The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  Something must have gone wrong up there at Riandar. Something must have made Gorham decide to come back and make a separate deal of his own. But why? There was that pile of clothes in the Waern house. Had he——?

  Maybe that blast had killed Gorham and destroyed his evidence.

  He looked around hopefully. It was possible. No effort had been made to restrain him. He still controlled the Ministry. No effort had been made to limit his authority.

  He picked up a sheet of paper. Oh, no? They didn't want to limit him—they wanted everything. Here was this demand for a conclave.

  And with that Waern kid running around loose, that was bad.

  And he had no one to talk to! Of all the people in this palace, not a single one could serve as confidant. With Gorham gone——

  He shuffled through the papers. Yes, here was the formal demand for a conclave. He looked at it unhappily.

  And here was the transcript of the Waern claim. It looked too good.

  He tossed the papers back to the desk. It was good, and he knew it. He'd seen the originals in the heraldric files. They were destroyed, of course. But here was a photo of that clan book!

  And worse, here was the notice from the Resident Commissioner that the claimant had requested protective intervention from the Galactic Federation. That was really bad. He could remember his interview with the commissioner on that.

  Jackson had always been something of a problem. He was a stubborn man. But up to now, he'd always backed down—if enough pressure was put on him. This time? Hah!

  He'd come in, bringing that rancher—that Kent Michaels. Stern frowned.

  Hadn't old Jake said that guy had been shot down—was dead?

  He hadn't looked very dead. As councilor of the Waern clan, Michaels was supposed to be calling on Jackson for backing. Who, Stern wondered, was backing who? He recalled the interview.

  They'd come in. And he'd started to establish dominance over Jackson.

  Then that Michaels had butted in. He was worse than old Jake. What with one thing and another, he'd backed Stern into every corner in the office.

  It had ended very simply.

  Jackson had simply declared that there would be a conclave.

  The Stellar Guard detachment would be in attendance. No irregularities would be tolerated.

  And he'd even named the day—today. Then the two of them had walked out.

  Stern twisted his chair around viciously and sat down. He punched at a button on his desk.

  An aide came through the door. That was another thing. After that fiasco at the Michaels ranch, he'd had to get a new aide. He motioned the man forward impatiently.

  "You have made final arrangements for the conclave?"

  "Yes, sir. The Heraldric Branch has everything set up. The clans have already gathered in the Throne Room. The private conversation will be held in the Blue Palace. After the conversation, you will escort the claimant across the south lawn, to the Throne Room." The aide half turned.

  "I can get you the plan and diagrams, sir."

  Stern waved a hand. "Never mind. I've seen them." He paused.

  "Now, has my space yacht been positioned back of the Blue Palace? Is it properly serviced?"

  The aide paused. "Yes, sir." He looked curious, but said no more.

  Stern examined him haughtily. "Very well," he said. "You will remember my instructions. Discuss the yacht with no one. You may go."

  He watched as the door closed, then got out of his chair again. It was time for the conversation. He glanced about the office, then went out into the private garden.

  * * * * *

  As he walked, he looked at the side paths among the trees, which seemed to beckon to ever more enticing vistas beyond. There were the miniature landscapes, with their mountains and lakes. There were the small cottages, where one could sit and enjoy a cooling drink. He smiled wryly and walked across a miniature bridge.

  As he reached the other side, he stopped, to lean against the rail. This was not going to be easy to give up.

  He watched the water birds for a while, then went on his way.

  As he came through a small grove, he saw the yacht. It had been set down where it could easily take off, and yet where it was impossible to see unless one came within a few meters. The aide had done well. He'd have to remember——

  No, he thought, someone else would be dealing with that aide in the future. He'd be long gone.

  He walked up to the ship and opened the door, looking inside. Then, he climbed in, glancing at his watch. It was past time for the conversation. The claimant and his warden would be waiting. So would the other clan wardens, who waited to make up the advance guard of honor.

  He wondered how long they'd wait.

  He sat down in the pilot's chair and glanced at the gauges. Then he flipped on the view panels and looked outside at the trees.

  It had been a lot of fun. But——

  "No use taking foolish chances," he told himself.

  He reached for the starting bar, then hesitated.

  "Wait a minute," he told himself. "Who's the prime minister around here, anyway? I can——"

  He sat back, thinking. Of course. It was such a beautifully simple idea. Really foolproof. He should have thought of it before.

  There would be only the few of them in that private conversation. He should have realized that. They'd present no difficulty. The wardens? He snorted.

  Just a bunch of dressed-up idiots. No trouble there. Anyway, only one of them was directly concerned. And he wouldn't really know what was going on. Only the claimant would know. He laughed.

  "Wonder just how it feels to get ordered around like that?"

  After the conversation, he could walk into the conclave with signed papers. And who would dare challenge that? Even the commissioner's people would have to admit defeat. He smiled. Michaels? He'd be standing there with his mouth open. Nothing he could do. It would be too late.

  And once he got that crowd back into his jurisdiction, there'd be no further problems. He'd be sure of that.

  This was actually what he'd been waiting for! This was a formal conclave, called at the request of the tribes themselves. They'd have to choose now. And there was no one else.

