Collected Short Fiction, page 464
But he did not care to have his body invaded by safety devices. He knew how those worked; if he were to cheat against the organization, betray it, attempt to leave it without due cause, whoever operated the master control could reduce him to a gravelling pain-racked slave instantly. The safety-device could only be removed by the surgeon who had installed it.
It meant accepting the yoke of this group of starstone smugglers. But there was a higher purpose in mind for Herndon.
“I conditionally accept,” he said. “Tell me specifically what my duties will be.” Benjin said, “A consignment of starstones has been mined for us on our source-world, and is soon to be shipped. We want you to travel to that world and accompany the shipment through space to Borlaam. We lose much by way of thievery on each shipment—and there is no way of insuring starstones against loss.”
“We know who our thief is,” Oversk said. “You would be responsible for finding him in the act and killing him.”
“I’m not a murderer,” Herndon said quietly.
“You wear the garb of a spacerogue. That doesn’t speak of a very high moral caliber,” Oversk said.
“Besides, no one mentions murder,” said Benjin. “Merely execution. Yes: execution.”
Herndon locked his hands together before him and said, “I want two months’ salary in advance. I want to see evidence that all of you are wearing neuronic mesh under your skins before I let the surgeon touch me.”
“Agreed,” Benjin said after a questioning glance around the room.
“Furthermore, I want as an outright gift the sum of nine hundred thirty golden stellors, which I spent this morning to attract the attention of a potential employer.”
It was a lie, but there was cause for it. It made sense to establish a dominating relationship with these people as soon as possible. Then later concessions on their part would come easier.
“Agreed,” Benjin said again, more reluctantly.
“In that case,” Herndon said. “I consider myself in your employ. I’m ready to leave tonight. As soon as the conditions I state have been fulfilled to my complete satisfaction, I will submit my body to the hands of your surgeon.”
CHAPTER III
HE BOUND himself over to the surgeon later that afternoon, after money to the amount of ten thousand, nine hundred thirty golden stellors had been deposited to his name in the Royal Borlaam Bank in Galaxy Square, and after he had seen the neuronic mesh that was embedded in the bodies of Benjin, Oversk, Dorgel, and Razumod. Greater assurance of good faith than this he could not demand; he would have to risk the rest.
The surgeon’s quarters were farther along the Avenue of Bronze, in a dilapidated old house that had no doubt been built in Third Empire days. The surgeon himself was a wiry fellow with a puckered ray-slash across one cheek and a foreshortened left leg. A retired pirate-vessel medic, Herndon realized. No one else would perform such an operation unquestioningly. He hoped the man had skill.
The operation itself took an hour, during which time Herndon was under total anesthesia. He woke to find the copper operating-dome lifting off him. He felt no different, even though he knew a network of metal had been blasted into his body on the submolecular level.
“Well? Is it finished?”
“It is,” the surgeon said.
Herndon glanced at Benjin. The little man held a glinting metal object on his palm. “This is the control, Herndon. Let me demonstrate.”
His hand closed, and instantaneously Herndon felt a bright bolt of pain shiver through the calf of his leg. A twitch of Benjin’s finger and an arrow of red heat lanced Herndon’s shoulder. Another twitch and a clammy hand seemed to squeeze his heart.
“Enough!” Herndon shouted. He realized he had signed away his liberty forever, if Benjin chose to exert control. But it did not matter to him. He had actually signed away his liberty the day he had vowed to watch the death of the Seigneur Krellig.
Benjin reached into his tunic-pocket and drew forth a little leather portfolio. “Your passport and other travelling necessities,” he explained.
“I have my own passport,” Herndon said.
Benjin shook his head. “This is a better one. It comes with a visa to Vyapore.” To the surgeon he said, “How soon can he travel?”
“Tonight, if necessary.”
“Good. Herndon, you’ll leave tonight.”
