by Isaac Asimov
“I doubt it. It comes at a queer time, this business. I have been away from Lingane for a year or more. I arrived last week and I shall leave in a matter of days again. A message such as this reaches me just when I am in a position to be reached.”
“You don’t think it is a coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. And there is one way in which all this would not be coincidence. I will therefore visit that ship. Alone.”
“Impossible, sir.” Rizzett was startled. He had a small, uneven scar just above his right temple and it suddenly showed red.
“You forbid me?” asked the Autarch dryly.
And he was Autarch, after all, since Rizzett’s face fell, and he said, “As you please, sir.”
Aboard the Remorseless, the wait was proving increasingly unpleasant. For two days they hadn’t budged from their orbit.
Gillbret watched the controls with relentless concentration. His voice had an edge to it. “Wouldn’t you say they were moving?”
Biron looked up briefly. He was shaving, and handling the Tyranni erosive spray with finicky care.
“No,” he said, “they’re not moving. Why should they? They’re watching us, and they’ll keep on watching us.”
He concentrated upon the difficult area of the upper lip, and frowned impatiently as he felt the slightly sour taste of the spray upon his tongue. A Tyrannian could handle the spray with a grace that was almost poetic. It was undoubtedly the quickest and closest non-permanent shaving method in existence, in the hands of an expert. In essence, it was an extremely fine air-blown abrasive that scoured off the hairs without harming the skin. Certainly the skin felt like nothing more than the gentle pressure of what might have been an air stream.
However, Biron felt queasy about it. There was the well-known legend, or story, or fact (whatever it was), about the incidence of face cancer being higher among the Tyranni than among other cultural groups, and some attributed this to the Tyranni shave spray. Biron wondered for the first time if it might not be better to have his face completely depilated. It was done in some parts of the Galaxy, as a matter of course. He rejected the thought. Depilation was permanent. The fashion might always shift to mustaches or cheek curls.
Biron was surveying his face in the mirror, wondering how he would look in sideburns down to the angle of the jaw, when Artemisia said from the doorway, “I thought you were going to sleep.”
“I did,” he said. “Then I woke up.” He looked up at her and smiled.
She patted his cheek, then stroked it gently with her fingers. “It’s smooth. You look about eighteen.”
He carried her hand to his lips. “Don’t let that fool you,” he said.
She said, “They’re still watching?”
“Still watching. Isn’t it annoying, these dull interludes that give you time to sit and worry?”
“I don’t find this interlude dull.”
“You’re talking about other aspects of it now, Arta.”
She said, “Why don’t we cross them up and land on Lingane?”
“We’ve thought of it. I don’t think we’re ready for that kind of risk. We can afford to wait till the water supply gets a bit lower.”
Gillbret said loudly, “I tell you they are moving.”
Biron crossed over to the control panel and considered the massometer readings. He looked at Gillbret and said, “You may be right.”
He pecked away at the calculator for a moment or two and stared at its dials.
“No, the two ships haven’t moved relative to us, Gillbret. What’s changed the massometer is that a third ship has joined them. As near as I can tell, it’s five thousand miles off, about 46 degrees ρ and 192 degrees φ from the ship-planet line, if I’ve got the clockwise and counterclockwise conventions straight. If I haven’t, the figures are, respectively, 314 and 168 degrees.”
He paused to take another reading. “I think they’re approaching. It’s a small ship. Do you think you can get in touch with them, Gillbret?”
“I can try,” said Gillbret.
“All right. No vision. Let’s leave it at sound, till we get some notion of what’s coming.”
It was amazing to watch Gillbret at the controls of the etheric radio. He was obviously the possessor of a native talent. Contacting an isolated point in space with a tight radio beam remains, after all, a task in which the ship’s control-panel information can participate only slightly. He had a notion of the distance of the ship which might be off by a hundred miles plus or minus. He had two angles, either or both of which might easily be wrong by five or six degrees in any direction.
