by Isaac Asimov
The approaching Linganian moved on confidently and quickly. When he came closer it was easy to see that it was not a simple hand-over-hand procedure. Each time the forward hand flexed, pulling him on, he would let go and float onward some dozen feet before his other hand had reached forward for a new hold.
It was a brachiation through space. The spaceman was a gleaming metal gibbon.
Artemisia said, “What if he misses?”
“He looks too expert to do that,” said Biron, “but if he does, he’d still shine in the sun. We’d pick him up again.”
The Linganian was close now. He had passed out of the field of the visiplate. In another five seconds there was the clatter of feet on the ship’s hull.
Biron yanked the lever that lit the signals which outlined the ship’s air lock. A moment later, in answer to an imperative series of raps, the outer door was opened. There was a thump just beyond a blank section of the pilot-room’s wall. The outer door closed, the section of wall slid away, and a man stepped through.
His suit frosted over instantly, blanking the thick glass of his helmet and turning him into a mound of white. Cold radiated from him. Biron elevated the heaters and the gush of air that entered was warm and dry. For a moment the frost on the suit held its own, then began to thin and dissolve into a dew.
The Linganian’s blunt metal fingers were fumbling at the clasps of the helmet as though he were impatient with his snowy blindness. It lifted off as a unit, the thick, soft insulation inside rumpling his hair as it passed.
Gillbret said, “Your Excellency!” In glad triumph, he said, “Biron, it is the Autarch himself.”
But Biron, in a voice that struggled vainly against stupefaction, could only say, “Jonti!”
Thirteen: The Autarch Remains
THE AUTARCH GENTLY toed the suit to one side and appropriated the larger of the padded chairs.
He said, “I haven’t had that sort of exercise in quite awhile. But they say it never leaves you once you’ve learned, and, apparently, it hasn’t in my case. Hello, Farrill! My Lord Gillbret, good day. And this, if I remember, is the Director’s daughter, the Lady Artemisia!”
He placed a long cigarette carefully between his lips and brought it to life with a single intake of breath. The scented tobacco filled the air with its pleasant odor. “I did not expect to see you quite so soon, Farrill,” he said.
“Or at all, perhaps?” said Biron acidly.
“One never knows,” agreed the Autarch. “Of course, with a message that read only ‘Gillbret’; with the knowledge that Gillbret could not pilot a space ship; with the further knowledge that I had myself sent a young man to Rhodia who could pilot a space ship and who was quite capable of stealing a Tyrannian cruiser in his desperation to escape; and with the knowledge that one of the men on the cruiser was reported to be young and of aristocratic bearing, the conclusion was obvious. I am not surprised to see you.”
“I think you are,” said Biron. “I think you’re as surprised as hell to see me. As an assassin, you should be. Do you think I am worse at deduction than you are?”
“I think only highly of you, Farrill.”
The Autarch was completely unperturbed, and Biron felt awkward and stupid in his resentment. He turned furiously to the others. “This man is Sander Jonti–the Sander Jonti I’ve told you of. He may be the Autarch of Lingane besides, or fifty Autarchs. It makes no difference. To me he is Sander Jonti.”
Artemisia said, “He is the man who–”
Gillbret put a thin and shaking hand to his brow. “Control yourself, Biron. Are you mad?”
“This is the man! I am not mad!” shouted Biron. He controlled himself with an effort. “All right. There’s no point yelling, I suppose. Get off my ship, Jonti. Now that’s said quietly enough. Get off my ship.”
“My dear Farrill. For what reason?”
Gillbret made incoherent sounds in his throat, but Biron pushed him aside roughly and faced the seated Autarch. “You made one mistake, Jonti. Just one. You couldn’t tell in advance that when I got out of my dormitory room back on Earth I would leave my wrist watch inside. You see, my wrist-watch strap happened to be a radiation indicator.”
The Autarch blew a smoke ring and smiled pleasantly.
