The Stars, Like Dust Page 6

  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 garish 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.

  “Get in,” said the guard behind him impatiently, and Biron climbed two steps into the carriage.

  The steps remained long enough for the guard to follow, then lifted quietly and smoothly into place, forming no break in the carriage’s even exterior.

  Biron became aware that the outer opacity of the carriage was an illusion. Once within, he found himself sitting in a transparent bubble. At the motion of a small control, the carriage lifted upward. It climbed the heights easily, buffeting the atmosphere which whistled past. For one moment, Biron caught the panorama of the Palace Grounds from the apex of the arc.

  The structures became a gorgeous whole (could they have been originally conceived other than as an air view?) laced by the shining copper threads, along one or two of which the graceful carriage bubbles skimmed.

  He felt himself pressed forward, and the carriage came to a dancing halt. The entire run had lasted less than two minutes.

  A door stood open before him. He entered and it closed behind him. There was no one in the room, which was small and bare. For the moment, no one was pushing him, but he felt no comfort because of it. He was under no illusions. Ever since that damned night, others had forced his moves.

  Jonti had placed him on the ship. The Tyrannian Commissioner had placed him here. And each move had increased the measure of his desperation.

  It was obvious to Biron that the Tyrannian had not been fooled. It had been too easy to get away from him. The Commissioner might have called the Terrestrial Consul. He might have hyper-waved Earth, or taken his retinal patterns. These things were routine; they could not have been omitted accidentally.

  He remembered Jonti’s analysis of affairs. Some of it might still be valid. The Tyranni would not kill him outright to create another martyr. But Hinrik was their puppet, and he was as capable as they of ordering an execution. And then he would have been killed by one of his own, and the Tyranni would merely be disdainful onlookers.

  Biron clenched his fists tightly. He was tall and strong, but he was unarmed. The men who would come for him would have blasters and neuronic whips. He found himself backing against the wall.

  He whirled quickly at the small sound of the opening door to his left. The man who entered was armed and uniformed but there was a girl with him. He relaxed a bit. It was only a girl with him. At another time he might have observed the girl closely, since she was worth observation and approval, but at the moment she was only a girl.

  They approached together, stopping some six feet away. He kept his eye on the guard’s blaster.

  The girl said to the guard, “I’ll speak to him first, Lieutenant.”

  There was a little vertical line between her eyes as she turned to him. She said, “Are you the man who has this story of an assassination plot against the Director?”

  Biron said, “I was told I would see the Director.”

  “That is impossible. If you have anything to say, say it to me. If your information is truthful and useful, you will be well treated.”

  “May I ask you who you are? How do I know you are authorized to speak for the Director?”

  The girl seemed annoyed. “I am his daughter. Please answer my questions. Are you from outside the System?”

  “I am from Earth.” Biron paused, then added, “Your Grace.”

  The addition pleased her. “Where is that?”

  “It is a small planet of the Sirian Sector, Your Grace.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Biron Malaine, Your Grace.”

  She stared at him thoughtfully. “From Earth? Can you pilot a space ship?”

  Biron almost smiled. She was testing him. She knew very well that space navigation was one of the forbidden sciences in the Tyranni-controlled worlds.

  He said, “Yes, Your Grace.” He could prove that when the performance test came, if they let him live that long. Space navigation was not a forbidden science on Earth, and in four years one could learn much.

  She said, “Very well. And your story?”

  He made his decision suddenly. To the guard alone, he would not have dared. But this was a girl, and if she were not lying, if she really were the Director’s daughter, she might be a persuasive factor on his behalf.

  He said, “There is no assassination plot, Your Grace.”

  The girl was startled. She turned impatiently to her companion. “Would you take over, Lieutenant? Get the truth out of him.”

  Biron took a step forward and met the cold thrust of the guard’s blaster. He said urgently, “Wait, Your Grace. Listen to me! It was the only way to see the Director. Don’t you understand?”

  He raised his voice and sent it after her retreating form. “Will you tell His Excellency, at least, that I am Biron Farrill and claim my Sanctuary Right?”

  It was a feeble straw at which to clutch. The old feudal customs had been losing their force with the generations even before the Tyranni came. Now they were archaisms. But there was nothing else. Nothing.

  She turned, and her eyebrows were arched. “Are you claiming now to be of the aristocratic order? A moment ago your name was Malaine.”

  A new voice sounded unexpectedly. “So it was, but it is the second name which is correct. You are Biron Farrill indeed, my good sir. Of course you are. The resemblance is unmistakable.”

  A small, smiling man stood in the doorway. His eyes, widely spaced and brilliant, were taking in all of Biron with an amused sharpness. He cocked his narrow face upward at Biron’s height and said to the girl, “Don’t you recognize him, too, Artemisia?”

  Artemisia hurried to him, her voice troubled. “Uncle Gil, what are you doing here?”

