Young Flandry

by Poul Anderson

  "Very good, sir," he said.

  They left the office and crossed aboveground to the garages. The Merseian technics reported periodically to inspect the luxury boat lent Abrams, but today a lone human was on duty. Envious, he floated the long blue teardrop out into the sunlight. Abrams and Flandry boarded, sealed the door, and found chairs in the saloon. "Gethwyd Forest, main parking area," Abrams said. "Five hundred kph. Any altitude will do."

  The machine communicated with other machines. Clearance was granted and lane assigned. The boat rose noiselessly. On Terra, its path could have been monitored, but the haughty chieftains of Merseia had not allowed that sort of capability to be built in for possible use against them. Traffic control outside of restricted sections was automatic and anonymous. Unless they shadowed a boat, or bugged it somehow, security officers were unable to keep it under surveillance. Abrams had remarked that he liked that, on principle as well as because his own convenience was served.

  He groped in his tunic for a cigar. "We could have a drink," he suggested. "Whisky and water for me."

  Flandry got it, with a stiff cognac for himself. By the time he returned from the bar, they were leveled off at about six kilometers and headed north. They would take a couple of hours, at this ambling pace, to reach the preserve which the Vach Dathyr had opened to the public. Flandry had been there before, on a holiday excursion Oliveira arranged for Hauksberg and company. He remembered great solemn trees, gold-feathered birds, the smell of humus and the wild taste of a spring. Most vividly he remembered sun-flecks patterned across Persis' thin gown. Now he saw the planet's curve through a broad viewport, the ocean gleaming westward, the megalopolitan maze giving way to fields and isolated castles.

  "Sit down," Abrams said. His hand chopped at a lounger. Smoke hazed him where he sprawled.

  Flandry lowered himself. He wet his lips. "You've business with me, haven't you?" he said.

  "Right on the first guess! To win your Junior Spy badge and pocket decoder, tell me what an elephant is."

  "Huh, sir?"

  "An elephant is a mouse built to government specifications. Or else a mouse is a transistorized elephant." Abrams didn't look jovial. He was delaying.

  Flandry took a nervous sip. "If it's confidential," he asked, "should we be here?"

  "Safer than the Embassy. That's only probably debugged, not certainly, and old-fashioned listening at doors hasn't ever quite gone out of style."

  "But a Merseian runabout—"

  "We're safe. Take my word." Abrams glared at the cigar he rolled between his fingers. "Son, I need you for a job of work and I need you bad. Could be dangerous and sure to be nasty. Are you game?"

  Flandry's heart bumped. "I'd better be, hadn't I?"

  Abrams cocked his head at the other. "Not bad repartee for a nineteen-year-old. But do you mean it, down in your bones?"

  "Yes, sir." I think so.

  "I believe you. I have to." Abrams took a drink and a long drag. Abruptly:

  "Look here, let's review the circumstances as she stands. I reckon you have the innate common sense to see what's written on your eyeballs, that Brechdan hasn't got the slightest intention of settling the squabble on Starkad. I thought for a while, maybe he figured to offer us peace there in exchange for some other thing he really wants. But if that were the case, he wouldn't have thrown a triple gee field onto the parley the way he has. He'd have come to the point with the unavoidable minimum of waste motion. Merseians don't take a human's glee in forensics. If Brechdan wanted to strike a bargain, Hauksberg would be home on Terra right now with a preliminary report.

  "Instead, Brechdan's talkboys have stalled, with one quibble and irrelevancy after another. Even Hauksberg's getting a gutful. Which I think is the reason Brechdan personally invited him and aides to Dhangodhan for a week or two of shootin' and fishin'. Partly because that makes one more delay by itself; partly to smooth our viscount's feelings with a 'gesture of good will.'" The quotes were virtually audible. "I was invited too, but begged off on ground of wanting to continue my researches. If he'd thought of it, Brechdan'd likely have broken custom and asked Donna Persis, as an added inducement for staying in the mountains a while. Unless, hm, he's provided a little variety for his guests. There are humans in Merseian service, you know."

