by Ben Bova
“And you’ve never repaired it?”
“Never!” the baron snapped. “I want to see it every day, every time I open my eyes from sleep. I want to be reminded of how stupid and short-sighted people can be.”
Loris said quietly, “Papa, you are exciting yourself.”
Sure enough, the machinery that surrounded Baron De Mayne was chugging away faster than before.
“Pah! It is nothing. The machines will not allow me to die.”
Loris looked as if she wanted to argue the point, but she held her silence.
As the limousine rolled up to the chateau’s front entrance, Tray saw a handful of servants standing before it, at attention. De Mayne gestured toward his daughter.
“Once I am gone,” he said to Tray, “my daughter may rebuild the damaged wing. But not as long as I live. Never.”
Loris said nothing.
As soon as the limousine stopped Tray opened the door on his side and ducked out, then turned and offered his hand to Loris.
“Très merci,” she murmured as he helped her out of the car. Only then did Tray notice two liveried young men standing behind him, looking slightly distraught.
From inside the limousine, De Mayne’s reedy voice proclaimed, “Now I am ready to make my grand entrance.”
Loris tugged Tray back away from the limousine as a quartet of beefy young servants came forward and the car’s engine coughed to life once again.
Tray watched, wide-eyed, as the entire rear section of the limo detached itself and swung away from its front, with the baron still ensconced on the back seat, surrounded by his medical equipment.
The four young men stepped forward and lifted the baron, medical gear and all, out of the rear seat and deposited him gently on the paved driveway. Tray saw that the frame of his apparatus rested on four trunnion-like little wheels.
“Ah, voilà,” said the baron, smiling happily. “I am freed.”
Tray couldn’t help smiling, too. Rich or poor, he thought, it pays to have money.
Baron De Mayne maneuvered his rolling apparatus to Loris and Tray. “Come, let us go inside and behold the family treasures, while the cooks prepare us a suitable dinner.”
* * *
The family treasures consisted mainly of paintings hanging on the chateau’s stone walls. Portraits, mostly, of family leaders, long dead and gone. Beautiful ladies in exquisite finery, stiffly proud gentlemen staring out of their settings, many with a hand clasping a sword whose hilt glittered with jewelry rivaling the ladies’ decorations.
Para walked with them through the halls and room, silently observing. Tray wondered what the android thought of this display of ancient pride, but Para said nothing throughout the long, ultimately boring—to Tray—tour.
Suits of armor stood silent and grim along the corridors. Battle-axes and long lances with colorful pennants drooping down from their sharpened heads. Dummies in uniforms ranging from Napoleonic to the twentieth-century wars.
Tray found himself wondering, Is there nothing but war to display? What about the scientific discoveries made over the centuries? What about French contributions to medicine, to art, to music?
Tray was glad when they finally got to the dining hall, where one end of a long table was set for just the three of them. A place was also set for Para, beside Tray, although there was no dishware or implements at it. The android took its seat without a word.
As he maneuvered his machinery to the head of the table, De Mayne said, “One of the things for which I am most grateful is that the doctors were able to repair my digestive system. I cannot eat as much as I did when I was young, but at least I can enjoy the delicate flavors to some extent.”
“And you can’t get fat,” Loris added, grinning as she sat across the table from Tray.
“Ah, like your grandfather,” said De Mayne. “There was a man who could eat out a whole village in one sitting.”
“You exaggerate, Father.”
“Do I? Why do you think the village of Falais was turned into a tourist center? Your grandfather ate them out of house and home!”
Loris tried to frown at her father, failed, and eased into a smile instead.
Tray decided to stay out of family discussions. The trout he was eating was too delicious to be interfered with.
As the dessert of delicately flavored glacé was being served, De Mayne turned his apparatus slightly to look squarely at Tray.
“Now then, young man. What have you to say for yourself?”
RESPONSIBILITY
Tray glanced at Loris, across the table from him. Before he could say anything, though, the baron pointed a plastic forefinger at him.
