Double Star

  “The show must go on.” I had always believed that and lived by it. But why must the show go on?—seeing that some shows are pretty terrible. Well, because you agreed to do it, because there is an audience out there; they have paid and each one of them is entitled to the best you can give. You owe it to them. You owe it also to stagehands and manager and producer and other members of the company—and to those who taught you your trade, and to others stretching back in history to open-air theaters and stone seats and even to storytellers squatting in a market place. Noblesse oblige.

  I decided that the notion could be generalized into any occupation. “Value for value.” Building “on the square and on the level.” The Hippocratic oath. Don’t let the team down. Honest work for honest pay. Such things did not have to be proved; they were an essential part of life—true throughout eternity, true in the farthest reaches of the Galaxy.

  I suddenly got a glimpse of what Bonforte was driving at. If there were ethical basics that transcended time and place, then they were true both for Martians and for men. They were true on any planet around any star—and if the human race did not behave accordingly they weren’t ever going to win to the stars because some better race would slap them down for double-dealing.

  The price of expansion was virtue. “Never give a sucker an even break” was too narrow a philosophy to fit the broad reaches of space.

  But Bonforte was not preaching sweetness and light. “I am not a pacifist. Pacifism is a shifty doctrine under which a man accepts the benefits of the social group without being willing to pay—and claims a halo for his dishonesty. Mr. Speaker, life belongs to those who do not fear to lose it. This bill must pass!” And with that he had got up and crossed the aisle in support of a military appropriation his own party had refused in caucus.

  Or again: “Take sides! Always take sides! You will sometimes be wrong—but the man who refuses to take sides must always be wrong! Heaven save us from poltroons who fear to make a choice. Let us stand up and be counted.” (This last was in a closed caucus but Penny had caught it on her minicorder and Bonforte had saved it—Bonforte had a sense of history; he was a record keeper. If he had not been, I would not have had much to work with.)

  I decided that Bonforte was my kind of man. Or at least the kind I liked to think I was. His was a persona I was proud to wear.

  So far as I can remember I did not sleep on that trip after I promised Penny that I would take the royal audience if Bonforte could not be made ready. I intended to sleep—there is no point in taking your stage with your eyes bagging like hound’s ears—but I got interested in what I was studying and there was a plentiful supply of pepper pills in Bonforte’s desk. It is amazing how much ground you can cover working a twenty-four-hour day, free from interruptions and with all the help you could ask for.

  But shortly before we were due at New Batavia, Dr. Capek came in and said, “Bare your left forearm.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because when you go before the Emperor we don’t want you falling flat on your face with fatigue. This will make you sleep until we ground. Then I’ll give you an antidote.”

  “Eh? I take it that you don’t think he will be ready?”

  Capek did not answer, but gave me the shot. I tried to finish listening to the speech I was running but I must have been asleep in seconds. The next thing I knew Dak was saying deferentially, “Wake up, sir. Please wake up. We’re grounded at Lippershey Field.”

  8

  Our moon being an airless planet, a torchship can land on it. But the Tom Paine, being a torchship, was really intended to stay in space and be serviced only at space stations in orbit; she had to be landed in a cradle. I wish I had been awake to see it, for they say that catching an egg on a plate is easy by comparison. Dak was one of the half dozen pilots who could do it.

  But I did not even get to see the Tommie in her cradle; all I saw was the inside of the passenger bellows they fastened to her air lock and the passenger tube to New Batavia—those tubes are so fast that, under the low gravity of the Moon, you are again in free fall at the middle of the trip.

  We went first to the apartments assigned to the leader of the loyal opposition, Bonforte’s official residence until (and if) he went back into power after the coming election. The magnificence of them made me wonder what the Supreme Minister’s residence was like. I suppose that New Batavia is odds—on the most palatial capital city in all history; it is a shame that it can hardly be seen from outdoors—but that minor shortcoming is more than offset by the fact that it is the only city in the Solar System that is actually impervious to fusion bombs. Or perhaps I should say “effectively impervious” since there are some surface structures which could be destroyed. Bonforte’s apartments included an upper living room in the side of a cliff, which looked out through a bubble balcony at the stars and Mother Earth herself—but his sleeping room and offices were a thousand feet of solid rock below, by private lift.

