Sir Dominic Flandry: The Last Knight of Terra Read online

  The Terran stood motionless for what seemed a long while. At last he grinned, without much jollity. "Yes," he said, "I believe I do understand."

  II

  The spaceport was built on a hill, a hundred jungled kilometers from the planet's chief city, for the benefit of the Betelgeuseans. A few ancient Pulaoic ships were also kept at that place, but never used.

  "A hermit kingdom," the bluefaced skipper had growled to Flandry in the tavern on Orma. "We don't visit them very often. Once or twice a standard year a trading craft of ours stops by." The Betelgeuseans were ubiquitous throughout this sector of space. Flandry had engaged passage on one of their tramp ships, as the quickest way to get from his completed assignment on Altai to the big Imperial port at Spica VI. There he would catch the Empress Maia, which touched on the homeward leg of her regular cruise. He felt he deserved to ride back to Terra on a luxury liner, and he was an accomplished padder of expense accounts.

  "What do you trade for?" he asked. It was idle curiosity, filling in time until the merchant ship departed this planet. They were speaking Alfzarian, which scratched his throat, but the other being had no Anglic.

  "Hides, natural fibers, and fruits, mostly. You've never eaten modjo fruit? Humans in this sector think it's quite a delicacy; me, I wouldn't know. But I guess nobody ever thought to take some as far as Terra. Hm-m-m." The Betelgeusean went into a commercial reverie.

  Flandry sipped raw local brandy and said, "There are still scattered independent colonies left over from the early days. I've just come from one, in fact. But I've never heard of this Unan Besar."

  "Why should you? Doubtless the astronautical archives at sector HQ, even at Terra, contain mention of it. But it keeps to itself. And it's of no real importance, even to us. We sell a little machinery and stuff there; we pick up the goods I mentioned; but it amounts to very little. It could amount to more, I think, but whoever controls the planet doesn't want that."

  "Are you sure?"

  "It's obvious. They have one wretched little spaceport for the whole globe. Antiquated facilities, a few warehouses, all stuck way to chaos out in the woods—as if spaceships were still spewing radiation! Traders aren't permitted to go anywhere else. They aren't even furnished a bunkhouse. So naturally, they only stay long enough to discharge a consignment and load the exchange cargo. They never meet anyone except a few officials. They're not supposed to speak with the native longshoremen. Once or twice I've tried that, in private, just to see what would happen. Nothing did. The poor devil was so frightened that he ran. He knew the law!"

  "Hm." Flandry rubbed his chin. Its scratchiness reminded him he was due for his bimonthly dose of antibeard enzyme, and he shifted to stroking his mustache. "I wonder they even let you learn their language."

  "That happened several generations ago, when our traders first made contact. Anglic was inconvenient for both parties—Oh, yes, a few of their aristocrats know Anglic. We sell them books, newstapes, anything to keep their ruling class up to date on what's happening in the rest of the known galaxy. Maybe the common people on Unan Besar are rusticating. But the overlords are not."

  "What are they doing, then?"

  "I don't know. From space, you can see it's a rich world. Backward agricultural methods, odd-looking towns, but crammed with natural resources."

  "What sort of planet is it? What type?"

  "Terrestroid. What else?"

  Flandry grimaced and puffed a cigarette to life. "You know how much that means!"

  "Well, then, it's about one A.U. from its sun. But that's an F2 star, a little more massive than Sol, so the planet's sidereal period is only nine months and its average temperature is higher than Terra or Alfzar. No satellites. Very little axial tilt. About a ten-hour rotation. A trifle smaller than Terra, surface gravity oh-point-eight gee. As a consequence, fewer uplands: smaller continents, lots of islands, most areas rather low and swampy. Because of the weaker gravity and higher irradiation, it actually has less hydrosphere than Terra. But you'd never know that, what with shallow seas and heavy clouds everywhere you look.... Uh, yes, there's something the matter with its ecology also. I forget what, because it doesn't affect my species, but humans need to take precautions. Can't be too serious, though, or the place wouldn't have such a population. I estimate a hundred million inhabitants—and it was only colonized three centuries ago."

  "Well," said Flandry, "people have to do something in their spare time."

