He said, “I suppose you’re right.”
Aarl nodded. “You had no choice, really. I was sure of that before I summoned you.”
Stark shrugged. Suppose he tried and failed; it was better than sitting helplessly. And he could make his own decision about coming back.
He followed Aarl out of the chamber.
They came at length into a long hall crowded with objects. Stark recognized several instruments of modern Earth science; there was a fine seismograph, spectroscopic equipment, an array of electronic items, the latest in lasers. There were other things that seemed to have survived out of ancient Mars, arrangements of crystalline shapes that had no meaning whatever for Stark. There were yet other objects that he surmised had been constructed by the Lord of the Third Bend himself.
One of these was a sort of helical cage of crystal ribbons whose upper part spiraled away toward the high-vaulted roof. It appeared to vanish up there. Stark attempted to follow its progressively blurring outlines and was forced to stop, overcome with vertigo.
Aarl took his place within the lower part of the cage. “This helix amplifies my mental powers and enables me to manipulate the time-dimension. Stand anywhere. I shall be able to retain contact with your mind, since we are now attuned to communication, but I shall not waste precious energy on conversation. When you are ready to come back, tell me.”
He did something with his hands. The crystal ribbons began to run with subtle fires.
“When you awaken you will be in the future, and I shall have given you such knowledge of it as I possess.”
Before the darkness took him, Stark felt an incongruous pang of hunger. Aarl’s promised hospitality had not been forthcoming.
* * *
He had a strange dream. He was infinite. He was transparent. The spaces between his atoms were large enough to let whole constellations through. He moved, but his motion was neither forward nor backward; it was a sly sneaky sidelong slither through… what?
In his dream the motion made him very sick. He felt like vomiting, but there was nothing inside him and so he could only retch.
Perhaps that was why Aarl had not bothered to feed him.
Retching, he awoke.
And saw that he had stopped moving. There was solid ground beneath his feet. His stomach received this information gratefully.
The light was peculiar. It was greenish. He looked up and saw a green sun blazing in a blue-green sky flecked with minty clouds.
He recognized the sun. It was Aldeshar, in the Marches of Outer Space.
The planet whose solidity was so welcome to him must be Altoh, the throne-world.
He had appeared, materialized, reassembled… whatever it was he had done… on a low ridge above an alien city. It was a pleasant city, low-roofed and rambling, with here and there a tall fluted tower for variety. The people had done without the ugly cubism of functional building. A network of canals glittered in the sunlight. There was a profusion of trees and flowering shrubs. The wandering streets were thronged with people and the canals were busy with boats. There seemed to be no motorized traffic on the surface, so the air was blessedly clean.
All the movement in the streets seemed to be converging toward a point in the southwestern sector of the city, where he could see a clump of more imposing buildings, with taller towers and an enormous square. The city was Donalyr, the capital, and the buildings would be Shorr Kan’s palace and the administrative center of the star-kingdom.
A vast deep-bass humming sound suddenly filled the heavens, drawing Stark’s attention away from the city. Down across the sky, ablaze with light and roaring with the thunder of God, a colossal ship slanted into its landing pattern. Stark’s gaze followed it down, to a starport far out beyond the northern boundaries of Donalyr. The ground trembled beneath him, and was still.
Stark went down to the city. In the time it took him to reach the outskirts, three more ships had landed.
He let himself be carried along with the flow of people toward the palace square. He found that Aarl had supplied him with a working knowledge of the language; he could understand the chatter around him. The folk of Altoh were tall and strong, with ruddy tan skins and sharp eyes and faces. They wore loose brightly colored garments suitable to the mild climate. But there were many foreigners, in this place where the starships came and went, men and women and a sprinkling of non-humans, in all shapes and sizes and colors, wearing every sort of dress. Donalyr, apparently, was quite used to strangers.
Even so, the people he passed turned their heads to look at Stark. Perhaps it was his height and the way he moved, or perhaps it was something arresting about the harsh planes of his face and the peculiar lightness of his eyes, accentuated by a skin-color that spoke of long exposure to a savage sun. They sensed some difference in him. Stark ignored them, secure in the knowledge that they could not possibly guess the degree of his differentness.
