No One Goes There Now, page 13
“By the Convention!” exclaimed Elan, “it’s Claude Graham. Wonder who the other chap is?”
Watching the black manikins perform the involved postures of the Salute of Grievance made Van Maar’s hackles rise, remembering as he did the last such affair he had witnessed and its bewildering aftermath. ‘Will it be to the death?” he asked soberly.
Grey’s eyes were penetrating. ‘We shall know when they cross swords, of course. It would appear you’re not an aficionado, Gailen. You’ll forgive my forwardness, but one cannot help noticing you wear no weapon.”
Van Maar hesitated. “Oh, I learned the rudiments in school. Since then I’ve been too busy to even practice. The outworlds have little time for either sport or blood.”
“Hm-m-m-m, most interesting.”
“Take no offense,” said Gailen, “but my private theory is that Earth is cursed, or blessed if you will, with too much leisure, which is why dueling has become so popular.”
“An arresting theory,” breathed Grey, a tinge of frost in his tone. “You might do well to keep such theories private.”
“I…regret…” Gailen felt color rise in his face. “I’m sorry you were offended.”
Elan stared coldly for a moment, then softened. “It is I who should ask forgiveness. You’ve a perfect right to your opinions. But, would you accept a word of caution in the spirit of friendship?”
“Naturally I’d welcome it.”
“You are lean, young, and look fit. You are here on the reservation, unarmed, not wearing Blacks, and seem less than well acquainted with Earthly custom. Knowing all this disturbs me.
“You see, your general carriage would tend to attract one or more of the local buckoes who consider themselves nonpareil swordsmen—a casual challenge just to check their timing. It has happened thus many times.”
“Really?”
“Listen to him, Gailen,” nodded Minor.
“More,” continued Grey, “you are now a public figure known to billions on sight because of your notoriety over this peculiar business on Dan. Put all these ingredients together and it becomes obvious…What I mean is, had I not known your situation personally, I myself might have been tempted—”
“To challenge me?”
“Precisely.” Elan drained his glass. “To challenge you. My sincere advice is to say nothing to any stranger here tonight lest you provoke umbrage through inexperience.”
“Seems like good counsel,” agreed Van Maar.
“Look,” said Minor, “the Salute is over.”
Two black figures crossed swords in classic stance. The Swordsmaster brought down his blade and they bounced apart, en garde, but did not engage. Again the master held out his blade. The figures advanced, crossed swords once more. This time they bounded apart with purpose, circled one another twice, then engaged viciously.
“First blood,” murmured Elan, absorbed. “Stay away from low line, Claude. The other chap’s rather quicker in riposte, you’ll notice The duelists were circling for position when Van Maar noticed something of interest. Below and to his right, perhaps twenty patricians were gathered on the great stair, talking quietly among themselves. Of a single motion, as if it had been rehearsed, the entire group turned and looked up at him. They descended the stair, still looking upward, and moved under the cupola out of sight.
Gailen wondered briefly, then dismissed it as another of Earth’s idiosyncrasies, returning his attention to the duel.
Without warning, their cupola drifted sideways and down, grounding on the red cork of the arena with a slight jar.
“What—” Elan Grey came erect at sight of the somber knot of aristocrats facing the cupola.
A slender, all but frail man dressed in impeccable Blacks stepped forward and bowed with consummate grace. “Can you ever pardon our intrusion, gentles; have we the honor of addressing ser Gailen Van Maar?”
Gailen felt Grey stiffen beside him. “Don’t answer,” he whispered. “Ignore them.”
Van Maar studied the blank, superior faces, wondering what in all the convoluted hells of this lunatic world was happening. He reined his temper and said calmly, “I am Van Maar.”
“You damned fool!” hissed Elan.
“Ah, yes,” breathed the patrician. “I apologize profusely for our atrocious manner, ser, but my friends and I wish to know how far you outworld barbarians intend to carry your rebellion against the Imperium?”
“Rebellion?”
