by Isaac Asimov
“You won’t set up a radio. Why should you? We tried reaching them from space, without a response. There’s no reason to expect more of a transmitter on the surface. It’s not a question of ionized radio-opaque layers in the upper atmosphere, either, because we tried the sub-ether as well and drew a blank. Nor are we particularly the radio experts in our party. So why did you really come up here, Jonti?”
The Autarch sat down opposite Biron. A hand patted the suitcase idly. “If you are troubled by these doubts, why did you come?”
“To discover the truth. Your man; Rizzett, told me you were planning this trip, and advised me to join you. I believe that your instructions to him were to tell me that by joining you I might make certain you received no messages that I remained unaware of. It was a reasonable point, except that I don’t think you will receive any message. But I allowed it to persuade me, and I’ve come with you.”
“To discover truth?” said Jonti mockingly.
“Exactly that. I can guess truth already.”
“Tell me then. Let me discover truth as well.”
“You came to kill me. I am here alone with you, and there is a cliff before us over which it would be certain death to fall. There would be no signs of deliberate violence. There would be no blasted limbs or any thought of weapon play. It would make a nice, sad story to take back to your ship. I had slipped and fallen. You might bring back a party to gather me up and give me a decent burial. It would all be very touching and I would be out of your way.”
“You believe this, and yet you came?”
“I expect it, so you won’t catch me by surprise. We are unarmed and I doubt that you could force me over by muscular power alone.” For a moment Biron’s nostrils flared. He half flexed his right arm, slowly and hungrily.
But Jonti laughed. “Shall we concern ourselves with our radio transmitter, then, since your death is now impossible?”
“Not yet. I am not done. I want your admission that you were going to try to kill me.”
“Oh? Do you insist that I play my proper role in this impromptu drama you have developed? How do you expect to force me to do so? Do you intend to beat a confession out of me? Now understand, Farrill, you are a young man and I am disposed to make allowances because of that and because of the convenience of your name and rank. However, I must admit you have until now been more trouble than help to me.”
“So I have been. By keeping alive, despite you!”
“If you refer to the risks you ran on Rhodia, I have explained it; I will not explain it again.”
Biron rose. “Your explanation was not accurate. It has a flaw in it which was obvious from the beginning.”
“Really?”
“Really! Stand up and listen to me, or I’ll drag you to your feet.”
The Autarch’s eyes narrowed to slits as he rose. “I would not advise you to attempt violence, youngster.”
“Listen.” Biron’s voice was loud and his cloak still bellied open in the breeze, disregarded. “You said that you sent me to a possible death on Rhodia only to implicate the Director in an anti-Tyrannian plot.”
“That remains true.”
“That remains a lie. Your prime object was to have me killed. You informed the captain of the Rhodian ship of my identity at the very beginning. You had no real reason for believing that I would ever be allowed to reach Hinrik.”
“If I had wanted to kill you, Farrill, I might have planted a real radiation bomb in your room.”
“It would have been obviously more convenient to have the Tyranni maneuvered into doing the killing for you.”
“I might have killed you in space when I first boarded the Remorseless.”
“So you might. You came equipped with a blaster and you had it leveled at me at one point. You had expected me on board, but you hadn’t told your crew that. When Rizzett called and saw me, it was no longer possible to blast me. You made a mistake then. You told me you had told your men I was probably on board, and awhile later Rizzett told me you had not. Don’t you brief your men concerning your exact lies as you tell them, Jonti?”
Jonti’s face had been white in the cold, but it seemed to whiten further. “I should kill you now for giving me the lie, certainly. But what held back my trigger finger before Rizzett got on the visiplate and saw you?”
“Politics, Jonti. Artemisia oth Hinriad was aboard, and for the moment she was a more important object than myself. I’ll give you credit for a quick change of plans. To have killed me in her presence would have ruined a bigger game.”
“I had fallen in love so rapidly, then?”