Biron said, “And that strap never turned blue, Jonti. There was no bomb in my room that night. There was only a deliberately planted dud! If you deny it, you are a liar, Jonti, or Autarch, or whatever you please to call yourself.
“What is more, you planted that dud. You knocked me out with Hypnite and arranged the rest of that night’s comedy. It makes quite obvious sense, you know. If I had been left to myself, I would have slept through the night and would never have known that anything was out of the way. So who rang me on the visiphone until he was sure I had awakened? Awakened, that is, to discover the bomb, which had been deliberately placed near a counter so that I couldn’t miss it. Who blasted my door in so that I might leave the room before I found out that the bomb was only a dud after all? You must have enjoyed yourself that night, Jonti.”
Biron waited for effect, but the Autarch merely nodded in polite interest. Biron felt the fury mount. It was like punching pillows, whipping water, kicking air.
He said harshly, “My father was about to be executed. I would have learned of it soon enough. I would, have gone to Nephelos, or not gone. I would have followed my own good sense in the matter, confronted the Tyranni openly or not as I decided. I would have known my chances. I would have been prepared for eventualities.
“But you wanted me to go to Rhodia, to see Hinrik. But, ordinarily, you couldn’t expect me to do what you wanted. I wasn’t likely to go toyou for advice. Unless, that is, you could stage an appropriate situation. You did!
“I thought I was being bombed and I could think of DO reason. You could. You seemed to have saved my life. You seemed to know everything; what I ought to do next, for instance. I was off balance, confused. I followed your advice.”
Biron ran out of breath and waited for an answer. There was none. He shouted, “You did not explain that the ship on which I left Earth was a Rhodian ship and that you had seen to it that the captain had been informed of my true identity. You did not explain that you intended me to be in the hands of the’ Tyranni the instant I landed on Rhodia. Do you deny that?”
There was a long pause. Jonti stubbed out his cigarette.
Gillbret chafed one hand in the other. “Biron, you are being ridiculous. The Autarch wouldn’t–”
Then Jonti looked up and said quietly, “But the Autarch would. I admit it all. You are quite right, Biron, and I congratulate you on your penetration. The bomb was a dud planted by myself, and I sent you to Rhodia with the intention of having you arrested by the Tyranni.”
Biron’s face cleared. Some of the futility of life vanished. He said, “Someday, Jonti, I will settle that matter. At the moment, it seems you are Autarch of Lingane with three ships waiting for you out there. That hampers me a bit more than I would like. However, the Remorseless is my ship. I am its pilot. Put on your suit and get out. The space line is still in place.”
“It is not your ship. You are a pirate rather than a pilot.”
“Possession is all the law here. You have five minutes to get into your suit.”
“Please. Let’s avoid dramatics. We need one another and I have no intention of leaving.”
“I don’t need you. I wouldn’t need you if the Tyrannian home fleet were closing in right now and you could blast them out of space for me.”
“Farrill,” said Jonti, “you are talking and acting like an adolescent. I’ve let you have your say. May I have mine?”
“No. I see no reason to listen to you.”
“Do you see one now?”
Artemisia screamed. Biron made one movement, then stopped. Red with frustration, he remained tense but helpless.
Jonti said, “I do take certain precautions. I am sorry to be so crude as to use a weapon as a threat. But I imagine it will hel
p me force you to hear me.”
The weapon he held was a pocket blaster. It was not designed to pain or stun. It killed!
He said, “For years I have been organizing Lingane against the Tyranni. Do you know what that means? It has not been easy. It has been almost impossible. The Inner Kingdoms will offer no help. We’ve known that from long experience. There is no salvation for the Nebular Kingdoms but what they work out for themselves. But to convince our native leaders of this is no friendly game. Your father was active in the matter and was killed. Not a friendly game at all. Remember that.
“And your father’s capture was a crisis to us. It was life and horrible death to us. He was in our inner circles and the Tyranni were obviously not far behind us. They had to be thrown off stride. To do so, I could scarcely temper my dealings with honor and integrity. They fry no eggs.
