Sir Dominic Flandry: The Last Knight of Terra

by Poul Anderson

  He had slipped back into space from Lannach, then returned openly. The sentinel robots detected him, and an officer in a warship demanded identification before granting clearance, at a distance from the planet which showed a thoroughness seldom encountered around fifth-rate outpost worlds. No doubt alarm about prospective rebellion and infiltration had caused security to be tightened. Without the orbital information he possessed, not even a vessel as begimmicked as his could have neared Diomedes unbeknownst.

  The image of the portmaster appeared in a comscreen. "Welcome, sir," he said. "Am I correct that you are alone? The Imperial resident has been notified of your coming and invites you to be his house guest during your stay. If you will tell me where your accommodation lock is—frankly, I have never seen a model quite like yours—a car will be there for you in a few minutes."

  He was an autochthon, a handsome creature by any standards. The size of a short man, he stood on backward-bending, talon-footed legs. Brown-furred, the slim body ran out in a broad tail which ended in a fleshy rudder; at its middle, arms and hands were curiously anthropoid; above a massive chest, a long neck bore a round head—high, ridged brow, golden eyes with nictitating membranes, blunt-nosed black-muzzled face with fangs and whiskers suggestive of a cat, no external ears but a crest of muscle on top of the skull. From his upper shoulders grew the bat wings, their six-meter span now folded. He wore a belt to support a pouch, a brassard of authority, and, yes, a crucifix.

  I'd better stay in character from the beginning. "Many thanks, my dear chap," Flandry replied in his most affected manner. "I say, could you tell the chauffeur to come aboard and fetch my bags? Deuced lot of duffel on these extended trips, don't y' know." He saw the crest rise and a ripple pass along the fur, perhaps from irritation at his rudeness in not asking the portmaster's name.

  The driver obeyed, though. He was a husky young civilian who bowed at sight of Flandry's gaudy version of dress uniform. "Captain Ahab Whaling?"

  "Right." Flandry often ransacked ancient books. He had documentation aboard for several different aliases. Why risk alerting someone? The more everybody underestimated him, the better. Since he wanted to pump this fellow, he added, "Ah, you are—?"

  "Diego Rostovsky, sir, handyman to Distinguished Citizen Lagard. You mentioned baggage?... Jumping comets, that much?... Well, they'll have room at the Residency."

  "Nobody else staying there, what?"

  "Not at the moment. We had a bunch for some while, till about a month ago. But I daresay you know that already, seeing as how you're Intelligence yourself." Rostovsky's glance at the eye insigne on Flandry's breast indicated doubt about the metaphorical truth of it.

  However, curiosity kept him friendly. When airlocks had decoupled and the groundcar was moving along the road to town, he explained: "We don't fly unnecessarily. This atmosphere plays too many tricks.... Uh, they'll be glad to meet you at the Residency. Those officers I mentioned were too busy to be very good company, except for—" He broke off. "Um. And, since they left, the isolation and tension... My master and his staff have plenty to keep them occupied, but Donna Lagard always sees the same people, servants, guards, commercial personnel and their families. She's Terran-reared. She'll be happy for news and gossip."

  And you judge me the type to furnish them, Flandry knew. Excellent. His gaze drifted through the canopy, out over somber fields and tenebrous heaven. But who was that exception whom you are obviously under orders not to mention?

  "Yes, I imagine things are a bit strained," he said. "Though really, you need have no personal fears, need you? I mean, after all, if some of the tribes revolted, an infernal nuisance, 'speci'lly for trade, but surely Thursday Landing can hold out against primitives."

  "They aren't exactly that," was the answer. "They have industrial capabilities, and they do business directly with societies still further developed. We've good reason to believe a great many weapons are stashed around, tactical nukes among them. Oh, doubtless we could fend off an attack and stand siege. The garrison and defenses have been augmented. But trade would go completely to pieces—it wouldn't take many rebels to interdict traffic—which'd hurt the economy of more planets than Diomedes.... And then, if outsiders really have been the, uh, the—"

  "Agents provocateurs," Flandry supplied. "Or instigators, if y' prefer. Either way; I don't mind."

