"That's not true!"
"I never believed it was, Jeff, not for a moment." Florence Kopal tried to smile at him and did not quite succeed. The scars on her face became more noticeable. "I swore that when you came back, we would learn what really happened and you would be exonerated. But since you left, everything seems to have gone wrong. Uncle Giles moved at top speed, and his petition to declare the official death of your father was approved a month ago. After that, you were all that stood between the board members and their freedom to do what they liked with Kopal Transportation. Then the crew of the Aurora came home without you. Desertion is grounds for a court-martial—and a court-martial from the Space Navy means disgrace and disinheritance."
"Hold on. I haven't been court-martialed. My hearing hasn't even started."
"I know. It doesn't have to. Uncle Giles somehow obtained a full statement of the charges against you."
"I can guess how. He's a snake who wriggles through the whole navy."
"Based on those charges he can offer a board resolution removing you from any management role in Kopal Transportation. He scheduled the resolution for a board vote this afternoon. And you weren't here. If you had been . . . . It's no good, Jeff, you're just too late. And I have to leave, I can't even stay to try and help."
But her final words were spoken to his back, as he dashed past Simon Macafee and out of the door.
"Go to the spaceport, Mother," he shouted as he ran. "Start your therapy. Maybe I'm not too late. Uncle Fairborn was delayed. If they need all the board members, and he didn't get here yet . . ."
There was no point in any more shouting. He was out of earshot, racing past a startled Uncle Lory and hurtling down the staircase to the ground floor.
The double doors beyond the two antechambers were closed but not locked. Jeff threw them open and burst inside in one movement.
"Here at last!" said a familiar voice. "Now we can get on with—good Lord!"
It was Uncle Giles, in his usual seat at the head of the table. Uncle Terence and Aunt Willow sat to his left, Aunt Delia on his right. It was the same arrangement as the last time that Jeff was in the room, with one blessed difference. Uncle Fair-born was not present!
"No, I'm not Fairborn." Jeff advanced slowly to the end of the long table, moving through a dead, unnatural silence. "I'm Jeff, back from the Messina Dust Cloud. I didn't die, and I'm not too late. You haven't voted on the board resolution to take over Kopal Transportation, have you? Because you can't do that without Uncle Fairborn."
His uncles and aunts stared at him with a mixture of astonishment and cold dislike. The silence continued until at last Giles Lazenby said softly, "Hello, Jefferson. I can't say I'm too surprised to see you, even if the rest of us are. I knew that you were heading down to Earth. And you are quite right, there has been no vote. Thanks to Fairborn. Your uncle"—his mouth twitched—"was delayed by, and I quote, 'personal business.' We had words, and he finally abandoned his perfumed pleasures. He will be here in less than half an hour."
"Good. When he arrives, I demand the right to tell you what happened in the Messina Dust Cloud. It's nothing like the report that was filed by Captain Dufferin."
"I am prepared to believe that your version of events is at variance with the official report." The others at the table were still scowling, but Giles Lazenby was under control. He was even smiling at Jeff. "When you appear for the official navy hearing, you will be provided with an opportunity to state your case formally. However . . . ."
His voice trailed away. Giles was frowning, not at Jeff but right past him.
Jeff hardly needed to turn. This seemed to be his day for explaining Simon Macafee.
"Who the devil are you?" Giles continued in a colder tone. "And what are you doing here? This happens to be a private meeting, in a private house."
"He's with me," Jeff said. "His name is Simon Macafee. Maybe you've heard of him?"
It was a question that didn't need an answer. Aunt Willow seemed baffled, but the startled faces of Aunt Delia and Uncle Terence spoke for them. Only Uncle Giles had the presence of mind to put the smile back on his face. "Simon Macafee? Yes indeed, I have certainly heard of you. And under normal circumstances I would be delighted to welcome to Kopal Manor the inventor of the Anadem field, and hope to enjoy the pleasure of your extended company. But for the moment I must ask you to leave. We are engaged in private family business."
Simon returned the smile, but he did not speak. He seemed to be waiting for something. After a few silent seconds he nodded, turned, and left the conference room without a word.
Giles stared after him, his brow furrowed. He put his hand to his forehead. It took Aunt Willow to recall his attention, with an acid, "What a disgusting person! I am astonished, Giles, that you would even pass the time of day with such an interloper, still less be polite to him."
"You would he astonished." Giles turned on his sister. "Willow, you are an ignorant fool. When you have no idea what is going on, you might at least learn to be quiet."
"Giles! I will not permit you to—"
"Shut up. The man who just went out is the reason we lost a whole navy fleet in the Messina Dust Cloud. He could also be the man who destroys Kopal Transportation. With his damned invention, he is in a position to ruin us."
For a split second Jeff saw a different Giles in the tight jaw muscles and corded neck veins. He shivered; but the next moment the smile was back and the soft voice was continuing, "However, let us not permit this meeting to be distracted by matters over which we presently have no control. I will explain the possible importance of Simon Macafee to the future of Kopal Transportation, my dear Willow, on another occasion. Just now I must explain something else to our young nephew, Jefferson."
