Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  “It wasn't. Why'd you think it was?”

  “Because you asked . . . and I told . . .” Dar swallowed heavily. “No. Had to be a dream.”

  “Asked what? Told me what?”

  “Well—my mission. What I'm supposed to do on Terra.”

  “No dream,” Whitey assured him. “And I timed it just right. In vino veritas.”

  “ ‘In wine there is truth'?” Dar stared, aghast.

  Whitey's eyelids drooped. “You do know a little Latin! Amazing, in this day and age. Who managed to drum it through your head?”

  “My old boss, a bartender named Cholly. But . . .”

  “Hm. Must be an interesting man.” Whitey's eyes were glowing again. “Like to meet him sometime.”

  “You will, at the rate we're going. You won't have any choice in the matter.” Dar swallowed. “What'd I tell you?”

  “What do you remember?”

  “That I had a message from General Shacklar to the I.D.E. top brass—about a plan for a coup. . . .”

  Whitey nodded. “Perfect recall.”

  Dar groaned and crumpled, covering his eyes.

  Whitey leaned forward and patted his shoulder. “Don't take it so hard, laddie—we all make mistakes the first time out. At least, if you had to spill the beans, you did it to a friend.”

  “ ‘Friend'?” Dar glared up. “How can I be sure, now?”

  “Because I've spent a lot of money, and put myself in quite a bit of danger, just to help you—and when I heard your story, I was glad I had. Not that I think we can succeed, mind you—but I can't let democracy go down without a fight.”

  Somehow, Dar believed him. He frowned up at Whitey, against his headache. “You must've had a hunch I was doing something you believed in, then—to put yourself and Lona at risk.”

  “Well, yes.” Whitey settled back, picking up a glass. “I did have a notion the gamble was worth it. Lona's another matter, though. I didn't make her come. She could've stayed behind, with plenty of money, and she knew it.”

  Dar's brows pulled together. “She doesn't strike me as the self-sacrificing sort.”

  “She isn't. That line she feeds out, about wanting to wallow in luxury with plenty of leisure time to slaughter, is true down to the word—but she knows there are more important things. Such as having one person nearby who really cares about her—me—and freedom, without which she wouldn't have a chance at luxury.”

  Dar looked around. “Where is she?”

  Whitey jerked his head toward the closed door. “Proofing the script.”

  “It's done?” Dar's gaze steadied on Whitey's face. “Any good?”

  Whitey shrugged irritably. “Does it matter? It'll get you where you need to go; that's the important thing.”

  Suddenly, something seemed wrong. Dar lifted his head. “What happened . . . ? Oh. The voices stopped.”

  “Voices? The 3DT, you mean?”

  “Is that where they were coming from?” Dar turned to the wall screen, and saw the word “EMERGENCY!” floating in a blue sea. A voice said, “Indulgence, citizens. We have to interrupt to bring you news of a conspiracy against the whole of the Interstellar Dominion Electorates.” The word dissolved into the head and shoulders of an earnest-looking, handsome older man. “Sehn Loffer here, with news directed from I.D.E. Internal Security. We are threatened, fellow citizens—threatened by an insidious evil, creeping up on us everywhere, to choke the life out of our democracy and suck the blood of its freedom.”

  Whitey muttered, “Lousy prose!”

  Dar stared at him, appalled. “But he's the top newsface! They're hearing him all over the Solar System—and FTL liners will take this recording-cube to all the colonies within the month!”

  “Yeah. ‘Nothing succeeds like excess.’ ”

  “The villain may be your neighbor, your friend, your co-worker,” Loffer went on. “No one can know where the evil ones lurk—because, citizens, they are telepaths!”

  Whitey stared Dar goggled.

  “Insidious telepaths, their tendrils of thought snaking out to enfold your brains! All through the I.D.E. they are. How do we know? Because, for a month now. Security has been chasing a notorious telepath all the way from the marches, the outermost colonies, here to Luna itself! Time and again, they have almost caught him, only to have him whisked away into hiding, by local assistance!”

  The “local assistance” swore under his breath.

  “Who would aid a rogue telepath?” Loffer declaimed. “Who but another telepath? Wherever this monster goes, he finds help—so there must be telepaths spread throughout the I.D.E., helping him, working secretly, to undermine the foundations of our freedom and destroy our government—to take power themselves!”

