“I trust your journey here was enjoyable,” he began.
“A bit dull, sir,” the viscount replied, “until your naval escort joined us. Must say they put on a grand show; and the honor guard after we landed was better yet. Hope no one minded my taping the spectacle.”
“Certainly not, provided you stopped before entering Afon.”
“Haw! Your, ah, foreign minister is a bit stiff, isn’t he? But he was quite pleasant when I offered my credentials, and promised me an early presentation to his Supremacy.”
Brechdan took Hauksberg’s arm and strolled him toward a corner. Everyone got the hint; the party plodded on at a distance from where they two sat down below an abominable portrait of the Emperor.
“And how was Starkad?” Brechdan asked.
“Speaking for myself, sir, grim and fascinating,” Hauksberg said. “Were you ever there?”
“No.” Sometimes Brechdan was tempted to pay a visit. By the God, it was long since he had been on a planet unraped by civilization! Impossible, however, at any rate for the next few years when Starkad’s importance must be underplayed. Conceivably near the end—He decided that he hoped a visit would not be called for. Easier to make use of a world which was a set of reports than one whose people had been seen in their own lives.
“Well, scarcely in your sphere of interest, eh, sir?” Hauksberg said. “We are bemused by, ah, Merseia’s endeavors.”
“The Roidhunate has explained over and over.”
“Of course. Of course. But mean to say, sir, if you wish to practice charity, as you obviously do, well, aren’t there equal needs closer to home? The Grand Council’s first duty is to Merseia. I would be the last to accuse you of neglecting your duty.”
Brechdan shrugged. “Another mercantile base would be useful in the Betelgeuse region. Starkad is not ideal, either in location or characteristics, but it is acceptable. If at the same time we can gain the gratitude of a talented and deserving species, that tips the balance.” He sharpened his gaze. “Your government’s reaction was distressing.”
“Predictable, though.” Hauksberg sprawled deeper into his antique chromeplated chair. “To build confidence on both sides, until a true general agreement can be reached—” mercifully, he did not say “between our great races”—“the inter-imperial buffer space must remain inviolate. I might add, sir, that the landfolk are no less deserving than the seafolk. Meaningless quibble, who was the initial aggressor. His Majesty’s government feels morally bound to help the landfolk before their cultures go under.”
“Now who is ignoring needs close to home?” Brechdan asked dryly.
Hauksberg grew earnest. “Sir, the conflict can be ended. You must have received reports of our efforts to negotiate peace in the Zletovar area. If Merseia would join her good offices to ours, a planet-wide arrangement could be made. And as for bases there, why should we not establish one together? A long stride toward real friendship, wouldn’t you say?”
“Forgive possible rudeness,” Brechdan parried, “but I am curious why your pacific mission includes the chief of Intelligence operations on Starkad.”
“As an advisor, sir,” Hauksberg said with less enthusiasm. “Simply an advisor who knows more about the natives than anyone else who was available. Would you like to speak with him?” He raised an arm and called in Anglic, which Brechdan understood better than was publicly admitted: “Max! I say, Max, come over here for a bit, will you?”
Commander Abrams disengaged himself from an assistant secretary (Brechdan sympathized; that fellow was the dreariest of Oliveira’s entire retinue) and saluted the Councillor. “May I serve the Hand?”
“Never mind ceremony, Max,” Hauksberg said in Eriau. “We’re not talking business tonight. Merely sounding each other out away from protocol and recorders. Please explain your intentions here.”
“Give what facts I have and my opinions for whatever they are worth, if anyone asks,” Abrams drawled. “I don’t expect I’ll be called on very often.”
“Then why did you come, Commander?” Brechdan gave him his title, which he had not bothered to do for Hauksberg.
“Well, Hand, I did hope to ask a good many questions.”
“Sit down,” Hauksberg invited.
Abrams said, “With the Hand’s leave?”
Brechdan touched a finger to his brow, feeling sure the other would understand. He felt a higher and higher regard for this man, which meant Abrams must be watched closer than anyone else.