The smile turned Jeff's way. Now that he had seen the other Giles, Jeff recognized the venom behind it. He forced himself to stand to attention and wait.
"You see, Jeff." Giles spoke mildly, with none of the contempt that he had displayed toward Aunt Willow. "Your education has been deficient in a number of important areas. You do not understand the difference between formal and informal reports and hearings. This is formal." He picked up from the table a thin packet of papers and waved it toward Jeff. "It consists of Captain Eliot Dufferin's sworn statement as to the events occurring on the navy ship Aurora, from the time that it passed through Node 23 and entered the Messina Dust Cloud. The captain's statement is supplemented and supported by the statements of other members of the crew."
"It's all lies! He was trying to save his own reputation, and they were afraid to disagree with him."
"Perhaps so. But this is the evidence on which the charges of desertion and treason against you were based. And these, as I say, are formal, official documents. Now, in a few days you will appear before a navy tribunal. You will be given a chance to offer your version of events. That, too, will become an official document. Do you understand?"
"Of course I do. I've been working on my statement for days."
"I'm sure you have. Your future navy career could depend on it. Then there are informal reports. You may have told your side of the story already to dozens of people. But that was not under oath, and it does not form part of the official record. It therefore carries no legal weight. Now, you wish to present that story to the board. We will certainly not deny you that right. You will be given the opportunity, as soon as Uncle Fairborn arrives."
It sounded reasonable—too reasonable. But Jeff had grown wary.
"And after that?"
"After that, the board meeting will continue. Of course, it will do so with only the board members present."
"Without me. And only formal evidence will be considered."
"I did not say that. Of course, the board will balance formal sworn statements, with impartial witnesses, against informal statements by someone with a strong personal interest."
"You're saying that you'll ignore what I say."
"Not at all. I am telling you that our official responsibili
ty as board members demands that we weigh everything we hear, and judge accordingly."
Jeff stared at the other faces around the table. Terence, Willow, and Delia would not look at him. They were taking their cue from Uncle Giles. He could expect no help from them.
"My mother and I will appeal the board vote."
"You are assuming that you know what that vote will be. However, you certainly have the right to appeal. Of course, such appeals tend to take a long time to be heard." Giles's smile for a moment took on a little genuine humor. "Now, until Uncle Fairborn arrives the board has other business. So if you would be kind enough to wait outside . . . ."
Jeff saw no choice. He left the conference room feeling shaky, and found Simon Macafee outside. He was leaning, eyes closed, against the wall.
"Did you hear that?" Jeff closed the conference-room doors.
"I did. Every word." Simon slowly shook his downturned head. "This is all a damnable nuisance. But it's my own fault if I was surprised. I should have known." He opened his eyes. "I need a bathroom."
"Right along there, on the left."
"And for the next fifteen minutes, I want you some place where your aunts and uncles are not likely to look for you."
"Why?"
"You'll see before too long. Don't go to your mother's suite; she will be gone by now, but that's where they might expect to find you."
"I could go to the old library. No one but me ever seemed to go there."
"Fine. If I don't come for you, meet me back here in a quarter of an hour."
"What's all this about?"
"It's about doing what I don't want to do. What I hate doing. Fifteen minutes more, and you'll understand."
Simon was walking away. He did not look back. Jeff stared after him, longing to follow and demand more information. Then he fancied he heard movement from inside the conference room.
He hurried at once in the opposite direction and headed upstairs for the safety of the old library.
Chapter Twenty-Five
NOTHING had changed in the months since Jeff last sat in the quiet, vaulted room. The fireplace contained the same charred remnant of a massive old log; the shelves bore undisturbed their arrays of leather- and cloth-bound books.
He was too excited and worried to sit down this time. Instead he prowled the aisles, every two minutes looking out of a window that faced the front of the house. He ought to see any car approaching along the drive, but nothing moved in the deepening darkness. There was still no sign of Uncle Fairborn. Jeff returned to his wandering along the shelves. What was going on? Giles was orchestrating his takeover of the family business, that was certain. Jeff couldn't stop that, nor could his mother. But Simon Macafee's response was to tell Jeff to hide away, while he retired to the bathroom for a quarter of an hour.
And did what? Threw up?
That's what Jeff felt like doing.
When ten minutes had passed, he decided that roaming the library with a head full of useless speculations was a good way to go crazy. Do something. He switched on the overhead lights, went across to one of the shelves, and pulled an atlas from the section of oversized books. He took it to a gnarled table in one corner and leaned over it.
The volume was as huge and as old as he remembered, thirty pounds of smooth, heavy paper sheets inside the thick cardboard covers. For as long as he could remember, he had loved to turn the great pages and look at the multicolored maps of countries and colonies with names long vanished into history. What had happened to Tanganyika and Transylvania, Aquitaine and Arcadia, Siam and Serendip, Burgundy and Burma?
