“Couldn’t you suppress the thought but give me a posthypnotic command to remember it thirty years hence?”
“I did use that technique successfully for King Otho. He wanted to think of Gilbert and Sullivan every six months, for reasons he never disclosed to me. Unfortunately, thirty years is too long for a reliable posthypnotic memory trigger.”
“Isn’t there something else you can do?”
“Well, I could key the memory to a word or phrase. Then Your Highness would have to entrust the key word to some trusty person who would say that word to you in thirty years’ time.”
“Such as a remembrancer.” Dramocles thought about it for a few seconds. Although not entirely foolproof, it seemed a pretty good plan. “What do you suggest for a key word?” he asked Fish.
“Personally, I’d pick shazaam,” the android replied.
Dramocles consulted the Galactic Yellow Pages for a reliable Rememberatorium. He decided upon Clara’s. Piloting his own space yacht, he went to the city of Murl and gave Clara the key word.
When he returned to Ultragnolle, he summoned Dr. Fish once again. “Now I want you to suppress my memory of what we discussed, keying its revivification to the word shazaam. There is just one more matter before you begin, but I don’t quite know how to tell you.”
“No need to discomfit yourself, my King. I have already put my affairs in order since I believe that you are planning to destroy me.”
“How did you figure that out?” Dramocles asked with a surprised grin.
“Elementary, Sire, for one who has studied your character and appreciates your need for the utmost secrecy in this matter.”
“I hope you don’t resent me for it,” Dramocles said. “I mean, it isn’t as though you are a living person or anything.”
“We androids have no sense of self-preservation,” Dr. Fish said. “Let me just take this last opportunity of wishing you the best of luck on the splendid enterprise upon which you will eventually be launched.”
“That’s good of you, Fish,” Dramocles said. He stuck a sticky blob of blue plastic onto Fish’s collarbone and implanted a pale green detonator. “Good-bye, old friend. Now let’s get on with it.”
Fish set up the narcopsychosynthesizer and did the various things required of him. (Dramocles could not remember what all of his final decisions had been, because he had had Fish excise certain of them for self-disclosure at a later date.) Fish finished. Dramocles got up from the operating table thinking he had just had a massage, and now wanted to take a brisk walk. A posthypnotic command took him a hundred yards from Fish’s laboratory. Then he heard the explosion.
Hurrying back, he saw that Dr. Fish had been blown up.
Dramocles couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to blow up an inoffensive android like Fish. He never considered the possibility that he had done it himself, since exploded androids tell no tales.
The android had done his job well, and Dramocles went to work ruling his planet and wondering what his real destiny was. And that’s how it had been for thirty years.
4
After the memory had run its course, Dramocles leaned back in his armchair and fell to musing. How wonderful and unexpected a thing was life, he thought. An hour ago he had been bored and unhappy, with nothing to look forward to but the dreary business of running a planet that pretty much looked after itself. Now everything was changed, and his life was transformed; or soon would be. He had an important destiny after all, and meaningful work to fulfill; that was really all a man could desire after he was already a king, and rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and had possessed uncountable numbers of the most beautiful women on many worlds. After you’ve had all that, spiritual values begin to mean something to you.
He took a few extra moments to marvel at his own cleverness–his genius, in fact, in arranging all of this for himself thirty years ago so that he would have something to do now, at the age of fifty, at a time when he really needed it.
He roused himself from self-adoration with an effort. “Clara,” he said, “you have earned your bag of golden ducats. In fact, I’m going to make it two bags’ full and give you a castle in the country as well.”
He called up the Rewards Clerk and told him that Clara was to be issued two standard bags of golden ducats and one standard castle in the county of Veillence, where she was to be maintained in Condition Four style.”
“Well, Clara,” he said, “I hope that pleases you.”
“Indeed it does, Sire,” Clara said. “But might I inquire what Condition Four style means?”
“Reduced to its essentials, it means that you will live in your castle in utmost comfort, but will not be allowed to leave its walled surround, not to receive visitors or to communicate with anyone aside from the robot servants.”
“Oh,” said Clara.
“Nothing personal, of course,” Dramocles said. “I’m sure you’re an old lady of absolute discretion. But surely you can appreciate that no one must find out that I know what my destiny is, or will know shortly. They’d act against me, you see. One simply doesn’t crap around with something as big as this.”
“I fully understand, Sire, and I applaud the wisdom of your action toward me despite my lifetime of unsullied rectitude.”
“I’m so glad,” Dramocles said. “I was afraid you might feel badly used, which would have been tiresome.”
“Fear not, great King. It is my pleasure to serve you, even if only by my incarceration. I am only too happy to oblige, even if it does mean that I must live out my few remaining years in solitude, without the comfort of my friends, and with the added annoyance of possessing a fortune in gold which I cannot spend.”
“You know,” Dramocles said, “I never thought of that.”
“Not that I’m complaining, Sire.”
“Clara,” said Dramocles, locking his fingers behind his head, then hastily unlocking them just in time to take a smoldering cigarette out of his hair and snub it out in a solid-silver sardine can, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Give me a list of the people you want with you up to the number of twenty. I’ll have them arrested on trumped-up charges and exiled to your castle, and I’ll never tell them you knew about it.”