  “Uh—don't I detect a few flaws in his logic?” Dar asked.

  “Logic? What's that?” Whitey snorted. “It feels right, doesn't it? So it's got to be true—doesn't it?”

  “But take heart, citizens!” Suddenly, Loffer fairly oozed calm strength. “Our noble Solar Patrol is pursuing this monster, and will not rest until they destroy him!”

  “What does ‘right to fair trial' mean?” Whitey wondered.

  Smiling confidently, Loffer dissolved into a sea of plain blue, filling the screen. A voice said, “We now return you to ‘Starship Captain's Wife.’ ”

  Whitey pressed the button in the arm of his recliner, and the picture faded into an assortment of fruits in a basket; the wall-screen became only a three-dimensional still picture again.

  “Uh—I thought reporting was supposed to be objective, just telling you the facts they're sure of,” Dar said tentatively.

  Whitey gave him a peculiar look. “No, you haven't been to Terra before, have you?”

  “But . . . why?” Dar exploded. “Announcements like that are going to panic the public! Why get everybody into a state of terror about it?”

  “I have a notion,” Whitey muttered, “but I hope I'm wrong.”

  “It's got to be because they want to make absolutely sure they catch me. But why? Am I that much of a threat to them? And how'd they get the idea I'm a telepath?”

  “Maybe they didn't. ‘Telepath' is a nice scare word, conjuring up somebody poking into your most private affairs, somebody having a huge, unnatural advantage that makes everybody else feel inferior—and, therefore, all the more willing to go out and help hunt him down. Useful, if they want to make sure they catch you. And as to your being a threat, well—the answer is, you don't have to be much of a threat. Conspirators tend to not want to take chances, no matter how small. The LORDS party in the I.D.E. Assembly want to restrict individual rights, and they've never been so strong. Their opposition has fractured into a dozen splinter groups. If there's an opposition leader, it's Tarn Urkavne, the chairman of the CPR—the Coalition for the Protection of Rights. At least he's officially the Opposition speaker. But his ‘Coalition' is pretty weak—its members spend their time arguing over policy, instead of trying to do something.”

  “But the LORDS aren't trying to overthrow the whole I.D.E. government, are they?”

  Whitey shrugged. “If they are, they're not saying—of course. That's high treason, boy. No, you may be sure whoever's behind the coup are keeping their lips well sealed, and want to make sure everybody else does, too.”

  The bedroom door opened.

  “Well, enough of politics.” Whitey craned around in his seat, looking back over his shoulder. “Hi, honey.”

  Lona swayed out into the sitting room, and the sight of her made Dar decide to stay among the living. He decided Whitey's hangover cure was working. But she had a kind of glassy look in her eyes, a sort of fevered brilliance. Was she ill?

  “I told you, you shouldn't have stayed up waiting for me to finish,” Whitey said, frowning. “You get to bed, honey; you can still catch about three hours sleep before we have to leave.”

  “How can I, with this running through my head?” Lona shoved a sheaf of papers at him.

  Whitey squared the sheet
s on his lap, smiling up at her, almost shyly. “Liked it, huh?”

  Lona nodded, with a tight smile; she looked as though she were about to explode.

  Whitey grinned and turned to Dar, holding out the sheaf. “First hard copy. See what you think.”

  Dar took the script and began to scan it. His eyes locked in after the third line, tracking the print at speech-speed, words thundering in his head. “Whitey, this is . . .”

  “. . . wonderful!” Father Marco breathed, looking up from the last page. Sam looked up from her copy with a numbed gaze and an awed nod.

  “Rough,” Whitey grumbled, flushed with pleasure. “Needs polish. Lots of it.”

  “It's a masterpiece,” Sam whispered.

  Whitey sat still a moment, then gave a brusque nod. “Good. Yes. Rough, but—it's good. Thank you.”

  Lona laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “9:30 hours. Grandpa.”

  “Yeah.” Whitey heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. “Time to go meet Stroganoff, children—the Knight of the Shining Laser, who will do battle with the Dragon of Commerce for us. Ready?”

  Dar paced the lounge furiously, hands locked behind his back. “What's he doing in there—reading them the whole script?”

