“To you too, then, I am nothing but a tool.”
“Easy. I didn’t say that. I just said that getting back your family won’t come cheap. It’ll involve some risk to the crew who fetch them. You’ve got to earn a claim on us. Willing?”
Oh, very willing!
As he darted between towers, Dwyr was no more conspicuous than a nigh third. He could easily reach the place assigned him, on an upper level of a control station where only computers dwelt, without being noticed. That had been arranged on Brechdan Ironrede’s own command. The secret of Dwyr’s existence was worth taking trouble to preserve. A recognition lock opened for him and he glided into a room crowded with his bodies and attachments. There was nothing else; an amputated personality did not carry around the little treasures of a mortal.
He had already chosen what to take. After detaching from the sled, he hitched himself to the biped body which lay stretched out like a metal corpse. For those moments he was without any senses but sight, hearing, a dim touch and kinesthesia, a jab of pain through what remained of his tissues. He was glad when he had finished making the new connections.
Rising, he lumbered about and gathered what else he would need and fastened it on: special tools and sensors, a gravity impeller, a blaster. How weak and awkward he was. He much preferred being a vehicle or a gun. Metal and plastic did not substitute well for cells, nerves, muscles, the marvelous structure which was bone. But tonight an unspecialized shape was required.
Last came some disguise. He could not pass for Merseian (after what had been done to him) but he could look like a spacesuited human or Iskeled. The latter race had long ago become resigned to the domination of his, and furnished many loyal personnel. No few had been granted Merseian citizenship. It had less significance than the corresponding honor did for Terra, but it carried certain valuable privileges.
Ready. Dwyr left his room and took to the air again, openly this time. Admiralty House grew before him, a gaunt mountain where caves glared and the beacon made a volcano spout. A sound of machines mumbled through the sky he clove. He sensed their radiation as a glow, a tone, a rising wave. Soaring, he approached the forbidden zone and spoke, on a tight beam, those passwords Brechdan had given him. “Absolute security,” he added. “My presence is to be kept secret.”
When he landed on the flange, an officer had joined the sentries. “What is your business on this level?” the Merseian demanded. “Our protector the Hand is not in Ardaig.”
“I know,” Dwyr said. “I am at his direct orders, to conduct some business inside. That is as much as I am allowed to tell you. You and these males will admit me, and let me out in a while, and forget I was ever here. It is not to be mentioned to anyone in any circumstances. The matter is sealed.”
“Under what code?”
“Triple Star.”
The officer saluted. “Pass.”
Dwyr went down the corridor. It echoed a little to his footfalls. When he reached the anteroom, he heard the buzz of work in the offices beyond; but he stood alone at the door of the vault. He had never seen this place. However, the layout was no secret and had been easy to obtain.
The door itself, though—He approached with immense care, every sensor at full amplification. The scanners saw he was not authorized to go by, and might trigger an alarm. No. Nothing. After all, people did use this route on certain errands. He removed the false glove on his robot arm and extended tendrils to the plates.
They reacted. By induction, his artificial neurones felt how signals moved into a comparison unit and were rejected. So now he must feed in pulses which would be interpreted as the right eye and hand patterns. Slowly … slowly, micro-metric exactitude, growing into the assembly, feeling with it, calling forth the response he wanted, a seduction which stirred instincts until his machine heart and lungs moved rapidly and he was lost to the exterior world … there!
The door opened, ponderous and silent. He trod through. It closed behind him. In a black chamber, he confronted a thing which shone like opal.
Except for possessing a recognition trigger of its own, the molecular file was no different from numerous others he had seen. Still full of oneness with the flow of electrons and inter-meshed fields, still half in a dream, he activated it. The operation code was unknown to him, but he detected that not much information was stored here. Stood to reason, the thought trickled at the back of his awareness. No individual could single-handedly steer an empire. The secrets which Brechdan reserved for himself and his three comrades must be few, however tremendous. He, Dwyr the Hook, need not carry on a lengthy random search before he got the notes on Starkad.
