“Sir,” Flandry purred, while his inwardness uncoiled itself for action, “my apologies. I meant no disrespect. You’ve simply taken me by surprise. Please think. I’ve commitments of my own. In fact, considering them, I realize they require my absence for about two weeks. After that, I can probably make for Hermes in my personal craft. When I’ve conducted enough interviews and studies there, I should know who else to bring.”
He lifted his glass. “Shall we discuss details, milord?”
Hours later, when Cairncross had left, Flandry thought: Oh, yes, something weird is afoot in Sector Antares.
Perhaps the most suggestive thing was his reaction to my mention of the Queen of Apollo. He tried to hide it, but. . . . Now who or what might be aboard her?
IV
Banner had not seen Terra since she graduated at the age of twenty-one, to marry Sumarokov and depart for Ramnu. Moreover, the Academy had been an intense, largely self-contained little world, from which cadets seldom found chances to venture during their four years. She had not hankered to, either. Childhood on Dayan, among the red-gold Tammuz Mountains, followed by girlhood as a Navy brat in the strange outposts where her father got stationed, had not prepared her for any gigapolis. Nor had her infrequent later visits to provincial communities. Starfall, the biggest, now seemed like a village, nearly as intimate and unterrifying as Bethyaakov her birthplace.
She had made acquaintances in the ship. A man among them had told her a number of helpful facts, such as the names of hotels she could afford in the capital. He offered to escort her around as well, but his kindnesses were too obviously in aid of getting her into bed, and she resented that. Only one of her few affairs had been a matter of real love, but none had been casual.
Thus she found herself more alone, more daunted among a million people and a thousand towers, than ever in a wildwood or the barrenness of a moon. Maybe those numbers, million, thousand, were wrong. It felt as if she could see that many from the groundside terminal, but she was dazed. She did know that they went on beyond sight, multiplied over and over around the curve of the planet. Archopolis was merely a nexus; no matter if the globe had blue oceans and green open spaces—some huge, being property of nobility—it was a single city.
She collected her modest baggage, hailed a cab, blurted her destination to the autopilot, and fled. In nightmare beauty, the city gleamed, surged, droned around her.
At first the Fatima Caravanserai seemed a refuge. It occupied the upper third of an unpretentious old building, and had itself gone dowdy; yet it was quiet, reasonably clean, adequately equipped, and the registry desk held a live clerk, not a machine, who gave her cordial greeting and warned against the fish in the restaurant; the meat was good, he said.
But when she entered her room and the door slid shut, suddenly it was as though the walls drew close.
Nonsense! she told herself. I’m tired and tense. I need to relax, and this evening have a proper dinner, with wine and the works.
And who for company?
That question chilled. Solitude had never before oppressed her. If anything, she tended to be too independent of her fellow humans. But it was horrible to find herself an absolute stranger in an entire world.
Nonsense! she repeated. I do know Admiral Flandry . . . slightly. . . . Will he remember me? No doubt several of my old instructors are still around. . . . Are they? The Xenological Society maintains a clubhouse, and my name may strike a chord in somebody if I drop in. . . . Can it?
A cigarette between her lips, she began a whirl of unpacking. Thereafter a hot shower and a soft robe gave comfort. She blanked the viewer wall and keyed for a succession of natural scenes and historic monuments which the infotrieve told her was available, plus an excellent rendition of the pipa music she particularly enjoyed. The conveyor delivered a stiff cognac as ordered. Local time was 1830; in a couple of hours she might feel like eating. Now she settled down in a lounger to ease off.
No. She remained too restless. Rising, prowling, she reached the phone. There she halted. For a moment her fingers wrestled each other. It would likely be pointless to try calling Flandry before tomorrow. And then she could perhaps spend days getting her message through. A prominent man on Terra must have to live behind a shield-burg of subordinates.
Well, what harm in finding out the number?
That kept the system busy for minutes, since she did not know how to program its search through the bureaucratic structure. No private listing turned up, nor had she expected any. Two strings of digits finally flashed onto the screen. The first was coded for “Office,” the second for “Special.”
Was the latter an answering service? In that case, she could record her appeal immediately.
To her surprise, a live face appeared, above a uniform that sported twin silver comets on the shoulders. To her amazement, though the Anglic she heard was unmistakably Terran, the person was an alert-looking young woman. Banner had had the idea that Terran women these days were mostly ornaments, drudges, or whores. “Lieutenant Okuma,” she heard. “May I help you?”
“I—well, I—” Banner collected herself. “Yes, please. I’m anxious to get in touch with Admiral Flandry. It’s important. If you’ll tell him my name, Miriam Abrams, and remind him I’m the daughter of Max Abrams, I’m sure he—”
“Hold on!” Okuma rapped. “Have you newly arrived?”
“Yes, a few hours ago.”
“On the Queen of Apollo?”
“Why, yes, but—”
“Have you contacted anybody else?”
“Only customs and immigration officers, and the hotel staff, and—” Banner bridled. “What does this mean?”