  “Taking care of my interests, Artemisia. Remember that if there were an assassination, I would be the closest of the Hinriads to the possible succession.” Gillbret oth Hinriad winked elaborately, then added, “Oh, get the lieutenant out of here. There isn’t any danger.”

  She ignored that and said, “Have you been tapping the communicator again?”

  “But yes. Would you deprive me of an amusement? It is pleasant to eavesdrop on them.”

  “Not if they catch you.”

  “The danger is part of the game, my dear. The amusing part. After all, the Tyranni do not hesitate to tap the Palace. We can’t do much without their knowing. Well, turnabout, you know. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said shortly. “This is none of your business.”

  “Then I’ll introduce you. When I heard his name, I stopped listening and came in.” He moved past Artemisia, stepped up to Biron, inspected him with an impersonal smile, and said, “This is Biron Farrill.”

  “I have said so myself,” said Biron. More
than half his attention was upon the lieutenant, who still held his blaster in firing position.

  “But you have not added that you are the son of the Rancher of Widemos.”

  “I would have but for your interruption. In any case, you’ve got the story now. Obviously, I had to get away from the Tyranni, and that without giving them my real name.” Biron waited. This was it, he felt. If the next move was not an immediate arrest, there was still a trifling chance.

  Artemisia said, “I see. This is a matter for the Director. You are sure there is no plot of any sort, then.”

  “None, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Uncle Gil, will you remain with Mr. Farrill? Lieutenant, will you come with me?”

  Biron felt weak. He would have liked to sit down, but no suggestion to that effect was made by Gillbret, who still inspected him with an almost clinical interest.

  “The Rancher’s son! Amusing!”

  Biron brought his attention downward. He was tired of cautious monosyllables and careful phrases. He said abruptly, “Yes, the Rancher’s son. It is a congenital situation. Can I help you in any other way?”

  Gillbret showed no offense. His thin face merely creased further as his smile widened. He said, “You might satisfy my curiosity. You really came for Sanctuary? Here?”

  “I’d rather discuss that with the Director, sir.”

  “Oh, get off it, young man. You’ll find that very little business can be done with the Director. Why do you suppose you had to deal with his daughter just now? That’s an amusing thought, if you’ll consider it.”

  “Do you find everything amusing?”

  “Why not? As an attitude toward life, it’s an amusing one. It’s the only adjective that will fit. Observe the universe, young man. If you can’t force amusement out of it, you might as well cut your throat, since there’s damned little good in it. I haven’t introduced myself, by the way. I’m the Director’s cousin.”

  Biron said coldly, “Congratulations!”

  Gillbret shrugged. “You’re right. It’s not impressive. And I’m likely to remain just that indefinitely since there is no assassination to be expected, after all.”

  “Unless you whip one up for yourself.”

  “My dear sir, your sense of humor! You’ll have to get used to the fact that nobody takes me seriously. My remark was only an expression of cynicism. You don’t suppose the Directorship is worth anything these days, do you? Surely you cannot believe that Hinrik was always like this? He was never a great brain, but with every year he becomes more impossible. I forget! You haven’t seen him yet. But you will! I hear him coming. When he speaks to you, remember that he is the ruler of the largest of the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms. It will be an amusing thought.”

  Hinrik bore his dignity with the ease of experience. He acknowledged Biron’s painstakingly ceremonious bow with the proper degree of condescension. He said, with a trace of abruptness, “And your business with us, sir?”

  Artemisia was standing at her father’s side, and Biron noticed, with some surprise, that she was quite pretty. He said, “Your Excellency, I have come on behalf of my father’s good name. You must know his execution was unjust.”

  Hinrik looked away. “I knew your father slightly. He was in Rhodia once or twice.” He paused, and his voice quavered a bit. “You are very like him. Very. But he was tried, you know. At least I imagine he was. And according to law. Really, I don’t know the details.”

  “Exactly, Your Excellency. But I would like to learn those details. I am sure that my father was no traitor.”

  Hinrik broke in hurriedly. “As his son, of course, it is understandable that you should defend your father, but, really, it is difficult to discuss such matters of state now. Highly irregular, in fact. Why don’t you see Aratap?”

  “I do not know him, Excellency.”

  “Aratap! The Commissioner! The Tyrannian Commissioner!”

  “I have seen him and he sent me here. Surely, you understand that I dare not let the Tyranni——”

  But Hinrik had grown stiff. His hand had wandered to his lips, as though to keep them from trembling, and his words were consequently muffled. “Aratap sent you here, you say?”

  “I found it necessary to tell him——”

  “Don’t repeat what you told him. I know,” said Hinrik. “I can do nothing for you, Rancher—uh—Mr. Farrill. It is not in my jurisdiction alone. The Executive Council—stop pulling at me, Arta. How can I pay attention to matters when you distract me?—must be consulted. Gillbret! Will you see that Mr. Farrill is taken care of? I will see what can be done. Yes, I will consult the Executive Council. The forms of law, you know. Very important. Very important.” He turned on his heel, mumbling.

