In the Mayor's office, Prof Morfett pushed aside his computer and bent over his papers, writing numbers with amazing speed.
Presently he looked up at Sandy and the Mayor.
"We're going to make it," he said.
AND MAKE IT they did, in two goes. One long haul brought Cinnabar to the first intact re-charging station, where they slowed down to allow for a full charge of the main batteries.
Then, once the city was up to full power, the ships and trucks moved up into position again, and took over motivation until the red square on the control-room display merged with the green box and disappeared.
The rescue ship was radioed and instructed to bring a full load of fuel for the rockets that now stood, empty, on the landing stage because their owners had stayed to help Cinnabar rather than flee into space and personal safety.
Back in court, Sandy took her seat at the bench and surveyed the crowd. Beside the defendants and the court personnel, the crew of Thetis was present, each of them greatly curious about what the Princess was about to do, a curiosity none had shown when they first arrived. Perhaps the fact that the saloons were closed had something to do with it.
The Bailiff called the court to order, and Sandy leaned forward. "During the recess, a number of things have taken place that have changed the complexion of this hearing.
"In the course of action taken to rescue the city from disaster, the accused Foreman Mitchell and his men displayed not only contrition that their activities inadvertently resulted in such disaster, but admirable courage and resourcefulness in the face of adversity.
"Those who sit in judgment over others must remain impartial, but it is not always possible for a person – even a Princess – to remain objective. In this case, my personal opinions were noticeable even before the recess, and now are too great for me to even hope to ignore.
"I cannot judge this case in a fair manner, and so I must order the defendants bound over for trial at the next circuit, in about ninety days, when an objective judge may weigh the facts."
Sandy was just about to gavel the matter closed when she noticed Cabanne, smugly watching her employees from a seat near the door. "But I should add that, based on what I've seen and heard since arriving, it is with great regret that I order Mis'ess Cabanne released from custody. If anyone is at fault here, it must be you, Madam. If I could in any way justify ordering you bound over for trial, I certainly would do so."
The Cabanne laughed derisively. "As if there was anything a little—" her attorney grabbed her arm, distracting her before she could show open contempt for Court "—anything a snip of a girl like you could do to stop me without threatening me with deadly force! You’ve overstepped your authority, madam, and I assure you my lawyers will be bringing you up on charges—"
While Cabanne had been snottily telling her that there was in fact no way a "snip of a girl" was going to push her around, Mitchell had gotten a strange, thoughtful look on his face, which turned into a smile, and then a theatrically anxious expression, as he abruptly stood up, cutting off the woman.
"I canna stan' it nay more! Me conscience won't let me!" he cried.
Sandy turned to him, banging the gavel for order. "Mister Mitchell, what is this?"
"Your Grace, I must tell the truth. I've held a terrible secret, and I can't keep it any longer."
He pointed at the widow Cabanne, and explained, "I told you before that we did these acts of sabotage alone. But 'tis not true: Mis'ess Cabanne ordered them."
Cabanne jumped up, shouting that he was lying. Sandy gaveled her down, amid much commotion. The Bailiff crossed to Cabanne, and sat her down again.
"Madam, another outburst like that and I'll have you for contempt of Court. Be still!"
At a gesture from the bench, Mitchell resumed. "When I told her, some weeks ago, that Mercury had none of the minerals she sought, she became upset that she'd have to pay out bonuses for nothing. Then she suggested that I get the men to start some trouble by telling them there'd be no bonus, so that she could get them fired and save her paying them at all."
"You lying son of a—" Cabanne started to scream. Allesandra began to bang her gavel, and shouted her down.
"That will be more than enough, Madam. You are in contempt of Court!"
"But he's obviously lying! You can't do this!"
"I can and I will. Whether I believe he's lying or not, he's made a statement in open court. Bailiff, shackle that woman. I order her bound over for trial at the next circuit.
"And tell the captain of her yacht that he has one hour to cast off, or he and the entire crew will be impounded with her."