Eidhafor: Report on another Hand who often opposed Brechdan in Council; data which could be used, at need, to break him.
Maxwell Crawford: Ha, the Terran Emperor’s governor of the Arachnean System was in Merseian pay. A sleeper, kept in reserve.
Therayn: So that was what preoccupied Brechdan’s friends. Abrams was evidently right; Hauksberg was being delayed so as to be present, influenceable, when the news broke.
Starkad!
Onto the screen flashed a set of numbers. 0.17847, 3°14' 22''.591, 1818h.3264 … Dwyr memorized them automatically, while he stood rigid with shock. Something had happened in the file. An impulse had passed. Its transient radiation had given his nerves a split second’s wispy shiver. Might be nothing. But better finish up and get out fast!
The screen blanked. Dwyr’s fingers moved with blurring speed. The numbers returned. Why—they were the whole secret. They were what Starkad was about. And he didn’t know what they meant.
Let Abrams solve this riddle. Dwyr’s task was done. Almost.
He went toward the door. It opened and he stepped into the antechamber. The door behind, to the main offices, was agape. A guard waited, blaster poised. Two more were hurrying toward him. Desk workers scuttled from their path.
“What is the matter?” Dwyr rapped. Because he could not feel terror or dismay, a blue flame of wrath sheeted through him.
Sweat glistened on the guard’s forehead and ran down over the brow ridges. “You were in his secretorium,” he whispered.
So terrible is the magic in those numbers that the machine has had one extra geas laid upon it. When they are brought forth, it calls for help.
“I am authorized,” Dwyr said. “How else do you think I could enter?”
He did not really believe his burglary could long remain unknown. Too many had seen. But he might gain a few hours. His voice belled. “No one is to speak of this to anyone else whatsoever, not even among yourselves. The business is sealed under a code which the officer of the night knows. He can explain its significance to you. Let me pass.”
“No.” The blaster trembled.
“Do you wish to be charged with insubordination?”
“I … I must take that risk, foreseer. We all must. You are under arrest until the Hand clears you in person.”
Dwyr’s motors snarled. He drew his own gun as he flung himself aside. Fire and thunder broke free. The Merseian collapsed in a seared heap. But he had shot first. Dwyr’s living arm was blasted off.
He did not go into shock. He was not that alive. Pain flooded him, he staggered for a moment in blindness. Then the homeostats in his prostheses reacted. Chemical stimulation poured from tubes into veins. Electronic impulses at the control of a microcomputer joined the nerve currents, damped out agony, forced the flesh to stop bleeding. Dwyr whirled and ran.
The others came behind him. Guns crashed anew. He staggered from their impact. Looking down, he saw a hole drilled in him from back to breast. The energy beam must have wrecked some part of the mechanism which kept his brain alive. What part, he didn’t know. Not the circulation, for he continued moving. The filtration system, the purifier, the osmotic balancer? He’d find out soon enough. Crash! His left leg went immobile. He fell. The clatter was loud in the corridor. Why hadn’t he remembered his impeller? He willed the negagravity field to go on. Still he lay like a stone. The
Merseians pounded near, shouting. He flipped the manual switch and rose.
The door to the flange stood shut. At top speed, he tore the panels asunder. A firebolt from a guard rainbowed off his armor. Out … over the verge … down toward shadow!
And shadows were closing in on him. His machinery must indeed have been struck in a vital spot. It would be good to die. No, not yet. He must hang on a while longer. Get by secret ways to the Terran Embassy; Abrams was too far, and effectively a prisoner in any event. Get to the Embassy—don’t faint!—find this Flandry—how it roared in his head—summon the airboat—the fact that his identity was unknown to his pursuers until they called Brechdan would help—try for an escape—if you must faint, hide yourself first, and do not die, do not die—perhaps Flandry can save you. If nothing else, you will have revenged yourself a little if you find him. Darkness and great rushing waters …
Dwyr the Hook fled alone over the night city.
13
That afternoon, Abrams had entered the office where Flandry was at work. He closed the door and said, “All right, son, you can knock off.”