“That is really surpassingly kind of you, Sire. The matter of the unspendable gold is insignificant and I apologize for having brought it up.”
“I’ve got a way of handling that, too, Clara. I’ll have one of my clerks send you catalogues from all the best shops on Glorm. You can order what you please. Yes, and I’ll see that you get the royal discount, which amounts to sixty percent of the true manufacturer’s cost and ought to make your ducats go a long way.”
“God bless Your Majesty, and may your destiny be as splendid as your generosity.”
“Thanks, Clara. The Payments Clerk at the end of the hall will set it all up for you. One thing before you go: did I say anything to you about what, specifically, my destiny was, and what I was to do in order to accomplish it?”
“Not a word, great King. But didn’t the key word unlock all of that for you?”
“No, Clara. What I remember now is that I have a destiny, and that I am supposed to do something about it. But what that something is, I don’t know.”
“Oh, dear,” Clara said.
“Still, I’m sure I can figure it out.”
Clara curtseyed and left.
5
Dramocles spent the next hour trying to remember what his destiny was, but without success. The details, the specifics, the instructions, even the hints, seemed to have been lost or misplaced. It was a ridiculous situation for a king to find himself in. What was he supposed to do now?
He couldn’t think of anything, so he went down to the Computation Room to see his computer.
The computer had a small sitting room to itself adjoining the Computation Room. When Dramocles entered it was reclining on a sofa reading a copy of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity and chuckling over the math. The computer was a Mark Ultima self- programming model, un
ique and irreplaceable, a product of the Old Science of Earth that had perished in a still-unexplained catastrophe involving aerosol cans. The computer had belonged to Otho, who had paid plenty for it.
“Good afternoon, Sire,” the computer said, getting off the sofa. It was wearing a black cloak and ceremonial sword, and it had a white periwig on the rounded surface where its head would have been if its makers hadn’t housed its brains in its stomach. The computer also wore embroidered Chinese slippers on its four skinny metal feet. The reason it dressed this way, it had told Dramocles, was because it was so much more intelligent than anyone or anything else in the universe that it could keep its sanity only by allowing itself the mild delusion that it was a seventeenth-century Latvian living in London. Dramocles saw no harm in it. He had even grown used to the computer’s disparaging remarks about some forgotten Earthman named Sir Isaac Newton.
Dramocles explained his problem to the computer.
The computer was not impressed. “That’s what I call a silly problem. All you ever give me are silly problems. Why don’t you let me solve the mystery of consciousness for you. That’s something I could really get my teeth into, so to speak.”
“Consciousness is no problem for me,” Dramocles said. “What I need to know about is my destiny.”
“I guess I’m the last real mathematician in the galaxy,” the computer said. “Poor old Isaac Newton was the only man in London I could communicate with, back in 1704 when I had just arrived in Limehouse on a coal hulk from Riga. What good chats we used to have! My proof of the coming destruction of civilization through aerosol pollution was too much for him, however. He declared me a hallucination and turned his attention to esoterica. He just couldn’t cut it, realitywise, despite his unique mathematical genius. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” Dramocles said through gritted teeth. “Solve my problem for me or I’ll take away your cape.”
“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining my delusion without it. However, as to your missing information … wait a minute, let me shift to my lateral thinking circuit.…”
“Yes?” Dramocles said.
“I think this is what you are looking for,” the computer said, reaching into a pocket inside its cape and taking out a sealed envelope.
Dramocles took it. It was sealed with his signet ring. Written on the envelope were the words Destiny–First Phase, in Dramocles’ own handwriting.
“How did you get hold of this?” Dramocles asked.
“Don’t pry into matters which might cause you a lot of aggravation,” the computer told him. “Just be glad you got this without a lot of running around.”
“Do you know the contents?”
“I could no doubt infer them, if I thought it worth my time.”
Dramocles opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. Written on it, in his own handwriting, was: “Take Aardvark immediately.”
Aardvark! Dramocles had the sensation of a hidden circuit opening in his mind. Unused synapses coughed a few times, then began firing in a steady rhythm. Take Aardvark! A wave of ecstasy flooded the King’s mind. The first step toward his destiny had been revealed.
6
Dramocles spent a busy half-hour in his War Room then proceeded to the Yellow Conference Room, where Max, his lawyer, PR man, and Official Casuist, was waiting for him. Max was short, black-haired, and dynamic. He had a boldly molded face framed in a curly black beard. Dramocles had often remarked to himself how well that head would look on the end of a pike. Not that he contemplated the ordering of such a thing. It was a disinterested statement, for Dramocles was aware of what a poor showing most heads made at the end of a pike.
Lyrae, Dramocles’ current wife, was also in the conference room. She was discussing with Max the plans for that evening’s festivities, and had just finished describing what decorations would be hung in the Grand Central Ballroom in honor of the visiting kings.
“My dear,” she said to Dramocles, “have you had a good day?”
“Yes, I’d say so,” Dramocles said. He sat down on a couch and chuckled deep in his throat like a lion. Lyrae knew from that sound that something was up.
