He said to Hinrik, “Do you wish to plead for your cousin too?”
Hinrik’s lips moved soundlessly.
Gillbret cried, “No one pleads for me. I don’t want anything of any Tyranni. Go ahead. Order me shot.”
“You are hysterical,” said Aratap. “You know that I cannot order you shot without trial.”
“He is my cousin,” whispered Hinrik.
“That will be considered too. You noblemen will someday have to learn that you cannot presume too far on your usefulness to us. I wonder if your cousin has learned that lesson yet.”
He was satisfied with Gillbret’s reactions. That fellow, at least, sincerely wanted death. The frustration of life was too much for him. Keep him alive, then, and that alone would break him.
He paused thoughtfully before Rizzett. This was one of the Autarch’s men. At the thought he felt a faint embarrassment. At the start of the chase, he had dismissed the Autarch as a factor on the basis of what seemed iron logic. Well, it was healthy to miss occasionally. It kept self-confidence balanced at a point safely short of arrogance.
He said, “You’re the fool who served a traitor. You would have been better off with us.”
Rizzett flushed.
Aratap went on, “If you ever had any military reputation, I am afraid this would destroy it. You are not a nobleman and considerations of state will play no part in your case. Your trial will be public and it will become known that you were a tool of a tool. Too bad.”
Rizzett said, “But you are about to suggest a bargain, I suppose?”
“A bargain?”
“Khan’s evidence, for instance? You have only a shipload. Wouldn’t you want to know the rest of the machinery of revolt?”
Aratap shook his head slightly. “No. We have the Autarch. He will do as a source of information. Even without it, we need only make war on Lingane. There would be little left of revolt thereafter, I’m sure. There will be no bargain of that sort.”
And this brought him to the young man. Aratap had left him for last because he was the cleverest of the lot. But he was young, and young people were often not dangerous. They lacked patience.
Biron spoke first, saying, “How did you follow us? Was he working with you?”
“The Autarch? Not in this case. I believe the poor fellow was trying to play both sides of the game, with the usual success of the unskillful.”
Hinrik interrupted, with an incongruously childish eagerness, “The Tyranni have an invention that follows ships through hyperspace.”
Aratap turned sharply. “If Your Excellency will refrain from interrupting, I would be obliged,” and Hinrik cringed.
It really didn’t matter. None of these four would be dangerous hereafter, but he had no desire to decrease by even one any of the uncertainties in the young man’s mind.
Biron said, “Now, look, let’s have facts, or nothing. You don’t have us here because you love us. Why aren’t we on the way back to Tyrann with the others? It’s that you don’t know how to go about killing us. Two of us are Hinriads. I am a Widemos. Rizzett is a well-known officer of the Linganian fleet. And that fifth one you have, your own pet coward and traitor, is still Autarch of Lingane. You can’t kill any of us without stinking up the Kingdoms from Tyrann to the edge of the Nebula itself. You’ve got to try to make some sort of bargain with us, because there’s nothing else you can do.”
Aratap said, “You are not altogether wrong. Let me weave a pattern for you. We followed you, no matter how. You may disregard, I think, the Director’s overactive imagination. You paused near three stars without landing on any planet. You came to a fourth and found a planet to land on. There we landed with you, watched, waited. We thought there might be something to wait for and we were right. You quarreled with the Autarch and both of you broadcast without limitation. That had been arranged by you for your own purposes, I know, but it suited our purpose as well. We overheard.
“The Autarch said that only one last intranebular planet remained to be visited and that it might be the rebellion world. This is interesting, you see. A rebellion world. You know, my curiosity is aroused. Where would that fifth and last planet be located?”
He let the silence last. He took a seat and watched them dispassionately—first one, then another.
Biron said, “There is no rebellion world.”
“You were looking for nothing, then?”
“We were looking for nothing.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
Biron shrugged wearily. “You are yourself ridiculous if you expect more of an answer.”
Aratap said, “Observe that this rebellion world must be the center of the octopus. To find it is my only purpose in keeping you alive. You each have something to gain. My lady, I might free you of your marriage. My Lord Gillbret, we might establish a laboratory for you, let you work undisturbed. Yes, we know more of you than you think.” (Aratap turned away hastily. The man’s face was working. He might weep and that would be unpleasant.) “Colonel Rizzett, you will be saved the humiliation of court-martial and the certainty of conviction and the ridicule and loss of reputation that would go with it. You, Biron Farrill, would be Rancher of Widemos again. In your case, we might even reverse the conviction of your father.”
“And bring him back to life?”
“And restore his honor.”
“His honor,” said Biron, “rests in the very actions that led to his conviction and death. It is beyond your power to add to or detract from it.”
Aratap said, “One of you four will tell me where to find this world you seek. One of you will be sensible. He will gain, whichever one it is, what I have promised. The rest of you will be married, imprisoned, executed—whatever will be worst for you. I warn you, I can be sadistic if I must be.”
He waited a moment. “Which one will it be? If you don’t speak, the one next to you will. You will have lost everything and I will still have the information I want.”
Biron said, “It’s no use. You’re setting this up so carefully, and yet it won’t help you. There is no rebellion world.”
“The Autarch says there is.”
“Then ask the Autarch your question.”
Aratap frowned. The young man was carrying the bluff forward past the point of reason.
He said, “My own inclination is to deal with one of you.”