The officer plumped his broad bottom into a chair. “I thank the Hand.” He lifted a glass of whisky-and-soda to them, sipped, and said: “We really know so little on Terra about you. I couldn’t tell you how many Merseiological volumes are in the archives, but no matter; they can’t possibly contain more than a fraction of the truth. Could well be we misinterpret you on any number of important points.”
“You have your Embassy,” Brechdan reminded him. “The staff includes xenologists.”
“Not enough, Hand. Not by a cometary orbit. And in any event, most of what they do learn is irrelevant at my level. With your permission, I’d like to talk freely with a lot of different Merseians. Please keep those talks surveyed, to avoid any appearance of evil.” Brechdan and Abrams exchanged a grin. “Also, I’d like access to your libraries, journals, whatever is public information as far as you’re concerned but may not have reached Terra.”
“Have you any specific problems in mind? I will help if I can.”
“The Hand is most gracious. I’ll mention just one typical point. It puzzles me, I’ve ransacked our files and turned researchers loose on it myself, and still haven’t found an answer. How did Merseia come upon Starkad in the first place?”
Brechdan stiffened. “Exploring the region,” he said curtly. “Unclaimed space is free to all ships.”
“But suddenly, Hand, there you were, active on the confounded planet. Precisely how did you happen to get interested?”
Brechdan took a moment to organize his reply. “Your people went through that region rather superficially in the old days,” he said. “We are less eager for commercial profit than the Polesotechnic League was, and more eager for knowledge, so we mounted a systematic survey. The entry for Saxo, in your pilot’s manual, made Starkad seem worth thorough study. After all, we too are attracted by planets with free oxygen and liquid water, be they ever so inhospitable otherwise. We found a situation which needed correction, and proceeded to send a mission. Inevitably, ships in the Betelgeuse trade noted frequent wakes near Saxo. Terran units investigated, and the present unhappy state of affairs developed.”
“Hm.” Abrams looked into his glass. “I thank the Hand. But it’d be nice to have more details. Maybe, buried somewhere among them, is a clue to something our side has misunderstood—semantic and cultural barrier, not so?”
“I doubt that,” Brechdan said. “You are welcome to conduct inquiries, but on this subject you will waste your energy. There may not even be a record of the first several Merseian expeditions to the Saxo vicinity. We are not as concerned to put everything on tape as you.”
Sensing his coldness, Hauksberg hastened to change the subject. Conversation petered out in banalities. Brechdan made his excuses and departed before midnight.
A good opponent, Abrams, he thought. Too good for my peace of mind. He is definitely the one on whom to concentrate attention.
Or is he? Would a genuinely competent spy look formidable? He could be a—yes, they call it a stalking horse—for someone or something else. Then again, that may be what he wants me to think.
Brechdan chuckled. This regression could go on forever. And it was not his business to play watchbeast. The supply of security officers was ample. Every move that every Terran made, outside the Embassy which they kept bugproof with annoying ingenuity, was observed as a matter of course.
Still, he was about to see in person an individual Intelligence agent, one who was important enough to have been sent especially to Starkad and especially returned whe
n wily old Runei decided he could be more valuable at home. Dwyr the Hook might carry information worthy of the Council president’s direct hearing. After which Brechdan could give him fresh orders …
In the icy fluorescence of an otherwise empty office, the thing waited. Once it had been Merseian and young. The lower face remained, as a mask rebuilt by surgery; part of the torso; left arm and right stump. The rest was machine.
Its biped frame executed a surprisingly smooth salute. At such close quarters Brechdan, who had keen ears, could barely discern the hum from within. Power coursed out of capacitors which need not be recharged for several days, even under strenuous use: out through microminiaturized assemblies that together formed a body. “Service to my overlord.” A faint metal tone rang in the voice.
Brechdan responded in honor. He did not know if he would have had the courage to stay alive so amputated. “Well met, Arlech Dwyr. At ease.”
“The Hand of the Vach Ynvory desired my presence?”