  He, Daniel Stern, would walk out of that Throne Room with the silver robes over his shoulders.

  King Daniel!

  He climbed out of the yacht and paced toward the small doorway, at the back of the Blue Palace.

  He came into the private conference room and walked with dignified stride toward his place. As he came under the canopy, he stopped and placed his hands on the rail.

  With haughty appraisal, he allowed his gaze to roam over the men who stood to flank the outer door. At last, he stopped, to center his attention on the two who stood in the doorway.

  Here were the two key figures—the claimant and his warden.

  The man on the right was dressed as for battle, his polished sling stick shoved into his sash at an angle so as to be easy to his right hand, just to the left of it was thrust the long hillman's knife. There was only one thing unorthodox about his equipment. Stern frowned as he inspected that.

  In his right hand, the man carried a long device of wood and metal. Obviously, it was a weapon of sorts. Stern examined it carefully, speculating as to its nature.

  It was, he finally decided, some type of beam projector. Judging from the long barrel, it would throw a narrow cone. Mentally, Stern calculated the probable dispersion.

  Some Stellar Guard weapon, he thought, that had been loaned to this fellow. Well, it made no difference. Whoever the fellow was, he'd never dare use such a device here. He turned his attention to the other—the claimant.

  So this was Pete Waern?

  The boy was slight, he noted, even for a native. Definitely, the studious type, decided Stern. He'd present no problem at all.

  The regent almost allowed himself a smile. This was going to be easy! He motioned the two forward.

  "You have matter
s for our attention?" he inquired formally.

  Waern stepped to the rail.

  "I here claim to be the rightful heir to the throne of Oredan," he said slowly. He took a book from under his arm and laid it on the table beside Stern.

  "I here present the book of my ancestors," he went on. "In it, at the place marked, is the contract of the last lawful king of Oredan, and of his queen. I was designated to be their son."

  Stern nodded. "It is well," he said. "We shall consider this matter."

  He opened the book and glanced at the script and the two signature stamps. Then he jerked back dramatically, staring at the book in simulated consternation. He bent forward again, for a closer look.

  "This is most strange," he said in a low, wondering tone. He shook his head.

  "These looked authentic in reproduction," he murmured. "But now?" He glanced at Pete and was forced to repress a smile.

  The expression on the Waern boy's face was perfect. He had him! He looked about the room, then gazed sternly at the claimant.

  "I find it almost impossible to believe," he said coldly, "that there is a person in this realm who would have the temerity to bring such a document to my attention for serious consideration."

  He stabbed a finger out to point at the book and fixed Pete with an accusing stare.

  "I find this a complete forgery," he said harshly. "Your claim is, of course, denied and declared fraudulent." He stepped around the rail, to tower over the boy.

  "You will, therefore, acknowledge your crime in writing." He reached out and took a pen from the table.

  "You will now write the words, 'forgery, no genuine contract,' over these pages. And you will sign your name." He paused, thrusting the pen toward Pete.

  "You will then——"

  * * * * *

  The warden stepped forward.

  "Pete," he said sharply. "Listen to me!"

  Stern looked up in annoyance. The Waern boy had started to take the pen. Now, he stopped and jerked around.

  "You will listen to nothing this man tells you," ordered the warden. "You will do nothing he asks. Do you understand that?"

  The boy nodded. "Thanks, Don," he said. "He almost got me that time."

  Stern glared angrily at the warden.

  "You will go back to your place," he ordered. "Do not attempt to interfere again."

  Incredulously, he watched as the warden shook his head.

  "Sorry, fellow," he heard the man say, "but that doesn't work on me. And it won't work on Pete—not again. Now suppose we do this thing right."

  Stern examined the man more closely.

  He was larger than the Waern boy, and more strongly built. But he was very little older—and definitely no giant. He was at least fifteen centimeters shorter than Stern himself, and much lighter. Looked, Stern decided, like a galactic. He felt a surge of hatred.

  No little man could dare defy him!

  He tilted his head a little and looked downward into the warden's eyes.

  "Your duties are to protect the person of this boy, so long as he is a legitimate claimant for the throne," he said contemptuously, "not to advise him. Your presence here is merely required by tradition, not by real need."

  He smiled coldly. "And, since his claim is obviously nonexistent, you have no standing here. Leave this palace at once!" He pointed imperiously at the door, then turned his attention to Pete again.

  "You will write as I told you. Now!"

  "Ignore him, Pete." The warden raised his weapon a little.

  "Name's Michaels," he told Stern conversationally. "Donald Michaels. You've met my father already." He moved the long weapon again.

  "You sent some of your people up to our place a while ago. I destroyed them with this." He jerked his head downward at the barrel of the weapon.

  "Brought it along with me when I came down here. It's quite capable of taking you apart, I assure you." He moved a hand on the stock.

  "And if you attempt any more of that unlawful coercion," he added, "that's just what will happen. I'll protect my claimant, you see."

  He tilted his head, to indicate the other clan wardens.

  "These men know what is supposed to be done here as well as you and I," he added. "We all know this is a purely formal meeting. The validity of these documents has already been determined."