  I had no time to explore the apartments; they dressed me for the audience. Bonforte had no valet even dirtside, but Rog insisted on “helping” me (he was a hindrance) while going over last-minute details. The dress was ancient formal court dress, shapeless tubular trousers, a silly jacket with a claw-hammer tail, both in black, and a chemise consisting of a stiff white breastplate, a “winged” collar, and a white bow tie. Bonforte’s chemise was all in one piece, because (I suppose) he did not use a dresser; correctly it should be assembled piece by piece and the bow tie should be tied poorly enough to show that it has been tied by hand—but it is too much to expect a man to understand both politics and period costuming.

  It is an ugly costume, but it did make a fine background for the Order of Wilhelmina stretched in colorful diagonal across my chest. I looked at myself in a long glass and was pleased with the effect; the one color accent against the dead black and white was good showmanship. The traditional dress might be ugly but it did have dignity, something like the cool stateliness of a maître d’hôtel. I decided that I looked the part to wait on the pleasure of a sovereign.

  Rog Clifton gave me the scroll which was supposed to list the names of my nominations for the ministries and he tucked into an inner pocket of my costume a copy of the typed list thereof—the original had gone forward by hand of Jimmie Washington to the Emperor’s State Secretary as soon as we had grounded. Theoretically the purpose of the audience was for the Emperor to inform me that it was his pleasure for me to form a government and for me to submit humbly my suggestions; my nominations were supposed to be secret until the sovereign graciously approved.

  Actually the choices were all made; Rog and Bill had spent most of the trip lining up the Cabinet and making sure the nominees would serve, using state-scramble for the radio messages. I had studied the Farleyfiles on each nomination and each alternate. But the list really was secret in the sense that the news service would not receive it until after the Imperial audience.

  I took the scroll and picked up my life wand. Rog looked horrified. “Good Lord, man, you can’t carry that thing into the presence of the Emperor!”

  “Why not?”

  “Huh? It’s a weapon.”

  “It’s a ceremonial weapon. Rog, every duke and every pipsqueak baronet will be wearing his dress sword. So I wear this.”

  He shook his head. “They have to. Don’t you understand the ancient legal theory behind it? Their dress swords symbolize the duty they owe their liege lord to support and defend him by force of arms, in their own persons. But you are a commoner; traditionally you come before him unarmed.”

  “No, Rog. Oh, I’ll do what you tell me to, but you are missing a wonderful chance to catch a tide at its flood. This is good theater, this is right.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “Well, look, will the word get back to Mars if I carry this wand today? Inside the nests, I mean?”

  “Eh? I suppose so. Yes.”

  “Of course. I would guess that every nest has stereo receiv
ers; I certainly noticed plenty of them in Kkkah nest. They follow the Empire news as carefully as we do. Don’t they?”

  “Yes. At least the elders do.”

  “If I carry the wand, they’ll know it; if I fail to carry it, they will know it. It matters to them; it is tied up with propriety. No adult Martian would appear outside his nest without his life wand, or inside on ceremonial occasions. Martians have appeared before the Emperor in the past; they carried their wands, didn’t they? I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Yes, but you—”

  “You forget that I am a Martian.”

  Rog’s face suddenly blanked out. I went on, “I am not only ‘John Joseph Bonforte’; I am Kkkahjjjerrr of Kkkah nest. If I fail to carry that wand, I commit a great impropriety—and frankly I do not know what would happen when the word got back; I don’t know enough about Martian customs. Now turn it around and look at it the other way. When I walk down that aisle carrying this wand, I am a Martian citizen about to be named His Imperial Majesty’s first minister. How will that affect the nests?”

  “I guess I had not thought it through,” he answered slowly.

