by Issac Asimov
“Is there any definite reason to believe that the missing one is the document?”
“Only circumstantial reasoning. It was guarded closely by the Earth government.”
“Discount that. An Earthman will treat any document relating to the pre-Galactic past with veneration. It’s their ridiculous worship of tradition.”
“But this one was stolen and yet they never announced the fact. Why do they guard an empty case?”
“I can imagine their doing that rather than finding themselves forced to admit that a holy relic has been stolen. Yet I cannot believe that young Farrill obtained it after all. I thought you had him under observation.”
The other smiled. “He didn’t get it.”
“How do you know?”
Jonti’s agent quietly exploded his land mine. “Because the document has been gone twenty years.”
“What?”
“It has not been seen for twenty years.”
“Then it can’t be the right one. It was less than six months ago that the Rancher learned of its existence.”
“Then somebody else beat him to it by nineteen and a half years.”
Jonti considered. He said, “It does not matter. It cannot matter.”
“Why so?”
“Because I have been here on Earth for months. Before I came, it was easy to believe that there might be information of value on the planet. But consider now. When Earth was the only inhabited planet in the Galaxy, it was a primitive place, militarily speaking. The only weapon they had ever invented worth mentioning was a crude and inefficient nuclear-reaction bomb for which they had not even developed the logical defense.” He flung his arm outward in a delicate gesture to which the blue horizon gleamed its sickly radioactivity beyond the thick concrete of the room.
He went on. “All this is placed in sharp focus for me as a temporary resident here. It is ridiculous to assume that it is possible to learn anything from a society at that level of military technology. It is always very fashionable to assume that there are lost arts and lost sciences, and there are always these people who make a cult of primitivism and who make all sorts of ridiculous claims for the prehistoric civilizations on Earth.”
Rizzett said, “Yet the Rancher was a wise man. He told us specifically that it was the most dangerous document he knew. You remember what he said. I can quote it. He said, ’The matter is death for the Tyranni, and death for us as well; but it would mean final life for the Galaxy/”
“The Rancher, like all human beings, can be wrong.”
“Consider, sir, that we have no idea as to the nature of the document. It could, for instance, be somebody’s laboratory notes which had never been published. It might be something that could relate to a weapon the Earthmen had never recognized as a weapon, something which on the face of it might not be a weapon—”
“Nonsense. You are a military man and should know better. If there is one science into which man has probed continuously and successfully, it is that of military technology. No potential weapon would remain unrealized for ten thousand years. I think, Rizzett, we will return to Lingane.” Rizzett shrugged. He was not convinced.
Nor, a thousandfold, was Jonti. It had been stolen, and that was significant. It had been worth stealing! Anyone in the Galaxy might have it now.
Unwillingly the thought came to him that the Tyranni might have it. The Rancher had been most evasive on the matter. Even Jonti himself had not been trusted sufficiently. The Rancher had said it carried death; it could not be used without having it cut both ways. Jonti’s lips clamped shut. The fool and his idiotic hintings! And now the Tyranni had him.
What if a man like Aratap were now in the possession of such a secret as this might De? Aratap! The one man, now that the Rancher was gone, who remained unpredictable; the most dangerous Tyrannian of them all.
Simok Aratap was a small man; a little bandy-legged, narrow-eyed fellow. He had the stumpy, thick-limbed appearance of the average Tyrannian, yet though he faced an exceptionally large and well-muscled specimen of the subject worlds, he was completely self-possessed. He was the confident heir (in the second generation) of those who had left their windy, infertile worlds and sparked across the emptiness to capture and enchain the rich and populous planets of the Nebular Regions.
His father had headed a squadron of small, flitting ships that had struck and vanished, then struck again, and made scran of the lumbering titanic ships that had opposed them.
The worlds of the Nebula had fought in the old fashion, but the Tyranni had learned a new one. Where the huge, glittering vessels of the opposed navies attempted single combat, they found themselves flailing at emptiness and wasting their stores of energy. Instead, the Tyranni, abandoning power alone, stressed speed and cooperation, so that the opposed Kingdoms toppled one after the other, singly; each waiting (half joyfully at the discomfiture of its neighbors), fallaciously secure behind its steel-shipped ramparts, until its own turn came.
But those wars were fifty years earlier. Now the Nebular Regions were satrapies that required merely the acts of occupation and taxation. Previously there had been worlds to gain, Aratap thought wearily, and now there was little left to do but contend with single men.
He looked at the young man who faced him. He was quite a young man. A tall fellow with very good shoulders indeed; an absorbed, intent face with the hair of his head cut ridiculously short in what was undoubtedly a collegiate affectation. In an unofficial sense, Aratap was sorry for him. He was obviously, frightened.
Biron did not recognize the feeling inside him as “fright.” If he had been asked to put a name to the emotion, he would have described it as “tension.” All his life he had known the Tyranni to be the overlords. His father, strong and vital though he was, unquestioned on his own estate, respectfully heard on others, was quiet and almost humble in the presence of the Tyranni.
