by Isaac Asimov
Biron said, “I’m sure you’re right, Rizzett. But that’s the way it will have to be.”
“All right, but I’ve warned you. It will be your argument. What else?”
“Little things. Little things. A supply of detergents. Oh yes, cosmetics, perfume–the things women need. We’ll make the arrangements in time. Let’s get the trailer started.”
And now Gillbret was leaving without speaking. Biron’s eyes followed him, too, and he felt his jaw muscles tighten. Hinriads! They were Hinriads! There was nothing he could do about it. They were Hinriads! Gillbret was one and she was another.
He said, “And, of course, there’ll be clothes for Mr. Hinriad and myself. That won’t be very important.”
“Right. Mind if I use your radio? I’d better stay on this ship till the adjustments are made.”
Biron waited while the initial orders went out. Then Rizzett turned on the seat and said, “I can’t get used to seeing you here, moving, talking, alive. You’re so like him. The Rancher used to speak about you every once in a while. You went to school on Earth, didn’t you?”
“I did. I would have graduated a little over a week ago, if things hadn’t been interrupted.”
Rizzett looked uncomfortable. “Look, about your being sent to Rhodia the way you were. You mustn’t hold it against us. We didn’t like it. I mean, this is strictly between us, but some of the boys didn’t like it at all. The Autarch didn’t consult us, of course. Naturally, he wouldn’t. Frankly, it was a risk on his part. Some of us–I’m not mentioning names–even wondered if we shouldn’t stop the liner you were on and pull you off. Naturally that would have been the worst thing we could possibly have done. Still, we might have done it, except that in the last analysis, we knew that the Autarch must have known what he was doing.”
“It’s nice to be able to inspire that kind of confidence.”
“We know him. There’s no denying it. He’s got it here.” A finger slowly tapped his forehead. “Nobody knows exactly what makes him take a certain course sometimes. But it always seems the right one. At least he’s outsmarted the Tyranni so far and others don’t.”
“Like my father, for instance.”
“I wasn’t thinking of him, exactly, but in a sense, you’re right. Even the Rancher was caught. But then he was a different kind of man. His way of thinking was straight. He would never allow for crookedness. He would always underestimate the worthlessness of the next man. But then again, that was what we liked best, somehow. He was the same to everyone, you know.
“I’m a commoner for all I’m a colonel. My father was a metalworker, you see. It didn’t make any difference to him. And it wasn’t that I was a colonel, either. If he met the engineer’s ‘prentice walking down the corridor, he’d step aside and say a pleasant word or two, and for the rest of the day, the ‘prentice would feel like a master engineman. It was the way he had.
“Not that he was soft. If you needed disciplining, you got it, but no more than your share. What you got, you deserved, and you knew it. When he was through, he was through. He didn’t keep throwing it at you at odd moments for a week or so. That was the Rancher.
“Now the Autarch, he’s different. He’s just brains. You can’t get next to him, no matter who you are. For instance. He doesn’t really have a sense of humor. I can’t speak to him the way I’m speaking to you right now. Right now, I’m just talking. I’m relaxed. It’s almost free association. With him, you say exactly what’s on your mind with no spare words. And you use formal phraseology, or he’ll tell you you’re slovenly. But then, the Autarch’s the Autarch, and that’s that.”
Biron said, “I’ll have to agree with you as far as the Autarch’s brains are concerned. Did you know that he had deduced my presence aboard this ship before he ever got on?”
“Hedid? We didn’t know that. Now, there, that’s what I mean. He was going to go aboard the Tyrannian cruiser alone. To us, it seemed suicide. We didn’t like it. But we assumed he knew what he was doing, and he did. He could have told us you were probably aboard ship. He must have known it would be great news that the Rancher’s son had escaped. But it’s typical. He wouldn’t.”
Artemisia sat on one of the lower bunks in the cabin. She had to bend into an uncomfortable position to avoid having the frame of the second bunk pry into her first thoracic vertebra, but that was a small item to her at the moment.