“Glad to,” Flandry said. Preparing a series of transcribed interviews for the computer was not his idea of sport, especially when the chance of anything worthwhile being buried in them hovered near zero. He shoved the papers across his desk, leaned back, and tensed cramped muscles against each other. “How come?”
“Lord Hauksberg’s valet just called the majordomo here. They’re returning tomorrow morning. Figure to arrive about Period Four, which’d be fourteen or fifteen hundred Thursday, Terran Prime Meridian.”
Flandry sucked in a breath, wheeled his chair about, and stared up at his chief. “Tonight—?”
“Uh-huh,” Abrams nodded. “I won’t be around. For reasons you don’t need to know, except that I want attention focused my way, I’m going to wangle me an invite to a local Pooh-Bah.”
“And a partial alibi, if events go sour.” Flandry spoke with only the top half of his mind engaged. The rest strove to check pulse, lungs, perspiration, tension. It had been one thing to dash impulsively against a Merseian watercraft. It would be quite another to play against incalculable risks, under rules that would change minute by minute, in cold blood, for x many hours.
He glanced at his chrono. Persis was doubtless asleep. Unlike Navy men, who were trained to adapt to nonterrestrial diurnal periods by juggling watches, the Embassy civilians split Merseia’s rotation time into two short, complete “days.” She followed the practice. “I suppose I’m to stand by in reserve,” Flandry said. “Another reason for our separating.”
“Smart boy,” Abrams said. “You deserve a pat and a dog biscuit. I hope your lady fair will provide the same.”
“I still hate to … to use her this way.”
“In your position, I’d enjoy every second. Besides, don’t forget your friends on Starkad. They’re being shot at.”
“Y-yes.” Flandry rose. “What about, uh, emergency procedure?”
“Be on tap, either in her place or yours. Our agent will identify himself by a word I’ll think of. He may look funny, but trust him. I can’t give you specific orders. Among other reasons, I don’t like saying even this much here, however unbuggable we’re alleged to be. Do whatever seems best. Don’t act too damned fast. Even if the gaff’s been blown, you might yet manage to ride out the aftermath. But don’t hesitate too long, either. If you must move, then: no heroics, no rescues, no consideration for any living soul. Plain get that information out!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Sounds more like Tyi-yi, sir!’,” Abrams laughed. He seemed I at ease. “Let’s hope the whole operation proves dull and sordid. Good ones are, you know. Shall we review a few details?”
Later, when twilight stole across the city, Flandry made his way to the principal guest suite. The corridor was deserted. Ideally, Lord Hauksberg should come upon his impudence as a complete surprise. That way, the viscount would be easier to provoke into rage. However, if this didn’t work—if Persis learned he was expected and shooed Flandry out—the scandal must be leaked to the entire compound. He had a scheme for arranging that.
He chimed on the door. After a while, her voice came il drowsy. “Who’s there?” He waved at the scanner. “Oh. What is it, Ensign?”
“May I come in, Donna?”
She stopped to throw on a robe. Her hair was tumbled and she was charmingly flushed. He entered and closed the door. “We needn’t be so careful,” he said. “Nobody watching. My boss is gone for the night and a good part of tomorrow.” He laid hands on her waist. “I couldn’t pass up the chance.”
“Nor I.” She kissed him at great length.
“Why don’t we simply hide in here?” he suggested.
“I’d adore to. But Lord Oliveira—”
“Call the butler. Explain you’re indisposed and want to be alone till tomorrow. Hm?”
“Not very polite. Hell, I’ll do it. We have so little time, darling.”
Flandry stood in back of the vidiphone while she talked. If the butler should mention that Hauksberg was due in, he must commence Plan B. But that didn’t happen, as curt as Persis was. She ordered food and drink ’chuted here and switched off. He deactivated the instrument. “I don’t want any distractions,” he explained.
“What wonderful ideas you have,” she smiled.
“Right now I have still better ones.”
“Me too.” Persis rejoined him.