  Artemisia lingered for a moment and touched Biron’s sleeve. “A moment. Was it true, your statement that you could pilot a space ship?”

  “Quite true,” said Biron. He smiled at her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she dimpled briefly in return.

  “Gillbret,” she said, “I want to speak to you later.”

  She hurried off. Biron looked after her till Gillbret tweaked at his sleeve.

  “I presume you are hungry, perhaps thirsty, would like a wash?” asked Gillbret. “The ordinary amenities of life continue, I take it?”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Biron. The tension had almost entirely washed out of him. For a moment he was relaxed and felt wonderful. She was pretty. Very pretty.

  But Hinrik was not relaxed. In his own chambers his thoughts whirled at a feverish pace. Try as he might, he could not wriggle out of the inevitable conclusion. It was a trap! Aratap had sent him and it was a trap!

  He buried his head in his hands to quiet and deaden the pounding, and then he knew what he had to do.

  7. MUSICIAN OF THE MIND

  Night settles in time on all habitable planets. Not always, perhaps, at respectable intervals, since recorded periods of rotation vary from fifteen to fifty-two hours. That fact requires the most strenuous psychological adjustment from those traveling from planet to planet.

  On many planets such adjustments are made, and the waking-sleeping periods are tailored to fit. On many more the almost universal use of conditioned atmospheres and artificial lighting make the day-night question secondary except in so far as it modifies agriculture. On a few planets (those of the extremes) arbitrary divisions are made which ignore the trivial facts of light and dark.

  But always, whatever the social conventions, the coming of night has a deep and abiding psychological significance, dating back to man’s prehuman arboreal existence. Night will always be a time of fear and insecurity, and the heart will sink with the sun.

  Inside Palace Central there was no sensory mechanism by which one could tell the coming of night, yet Biron felt that coming through some indefinite instinct hidden in the unknown corridors of the human brain. He knew that outdoors the night’s blackness was scarcely relieved by the futile sparks of the stars. He knew that, if it were the right time of year, the jagged “hole in space” known as the Horsehead Nebula (so familiar to all the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms) inked out half the stars that might otherwise have been visible.

  And he was depressed again.

  He had not seen Artemisia since the little talk with the Director, and he found himself resenting that. He had looked forward to dinner; he might have spoken to her. Instead, he had eaten alone, with two guards lounging discontentedly just outside the door. Even Gillbret had left him, presumably to eat a less lonely meal in the company one would expect in a palace of the Hinriads.

  So that when Gillbret returned and said, “Artemisia and I have been discussing you,” he obtained a prompt and interested reaction.

  It merely amused him and he said so. “First I want to show you my laboratory,” he had said then. He gestured and the two guards moved off.

  “What kind of a laboratory?” asked Biron with a definite loss of interest.

  “I build gadgets,” was the vague response.

  It wa
s not a laboratory to the eye. It was more nearly a library, with an ornate desk in the corner.

  Biron looked it over slowly. “And you build gadgets here? What kind of gadgets?”

  “Well, special tapping devices to spy out the Tyrannian spy beams in a brand-new way. Nothing they can detect. That’s how I found out about you, when the first word came through from Aratap. And I have other amusing trinkets. My visisonor, for instance. Do you like music?”

  “Some kinds.”

  “Good. I invented an instrument, only I don’t know if you can properly call it music.” A shelf of book films slid out and aside at a touch. “This is not really much of a hiding place, but nobody takes me seriously, so they don’t look. Amusing, don’t you think? But I forget, you’re the unamused one.”

  It was a clumsy, boxlike affair, with that singular lack of gloss and polish that marks the homemade object. One side of it was studded with little gleaming knobs. He put it down with that side upward.

  “It isn’t pretty,” Gillbret said, “but who in Time cares? Put the lights out. No, no! No switches or contacts. Just wish the lights were out. Wish hard! Decide you want them out.”

  And the lights dimmed, with the exception of the faint pearly luster of the ceiling that made them two ghostly faces in the dark. Gillbret laughed lightly at Biron’s exclamation.

  “Just one of the tricks of my visisonor. It’s keyed to the mind like personal capsules are. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t, if you want a plain answer.”

  “Well,” he said, “look at it this way. The electric field of your brain cells sets up an induced one in the instrument. Mathematically, it’s fairly simple, but as far as I know, no one has ever jammed all the necessary circuits into a box this size before. Usually, it takes a five-story generating plant to do it. It works the other way too. I can close circuits here and impress them directly upon your brain, so that you’ll see and hear without any intervention of eyes and ears. Watch!”

  There was nothing to watch, at first. And then something fuzzy scratched faintly at the corner of Biron’s eyes. It became a faint blue-violet ball hovering in mid-air. It followed him as he turned away, remained unchanged when he closed his eyes. And a clear, musical tone accompanied it, was part of it, was it.