  “Nor would I have done so, had I not had to decide whether or not to carry the wand. But don’t you suppose Mr. B. thought it through—before he ever let himself be invited to be adopted? Rog, we’ve got a tiger by the tail; the only thing to do is to swarm aboard and ride it. We can’t let go.”

  Dak arrived at that point, confirmed my opinion, seemed surprised that Clifton had expected anything else. “Sure, we’re setting a new precedent, Rog—but we’re going to set a lot of new ones before we are through.” But when he saw how I was carrying the wand he let out a scream. “Cripes, man! Are you trying to kill somebody? Or just carve a hole in the wall?”

  “I wasn’t pressing the stud.”

  “Thank God for small favors! You don’t even have the safety on.” He took it from me very gingerly and said, “You twist this ring—and shove this in that slot—then it’s just a stick. Whew!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  They delivered me to the robing room of the Palace and turned me over to King Willem’s equerry, Colonel Pateel, a bland-faced Hindu with perfect manners and the dazzling dress uniform of the Imperial space forces. His bow to me must have been calculated on a slide rule; it suggested that I was about to be Supreme Minister but was not quite there yet, that I was his senior but nevertheless a civilian—then subtract five degrees for the fact that he wore the Emperor’s aiguillette on his right shoulder.

  He glanced at the wand and said smoothly. “That’s a Martian wand, is it not, sir? Interesting. I suppose you will want to leave it here—it will be safe.”

  I said, “I’m carrying it.”

  “Sir?” His eyebrows shot up and he waited for me to correct my obvious mistake.

  I reached into Bonforte’s favorite cliches and picked one he used to reprove bumptiousness. “Son, suppose you tend to your knitting and I tend to mine.”

  His face lost all expression. “Very well, sir. If you will come this way?”

  We paused at the entrance to the throne room. Far away, on the raised dais, the throne was empty. On both sides the entire length of the great cavern the nobles and royalty of the court were standing and waiting. I suppose Pateel passed along some sign, for the Imperial Anthem welled out and we all held still for it, Pateel in robotlike attention, myself in a tired stoop suitable to a middle-aged and overworked man who must do this thing because he must, and all the court like show-window pieces. I hope we never dispense with the pageantry of a court entirely; all those noble-dress extras and spear carriers make a beautiful sight.

  In the last few bars he came in from behind and took his throne—Willem, Prince of Orange, Duke of Nassau, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Knight Commander of the Holy Roman Empire, Admiral General of the Imperial Forces, Adviser to the Martian Nests, Protector of the Poor, and, by the Grace of God, King of the Lowlands and Emperor of the Planets and the Spaces Between.

  I could not see his face, but the symbolism produced in me a sudden warm surge of empathy. I no longer felt hostile to the notion of royalty.

  As King Willem sat down the anthem ended; he nodded acknowledgment of the salute and a wave of slight relaxation rippled down the courtiers. Pateel withdrew and, with my wand tucked under my arm, I started my long march, limping a little in spite of the low gravity. It felt remarkably like the progress to the Inner Nest of Kkkah, except that I was not frightened; I was simply warm and tingling. The Empire medley followed me down, the music sliding from “Kong Christian” to “Marseillaise” to “The Star-Spangled Banner” and all the others.

  At the first balk line I stopped and bowed, then again at the second, then at last a deep bow at the third, just before the steps. I did not kneel; nobles must kneel but commoners share sovereignty with the Sovereign. One sees this point incorrectly staged sometimes in stereo and theater, and Rog had made sure that I knew what to do.

  “Ave, Imperator!” Had I been a Dutchman I would have said “Rex” as well, but I was an American. We swapped schoolboy Latin back and forth by rote, he inquiring what I wanted, I reminding him that he had summoned me, etc. He shifted into Anglo-American, with a slight “down-East” accent.

  “You served our father well. It is now our thought that you might serve us. How say you?”

  “My sovereign’s wish is my will, Majesty.”

  “Approach us.”