Almost automatically, she kept passing the palms of her hands down the side of her dress. She felt frayed and dirty, and very tired.
She was tired of dabbing at her hands and face with damp napkins. She was tired of wearing the same clothes for a week. She was tired of hair which seemed dank and stringy by now.
And then she was almost on her feet again, ready to turn about sharply; she wasn’t going to see him; she wouldn’t look at him.
But it was only Gillbret. She sank down again. “Hello, Uncle Oil.”
Gillbret sat down opposite her. For a moment his thin face seemed anxious and then it started wrinkling into a smile. “I think a week of this ship is very unamusing too. I was hoping you could cheer me up.”
But she said, “Now, Uncle Oil, don’t start using psychology on me. If you think you’re going to cajole me into feeling a responsibility for you, you’re wrong. I’m much more likely to hit you.”
“If it will make you feel better–”
“I warn you again. If you hold out your arm for me to hit, I’ll do it, and if you say ‘Does that make you feel better?’ I’ll do it again.”
“In any case, it’s obvious you’ve quarreled with Biron. What about?”
“I don’t see why there’s any necessity for discussion. Just leave me alone.” Then, after a pause, “He thinks Father did what the Autarch said he did. I hate him for that.”
“Your father?”
“No! That stupid, childish, sanctimonious fool!”
“Presumably Biron. Good. You hate him. You couldn’t put a knife edge between the kind of hate that has you sitting here like this and something that would seem to my own bachelor mind to be a rather ridiculous excess of love.”
“Uncle oil,” she said, “could he really have done it?”
“Biron? Done what?”
“No! Father. Could Father have done it? Could he have informed against the Rancher?”
Gillbret looked thoughtful and very sober. “I don’t know.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You know, he did give Biron up to the Tyranni.”
“Because he knew it was a trap,” she said vehemently. “And it was. That horrible Autarch meant it as such. He said so. The Tyranni knew who Biron was and sent him to Father on purpose. Father did the only thing he could do. That should be obvious to anybody.”
“Even if we accept that”–and again that sideways look–” he did try to argue you into a rather unamusing kind of marriage. If Hinrik could bring himself to do that–”
She interrupted. “He had no way out there, either.”
“My dear, if you’re going to excuse every act of subservience to the Tyranni as something he had to do, why, then, how do you know he didn’t have to hint something about the Rancher to the Tyranni?”
“Because I’m sure he wouldn’t. You don’t know Father the way I do. He hates the Tyranni. He does. I know it. He wouldn’t go out of his way to help them. I admit that he’s afraid of them and doesn’t dare oppose them openly, but if he could avoid it somehow, he would never help them.”,
“How do you know he could avoid it?”
But she shook her head violently, so that her hair tumbled about and hid her eyes. It hid the tears a bit too.
Gillbret watched a moment, then spread his hands helplessly and left.
The trailer was joined to the Remorseless by a wasp-waist corridor attached to the emergency air lock in the rear of the ship. It was several dozen times larger than the Tyranni vessel in capacity, almost humorously outsized.
The Autarch joined Biron in a last inspection. He said, “
Do you find anything lacking?”
Biron said, “No. I think we’ll be quite comfortable.”
“Good. And by the way, Rizzett tells me the Lady Artemisia is not well, or at least that she looks unwell. If she requires medical attention, it might be wise to send her to my ship.”
“She is quite well,” said Biron curtly.
“If you say so. Would you be ready to leave in twelve hours?”
“In two hours, if you wish.”
Biron passed through the connecting corridor (he had to stoop a little) into the Remorseless proper.
He said with a careful evenness of tone, “You’ve got a private suite back there, Artemisia. I won’t bother you. I’ll stay here most of the time.”
And she replied coldly, “You don’t bother me, Rancher. It doesn’t matter to me where you are.”