  Flandry nodded. For a second he felt disappointment. Hauksberg's absence when he returned had seemed to provide a still better opportunity than Hauksberg's frequent exhaustion in Ardaig. But excitement caught him. Never mind Persis. She was splendid recreation, but that was all.

  "I might be tempted to think like his Lordship, Brechdan is fundamentally sincere," he said. "The average Merseian is, I'm sure."

  "Sure you're sure. And you're right. Fat lot of difference that makes."

  "But anyhow, Starkad is too important. Haven't you told that idi—Lord Hauksberg so?"

  "I finally got tired of telling him," Abrams said. "What have I got to argue from except a prejudice based on experiences he's never shared?"

  "I wonder why Brechdan agreed to receive a delegation in the first place."

  "Oh, easier to accept than refuse, I suppose. Or it might have suited his plans very well. He doesn't want total war yet. I do believe he originally intended to send us packing in fairly short order. What hints I've gathered suggest that another issue has arisen—that he's planning quite a different move, not really germane to Starkad—and figures to put a better face on it by acting mild toward us. God alone knows how long we'll be kept here. Could be weeks more."

  Abrams leaned forward. "And meanwhile," he continued, "anything could happen. I came with some hopes of pulling off a hell of a good stunt just before we left. And it did look hopeful at first, too. Could give us the truth about Starkad. Well, things have dragged on, configurations have changed, my opportunity may vanish. We've got to act soon, or our chance of acting at all will be mighty poor."

  This is it, Flandry thought, and a part of him jeered at the banality, while he waited with hardheld breath.

  "I don't want to tell you more than I've got to," Abrams said. "Just this: I've learned where Brechdan's ultrasecret file is. That wasn't hard; everybody knows about it. But I think I can get an agent in there. The next and worst problem will be to get the information out, and not have the fact we're doing so be known.

  "I dare not wait till we all go home. That gives too much time for too many things to go wrong. Nor can I leave beforehand by myself. I'm too damn conspicuous. It'd look too much as if I'd finished whatever I set out to do. Hauksberg himself might forbid me to go, precisely because he suspected I was going to queer his pea-ea-eace mission. Or else . . . I'd be piloted out of the system by Merseians. Brechdan's bully boys could arrange an unfortunate accident merely as a precaution. They could even spirit me off to a hynoprobe room, and what happened to me there wouldn't matter a hoot-let compared to what'd happen to our forces later. I'm not being melodramatic, son. Those are the unbuttered facts of life."

  Flandry sat still. "You want me to convey the data out, if you get them," he said.

  "Ah, you do know what an elephant is."

  "You must have a pretty efficient pipeline to Merseian HQ."

  "I've seen worse," Abrams said rather smugly.

  "Couldn't have been developed in advance." Flandry spoke word by word. Realization was freezing him. "Had it been, why should you yourself come here? Must be something you got hold of on Starkad, and hadn't a chance to instruct anyone about that you trusted and who could be spared."

  "Let's get down to business," Abrams said fast.

  "No. I want to finish this."

  "You?"

  Flandry stared past Abrams like a blind man. "If the contact was that good," he said, "I think you got a warning about the submarine attack on Ujanka. And you didn't tell. There was no preparation. Except for a fluke, the city would have been destroyed." He rose. "I saw Tigeries killed in the streets."

  "Sit down!"

  "One mortar planted on a wharf would have gotten tha
t boat." Flandry started to walk away. His voice lifted. "Males and females and little cubs, blown apart, buried alive under rubble, and you did nothing!"

  Abrams surged to his feet and came after him. "Hold on, there," he barked.

  Flandry whirled on him. "Why the obscenity should I?"

  Abrams grabbed the boy's wrists. Flandry tried to break free. Abrams held him where he was. Rage rode across the dark Chaldean face. "You listen to me," Abrams said. "I did know. I knew the consequences of keeping silent. When you saved that town, I went down on my knees before God. I'd've done it before you if you could've understood. But suppose I had acted. Runei is no man's fool. He'd have guessed I had a source, and there was exactly one possibility, and after he looked into that my pipeline would've been broken like a dry stick. And I was already developing it as a line into Brechdan's own files. Into the truth about Starkad. How many lives might that save? Not only human. Tigery, Siravo, hell, Merseian! Use your brains, Dom. You must have a couple of cells clicking together between those ears. Sure, this is a filthy game. But it has one point of practicality which is also a point of honor. You don't compromise your sources. You don't!"

