The Stars, Like Dust Page 18

  “No,” said Biron. “Do you want to check me for weapons?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  The courtesies were as frigid as the weather.

  Biron stepped out into the hard sunlight and tugged at the handle of the two-handled suitcase in which the radio equipment was stowed. The Autarch caught the other.

  “Not too heavy,” said Biron. He turned, and Artemisia was standing just within the ship, silent.

  Her dress was a smooth, unfigured white which folded in a smooth drape that fled before the wind. The semitransparent sleeves whipped back against her arms, turning them to silver.

  For a moment Biron melted dangerously. He wanted to return quickly; to run, leap into the ship, grasp her so that his fingers would leave bruises on her shoulders, feel his lips meet hers——

  But he nodded briefly instead, and her returning smile, the light flutter of her fingers was for the Autarch.

  Five minutes later he turned and there was still that glimmer of white at the open door, and then the rise in the ground cut off the view of the ship. The horizon was free of everything but broken and bare rock now.

  Biron thought of what lay ahead, and wondered if he would ever see Artemisia again—and if she would care if he never returned.

  18. OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEFEAT!

  Artemisia watched them as they became tiny figures, trudging up the bare granite, then dipping below and out of sight. For a moment, just before they disappeared, one of them had turned. She couldn’t be sure which one, and, for a moment, her heart hardened.

  He had not said a word on parting. Not one word. She turned away from the sun and rock toward the confined metal interior of the ship. She felt alone, terribly alone; she had never felt so alone in her life.

  It was that, perhaps, that made her shiver, but it would have been an intolerable confession of weakness to admit that it wasn’t simply the cold.

  She said peevishly, “Uncle Gil! Why don’t you close the ports? It’s enough to freeze a person to death.” The thermometer dial read plus seven centigrade with the ship’s heaters on high.

  “My dear Arta,” said Gillbret mildly, “if you will persist in your ridiculous habit of wearing nothing but a little fog here and there, you must expect to be cold.” But he closed certain contacts, and, with little clicks, the air lock slid shut, the ports sunk inward and molded themselves into the smooth, gleaming hull. As they did so, the thick glass polarized and became nontransparent. The lights of the ship went on and the shadows disappeared.

  Artemisia sat down in the heavily padded pilot’s seat and fingered the arms aimlessly. His hands had often rested there, and the slight warmth that flooded her as she thought that (she told herself) was only the result of the heaters making themselves felt decently, now that the outer winds were excluded.

  The long minutes passed, and it became impossible to sit quietly. She might have gone with him! She corrected the rebellious thought instantly as it passed through her mind, and changed the singular “him” to the plural “them.”

  She said, “Why do they have to set up a radio transmitter anyway, Uncle Gil?”

  He looked up from the visiplate, the controls of which he was fingering delicately, and said, “Eh?”

  “We’ve been trying to contact them from out in space,” she said, “and we haven’t reached anyone. What special good would a transmitter on the planet’s surface do?”

  Gillbret was troubled. “Why, we must keep trying, my dear. We must find the rebellion world.” And, between his teeth, he added to himself, “We must!”

  A moment passed, and he said, “I can’t find them.”

  “Find whom?”

  “Biron and the Autarch. The ridge cuts me off no matter how I arrange the external mirrors. See?”

  She saw nothing but the sunny rock flashing past.

  Then Gillbret brought the little gears to rest and said, “Anyway, that’s the Autarch’s ship.”

  Artemisia accorded it the briefest of glances. It lay deeper in the valley, perhaps a mile away. It glistened unbearably in the sun. It seemed to her, at the moment, to be the real enemy. It was, not the Tyranni. She wished suddenly, sharply, and very strongly that they had never gone to Lingane; that they had remained in space, the three of them only. Those had been funny days, so uncomfortable and yet so warm, somehow. And now she could only try to hurt him. Something made her hurt him, though she would have liked——

  Gillbret said, “Now what does he want?”

