by Isaac Asimov
Genro said, "If Trantor doesn't have you in the next hour the Squires will have you before the day is out. I don't guarantee what Trantor will do to you, but I can guarantee what Sark will do to you."
Terens had been in the Civil Service. He knew what Sark would do with a Squire-killer.
The port held steady in the visiplate, but Genro no longer regarded it. He was switching to instruments, riding the pulse-beam downward. The ship turned slowly in air, a mile high, and settled, tail down.
A hundred yards above the pit, the engines thundered high. Over the hydraulic springs, Terens could feel their shuddering. He grew giddy in his seat.
Genro said, "Take the whip. Quickly now. Every second is important. The emergency lock will close behind you. It will take them five minutes to wonder why I don't open the main lock, another five minutes to break in, another five minutes to find you. You have fifteen minutes to get out of the port and into the car."
The shuddering ceased and in the thick silence Terens knew they had made contact with Sark.
The shifting diamagnetic fields took over. The yacht tipped majestically and slowly moved down upon its side.
Genro said, "Now!" His uniform was wet with perspiration.
Terens, with swimming head, and eyes that all but refused to focus, raised his neuronic whip....
Terens felt the nip of a Sarkite autumn. He had spent years in its harsh seasons until he had almost forgotten the soft eternal June of Fiorina. Now his days in Civil Service rushed back upon him as though he had never left this world of Squires.
Except that now he was a fugitive and branded upon him was the ultimate crime, the murder of a Squire.
He was walking in time to the pounding of his heart. Behind him was the ship and in it was Genro, frozen in the agony of the whip. The lock had closed softly behind him, and he was walking down a broad, paved path. There were workmen and mechanics in plenty about him. Each had his own job and his own troubles. They didn't stop to stare a man in the face. They had no reason to.
Had anyone actually seen him emerge from the ship?
He told himself no one had, or by now there would have been the clamor of pursuit.
He touched his hat briefly. It was still down over his ears, and the little medallion it now carried was smooth to the touch. Genro had said that it would act as identification. The men from Trantor would be watching for just that medallion, glinting in the sun.
He could remove it, wander away on his own, find his way to another ship - somehow. He would get away from Sark -somehow. He would escape - somehow.
Too many somehows! In his heart he knew he had come to the final end, and as Genro had said, it was either Trantor or Sark. He hated and feared Trantor, but he knew that in any choice it could not and must not be Sark.
"You! You there!"
Terens froze. He looked up in cold panic. The gate was a hundred feet away. If he ran ... But they wouldn't allow a running man to get out. It was a thing he dared not do. He must not run.
The young woman was looking out the open window of a car such as Terens had never seen, not even during fifteen years on Sark. It gleamed with metal and sparkled with translucent gemmite.
She said, "Come here."
Terens' legs carried him slowly to the car. Genro had said Trantor's car would be waiting outside the port. Or had he? And would they send a woman on such an errand? A girl, in fact. A girl with a dark, beautiful face.
She said, "You arrived on the ship that just landed, didn't you?"
He was silent.
She became impatient. "Come, I saw you leave the ship!" She tapped her polo-glasses. He had seen such glasses before.
Terens mumbled, "Yes. Yes."
"Get in then."
She held the door open for him. The car was even more luxurious inside. The seat was soft and it all smelled new and fragrant and the girl was beautiful.
She said, "Are you a member of the crew?"
She was testing him, Terens imagined. He said, "You know who I am." He raised his fingers momentarily to the medallion.
Without any sound of motive power the car backed and turned.
At the gate Terens shrank back into the soft, cool, kyrt-covered upholstery, but there was no need for caution. The girl spoke peremptorily and they passed through.
She said, "This man is with me. I am Samia of Fife."
It took seconds for the tired Terens to hear and understand that. When he lurched tensely forward in his seat the car was traveling along the express lanes at a hundred per.
A laborer within the port looked up from where he stood and muttered briefly into his lapel. He entered the building then and returned to his work. His superintendent frowned and made a mental note to talk to Tip about this habit of lingering outside to smoke cigarettes for half an hour at a time.
Outside the port one of two men in a ground-car said with annoyance, "Got into a car with a girl? What car? What girl?" For all his Sarkite costume, his accent belonged definitely to the Arcturian worlds of the Trantorian Empire.
His companion was a Sarkite, well versed in the visicast news releases. When the car in question rolled through the gate and picked up speed as it began to veer off and upward to the express level, he half rose in his seat and cried, "It's the Lady Samia's car. There isn't another like it. Good Galaxy, what do we do?"
"Follow," said the other briefly.
"But the Lady Samia-"
"She's nothing to me. She shouldn't be anything to you either. Or what are you doing here?"
Their own car was making the turn, climbing upward onto the broad, nearly empty stretches on which only the speediest of ground travel was permitted.
The Sarkite groaned, "We can't catch that car. As soon as she spots us she'll kick out resistance. That car can make two-fifty."
"She's staying at a hundred so far," said the Arcturian. After a while he said, "She's not going to Depsec. That's for sure."
And after another while he said, "She's not going to the Palace of Fife."