  “Calm down, Da . . . uh. Perry.” Whitey leaned back in his chair like a cat by a fire, a tall drink in his hand. “It means it's going well. If the execs didn't like his presentation, he'd've been out half an hour ago.”

  The door opened, and Stroganoff shuffled in, holding the script in front of him as though it were a tray, eyes glazed.

  Dar pounced on him. “Well? What's the word? They like it? They gonna buy it? What?”

  Stroganoff's head swiveled toward him, but his gaze went right through Dar. Father Marco pried Dar away with a soothing murmur, and Whitey echoed him: “Calm down, Perry. They won't finish deciding for a while yet . . . How'd it go, David?”

  Stroganoff's head turned toward Whitey, but his eyes still didn't quite focus. “Tod . . . why didn't you warn me?”

  “Warn?” Whitey frowned. “About what?”

  “About this!” Stroganoff held the script out reverently. “I gave 'em the overview, and the audience potential, the cost-minimalization, and the company-image enhancement, and they sat there looking bored, so I started reading them the first few lines, just to give 'em the idea—and I couldn't stop! I just kept going, right through the whole thing—and they didn't cut me off! Not a word! They actually listened!”

  Whitey grinned and sat back. “Well. Nice to be appreciated.”

  “Appreciated! My lord, Tod, that's topping the Prize!” Dar heaved a silent sigh. He might make it to Earth, after all.

  They were laughing and chattering as they came back into their hotel, riding high on a triumph—until a grave-faced major domo stepped up to Whitey and intoned, “Mr. Tambourin, sir?”

  The laughter cut off as though it had been sliced with a razor blade. Whitey turned to the man in livery, frowning. “Yes?”

  “There's a call waiting, from Mr. Horatio Bocello, sir. He's been quite insistent in his demands that he speak with you.”

  Whitey's face cracked into a cream-whiskered grin. “Old Horatio!”

  Sam was staring, shocked. Father Marco blinked. Even Lona looked impressed. Dar looked around. Then they all jumped to catch up with Whitey.

  But the major domo was ahead of them. “Ah, Mr. Tambourin?”

  Whitey looked back. “Yes?”

  “He really has been quite insistent, sir. The staff would very much appreciate it if you would take the call as soon as you arrive in your suite.”

  “Yeah. I know what Horatio's like when he gets ‘insistent.’ ” Whitey's grin was downright evil. “Don't worry, my good man—I'll hit the phone as soon as I'm upstairs. You can tell Terra the call's going through.” His hand brushed the major domo's as he turned away; the man glanced at his palm, and his eyebrows shot up. “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure. Come on, troops!” Whitey was striding away toward the lift tube.

  His “crew” lurched into motion behind him. “Who's Horatio Bocello?” Dar hissed.

  “Only the richest man on Terra, gnappie!” Sam hissed back.

  “Which means, in the whole system. Devout Catholic, too. . . .” Father Marco said thoughtfully.

  “Patron of the arts—especially Grandpa's,” Lona added.

  Dar swallowed heavily, and walked faster.

  When Whitey careened through the door, the com screen was already alive with white noise, its beeper beeping. Whitey pressed the “answer” button and thumbed the toggle that uncapped his camera. The screen cleared, showing a thin, long-jawed, bony face with a receding iron-gray hairline, a blade of a nose, and burning eyes. The eyes focussed on Whitey, and the face grinned. “Tambourin, you old scalawag! Where've you been?”

  “In a hundred bars on fifteen planets, Cello.” Whitey grinned back at him. “You want exact figures, you'll have to tell me how long it's been.”

  “What—five years, this time? Why don't you write, reprobate?”

  “Buy it from your book-channel, windy. How's your empire?”

  Bocello shrugged, with a trace of annoyance. “You win some, you lose some, and it keeps growing, all by itself.”

  Whitey nodded. “No change.”

  “It was a lot more fun back in the Northeast Kingdom.”

  “I know.” Whitey smiled fondly, gazing back down the years. “Running around in homemade armor, chopping at each other with rattan swords.”

  “And for the parties, dressing up like a fourteenth-century duke. Except you, of course. You never could decide whether you wanted to be a knight or a troubadour.”

  Dar nudged Lona, having a legitimate reason, and whispered, “What're they talking about?”