The sappers, whether they believed Mitchell or not, cheered. Sandy tried to gavel them into silence, but it wasn't working. Finally she just tossed her gavel aside and declared court adjourned.
HMSS THETIS SLOWLY accelerated away from the tiny sphere that was already lost to sight against the solar backdrop. After a few days in Cinnabar, the crew was ready for more hospitable climes.
Wild Bill Webbe was sitting in the Ward Room, having a cuppa joe when Sandy entered from the corridor, heading for the galley. When she returned with a drink, Webbe asked, "Say, you didn't really believe that guy's story, did you?"
She stopped. "About Mis'ess Cabanne's involvement? Good lord, no."
"Then why have her arrested?"
"I gave my reason. Mitchell made a statement in open court. He'd been sworn in earlier to tell the truth, so I was bound to believe him.
"Besides," she said, sitting down and adopting a conspiratorial tone, "that nasty old bat has got to learn that money doesn't buy everything, and a few weeks in the relative hardship of Cinnabar might do her some good."
"I wouldn't count on it. I'm afraid you've made yourself a very formidable enemy."
"Well, if she's mad at me it may distract her from those poor sappers. And what can she do to me?"
It was a point, Space Princesses were like Cæsar's wife, and no one had the power or authority to interfere with them, at least... .
"Nothing, legally," Bill pointed out. "But she's got enough money to cause you – and us – quite a bit of old-fashioned trouble."
Sandy started. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that. I don't want you guys hurt because of me."
"Don't worry about that. We'll handle it. She may have money and power and a mean streak a yard wide, but we've got... ." He trailed off, thinking.
"Yeah? Yeah?" Sandy couldn't wait all day. "What've we got?"
"We've got ninety days head start!"
Her Grace was amused.
Book Three
GHOST DANCE
Chapter One
Engineering Feat
IT WAS TO be the most ambitious feat of engineering in the history of Earth, and the second greatest in the history of Mankind. LASER drills and ultra-sensitive hydraulic equipment had been especially modified for this project, and over one thousand CL-arium gravity screens were being positioned. Tons of earth were to be excavated, the overhanging rock buoyed up, and a landmark to be relocated.
For the United States of America was planning to move Mount Rushmore!
Well, not the whole mountain, you understand, just the part with faces.
OF ALL THE places in the system, this was the last one Sandy Pendragon expected to visit in the line of duty. As a Space Princess in the Imperial Star Service, the interplanetary Justice agency, she and her shipmates aboard His Majesty's Space Ship Thetis patrolled from Icarus to Neptune, dispensing law and order. But Earth had its own governments and police forces, and Star Service had, under normal circumstances, no jurisdiction.
But these, they had said, were not ordinary times, and unusual circumstances were the order of the day.
And so the great arrowhead of the Service corvette was hurtling through space toward certain Earth below. On the flight deck, Captain Jack Flynn was slumped way back in his chair. Only the pilot and navigator were with him. The others were below decks, preparing for planet leave.
Although the f
ull crew was needed to keep the ship going in space, their mission was the protection and transport of Her Grace and Sky Marshal "Wild Bill" Webbe, and the occasional fight. Whenever Thetis docked anywhere, the work of the authorities began, and the crew had nothing to do. That meant time off, and none of them had had time off on Earth for over a year.
Aft, in the Ward Room, "Prof" Morfett sat with Sandy, listening to radio operator Peter White, expounding over coffee.
"...I tell you, guys, as soon as we finish our post-flight check, I'm makin' a bee-line for the nearest hamburger stand."
Sandy feigned shock. "You don't like the Professor's cuisine?"
Morfett fell in with the gag, looking hurt.
White apologized. "Hey, the food's OK. I just get tired of Dogpatch ham every night."
"Dogpatch ham", as it was known, was a meat-culture product used by space vessels. Cloned from living animal tissue, it provided a continuing source of fresh meat; for, however much was trimmed away each day would have grown back by the next morning, like the Dogpatch ham from the ancient "Li'l Abner" newspaper cartoon, from which it had gotten its popular name (at least, more popular than another suggestion, Soylent Red). The fact that it tasted like chicken had made no headway once the funny name gained traction.
