Stars, Like Dust Page 5

  But the silent major looked faintly scornful, and Aratap left his artistic reflections to say, abruptly, “Then you will watch Farrill?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Watch Hinrik as well.”

  “Hinrik?”

  “Of course. It is the whole purpose of freeing the boy. I want some questions answered. Why is Farrill seeing Hinrik? What is the connection between them? The dead Rancher did not playa lone hand, There was--there must have been--a well-organized conspiracy behind them. And we have not yet located the workings of that conspiracy.”

  “But surely Hinrik could” not be involved. He lacks the intelligence, even if he had the courage.”

  “Granted. But it is just because he is half an idiot that he may serve them as a tool. If so, he represents a weakness in our scheme of things. We obviously cannot afford to neglect the possibility.”

  He gestured absently; the major saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

  Aratap sighed, thoughtfully turned the photocube in his hand, and watched the blackness wash back like a tide of ink.

  Life was simpler in his father’s time. To smash a planet had a cruel grandeur about it; while this careful maneuvering of an ignorant young man was simply cruel.

  And yet necessary.

  FIVE:

  Uneasy Lies the Head

  The directorship of Rhodia is not ancient, when compared with Earth, as a habitat for Homo sapiens. It is not ancient even when compared with the Centaurian or Sirian worlds. The planets of Arcturus, for instance, had been settled for two hundred years when the first space ships circled the Horsehead Nebula to find the nest of hundreds of oxygen-water planets behind. They clustered thickly and it was a real find, for although planets infest space, few can satisfy the chemical necessities of the human organism.

  There are between one and two hundred billion radiant stars in the Galaxy. Among them are some five hundred billion planets. Of these, some have gravities more than 120 per cent that of Earth, or less than 60 per cent, and are therefore unbearable in the long run. Some are too hot, some too cold. Some have poisonous atmospheres. Planetary atmospheres consisting largely or entirely of neon, methane, ammonia, chlorine--even silicon tetrafluoride--have been recorded. Some planets lack water, one with oceans of almost pure sulphur dioxide having been described. Others lack carbon.

  Any one of these failings is sufficient, so that not one world in a hundred thousand can be lived on. Yet this still leaves an estimated four million habitable worlds.

  The exact number of these which are actually occupied is disputable. According to the Galactic Almanac, admittedly dependent on imperfect records, Rhodia was the l098th world settled by man.

  Ironically enough, Tyrann, eventually Rhodia’s conqueror, was the 1099th.

  The pattern of history in the Trans-Nebular Region was distressingly similar to that elsewhere during the period of development and expansion. Planet republics were set up in rapid succession, each government confined to its own world. With expanding economy, neighboring planets were colonized and integrated with the home society. Small “empires” were established and these inevitably clashed.

  Hegemony over sizable regions was established by first one, then another of these governments, depending upon the fluctuations of the fortunes of war and of leadership.

  Only Rhodia maintained a lengthy stability, under the able dynasty of the Hinriads. It was perhaps well on the road to establishing finally a universal Trans-Nebular Empire in a stolid century or two, when the Tyranni came and did the job in ten years.

  Ironical that it should be the men of Tyrann. Until then, during the seven hundred years of its existence, Tyrann had done little better than maintain a precarious autonomy, thanks largely to the undesirability of its barren landscape, which, because of a planetary water dearth, was largely desert.

  But even after the Tyranni came, the Directorship of Rhodia continued. It had even grown. The Hinriads were popular with the people, so their existence served as a means of easy control. The Tyranni did not care who got the cheers as long as they themselves received the taxes.

  To be sure, the Directors were no longer the Hinriads of old. The Directorship had always been elective within the family so that the ablest might be chosen. Adoptions into the family had been encouraged for the same purpose.

  But now the Tyranni could influence the elections for other reasons, and twenty years earlier, for instance, Hinrik (fifth of that name) had been chosen Director. To the Tyranni, it had seemed a useful choice.

