The Man Without a Planet

FOUR

BRICE HALLEN, as Provincial Administrator, was Border Ad­ministrator Mather’s superior. As a senior government career officer—and as a genuine man—he very much disliked Dykon Mather. And, what’s more important, he loathed Nijel Pertinax, and everything about him, and hated having to work with the entire P-5 section—“the snoopers,” he called them, without affection.

The problem of Commander Linton and Sharl of the Yellow Eyes was too big, too potentially dangerous, to leave in the bumbling hands of Border Administrator Mather. When it came to his attention, he called a meeting of the full Staff—and let Pertinax have his say while he sat back, puffing on an old big-bellied Shamash-ware aquapipe, and peering up at the Colonel from time to time, piercing glances from under shaggy, heavy brows.

“So, what it filters down to, is that Linton tried to buy himself a sword,” he commented, after a while. “Dangerous things, swords. Sharp edges. Make fine weapons. I suppose you estimate Linton bought the sword so he could assassinate Lord Cheviot, eh, Pertinax?”

The lean, sour-faced agent flushed darkly.

“Arion! You’re the most suspicious man I’ve ever seen, Pertinax. And one of the most ingenious. Ingenious, that is, at seeing imaginary motives in the most casual and ordin­ary of acts. Buying a sword, indeed!”

Pertinax kept his expression wooden; inwardly he was seeth­ing, but smug.

“I have my job to do, Administrator, and it’s not an easy one. But it is, if I may say so, vital. I don’t ask for com­pliments. And, if I may say so, don’t the facts speak for the truth? You’ve heard the tapes—”

Staff meetings were held informally. Members strolled in as they were talking and took their seats around the large, low table of fine-grained harp-wood. Most of them, rather surprisingly, were younger men, relaxed, sober of mien, thoughtful, with shrewd tanned faces.

“Yes, yes—and they sound innocuous enough to me.” Brice Hallen grumbled peevishly. “Great Space, a man buys a sword—what of it? I bought one myself last month, on Pendalar. Damn good thing you weren’t there, Pertinax: you’d have deduced it as a treasonable act.”

“But, Administrator, what about the recognition-code I taped, between Linton and the Kahani’s agent?”

Wilm Bardry, one of the younger men present, spoke up unbidden at this.

“What about the ‘recognition-code’—as you call it, Col­onel? Don’t you know what it is?”

Pertinax flushed even darker.

Hallen quirked an eyebrow, inquiringly. “What is it, Wilm?”

Bardry shrugged, and laughed. “Nothing! Just the ordin­ary Rilké politeness-formula, as used between two strangers of different Clans.”

(General laughter.)

Dykon Mather, unhappily present, thought things were getting out of hand. He spoke up, sharply:

“But this Sharl of the Yellow Eyes is generally known to be an agent of the ex-Kahani of Valadon! There’s no doubt about that. And it is also fact that Pertinax’s pinhead trans­ceiver went off as soon as Linton entered the tent with the Rilké.”

Bardry shrugged, and exchanged glances with the other members who lounged casually about in the huge, curved chairs, smoking or doodling on pads.

“Well, I don’t know, Mather—half the natives on Omphale are acting for this or that Prince, Kahan or Chief. Financial agents, investment brokers, procurers, spies, as­sassins, Temple delegates, heralds, oracle-consulters, mach­inery purchasing agents, shipping—”

“Does that mean you condone—”

Mather fumed, breaking off as Administrator Hallen rapped the table loudly with the bowl of his aquapipe.

“All right, boys, calm down. Let’s hear the rest of what Colonel Pertinax has to report, before we get in a boil. Out with it, Pertinax.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, and wringing them furiously, the Colonel twisted his wry mouth in a sour smirk.

“I didn’t come here to report opinions and interpretations—but facts. It’s a fact that Linton has an unsavory and untrustworthy Navy reputation—”

“The Order of Arion Imperator (second class), the Gold Star of Valiance (with cluster), the Silver Comet for Extraordinary Heroism in Battle, three campaign Citations —” Wilm Bardry muttered, sotto voce, ticking them off on his fingers one by one.

Pertinax raised his voice.

“It’s also a fact that since returning to the Hercules Stars, he’s been reported in very questionable and seditious com­pany on several occasions—” he continued.

“—Such as Border Administrator Dykon Mather’s—” Wilm added, chuckling.