“My daughter tells me that you suspect that Jordan Kell was murdered,” De Mayne said, his face and tone suddenly somber.
Tray nodded. “I do. I believe that Councilman Kell was assassinated on the orders of Council president Balsam.”
“So you believe.”
“I’m sure of it.”
De Mayne fell silent momentarily, staring at Tray, who felt as if he were being X-rayed by the baron’s probing eyes.
Tray explained, “I can’t believe that the Athena vessel failed so catastrophically without being sabotaged.”
“Deliberately.”
“Quite deliberately,” said Tray. “The vessel itself and Mr. Kell’s rescue suit.”
“And you and my daughter were nearly killed, as well.”
“Lieutenant Sheshardi was killed.”
Folding his hands beneath his chin prayerfully, the baron asked, “This is a huge accusation. What proof do you have to offer?”
Tray glanced over his shoulder at Para, sitting silently beside him, then turned his focus back to De Mayne. “None,” he admitted. “All the possible proof is buried deep in the Jovian ocean.”
“Ah,” said the baron in a near-whisper. “Tant pis. Too bad.”
Para spoke up. “The research submersible Jupiter Oceanus might be able to recover the wreckage before Athena sinks too deep into the ocean.”
De Mayne’s face brightened. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” answered Para. “To within an eighty percent probability.”
Loris pointed out, “But President Balsam controls the sub’s assignments. He’d never let it be used to find proof of his own guilt.”
“So much the better,” said the baron, with a cunning smile.
Feeling suddenly confused, Tray said, “I don’t understand.”
His smile broadening slightly, De Mayne explained, “Politics is a delicate interplay of personalities. I could ask the Council to allow use of the submersible to salvage Athena’s wreckage. If Balsam refuses giving permission, we could use his refusal as an indication of guilt.”
Tray shook his head. “That sounds awfully thin, don’t you think?”
Reaching for his demitasse of coffee, De Mayne replied smilingly, “It may be thin, but empires have been brought down by such ephemeral factors.”
“Father, aren’t you exaggerating?” Loris asked.
De Mayne cocked his head slightly. “Perhaps. But we don’t have anything better to go on.”
“Maybe we could get Captain Tsavo to admit the truth,” Tray suggested.
The baron wagged a plastic finger in the air. “Never. If the captain actually had Athena sabotaged, he would never admit it. It would be the end of his career. Humiliation. Disgrace.”
Para spoke up once more. “I presume that if the captain did have Athena sabotaged—”
“Along with Jordan Kell’s survival suit,” Tray added.
Dipping its chin in acknowledgment, Para went on, “If the captain directed the sabotage, he most likely used his ship’s robots to do the work, then erased all records of their work from their memory files.”
“Leaving us with no evidence whatsoever,” Loris said glumly.
The table fell silent for several eternally long moments.
Then De Mayne brightened and said, “The first thing we have to do is to get
you, young man, appointed to the Council.”
Tray felt shocked. “Me? Appointed to the Council?”
“Yes. As a Council member you can face Balsam on a nearly equal footing. And you will of course have immunity from prosecution. Are you willing to take that responsibility?”
“But I don’t know anything about politics, about how the Council works, about—”
“You can learn. I will guide you.” De Mayne looked at Loris. “Besides, if you intend to marry my daughter you’ll need some social standing—and an income.”
Tray felt his cheeks burn. But he saw Loris smiling at him.
Trying to keep his voice steady, Tray asked, “But how can I get myself elected to the Interplanetary Council? I don’t know the first thing—”
“Pah!” De Mayne spat. “I know the first things and the last things. Jordan Kell’s death leaves a vacancy on the Council. I will nominate you to fill that vacancy until the next regularly scheduled election, which does not occur until two years from now.”
“And that’s all there is to it?”