"Mister White!" Peter jumped as the Captain's voice roared down the corridor, and he was already on the hop when Flynn continued, "On station!"
When he jacked into the radio, he found the incoming call was from the duty officer in Blinker Hall, the Imperial signal-corps headquarters, with final approach instructions. Thetis was to set down on pad two at the Hollywood Spaceport in Burbank, California. Now used solely as a space-center, the very old facility had originally been run by the Lockheed Corporation, before becoming a public airport.
On ninety-nine per cent gravity screens, provided by the gravity-manipulating metal first created under the direction of The Emperor myself, Thetis whistled down through the bright blue skies to a perfect touchdown.
LEAVING THE CREW, under the supervision of Executive Officer Pat Karrol, to run through the post-flight check of the ship, Her Grace, Captain Flynn, and Sky Marshal Webbe hopped over the hill to Star Service headquarters.
Leaving their cab at the bottom of the hill, they walked up the drive to the complex of buildings. On the right was the aforementioned Blinker Hall; straight ahead was the main office. Here the most secret and important operations were planned and set into motion. Here was where Sandy Pendragon had been summoned for her training as a Princess of the Realm.
Whatever was up, Sandy realized, must be big. Not only called to Earth, but to the Hollywood EnCLave as well, the very capital of The Empire.
The trio was escorted to a second-floor room. A row of windows provided a panoramic view of Hollywood, the entertainment capital that had become the capital of an Empire spanning the planets. Allesandra went to the window, gazing wistfully out across the scene. Hollywood was her home town.
Bill Webbe hopped up on the corner of a table, while Jack Flynn sat down, slouching into a straight-back chair as though it were a recliner. Bill gave him a hard look.
Jack looked back from under his brow. "What? Earth always makes me tired. It's all this gravity."
Bill shook his head and gave up.
A moment later, a woman entered the room. She seemed somehow both very old and yet spry as she crossed to a cushioned chair at the far end of the big table.
Sandy came over and gave her a hug before they both sat down. This was the woman who had introduced her to the Service, had brought her into the fold. Her gray hair still had traces of red, and her eyes were bright. When she greeted Sandy, there was great warmth in her smile, but as she sat down, her expression became one of considerable solemnity.
This woman, it was rumored, had once been the companion of The Emperor himself. If so, she was very aged indeed. Whether the rumor was true or not, it was clear that she ran the show around the place these days.
"Captain Flynn?" she questioned. "I don't recall summoning you."
"I figured these daffodils might need my help."
The lady stared at the slumped, sleepy-looking figure of the spaceship captain, and smiled briefly. "Yes. A rough-and-tumble man of action might be very helpful."
He failed to perceive the sarcasm in her voice, and gave her a lazy smile.
The window-glass darkened and a white board on the opposite wall lighted up as the room lamps went out. A wide-screen view of the Black Hills appeared on the screen.
Four great faces looked out at them from the distant past. Aristocratic George Washington, relative of English royalty but President of the Common Man; the visionary Thomas Jefferson, seeming to spy into the future; the humane and kindly Abraham Lincoln; Theodore Roosevelt, his demeanor subdued but presumably masking his still remembered big stick.
"You may have heard of the scheduled transplantation of the sculpture on Mount Rushmore," the lady said.
"Yes, but I didn't get why," Bill remarked.
"The so-called ‘Shrine of Democracy’ has been the source of controversy since its inception in the nineteen twenties. The Black Hills have been sacred to the Lakota peoples since before their recorded history. When the White Man encroached upon the territory, they proceeded to act against the aboriginals with their expected tact and delicacy. War was ended by a treaty which guaranteed the Lakota Sioux eternal sovereignty over their sacred Black Hills.
"But shortly thereafter, gold was discovered, and the treaty was thrown out with the bath-water. Since that time, the Indians have been trying to recover their lands.
