iridescent, carefully draped robe he wore could not quite hide the fact that, in middle age, he was getting pudgy. But he had his father’s eyes, small, dark, searching, the eyes of a wild boar.

  He smiled as he opened a box and took out a cigar for himself. “Interesting enough,” he went on, “that I’ve agreed to receive you like this. Ordinarily, you know, any special audiences you got would be with persons such as Intelligence officers.”

  “Frankly, sir,” Cairncross answered, emboldened, “I started out that way, but got no satisfaction. Or so it appears. Maybe I’m doing the man an injustice. You can probably tell me—though Admiral Flandry is a devious devil, isn’t he?”

  “Flandry, eh? Hm-m.” Gerhart kindled the cigar. Smoke curled blue and pungent. “Proceed.”

  “Sir,” Cairncross began, “having seen my file, you know about the accusations and innuendos against me. I’m here partly to declare them false, to offer my body as a token of my loyalty. But you’ll agree that more is needed, solid proof … not only to exonerate me, but to expose any actual plot.”

  “This is certainly an age of plots,” Gerhart observed, through the same cold smile as before.

  And murders, revolutions, betrayals, upheavals, Cairncross replied silently. Brother against brother—When that spacecraft crashed, Gerhart, and killed Dietrich, was it really an accident? Incredible that safety routines could have slipped so far awry, for a ship which would carry the Emperor. Never mind what the board of inquiry reported afterward; the new Emperor kept tight control of its proceedings.

  You are widely believed to be a fratricide, Gerhart. (And a parricide? No; old Hans was too shrewd.) If you are nevertheless tolerated on the throne, it is because you are admittedly more able than dullard Dietrich was. The Empire needs a strong, skilled hand upon it, lest it splinter again in civil war and the Merseians or the barbarians return.

  Yet that is your only claim to rulership, Gerhart. It was Hans’ only claim, too. He, however, was coping as best he could, after the Wang dynasty fell apart. There was no truly legitimate heir. When most of the Navy rallied to him, he could offer domestic order and external security, at the cost of establishing a military dictatorship.

  But … no blood of the Founder ever ran in his veins. His coronation was a solemn farce, played out under the watch of his Storm Corps, whose oath was not to the Imperium but to him alone. He broke aristocrats and made new ones at his pleasure. He kept no ancient pacts between Terra and her daughter worlds, unless they happened to suit his purposes. Law became nothing more than his solitary will.

  He is of honored memory here, because of the peace he restored. That is not the case everywhere else …

  “You are suddenly very quiet,” Gerhart said.

  Cairncross started. “I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking how to put my case with the least strain on your time and patience.”

  He cleared his throat and embarked on much the same discourse as he had given Flandry. The Emperor listened, watching him from behind a cloud of smoke.

  Finally Gerhart nodded and said, “Yes, you are right. An investigation is definitely required. And it had better be discreet, or it would embarrass you politically—and therefore, indirectly, the Imperium.” If you are indeed loyal to us, he left understood. “You ought to have instigated it earlier, in fact.” But a single planet is too huge, too diverse and mysterious, for anybody, to rule wisely. As for an empire of planets—“Now why do you insist that Vice Admiral Flandry take charge?”

  “His reputation, sir,” Cairncross declared. “He’s accomplished fabulous things in the past when he had inadequate support or none. Who could better handle our problem at Hermes, which includes the need not to bring in an army-sized team?”

  Gerhart scowled. “You may have an exaggerated view of his abilities.”

  Yes, you don’t like him, do you? Cairncross retorted inwardly. He was your father’s indispensable tool he delivered a masterstroke at Chereion, and Dietrich relied on him too, occasionally. Rivalry; a living reminder of what you may prefer to forget; and, to be sure, I’ve learned in conversations with noblefolk, these last few days, that Flandry is apt to get flippant. He is not altogether reverent toward a crown that does not rest absolutely securely on a brow where it doesn’t belong.

  “If so,” he murmured, “then wouldn’t a little de-mythologizing of him be welcome, sir?”

  Gerhart stiffened in his chair. “By God—!”

  “I don’t imagine he would botch the assignment,” Cairncross pursued. “He might perform brilliantly. He would at least be competent. But if he proved to be merely that—if, perhaps, a younger man had to come and take over—well, sir, it would be natural for you to do him the honor of relieving him of his duties yourself, with public thanks for past services.”

  Gerhart nodded hard. “Yes. Yes. High officers who’ve outlived their usefulness but can’t be dismissed are always a nuisance. They’ve built their personal organizations, you see, and blocs of associates and admirers … Well, Flandry. Since the middle of my father’s reign, he has in effect been dreaming up his own assignments, and ruling over a tight-knit staff who report to nobody else. His conduct hasn’t been insubordinate, but sometimes it has come close.”