THE SHIP was the Lord Nathiir, a magnificent superliner bound on a thousand light-year-cruise to the Rim stars. Benjin had arranged for Herndon to travel outward on a luxury liner without cost, as part of the entourage of Lord and Lady Moaris. Oversk had obtained the job for him—second steward to the noble couple, who were vacationing on the Rim pleasure-planet of Molleccogg. Herndon had not objected when he learned that he was to travel in the company of Lord—and especially Lady—Moaris.
The ship was the greatest of the Borlaam luxury fleet. Even on Deck C, in his steward’s quarters, Herndon rated a full-grav room with synthik drapery and built-in chromichron; he had never lived so well even at his parent’s home, and they had been among the first people of Zonnigog at one time.
His duties called for him to pay court upon the nobles each evening, so that they might seem more resplendent in comparison with the other aristocrats travelling aboard. The Moarises had brought the largest entourage with them, over a hundred people including valets, stewards, cooks, and paid sycophants.
Alone in his room during the hour of blastoff, Herndon studied his papers. A visa to Vyapore. So that was where the starstones came from—! Vyapore, the jungle planet of the Rim, where civilization barely had a toehold. No wonder the starstone trade was so difficult to control.
When the ship was safely aloft and the stasis generators had caused the translation into nullspace, Herndon dressed in the formal black-and-red court garments of Lord Moaris’ entourage. Then, making his way up the broad companionway, he headed for the Grand Ballroom, where Lord Moaris and his lady were holding court for the first night of the voyage outward.
The ballroom was festooned with ropes of living light. A dancing bear from Albireo XII cavorted clumsily near the entrance as Herndon entered. Borlaamese in uniforms identical to his own stood watch at the door, and nodded to him when he identified himself as Second Steward.
He stood for a moment alone at the threshold of the ballroom, watching the glittering display. The Lord Nathiir was the playground of the wealthy, and a goodly number of Borlaam’s wealthiest were here, vying with the ranking nobles, the Moarises, for splendor.
Herndon felt a twinge of bitterness. His people were from beyond the sea, but by rank and preference he belonged in the bright lights of the ballroom, not standing here in the garment of a steward. He moved forward.
The noble couple sat on raised thrones at the far end, presiding over a dancing-area in which the grav had been turned down; the couples drifted gracefully, like figures out of fable, feet touching the ground only at intervals.
Herndon recognized Lord Moaris from the auction. A dour, short, thick-bodied individual he was, resplendent in his court robes, with a fierce little beard stained bright red after the current fashion. He sat stiffly upright on his throne, gripping the armrests of the carven chair as if he were afraid of floating off toward the ceiling. In the air before him shimmered the barely perceptible haze of a neutralizer field designed to protect him from the shots of a possible assassin.
By his side sat his Lady, supremely self-possessed and lovely. Herndon was astonished by her youth. No doubt the nobles had means of restoring lost freshness to a woman’s face, but there was no way of recreating the youthful bloom so convincingly. The Lady Moaris could not have been more than twenty-three or twenty-five.
Her husband was several decades older. It was small wonder that he guarded her so jealously.
She smiled in sweet content at the scene before her. Herndon, too, smiled—at her beauty, and at the use to which he hoped to put it. Her skin was soft pink; a wench of the bath Herndon had met belowdecks had told him she bathed in the cream of the ying-apple twice daily. Her eyes were wide-set and clear, her nose finely made, her lips two red arching curves. She wore a dress studded with emeralds; it flowed from her like light. It was open at the throat, revealing a firm bosom and strong shoulders. She clutched a diamond-crusted scepter in one small hand.
Herndon looked around, found a lady of the court who was unoccupied at the moment, and asked her to dance. They danced silently, gliding in and out of the grav field; Herndon might have found it a pleasant experience, but he was not primarily in search of pleasant experiences now. He was concerned only with attracting the attention of the Lady Moaris.
He was successful. It took time; but he was by far the the biggest and most conspicuous man of the court assembled there, and it was customary for Lord and Lady to leave their thrones, mingle with their courtiers, even dance with them. Herndon danced with lady after lady, until finally he found himself face to face with the Lady Moaris.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked. Her voice was like liquid gossamer.
Herndon lowered himself in a courtly bow. “I would consider it the greatest of honors, good Lady.”