  Rostovsky scowled. "Well, what might their bosses do?"

  Martin Lagard was a small prim man in a large prim office. When he spoke, in Anglic still tinged by his Atheian childhood, both his goatee and the tip of his nose waggled. His tunic was of rich material but unfashionable cut, and he had done nothing about partial baldness.

  Blinking across his desk at Flandry, who lounged behind a cigarette, the Imperial resident said in a scratchy voice, "Well, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Whaling, but frankly puzzled as to what may be the nature of your assignment. No courier brought me any advance word." He sounded hurt.

  I'd better soothe him. Flandry had met his kind by the scores, career administrators, conscientious but rule-bound and inclined to self-importance. Innovators, or philosophers like Chunderban Desai, were rare in that service, distrusted by their fellows, destined either for greatness or for ruin. Lagard had advanced methodically, by the book, toward an eventual pension.

  He was uncreative but not stupid, a vital cog of empire. How could a planetful of diverse nonhumans be closely governed by Terra, and why should it be? Lagard was here to assist Imperials in their businesses and their problems; to oversee continuous collection of information about this world and put it in proper form to feed the insatiable data banks at Home; to collect from the natives a modest tribute which paid for their share of the Pax; to give their leaders advice as occasion warranted, and not use his marines to see that they followed it unless he absolutely must; to speak on their behalf to those officials of the Crown with whom he dealt; to cope.

  He had not done badly. It was not his fault that demons haunted the planet which were beyond his capability of exorcising, and might yet take possession of it.

  "No, sir, they wouldn't give notice. Seldom do. Abominably poor manners, but that's policy for you, what?" Flandry nodded at his credentials, where they lay on the desk. "'Fraid I can't be too explicit either. Let's say I'm on a special tour of inspection."

  Lagard gave him a close look. Flandry could guess the resident's thought: Was this drawling clothes horse really an Intelligence officer at work, or a pet relative put through a few motions to justify making an admiral of him? "I will cooperate as far as possible, Captain."

  "Thanks. Knew y' would. See here, d'you mind if I bore you for a few ticks? Mean to say, I'd like to diagram the situation as I see it. You correct me where I'm wrong, fill in any gaps, that kind of thing, eh? You know how hard it is to get any proper overview of matters. And then, distances between stars, news stale before it arrives, n'est-ce pas?"

  "Proceed," Lagard said resignedly.

  Flandry discarded his cigarette, crossed legs and bridged fingers. No grav generator softened the pull of Diomedes.

  He let his added weight flow into the chair's crannies of softness, as if already wearied. (In actuality he did his calisthenics under two gees or more, because thus he shortened the dreary daily time he needed for keeping fit.) "Troublemakers afoot," he said. "Distinct possibility of hostiles taking advantage of the disorganization left by the recent unpleasantness—whether those hostiles be Merseian, Ythrian, barbarian, Imperials who want to break away or even overthrow his Majesty—right? You got hints, various of those troublemakers were active here, fanning flames of discontent and all that sort of nonsense, How'd they get past your security?"

  "Not my security, Captain," Lagard corrected. "I've barely had this post five years. I found the sentinel system in wretched condition—expectable, after the Empire's woes—and did my best to effect repairs. I also found our civil strife was doing much to heighten resentment, particularly in the Great Flock of Lannach. It disrupted offpla
net commerce, you see. The migrant societies have become more dependent on that than the sedentary ones like Drak'ho which have industry to produce most of what they consume. But please realize, a new man on a strange world needs time to learn its ins and outs, and develop workable programs."

  "Oh, quite." Flandry nodded. "At first you'd see no reason to screen visitors from space. Rather, you'd welcome 'em. They might help restore trade, what? Very natural. No discredit to you. At last, however, clues started trickling in. Not every transient was spending his stay in the outback so benignly. Right?

  "You asked my Corps to investigate. That likewise takes time. We too can't come cold onto a planet and hope for instant results, y' know. Ah, according to my briefing, it was sector HQ you approached. Terra just got your regular reports."

  "Of course," Lagard said. "Going through there would have meant a delay of months."