Today he turned instead to the first pages of the atlas. Here were maps that in the past he had glanced at briefly, then skipped over. They showed the face not of Earth, but of the sky. The stars displayed on the celestial sphere of the atlas had a permanence that mocked human dynasties and empires. And since the constellations remained the same for centuries, Jeff had argued, why look at drawings? You could go outside on any clear evening, gaze upward, and see the real thing.
The book that he held was an antique volume, so old that the constellations were still identified by their ancient names. The Swan was called Cygnus; the Big Dipper, which his mother referred to as the Great Bear, was Ursa Major; the Bull was Taurus; the Eagle, Aquila. Only a few constellations, like Orion and Hercules and Perseus, had the same names.
He did not see the word that he was looking for, but chances were the atlas gave the Latin version. If he was to find the Dragon, he would have to do it from the configuration of the stars themselves. It was a harder job than it sounded—he worked from memory, and a lot had happened since his last look at the little plastic card.
The minutes sped by. Five and more passed, and he was ready to give up and leave when the pattern seemed to jump off the page at him. It was a constellation in the northern hemisphere. There was no mistaking the long, curling tail that arched downward and then back up to the right. He saw the name written beside the pattern, gasped, and understood.
With understanding came sudden and surprising anger—at his own stupidity, at Simon, at Lilah, at Hooglich, at anyone who had been in on the conspiracy to keep him ignorant. But as he rushed for the door he realized that everyone was probably innocent except Simon and Connie Cheever. Lilah, he was sure, had had no idea. She would have told him.
And now he was late. He had been told fifteen minutes, and he had surely been away for twenty and more.
The double doors to the conference room were closed. He ran toward the unfamiliar person standing by them, and said, "I know! I understand about the Dragon and everything. Why didn't you tell me? It wasn't fair."
"Maybe not. But I thought you'd rather work it out for yourself. Anyway, this isn't the time to discuss it. And keep your voice down!"
The stranger was Simon, transformed. His beard had gone, and his hair was cut short. He looked ten years younger and much paler. Jeff recognized him only by his uniform, faded and wrinkled, and those unforgettable deep-set eyes.
"Fairborn arrived two minutes ago," Simon went on. "If you weren't here in one minute, I was going in without you. Come on. Let me do the talking."
It was an unnecessary instruction. Jeff's brain was so brimming with questions, accusations, and guesses that he didn't know where to start. He followed as Simon pushed open the doors and stepped forward into the conference room.
The tableau was as before, augmented by the presence of Fairborn Lazenby: Willow and Terence were on the left, Giles sat at the head of the table, and Delia and Fairborn flanked him on the right.
Jeff saw them turn their heads, stare, and stare again. Anger changed to bewilderment, and then to shock—for Giles and Delia—and open disbelief on the part of Aunt Willow and Uncle Terence. Uncle Fairborn, pale-faced and dark under the eyes, made a gobbling noise like a turkey and said, "Drake? Is that you? It can't be."
"Even if it can't be, it is." Simon stepped forward. He slid a small packet the length of the polished table; it came to rest in front of Delia Lazenby. "Take a look at that. You may not believe me when I say this, but I'm no happier to be here than you are to see me here."
Delia picked up the packet and felt inside it. She pulled out three objects: a tiny glass tube, a folded slip of paper, and a little card of plastic that Jeff knew at once. Willow turned to Giles. "First he says he's Simon Macafee, and you grovel to him and tell me I'm an idiot. Now he says he's Cousin Drake, back from the dead, and he gives us a packet of rubbish. Is he mad, or are you?"
"Neither one of us is mad." Simon/Drake walked along the left side of the table, moving past Willow and Terence until he stood beside Giles Lazenby. "What Delia is holding represents a few credentials. I don't think you really need them in order to be convinced, but I'll save you time by explaining what they are. In the glass tube is a certified tissue sample. You'll find its DNA profile will match exactly the DNA profile of Drake Kopal, taken at the time of my birth and in storage at Midvale Hospital. The plastic card, one of you knows
well. It's my old school ID. Recognize it?"
He spoke to Giles, who had taken the card from Delia and was studying it, holding the plastic carefully by the edges.
"I do, I do." Alone of the five Lazenbys, Giles seemed close to his usual self. His facial expression could not be seen as he stared down at the card. "Yes, I remember this. Draco, that was it. Your favorite constellation, you said, the one that had your name. Drake, Draco, the Dragon. And they gave you hell for erasing your picture ID and putting the constellation in its place. Why did you do that, Drake?"
"If I told you I knew, today, why I did everything I did then, I'd be lying. Maybe I wanted to get hell. I know I hated being a Kopal worse than anything in the world. All I wanted to do was escape. I think you understood that, Giles, even back when we were children. You were always the smart one, the one with an instinct for what was really going on. When I came in here today, I was convinced that you had recognized me."
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