"By the end of the twentieth century, the Federal Government had acknowledged that the seizure of the Black Hills had been unjust, and offered a cash settlement in recompense. The construction of the Mount Rushmore memorial had made return of the property an unacceptable alternative.
"But the Lakota refused the money, and for over one hundred years have petitioned, agitated, even fought for the restoration of their land.
"When the construction of the mobile Mercurian city Cinnabar was proposed, and engineers began to work out the mechanics of building and moving such a tremendous object, somebody got the bright idea of trying to apply those techniques to terrestrial use.
"A team of Lakota engineers worked out a way to pull the memorial away from the rest of the mountain and move it away. They took their facts and figures to the Federal State Department, and made their proposition.
"They suggested using the huge amount of money in the Lakota reparations fund, still untouched after a century, to pay for the project. After a lot of arguing by Congress, the deal was made.
"Once the memorial is moved, the Black Hills are to be returned to the Lakota, this time for real. The population density in the Dakotas never was too great, and the Indians have no objection to Whites living in the vicinity.
"The Omegatrons at Schenectady were turned over to the full-time fabrication of CL-arium grids.
"LASER drilling equipment is slicing though the hillside, while teleporters are removing the earth from underneath. As each section of ground is undercut, a gravity grid is positioned. Eventually, the entire section will be cut loose, and helicopters will tow it to its new home in the Mojave Desert. Soil and rock has already been positioned at the new site, to be piled up around the memorial to stabilize it in its new location. In the nineteenth century, similar procedures were used to move dynastic monuments from ancient Egypt out of the way of newly dammed sections of the Nile.
"Once the memorial has been moved, the presumption is that everyone will be happy."
"It sounds ducky. But I assume that there's been some hitch," Bill put in.
"Yes. There's a group within the Lakota, a tribal clan, which claims that even the removal of the memorial is a sacrilege. That the desecration begun with the construction of the monument can only be undone by is destruction. This clan wants the removal stopped, the monument destroyed, and the Feds out. And if they don't go soon, they
'll declare a war against the United States."
"BUT WHERE DO we fit into this, Mum?" Sandy asked. "This sounds like a matter between a few Indians and the US State Department, or maybe the Army."
"It's a little trickier than that. For one thing, it isn't just a few Indians. The clan leader, a man named Walks West, is proselytizing to the Indians and gaining followers.
"There's always been a problem between the Feds and the Indians. From the day Europeans landed in the Americas, they treated the aboriginals as inferiors, killing them, cheating them, herding them like cattle. And even when they stopped the mistreatment, the Feds set up a reservation system that kept a broken people from healing.
"But about sixty years ago, a more enlightened administration finally made as just a peace as possible, and established a policy of joint custody.
"The various tribes and nations marked out their territories, and wherever possible, control of an area was restored to the Indians. That's why LA, Santa Barbara, and other cities tend to be surrounded by Indian Territories. The areas too urbanized for restoral become protectorates, with local tribes given a say in the government, and all public land, no matter the heritage of its holders, is accessible to both races.
"It's been a little rocky, but with more and more people looking to space as the new frontier, the population has been slowly thinning out, leaving more room for everybody to breathe easier.
"You probably know that the tribes and nations of the US and Western Canada allied – at least for purposes of dealing with the rest of the world – into what they call the ‘Hundred Nations’ back at the turn of the century." The three nodded. It had happened while they were in school, and had resulted in an increased awareness of the history of the aboriginals. Sandy and Bill had been fascinated by it all. Jack had found it just more pointless "old" stuff to fill up his head and time.
"The Federals and the Nationals have achieved a good balance of power. With the restoration of the Black Hills to the Lakota, it would be secure. The White Man is heading into space; the Red Man, child of the Earth, wants no part of other planets. If nothing happens to spoil things now, the pressure will be off for good.
Planet Patrol: The Interplanetary Age (Star Service Book 1) Page 7