“Yes, yes.” Brechdan waved impatiently. “Let us have no more etiquette. I’m fed to the occiput with it. Apology that I kept you waiting, but before I could talk meaningfully about those Terrans I must needs encounter them for myself. Now then, you worked on the staff of Fodaich Runei’s Intelligence corps as well as in the field, did you not? So you are conversant both with collated data and with the problems of gathering information in the first place. Good. Tell me in your own words why you were ordered back.”
“Hand,” said the voice, “as an operative, I was useful but not indispensable. The one mission which I and no other might have carried out, failed: to burgle the office of the Terran chief of Intelligence.”
“You expected success?” Brechdan hadn’t known Dwyr was that good.
“Yes, Hand. I can be equipped with electromagnetic sensors and transducers, to feel out a hidden circuit. In addition, I have developed an empathy with machines. I can be aware, on a level below consciousness, of what they are about to do, and adjust my behavior accordingly. It is analogous to my former perception, the normal one, of nuances in expression, tone, stance on the part of fellow Merseians whom I knew intimately. Thus I could have opened the door without triggering an alarm. Unfortunately, and unexpectedly, living guards were posted. In physical strength, speed, and agility, this body is inferior to what I formerly had. I could not have killed them unbeknownst to their mates.”
“Do you think Abrams knows about you?” Brechdan asked sharply.
“No, Hand. Evidence indicates he is ultra-cautious by habit. Those Terrans who damaged me later in the jungle got no good look at me. I did glimpse Abrams in companionship with the other, Hauksberg. This led us to suspect early that he would accompany the delegation to Merseia, no doubt in the hope of conducting espionage. Because of my special capabilities, and my acquaintance with Abrams’ working methods, Fodaich Runei felt I should go ahead of the Terrans and await their arrival.”
“Khraich. Yes. Correct.” Brechdan forced himelf to look at Dwyr as he would at a fully alive being. “You can be put into other bodies, can you not?”
“Yes, Hand,” came from the blank visage. “Vehicles, weapons, detectors, machine tools, anything designed to receive my organic component and my essential prostheses. I do not take long to familiarize myself with their use. Under his Supremacy, I stand at your orders.”.
“You will have work.” Brechdan said “In truth you will. I know not what as yet. You may even be asked to burgle the envoy’s ship in orbit. For a beginning, however, I think we must plan a program again our friend Abrams. He will expect the usual devices; you may give him a surprise. If you do, you shall not go unhonored.”
Dwyr the Hook waited to hear further.
Brechdan could not forebear taking a minute for plain fleshly comradeship. “How were you hurt?” he asked.
“In the conquest of Janair, Hand. A nuclear blast. The field hospital kept me alive and sent me to base for regeneration. But the surgeons there found that the radiation had too much deranged my cellular chemistry. At that point I requested death. They explained that techniques newly learned from Gorrazan gave hope of an alternative, which might make my service quite precious. They were correct.”
Brechdan was momentarily startled. This didn’t sound right—Well, he was no biomedic.
His spirits darkened. Why pretend pity? You can’t be friends with the dead. And Dwyr was dead, in bone, sinew, glands, gonads, guts, everything but a brain which had nothing left except the single-mindedness of a machine. So, use him. That was what machines were for.
Brechdan took a turn around the room, hands behind back, tail unrestful, scar throbbing. “Good,” he said. “Let us discuss procedure.”
11
“Oh, no,” Abrams had said. “I thank most humbly the government of his Supremacy for this generous offer, but would not dream of causing such needless trouble and expense. True, the Embassy cannot spare me an airboat. However, the ship we came in, Dronning Margrete, has a number of auxiliaries now idle. I can use one of them.”
“The Commander’s courtesy is appreciated,” bowed the official at the other end of the vidiphone line. “Regrettably, though, law permits no one not of Merseian race to operate within the Korychan System a vessel possessing hyperdrive capabilities. The Commander will remember that a Merseian pilot and engineer boarded his Lordship’s vessel for the last sublight leg of the journey here. Is my information correct that the auxiliaries of his Lordship’s so impressive vessel possess hyperdrives in addition to gravities?”