“Come, gentle ser,” scoffed the other, “you have surely had the news by now: the erstwhile Director of your outworld has seen fit to take revision of the Code of Life into his own hands.
“On this benighted planet—Dan, is it not?—and only there among all civilized bodies in the galaxy, is it now impossible for wrongs to be righted in the ancient way. Shocking, ser Van Maar! Or do you disagree?”
Gailen was astounded. “Dueling’s been prohibited?”
“Quite precisely my meaning,” said the patrician. “Abolished, by your upstart Director, in violation of precedent so hoary that its innovators are legend.
“We deem it disgusting, ser. Nay, distressing, disheartening. Indeed, one might even say insulting “
Dismayed, Gailen glanced at Elan, hoping for a clue. He was amazed to find how pallid the other had grown. “It can’t be true,” Gailen choked. “It has to be a mistake.”
The aristocrat paced deliberately to the step of the dining cupola, staring insolently. “You all but call me a fabricator, ser Van Maar!” He tugged off one black glove, finger by finger, and flicked it lightly across Gailen’s cheek. “Be thankful, all, than in our enlightened society one may yet achieve adjustment of this heinous abuse.
“The privilege of making the Salute is mine, I believe, ser Van Maar.”
Angrier than he could have imagined, Gailen wordlessly gathered a handful of the man’s black tunic and pulled him forward. Elan hung on his free arm while three Public Assassins materialized from nowhere and freed the ruffled aristocrat “No, no,” chided the slender man coldly. “Code Duello, if you please. We of Earth do not indulge in barbarian scuffles. Please arm yourself before I finish my Salute.”
The patrician drew sword lithely. “My grief is as that of Thirty,” he declaimed. “Here in my hand I hold the Avenger which rights all wrongs…”
A soft voice announced, “A challenge, good gentles. Attend a challenge in ring one.”
“The medallion!” urged Minor Lovelock. “Throw down Pierce’s medallion, and announce your immunity!”
Van Maar fumbled gingerly in his pouch. It was empty. “Sorry; must’ve left it in my suite.”
Elan drew his rapier with a tired movement and passed it to Gailen on the crook of his arm. “May fortune favor you, my friend. Go all out from the start; it is your only…It is your better chance.”
“You’ve seen him before?”
“Many times.” Elan Grey looked very unhappy. “I am not certain whether it will—”
Van Maar’s smile was bleak. “Who is he?”
Elan snorted in disgust. For the first time Gailen noticed the anguish in Minor’s soft brown eyes. She refused to look at him.
“He’s Pyron Nyemaster,” faltered Elan Grey.
The Salute of Grievance ended in a flare of rhetoric from the premiere gladiator. The Master of Swords raised his saber expectantly.
IX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Checker-hoard of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Edward FitzGerald. Ante Bellum European
of the Industrial epoch. Circa a.d. 1870
(old style).
He appeared from nowhere, a bedraggled apparition sitting dazedly in the center of the esplanade where he created an expanding island in the midst of scattered passers-by. People fell back instinctively. What with all the odd stories being bruited about, anything out of the ordinary was to be treated with utmost suspicion.
A small crowd gathered in minutes, watching the pathetic figure clad in tattered remnants of aristocratic Blacks crawl to the velvet lawn fronting the Directoral Seat and use the bole of a tree as a backrest.
Do you sense the fear? asked Tanis, watching from afar. It is a rip tide of emotion that washes away all reasoning ability.
Polct trembled. I feel it, O Tanis. It is raw and tangible. It approaches the threshold of pain.Attend, Polct, instructed Tanis. Those in authority approach.
Four Imperial Marines charged down the walk from the lobby of the Directoral Seat at a dead run. A sergeant major motioned the others to hang back while he cautiously walked to within ten paces of the man.
“Are you all right, ser?”
No reply, but things were apparently not all right. The fellow was emaciated, filthy; pale blue eyes followed the marine accusingly, and a drool of spittle trailed from his lips.