“Love! When the girl concerned is a Hinriad, why not? You lost no time. You tried first to have her transferred to your ship, and when that failed, you told me that Hinrik had betrayed my father.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “So I lost her and left you the field undisputed. Now, I presume, she is no longer a factor. She is firmly on your side and you may proceed with your plan to kill me without any fear that by doing it you may lose your chance at the Hinriad succession.”
Jonti sighed and said, “Farrill, it is cold, and getting colder. I believe the sun is heading downward. You are unutterably foolish and you weary me. Before we end this farrago of nonsense, will you tell me why I should be in the least interested in killing you anyway? That is, if your obvious paranoia needs any reason.”
“There is the same reason that caused you to kill my father.”
“What?”
“Did you think I believed you for an instant when you said Hinrik had been the traitor? He might have been, were it not for the fact that his reputation as a wretched weakling is so well established. Do you suppose that my father was a complete fool? Could he possibly have mistaken Hinrik for anything but what he was? If he had not known his reputation, would not five minutes in his presence have revealed him completely as a hopeless puppet? Would my father have blabbed foolishly to Hinrik anything that might have been used to support a charge of treason against him? No, Jonti. The man who betrayed my father must have been one who was trusted by him.”
Jonti took a step backward and kicked the suitcase aside. He poised himself to withstand a charge and said, “I see your vile implication. My only explanation for it is that you are criminally insane.”
Biron was trembling, and not with cold. “My father was popular with your men, Jonti. Too popular. An Autarch cannot allow a competitor in the business of ruling. You saw to it that he did not remain a competitor. And it was your next job to see to it that I did not remain alive either to replace or to avenge him.” His voice raised to a shout, which whipped away on the cold air. “Isn’t this true?”
“No.”
Jonti bent to the suitcase. “I can prove you are wrong!” He flung it open. “Radio equipment. Inspect it. Take a good look at it.” He tossed the items to the ground at Biron’s feet.
Biron stared at them. “How does that prove anything?”
Jonti rose. “It doesn’t. But now take a good look at this.”
He had a blaster in his hand, and his knuckles were white with tension. The coolness had left his voice. He said, “I am tired of you. But I won’t have to be tired much longer.”
Biron said tonelessly, “You hid a blaster in the suitcase with the equipment?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t? You honestly came here expecting to be thrown off a cliff and you thought I would try to do it with my hands as though I were a stevedore or a coal miner? I am Autarch of Lingane”–his face worked and his left hand made a flat, cutting gesture before him–” and I am tired of the cant and fatuous idealism of the Ranchers of Widemos.” He whispered then, “Move on. Toward the cliff.” He stepped forward.
Biron, hands raised, eyes on the blaster, stepped back. “You killed my father, then.”
“I killed your father!” said the Autarch. “I tell you this so you may know in the last few moments of your life that the same man who saw to it that your father was blasted to bits in a disintegration chamber
will see to it that you will follow him–and keep the Hinriad girl for himself thereafter, along with all that goes with her. Think of that! I will give you an extra minute to think of that! But keep your hands steady, or I will blast you and risk any questions my men may care to ask.” It was as though his cold veneer, having cracked, left nothing but a burning passion exposed.
“You tried to kill me before this, as I said.”
“I did. Your guesses were in every way correct. Does that help you now? Back!”
“No,” said Biron. He brought his hands down and said, “If you’re going to shoot, do so.”
The Autarch said, “You think I will not dare?”
“I’ve asked you to shoot.”
“And I will.” The Autarch aimed deliberately at Biron’s head and at a distance of four feet closed contact on his blaster.
Nineteen: Defeat!
TEDOR RIZZETT CIRCLED the little piece of tableland warily. He was not yet ready to be seen, but to remain hidden was difficult in this world of bare rock. In the patch of tumbled, crystalline boulders he felt safer. He threaded his way through them. Occasionally he paused to pass the soft back of the spongy gloves he wore over his face. The dry cold was deceptive.