“He has been officially questioned and cautioned, for his own good—”

“For which uninvited and uncalled-for snooping into his private business, he got very properly mad, lost his head, and gave some unflattering opinions air!” Bardry finished.

Pertinax seethed. “Administrator, if I am to be constantly interrupted and made mock of—”

“All right, all right, stop it, Wilm. Now, Pertinax, is that the sum and whole of it?” Hallen demanded.

“In skeletal outline, yes, sir. Poor Naval record, consort­ing with seditious and dubious natives, insulting to official inquiry, ignoring warnings issued by a government official, and deliberate and brutal maltreatment of an official police investigator in the course of his duties—”

Wilm Bardry broke in:

“I haven’t heard about that one—who was the unlucky Monitor who got maltreated?”

Hallen snorted into his pipe, and choked down a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He waved a heavy hand toward Pertinax.

“Linton’s servant caught the Colonel, here, snooping and sniffing about outside the tent and grabbed him; Pertinax pulled out a knife, so the Barnassian promptly cut him up with a riding-whip.”

Wilm began laughing and couldn’t stop, even when Brice Hallen harrumphed and glared.

Pertinax enchanged a gimlet glance with red-faced Dykon Mather, who bubbled impotently, writhing in his chair.

“I—” Pertinax raised his voice above Bardry’s hilarity. “I am convinced ex-Commander Linton is up to some little game or other. And under the proviso of the Sedition-Prevention Clause in Common Law 114, sub-section D, the government has the right to seize his person and hold him for further question on a warrant issued by the Provincial Administrator, acting for the Viceroy. I demand such a warrant be issued!”

Brice Hallen’s glare was freezing.

“You demand—!”

Mather bobbed up. “I second—”

“Shut up. Sit down. You too, Pertinax,” Hallen snapped icily. Then he settled back into his chair and chewed thought­fully on his pipe for a few moments, during which no one dared speak or even move.

“Who knows this Linton? Anybody?”

“He’s all right. Good family, good background. A bit of an idealist, I guess.”

Wilm Bardry shragged. “Most of us went through that phase. Suddenly discovering the Galaxy is not all pretty pink and white, as it’s painted in school. Finding out that politics is a dirty game, or war is not always run by gentle­men. Lots of my best men came out of the same phase—I did, myself.”

“Just a minute,” Pertinax snapped savagely. “I’ve been wondering who this—young person—is. I don’t recognize him as a Staff member, and wondered what right he had to be here.”

Wilm Bardry grinned, as Administrator Hallen introduced liim casually, with the effect of suddenly producing a time-bomb into the company.

“Let me introduce Senior Inquiry Specialist Wilmon L. Bardry, Chief of the Imperial Investigation Section, here on leave from Meridian to help us out with the Border troubles. Wilm holds eleven Personal Commendations from His Magnificence, and the rank of Captain-General in the Imperial Police Corps. He’s the ace troubleshooter that broke up the computer mutiny on Hardain III two years ago, and also busted up the revolt on Gamma Syron out in the Arch. He’s a good man, with plenty of Border experience. Wilm, you’ll help us out with this Linton problem, won’t you?”

“I sure will,” Bardry said, soberly.

“Then I think that’s all for now, Colonel Pertinax. And thank you,” Brice Hallen said calmly.

“But what about the warrant? The arrest?”

“Not enough factual evidence to make it worthwhile. Noth­ing but hearsay and interpretation. Thank you—my secre­tary will show you out. You too, Mather. Out.”

The two left silently, and the Administrator relaxed with a great sigh.

“Relief to have that over. I hate that sneaking spy—what do they call him? ‘Snake.’ Very apt. Hey, Toller, get out a few bottles, will you? All that Mather/Pertinax stuff leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Ah … that’s better. Help your­self, boys. Go ahead, Wilm.”

The Emperor’s ace investigator accepted a hissing glass of chark and a pitcher of water gratefully.

“Fill me in, Brice. What’s the problem about this Kahani of Valadon?”

“Simple enough. She’s a native Princess with a first-class head on her shoulders. Smart. Hard. Intelligent. Well edu­cated in Imperial schools. It was a love-match between herself and the late Kahan of Valadon. Valadon, you know, is a very crucial planet on the Border. It’s on our side of Thunderhawk Nebula, and the Arthon of Pelaire lies across the Nebula, among the Outworlds.”

“I’m following you. Continue.”