“I couldn’t come to you and say, ‘Farrill, we’ve got to put the Tyranni on a false scent. You’re the son of the Rancher and therefore suspicious. Get out there and be friendly with Hinrik of Rhodia so that the Tyranni may look in the wrong direction. Lead them away from Lingane. It may be dangerous; you may lose your life, but the ideals for which your father died come first.’
“Maybe you would have done it, but I couldn’t afford to experiment. I maneuvered you into doing it without your knowledge. It was hard, I’ll grant you. Still, I had no choice. I thought you might not survive; I tell you that frankly. But you were expendable; and I tell you that frankly. As it turned out, you did survive, and I am pleased with that.
“And there was one more thing, a matter of a document–”
Biron said, “What document?”
“You jump quickly. I said your father was working for me. So I know what he knew. You were to obtain that document and you were a good choice, at first. You were on Earth legitimately. You were young and not likely to be suspected. I say, at first!
“But then, with your father arrested, you became dangerous. You would be an object of prime suspicion to the Tyranni; and we could not allow the document to fall into your possession, since it would then almost inevitably fall into theirs. We had to get you off Earth before you could complete your mission. You see, it all hangs together.”
“Then you have it now?” asked Biron.
The Autarch said, “No, I have not. A document which might have been, the right one has been missing from Earth for years. If itis the right one, I don’t know who has it. May I put away the blaster now? It grows heavy.”
Biron said, “Put it away.”
The Autarch did so. He said, “What has your father told you about the document?”
“Nothing that you don’t know, since he worked for you.”
The Autarch smiled. “Quite so!” but the smile had little of real amusement in it.
“Are you quite through with your explanation now?”
“Quite through.”
“Then,” said Biron, “get off the ship.”
Gillbret said, “Now wait, Biron. There’s more than private pique to be considered here. There’s Artemisia and myself, too, you know. We have something to say. As far as I’m concerned, what the Autarch says makes sense. I’ll remind you that on Rhodia I saved your life, so I think my’ views are to be considered.”
“All right. You saved my life,” shouted Biron. He pointed a finger towards the air lock. “Go with him, then. Go on. You get out of here too’. You wanted to find the Autarch. There he is! I agreed to pilot you to him, and my responsibility is over. Don’t try to tell me what to do.”
He turned to Artemisia, some of his anger still brimming over. “And what about you? You saved my life too. Everyone went around saving my life. Do you want to go with him too?”
She said calmly, “Don’t put words into my mouth, Biron. If I wanted to go with him, I’d say so.”
“Don’t feel any obligations. You can leave any time.”
She looked hurt and he turned away. As usual, some cooler part of himself knew that he was acting childishly. He had been made to look foolish by Jonti and he was helpless in the face of the resentment he felt. And besides, why should they all take so calmly the thesis that it was perfectly right to have Biron Farrill thrown to the Tyranni, like a bone to the dogs, in order to keep them off Jonti’s neck. Damn it, what did they think he was?
He thought of the dud bomb, the Rhodian liner, the Tyranni, the wild night on Rhodia, and he could feel the stinging of self-pity inside himself.
The Autarch said, “Well, Farrill?”
And Gillbret said, “Well, Biron?”
Biron turned to Artemisia. “What do you think?”
Artemisia said calmly, “I think he has three ships out there still, and is Autarch of Lingane, besides. I don’t think you really have a choice.”
The Autarch looked at her, and he nodded his admiration. “You are an intelligent girl, my lady. It is good that such a mind should be in such a pleasant exterior.” For a measurable moment his eyes lingered.
Biron said, “What’s the deal?”
“Lend me the use of your names and your abilities, and I will take you to what my Lord Gillbret called the rebellion world.”
Biron said sourly, “You think there is one?”
And Gillbret said simultaneously, “Then it is yours.”