  “I take your meaning, sir, after having dealt with him.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Sir, I don’t want to get above myself in the Imperial presence. Nevertheless, I am a ranking, governing noble of the Empire. Its welfare requires that its leaders get the respect they’re entitled to. He didn’t exactly refuse my commission, but he told me he’d have to think about whether or not he would condescend to accept it. After which he promptly disappeared on unspecified business, and is not expected back till next week. Meanwhile, I cool my heels.”

  Gerhart stroked his chin. “A direct order—putting him under your command—”

  “Your Majesty is foresighted as well as generous.” Look met look in what Cairncross hoped Gerhart would assume was mutual understanding.

  The guestroom door fluted. Banner jerked her head around. She had almost succeeded in losing herself in a starball game beamcast from Luna. At first she was attracted because she was a fan of several sports, and played when she could; but soon the ballet-like, drea
mlike beauty of the motion took her. Now abruptly it was unreal, against the leap in her pulse and the dryness in her mouth.

  Angered by that, she told herself to calm down and act like an adult. Aloud, she asked, “Who is it, please?”

  There should be no danger. Flandry had decided his place right in Archopolis was probably her safest hideaway. He could smuggle her in; Chives, in constant electronic touch with his immediate juniors, could fend off any visitors while the admiral was away.

  He had been gone for two achingly idle days. She felt more relief than was rational to hear his voice: “The gentleman from Basingstoke. Come on out, if you will. I bear tidings.”

  “A, a minute, please.” She’d been basking under a sunlamp, after a lengthy swim, while she watched the contest. He had not so much as hinted at a pass. Mostly, in what little conversation they’d held on personal topics, he reminisced about her father and drew forth her own memories of his old mentor. Besides, mores were casual on Terra. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to meet him unclad. She scrambled into slacks, blouse, sandals. Only after she was through the door did she remember that she hadn’t stopped to brush her hair and it must look like two comets colliding.

  He didn’t appear to notice, though she suspected he did. He himself wore inconspicuous civilian garb. His expression was grim. “How’ve you been?” he asked.

  “In suspense,” she admitted. “And you?”

  “Skulking, but busy. I had to keep out of sight, you see, to maintain the pretense that I’d never returned here. At the same time, I had to learn what’s been going on; and my people are as wary as anyone could want, but I dared not simply ring them up and inquire.” He shrugged. “Details. I managed. Let’s have a drink while I bring you au courant.”

  She didn’t recognize that expression. Her knowledge of non-Anglic human languages was limited, and fresh only as regarded terms in the Oriental classics that, translated, she enjoyed. She understood him in context, however, and followed him eagerly. As a rule she was a light drinker, her vice was tobacco, but in this hour she desired a large cognac.

  Rain washed silvery down the outer side of the living room, which had been left transparent. Often lightning flashed. She heard no thunder through the soundproofing, and that made the whole scene feel eerily unreal. They settled into loungers opposite each other, amidst soft-colored drapes whose textures were meant to be touched, art from a dozen worlds, a drift of incense. Chives heard their wishes and departed. They lit cigarettes.

  “Well?” Banner demanded. “Speak up … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bark at you.”

  “Would you care for some nerve soother?”

  She shook her head. “Just the drink. I—In my line of work, we dare not use much chemical calming. The temptation could get too great—no addiction, of course, but the temptation.”

  He nodded and said low, “Yes, you’ve suffered a lot of tension and pain, as well as excitement, vicariously, haven’t you?”

  “Vicariously? No! It’s as real for me as it’s been for Yewwl!” Banner was surprised at her vehemence. She quenched it. “I’ll try to explain later, if we have a chance.”

  “Oh, we ought to have that,” Flandry said. “We’re off together for Ramnu.”

  “What?” She stared.

  Chives brought the drinks. Flandry’s was beer. He savored a long swallow. “Aaah.” He smiled. “You know, that’s among the things I miss the most on an extended job. Hard liquor can be carried along in ample supply, or can usually be found if a person isn’t fussy, but dear old beer doesn’t tolerate concentration and reconstitution as certain people who lack taste buds believe, and it has too much volume for more than a few cases to go aboard Hooligan.” He inhaled above the goblet. “Gather ye bubbles while ye may.”

  “Do you always joke?” she wondered.

  He shrugged again. “Might as well. The grief will take care of itself, never fear.” His mouth fell into harsh curves, his gray eyes locked onto hers. “All right, I’ll get serious. To begin, what understanding of the situation do you have?”

  “Hardly any, for certain,” she reminded him. “I’ve made my guesses, and told you them, but you were, oh, noncommittal.”

  “I’d too few facts,” he explained, “and empty speculation is worse than a waste of time, it’s apt to mislead. Actually, for a person who’s been sheltered from the nastier facts of political life, you made a pretty canny surmise or two. But maybe I’d best retrace everything from my viewpoint.”