  Hinrik had been a handsome man at the time of his election, and he still made an impressive appearance when he addressed the Rhodian Council. His hair had grayed smoothly, and his thick mustache remained, startingly enough, as black as his daughter’s eyes.

  At the moment he faced his daughter, and she was furious. She lacked only two inches of his height, and the Director lacked less than an inch of six feet. She was a smoldering girl, dark of hair and of eyes, and, at the moment, loweringly dark of complexion.

  She said again, “I can’t do it! I won’t do it!”

  Hinrik said, “But, Arta, Arta, this is unreasonable. What am I to do? What can I do? In my position, what choice have I?”

  “If Mother were alive, she would find a way out.” And she stamped her foot. Her full name was Artemisia, a royal name that had been borne by at least one female of the Hinriads in every generation.

  “Yes, yes, no doubt. Bless my soul! What a way your mother had with her! There are times when you seem all of her and none of me. But surely, Arta, you haven’t given him a chance. Have you observed his--ah--better points?”

  “Which are those?”

  “The ones which...” He gestured vaguely, thought a while and gave it up. He approached her and would have put a consoling hand upon her shoulder, but she squirmed away from him, her scarlet gown shimmering in the air.

  “I have spent an evening with him,” she said bitterly, “and he tried to kiss me. It was disgusting!”

  “But everyone kisses, dear. It’s not as though this were your grandmother’s time--of respected memory. Kisses are nothing--less than nothing. Young blood, Arta, young blood!”

  “Young blood, my foot. The only time that horrible little man has had young blood in him these fifteen years has been immediately after a transfusion. He’s four inches shorter than I am, Father. How can I be seen in public with a pygmy?”

  “He’s an important man. Very important!”

  “That doesn’t add a single inch to his height. He is bowlegged, as they all are, and his breath smells.”

  “His breath smells?” Artemisia wrinkled her nose at her father. “That’s right; it smells. It has an unpleasant odor. I didn’t like it and I let him know it.”

  Hinrik.dropped his jaw wordlessly for a moment, then said in a hoarse half whisper, “You let him know it? You implied that a high official of the Royal Court of Tyrann could have an unpleasant personal characteristic?”

  “He did! I have a nose, you know! So when he got too close, I just held it and pushed. A figure of man to admire, that one is. He went flat on his back, with his legs sticking up.” She gestured with her fingers in illustration, but it was lost on Hinrik, who, with a moan, hunched his shoulders and put his hands over his face.

  He peered miserably from between two fingers. “What will happen now? How can you act so?”

  “It didn’t do me any good. Do you know what he said? Do you know what he said? It was the last straw. It was absolutely the limit. I made up my mind then that I couldn’t stand that man if he were ten feet taIl.”

  “But--but--what did he say?”

  “He said--straight out of a video, Father--he said, ‘Ha! A spirited wench! I like her all the better for that!’ and two servants helped him stagger to his feet. But he didn’t try to breathe in my face again.”

  Hinrik doubled into a chair, leaned forward and regarded Artemisia earnestly. “You could go through the motions of marrying him, couldn’t you? Yo
u needn’t be in earnest. Why not merely, for the sake of political expediency--”

  “How do you mean, not in earnest, Father? Shall I cross the fingers of my left hand while signing the contract with my right?”

  Hinrik looked confused. “No, of course not. What good would that do? How would crossing fingers alter the validity of the contract? Really, Arta, I’m surprised at your stupidity.”

  Artemisia sighed. “What do you mean, then?”

  “Mean by what? You see, you’ve disrupted things. I can’t keep my mind on matters properly when you argue with me. What was I saying?”

  “I was merely to pretend I was getting married, or something. Remember?”

  “Oh yes. I mean, you needn’t take it too seriously, you see.”

  “I can have lovers, I suppose.”

  Hinrik stiffened and frowned. “Arta! I brought you up to be a modest, self-respecting girl. So did your mother. How can you say such things? It’s shameful.”