When the sergeant major drew nearer, a strong whiff of skatol told him the unfortunate aristocrat had soiled himself.
Revolted, the marine asked grimly, “Who are you?” He waited. “Can we help you?”
No answer. The sly, arrogant countenance continued to favor him with a vacant stare.
The marine bent and made as if to help the aristocrat to his feet. Blue eyes fixed themselves dumbly on his proffered hands.
“Well, we can’t just leave you here, can we?” He gingerly opened the man’s pouch, finding a wallet which he removed slowly while mumbling absurdities to calm the patrician.
He touched a sheaf of thousand credit notes with a silent whistle. “So; you’re not destitute, my friend!” He shuffled papers until he encountered a life membership chit in an Earthly chapter of Fraternity Duello.
The marine grunted and replaced the wallet. “Take it easy, ser. You’ll have help in no time.”
The aristocrat was obviously listening to other voices.
The sergeant major jogged back to his squad. “Call Sharax Medicenter for an ambulance,” he directed. ‘Tell them his name is Melas.”
Whatever will become of him? inquired Polct.
One senses compassion, answered the elder. He will he given treatment better than he deserves, for he radiated nought but unthinking malevolence even before his mind disintegrated.
Perhaps Higher Ones did not intend this, suggested Polct diffidently.
Childish rambling! indicted the elder. Think you Higher Ones would abide accidental happenings at this stage? No, young Polct, Higher Ones move ever more surely as this youthful species reveals itself. One senses a rising mode in the predictable confluence of events. Perhaps sampling will shortly become much more specific.
And we? asked Polct.
The elder s thoughts were placid. We shall endure and observe, as always, was his serene comment.
* * *
Holt Morrow enjoyed the ritual of opening mail. He paused to inspect each postmark before slitting the thin plastic envelope with a not terribly clean thumbnail, inserting the microfilm strip patiently into the viewer on his desk.
He lighted a black cigarette, grunting from time to time as he read. Once he begrudged a smile, put the film which had earned the signal honor carefully back into its envelope, and filed it in his pouch. The remainder he touched briefly with the cigarette, watching them curl, one by one, into oily residue before going on to the next. At the bottom of the stack he discovered a green envelope which did not bear the Hydrogen-Phoenix postmark of the interstellar mail service.
“What do you know?” he muttered. “Local mail.”
He read the flimsy twice, tucked it quickly into his pouch, grabbed his kepi, and left the suite in rather a hurry.
Air traffic was all but nonexistent. Below him as his verti-craft bored toward the space terminal, Holt looked down on an armed camp. The city had retreated indoors for the duration; few citizens in the esplanades, and only scattered bands of Imperial Marines patrolling with energy weapons and armored cars, probably wearing the scared look that was fast becoming a permanent fixture on Dan. He passed over a checkpoint for arterial ground traffic, one of four at the cardinal points of entry into Sharax, thinking how it might be a lonely post for some time to come.
He grounded at the south bull’s-eye of the space terminal and gave his aircar over to the autoattendant, watching suspiciously as the lift whisked it down to hangar level. Whistling, he sauntered the hundred paces to the Armory dome, hesitated, took two quick steps and boarded the perimeter walkway which would carry him at a sedate ten kilometers per hour around the end of a vast flatland studded with stubby ground-to-orbit shuttles squatting on their hardstands.
As he rode, Holt suffered mild nostalgia. How bleak and barren the port looked in comparison to the green, rolling meadowland into which he had first poked his cautious nose two subjective cycles ago. Gone were the gargantuan trees, unhappily replaced by half a thousand square kilometers of sterile, gray concrete dotted with elephantine propellant vans, cargo handling flatbeds, ponderous vehicle-spotting trak-truks, and the like. Dingy already, with that gritty, about-to-be-used but now-totally-useless aspect characterizing all service equipment exposed to the weather, indifferent abuse, and the solitary tedium of space terminals everywhere. This, he thought darkly, is what’s called progress!