They came occasionally to Widemos on polite visits, with questions as to the annual tribute they called taxation. The Rancher of Widemos was responsible for the collection and delivery of these funds on behalf of the planet Nephelos and, perfunctorily, the Tyranni would check his books.
The Rancher himself would assist them out of their small vessels. They would sit at the head of the table at mealtimes, and they would be served first. When they spoke, all other conversation stopped instantly.
As a child, he wondered that such small, ugly men should be so carefully handled, but he learned as he grew up that they were to his father what his father was to a cow hand. He even learned to speak softly to them himself, and to address them as “Excellency.”
He had learned so well that now that he faced one of the overlords, one of the Tyranni, he could feel himself shiver with tension.
The ship which he had considered his prison became officially one on the day of landing upon Rhodia. They had signaled at his door and two husky crewmen had entered and stood on either side of him. The captain, who followed, had said in a flat voice, “Biron Farrill, I take you into custody by the power vested in me as captain of this vessel, and hold you for questioning by the Commissioner of the Great King.”
The Commissioner was this small Tyrannian who sat before him now, seemingly abstracted and uninterested. The “Great King” was the Khan of the Tyranni, who still lived in the legendary stone palace on the Tyrannians’ home planet.
Biron looked furtively about him. He was not physically constrained in any way, but four guards in the slate blue of the Tyrannian Outer Police flanked him, two and two. They were armed. A fifth, with a major’s insignia, sat beside the Commissioner’s desk.
The Commissioner spoke to him for the first time. “As you may know”—his voice was high-pitched, thin—“the old Rancher of Widemos, your father, has been executed for treason.”
His faded eyes were fixed on Biron’s. There seemed nothing beyond mildness in them.
Biron remained stolid. It bothered him that he could do nothing. It would have been so much more satisfying to howl at
them, to flail madly at them, but that would not make his father less dead. He thought he knew the reason for this initial statement. It was intended to break him down, to make him give himself away. Well, it wouldn’t.
He said evenly, “I am Biron Malaine of Earth. If you are questioning my identity, I would like to communicate with the Terrestrial Consul.”
“Ah yes, but we are at a purely informal stage just now. You are Biron Malaine, you say, of Earth. And yet”—Aratap indicated the papers before him—“there are letters here which were written by Widemos to his son. There is a college registration receipt and tickets to commencement exercises made out to a Biron Farrill. They were found in your baggage.”
Biron felt desperate but he did not let it show. “My baggage was searched illegally, so that I deny that those can be admitted as evidence.’
“We are not in a court of law, Mr. Farrill or Malaine. How do you explain them?”
“If they were found in my baggage, they were placed there by someone else.”
The Commissioner passed it by, and Biron felt amazed. His statements sounded so thin, so patently foolish. Yet the Commissioner did not remark upon them, but only tapped the black capsule with his forefinger. “And this introduction to the Director of Rhodia? Also not yours?”
“No, that is mine.” Biron had planned that. The introduction did not mention his name. He said, “There is a plot to assassinate the Director—”
He stopped, appalled. It sounded so completely unconvincing when he finally put the beginning of his carefully prepared speech into actual sound. Surely the Commissioner was smiling cynically at him?
But Aratap was not. He merely sighed a little and with quick, practiced gestures removed contact lenses from his eyes and placed them carefully in a glass of saline solution that stood on the desk before him. His naked eyeballs were a little watery.
He said, “And you know of it? Even back on Earth, five hundred light-years away? Our own police here on Rhodia have not heard of it.”
“The police are here. The plot is being developed on Earth.”
“I see. And are you their agent? Or are you going to warn Hinrik against them?”
“The latter, of course.”
“Indeed? And why do you intend to warn him?”
“For the substantial reward which I expect to get.” Aratap smiled. “That, at least, rings true and lends a certain truth gloss to your previous statements. What are the details of the plot you speak of?”
“That is for the Director only.”
A momentary hesitation, then a shrug. “Very well. The Tyranni are not interested and do not concern themselves with local politics. We will arrange an interview between yourself and the Director and that will be our contribution to his safety. My men will hold you until your baggage can be collected, and then you will be free to go. Remove him.” The last was to the armed men, who left with Biron. Aratap replaced his contact lenses, an action which removed instantly that look of vague incompetence their absence had seemed to induce.
He said to the major, who had remained, “We will keep an eye, I think, on this young Farrill.”
The officer nodded shortly. “Good! For a moment I thought you might have been taken in. To me, his story was quite incoherent.”
“It was. It’s just that which makes him maneuverable for the while. All young fools who get their notions of interstellar intrigue from the video spy thrillers are easily handled. He is, of course, the son of the ex-Rancher.”
And now the major hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s a vague and unsatisfactory accusation we have against him.”
“You mean that it might be arranged evidence after all? For what purpose?”
“It could mean that he is a decoy, sacrificed to divert our attention from a real Biron Farrill elsewhere.”
“No. Improbably theatrical, that. Besides, we have a photocube.”
“Watch Hinrik as well,” Aratap said, after a brief silence.
“Hinrik?”