  "Right, right. No criticism intended, sir," Flandry assured him. "Still, we do like to keep tabs at Home. That's what I'm here for, to find out what was done, in more detail than the official report"—which was almighty sketchy—"could render. Or, you could say, my superiors want a feel of how the operation went."

  Lagard gave the least shrug.

  "Well, then," Flandry proceeded. "The report does say a Commander Bruno Maspes brought an Intelligence team, set up shop in Thursday Landing, and got busy interrogating, collating data, sending people out into the field—the usual intensive job. They worked how long?"

  "About six months."

  "Did you see much of them?"

  "No. They were always occupied, often all away from here at once, sometimes away from the whole system. Personnel of theirs came and went. Even those who were my guests—" Lagard stopped. "You'll forgive me, Captain, but I'm under security myself. My entire household is. We've been forbidden to reveal certain items. This clearance of yours does not give you power to override that."

  Ah-ha. It tingled in Flandry's veins. His muscles stayed relaxed. "Yes, yes. Perfectly proper. You and yours were bound to spot details—f'r instance, a xenosophont with odd talents—" Look at his face! Again, ah-ha.—"which ought not be babbled about. Never fret, I shan't pry.

  "In essence, the team discovered it wasn't humans of Ythrian allegiance who were inciting to rebellion and giving technical advice about same. It was humans from Dennitza."

  "So I was told," Lagard said.

  "Ah... during this period, didn't you entertain a Dennitzan scientist?"

  "Yes. She and her companion soon left for the Sea of Achan, against my warnings. Later I was informed that they turned out to be subversives themselves." Lagard sighed. "Pity. She was a delightful person, in her intense fashion."

  "Any idea what became of her?"

  "She was captured. I assume she's still detained."

  "Here?"

  "Seems unlikely. Maspes and his team left weeks ago. Why leave her behind?"

  What would I have done if they were around yet? Flandry wondered fleetingly. Played that hand in style, I trust. "They might have decided that was the easiest way to keep the affair under wraps for a bit," he suggested.

  "The Intelligence personnel now on Diomedes are simply those few who've been stationed among us for years. I think I'd know if they were hiding anything from me. You're free to talk to them, Captain, but better not expect much."

  "Hm." Flandry stroked his mustache. "I s'pose, then, Maspes felt he'd cleaned out the traitors?"

  "He said he had a new, more urgent task elsewhere. Doubtless a majority of agents escaped his net, and native sympathizers may well keep any humans among them fed. But, he claimed, if we monitor space traffic carefully, they shouldn't rouse more unrest than we can handle. I hope he was right."

  "You're trying to defuse local conflicts, eh?"

  "What else?" Lagard sounded impatient. "My staff and I, in consultation with loyal Diomedeans, are hard at work. A fair shake for the migrants is not impossible to achieve, if the damned extremists will let us alone. I'm afraid I'll be a poor host, Captain. Day after tomorrow—Terran, that is—I'm off for Lannach, to lay certain proposals before the Commander of the Great Flock and his councillors. They feel a telescreen is too impersonal."

  Flandry smiled. "Don't apologize, sir. I'll be quite happy. And, I suspect, only on this planet a few days anyhow, before bouncing on to the next. You and Maspes seem offhand to've put on a jolly good show."

  Gratified, visions of bonuses presumably dancing through his head, the resident beamed at him. "Thank you. I'll introduce you around tomorrow, and you can question or look through the files as you wish, within the limits of security I mentioned. But first I'm sure you'd like to rest. A servant will show you to your room. We'll have apéritifs in half an hour. My wife is eager to meet you."

  VIII

  At dinner Flandry laid on the wit and sophistication he had preprogrammed, until over the liqueurs Susette Kalehua Lagard sighed, "Oh, my, Captain Whaling, how marvelous you're here! Nobody like you has visited us for ages—they've all been provincials, or if not, they've been so ghastly serious, no sensitivity in them either, except a single one and he wasn't human—Oh!" Her husband had frowned and nudged her. She raised fingers to lips. "No, that was naughty of me. Please forget I said it."