  “But isn’t that what you mean? “

  “I can say it. I am a man, a mature man. A girl like you ought not to repeat it.”

  “Well, I have repeated it and it’s out in the open. I don’t mind lovers. I’ll probably have to have them if I’m forced to marry for reasons of state, but there are limits.” She placed her hands upon her hips, and the cape-like sleeves of her gown slithered away from her tanned and dimpled shoulders. “What will I do between lovers? He’ll still be my husband and I just can’t bear that particular thought.”

  “But he’s an old man, my dear. Life with him would be short.”

  “Not short enough, thank you. Five minutes ago he had young blood. Remember?”

  Hinrik spread his hands wide and let them drop. “Arta, the man is a Tyrannian, and a powerful one. He is in good odor at the Khan’s court.”

  “The Khan might think it’s a good odor. He probably would. He probably stinks himself.”

  Hinrik’s mouth was an O of horror. Automatically, he looked over his shoulder. Then he said hoarsely, “Don’t ever say anything like that again.”

  “I will if I feel like it. Besides, the man has had three wives already.” She forestalled him. “Not the Khan, the man you want me to marry.”

  “But they’re dead,” Hinrik explained earnestly. “Arta, they’re not alive. Don’t think that. How can you imagine I would let my daughter marry a bigamist? We’ll have him produce documents. He married them consecutively, not simultaneously, and they’re dead now, entirely dead, all of them.”

  “It’s no wonder.”

  “Oh, bless my soul, what shall I do?” He made a last effort at dignity. “Arta, it is the price of being a Hinriad and a Director’s daughter.”

  “I didn’t ask to be a Hinriad and a Director’s daughter.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. It is just that the history of all the Galaxy, Arta, shows that there are occasions when reasons of state, the safety of planets, the best interests of peoples require that, uh--”

  “That some poor girl prostitute herself.”

  “Oh, this vulgarity! Someday, you’ll see--someday you’ll say something of the sort in public.”

  “Well, that’s what it is, and I won’t do it. I’d rather die. I’d rather do anything. And I will.”

  The Director got to his feet and held out his arms to her. His lips trembled and he said nothing. She ran to him in a sudden agony of tears and clung desperately to him. “I can’t, Daddy. I can’t. Don’t make me.”

  He patted her awkwardly. “But if you don’t, what will happen? If the Tyranni are displeased, they will remove me, imprison me, maybe even exec--” He gagged on the word. “These are very unhappy times, Arta--very unhappy. The Rancher of Widemos was condemned last week and I believe he has been executed. You remember him, Arta? He was at court half a year ago. A big man, with a round head and deep-set eyes. You were frightened of him at first. “

  “I remember.”

  “Well, he is probably dead. And who knows? Myself next, perhaps. Your poor, harmless old father next. It is a bad time. He was at our court and that’s very suspicious.”

  She suddenly held herself out at arm’s length. “Why should it be suspicious? You weren’t involved with him, were you?”

  “I? Indeed not. But if we openly insult the Khan of Tyrann by refusing an alliance with one of his favorites, they may choose to think even that.”

  Hinrik’s hand wringing was interrupted by the muted buzz of the extension. He started uneasily.

  “I’ll take it in my own room. You just rest. You’ll feel better after a nap. You’ll see, you’ll see. It’s just that you’re a little on edge now.”

  Artemisia looked after him and frowned. Her’ face was intensely thoughtful, and for minutes only the gentle tide of her breasts betrayed life.

  There was the sound of stumbling feet at the door, and she turned.

  “What is it?” The tone was sharper than she had intended.

  It was Hinrik, his face sallow with fear. “Major Andros was calling.”

  “Of the Outer Police?” Hinrik could only nod.

  Artemisia cried, “Surely, he’s not--” She paused reluctantly at the threshold of putting the horrible thought into words, but waited in vain for enlightenment.

  “There is a young man who wants an audience. I don’t know him. Why should he come here? He’s from Earth.” He was gasping for breath and staggered as he spoke, as though his mind were on a turntable and he had to follow it in its gyrations.