“Of course. It is the whole purpose of freeing the boy. I want some questions answered. Why is Farrill seeing Hinrik? What is the connection between them? The dead Rancher did not play a lone hand, There was—there must have been—a well-organized conspiracy behind him. And we have not yet located the workings of that conspiracy.”
“But surely Hinrik could not be involved. He lacks the intelligence, even if he had the courage.”
“Granted. But it is just because he is half an idiot that he may serve them as a tool. If so, he represents a weakness in our scheme of things. We obviously cannot afford to neglect the possibility.”
He gestured absently; the major saluted, turned on his heel, and left.
Aratap sighed, thoughtfully turned the photocube in his hand, and watched the blackness wash back like a tide of ink.
Life was simpler in his father’s time. To smash a planet had a cruel grandeur about it; while this careful maneuvering of an ignorant young man was simply cruel.
And yet necessary.
CHAPTER FIVE
Biron Farrill waited uneasily in one of the outer buildings on the Palace Grounds. For the first time in his life he experienced the deflating sensation of being a provincial.
Widemos Hall, where he had grown up, had been beautiful in his eyes, and now his memory endowed it with a merely barbaric glitter. Its curved lines, its filigree work, its curiously wrought turrets, its elaborate “false windows”— He winced at the thought of them.
But this—this was different.
The Palace Grounds of Rhodia were no mere lump of ostentation built by the petty lords of a cattle kingdom; nor were they the childlike expression of a fading and dying world. They were the culmination, in stone, of the Hinriad dynasty.
The buildings were strong and quiet. Their lines were straight and vertical, lengthening toward the center of each structure, yet avoiding anything as effeminate as a spire effect. They held a bluntness about them, yet lifted into a climax that affected the onlooker without revealing their method of doing so at a casual glance. They were reserved, self-contained, proud.
And as each building was, so was the group as a whole, the huge Palace Central becoming a crescendo. One by one, even the few artificialities remaining in the masculine Rhodian style had dropped away. The very “false windows,” so •valued as decoration and so useless in a building of artificial light and ventilation, were done away with. And that, somehow, without loss.
It was only line and plane, a geometrical abstraction that led the eye upward to the sky.
The Tyrannian major stopped briefly at his side as he left the inner room.
“You will be received now,” he said.
Biron nodded, and after a while a larger man in a uniform of scarlet and tan clicked heels before him. It struck Biron with sudden force that those who had the real power did not need the outward show and could be satisfied with slate blue. He recalled the splendid formality of a Rancher’s life and bit his lip at the thought of its futility.
“Biron Malaine?” asked the Rhodian guard, and Biron rose to follow.
There was a little gleaming monorail carriage that was suspended delicately by diamagnetic forces upon a single ruddy shaft of metal. Biron had never seen one before. He paused before entering.
The little carriage, big enough for five or six at the most, swayed with the wind, a graceful teardrop returning the gleam of Rhodia’s splendid sun. The single rail was slender, scarcely more than a cable, and ran the length of the carriage’s underside without touching. Biron bent and saw blue sky all the length between them. For a moment, as he watched, a lifting mast of wind raised it, so that it hovered a full inch above the rail, as though impatient for flight and tearing at the invisible force field that held it. Then it fluttered back to the rail, closer and still closer, but never touching.
“Get in,” said the guard behind him impatiently, and Biron climbed two steps into the carriage.
The steps remained long enough for the guard to fol
low, then lifted quietly and smoothly into place, forming no break in the carriage’s even exterior.
Biron became aware that the outer opacity of the carriage was an illusion. Once within, he found himself sitting in a transparent bubble. At the motion of a small control, the carriage lifted upward. It climbed the heights easily, buffeting the atmosphere which whistled past. For one moment Biron caught the panorama of the Palace Grounds from the apex of the arc.
The structures became a gorgeous whole (could they have been originally conceived other than as an air view?), laced by the shining copper threads, along one or two of which the graceful carriage bubbles skimmed.
He felt himself pressed forward, and the carriage came to a dancing halt. The entire run had lasted less than two minutes.
A door stood open before him. He entered and it closed behind him. There was no one in the room, which was small and bare. For the moment, no one was pushing him, but he felt no comfort because of it. He was under no illusions. Ever since that damned night, others had forced his moves.
Jonti had placed him on the ship. The Tyrannian Commissioner had placed him here. And each move had increased the measure of his desperation.
It was obvious to Biron that the Tyrannian had not been fooled. It had been too easy to get away from him. The Commissioner might have called the Terrestrial Consul. He might have hyperwave Earth, or taken his retinal pattern. These things were routine; they could not have been omitted accidentally.
He remembered Jonti’s analysis of affairs. Some of it might still be valid. The Tyranni would not kill him outright to create another martyr. But Hinrik was their puppet, and he was as capable as they of ordering an execution. And then he would have been killed by one of his own, and the Tyranni would merely be disdainful onlookers.
Biron clenched his fists tightly. He was tall and strong, but he was unarmed. The men who would come for him would have blasters and neuronic whips. He found himself backing against the wall.