  He smoked slowly, thinking. The self-isolation of Unan Besar might mean nothing, except to its dwellers. On the other hand, he knew of places where hell's own kettle had simmered unnoticed for a long time. It was hard enough—impossible, actually—to keep watch on those four million suns estimated to lie within the Imperial sphere itself. Out here on the marches, where barbarism faded into unknownness, and the agents of a hostile Merseia prowled and probed, any hope of controlling all situations grew cold indeed.

  Wherefore the thumb-witted guardians of a fat and funseeking Terra had stopped even trying, thought Flandry. They should make periodic reviews of the archives, sift every Intelligence report, investigate each of a billion mysteries. But that would require a bigger Navy, he thought, which would require higher taxes, which would deprive too many Terran lordlings of a new skycar and too many of their mistresses of a new syntha-gem bracelet. It might even turn up certain facts on which the Navy would have to act, which might even (horrors!) lead to full-scale fighting somewhere....

  Ah, the devil with it, he thought. I've just come from a mission the accounts of which, delicately exaggerated, will make me a celebrity at Home. I have several months' unspent pay waiting. And speaking of mistresses—

  But it is not natural for a human planet to cut itself off from humanity. When I get back, I'd better file a recommendation that this be checked up on.

  Though I'm hardly naive enough to think that anyone will act on my bare suspicion.

  "Where," said Captain Flandry, "can I rent a space flitter?"

  III

  The aircar was big, modern, and luxuriously outfitted. A custom job from Betelgeuse, no doubt. Flandry sat among deadpan Guard Corpsmen who said never a word, beside Warouw who was almost as quiet. Rain and wind were noisy as the car got under way, but when it slanted toward Kompong Timur, the weather had cleared. Flandry looked down upon a sprawling constellation of lights. He could see that the city borders faded into a broad lake, and that it was everywhere threaded with canals, which shimmered under mercury and neon glare. An experienced eye recognized certain other signs, such as the clustering of radiance near the central and tallest buildings, the surrounding zones of low roofs and infrequent lamps. That usually meant slums, which in turn suggested a concentration of wealth and power among the few.

  "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "To an interview. The governing board of Biocontrol is most anxious to meet you, Captain." Warouw lifted one eyebrow. It gave his smooth oval face a flicker of sardonicism. "You are not weary, I trust? What with the short day and night here, our people have gotten into the habit of taking several naps throughout the rotation period, rather than one long rest. Perhaps you feel ready for bed?"

  Flandry tapped a cigarette on one thumbnail. "Would it do me much good to say yes?"

  Warouw smiled. The air car glided down to a landing terrace, high on one of the biggest buildings—a structure important enough to have been erected on a piece of solid land, rather than on the piles driven into mud which upheld most of the city.

  As Flandry stepped out, the Guards closed in around him. "Call off the Happiness Boys, will you?" he snapped. "I want a quiet smoke." Warouw jerked his head. The silent men withdrew, but not very far. Flandry walked across the terrace to its rail.

  Clouds banked high on the eastern horizon. Lightning flickered in their depths. Overhead, the sky was clear, though a dim violet haze wavered among unearthly star-patterns—fluorescence in the upper atmosphere, due to the hidden but brilliant sun. Flandry identified the red spark of Betel
geuse, and yellow Spica, with a certain wistfulness. God knew if he'd ever drink beer again on any planet of either. He had stumbled into something unmerciful.

  This building must be a hundred meters square. It rose in many tiers, pagoda fashion, the curved roofs ending in elephant heads whose tusks were lamps. The rail beneath Flandry's hand was sculptured scaly. The dome which topped the whole enormous edifice was created with an arrogant image: the upraised foot of some bird of prey, talons grasping at heaven. The walls were gilt, dazzling even at night. From this terrace it was a fifty-meter drop to the oily waters of a major canal. On the other side rose a line of palaces. They were airy, colonnaded structures, their roofs leaping gaily upward, their walls painted with multi-armed figures at play. Lights glowed from several; Flandry heard twanging minor-key music.

  Even here, in the city's heart, he thought he could smell the surrounding jungle.

  "If you please." Warouw bowed at him.