  Artemisia looked at him, seeing him through a watery mist, so that she had to blink rapidly to put him into normal focus.

  “Who?”

  “Rizzett. I think that’s Rizzett. But he’s certainly not coming this way.”

  Artemisia was at the visiplate. “Make it larger,” she ordered. “At this short distance?” objected Gillbret. “You won’t see anything. It will be impossible to keep it centered.”

  “Larger, Uncle Gil.”

  Muttering, he threw in the telescopic attachment and searched the bloated nubbles of rock that resulted. They jumped faster than the eye could follow at the lightest touch on the controls. For one moment, Rizzett, a large, hazy figure, flashed past, and in that moment his identity was unmistakable. Gillbret backtracked wildly, caught him again, hung on for a moment, and Artemisia said, “He’s armed. Did you see that?”

  “No.”

  “He’s got a long-range blasting rifle, I tell you!”

  She was up, tearing away at the locker.

  “Arta! What are you doing?”

  She was unzipping the lining from another space suit. “I’m going out there. Rizzett’s following them. Don’t you understand? The Autarch hasn’t gone out to set up a radio. It’s a trap for Biron.” She was gasping as she forced herself into the thick, coarse lining.

  “Stop it! You’re imagining things.”

  But she was staring at Gillbret without seeing him, her face pinched and white. She should have seen it before, the way Rizzett had been coddling that fool. That emotional fool! Rizzett had praised his father, told him what a great man the Rancher of Widemos had been, and Biron had melted immediately. His every action was dictated by the thought of his father. How could a man let himself be so ruled by a monomania?

  She said, “I don’t know what controls the air lock. Open it.”

  “Arta, you’re not leaving the ship. You don’t know where they are.”

  “I’ll find them. Open the air lock.”

  Gillbret shook his head.

  But the space suit she had stripped had borne a holster. She said, “Uncle Gil, I’ll use this. I swear I will.”

  And Gillbret found himself staring at the wicked muzzle of a neuronic whip. He forced a smile. “Don’t now!”

  “Open the lock!” she gasped.

  He did and she went out, running into the wind, slipping across the rocks and up the ridge. The blood pounded in her ears. She had been as bad as he, dangling the Autarch before him for no purpose other than her silly pride. It seemed silly now, and the Autarch’s personality sharpened in her mind, a man so studiedly cold as to be bloodless and tasteless. She quivered with repulsion.

  She had topped the ridge, and there was nothing ahead of her. Stolidly she walked onward, holding the neuronic whip before her.

  Biron and the Autarch had not exchanged a word during their walk, and now they came to a halt where the ground leveled off. The rock was fissured by the action of sun and wind through the millennia. Ahead of them there was an ancient fault, the farther lip of which had crumbled downward, leaving a sheer precipice of a hundred feet.

  Biron approached cautiously and looked over it. It slanted outward past the drop, the ground riddled with craggy boulders which, with time and infrequent rains, had scattered out as far as he could see.

  “It looks,” he said, “like a hopeless world, Jonti.”

  The Autarch displayed none of Biron’s curiosity in his surroundings. He did not approach the drop. He said, “This i
s the place we found before landing. It’s ideal for our purposes.”

  It’s ideal for your purposes, at least, thought Biron. He stepped away from the edge and sat down. He listened to the tiny hiss from his carbon-dioxide cylinder, and waited a moment.

  Then he said, very quietly, “What will you tell them when you get back to your ship, Jonti? Or shall I guess?”

  The Autarch paused in the act of opening the two-handled suitcase they had carried. He straightened and said, “What are you talking about?”

  Biron felt the wind numb his face and rubbed his nose with his gloved hand. Yet he unbuttoned the foamite lining that wrapped him, so that it flapped wide as the gusts hit it.

  He said, “I’m talking about your purpose in coming here.”

  “I would like to set up the radio rather than waste my time discussing the matter, Farrill.”

  “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 a while 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 was 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.

  19. 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.