Ships continued to drop in rolling thunder out of the sky. He had counted nine by the time he reached the edge of the great square. He looked upward to watch number ten come in, and he felt the tiniest movement close to him in the crowd, the lightest of touches as though a falling leaf had brushed him. He whipped his right hand round behind him, snapped it shut on something bony, and turned to see what he had caught.
A little old man stared up at him with the bright, unrepentant face of a squirrel caught stealing nuts from someone else’s hoard.
“You’re too fast,” he said. “Even so, you’d never have had me if your clothing wasn’t so unfamiliar. I thought I knew where every pocket and purse in the Marches is situated. You must come from way back in.”
“Far enough,” said Stark. The old man wore a baggy tunic of no particular color, neither light nor dark, brilliant nor dull. If you didn’t look hard at him you wouldn’t see him in the throng. Beneath the hem he showed knobby knees and pipestem shanks. “Well,” said Stark, “and what shall we do with you, Grandfather?”
“I took nothing,” said the old man. “And it’s my word against yours… you can’t prove that I even tried.”
“Hm,” said Stark. “How good is your word?”
“What a question to ask!” said the old man, drawing himself up. “
I’m asking it.”
The old man shot off on another tack. “You’re a stranger here. You’ll need a guide. I know every stone of this city. I can show you all of its delights. I can keep you out of the hands of…”
“…of thieves and pickpockets. Yes.” Stark pulled his captive around to a more comfortable position. “What’s your name?”
“Song Durr.”
“All right, Song Durr. There’s no hurry, we can always decide later what to do.” He kept a strong hold on the thin wrist. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
“The Lords of the Marches are gathering for a conference with Shorr Kan.” He laughed. “Conference, my eye. What’s your name, by the way?” Stark told him. “That’s an odd one. I don’t seem to place the world of origin.”
“I am also called N’Chaka.”
“Ah. From Strior, perhaps? Or Naroten?” He looked keenly at Stark. “Well, no matter.” His voice dropped. “Perhaps that is your Brotherhood name?”
A brotherhood of thieves, of course. Stark shrugged and let the old man interpret the gesture as he would. “Why did you say, ‘Conference, my eye’?”
“Some starships have been lost. The rulers of a dozen or so little kingdoms are hopping mad about it. They suspect that Shorr Kan is responsible.” Song Durr cackled admiringly. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he were. He’s the hell and all of a king. Give him a little more time and he’ll rule all the Marches. Him, that didn’t have a pan to cook in when he first came here.” He added, “My hand will be quite ruined, Brother N’Chaka.”
“Not just yet. How were these ships lost?”
“They simply disappeared. Somewhere out beyond Dendrid’s Veil.”
“Dendrid’s Veil. That would be a dark nebula? Yes. And
who is Dendrid?”
“The Goddess of Death.”
It seemed a fitting name. “And why do they blame Shorr Kan?”
Song Durr stared at him. “You must be from way back in. That’s no-man’s-land out there, and there’s been a lot of pawing and picking at it… quarrels over boundaries, annexations, all that. A lot of it is still unexplored. Shorr Kan has been the most daring and ambitious in his activities, or the most unscrupulous, whichever way you want to put it, though they’d all do the same themselves if they had the courage. Also, we haven’t lost any ships.” He rubbed his skinny nose and grinned. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they have that conference.”
Stark said, “Brother Song Durr, let us be two flies.”
The old man’s eyes popped. “You mean, get right inside the palace?” He pulled sharply against Stark’s grip. “Oh, no.”
“You mistake me,” Stark said. “I don’t mean to break in like thieves. I mean to walk in, like kings.”
Or like ambassadors. Envoys, from another time and place. Stark wondered if Aarl were listening, in his misty Martian citadel two hundred thousand years ago.
Song Durr stood, rigid in all his stringy sinews, while Stark told him what he was going to have to do if he wanted to keep his freedom.
In the end, Song Durr began to smile.