  Perhaps I made too good a thing of it but the steps up the dais are high and my leg actually was hurting—and a psychosomatic pain is as bad as any other. I almost stumbled—and Willem was up out of his throne like a shot and steadied my arm. I heard a gasp go around the hall. He smiled at me and said sotto voce, “Take it easy, old friend. We’ll make this short.”

  He helped me to the stool before the throne and made me sit down an awkward moment sooner than he himself was again seated. Then he held out his hand for the scroll and I passed it over. He unrolled it and pretended to study the blank page.

  There was chamber music now and the court made a display of enjoying themselves, ladies laughing, noble gentlemen uttering gallantries, fans gesturing. No one moved very far from his place, no one held still. Little page boys, looking like Michelangelo’s cherubim, moved among them offering trays of sweets. One knelt to Willem and he helped himself without taking his eyes off the nonexistent list. The child then offered the tray to me and I took one, not knowing whether it was proper or not. It was one of those wonderful, matchless chocolates made only in Holland.

  I found that I knew a number of the court faces from pictures. Most of the unemployed royalty of Earth were there, concealed under their secondary titles of duke or count. Some said that Willem kept them on as pensioners to brighten his court; some said he wanted to keep an eye on them and keep them out of politics and other mischief. Perhaps it was a little of both. There were the non-royal nobility of a dozen nations present, too; some of them actually worked for a living.

  I found myself trying to pick out the Hapsburg lips and the Windsor nose.

  At last Willem put down the scroll. The music and the conversation ceased instantly. In dead silence he said, “It is a gallant company you have proposed. We are minded to confirm it.”

  “You are most—gracious, Majesty.”

  “We will ponder and inform you.” He leaned forward and said quietly to me alone, “Don’t try to back down those damned steps. Just stand up. I am going to leave at once.”

  I whispered back, “Oh. Thank you, Sire.”

  He stood up, whereupon I got hastily to my feet, and he was gone in a swirl of robes. I turned around and noticed some startled looks. But the music started up at once and I was let to walk out while the noble and regal extras again made polite conversation.

  Pateel was at my elbow as soon as I was through the far archway. “This way, sir, if you please.”

  The pageantry was over; now came the real audience.

  He took me through a small doo
r, down an empty corridor, through another small door, and into a quite ordinary office. The only thing regal about it was a carved wall plaque, the coat of arms of the House of Orange, with its deathless motto, “I Maintain!” There was a big, flat desk, littered with papers. In the middle of it, held down by a pair of metal-plated baby shoes, was the original of the typed list in my pocket. In a copper frame there was a family group picture of the late Empress and the kids. A somewhat battered couch was against one wall and beyond it was a small bar. There were a couple of armchairs as well as the swivel chair at the desk. The other furnishings might have suited the office of a busy and not fussy family physician.

  Pateel left me alone there, closing the door behind him. I did not have time to consider whether or not it was proper for me to sit down, as the Emperor came quickly in through a door opposite. “Howdy, Joseph,” he called out. “Be with you in a moment.” He strode through the room, followed closely by two servants who were undressing him as he walked, and went out a third door. He was back again almost at once, zipping up a suit of coveralls as he came in. “You took the short route; I had to come long way around. I’m going to insist that the palace engineer cut another tunnel through from the back of the throne room, damn me if I’m not. I have to come around three sides of a square—either that or parade through semi-public corridors dressed like a circus horse.” He added meditatively. “I never wear anything but underwear under those silly robes.”

  I said, “I doubt if they are as uncomfortable as this monkey jacket I am wearing, Sire.”

  He shrugged. “Oh well, we each have to put up with the inconveniences of our jobs. Didn’t you get yourself a drink?” He picked up the list of nominations for cabinet ministers. “Do so, and pour me one.”

  “What will you have, Sire?”

  “Eh?” He looked up and glanced sharply at me. “My usual. Scotch on ice, of course.”

  I said nothing and poured them, adding water to my own. I had had a sudden chill; if Bonforte knew that the Emperor always took scotch over bare cubes it should have been in his Farleyfile. It was not.