They danced. She was easy to hold; he sensed her warmness near him, and he saw something in her eyes—a distant pinched look of pain, perhaps—that told him all was not well between Lord and Lady.
She said, “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”
“Barr Herndon, milady. Of Zonnigog.”
“Zonnigog, indeed! And why have you crossed ten thousand miles of ocean to our city?”
Herndon smiled and gracefully dipped her through a whirling series of pirouettes. “To seek fame and fortune, milady. Zonnigog is well and good to live in, but the nlace to become known is the City of Borlaam. For this reason I petitioned the Heitman Oversk to have me added to the retinue of the Lord Moaris.”
“You know Oversk, then? Well?”
“Not at all well. I served him a while; then I asked to move on.”
“And so you go, climbing up and over your former masters, until you scramble up the shoulders of the Lord Moaris to the feet of the Seigneur. Is that the plan?” She smiled disarmingly, drawing any possible malice from the words she had uttered. Herndon nodded, saying in all sincerity, “I confess this is my aim. Forgive me, though, for saying that there are reasons that might cause me to remain in the service of the Lord Moaris longer than I had originally intended.”
A flush crossed her face. She understood. In a halfwhisper she said. “You are impertinent. I suppose it comes with good looks and a strong body.”
“Thank you, milady.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you,” she said as the dance came to an end and the musicians subsided. “I was criticizing. But what does it matter? Thank you for the dance.”
“May I have the pleasure of milady’s company once again soon?” Herndon asked.
“You may—but not too soon.” She chuckled. “The Lord Moaris is highly possessive. He resents it when I dance twice the same evening with one member of the court.”
Sadness darkened Herndon’s face a moment. “Very well, then. But I will go to Viewplate A and stare at the stars a while. If the Lady seeks a companion, she will find one there.”
She stared at him and flurried away without replying. But Herndon felt a glow of inner satisfaction. The pieces were dropping into place.
The ladder was being constructed. Soon it would bring him to the throneroom of the Seigneur Krellig. Beyond that he would need no plans.
VIEWPLATE A, on the uppermost deck of the vast liner, was reserved for the first-class passengers and the members of their retinues. It was an enormous room, shrouded at all times in darkness, at one end of which a viewscreen opened out onto the glory of the heavens. In nullspace, a hyperbolic section of space was visible at all times, the stars in weird out-of-focus colors forming a breathtaking display. Geometry went awry. A blazing panorama illuminated the room.
The first-class viewing room was also known to be a trysting-place. There, under cover of darkness, ladies might meet and make love to cooks, lords to scullery-maids. An enterprising rogue with a nolight camera might make a fortune taking a quick shot of such a room and blackmailing his noble victims. But scanners at the door prevented such devices from entering.
Herndon stood staring at the fiery gold and green of the closest stars a while, his back to the door, until he heard a feminine voice whisper to him.
“Barr Herndon?”
He turned. In the darkness it was difficult to tell who spoke; he saw a girl about the height of the Lady Moaris, but in the dimness of the illumination of the plate he could see it was not the Lady. This girl’s hair was dull red; the Lady’s was golden. And he could see the pale whiteness of this girl’s breasts; the Lady’s garment, while revealing, had been somewhat more modest.
This was a lady of the court, then, perhaps enamoured of Herndon, perhaps sent by the Lady Moaris as a test or as a messenger.
Herndon said, “I am he. What do you want?”
“I bring a message from—a noble lady,” came the answering whisper.
Smiling in the darkness Herndon said. “What does your mistress have to say to me?”
“It cannot be spoken. Hold me in a close embrace as if we were lovers, and I will give you what you need.”
Shrugging, Herndon clasped the go-between in his arms with feigned passion. Their lips met; their bodies pressed tight. Herndon felt the girl’s hand searching for his, and slipping something cool, metallic into it. Her lips left his, travelled to his ear, and murmured:
“This is her key. Be there in half an hour.”
They broke apart. Herndon nodded farewell to her and returned his attention to the glories of the viewplate. He did not glance at the object in his hand, but merely stored it in his pocket.