“Excuse me,” Okuma said. “I believe it means a great deal. I’ve been manning this line all day. Don’t ask me why; I’ve not been told.” She leaned forward. Her manner intensified. “Would you tell me where you are and what you want?”
“Fatima Caravanserai, Room 776,” Banner blurted, “and I’m hoping he’ll use his influence on behalf of a sophont species that desperately needs help. The Grand Duke of Hermes has refused it, so—” Her words faltered, her heart stammered.
“Grand Duke, eh? . . . Enough,” Okuma said. “Please pay attention. Admiral Flandry has been called away on business. Where, has not been given out, and he isn’t expected back until next week.”
“Oh, I can wait.”
“Listen! I have a message for whoever might debark from the Queen and try calling him. That seems to be you, Donna Abrams. Stay where you are. Keep the door double-secured. Do not leave on any account. Do not admit anyone whatsoever, no matter what that person may claim, unless he gives you a password. When you hear it, be prepared to leave immediately. Do what you are told, and save your questions till later, when you’re safe. Do you understand?”
“What? No, I don’t. What’s wrong?”
“I have not been informed.” The lieutenant’s mouth twisted into a smile. “But Sir Dominic is usually right about such things.”
Banner had met danger more than once. She had always found it exhilarating. Her back straightened, her pulse slowed. Having repeated the instructions, she asked, “What’s the password?”
“‘Basingstoke.’” Okuma smiled again, wryly. “I don’t know what it signifies. He has an odd sense of humor. Stand by. I’ve a call to make. Good luck.” The screen darkened.
Banner started repacking.
The phone chimed.
The face she saw when she accepted was round and rubicund under yellow curls. “Dr. Abrams?” the man said. “Welcome to Terra. My name is Leighton, Tom Leighton, and I’m in the lobby. May I come up, or would you like to come down and join me?”
Again she sensed her aloneness. “Why?” she whispered.
“Well, I’m a colleague of yours. I’ve admired your work tremendously; those are classic presentations. By sheer chance, I was meeting a friend off the Queen of Apollo today, and he mentioned you’d been aboard. Believe me, it took detective work to track you down
! Apparently you threw yourself into a cab and disappeared. I’ve had a data scan checking every hotel and airline and—Well, anyway, Dr. Abrams, I was hoping we could go out to dinner. My treat. I’d be honored.”
She stared into the bland blue eyes. “Tell me,” she said, “what do you think of the cater-cousin relationship among the Greech on Ramnu?”
“Huh?”
“Do you agree with me it’s religious in origin, or do you think Brunamonti is right and it’s a relic of the former military organization?”
“Oh, that! I agree with you absolutely.”
“How interesting,” Banner said, “in view of the fact that no such people as the Greech exist, that Ramnuans don’t have religions of human type and most definitely have never had armies, and nobody named Brunamonti has ever done Xenology on their planet. Have you any further word for me, Citizen Leighton?”
“Ai, wait, wait a minute—”
She cut him off.
Presently her door was pealing. She punched the callbox and his voice came through: “Dr. Abrams, please, this is a terrible misunderstanding. Let me in and I’ll explain.”
“Go away.” Despite the steadiness in her voice, her flesh crawled. She was concerned.
“Dr. Abrams, I must insist. The matter involves a very high-ranking person. If you don’t open the door, we’ll have to take measures.”
“Or I will. Like calling the police.”
“I tell you, it’s a top-grade noble who wants to see you. He can have the police break you out of there. He’d rather not, because what he wants is for your benefit too, but—Uh, who are you?” Leighton asked somebody else. “What do you want?”
“Basingstoke,” rippled a baritone voice. A moment later, Banner heard a thud. “You can open up now,” the newcomer continued.
She did. Leighton lay in a huddle on the hall floor. Above him stood a figure in a hooded cloak. He drew the cowl back and she knew Flandry.
He gestured at the fallen shape. “A stun gun shot,” he said. “I’ll drag him in here to sleep it off. He’s not worth killing, just a petty predator hired through an agency that provides reputable people with disreputable services. He’s probably got a companion or two down below, on the qui vive. We’ll spirit you upward. Chives—do you remember Chives?—has an aircar on the roof for us.” He bowed and quickly, deftly kissed her hand. “I’m sorry about this informal reintroduction, my dear. I’ll try to make amends at dinner. We have a reservation a couple of hours hence at Deirdre’s. You wouldn’t believe what they do with seafood there.”
V
His Imperial Majesty, High Emperor Gerhart Siegmund Molitor, graciously agreed to withdraw from the reception for a private talk with its guest of honor. They passed in stateliness through the swirl of molten rainbows which several hundred costumes made of the grand ballroom. Folk bowed, curtsied, or saluted, depending on status, and hoped for a word from the august mouth. A few got one, and promptly became centers of eager attention. There were exceptions to this, of course, mostly older men of reserved demeanor, admirals, ministers of state, members of the Policy Board, the power brokers. Their stares followed the Duke of Hermes. He would be invited later to meet with various of them.
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.
Finall
y 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 fox, 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 demythologizing 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.”
Flandry's Legacy: The Technic Civilization Saga Page 5