  Flandry struggled for air. Abrams let him go. Flandry went back to his lounger, collapsed in it, and drank deep. Abrams stood waiting.

  Flandry looked up. "I'm sorry, sir," he got out. "Overwrought, I guess."

  "No excuses needed." Abrams clapped his shoulder. "You had to learn sometime. Might as well be now. And you know, you give me a tinge of hope. I'd begun to wonder if anybody was left on our side who played the game for anything but its own foul sake. When you get some rank—Well, we'll see."

  He sat down too. Silence lay between them for a while.

  "I'm all right now, sir," Flandry ventured.

  "Good," Abrams grunted. "You'll need whatever all rightness you can muster. The best way I can see to get that information out soon involves a pretty dirty trick too. Also a humiliating one. I'd like to think you can hit on a better idea, but I've tried and failed."

  Flandry gulped. "What is it?"

  Abrams approached the core gingerly. "The problem is this," he said. "I do believe we can raid that file unbeknownst. Especially now while Brechdan is away, and the three others who I've found have access to that certain room. But even so, it'd look too funny if anyone left right after who didn't have a plausible reason. You can have one."

  Flandry braced himself. "What?"

  "Well . . . if Lord Hauksberg caught you in flagrante delicto with his toothsome traveling companion—"

  That would have unbraced a far more sophisticated person. Flandry leaped from his seat. "Sir!"

  "Down, boy. Don't tell me the mice haven't been playing while the cat's elsewhere. You've been so crafty that I don't think anybody else guesses, even in our gossipy little enclave. Which augurs well for your career in Intelligence. But son, I work close to you. When you report draggle-tailed on mornings after I noticed Lord Hauksberg was dead tired and took a hypnotic; when I can't sleep and want to get some work done in the middle of the night and you aren't in your room; when you and she keep swapping glances—Must I spell every word? No matter. I don't condemn you. If I weren't an old man with some eccentric ideas about my marriage, I'd be jealous.

  "But this does give us our chance. All we need do is keep Persis from knowing when her lord and master is coming back. She don't mix much with the rest of the compound—can't say I blame her—and you can provide the distraction to make sure. Then the message sent ahead—which won't be to her personally anyhow, only to alert the servants in the expectation they'll tell everyone—I'll see to it that the word doesn't reach her. For the rest, let nature take its course."

  "No!" Flandry raged.

  "Have no fears for her," Abrams said. "She may suffer no more than a scolding. Lord Hauksberg is pretty tolerant. Anyway, he ought to be. If she does lose her position . . . our corps has a slush fund. She can be supported in reasonable style on Terra till she hooks someone else. I really don't have the impression she'd be heartbroken at having to trade Lord Hauksberg in on a newer model."

  "But—" Confound that blush! Flandry stared at the deck. His fists beat on his knees. "She trusts me. I can't."

  "I said this was a dirty business. Do you flatter yourself she's in love with you?"

  "Well—uh—"

  "You do. I wouldn't. But supposing she is, a psych treatment for something that simple is cheap, and she's cool enough to get one. I've spent more time worrying about you."

  "What about me?" asked Flandry miserably.

  "Lord Hauksberg has to retaliate on you. Whatever his private feelings, he can't let something like this go by; because the whole compound, hell, eventually all Terra is going to know, if you handle the scene right. He figures on dispatching a courier home a day or two after he gets back from Dhangodhan, with a progress report. You'll go on the same boat, in disgrace, charged with some crime like disrespect for hereditary authority.

  "Somewhere along the line—I'll have to work out the details as we go—my agent will nobble the information and slip it to me. I'll pass it to you. Once on Terra, you'll use a word I'll give you to get the ear of a certain man. Afterward—son, you're in. You shouldn't be fumbly-diddling this way. You should be licking my boots for such an opportunity to get noticed by men who count. My boots need polishing."

  Flandry shifted, looked away, out to the clouds which drifted across the green and brown face of Merseia. The motor hum pervaded his skull.