Still another interval and he said, "I'll be spun in space if I know where she's going. She'll be leaving the city again."
The Sarkite said, "How do we know it's the Squire-killer that's in there? Suppose it's a game to get us away from the post. She's not trying to shake us and she wouldn't use a car like that if she didn't want to be followed. You can't miss it at two miles."
"I know, but Fife wouldn't send his girl to get us out of the way. A squad of patrollers would have done the job better."
"Maybe it isn't really the Lady in it."
"We're going to find out, man. She's slowing. Flash past and stop around a curve!"
"I want to speak to you," said the girl.
Terens decided it was not the ordinary kind of trap he had first considered it. She was the Lady of Fife. She must be. It did not seem to occur to her that anyone could or ought to interfere with her.
She had never looked back to see if she were followed. Three times as they turned he had noted the same car to the rear, keeping its distance, neither closing the gap nor falling behind.
It was not just a car. That was certain. It might be Trantor, which would be well. It might be Sark, in which case the Lady would be a decent sort of hostage.
He said, "I'm ready to speak."
She said, "You were on the ship that brought the native from Fiorina? The one wanted for all those killings?"
"I said I was."
"Very well. Now I've brought you out here so that there'll be no interference. Was the native questioned during the trip to Sark?"
Such naiveté, Terens thought, could not be assumed. She really did not know who he was. He said guardedly, "Yes."
"Were you present at the questioning?"
"Yes."
"Good. I thought so. Why did you leave the ship, by the way?"
That, thought Terens, was the question she should have asked first of all.
He said, "I was to bring a special report to-" He hesitated.
>
She seized on the hesitation eagerly. "To my father? Don't worry about that. I'll protect you completely. I'll say you came with me at my orders."
He said, "Very well, my Lady."
The words "my Lady" struck deeply into his own consciousness. She was a Lady, the greatest in the land, and he was a Florinian. A man who could kill patrollers could learn easily how to kill Squires, and a Squire-killer might, by the same token, look a Lady in the face.
He looked at her, his eyes hard and searching. He lifted his head and stared down at her.
She was very beautiful.
And because she was the greatest Lady in the land, she was unconscious of his regard. She said, "I want you to tell me everything that you heard at the questioning. I want to know all that was told you by the native. It's very important."
"May I ask why you are interested in the native, my Lady?"
"You may not," she said flatly.
"As you wish, my Lady."
He didn't know what he was going to say. With half his consciousness he was waiting for the pursuing car to catch up. With the other half he was growing more aware of the face and body of the beautiful girl sitting near him.
Florinians in the Civil Service and those acting as Town-men were, theoretically, celibates. In actual practice, most evaded that restriction when they could. Terens had done what he dared and what was expedient in that direction. At best, his experiences had never been satisfactory.
So it was all the more important that he had never been so near a beautiful girl in a car of such luxuriance under conditions of such isolation.
She was waiting for him to speak, dark eyes (such dark eyes) aflame with interest, full red lips parted in anticipation, a figure more beautiful for being set off in beautiful kyrt. She was completely unaware that anyone, anyone, could possibly dare harbor dangerous thought with regard to the Lady of Fife.
The half of his consciousness that waited for the pursuers faded out.
He suddenly knew that the killing of a Squire was not the ultimate crime after all.
He wasn't quite aware that he moved. He knew only that her small body was in his arms, that it stiffened, that for an instant she cried out, and then he smothered the cry with his lips....
There were hands on his shoulder and the drift of cool air on his back through the opened door of the car. His fingers groped for his weapon, too late. It was ripped from his hand.
Samia gasped wordlessly.
The Sarkite said with horror, "Did you see what he did?" The Arcturian said, "Never mind!"
He put a small black object into his pocket and smoothed the seam shut. "Get him," he said.
The Sarkite dragged Terens out of the car with the energy of fury. "And she let him," he muttered, "She let him."
"Who are you?" cried Samia with sudden energy. "Did my father send you?"
The Arcturian said, "No questions, please."
"You're a foreigner," said Samia angrily.
The Sarkite said, "By Sark, I ought to bust his head in." He cocked his fist.
"Stop it!" said the Arcturian. He seized the Sarkite's wrist and forced it back.
The Sarkite growled sullenly, "There are limits. I can take the Squire-killing. I'd like to kill a few myself, but standing by and watching a native do what he did is just about too much for me."
Samia said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, "Native?"
The Sarkite leaned forward, snatched viciously at Terens' cap. The Townman paled but did not move. He kept his gaze steadily upon the girl and his sandy hair moved slightly in the breeze.
Samia moved helplessly back along the car seat as far as she could and then, with a quick movement, she covered her face with both hands, her skin turning white under the pressure of her fingers.
The Sarkite said, "What are we going to do with her?"
"Nothing."
"She saw us. She'll have the whole planet after us before we've gone a mile."
"Are you going to kill the Lady of Fife?" asked the Arcturian sarcastically.
"Well, no. But we can wreck her car. By the time she gets to a radio-phone, we'll be all right."
"Not necessary." The Arcturian leaned into the car. "My Lady, I have only a moment. Can you hear me?"
She did not move.