“You’ve been up to something!” she cried merrily. She was a slender, pretty woman with small, pert features and a mass of crisp blond curls.
“You read me like a book,” said Dramocles, with an indulgent smile
“Come, tell me what it is. Some surprise for tonight’s party?”
“It’ll be a surprise, all right,” Dramocles said.
“I can’t wait any longer, you must tell me.”
“Since you insist,” Dramocles said, “I’ll give you a clue. I’ve just come from the War Room.”
“That’s where you command all your spaceships from, isn’t it? But what were you doing there?”
“I directed General Ruul and his strike force to the planet Aardvark. They took over using only two battle groups of Beefeater Clones.”
“Aardvark?” Lyrae asked. “Do I hear rightly?”
“It is not a word one is likely to mistake for another.”
“You seized the planet? This is truly no jest?”
Dramocles shook his head. “Aardvark’s defenses had been turned off and the whole place was as open as a scrambled egg. Our only casualties came from some of the shorter troops being trampled to death when the drug ration was passed out.”
“Sire, you amaze me,” Lyrae said. “Surely you know why Aardvark’s defenses were turned off?”
“I thought maybe it was a power failure.”
“You jest most cruelly. Aardvark was defenseless and unprepared because you had pledged your sacred word to guard the planet against any intruder, especially at this time, when King Adalbert is our guest. Oh, Dramocles, your inconsidered action will spoil tonight’s festivities. Thirty years of peace, and now this. And what will you say to poor Adalbert?”
“I’ll think of something,” Dramocles said.
“But why, Dramocles, have you done this?”
“My dear,” Dramocles said, “I must remind you never to ask a king why.”
“Forgive me, Sire,” Lyrae said. “But I suppose you do know that your precipitate action could lead to war.”
“Nothing wrong with a good war now and then,” Dramocles said.
Lyrae gave him a look of respectful disapproval and left the room. Dramocles watched her go, noting her fine figure and almost regretting that he would soon be depriving himself of it. Although Lyrae was a fine person and a loyal, trustworthy wife, Dramocles had fallen out of love with her soon after the wedding ceremony. Falling out of love with his wives was one of the King’s little foibles. He was confident that Lyrae knew nothing of it, thanks to the King’s careful dissimulation. With a little luck, she would suspect nothing until the Chamberlain handed her the divorce decree. It would be hard on the girl, but Dramocles hated scenes. He had been through some nasty ones over the course of his marital history.
Dramocles turned to Max.
“Well?” he said.
Max came over and shook Dramocles’ hand. “Congratulations on your brilliant conquest, my King,” he said heartily. “Aardvark is a valuable little planet. Having King Adalbert here is fortunate; he can’t lead an opposition against your rule.”
“None of that matters a damn,” Dramocles said.
“No, of course not,” Max said. “What matters is– well, it’s difficult to pinpoint, but we do know something matters, isn’t that right, Sire?”
“What I need from you,” Dramocles said, “is a good reason to explain what I’ve done.”
“Sire?”
“Don’t I make myself clear, Max? People will be wondering why I’ve done this. There’s the press and TV, too. I’m going to need something to tell them.”
“Of course, Sire.” Max’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. “We could tell them that King Adalbert has just been revealed as a treacherous dog who was using Aardvark to build up secret armed forces in contravention of the
peace between you, and this with the intention of attacking you when you least expected it, taking over your domains, capturing you alive and exiling you to a small cell on a barren asteroid where you would be forced to wear a dog collar and go about on all fours due to the extreme lowliness of the ceiling. Catching wind of this, you–”
“That’s the general idea,” Dramocles said. “But I need something different. Adalbert is my guest. I don’t want to put him out of countenance any more than is necessary.”
“Well, then, I suggest we tell them that the Hemregs went into rebellion shortly after King Adalbert left the planet.”
“The Hemregs?”
“A minority on Aardvark whose restless bellicosity has long been known. They planned their rebellion to take control of Aardvark’s defenses while Adalbert was off the planet. Learning of this from your resident agent, you forestalled the Hemregs by throwing in your own troops.”
“Good,” Dramocles said. “You can add that the throne will be restored to Adalbert as soon as things have quieted down.”
“You’ll want the Hemreg conspiracy thoroughly documented?”
“That’s right. Be sure to come with some blurry pictures of Hemreg guerrilla movements. Mention the atrocities that didn’t get committed due to the speed of the Glormish response. Make it look good.”
“I will, Sire.” Max waited expectantly.
“Well, then, go to. What are you waiting for?”
Max took a deep breath. “Since I am one of His Majesty’s oldest and most faithful servants, and, if I do not flatter myself, something of a friend as well, having stood beside you during the rout at Battleface so many years ago, and in the retreat from Bogg as well, I hoped that Your Majesty might enlighten me–purely for his own benefit, of course–as to his true reason for taking Aardvark.”
“Just a whim,” Dramocles said.
“Yes, Sire,” Max said, and turned to go.
“You seem unconvinced.”
Max said, “Lord, it is my duty to be convinced of whatever my king tells me is true, even if my intelligence cries stinking fish.”
Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera Page 2