Waving a hand in the air, De Mayne replied, “Oh, the Council must vote its approval. But that can be arranged. With Jordan Kell gone, I am the leader of the loyal opposition. Our bloc will vote solidly for your appointment, and there are enough members in Balsam’s bloc who owe me favors. You will be elected, never fear.”
“But I have no experience.”
“Très bien! Balsam will welcome you, thinking he and his people can control you.”
His innards tightening, Tray remembered, “Balsam more or less accused me of having a homosexual relationship with Mr. Kell.”
“Better and better. The more he thinks he can control you, the easier it will be for him to support your election.”
Looking across the table at Loris, Tray asked, “Is this the way politics works?”
She smiled at him. “Yes. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Frightening,” said Tray.
COUNCILMAN WILLIAMSON
Tray stared at himself in the mirror. If this wasn’t so serious, he thought, it would be laughable.
The past few days had been a confusing whirlwind of meetings with Council members and staff, members of the chateau’s retinue of servants, and Norman neighbors of the baron. Meetings, dinners, even sedate dances among the young men and women of the area.
The baron had given Tray and Para a comfortable suite on one of the chateau’s upper floors, beneath the roof and next to a round brick tower that rose into the sky. It was seemingly kilometers away from Loris’s quarters, a floor below and far on the other side of the chateau.
“These hallways are under constant automated surveillance,” Baron De Mayne had explained coolly as he rolled his blinking, beeping chair beside Tray along the seemingly endless corridors. “We maintain strict security here in the chateau.”
Tray had nodded, thinking, He means no sneaking around to his daughter’s rooms. Almost, he laughed. But the baron’s expression showed no trace of humor.
Without leaving the chateau, the baron arranged for Tray to be appointed to the Interplanetary Council to fill out Jordan Kell’s term. Dressed in a formal uniform of blue and white, Tray took the oath of office in the chateau’s communications center, which was transformed electronically into a duplicate of the main hall, and he became officially a member of the Interplanetary Council.
President Balsam administered the oath of office from the Council chambers in Copenhagen, while Tray repeated the words of his acceptance from the chateau in Normandy. The room appeared to be filled with several dozen Council members, all smiling and nodding approvingly, even though hardly a handful of them were actually physically in the communications center.
Modern communications, Tray thought as he shook hands with Balsam after taking the oath. We’re hundreds of kilometers apart, but I can even feel the pressure of his hand on mine.
Smiling his broadest, Balsam posed with Tray for publicity images. Once the remotely operated cameras had glided away and the witnessing Council members winked into nothingness, the Council president’s smile faded. Grasping Tray’s shoulder in one beefy hand, Balsam said, “We’ve got to have a long, serious talk, young man.”
Tray replied, “Yes, we do.”
“I’m not particularly happy with your accusation, you know.”
“I … I’m sorry. But I think we need to do everything we can to determine how Mr. Kell was killed.”
“Died,” said Balsam.
“Was murdered,” Tray countered.
Balsam grimaced and released Tray’s shoulder.
“And why he was murdered,” Tray added.
Balsam’s expression turned stony. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Trayvon. Be careful or you might get hurt.”
Looking up into Balsam’s flinty eyes, Tray replied, “I’m trying to find the truth.”
Balsam almost smiled. Almost. Instead he leaned closer to Tray and muttered, “You’re not the only one who could get hurt, you know.”
“I know,” said Tray. “You could get hurt. And Captain Tsavo.”
Balsam’s eyes widened. Without another word, he turned his back to Tray and disappeared like a ghost.
* * *
It took Tray several moments to realize he was not physically in the chateau’s main hall. He blinked and saw he was still in the communications center of De Mayne’s chateau in Normandy. The baron was sitting in his rolling chair, surrounded by softly beeping therapeutic machinery. Loris stood beside him, rigid with anger. Para stood on the baron’s other side.
As the floating cameras shut their red eyes and glided back to their racks along the room’s far wall, Loris practically stamped up to Tray’s side.