This left a volume of about ten million cubic miles within which the ship might be. The rest was left to the human operator, and a radio beam which was a probing finger not half a mile in cross section at the widest point of its receivable range. It was said that a skilled operator could tell by the feel of the controls how closely the beam missed the target. Scientifically, that theory was nonsense, of course, but it often seemed that no other explanation was possible.
In less than ten minutes the activity gauge of the radio was jumping and the Remorseless was both sending and receiving.
In another ten minutes Biron was able to lean back and say, “They’re going to send a man aboard.”
“Ought we let them?” asked Artemisia.
“Why not? One man? We’re armed.”
“But if we let their ship get too close?”
“We’re a Tyrannian cruiser, Arta. We’ve got three to five times their power, even if they were the best warship Lingane had. They’re not allowed too much by their precious Articles of Association, and we’ve got five high-caliber blasters.”
Artemisia said, “Do you know how to use the Tyrannian blasters? I didn’t know you did.”
Biron hated to turn the admiration off, but he said, “Unfortunately, I don’t. At least, not yet. But then, the Linganian ship won’t know that, you see.”
Half an hour later the visiplate showed a visible ship. It was a stubby little craft, fitted with two sets of four fins, as though it were frequently called upon to double for stratospheric flight.
At its first appearance in the telescope, Gillbret shouted in delight. “That’s the Autarch’s yacht,” he cried, and his face wrinkled into a grin. “It’s his private yacht. I’m sure of it. I told you that the bare mention of my name was the surest way to get his attention.”
There was the period of deceleration and adjustment of velocity on the part of the Linganian ship, until it hung motionless in the plate.
A thin voice came from the receiver. “Ready for boarding?”
“Ready!” clipped Biron. “One person only.”
“One person,” came the response.
It was like a snake uncoiling. The metal-mesh rope looped outward from the Linganian ship, shooting at them harpoon-fashion. Its thickness expanded in the visiplate, and the magnetized cylinder that ended it approached and grew in size. As it grew closer, it edged toward the rim of the cone of vision, then veered off completely.
The sound of its contact was hollow and reverberant. The magnetized weight was anchored, and the line was a spider thread that did not sag in a normal weighted curve but retained whatever kinks and loops it had possessed at the moment of contact, these moving slowly forward as units under the influence of inertia.
Easily and carefully, the Linganian ship edged away and the line straightened. It hung there then, taut and fine, thinning into space until it was an almost invisible thing, glancing with incredible daintiness in the light of Lingane’s sun.
Biron threw in the telescopic attachment, which bloated the ship monstrously in the field of vision, so that one could see the origin of the half-mile length of connecting line and the little figure that was beginning to swing hand over hand along it.
It was not the usual form of boarding. Ordinarily, two ships would maneuver to near-contact, so that extensible air locks could meet and merge under intense magnetic fields.
A tunnel through space would connect the ships, and a man could travel from one to the other with no further protection than he needed to wear aboard ship. Naturally, this form of boarding required mutual trust.
By space line, one was dependent upon his space suit. The approaching Linganian was bloated in his, a fat thing of air-extended metal mesh, the joints of which required no small muscular effort to work. Even at the distance at which he was, Biron could see his arms flex with a snap as the joint gave and came to rest in a new groove.
And the mutual velocities of the two ships had to be carefully adjusted. An inadvertent acceleration on the part of either would tear the line loose and send the traveler tumbling through space under the easy grip of the faraway sun and of the initial impulse of the snapping line—with nothing, neither friction nor obstruction, to stop him this side of eternity.
The approaching Linganian moved on confidently and quickly. When he came closer it was easy to see that it was not a simple hand-over-hand procedure. Each time the forward hand flexed, pulling him on, he would let go and float onward some dozen feet before his other hand had reached forward for a new hold.
It was a brachiation through space. The spaceman was a gleaming metal gibbon.
Artemisia said, “What if he misses?”