He saw them now from between two granite monoliths that met in a V. He rested his blaster in the crotch. The sun was on his back. He felt its feeble warmth soak through, and he was satisfied. If they happened to look in his direction, the sun would be in their eyes and he himself would be that much less visible.
Their voices were sharp in his ear. Radio communication was in operation and he smiled at that. So far, according to plan. His own presence, of course, was not according to plan, but it would be better so. The plan was a rather overconfident one and the victim was not a complete fool, after all. His own blaster might yet be needed to decide the issue.
He waited. Stolidly he watched the Autarch lift his blaster as Biron stood there, unflinching.
Artemisia did not see the blaster lift. She did not see the two figures on the flat rock surface. Five minutes earlier she had seen Rizzett silhouetted for a moment against the sky, and since then she had followed him.
Somehow, he was moving too fast for her. Things dimmed and wavered before her and twice she found herself stretched on the ground. She did not recall falling. The second time, she staggered to her feet with one wrist oozing blood where a sharp edge had scraped her.
Rizzett had gained again and she had to reel after him. When he vanished in the glistening boulder forest, she sobbed in despair. She leaned against a rock, completely weary. Its beautiful flesh-pink tint, the glassy smoothness of its surface, the fact that it stood as an ancient reminder of a primeval volcanic age was lost upon her.
She could only try to fight the sensation of choking that pervaded her.
And then she saw him, dwarfed at the forked-rock formation, his back to her. She held the neuronic whip before her as she ran unevenly over the hard ground. He was sighting along the barrel of his rifle, intent upon the process, taking aim, getting ready.
She wouldn’t make it in time.
She would have to distract his attention. She called, “Rizzett!” And again, “Rizzett, don’t shoot!”
She stumbled again. The sun was blotting out, but consciousness lingered. It lingered long enough for her to feel the ground jar thuddingly against her, long enough to press her finger upon the whip’s contact; and long enough for her to know that she was well out of range, even if her aim was accurate, which it could not be.
She felt arms about her, lifting. She tried to see, but her eyelids would not open.
“Biron?” It was a weak whisper.
The answer was a rough blur of words, but it was Rizzett’s voice. She tried to speak further, then abruptly gave up. She had failed!
Everything was blotted out.
The Autarch remained motionless for the space it would take a man to count to ten slowly. Biron faced him as motionlessly, watching the barrel of the blaster that had just been fired point-blank at him. The barrel sank slowly as he watched.
Biron said, “Your blaster seems not be in firing order. Examine it.”
The Autarch’s bloodless face turned alternately from Biron to his weapon. He had fired at a distance of four feet. It should have been allover. The congealed astonishment that held him broke suddenly and he disjointed the blaster in a quick movement.
The energy capsule was missing. Where it should have been, there was a useless cavity. The Autarch whimpered with rage as he hurled the lump of dead metal aside. It turned over and over, a black blot against the sun, smashing into the rock with a faint ringing sound.
“Man to man!” said Biron. There was a trembling eagerness in his voice.
The Autarch took a step backward. He said nothing.
Biron took a slow step forward. “There are many ways I could kill you, but not all would be satisfying. If I blasted you, it would mean that a millionth of a second would separate your life from your death. You would have no consciousness of dying. That would be bad. I think that instead there would be considerable satisfaction in using the somewhat slower method of human muscular effort.”
His thigh muscles tensed, but the lunge they prepared was never completed. The cry that interrupted was thin and high, packed with panic.
“Rizzett!” it came. “Rizzett, don’t shoot!”
Biron whirled in time to see the motion behind the rocks a hundred yards away and the glint of sun on metal. And then the hurled weight of a human body was upon his back. He bent under it, dropping to his knees.
The Autarch had landed fairly, his knees clasped hard about the other’s waist, his fist thudding at the nape of Biron’s neck. Biron’s breath whooshed out in a whistling grunt.