  Flandry bowed in his chair. "Impractical, I fear, Donna. How could I forget anything spoken by you? But I'll set the words aside in my mind and enjoy remembering the music." Meanwhile alertness went electric through him. This warm, well-furnished, softly lighted room, where a recorded violin sang and from which a butler had just removed the dishes of an admirable rubyfruit soufflé, was a very frail bubble to huddle in. He rolled curaçao across his tongue and reached for a cigarette.

  She fluttered her lashes. "You're a darling." She had had a good bit to drink. "Isn't he, Martin? Must you really leave us in less than a week?"

  Flandry shrugged. "Looks as if Distinguished Citizen Lagard hasn't left me much excuse to linger, alas."

  "Maybe we can find something. I mean, you can exercise judgment in your mission, can't you? They wouldn't send a man like you out and keep a leash on him."

  "We'll see, Donna." He gave a look of precisely gauged meaningfulness. She returned it in kind. The wine had not affected her control in that respect.

  His inner excitement became half sardonicism, half a moderately interested anticipation. She was attractive in a buxom fashion, to which her low-cut shimmerlyn gown lent an emphasis that would have raised brows at today's Imperial court—the court she had never seen. Jewels glinted in black hair piled about a round brown countenance. Vivacity had increased in her throughout the meal, till her conversation sounded less platitudinous than it was.

  Flandry knew her as he knew her husband, from uncounted encounters: the spouse of an official posted to a distant world of nonhumans. Occasionally such a pair made a team. But oftener the member who did not have the assignment was left to the dismal mercies of a tiny Imperial community, the same homes, bodies, words, games, petty intrigues and catfights for year after year. He or she might develop an interest in the natives, get into adventures and fascinations, even contribute a xenological study or a literary translation. Lady Susette lacked the gift for that. Since she had had no children when she arrived, there would be none for the rest of Lagard's ten-year hitch. The immunizations which let her walk freely outdoors on Diomedes were too deep-going for her organism to accept an embryo, and it would be too dangerous to have them reversed before she departed. What then was Susette Kalehua Lagard, daughter of prosperous and socially prominent Terrans, to do while she waited?

  She could terminate the marriage. But a man who had gotten resident's rank was a fine catch. He could expect a subsequent commissionership on a prime human-colonized planet like Hermes, where plenty of glamour was available; in due course, he should become a functionary of some small importance on Terra itself, and perhaps receive a minor patent of nobility. She must feel this was worth her patience. Her eyes told Flandry she did have a hobby.
<
br />   "Well, if our time's to be short, let's make it sweet," she said. "May I—we call you Ahab? We're Susette and Martin."

  "I'm honored." Flandry raised his glass in salute. "And refreshed. Folk on Terra have gotten stiffish these past few years, don't y' know. Example set by his Majesty and the inner circle."

  "Indeed?" Lagard asked. "Nuances don't reach us here. I'd have thought—with due reverence—the present Emperor would be quite informal."

  "Not in public," Flandry said. "Career Navy man of Germanian background, after all. I see us generally heading into a puritanical period." Which, if Desai is right, is not the end of decadence, but rather its next stage. "Luckily, we've plenty of nooks and crannies for carrying on in the grand old tradition. In fact, disapproval lends spice, what? I remember a while ago—"

  His risqué reminiscence had happened to somebody else and the event had lacked several flourishes he supplied. He never let such nigglements hinder a story. It fetched a sour smile from Lagard but laughter and a blush down to the décolletage from Susette.

  The staff, assistants, clerks, technical chiefs, Navy and marine personnel, were harried but cooperative, except when Flandry heard: "Sorry, sir. I'm not allowed to discuss that. If you want information, please apply at Sector HQ. I'm sure they'll oblige you there."

  Yes, they'll oblige me with the same skeleton account that Terra got. I could make a pest of myself, but I doubt if the secret files have ever contained any mention of what I'm really after. I could check on the whereabouts of Commander Maspes & Co., and make a long trip to find them—no, him, for probably the team's dispersed... ah, more probably yet, the files will show orders cut for them similar to those in Captain Whaling's papers, and the men have vanished... maybe to bob up again eventually, maybe never, depending on circumstances.