He counted out fifteen minutes in his mind, then left the viewing-room and emerged on the main deck. The ball was still in progress, but he learned from a guard on duty that the Lord and Lady Moaris had already left for sleep, and that the festivities were soon to end.
Herndon slipped into a washroom and examined the key—for key it was. It was a radionic opener, and imprinted on it were the numbers 1160.
His throat felt suddenly dry. The Lady Moaris was inviting him to her room for the night—or was this a trap, and would Moaris and his court be waiting for him, to gun him down and provide themselves with some amusement? It was not beyond these nobles to arrange such a thing.
But still—he remembered the clearness of her eyes, and the beauty of her face. He could not believe she would be party to such a scheme.
He waited out the remaining fifteen minutes. Then, moving cautiously along the plush corridors, he found his way to Room 1160.
He listened a moment. Silence from within. His heart pounded frantically, irking him; this was his first major test, possibly the gateway to all his hopes, and it irritated him that he felt anxiety.
He touched the tip of the radionic opener to the door. The substance of the door blurred as the energy barricade that composed it was temporarily dissolved. Herndon stepped through quickly. Behind him, the door returned to a state of solidity.
The light of the room was dim. The Lady Moaris awaited him, wearing a gauzy dressing-gown. She smiled tensely at him; she seemed ill-at-ease.
“Would I do otherwise?”
“I—wasn’t sure. I’m not in the habit of doing things like this.”
Herndon repressed a cynical smile. Such innocence was touching, but highly improbable. He said nothing, and she went on: “I was caught by your face—something harsh and terrible about it struck me. I had to send for you, to know you better.”
Ironically Herndon said, “I feel honored. I hadn’t expected such an invitation.”
“You won’t—think it’s cheap of me, will you?” she said plaintively. It was hardly the thing Herndon expected from the lips of the noble Lady Moaris. But, as he stared at her slim body revealed beneath the filmy robe, he understood that she might not be so noble after all once the gaudy pretense was stripped away. He saw her as perhaps she truly was: a young girl of great loveliness, married to a domineering nobleman who valued her only for her use in public display. It might explain this bedchamber summons to a Second Steward.
He took her hand. “This is the height of my ambitions, milady. Beyond this room, where can I go?”
But it was empty flattery he spoke. He darkened the room illumination exultantly. With your conquest, Lady Moaris, he thought, do I begin the conquest of the Seigneur Krellig!
CHAPTER IV
THE VOYAGE to Molleccogg lasted a week, absolute time aboard ship. After their night together, Herndon had occasion to see the Lady Moaris only twice more, and on both occasions she averted her eyes from him, regarding him as if he were not there.
It was understandable. But Herndon held a promise from her that she would see him again in three months’ time, when she returned to Borlaam; and she had further promised that she would use her influence with her husband to have Herndon invited to the court of the Seigneur.
The Lord Nathiir emerged from nullspace without difficulty and was snared by the landing-field of Molleccogg Spacefield. Through the viewing-screen on his own deck. Herndon saw the colorful splendor of the pleasure-planet on which they were about to land, growing larger now that they were in the final spiral.
But he did not intend to remain long on the world of Molleccogg.
He found the Chief Steward and applied for a leave of absence from Lord Moaris’ service, without pay.
“But you’ve just joined us,” the Steward protested. “And now you want to leave?”
“Only for a while,” Herndon said. “I’ll be back on Borlaam before any of you are. I have business to attend to on another world in the Rim area, and then I promise to return to Borlaam at my own expense to rejoin the retinue of the Lord Moaris.”
The Chief Steward grumbled and complained, but he could not find anything particularly objectionable in Herndon’s intentions, and so finally he reluctantly granted the spacerogue permission to leave Lord Moaris’ service temporarily. Herndon packed his court costume and clad himself in his old spacerogue garb; when the great liner ultimately put down in Danzibool Harbor on Molleccogg, Herndon was packed and ready, and he slipped off ship and into the thronged confusion of the terminal.
