No more information was available without special clearance.
"Well, that was a waste of time," Dalt said. "Are you addressing me, Mr. Dalt?" the computer asked. "No."
("There certainly wasn't much new information there,") the voice agreed.
Dalt pulled his card from the slot, thereby cutting the computer off from this particular viewer booth, before answering. Otherwise it would keep butting in.
"The theories now stand at either malfunction or foul play."
("Why foul play?")
"The spacers' guild, for one," Dalt said, standing. "Competing companies, for another. But since it crashed on a restricted splinter world, I favor the malfunction theory." As he stepped from the booth he glanced at the chronometer on the wall: 1900 hours ship-time. Jean would be waiting.
The cafeteria was nearly deserted when he arrived with Jean and the pair found an isolated table in a far corner.
"I really don't think you should dye your hair at all," Jean was saying as they placed their trays on the table and sat down. "I think that gray patch looks cute in a distinguished sort of way ... or do I mean distinguished in a cute sort of way?"
Dalt took the ribbing in good-natured silence.
"Steve!" she said suddenly. "How come you're eating with your left hand? I've never seen you do that before."
Dalt looked down. His fork was firmly grasped in his left hand. "That's strange," he said. "I didn't even realize it."
("I integrated a few circuits, so to speak, while you were asleep,") the voice said. ("It seemed rather ridiculous to favor one limb over another. You're now ambidextrous.")
Thanks for telling me, Partner!
("Sorry. I forgot.")
Dalt switched the fork to his right hand and Jean switched the topic of conversation.
"You know, Steve," she said, "you've never told me why you quit the cultural-survey group."
Dalt paused before answering. After the fall of Metep VII, last in a long line of self-styled "Emperors of the Outworlds," a new independent spirit gave rise to a loose organization of worlds called simply the Federation.
"As you know," he said finally, "the Federation has a long-range plan of bringing splinter worlds—willing ones, that is—back into the fold. But it was found that an appalling number had regressed into barbarism. So the cultural surveys were started to evaluate splinter worlds and decide which could be trusted with modern technology. There was another rule which I didn't fully appreciate back then but have come to believe in since, and that's where the trouble began."
"What rule was that?"
"It's not put down anywhere in so many words, but it runs to the effect that if a splinter-world culture had started developing on a path at variance with the rest of humanity, it is to be left alone."
"Sounds like they were making cultural test tubes out of some planets," Jean said.
"Exactly what I thought, but it never bothered me until I surveyed a planet that must, for now, remain nameless. The inhabitants had been developing a psi culture through selective breeding and were actually developing a tangential society. In my report I strongly recommended admission to the Fed; I thought we could learn as much from them as they from us."
"But it was turned down, I bet," Jean concluded.
Dalt nodded. "I had quite a row with my superiors but they held firm and I stalked out in a rage and quit."
"Maybe they thought you were too easy on the planet."
"They knew better. I had no qualms about proscribing Kwashi, for instance. No, their reason was fear that the psi society was not mature enough to be exposed to galactic civilization, that it would be swallowed up. They wanted to give it another century or two. I thought that was unfair but was powerless to do anything about it."
Jean eyed him with a penetrating gaze. "I notice you've been using the past tense. Change your mind since then?"
"Definitely. I've come to see that there's a very basic, very definite philosophy behind everything the Federation does. It not only wants to preserve human diversity, it wants to see it stretched to the limit. Man was an almost completely homogenized species before he began colonizing the stars; interstellar travel arrived just in time. Old Earth is still a good example of what I mean; long ago the Eastern and Western Alliances fused— something no one ever thought would happen—and Earth is just one big faceless, self-perpetuating bureaucracy. The populace is equally faceless.
"But the man who left for the stars—he's another creature altogether! Once he got away from the press of other people, once he stopped seeing what everybody else saw, hearing what everybody else heard, he began to become an individual again and to strike out in directions of his own choosing. The splinter groups carried this out to an extreme and many failed. But a few survived and the Federation wants to let the successful ones go as far as they can, both for their own sake and for the sake of all mankind. Who knows? Homo superior may one day be born on a splinter world."
They took their time strolling back to Dalt's quarters. Once inside, Dalt glanced in the mirror and ran his hand through the gray patch in his hair. "It's still there," he muttered in mock disappointment.
He turned back to Jean and she was already more than half undressed. "You weren't gone all that long, Steve," she said in a low voice, "but I missed you— really missed you."
It was mutual.
III
She was gone when he awakened the next morning but a little note on the night table wished him good luck.
("You should have prepared me for such a sensory jolt,") said the voice. ("I was taken quite by surprise last night.")
"Oh, it's you again." Dalt groaned. "I pushed you completely out of my mind last night, otherwise I'd have been impotent, no doubt."
("I hooked into your sensory input—very stimulating.")
Dalt experienced helpless annoyance. He would have to get used to his partner's presence at the most intimate moments, but how many people could make love knowing that there's a peeping tom at the window with a completely unobstructed view?
("What are we going to do now?")