  Flandry took a final drag on his cigarette and followed the other man. They went through an archway shaped like the gaping mouth of a monster and down a long red hall beyond. Several doors stood open to offices, where kilted men sat tailorwise on cushions and worked at low desks. Flandry read a few legends: Interisland Water Traffic Bureau, Syncretic Arbitration Board, Seismic Energy Commission—yes, this was the seat of government. Then he was in an elevator, purring downward. The corridor into which he was finally guided stretched black between whitely fluorescing pillars.

  At its end, a doorway opened on a great blue room. It was almost hemispherical, with an outsize window overlooking the night of Kompong Timur. To right and left stood banks of machinery: microfiles, recorders, computers, communicators. In the center was a table, black wood inlaid with native ivory. Behind it sat the overlords of Unan Besar.

  Flandry stepped closer, studying them from the camouflage of a nonchalant grin. Cross-legged on a padded bench, all twenty had shaven heads and white robes like Warouw, the same tattooed mark on their brows. It was a gold circle with a cross beneath and an arrow slanting upward. The breast insignia varied—a cogwheel, a triode circuit diagram, an integral dx, conventionalized waves and grain sheafs and thunderbolts—the heraldry of a government which at least nominally emphasized technology.

  Mostly, these men were older than Nias Warouw, and not in such good physical shape. The one who sat in the middle must be the grand panjandrum, Flandry thought: a petulant fat face, and the vulture-claw sign of mastery on his robe.

  Warouw had been purringly urbane, but there was no mistaking the hostility of these others. Here and there a cheek gleamed with sweat, eyes narrowed, fingers drummed the tabletop. Flandry made the muscles around his shoulderblades relax. It was no easy job, since the knife-wielding Strength Through Joy squad stood immediately behind him.

  The silence stretched.

  Someone had to break it. "Boo," said Flandry.

  The man at the center stirred. "What?"

  "A formula of greeting, your prominence," bowed Flandry.

  "Address me as Tuan Solu Bandang." The fat man switched eyes toward Warouw. "Is this the, ah, the Terran agent?"

  "No," snorted Flandry, "I'm a cigar salesman." But he didn't snort it very loudly, or in Pulaoic.

  "Yes, Tuan." Warouw inclined his head briefly above folded hands.

  They continued to stare. Flandry beamed and pirouetted for them. He was worth looking at, he assured himself smugly, being of athletic build (thanks to calisthenics, which he loathed but forced himself to keep up) and high-boned, straight-nosed, aristocratic features (thanks to one of Terra's most fashionable biosculptors). His eyes were gray, his brown hair cut close about the ears in Imperial style but sleek on top.

  Bandang pointed uneasily. "Take that, ah, gun from him," he ordered.

  "Please, Tuan," said Flandry. "It was bequeathed me by my dear old grandmother. It still smells of lavender. If anyone demanded it from me, my heart would be so broken I'd blow his guts out."

  Someone else turned purple and said shrilly. "You foreigner, do you realize where you are?"

  "Let him keep it if he insists, Tuan," said Warouw indifferently. He met Flandry's gaze with the faintest of smiles and added: "We should not disfigure this reunion moment with quarrels."

  A sigh went down the long table. Bandang pointed to a cushion on the floor. "Sit."

  "No, thank you." Flandry studied them. Warouw seemed the most intelligent and formidable of the lot, but after their initial surprise, they had all settled back into a disquieting habitual scornfulness. Surely the only firearm in the whole room didn't count for that little!

  "As you wish." Bandang leaned forward, assuming unctuousness. "See here, ah, Captain—you'll understand, I trust, how... how... delicate? Yes, how delicate a matter this is. I'm, ah, sure your discretion—" His voice trailed off in a smirk.

  "If I'm causing any trouble, Tuan, I apologize," said Flandry. "I'll be glad to depart at once." And how!

  "Ah... no. No, I fear that isn't er, practicable. Not for the present. My implication is quite simple actually, and I, ah, have no doubt that a man of your obvious sophistication can, er, grasp?—yes, can grasp the situation." Bandang drew a long breath. His colleagues looked resigned. "Consider this planet, Captain: its people, its culture, isolated and autonomous for more than four hundred years." (That would be local years, Flandry reminded himself, but still, a long time.) "The, ah, distinctive civilization which has inevitably developed—the special values, beliefs, customs, ah, and... achievements—the socioeconomic balance—cannot lightly be upset. Not without, er, great suffering. And loss. Irreparable loss."