“Right. Now. The Arthon is a great fat pig. He ascended to the Dais of Pelaire by poisoning his half-brother. He’s exhausted half the planetary treasury on his collection of gladiators—he loves to watch blood being spilled, just so long as it belongs in somebody else’s veins. Now he’s pretty shaky on the Dais, with lots of minor nobles raising a stink over his habits and pleasures. To get the aristocracy solidly behind him, he’s contemplating war—a major raid over into Imperial territory. I understand he’s promised his troops the loot of Omphale, itself.”

“What does he think the Navy’ll be doing, all this while?”

“He’s smart enough to know the Empire is very big and that Naval units are spread out very thinly. He also has intelligence that one-half of the Border Patrol was called into service five years ago for the Vruu Kophe war, and hasn’t been released as yet. Trelion is holding on to them for occupation patrol duty.”

“Right. So where do Linton and the Kahani come into all of this?”

“If the Arthon raises enough troops for his war, he’ll hit Valadon first. The quickest way through the Nebula is via the ‘Rift’ and Valadon lies smack in the ‘throat’ of this clear channel. Now Valadon is completely in our pouch, as of right now. When the young Kahan died three years ago, we set aside his will, which named his young wife to the Dais, and put up his younger brother, who is a first-rate weakling tied up on viathol— and we control his supply of viathol, so we know we control him.”

Wilm Bardry gave a long, slow whistle. Viathol, the rare and deadly nerve-drug distilled only on Thoth in the Ring Stars, gave fantastic, gorgeous dreams but killed as surely as any poison in the pharmacopia.

“Sounds like pretty dirty politics to me, Brice. Why’d you set aside the Kahani?”

Hallen spread despairing hands.

“Sure, it’s dirty—politics is a dirty game. Look. I’ve got two hundred thirty-three inhabited planets to police in this Cluster—about ninety percent of them are native worlds, with the majority of the population Rilké, Chahuna or Faftol Clansmen; every mother’s son of them are fiercely de­voted to this or that native Princeling. Half of them are at the others’ throats two-thirds of the time, that is, when they’re not being prodded into one or another Holy War by any one of sixty competing religious sects dominated by power-hungry fanatics. I’ve got substantial Naval garri­sons on precisely eleven planets. Count them, boy. Eleven. And by ‘substantial’ I mean an average of five sub-cruisers. Plus this staggeringly huge Naval force—fifty-five small ships to keep order in two hundred thirty-three worlds—I’ve got a Border Patrol of thirty-nine sub-cruisers, eight destroyers, and one Arion-class battleship. That’s not much, when you consider the Border is thirty parsecs long. Do you begin to see my problems, boy? Sure, we play dirty politics out here on the edge of the Empire—man, we have to.”

“I see. Go ahead, Brice, give it all to me. I might as well know what I’m up against.”

The Administrator washed down his chark with cold fresh water, cleared his throat noisily, and continued.

“Now. Valadon, as I’ve said, is a trouble-spot. It’s the main place any Outworlders looking for loot will come through. Unless they want to take the “long way’ around the Nebula—thank Arion we’ve been able to keep the Outworlds on anything better than a proton-drive interplanetary ship. They have to use the Rift—or spend eighteen months detouring around the whole Nebula. If they ever grabbed a few neospace-drive starships they could cruise right through Thunderhawk and be on our rooftops before we know it. But that’s another headache. Back to Valadon. We’ve got it tight in our pouch, tied down with a good Patrol garrison, and we keep it quiet and happy because we can keep a close rein on the Kahan.

“But the last Kahan was a Modernist. He, just like his Kahani, had a first-rate Imperial education—and the two of them set out to clean up the planet. They built schools, roads, bridges, established libraries, hospitals, clinics. They were out to cut down the disease rate, up literacy and build native industry—all of these, of course, very praiseworthy and admirable practices which the Provincial Administration is—officially—highly in favor of doing. Officially. But, be­tween you and me and the stereo-portrait of Arban Fourth yonder, we had to stop the business—and fast. The last blessed thing we want is for Valadon to become a modem state.”

“Sure. Keep the natives pregnant—ignorant—dirty—dis­eased—and illiterate—and long live the glorious Imperium!” Wilm said softly. Administrator Hallen flushed.

“I said politics out here were dirty, damn it, and I’m not denying it,” he said doggedly.

“So what happened?”