“He looks too expert to do that,” said Biron, “but if he does, he’d still shine in the sun. We’d pick him up again.”
The Linganian was close now. He had passed out of the field of the visiplate. In another five seconds there was the clatter of feet on the ship’s hull.
Biron yanked the lever that lit the signals which outlined the ship’s air lock. A moment later, in answer to an imperative series of raps, the outer door was opened. There was a thump just beyond a blank section of the pilot-room’s wall. The outer door closed, the section of wall slid away, and a man stepped through.
His suit frosted over instantly, blanking the thick glass of his helmet and turning him into a mound of white. Cold radiated from him. Biron elevated the heaters and the gush of air that entered was warm and dry. For a moment the frost on the suit held its own, then began to thin and dissolve into a dew.
The Linganian’s blunt metal fingers were fumbling at the clasps of the helmet as though he were impatient with his snowy blindness. It lifted off as a unit, the thick, soft insulation inside rumpling his hair as it passed.
Gillbret said, “Your Excellency!” In glad triumph, he said, “Biron, it is the Autarch himself.”
But Biron, in a voice that struggled vainly against stupefaction, could only say, “Jonti!”
13. THE AUTARCH REMAINS
The Autarch gently toed the suit to one side and appropriated the larger of the padded chairs.
He said, “I haven’t had that sort of exercise in quite a while. But they say it never leaves you once you’ve learned, and, apparently, it hasn’t in my case. Hello, Farrill! My Lord Gillbret, good day. And this, if I remember, is the Director’s daughter, the Lady Artemisia!”
He placed a long cigarette carefully between his lips and brought it to life with a single intake of breath. The scented tobacco filled the air with its pleasant odor. “I did not expect to see you quite so soon, Farrill,” he said.
“Or at all, perhaps?” said Biron acidly.
“One never knows,” agreed the Autarch. “Of course, with a message that read only ‘Gillbret’; with the knowledge that Gillbret could not pilot a space ship; with the further knowledge that I had myself sent a young man to Rhodia who could pilot a space ship and who was quite capable of stealing a Tyrannian cruiser in his desperation to escape; and with the knowledge that one of the men on the cruiser was reported to be young and of aristocratic bearing, the conclusion was obvious. I am not surprised to see you.”
“I think you are,” said Biron. “I think you’re as surprised as hell to see me. As an assassin, you should be. Do you think I am worse at deduction than you are?”
“I think only highly of you, Farrill.”
The Autarch was completely unperturbed, and Biron felt awkward and stupid in his resentment. He turned furiously to the others. “This man is Sander Jonti—the Sander Jonti I’ve told you of. He may be the Autarch of Lingane besides, or fifty Autarchs. It makes no difference. To me he is Sander Jonti.”
Artemisia said, “He is the man who——”
Gillbret put a thin and shaking hand to his brow. “Control yourself, Biron. Are you mad?”
“This is the man! I am not mad!” shouted Biron. He controlled himself with an effort. “All right. There’s no point yelling, I suppose. Get off my ship, Jonti. Now that’s said quietly enough. Get off my ship.”
“My dear Farrill. For what reason?”
Gillbret made incoherent sounds in his throat, but Biron pushed him aside roughly and faced the seated Autarch. “You made one mistake, Jonti. Just one. You couldn’t tell in advance that when I got out of my dormitory room back on Earth I would leave my wrist watch inside. You see, my wrist-watch strap happened to be a radiation indicator.”
The Autarch blew a smoke ring and smiled pleasantly.
Biron said, “And that strap never turned blue, Jonti. There was no bomb in my room that night. There was only a deliberately planted dud! If you deny it, you are a liar, Jonti, or Autarch, or whatever you please to call yourself.