  The girl ran to him and seized his elbow. She said sharply, “Sit down, Father. Tell me what has happened.” She took him and some of the panic drained out of his face.

  “I don’t know exactly,” he whispered. “There’s a young man coming here with details concerning a plot on my life. On my life. And they tell me I ought to listen to him.”

  He smiled foolishly. “I’m loved by the people. No one would want to kill me. Would they? Would they?”

  He was watching her eagerly, and relaxed when she said, “Of course no one would want to kill you.”

  Then he was tense again. “Do you think it might be they?”

  “Who?”

  He leaned over to whisper. “The Tyranni. The Rancher of Widemos was here yesterday, and they killed him.” His voice ascended the scale. “And now they’re sending someone over to kill me.”

  Artemisia gripped his shoulder with such force that his mind turned to the present pain.

  She said, “Father! Sit quietly! Not a word! Listen to me. No one will kill you. Do you hear me? No one will kill you. It was six months ago that the Rancher was here. Do you remember? Wasn’t it six months ago? Think!”

  “So long?” whispered the Director. “Yes, yes, it must have been so.”

  “Now you stay here and rest. You’re overwrought. I’ll see the young man myself and then I’ll bring him to you if it’s safe;”

  “Will you, Arta? Will you? He won’t hurt a woman. Surely he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

  She bent suddenly and kissed his cheek.

  “Be careful,” he murmured, and closed his eyes wearily.

  SIX:

  That Wears a Crown

  Biron Farrill waited uneasily in one of the outer buildings on the Palace Grounds. For the first time in his life he experienced the deflating sensation of being a provincial.

  Widemos Hall, where he had grown up, had been beautiful in his eyes, and now his memory endowed it with merely barbaric glitter. Its curved lines, its filigree work, its curiously wrought turrets, its elaborate “false windows”--He winced at the thought of them.

  But this--this was different.

  The Palace Grounds of Rhodia were no mere lump of’ ostentation built by the petty lords of a cattle kingdom; nor were they the childlike expression of a fading and dying world. They were the culmination, in stone, of the Hinriad dynasty.

  The buildings were strong and quiet. Their lines were straight and vertical, lengthening toward the center of each structure
, yet avoiding anything as effeminate as a spire effect. They held a bluntness about them, yet lifted into a climax that affected the onlooker without revealing their method of doing so at a casual glance. They were reserved, self-contained, proud.

  And as each building was, so was the group as a whole, the huge Palace Central becoming a crescendo. One by one, even the few artificialities remaining in the masculine Rhodian style had dropped away. The very “false windows,” so valued as decoration and so useless in a building of artificial light and ventilation, were done away with. And that, somehow, without loss.

  It was only line and plane, a geometrical abstraction that led the eye upward to the sky.

  The Tyrannian major stopped briefly at his side as he left the inner room.

  “You will be received now,” he said.

  Biron nodded, and after a while a larger man in a uniform of scarlet and tan clicked heels before him. It struck Biron with sudden force that those who had the real power did not need the outward show and could be satisfied with slate blue. He recalled the splendid formality of a Rancher’s life and bit his lip at the thought of its futility.

  “Biron Malaine?” asked the Rhodian guard, and Biron rose to follow.

  There was a little gleaming monorail carriage that was suspended delicately by diamagnetic forces upon a single ruddy shaft of metal. Biron had never seen one before. He paused before entering.

  The little carriage, big enough for five or six at the most, swayed with the wind, a graceful teardrop returning the gleam of Rhodia’s splendid sun. The single rail was slender, scarcely more than a cable, and ran the length of the carriage’s underside without touching. Biron bent and saw blue sky all the length between them. For a moment, as he watched, a lifting gust of wind raised it, so that it hovered a full inch above the rail, as though impatient for flight and tearing at the invisible force field that held it. Then it fluttered back to the rail, closer and still closer, but never touching.