The Autarch smiled. “I think there is a world such as my lord described, but it is not mine.”
“It’s not yours,” said Gillbret despondently. “Does that matter, if I can find it?”
“How?” demanded Biron.
The Autarch said, “It is not so difficult as you might think. If we accept the story as it has been told us, we must believe that there exists a world in rebellion against the Tyranni. We must believe that it is located somewhere in the Nebular Sector and that in twenty years it has remained undiscovered by the Tyranni. If such a situation is to remain possible, there is only one place in the Sector where such a planet can exist.”
“And where is that?”
“You do not find the solution obvious? Doesn’t it seem inevitable that the world could exist only within the Nebula itself?”
“Inside the Nebula!”
Gillbret said, “Great Galaxy, of course.”
And, at the moment, the solution did indeed seem obvious and inescapable.
Artemisia said timidly, “Can people live on worlds inside the Nebula?”
“Why not?” said the Autarch. “Don’t mistake the Nebula. It is a dark mist in space, but it is not a poison gas. It is an incredibly attenuated mass of sodium, potassium, and calcium atoms that absorb and obscure the light of the stars within it, and, of course, those on the side directly opposite the observer. Otherwise, it is harmless, and, in the direct neighborhood of a star, virtually undetectable.
“I apologize if I seem pedantic, but I have spent the last several months at the University of Earth collecting astronomical data on the Nebula.”
“Why there?” said Biron. “It is a matter of little importance, but I met you there and I am curious.”
“There’s no mystery to it. I left Lingane originally on my own business. The exact nature is of no importance. About six months ago I visited Rhodia. My agent, Widemos–your father, Biron–had been unsuccessful in his negotiations with the Director, whom we had hoped to swing to our side. I tried to improve matters and failed, since Hinrik, with apologies to the lady, is not the type of material for our sort of work.”
“Hear, hear,” muttered Biron.
The Autarch continued. “But I did meet Gillbret, as he may have told you. So I went to Earth, because Earth is the original home of humanity. It was from Earth that most of the original explorations of the Galaxy set out. It is upon Earth that most of the records exist. The Horsehead Nebula was explored quite thoroughly; at least, it was passed through a number of times. It was never settled, since the difficulties of traveling through a volume of space where stellar observations could not be made were too great. The explorations themselves, however, were all
I needed.
“Now listen carefully. The Tyrannian ship upon which my Lord Gillbret was marooned was struck by a meteor after its first Jump. Assuming that the trip from Tyrann to Rhodia was along the usual trade route–and there is no reason to suppose anything else–the point in space at which the ship left its route is established. It would scarcely have traveled more than half a million miles in ordinary space between the first two Jumps. We can consider such a length as a point in space.
“It is possible to make another assumption. In damaging the control panels, it was quite possible that the meteor might have altered the direction of the Jumps, since that would require only an interference with the motion of the ship’s gyroscope. This would be difficult but not impossible. To change the power of the hyperatomic thrusts, however, would require complete smashing of the engines, which, of course, were not touched by the meteor.
“With unchanged power of thrust, the length of the four remaining Jumps would not be changed, nor, for that matter, would their relative directions. It would be analogous to having a long, crooked wire bent at a single point in an unknown direction through an unknown angle. The final position of the ship would lie somewhere on the surface of an imaginary sphere, the center of which would be that point in space where the meteor struck, and the radius of which would be the vector sum of the remaining Jumps.
“I plotted such a sphere, and that surface intersects a thick extension of the Horsehead Nebula. Some six thousand square degrees of the sphere’s surface, one fourth of the total surface, lies in the Nebula. It remains, therefore, only to find a star lying within the Nebula and within one million miles or so of the imaginary surface we are discussing. You will remember that when Gillbret’s ship came to rest, it was within reach of a star.
“Now how many stars within the Nebula do you suppose we can find that close to the sphere’s surface? Remember there are one hundred billion radiating stars in the Galaxy.”