  "As Prime Minister, I——"

  "It is no part of your duty here to rule on the validity of any document," Michaels interrupted. "And it certainly isn't proper to attempt in any manner to persuade a claimant to abandon his claim. Not here. These things are proper only before the full conclave."

  "Are you trying to tell me my duties?" Stern looked incredulous. This was not going well at all!

  "I am doing just that," Don told him evenly. "Apparently someone has to." He glanced around the room.

  "Are there any other claimants present?"

  Stern felt drained of energy. What was this? The father had been impossible to control—like Gorham. Did the son combine other powers with that resistance? Where had these Michaels people come from? He tried once more.

  "There are no valid claimants present," he snapped sharply. "I——"

  "That's not exactly what I asked," Don told him. "But we'll take it as meaning that Pete's the only claimant. So, I demand that you follow the ritual and escort him to the conclave." He waved the weapon.

  "Come on. We've been held up here long enough. Let's go."

  * * * * *

  Suddenly, Stern felt powerless. This whole thing had fallen apart. He should never have come in here. He should have just taken off—as he had intended. In space, he would have been safe, at least. Here? He bent his head resignedly.

  He could try one more thing. This was a young man—inexperienced. Maybe——

  "You will precede us," he said.

  "No," Don told him, "I don't think I will. I think it will be better if I leave that honor to one of the other wardens. I want to be able to see you." He jerked his head at a man who stood to the left of the door.

  "Will you honor us, Mernar-dar?"

  The other tilted his head. "It is I who am honored," he said. He turned and went out the door.

  Dazedly, Stern walked forward, pacing with the claimant. He paused as he got to the porch. Michaels was still standing inside the door.

  "Right here," he said coldly, "we shall return to a very old custom. I shall remain, to protect the rear. And I shall watch the entire progress of the advance to the Throne Room." He smiled grimly.

  "You are, I suppose, familiar with the range of a medium duty blaster?"

  Stern nodded. "I've seen them operate," he admitted.

  "Good." Don nodded. "This thing will outrange them a little. I'll have you in my sights all the way. Remember that, and don't do anything that might cause me to fear for Pete's safety."

  The wardens spread out, to fan out before Stern and Pete. Acting the part of scouts before a column, they started across the wide lawn, toward the Throne Room.

  Stern watched them for a moment, then took Pete's arm. Together, they walked down the long flight of steps. For a moment, they paused at the path, as ritual demanded, for a signal to continue.

  Stern allowed his thoughts to race.

  There was no question about it now, he thought. This boy would be upheld by the conclave—if he got before it. And if he were now sustained, an ex-regent named Stern would find himself in very grave trouble indeed.

  This was much worse than that mob in Tonar City. He glanced toward the gate in the wall ahead and to his right.

  Just beyond that door lay his yacht—and safety. If he could only figure out a way——

  * * * * *

  Across the lawn, a warden was making the signal for the advance. The way, then, was ritually clear. Stern stepped forward, still glancing toward that door.

  They would pass within just a few meters of it. Now, where was that Michaels?

  Suddenly, he realized he could never hope to get out his hidden weapon,
find Michaels with it, and vaporize him. Not until the other had plenty of time to release a beam of his own. He shuddered, remembering the destruction that weapon had caused up in the Morek.

  At this range, even the narrowest blaster beam would fan out enough to destroy a man's entire body. And that thing, whatever it was——

  Suddenly, he smiled. That was it! It would spread out too much.

  He flipped out the little khroal from its hiding place in his sleeve and placed it against Pete's back. With his other hand, he gripped the boy around the throat. Then he turned, seeking to locate Michaels. The fellow was out of sight.

  Probably, Stern thought, he had remained in the shadow of the huge pillars of the porch—or even inside the Blue Palace itself.

  His whole body itched. The man might fire without thinking! He raised his voice.

  "Can you hear me, Michaels?"

  He had been right. The answering voice came from the palace doorway.

  "I can hear."

  "Then listen carefully." Stern put all his persuasive power into his voice.

  "I shall not harm this boy unless I am forced to, but I assure you that if I am interfered with, I'll not hesitate. From where you are, you can do nothing. Any blast you release will spread out to kill him as well as me. You realize that?"

  "I can hear you." Don's voice was expressionless.

  "And," added Stern loudly, "if I am struck or attacked, I will have time to release this khroal. This is also obvious, is it not?"

  There was no answer. Stern frowned. What was the fellow doing? He drew a deep breath. He'd have to go through with it now, no matter what.

  "I am going to the gate in the wall over there. Shortly after I go through that gate, I shall release this boy, and use a means of escape which I have prepared. You may watch me, of course, but make no effort to stop me—or this boy dies."

  He paused again, waiting for an answer.

  The wardens, he could see, had stopped and stood, undecided. None of them was close enough to be dangerous.

  This, he thought with a surge of hope, was going to work out after all. He turned his eyes for a swift glance at his captive.

  Once at the yacht, he could release a bit of energy from the khroal. This boy had destroyed all his careful plans. No, he decided, Pete Waern could not be allowed to live and enjoy those good things the palace afforded.