“Well, Wilm, just about the time we had all chewed our fingernails halfway up to the elbows, and were thinking of all putting in for a transfer to the Hub stars, the young Kahan died. A local fever—stop looking at me like that—assassination is one thing I’ve never stooped to yet, and never will, Arion with me! Anyway, the Kahani set out to carry on with the Good Work, so we eased her out, nullified her husband’s will which named her as his successor, and set up this narcotic-sodden younger brother on the Dais.”

“What happened to the lady?”

“We had it all set to give her a lifetime pension ‘for ser­vices to the Province’ and had plans afoot to give her a lush suite in the Kerrisam Palace here in Omphale, a sort of jeweled prison where we can tuck away unwelcome royal exiles, pretenders and the like, and forget about ’em—but she made a jump.”

“Where?”

“Arion knows. Somewhere on the Border. You see, unlike most of these natives Princes—who are in the business for the tax-money, or the power, or the collection of women they can buy—she’s a real idealist, a genuinely good ruler, deep­ly and sincerely interested in the welfare of her people.”

“So, of course, she has to go,” Wilm said, sardonically. Brice Hallen flushed again. “Damn it, Wilm, you know how it is. Of course she has to go. If she’d been venal and power-lusty as most of her royal cousins in this Cluster, we’d have been delighted to give her a life pension and let her lie around the palace, intriguing and counterplotting to her heart’s content. But now she’s out somewhere, holed up on one or another of the uninhabited Border worlds most likely, and planning to overthrow her brother-in-law and raise all of Valadon behind her banners.”

“How is she coming along?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know. But when she made her jump, she took along an excellently-trained Kahanal Guard, a well-disciplined and deeply devoted nucleus around which she undoubtedly plans to build a personal army. She’s in touch with half the Border princes who have a griev­ance against the government. And she’s negotiating—reported­ly—with that old warlord of an Arthon. He’ll lend her sup­port if she’ll promise to line Valadon behind his invasion. She’ll accept his aid and promises and Valadonese will not impede his advance through the Rift, providing he promises not to loot or ravage Valadon. As far as she’s concerned (nat­urally!) the rest of the Cluster can go to hell at twenty parsecs per second, so long as her world remains untouched.”

“Do you really think this Sharl fellow is her man?”

“Absolutely. He was a councilman when her husband was alive. And he’s a shrewd, hard, clear-headed man, just as devoted to Valadon as she is.”

“Then you think he really was sent here to contact Raul Linton?” Wilm asked.

“Who knows? Possibly. Possibly not.”

“But why Linton? He’s not really a traitor, is he?”

Hallen shrugged, wearily.

“I don’t think so. He’s just—mixed up. He saw some ugly things during the recent unpleasantness, and he’s heart­sick having discovered politicians are not always statesmen, nor military commanders invariably high-minded servants of hu­manity.”

Wilm grinned.

“I’m relieved to hear you say that. Fact is, Brice, I knew Linton during the war—I was on the Harel Palldon with him when they ‘scorched’ Darogir!”

Brice was astounded—and showed it.

“You-?”

He nodded. “Right. Incognito, of course. I was investigat­ing some reports that Vice-Admiral Carringson was running the fleet like a private little kingdom all his own. And he was—pity that Linton doesn’t know the man who ordered the butchery of Darogir was court-martialed and broken out of Naval service three weeks ago—on my testimony. It might change his mind about misgovemment.”

“Great Cosmos, man, if you—”

He nodded again. “Right. But now I’ve got to find him be­fore Sharl and his crew ship him off-planet and he falls into the Kahani’s clutches… . Why does she want him, anyway?”

“Oldest story in the world. The Rilké Warriors are a proud, stubborn, patriarchal people. They love her and will obey her—but they will not follow a woman into battle. She needs a man—a Shakar, a war-leader, for them to fol­low. What better man than the late-Commander Raul Lin­ton?”

“You’re right. I’d better get jumping.”

“Do. Once she gets ahold of him, he’s lost to us, that I know. She’s smart as smart. Got a man’s head on her shoul­ders. And she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen— and I’ve seen plenty. Linton would have to be blind, or dead stupid, to keep from falling into her trap, once he lays eyes on her.”

He looked up—but Wilm Bardry was already working, and had gone out of the meeting-room like a shot.

Hallen sighed, and poured down the last of the chark.

“Let’s get back to work, boys. I’ve got fifty-nine memos to initial, and thirty people to talk to. I hope to Arion Wilm gets ahold of Linton before they jump him off-planet. Were all finished if that happens!”