And then the ships blasted off, and after a single Jump they found themselves at the edge of the Nebula. They waited for a few hours while the final calculations were made on Jonti’s ship. Inside the Nebula it would be almost blind navigation.
Biron stared glumly at the visiplate. There was nothing there! One entire half of the celestial sphere was taken up with blackness, unrelieved by a spark of light. For the first time, Biron realized how warm and friendly the stars were, how they filled space.
“It’s like dropping through a hole in space,” he muttered to Gillbret.
And then they Jumped again, into the Nebula.
Almost simultaneously Simok Aratap, Commissioner of the Great Khan, at the head of ten armed cruisers, listened to his navigator and said, “That doesn’t matter. Follow them anyway.”
And not one light-year from the point at which the Remorseless entered the Nebula, ten Tyranni vessels did likewise.
Sixteen: Hounds!
SIMOK ARATAP WAS a little uncomfortable in his uniform. Tyrannian uniforms were made of moderately coarse materials and fit only indifferently well. It was not soldier-like to complain of such inconveniences. In fact, it was part of the Tyrannian military tradition that a little discomfort on the part of the soldier was good for discipline.
But still Aratap could bring himself to rebel against that tradition to the extent of saying, ruefully, “The tight collar irritates my neck.”
Major Andros, whose collar was as tight, and who had been seen in no other than military dress in the memory of man, said, “When alone, it would be quite within regulations to open it. Before any of the officers or men, any deviation from regulation dress would be disturbing influence.”
Aratap sniffed. It was the second change induced by the quasi-military nature of the expedition. In addition to being forced into uniform, he had to listen to an increasingly self-assertive military aide. That had begun even before they left Rhodia.
Andros had put it to him baldly.
He had said, “Commissioner, we will need ten ships.”
Aratap had looked up, definitely annoyed. At the moment he was getting ready to follow the young Widemos in a single vessel. He laid aside the capsules in which he was preparing his report for the Khan’s Colonial Bureau, to be forwarded in the unhappy case that he did not return from the expedition.
“Ten ships, Major?”
“Yes, sir. Less will not do.”
“Why not?”
“I intend to maintain a reasonable security. The young man is going somewhere. You say there is a well-developed conspiracy in existence. Presumably, the two fit together.”
“And therefore?”
“And therefore we must be prepared for a possibly well-developed conspiracy. One that might be able to handle a single ship.”
“Or ten. Or a hundred. Where does security cease?”
“One must make a decision. In cases of military action, it is my responsibility. I suggest ten.”
Aratap’s contact lenses gleamed unnaturally in the wall light as he raised his eyebrows. The military carried weight. Theoretically, in times of peace, the civilian made the decisions, but here again, military tradition was a difficult thing to set aside.
He said cautiously, “I will consider the matter.”
“Thank you. If you do not choose to accept my recommendations, and my suggestions have only been advanced as such, I assure you”–the major’s heels clicked sharply, but the ceremonial deference was rather empty, and Aratap knew it–” that would be your privilege. You would leave me, however, no choice but to resign my commission.”
It was up to Aratap to retrieve what he could from that position. He said, “It is not my intention to hamper you in any decision you may make on a purely military question, Major. I wonder if you might be as amenable to my decisions in matters of purely political importance.”
“What matters are these?”
“There is the problem of Hinrik. You objected yesterday to my suggestion that he accompany us.”
The major said dryly, “I consider it unnecessary. With our forces in action, the presence of outlanders would be bad for morale.”
Aratap sighed softly, just below the limits of hearing. Yet Andros was a competent man in his way. There would be no use in displaying impatience.
He said, “Again, I agree with you. I merely ask you to consider the political aspects of the situation. As you know, the execution of the old Rancher of Widemos was politically uncomfortable. It stirred up the Kingdoms unnecessarily. However necessary the execution was, it makes it desirable to refrain from having the death of the son attributed to us. As far as the people of Rhodia know, the young Widemos has kidnapped the daughter of the Director, the girl, by the way, being a popular and much publicized member of the Hinriads. It would be quite fitting, quite understandable, to have the Director head the punitive expedition.