Only two black military pinnaces were spotted on the windswept hardstand adjacent to the Imperial Navy dome. Good news; the canteen should be lightly populated with only a token force groundside.
He stepped off lithely before the gate, skirted the fountain, came to attention and saluted the funereal banner of the Imperium which reminded him for the trillionth time of the invincibility of his species. One of Garrigues’ marines snapped to attention outside the guard cubicle.
“Morning. Mind if an old-timer wanders into the canteen for a spell?”
“Your I.D., ser?”
Holt palmed his Congressional medallion and let the youngster read his name, seeing the frost of mild suspicion give way to sudden deference.
“You’ll only be visiting the club, ser Morrow?”
“Uh-huh, that’s all. I need a spot of grog to wash the stench of civilians out of my skull.”
The guard smirked. “I know what you mean, ser. Even officers have trouble getting dates in this town.”
Holt chuckled. “Times being what they are, everyone has his troubles. Okay if I mosey in?”
The marine presented arms with dash, the bell of his energy rifle at precisely forty-five degrees to his cummerbund. “Welcome aboard, ser Morrow.”
* * *
Holt spotted Garvey Sance as the autoattendant took his kepi and rolled away, but made a show of loafing around the lobby, inspecting trophies and stereographs and gazing upward for what must have seemed a wistful minute or two at the duty roster illuminated in a large tank suspended over the loggia.
He drifted to the gleaming bar, ordered grog in a monotone, then continued on around the club until he stopped as if by chance, drew out a chair and sat with his head not three meters from Garvey’s.
The club was lightly populated, as expected. A pair of sailors looked up as he sat down, and a loud group left with much chair scraping and rattling of glassware.
Holt sipped his drink, looking straight ahead, and said, “How’re they treating you, you old binnacle stomper?”
“Poorly,” said Sance in an undertone. “Got my note, did you?”
’The only reason I’m here,” admitted Morrow.
“That so? I thought you might’ve got the lonesomes for the feel of Navy steel ’neath your feet. You wasn’t never cut out for a ground-pounder, Holt.”
Morrow snickered. “You wasn’t never cut out for a communications chief,” he mimicked, sliding over to Sance’s table. “I was surprised to hear from you. Didn’t think things would pick up this fast. Uh, can we talk here?”
“Good a place as any,” affirmed Sance. “I ain’t got a lot to say, come right down to it. Got a little piece of comm flimsy that might interest you, though.”
“Relax a while,” suggested Holt, “then maybe you could leave it tucked under your glass. Okay?”
“Suits.”
“Now, what’s it all about?”
Garvey Sance slowly panned the canteen, caught the barkeep’s sensor and held up two fingers. When the machine rolled up he did not object as Holt inserted his credit voucher into the slot and accepted the drinks.
“Shapes up this way,” muttered Sance. “The Old Man’s been burning a hole in the sky between here and S-three since this no-dueling bull came out, but Your Friend keeps them from meaning anything. At least till now. Okay?”
“Uh-huh,” concurred Morrow. “My Friend’s neck is out fifty parsecs, but it’s his neck. Go on.”
“Well, shipmate, that old pirate Garrigues is hurting bad because of it,” informed Sance with a leer. “He howls every time the big receiver spits out one of those redhots from S-three; they’re all official, but Your Friend gets the say-so.”
“That’s the way we like it,” acknowledged Holt.
Garvey took a long pull at his grog and replaced it carefully in the watery ring on the table. “Three watches ago I’m aboard Relentless—in my sack, mind you—when I get rousted to the comm shack on the double. A redhot coded hyper-secret has just sizzled in. Since I’ve held a comm rating for over a century with no leaks, the Pirate’s made me crypto chief on the big yacht. He stands behind me in the crypto booth while I decode and tears it out o’ my hand, the big—”
“Get to the meat, Garvey.”
“Well, the Old Man has had enough—up to here.” Sance chopped lightly at his grizzled neck. “This particular redhot is aimed at the Pirate, marked ‘personal, with no flowers or nice music. It’s mean.”