“He threatened you!” she almost snarled.
Tray felt a good deal less combative. “He threatened you, too. And your father.”
De Mayne rolled up to them smiling broadly. “Whatever he said, whatever threats he made, rest assured there will be no record of it. He is having the conversation wiped clean at this very moment, I’m sure.”
Para spoke up. “I have recorded the entire conversation.”
“Good!” said De Mayne.
But Tray said gloomily, “That means you’re on his hit list too, my friend.”
De Mayne refused to be cowed. “Pah! What can he do? As long as we remain here we will be safe enough.”
Tray smiled bitterly. “Unless a meteoroid comes tumbling out of the sky and smashes everything here to pieces.”
COPENHAGEN
“It is a historical anachronism to require you to be physically present at the Council hall,” said the Baron De Mayne.
Tray shrugged. “It’s part of the Council’s formal procedures. Opening day of the new session. All Council members are required to be there in person.”
“Pah!” spat the baron. “An anachronism supported by the merchants and tavern owners of Copenhagen.”
The three of them—plus Para—were flying from the De Mayne chateau to the Danish capital of Copenhagen, where the Interplanetary Council held its meetings. As a new member of the Council, Tray was scheduled to give a speech of introduction. Para had the speech recorded in its memory, word for word, and was ready to serve as Tray’s prompter.
Sitting beside Tray, Loris was wearing a form-hugging sheath of forest green, with a mid-calf skirt and emeralds adorning her throat, earlobes, wrists, and fingers. With her dark hair coiled atop her head, she looked stunning.
De Mayne was intent on coaching Tray. “Remember, as a member of the Council you are immune from arrest unless and until the Council votes to cancel your immunity.”
Tray nodded his understanding.
“So you can speak with a certain amount of freedom,” De Mayne went on. “But remember, you must not openly accuse Balsam. That would be a breach of the Council’s rules of decorum.”
Tray nodded again, his eyes looking beyond De Mayne to the oval window in the plane’s fuselage. Cultivated fields i
n checkerboard squares of various hues of green were hurrying past below the plane.
“Mustn’t break the rules of decorum,” Tray muttered.
De Mayne’s chin rose a notch. “Those rules are important, my young friend. Remember the words of Winston Churchill: ‘When you are going to kill a man, it costs you nothing to be polite.’”
Tray had a feeling that those weren’t Churchill’s exact words, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he thought of doughty Winston’s speech to Parliament upon being appointed prime minister, in the darkest days of World War II: “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.”
Loris said, “Your goal is get the Council to open an investigation into Jordan Kell’s death.”
“And you are in no position to demand an investigation,” De Mayne reminded him. “As the newest and youngest member of the Council, you must request, you must suggest, you must importune the Council into opening an investigation.”
Tray felt his teeth clenching, but he nodded acceptance.
“Très bien,” said De Mayne, reaching out from his medical chair to clasp Tray’s shoulder. “You will do well.”
Tray glanced at Loris. She was smiling at him encouragingly. Para sat behind Tray, silently recording everything they said, every gesture, every facial expression.
The captain’s voice crackled over the speakers set into the plane’s ceiling. “Copenhagen coming up on the right. We’ll be landing in twelve minutes.”
Tray looked out the window on his right. There was the city of Copenhagen, surrounded by the massive dikes that kept the sea at bay. The city had become an island when the greenhouse floods had swamped much of Europe’s ancient coastline. Tray could see a pair of ferries cutting white wakes in the azure water as they passed each other, heading in opposite directions. And there was the city, proud towers and ancient churches, splendid squares of green-leafed parks and rows of homes huddled against the seawalls.
Copenhagen, Tray thought. My first moment as a member of the Interplanetary Council. He turned to Para, sitting placidly behind him, and felt a lump in his throat. He said to himself, I’m going to be addressing the Interplanetary Council! Me, standing in front of the whole Council and asking them to form a committee to investigate Jordan Kell’s death.