“I think I would like that,” he said. “Yes, I think that would be better than another stay in the convict pens. I don’t know why… if it were anyone but you, Brother N’Chaka, I’d take the pens, but somehow you make me believe that we can get away with it.” He shook his head. “You do have large ideas, for a country boy.”
Cackling, he led the way toward the surrounding streets.
“We’ll have to hurry, Brother. The Star Kings will be arriving soon, and we mustn’t be late to the party!”
* * *
The procession of the Star Kings glittered its way from the landing place at the far end of the palace square, where the hover-cars came down, along the central space held open by rows of tough-looking guardsmen in white uniforms, toward the palace itself. There were jewels enough and royal costumes of divers sorts, and faces of many colors, four of them definitely non-human; a brilliant pageant, Stark thought, and suitable to the place, with the magnificent towers looming above in the fierce green glare of the sun, the vast crowd, the humming silence, the intricately carved and fluted portico where Shorr Kan, Sovereign Lord of Aldeshar, sat upon a seat of polished stone… a tiny figure at this distance, but somehow radiating power even so, a signal brightness among grouped and shining courtiers.
The brazen voice of a chamberlain echoed across the square, reproduced from clusters of speakers.
“Burrul Opis, King of the worlds of Maktoo, Lord Paramount of the Nebula Zorind. Kan Martann, King of the Twin Suns of Keldar. Flane Fell, King of Tranett and Baron of Leth…”
One by one the Star Kings approached the seat of Shorr Kan and were greeted, and passed on into the palace with their retinues.
“Now,” said Stark, and pushed Song Durr forward. From between two of the guardsmen the old man cried out,
“Wait! Wait, there! One other is here to confer with our sovereign lord! Eric John Stark, Ambassador Ex…”
His voice squeaked off as the guardsmen grabbed him. The chamberlain who was turning away from the last departing hover-car, looked with surprised annoyance at the commotion.
Stark stepped forward, thrusting the guardsmen apart. “Eric John Stark, Ambassador Extraordinary from the worlds of Sol.”
He had shed his travel-stained garments, still patched with the red dust of Mars. He was clad all in black now, a rich tunic heavy with embroidery over soft trousers and fine boots. Song Durr had stolen them from one of the best shops catering to off-worlders. He had wanted to steal some jewels as well, but Stark had settled for a gold chain. For a moment everything went into a tableau as the chamberlain stared at Stark and the guardsmen hesitated over whether or not they should kill him where he stood.
Stark said to the chamberlain, “Tell your master that my mission is urgent, and deals with the subject of the conference.”
“But you were not on the list. Your credentials…”
“I have travelled a very long way,” said Stark, “to speak with your king. What I have to say concerns the death of suns. Are you a man of such courage that you dare turn me away?”
“I am not a brave man at all,” said the chamberlain. “Hold them.” The guardsmen held. The chamberlain sent an attendant scurrying toward the palace. Shorr Kan had paused in his rising, his attention drawn to the interruption. There was some hurried talk, and Stark saw Shorr Kan make a decisive gesture. The attendant came scurrying back.
“The Ambassador from Sol may approach, with an escort.”
The chamberlain looked relieved. He nodded to the guardsmen, who stepped out of line, weapons at the ready, and positioned themselves behind Stark and Song Durr, who was now gloriously robed in crimson. The little man was breathing hard, holding himself nervously erect.
They strode through a rising babble as the crowd pushed and craned to see this new curiosity. They mounted the palace steps. And Stark stood before Shorr Kan, King of Aldeshar in the Marches of Outer Space.
King he might be, but he had not grown fat on it, nor unwatchful. He was still the hunting tiger, the cool-eyed predator with prey under his paw and his whiskers a-twitch with eagerness to get more. He looked at Stark with a kind of deadly good humor, baring strong white teeth in a strong hard face.
“Ambassador Extraordinary from the worlds of Sol. Tell me, Ambassador… where is Sol?”
That was a good question, and one Stark did not attempt to answer. “Very far away,” he said, “but even so, of interest to Your Majesty.”
“How so?”