Biron fought off the gathering blackness long enough to throw himself to one side. The Autarch jumped free, gaining clear footing while Biron sprawled on his back.
He had just time to double his legs up against himself as the Autarch lunged down upon him again. The Autarch bounced off. They were up together this time, perspiration turning icy upon their cheeks.
They circled slowly. Biron tossed his carbon-dioxide cylinder to one side. The Autarch likewise unstrapped his, held it suspended a moment by its mesh-metal hose, then stepped in rapidly and swung it. Biron dropped, and both heard and felt it whistle above his head.
He was up again, leaping on the other before the Autarch could regain his balance. One large fist clamped down on the other fist exploded in the Autarch’s face. He let the Autarch drop and stepped back.
Biron said, “Stand up. I’ll wait for you with more of the same. There’s no hurry.”
The Autarch touched his gloved hand to his face then stared sickly at the blood that smeared off upon it. His mouth twisted and his hand snaked out for the metal cylinder he had dropped. Biron’s foot came heavily down upon it, and the Autarch yelled in agony.
Biron said, ‘. You’re too close to the edge of the cliff, Jonti. Mustn’t reach in that direction. Stand up. I’ll throw you the other way now.”
But Rizzett’s voice rang out: “Wait!”
The Autarch screamed, “Shoot this man, Rizzett! Shoot him now! His arms first, then his legs, and we’ll leave him.”
Rizzett brought his weapon up slowly against his shoulder.
Biron said, “Who saw to it that your own blaster was unloaded, Jonti?”
“What?” The Autarch stared blankly.
“It was not I who had access to your blaster, Jonti. Who did have? Who is pointing a blaster at you right now, Jonti? Not at me, Jonti, but at you/”
The Autarch turned to Rizzett and screamed, “Traitor!”
Rizzett said, in a low voice. “Not I, sir. That man is the traitor who betrayed the loyal Rancher of Widemos to his death.”
“That is not I,” cried the Autarch. “If he has told you I have, he lies.”
“It is you yourself who have told us. I not only emptied your weapon, I also shorted your communic
ator switch, so that every word you said today was received by myself and by every member of the crew. We all know you for what you are.”
“I am your Autarch.”
“And also the greatest traitor alive.”
For a moment the Autarch said nothing, but looked wildly from one to the other as they watched him with somber, angry faces. Then he wrenched to his feet, pulled together the parted seams of his self-control, and held them tightly by sheer nervous force.
His voice was almost cool as he said, “And if it were all true, what would it matter? You have no choice but to let matters stand as they are. One last intranebular planet remains to be visited. It must be the rebellion world, and only I know the co-ordinates.”
He retained dignity somehow. One hand hung uselessly from a broken wrist; his upper lip had swollen ludicrously, and blood was caking his cheek, but he radiated the hauteur of one born to rule.
“You’ll tell us,” said Biron.
“Don’t delude yourself that I will under any circumstances. I have told you already that there is an average of seventy cubic light-years per star. If you work by trial and error, without me, the odds are two hundred and fifty quadrillion to one against your coming within a billion miles of any star. Any star!”
Something went click! in Biron’s mind.
He said, “Take him back to the Remorseless!”
Rizzett said in a low voice, “The Lady Artemisia–”
And Biron interrupted, “Then it was she. Where is she?”
“It’s all right. She’s safe. She came out without a carbon-dioxide cylinder. Naturally, as the CO2 washed out of her blood stream, the automatic breathing mechanism of the body slowed. She was trying to run, didn’t have the sense to breathe deeply voluntarily, and fainted.”
Biron frowned. “Why was she trying to interfere with you, anyway? Making sure her boy friend didn’t get hurt?”
Rizzett said, “Yes, she was! Only she thought I was the Autarch’s man and was going to shoot you. I’ll take back this rat now, and, Biron–”