“It would be a dramatic move, very gratifying to Rhodian patriotism. Naturally, he would ask for Tyrannian assistance, and receive it, but that can be played down. It would be easy, and necessary, to fix this expedition in the popular mind as a Rhodian one. If the inner workings of the conspiracy are uncovered, it will have been a Rhodian discovery. If the young Widemos is executed, it would be a Rhodian execution, as far as the other Kingdoms are concerned.”
The major said, “It would still be a bad precedent to allow Rhodian vessels to accompany a Tyrannian military expedition. They would hamper us in a fight. In that way, the question becomes a military one.”
“I did not say, my dear Major, that Hinrik would command a ship. Surely you know him better than to think him capable of commanding or even anxious to try. He will stay with us. There will be no other Rhodian aboard ship.”
“In that case, I waive my objection, Commissioner,” said the major.
The Tyrannian fleet had maintained their position two light-years off Lingane for the better part of a week and the situation was becoming increasingly unstable.
Major Andros advocated an immediate landing on Lingane. “The Autarch of Lingane,” he said, “has gone to considerable lengths to have us think him a friend of the Khan, but I do not trust these men who travel abroad. They gain unsettling notions. It is strange that just as he returns, the young Widemos travels to meet him.”
“He has not tried to hide either his travels or his return, Major. And we do not know that Widemos goes to meet him. He maintains an orbit about Lingane. Why does he not land?”
“Why does he maintain an orbit? Let us question what he does and not what he does not do.”
“I can propose something which will fit the pattern.”
“I would be glad to hear it.”
Aratap placed a finger inside his collar and tried futilely to stretch it. He said, “Since the young man is waiting, we can presume he is waiting for something or somebody. It would be ridiculous to think that, having gone to Lingane by so direct and rapid a route–a single Jump, in fact that he is merely waiting out of indecision. I say, then, that he is waiting for a friend or friends to reach him. Thus reinforced, he will proceed elsewhere. The fact that he is not landing on Lingane directly would
indicate that he does not consider such an action safe. That would indicate that Lingane in general–the Autarch in particular–is not concerned in the conspiracy, although individual Linganians may be.”
“I don’t know if we can always trust the obvious solution to be the correct one.”
“My dear Major, this is not merely an obvious solution. It is a logical one. It fits a pattern,”
“Maybe it does. But just the same, if there are no further developments in twenty-four hours, I will have no choice but to order an advance Linganeward.”
Aratap frowned at the door through which the major had left. It was disturbing to have to control at once the restless conquered and the short-sighted conquerors. Twenty-four hours. Something might happen; otherwise he might have to find some way of stopping Andros.
The door signal sounded and Aratap looked up with irritation. Surely it could not be Andros returning. It wasn’t. The tall, stooped form of Hinrik of Rhodia was in the doorway, behind him a glimpse of the guard who accompanied him everywhere on the ship. Theoretically, Hinrik had complete freedom of movement. Probably he himself thought he had. At least, he never paid any attention to the guard at his elbow.
Hinrik smiled mistily. “Am I disturbing you, Commissioner?”
“Not at all. Take a seat, Director.” Aratap remained standing. Hinrik seemed not to notice that.
Hinrik said, “I have something of importance to discuss with you.” He paused, and some of the intentness passed out of his eyes. He added in quite a different tone, “What a large, fine ship this is!”
“Thank you, Director.” Aratap smiled tightly. The nine accompanying ships were typically minute in size, but the flagship on which they stood was an outsized model adapted from the designs of the defunct Rhodian navy. It was perhaps the first sign of the gradual softening of the Tyrannian military spirit that more and more of such ships were being added to the navy. The fighting unit was still the tiny two-to-three-man cruiser, but increasing the top brass found reasons for requiring large ships for their own headquarters.