  “A bag of mixed nuts,” Lona whispered back. “Some group they both belonged to when they were young. Used to go out to a park on weekends and pretend they were still living in the middle ages.”

  “Well, I finally did.” Whitey's smile gentled. “I swung to the troubadour—and you finally accepted your birthright obligations, and turned into a baron.”

  “Yes, without the title.” Bocello's face clouded. “But it's not as much fun, Tod.”

  “You've got to lock into reality sometime, Cello. You keep tabs on the old Kingdom?”

  Bocello nodded. “Still. I'm still a member. I sneak into the annual festival every now and then. You should, too.”

  “I do, when I run into a Kingdom. But there aren't too many of 'em on the colony planets yet, Cello. Hold onto your sword, Your Grace—you may need it.”

  Bocello was suddenly alert. “You see the signs, too, eh? But I don't think there'll be chaos, Tod.”

  “No,” Whitey agreed, “just the reverse. It's a dictator that's coming, not a warlord. Can't you do anything about it, Cello? You, with all your money!”

  Bocello shook his head sadly. “I always sneered at politics, Tod—and now it's too late.” He frowned, suddenly intent. “You're not planning to try to stop it, are you? To throw yourself in the path of a runaway destrier?”

  “Romanticism's for the young, Cello,” Whitey said gently. “No, I just got a modern idea, that's all.”

  “Yes, I heard.” Bocello's face split into a mischievous grin. “And I love it! Damn fine poem, Tod! Damn fine.”

  Whitey scowled. “Got eyes and ears everywhere, don't you?”

  “Tod!” Bocello protested, wounded. “I own OPI—or fifty-one percent of it, anyway. They knew it was too hot to handle, so they bucked it on up to me fastest!”

  “You're going to decide whether or not my epic gets made?”

  Dar held his breath.

  Bocello shrugged impatiently. “What is there to decide? The way your last book sold, we couldn't possibly lose money on Tod Tambourin's first screenplay! All I want to know is, how quickly can you do it?”

  Whitey grinned. “My crew's ready to go tomorrow, Cello.”

  “Wonderful. But you
'll need a little while to cast the actors and have the sets designed and built.”

  “Yeah, but we can shoot the documentary sequences meanwhile. And, Cello . . .” Whitey's voice lowered. “ . . .if we're going to have the I.D.E. Assembly and the Executive Secretary in that one sequence, I think we'd better shoot them fast.”

  “Yes, I know.” Bocello sobered. “The whole thing's built around the I.D.E.” He leaned forward, suddenly intense, eyes burning. “Very fast, Tod—before the whole program's just an historical document!”

  Dar fastened his webbing and looked around at the luxurious cavern of the shuttle's passenger cabin. “Little different from a burro-boat, isn't it?”

  “You could put two of them inside here,” Sam agreed. “Maybe three.”

  Dar swiveled his head to look at her, puzzled. “You've been awfully moody these past couple of hours. What's the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Sam shook her head with total conviction. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.” But she still gazed off into space.

  “It was that call from Horatio Bocello that did it, isn't it? What was so bad about it—didn't realize the I.D.E. was in this bad a shape?”

  “That is saddening,” Sam agreed. “But I'm not saddened.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “Dazzled,” she said frankly.

  Dar stared at her for a second. Then he smiled. “Never saw anybody that rich talking just like an ordinary person, huh? Yeah, it kind of got to me, too.”

  “Not that,” she objected. “. . . Well, maybe a little. But what got me was his face!”

  “Face?” Dar stared again.

  She nodded. “That forehead! That blade of a nose! Those cheekbones! And . . . those eyes!”

  Dar turned his head a little to the side, watching her. “Are you trying to tell me you thought he was handsome?”

  “ ‘Handsome.' That's a good word for it. ‘Attractive' is better. Maybe even . . . ‘compelling.’ ”

  Dar began to have serious doubts. “I thought you were supposed to be an ascetic—an anti-materialist.”

  She turned a gaze full of scorn on him. “You take beauty wherever you find it, gnappie, and you keep the memory of it alive in your heart. I'll probably never even talk to this man and, when this whole escapade is over, never see him again, either. But I'll never forget that I did, and the memory of it will make the rest of my life that much richer.”