The Arcturian said, "You had better hear me. I am sorry I interrupted you at a tender moment but luckily I have put that moment to use. I acted quickly and was able to record the scene by tri-camera. This is no bluff. I will transmit the negative to a safe place minutes after I leave you and thereafter any interference on your part will force me to be rather nasty. I'm sure you understand me."
He turned away. "She won't say anything about this. Not a thing. Come along with me, Townman."
Terens followed. He could not look back at the white, pinched face in the car.
Whatever might now follow, he had accomplished a miracle. For one moment he had kissed the proudest Lady on Sark, had felt the fleeting touch of her soft, fragrant lips.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE ACCUSED
Diplomacy has a language and a set of attitudes all its own. Relationships between the representatives of sovereign states, if conducted strictly according to protocol, are stylized and stultifying. The phrase "unpleasant consequences" becomes synonymous with war and "suitable adjustment" with surrender.
When on his own, Abel preferred to abandon diplomatic double-talk. With a tight personal beam connecting himself and Fife, he might merely have been an elderly man talking amiably over a glass of wine.
He said, "You have been hard to reach, Fife."
Fife smiled. He seemed at ease and undisturbed. "A busy day, Abel."
"Yes. I've heard a bit about it."
"Steen?" Fife was casual.
"Partly. Steen's been with us about seven hours."
"I know. My own fault, too. Are you considering turning him over to us?"
"I'm afraid not."
"He's a criminal."
Abel chuckled and turned the goblet in his hand, watching the lazy bubbles. "I think we can make out a case for his being a political refugee. Interstellar law will protect him on Trantorian territory."
"Will your government back you?"
"I think it will, Fife. I haven't been in the foreign service for thirty-seven years without knowing what Trantor will back and what it won't."
"I can have Sark ask for your recall."
"What good would that do? I'm a peaceable man with whom you are well acquainted. My successor might be anybody."
There was a pause. Fife's leonine countenance puckered. "I think you have a suggestion."
"I do. You have a man of ours."
"What man of yours?"
"A Spatio-analyst. A native of the planet Earth, which, by the way, is part of the Trantorian domain."
"Steen told you this?"
"Among other things."
"Has he seen tins Earthman?"
"He hasn't said he has."
"Well, he hasn't. Under the circumstances, I doubt that you can have faith in his word."
Abel put down his glass. He clasped his hands loosely in his lap and said, "Just the same, I'm sure the Earthman exists. I tell you, Fife, we should get together on this. I have Steen and you have the Earthman. In a sense we're even. Before you go on with your current plans, before your ultimatum expires and your coup d'etat takes place, why not a conference on the kyrt situation generally?"
"I don't see the necessity. What is happening on Sark now is an internal matter entirely. I'm quite willing to guarantee personally that there will be no interference with the kyrt trade regardless of political events here. I think that should end Trantor's legitimate interests."
Abel sipped at his wine, seemed to consider. He said, "It seems we have a second political refugee. A curious case. One of your Florinian subjects, by the way. A Townman. Myrlyn Terens, he calls himself."
Fife's eyes blazed suddenly. "We half suspected that. By Sark, Abel, there's a
limit to the open interference of Trantor on this planet. The man you have kidnapped is a murderer. You can't make a political refugee out of him."
"Well, now, do you want the man?"
"You have a deal in mind? Is that it?"
"The conference I spoke of."
"For one Florinian murderer. Of course not."
"But the manner in which the Townman managed to escape to us is rather curious. You may be interested..."
Junz paced the floor, shaking his head. The night was already well advanced. He would like to be able to sleep but he knew he would require somnin once again.
Abel said, "I might have had to threaten force, as Steen suggested. That would have been bad. The risks would have been awful, the results uncertain. Yet until the Townman was brought to us I saw no alternative, except of course, a policy of do-nothing."
Junz shook his head violently. "No. Something had to be done. Yet it amounted to blackmail."
"Technically, I suppose so. What would you have had me do?"
"Exactly what you did. I'm not a hypocrite, Abel. Or I try not to be. I won't condemn your methods when I intend to make full use of the results. Still, what about the girl?"
"She won't be hurt as long as Fife keeps his bargain."
"I'm sorry for her. I've grown to dislike the Sarkite aristocrats for what they've done to Fiorina, but I can't help feeling sorry for her."
"As an individual, yes. But the true responsibility lies with Sark itself. Look here, old man, did you ever kiss a girl in a ground-car?"
The tip of a smile quivered at the corners of Junz's mouth. "Yes."
"So have I, though I have to call upon longer memories than you do, I imagine. My eldest granddaughter is probably engaged in the practice at this moment, I shouldn't wonder. What is a stolen kiss in a ground-car, anyway, except the expression of the most natural emotion in the Galaxy?
"Look here, man. We have a girl, admittedly of high social standing, who, through mistake, finds herself in the same car with, let us say, a criminal. He seizes the opportunity to kiss her. It's on impulse and without her consent. How ought she to feel? How ought her father to feel? Chagrined? Perhaps. Annoyed? Certainly. Angry? Offended? Insulted? All that, yes. But disgraced? No! Disgraced enough to be willing to endanger important affairs of state to avoid exposure? Nonsense.