"Pard," Dalt drawled, "we're gonna git ready to go below." He went to the closet and pulled from it a worn leather jerkin and a breastplate marked with an empty red circle, the mark of the mercenary. Stiff leather breeches followed and broadsword and metal helm completed the picture. He then dyed his hair for Racso's sake.
"One more thing," he said, and reached up to the far end of the closet shelf. His hand returned clutching an ornate dagger. "This is something new in Racso's armament."
("A dagger?")
"Not just a dagger. It's—"
("Oh, yes. It's also a blaster.")
"How did you know?"
("We're partners, Steve. What you know, I know. I even know why you had it made.") "I'm listening."
("Because you're afraid you're not as fast as you used to be. You think your muscles may not have quite the tone they used to have when you first posed as Racso. And you're not willing to die looking for an artificial brain.")
"You seem to think you know me pretty well."
("I do. Skin to skin, birth to now. You're the only son of a fairly well-to-do couple on Friendly, had an average childhood and an undistinguished academic career—but you passed the empathy test with high marks and were accepted into the Federation cultural-survey service. You don't speak to your parents anymore. They've never forgiven their baby for running off to go hopping from splinter world to splinter world. You cut yourself off from your home-world but made friends in CS; now you're cut off from CS. You're not a loner by nature but you've adapted. In fact, you have a tremendous capacity to adapt as long as your own personal code of ethics and honor isn't violated—you're very strict about that.")
Dalt sighed. "No secrets anymore, I guess."
("Not from me, at least.")
Dalt planned the time of his arrival in Bendelema Duchy for predawn. He concealed the shuttler and was on the road as the sky began to lighten. Walking
with a light saddle slung over his shoulder, he marveled at the full ripe fields of grains and greens on either side of him. Agriculture had always been a hit-or-miss affair on Kwashi and famines were not uncommon, but it looked as if there would be no famine in Bendelema this year. Even the serfs looked well fed.
"What do you think, Pard?" Dalt asked.
("Well, Kwashi hasn't got much of a tilt on its axis. They seem to be on their way to the second bumper crop of the year.")
"With the available farming methods, that's unheard of ... I almost starved here once myself."
("I know that, but I have no explanation for these plump serfs.")
The road made a turn around a small wooded area and the Bendelema keep came into view.
"I see their architecture hasn't improved since I left. The keep still looks like a pile of rocks."
("I wonder why so many retrograde splinter worlds turn to feudalism?") Pard said as they approached the stone structure.
"There are only theories. Could be that feudalism is, in essence, the law of the jungle. When these colonists first land, education of the children has to take a back seat to putting food on the table. That's their first mistake and a tragic one, because once they let technology slide, they're on a downhill spiral. Usually by the third generation you have a pretty low technological level; the stops are out, the equalizers are gone, and the toughs take over.
"The philosophy of feudalism is one of muscle: Mine is what I can take and hold. It's ordered barbarism. That's why feudal worlds such as Kwashi have to be kept out of the Federation—can you imagine a bunch of these yahoos in command of an interstellar dread-naught? No one's got the time or the money to reeducate them, so they just have to be left alone to work out their own little industrial revolution and so forth. When they're ready, the Fed will give them the option of joining up."
"Ho, mercenary!" someone hailed from the keep gate. "What do you seek in Bendelema?"
"Have I changed that much, Farri?" Dalt answered.
The guard peered at him intensely from the wall, then his face brightened. "Racso! Enter and be welcome! The Duke has need of men of your mettle."
Farri, a swarthy trooper who had gained a few pounds and a few scars since their last meeting, greeted him as he passed through the open gate. "Where's your mount, Racso?" He grinned. "You were never one to walk when you could ride."
"Broke its leg in a ditch more miles back than I care to remember. Had to kill it ... good steed, too."
"That's a shame. But the Duke'll see that you get a new one."
Dalt's audience with the Duke was disturbingly brief. The lord of the keep had not been as enthusiastic as expected. Dalt couldn't decide whether to put the man's reticence down to distraction with other matters or to suspicion. His son Anthon was a different matter, however. He was truly glad to see Racso.
"Come," he said after mutual greetings were over. "We'll put you in the room next to mine upstairs."
"For a mercenary?"
"For my teacher!" Anthon had filled out since Dalt had seen him last. He had spent many hours with the lad, passing on the tricks of the blade he had learned in his own training days. "I've used your training well, Racso!"
"I hope you didn't stop learning when I left," Dalt said.
"Come down to the sparring field and you'll see that I've not been lax in your absence. I'm a match for you now."
He was more than a match. What he lacked in skill and subtlety he made up with sheer ferocity. Dalt was several times hard-pressed to defend himself, but in the general stroke-and-parry, give-and-take exercises of the practice session he studied Anthon. The lad was still the same as he had remembered him, on the surface: bold, confident, the Duke's only legitimate son and heir to Bendelema, yet there was a new undercurrent. Anthon had always been brutish and a trifle cruel, perfect qualities for a future feudal lord, but there was now an added note of desperation. Dalt hadn't noticed it before and could think of no reason for its presence now. Anthon's position was secure—what was driving him?