Her thoughts included refreshments. The Embassy larder was lavishly stocked, and the suite had a small server to prepare meals which she knew well how to program. They began with eggs Benedict, caviar, akvavit, and champagne. Some hours later followed Perigordian duck, with trimmings, and Bordeaux. Flandry’s soul expanded. “My God,” he gusted, “where has this sort of thing been all my life?”
Persis chuckled. “I believe I have launched you on a new career. You have the makings of a gourmet first class.”
“So, two causes why I shall never forget you.”
“Only two?”
“No, I’m being foolish, Aleph-null causes at the minimum. Beauty, brains, charm—Well, why’m I just talking?”
“You have to rest sometime. And I do love to hear you talk.”
“Hm? I’m not much in that line. After the people and places you’ve known—”
“What places?” she said with a quick, astonishing bitterness. “Before this trip, I was never further than Luna. And the people, the articulate, expensive, brittle people, their intrigues and gossip, the shadow shows that are their adventures, the words they live by—words, nothing but words, on and on and on—No, Dominic my dearest, you’ve made me realize what I was missing. You’ve pulled down a wall for me that was shutting off the universe.”
Did I do you any favor?
He dared not let conscience stir, he drowned it in the fullness of this moment.
They were lying side by side, savoring an ancient piece of music, when the door recognized Lord Hauksberg and admitted him.
“Persis? I say, where—Great Emperor!”
He stopped cold in the bedroom archway. Persis smothered a scream and snatched for her robe. Flandry jumped to his feet. But it’s still dark! What’s happened?
The blond man looked altogether different in green hunting clothes and belted blaster. Sun and wind had darkened his face. For an instant that visage was fluid with surprise. Then the lines congealed. The eyes flared like blue stars. He clapped hand to weapon butt. “Well, well,” he said.
“Mark—” Persis reached out.
He ignored her. “So you’re the indisposition she had,” he said to Flandry.
Here we go. Off schedule, but lift gravs anyway.
The boy felt blood course thickly, sweat trickle down ribs; worse than fear, he was aware how ludicrous he must look. He achieved a grin. “No, my lord. You are.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You weren’t being man enough.” Flandry’s belly grew stiff, co
nfronting that gun. Strange to hear Mozart lilting on in the background.
The blaster stayed sheathed. Hauksberg moved only to breathe. “How long’s this been between you?”
“It was my fault, Mark,” Persis cried. “All mine.” Tears whipped over her cheeks.
“No, my sweet, I insist,” Flandry said. “My idea entirely. I must say, my lord, you weren’t nice to arrive unannounced. Now what?”
“Now you’re under nobleman’s arrest, you whelp,” Hauksberg said. “Put on some clothes. Go to your quarters and stay there.”
Flandry scrambled to obey. On the surface, everything had gone smoothly, more so than expected. Too much more so. Hauksberg’s tone was not furious; it was almost absent-minded.
Persis groped toward him. “I tell you, Mark, I’m to blame,” she wept. “Let him alone. Do what you want to me, but not him!”
Hauksberg shoved her away. “Stop blubberin’,” he snapped. “D’ you think I care a pip on a ’scope about your peccadillos, at a time like this?”
“What’s happened?” Flandry asked sharply.
Hauksberg turned and looked at him, up and down, silent for an entire minute. “Wonder if you really don’t know,” he said at the end. “Wonder quite a lot.”
“My lord, I don’t!” Flandry’s mind rocked. Something was wrong.
“When word came to Dhangodhan, natur’lly we flitted straight back,” Hauksberg said. “They’re after Abrams this minute, on my authority. But you—what was your part?”
I’ve got to get out. Abrams’ agent has to be able to reach me.
“I don’t know anything, my lord. I’ll report to my room.”
“Stop!”
Persis sat on the bed, face in hands, and sobbed. She wasn’t loud.
“Stay right here,” Hauksberg said. “Not a step, understand?” His gun came free. He edged from the chamber, keeping Flandry in sight, and went to the phone. “Hm. Turned off, eh?” He flipped the switch. “Lord Oliveira.”
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