  "What about you?" he asked finally. "And the rest?"

  "We'll stay here till the farce is over."

  "But . . . no, wait, sir . . . so many things could go wrong. Deadly wrong."

  "I know. That's the risk you take."

  "You more." Flandry swung back to Abrams. "I might get free without a hitch. But if later there's any suspicion—"

  "They won't bother Persis," Abrams said. "She's not worth the trouble. Nor Hauksberg. He's an accredited diplomat, and arresting him would damn near be an act of war."

  "But you, sir! You may be accredited to him, but—"

  "Don't fret," Abrams said. "I aim to die of advanced senile decay. If that starts looking unlikely, I've got my blaster. I won't get taken alive and I won't go out of the cosmos alone. Now: are you game?"

  It took Flandry's entire strength to nod.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two days later, Abrams departed the Embassy again in his boat. Ahead, on the ocean's rim, smoldered a remnant of sunset. The streets of Ardaig glowed ever more visible as dusk deepened into night. Windows blinked to life, the Admiralty beacon flared like a sudden red sun. Traffic was heavy, and the flier's robopilot must keep signals constantly flickering between itself, others, and the nearest routing stations. The computers in all stations were still more tightly linked, by a web of data exchange. Its nexus was Central Control, where the total pattern was evaluated and the three-dimensional grid of air-lanes adjusted from minute to minute for optimum flow.

  Into this endless pulsation, it was easy to inject a suitably heterodyned and scrambled message. None but sender and recipient would know. Nothing less than a major job of stochastic analysis could reveal to an outsider that occasional talk had passed (and even then, would not show what the talk had been about). Neither the boat nor the Terran Embassy possessed the equipment for that.

  From the darkness where he lay, Dwyr the Hook willed a message forth. Not sent: willed, as one wills a normal voice to speak; for his nerve endings meshed directly with the circuits of the vessel and he felt the tides in the electronic sea which filled Ardaig like a living creature feeling the tides in its own blood.

  "Prime Observer Three to Intelligence Division Thirteen." A string of code symbols followed. "Prepare to receive report."

  Kilometers away, a Merseian tautened at his desk. He was among the few who knew about Dwyr; they alternated shifts around the clock. Thus far nothing of great interest had been revealed to them. But that was good. It proved the Terran
agent, whom they had been warned was dangerous, had accomplished nothing. "Division Thirteen to Prime Three. Dhech on duty. Report."

  "Abrams has boarded alone and instructed the 'pilot to take him to the following location." Dwyr specified. He identified the place as being in a hill suburb, but no more; Ardaig was not his town.

  "Ah, yes," Dhech nodded. "Fodaich Qwynn's home. We knew already Abrams was going there tonight."

  "Shall I expect anything to happen?" Dwyr asked.

  "No, you'll be parked for several hours, I'm sure, and return him to the Embassy. He's been after Qwynn for some time for an invitation, so they could talk privately and at length about certain questions of mutual interest. Today he pressed so hard that Qwynn found it impossible not to invite him for tonight without open discourtesy."

  "Is that significant?"

  "Hardly. We judge Abrams makes haste simply because he got word that his chief will return tomorrow with the Hand of the Vach Ynvory, great protector of us all. Thereafter he can expect once more to be enmeshed in diplomatic maneuverings. This may be his last chance to see Qwynn."

  "I could leave the boat and spy upon them," Dwyr offered.

  "No need. Qwynn is discreet, and will make his own report to us. If Abrams hopes to pick up a useful crumb, he will be disappointed. Quite likely, though, his interest is academic. He appears to have abandoned any plans he may have entertained for conducting espionage."

  "He has certainly done nothing suspicious under my surveillance," Dwyr said, "in a boat designed to make him think it ideal for hatching plots. I will be glad when he leaves. This has been a drab assignment."

  "Honor to you for taking it," Dhech said. "No one else could have endured so long." A burst of distortion made him start. "What's that?"

  "Some trouble with the communicator," said Dwyr, who had willed the malfunction. "It had better be checked soon. I might lose touch with you."

  "We'll think of some excuse to send a technician over in a day or so. Hunt well."