  He wet his throat afresh, filled his lungs, and proceeded: “It appeared plausible, from your account, that Cairncross is conducting business that he doesn’t care to reveal before he’s ready. If it doesn’t center at Ramnu, at least Ramnu is critical to it. Several years ago, he replaced the management of the commercial Hermetian enterprise there. Since, it’s expanded operations, but at the same time grown remarkably tight-lipped. It also gives your scientific outfit less and less cooperation. The pretexts are not convincing. This hampers your work, restricts its scope, and may at last choke it off altogether.

  “Meanwhile, Cairncross has declined to consider rehabilitating Ramnu. He might reasonably maintain it’s too expensive for his budget. But why wouldn’t he pass your appeal on to Terra? His rank is sufficient that he’d have a fair chance of getting approval; nowadays the Policy Board likes to start worthy projects, if they don’t cost a lot, to help build goodwill for an Imperium that badly needs it. The influx of technicians and money, the stimulus given local industries, would benefit a Hermetian economy that is not in ideal shape at present.

  “Well, you decided to invoke my influence, for old times’ sake. Your idea of its magnitude was unrealistic, but you couldn’t know that. You could at least have persuaded me to go look the place over, and see if I couldn’t invent a lever that would pry authorization loose from the Board.

  “Before your liner could reach Terra, Cairncross arrived personally in a speedster. He wanted me to flit home with him immediately. Coincidence? He is in fact getting a bad name in some limited Imperial circles. No bad enough to provoke action by our lumbering, creaky, half-programmed Empire, but still—Nevertheless, why insist on me handling his chestnuts, and no one else? Why so stiffly opposed to traveling in leisure and comfort on the Queen? Could it be that somebody was bound here aboard her, somebody he’d prefer I not meet?

  “You may remember how I inquired at tedious length about what went on at your host’s place in Starfall, including the layout of the house. You’d taken precautions. But neither you nor yonder Citizen Runeberg is a professional in that field. I can think of a thousand ways to eavesdrop on you.”

  Flandry stopped and drained his beer. “Chives!” he bawled. “More!” To Banner: “I require a pitcher of this whenever I lecture on my trade, which is twice a year at the Corps Academy. Excuse me if I’ve droned on. Professoring is a habit that gets hard to break.”

  She comforted her body with cognac. “No, you’ve done right,” she whispered. “That is, most of it had become fairly clear to me, but you’ve put it in perspective.”

  “The rest is more briefly told. For small blessings, give thanks,” he said. Chives brought a fresh goblet, glanced at how Banner was doing, and withdrew.

  “You made an excuse to delay matters,” she said, to demonstrate that she was not lost. “This required you drop out of sight till after the Queen had left Terra, as if you gave her no more thought. But you alerted your staff.”

  “On a basis of guesswork. I had scant notion of who, or what, if anything, would arrive, or even if that arrival would concern me. It was merely a contingency that needed to be covered. If nothing had come of it, I’d have used the time to think of more contingencies and try to provide against them. As was, I played by ear. It seems likely that Cairncross engaged agents to head you off, but I can’t prove it. No use carting away the one I clobbered, for a quiz. He wouldn’t have known. His bosses are professionals too.”

  “What have you done since?”

&nb
sp; “Research, and assorted preparation-making, and—Yesterday, checking with this office, I found it had received a direct Imperial order placing me under the Duke’s command, to report to him without delay and be prepared to depart for Hermes pronto if not sooner.” Flandry’s grin was vulpine. “Since it’s clear that I would not break contact with my staff, I couldn’t stay away on plea of ignorance. As an experiment, I requested an audience with his Majesty, and was quite unsurprised to be told that no time will be available for me until next month.”

  He sipped. “Therefore I’ve returned like a nice boy,” he said. “His Grace was equally nice. If he thinks I may have had a part in the sudden sleepiness of that agent and in your disappearance, he didn’t let on. And perhaps he doesn’t. A heavy stun gun blast has an amnesiac effect on the preceding few hours, you know. For all that chap can tell, you admitted him and shot him yourself before you fled. The Duke knows how leery of him you are, and that you’ve spent many years partaking in a violent milieu. One thing I have ascertained is that he’s put the rent-a-thug organization on a full-scale hunt for you. But in any event, he was glad to learn I can leave tomorrow early.” He winced. “Exceedingly early.”

  Dismay smote. “But what shall I do?” Banner asked.

  “The plan, such as it is, is this,” Flandry told her. “I’ve explained that it’s best I go in my own speedster. She’s equipped for field work, you see. I can commence in a preliminary way as soon as I reach Hermes. She doesn’t have room for him and his entourage—polite word for bodyguards, plus an aide or two and perhaps a mistress—but his craft is nearly as fast.

  “Once there … well, he’ll suppose, maybe I can be won over. Surely I can be stalled, bogged down, put on false scents, possibly hoodwinked altogether. If not, I can be made to die. My distinct impression is that his Grace doesn’t need much longer to launch his scheme. Else he wouldn’t be acting this boldly; he’s too committed by now to dare be timid.”