  Having an inside view of the Empire, and unprejudiced eyes, Flandry could understand the reluctance of some worlds to have anything to do with same. But there was more here than a simple desire to preserve independence and dignity. If these characters had any knowledge at all of what was going on elsewhere in the universe—and certainly they did—then they would know that Terra wasn't a menace to them. The Empire was old and sated; except when driven by military necessity, it didn't want any more real estate. Something big and ugly was being kept hidden on Unan Besar.

  "What we, ah, wish to know," continued Bandang, "is, er, do you come here with official standing? And if so, what message do you convey from your, um, respected superiors?"

  Flandry weighed his answer, thinking of knives at his back and night beyond the windows. "I have no message, Tuan, other than friendly greetings," he said. "What else can the Imperium offer until we are able to get to know your people better?"

  "But you have come here under orders, Captain? Not by chance?"

  "My credentials are in my spaceship, Tuan." Flandry hoped his commission, his field agent's open warrant, and similar flashy documents might impress them. For an unofficial visitor could end up in a canal with his throat cut, and no one in all the galactic vastness would care.

  "Credentials for what?" It was a nervous croak from the end of the table.

  Warouw scowled. Flandry could sympathize with the Guard chief's annoyance. This was no way to conduct an interrogation. Biocontrol was falling all over its own flat feet: crude bluster and cruder insinuation. To be sure, they were amateurs at this job—Warouw was their tame professional—but the lowest-echelon politician in the Empire would have had more understanding of men, and made a better attempt at questioning such a quasi-prisoner.

  "If the Tuan pleases," Warouw interposed, "we seem to be giving Captain Flandry an unfortunate impression of ourselves. May my unworthy self be permitted to discuss the situation with him privately?"

  "No!" Bandang stuck his head forward, like a flabby bull. "Let's have none of your shilly-shally. I'm a man of few words, yes, few words and—Captain, I, ah, trust you'll realize... will not take offense... we bear responsibility for an entire planet and—ah—well, as a man of sophistication, you will not object to narcosynthesis?"

  Flandry stiffened. "What?"

  "After all—" Bandang wet his lips. "You come unheralded
... ah... without the expected, er, preliminary fanfare or—Conceivably you are a mere imposter. Please! Please do not resent my, um, necessary entertaining of the possibility. If you actually are an official, ah, delegate—or agent—naturally, we will wish to ascertain—"

  "Sorry, Tuan," said Flandry. "I've been immunized to truth drugs."

  "Oh? Oh. Oh, yes. Well, then... we do have a hypnoprobe—yes, Colleague Warouw's department is not altogether behind the times. He obtains goods on order from the Betelgeuseans.... Ah, I realize that a hypnoprobing is, er, an uncomfortable experience—"

  To put it mildly, thought the Terran. His spine crawled. I see. They really are amateurs. Nobody who understood politics and war would be so reckless. Mind-probing an Imperial officer! As if the Empire could let anyone live who heard me spill half of what I know. Yes, amateurs.

  He stared into the eyes of Warouw, the only man who might realize what this meant. And he met no pity, only a hunter's wariness. He could guess Warouw's calculations:

  If Flandry has chanced by unofficially, on his own, it's simple. We kill him. If he's here as an advance scout, it becomes more complicated. His "accidental" death must be very carefully faked. But at least we'll know that Terra is interested in us, and can start taking measures to protect our great secret.

  The worst of it was, they would learn that this visit had indeed been Flandry's own idea, and that if he died on Unan Besar a preoccupied Service wouldn't make any serious investigation.

  Flandry thought of wines and women and adventures yet to be undertaken. Death was the ultimate dullness.

  He dropped a hand to his blaster. "I wouldn't try that, sonny boy," he said.

  From the corner of an eye, he saw one of the Guards glide forward with a raised truncheon. He sidestepped, hooked a foot before the man's ankles, shoved, and clipped behind the ear with his free hand as the body fell. The Guard hit the floor and stayed there.