“The problem facing you here in the Marches also affects us. When I heard of the conference, I didn’t wait to present my credentials in the normal manner. It’s vital that I attend.” Was Shorr Kan ignorant of Sol because of its distance and unimportance, or because it no longer existed? In which case… Stark forced the thought resolutely away. If he let his mind become involved with time paradoxes he would never get anywhere.
“Vital,” Shorr Kan was asking, “to whom?”
“This power beyond Dendrid’s Veil, whatever it may be, is killing our sun, our solar system. Yours may be next. I would say it’s vital to all of us to find out what that power is.”
Deep in the tiger eyes Stark saw the stirring of a small shadow and recognized it for what it was. Fear.
Shorr Kan nodded his dark head once. “The Ambassador from Sol may enter.”
The guardsmen stepped back. Stark and Song Durr followed the king and his courtiers through the great portal.
“I almost believed you myself,” Song Durr whispered. His step was light now, his face crinkled in a greedy smile. “For a country boy, you do well.”
Stark wondered how he would feel about that later on.
The conference was a stormy one, held in a huge high-vaulted hall that made kings and courtiers seem like dressed-up children huddled in the midst of its ringing emptiness. Some predecessor of Shorr Kan’s had designed it most carefully. The dwindling effect of the architecture was deliberate. The throne-chair was massive, set so high that everyone must look up and become aware, not only of the throne and its occupant, but of the enormous winged deities that presided on either side of the dais. They had identical faces, very fierce and jut-nosed and ugly. Eyes made of precious stones glared down at the lesser kings. Stark surmised that the original of those unpleasant faces had been the builder’s own.
Shorr Kan sat there now, and listened to his enemies.
Flane Fell, King of Tranett, seemed to be spokesman for the group, and the foremost in angry accusation. His skin was the color of old port, his features vulturine. He wore gray, with a diamond sunburst on his breast, and his bald skull, narrow as a bird’s, was surmounted by a kind of golden tower. After a great de
al of bickering and shouting he cried out,
“If you are not responsible for the loss of our ships, then who is? What is? Tell us, Shorr Kan!”
Shorr Kan smiled. He was younger than Stark had expected, but then youth was nothing against a conqueror.
“You believe that I am developing some great secret weapon out there beyond Dendrid’s Veil. Why?”
“Your ambitions are well known. You’ll rule the Marches alone, if you can.”
“Of course,” said Shorr Kan. “Isn’t that true of every one of us? It’s not my ambitions you fear, it’s my ability. And I’d remind you that I’ve not needed any secret weapons so far.” All their silken plumage rustled with indignation, and he laughed. “You have formed an alliance against me, I’m told.”
“Yes.”
“How do you propose to use it?”
“Force,” said Flane Fell, and the others shouted agreement. “Overwhelming force, if you drive us to it. Your navy is powerful, but against our combined fleets Aldeshar couldn’t stand for a week.”
“True,” said Shorr Kan, “but consider. What if I do in fact possess a secret weapon? What would happen then to your lovely fleets? I doubt if you’ll take that chance.”
“Don’t be too sure, upstart,” said Kan Martann furiously. “We’ve all lost ships, all but you, Shorr Kan. If you have no weapon, and you’re truly ignorant of the force beyond Dendrid’s Veil, why are you preserved from misfortune?”
“Because I’m smarter than you are. After the first ship disappeared, I kept mine out of there.” He made a sweeping gesture, bringing Stark into the group. “I present to you Eric John Stark, Ambassador Extraordinary from the worlds of Sol. Perhaps we ought to hear what he has to say. It seems to have some bearing on our quarrel.”
Stark knew from the beginning that he was talking against the barrier of completely closed minds. Still, he told them the meticulous truth, leaving out only the mention of time and characterizing Aarl simply as a scientist. They barely let him finish.
“What did you hope to gain by this?” asked Flane Fell, addressing the throne. “The fellow is an obvious imposter, intended to convince us that because some mythical system on the other side of the galaxy is being attacked by this menace, you could have nothing to do with it. Did you think we’d believe it?”
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