“What is more, you planted that dud. You knocked me out with Hypnite and arranged the rest of that night’s comedy. It makes quite obvious sense, you know. If I had been left to myself, I would have slept through the night and would never have known that anything was out of the way. So who rang me on the visiphone until he was sure I had awakened? Awakened, that is, to discover the bomb, which had been deliberately placed near a counter so that I couldn’t miss it. Who blasted my door in so that I might leave the room before I found out that the bomb was only a dud after all? You must have enjoyed yourself that night, Jonti.”
Biron waited for effect, but the Autarch merely nodded in polite interest. Biron felt the fury mount. It was like punching pillows, whipping water, kicking air.
He said harshly, “My father was about to be executed. I would have learned of it soon enough. I would have gone to Nephelos, or not gone. I would have followed my own good sense in the matter, confronted the Tyranni openly or not as I decided. I would have known my chances. I would have been prepared for eventualities.
“But you wanted me to go to Rhodia, to see Hinrik. But, ordinarily, you couldn’t expect me to do what you wanted. I wasn’t likely to go to you for advice. Unless, that is, you could stage an appropriate situation. You did!
“I thought I was being bombed and I could think of no reason. You could. You seemed to have saved my life. You seemed to know everything; what I ought to do next, for instance. I was off balance, confused. I followed your advice.”
Biron ran out of breath and waited for an answer. There was none. He shouted. “You did not explain that the ship on which I left Earth was a Rhodian ship and that you had seen to it that the captain had been informed of my true identity. You did not explain that you intended me to be in the hands of the Tyranni the instant I landed on Rhodia. Do you deny that?”
There was a long pause. Jonti stubbed out his cigarette.
Gillbret chafed one hand in the other. “Biron, you are being ridiculous. The Autarch wouldn’t——”
Then Jonti looked up and said quietly, “But the Autarch would. I admit it all. You are quite right, Biron, and I congratulate you on your penetration. The bomb was a dud planted by myself, and I sent you to Rhodia with the intention of having you arrested by the Tyranni.”
Biron’s face cleared. Some of the futility of life vanished. He said, “Someday, Jonti, I will settle that matter. At the moment, it seems you are Autarch of Lingane with three ships waiting for you out there. That hampers me a bit more than I would like. However, the Remorseless is my ship. I am its pilot. Put on your suit and get out. The space line is still in place.”
“It is not your ship. You are a
pirate rather than a pilot.”
“Possession is all the law here. You have five minutes to get into your suit.”
“Please. Let’s avoid dramatics. We need one another and I have no intention of leaving.”
“I don’t need you. I wouldn’t need you if the Tyrannian home fleet were closing in right now and you could blast them out of space for me.”
“Farrill,” said Jonti, “you are talking and acting like an adolescent. I’ve let you have your say. May I have mine?”
“No. I see no reason to listen to you.”
“Do you see one now?”
Artemisia screamed. Biron made one movement, then stopped. Red with frustration, he remained tense but helpless.
Jonti said, “I do take certain precautions. I am sorry to be so crude as to use a weapon as a threat. But I imagine it will help me force you to hear me.”
The weapon he held was a pocket blaster. It was not designed to pain or stun. It killed!
He said, “For years I have been organizing Lingane against the Tyranni. Do you know what that means? It has not been easy. It has been almost impossible. The Inner Kingdoms will offer no help. We’ve known that from long experience. There is no salvation for the Nebular Kingdoms but what they work out for themselves. But to convince our native leaders of this is no friendly game. Your father was active in the matter and was killed. Not a friendly game at all. Remember that.
“And your father’s capture was a crisis to us. It was life and horrible death to us. He was in our inner circles and the Tyranni were obviously not far behind us. They had to be thrown off stride. To do so, I could scarcely temper my dealings with honor and integrity. They fry no eggs.
“I couldn’t come to you and say, ‘Farrill, we’ve got to put the Tyranni on a false scent. You’re the son of the Rancher and therefore suspicious. Get out there and be friendly with Hinrik of Rhodia so that the Tyranni may look in the wrong direction. Lead them away from Lingane. It may be dangerous; you may lose your life, but the ideals for which your father died come first.’