“They do, distinguished colleague. But the two largest carry an airboat apiece as their own auxiliaries. I am sure Lord Hauksberg won’t mind lending me one of those for my personal transportation. There is no reason to bother your department.”
“But there is!” The Merseian threw up his hands in quite a manlike gesture of horror. “The Commander, no less than his Lordship, is a guest of his Supremacy. We cannot disgrace his Supremacy by failing to show what hospitality lies within our power. A vessel will arrive tomorrow for the Commander’s personal use. The delay is merely so that it may be furnished comfortably for Terrans and the controls modified to a Terran pattern. The boat can sleep six, and we will stock its galley with whatever is desired and available here. It has full aerial capability, has been checked out for orbital use, and could no doubt reach the outermost moon at need. I beg for the Commander’s acceptance.”
“Distinguished colleague, I in turn beg that you, under his Supremacy, accept my sincerest thanks,” Abrams beamed. The beam turned into a guffaw as soon as he had cut the circuit. Of course the Merseians weren’t going to let him travel around unescorted—not unless they could bug his transportation. And of course they would expect him to look for eavesdropping gimmicks and find any of the usual sorts. Therefore he really needn’t conduct that tedious search.
Nonetheless, he did. Negligence would have been out of character. To those who delivered his beautiful new flier he explained that he set technicians swarming through her to make certain that everything was understood about her operation; different cultures, different engineering, don’t y’ know. The routine disclaimer was met by the routine pretense of believing it. The airboat carried no spy gadgets apart from the one he had been hoping for. He found this by the simple expedient of waiting till he was alone aboard and then asking. The method of its concealment filled him with admiration.
But thereafter he ran into a stone wall—or, rather, a pot of glue. Days came and went, the long thirty-seven-hour days of Merseia. He lost one after another by being summoned to the chamber in Castle Afon where Hauksberg and staff conferred with Brechdan’s puppets. Usually the summons was at the request of a Merseian, who wanted elucidation of some utterly trivial question about Starkad. Having explained, Abrams couldn’t leave. Protocol forbade. He must sit there while talk droned on, inquiries, harangues, haggles over points which a child could see were unessential—oh, yes, these greenskins had a fine art of making negotiations interminable.
<
br /> Abrams said as much to Hauksberg, once when they were back at the Embassy. “I know,” the viscount snapped. He was turning gaunt and hollow-eyed. “They’re so suspicious of us. Well, we’re partly to blame for that, eh? Got to show good faith. While we talk, we don’t fight.”
“They fight on Starkad,” Abrams grumbled around his cigar. “Terra won’t wait on Brechdan’s comma-counting forever.”
“I’ll dispatch a courier presently, to report and explain. We are gettin’ somewhere, don’t forget. They’re definitely int’rested in establishin’ a system for continuous medium-level conference between the governments.”
“Yah. A great big gorgeous idea which’ll give political leverage to our accommodationists at home for as many years as Brechdan feels like carrying on discussions about it. I thought we came here to settle the Starkad issue.”
“I thought I was the head of this mission,” Hauksberg retorted. “That’ll do, Commander.” He yawned and stretched, stiffly. “One more drink and ho for bed. Lord Emp’ror, but I’m tired!”
On days when he was not immobilized, Abrams ground through his library research and his interviews. The Merseians were most courteous and helpful. They flooded him with books and periodicals. Officers and officials would talk to him for hours on end. That was the trouble. Aside from whatever feel he might be getting for the basic setup, he learned precisely nothing of value.
Which was a kind of indicator too, he admitted. The lack of hard information about early Merseian journeys to the Saxo region might be due to sloppiness about record keeping as Brechdan had said. But a check of other planets showed that they were, as a rule, better documented. Starkad appeared to have some secret importance. So what else is new?
At first Abrams had Flandry to help out. Then an invitation arrived. In the cause of better understanding between races, as well as hospitality, would Ensign Flandry like to tour the planet in company with some young Merseians whose rank corresponded more or less to his?
Ensign Flandry df-1 Page 11