After the workout, Dalt immersed himself in a huge tub of hot water, a habit that had earned him the reputation of being a little bit odd the last time around, and then retired to his quarters, where he promptly fell asleep. The morning's long walk carrying the saddle, followed by the vigorous swordplay with Anthon, had drained him.
He awoke feeling stiff and sore.
("I hope those aching muscles cause you sufficient misery.")
"Why do you say that, Pard?" Dalt asked as he kneaded the muscles in his sword arm.
("Because you weren't ready for a workout like that. The clumsy practicing you did on the ship didn't prepare you for someone like Anthon. It's all right if you want to make yourself sore, but don't forget I feel it, too!")
"Well, just cut off pain sensations. You can do it, can't you?"
("Yes, but that's almost as unpleasant as the aching itself.")
"You'll just have to suffer along with me then. And by the way, you've been awful quiet today. What's up?"
("I've been observing, comparing your past impressions of Bendelema keep with what we see now. Either you're a rotten observer or something's going on here ... something suspicious or something secret or I don't know what.")
"What do you mean by 'rotten observer'?"
("I mean that either your past observations were inaccurate or Bendelema has changed.")
"In what way?"
("I'm not quite sure as yet, but I should know before long. I'm a far more astute observer than you—")
Dalt threw his hands up with a groan. "Not only do I have a live-in busy-body, but an arrogant one to boot!"
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Dalt said.
The door opened and Anthon entered. He glanced about the room. "You're alone? I thought I heard you talking—"
"A bad habit of mine of late," Dalt explained hastily. "I think out loud."
Anthon shrugged. "The evening meal will soon be served and I've ordered a place set for you at my father's table. Come."
As he followed the younger man down a narrow flight of roughhewn steps, Dalt caught the heavy, unmistakable scent of Kwashi wine.
A tall, cadaverous man inclined his head as they passed into the dining hall. "Hello, Strench," Dalt said with a smile. "Still the majordomo, I see."
"As long as His Lordship allows," Strench replied.
The Duke himself entered not far behind them and all present remained standing until His Lordship was seated. Dalt found himself near the head of the table and guessed by the ruffled appearance of a few of the court advisers that they had been pushed a little farther from the seat of power than they liked.
"I must thank His Lordship for the honor of allowing a mercenary to sup at his table," Dalt said after a court official had made the customary toast to Bendelema and the Duke's longevity.
"Nonsense, Racso," the Duke replied. "You served me well against Tependia and you've always taken a wholesome interest in my son. You know you will always find welcome in Bendelema."
Dalt inclined his head.
("Why are you bowing and scraping to this slob?") Shut up, Pard! It's all part of the act. ("But don't you realize how many serfs this barbarian oppresses?")
Shut up, self-righteous parasite! ("Symbiote!")
Dalt rose to his feet and lifted his wine cup. "On the subject of your son, I would like to make a toast to the future Duke of Bendelema: Anthon."
With a sudden animal-like cry, Anthon shot to his feet and hurled his cup to the stone floor. Without a word of explanation, he stormed from the room.
The other diners were as puzzled as Dalt. "Perhaps I said the wrong thing...."
"I don't know what it could have been," the Duke said, his eyes on the red splotch of spilled wine that seeped across the stones. "But Anthon has been acting rather strange of late."
Dalt sat down and raised his cup to his lips.
("I wouldn't quaff too deeply of that beverage, my sharp-ton
gued partner.")
And why not? Dalt thought, casually resting his lips on the brim.
("Because I think there's something in your wine that's not in any of the others' and I think we should be careful.")
What makes you suspicious?
("I told you your powers of observation needed sharpening.")
Never mind that! Explain!
("All right. I noticed that your cup was already filled when it was put before you; everyone else's was poured from that brass pitcher.")
That doesn't sound good, Dalt agreed. He started to put the cup down.
("Don't do that! Just wet your lips with a tiny amount and I think I might be able to analyze it by its effect. A small amount shouldn't cause any real harm.")
Dalt did so and waited.
("Well, at least they don't mean you any serious harm,") Pard said finally. ("Not yet.") What is it?
("An alkaloid, probably from some local root.") What's it supposed to do to me? ("Put you out of the picture for the rest of the night.")
Dalt pondered this. I wonder what for?
("I haven't the faintest. But while they're all still distracted by Anthon's departure, I suggest you pour your wine out on the floor immediately. It will mix with Anthon's and no one will be the wiser. You may then proceed to amaze these yokels with your continuing consciousness.")
I have a better idea, Dalt thought as he poured the wine along the outside of his boot so that it would strike the floor in a smooth silent flow instead of a noisy splash. I'll wait a jew minutes and then pass out. Maybe that way we'll find out what they've got in mind.
("Sounds risky.")
Nevertheless, that's what we'll do.
Dalt decided to make the most of the time he had left before passing out. "You know," he said, feigning a deep swallow of wine, "I saw a bright light streak across the sky last night. It fell to earth far beyond the horizon. I've heard tales lately of such a light coming to rest in this region, some even say it landed on Bendelema itself. Is this true or merely the mutterings of vassals in their cups?"
The table chatter ceased abruptly. So did all eating and drinking. Every face at the table stared in Dalt's direction.
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