“Yet you have dealt with the Autarch in the past. Do so again. There is nothing you can sell to us that we are willing to buy from you.” Biron looked about him. “Right?”
Artemisia crept closer to him and her hand folded slowly about his elbow. Rizzett nodded curtly and Gillbret muttered, “Right!” in a breathless manner.
“You have decided,” said Aratap, and put his finger on the correct knob.
The Autarch’s right wrist was immobilized in a light metal sheath, which was held magnetically tight to the metal band about his abdomen. The left side of his face was swollen and blue with bruise except for a ragged, force-healed scar that seamed it redly. He stood before them without moving after that first wrench which had freed his good arm from the grip of the armed guard at his side.
“What do you want?”
“I will tell you in a moment,” said Aratap. “First, I want you to consider your audience. See whom we have here. There is the young man, for instance, whom you planned death for, yet who lived long enough to cripple you and destroy your plans, although you were an Autarch and he was an exile.”
It was difficult to tell whether a flush had entered the Autarch’s mangled face. There was no single muscle motion upon it.
Aratap did not look for one. He went on quietly, almost indifferently, “This is Gillbret oth Hinriad, who saved the young man’s life and brought him to you. This is the Lady Artemisia, whom, I am told, you courted in your most charming manner and who betrayed you, nevertheless, for love of the youngster. This is Colonel Rizzett, your most trusted military aide, who also ended up betraying you. What do you owe these people, Auta
rch?”
The Autarch said again, “What do you want?”
“Information. Give it to me and you will be Autarch again. Your earlier dealings with us would be held in your favor at the Khan’s court. Otherwise——”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise I will get it from these, you see. They will be saved and you will be executed. That is why I ask whether you owe them anything, that you should give them the opportunity of saving their lives by yourself being mistakenly stubborn.”
The Autarch’s face twisted painfully into a smile. “They cannot save their lives at my expense. They do not know the location of the world you seek. I do.”
“I have not said what the information I want is, Autarch.”
“There is only one thing you can want.” His voice was hoarse—all but unrecognizable. “If my decision is to speak, then my Autarchy will be as before, you say.”
“More closely guarded, of course,” amended Aratap politely.
Rizzett cried out, “Believe him, and you’ll but add treason to treason and be killed for it in the end.”
The guard stepped forward, but Biron anticipated him. He flung himself upon Rizzett, struggling backward with him.
“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered. “There’s nothing you can do.”
The Autarch said, “I don’t care about my Autarchy, or myself, Rizzett.” He turned to Aratap. “Will these be killed? That, at least, you must promise.” His horridly discolored face twisted savagely. “That one, above all.” His finger stabbed toward Biron.
“If that is your price, it is met.”
“If I could be his executioner, I would relieve you of all further obligation to me. If my finger could control the execution blast, it would be partial repayment. But if not that, at least I will tell you what he would have you not know. I give you rho, theta, and phi in parsecs and radians: 7352.43, 1.7836, 5.2112. Those three points will determine the position of the world in the Galaxy. You have them now.”
“So I have,” said Aratap, writing them down.
And Rizzett broke away, crying, “Traitor! Traitor!”
Biron, caught off balance, lost his grip on the Linganian and was thrown to one knee. “Rizzett,” he yelled futilely.
Rizzett, face distorted, struggled briefly with the guard. Other guards were swarming in, but Rizzett had the blaster now. With hands and knees he struggled against the Tyrannian soldiers. Hurling himself through the huddle of bodies, Biron joined the fight. He caught Rizzett’s throat, choking him, pulling him back.
“Traitor,” Rizzett gasped, struggling to maintain aim as the Autarch tried desperately to squirm aside. He fired! And then they disarmed him and threw him on his back.
But the Autarch’s right shoulder and half his chest had been blasted away. Grotesquely, the forearm dangled freely from its magnetized sheath. Fingers, wrist, and elbow ended in black ruin. For a long moment it seemed that the Autarch’s eyes flickered as his body remained in crazy balance, and then they were glazed and he dropped and was a charred remnant upon the floor.
Artemisia choked and buried her face against Biron’s chest. Biron forced himself to look once, firmly and without flinching, at the body of his father’s murderer, then turned his eyes away. Hinrik, from a distant corner of the room, mumbled and giggled to himself.
Only Aratap was calm. He said, “Remove the body.”
They did so, flaring the floor with a soft heat ray for a few moments to remove the blood. Only a few scattered char marks were left.
They helped Rizzett to his feet. He brushed at himself with both hands, then whirled fiercely toward Biron. “What were you doing? I almost missed the bastard.”
Biron said wearily, “You fell into Aratap’s trap, Rizzett.”
“Trap? I killed the bastard, didn’t I?”
“That was the trap. You did him a favor.”
Rizzett made no answer, and Aratap did not interfere. He listened with a certain pleasure. The young fellow’s brains worked smoothly.
Biron said, “If Aratap overheard what he claimed to have overheard, he would have known that only Jonti had the information he wanted. Jonti said that, with emphasis, when he faced us after the fight. It was obvious that Aratap was questioning us only to rattle us, to get us to act brainlessly at the proper time. I was ready for the irrational impulse he counted upon. You were not.”
“I had thought,” interposed Aratap softly, “that you would have done the job.”
“I,” said Biron, “would have aimed at you.” He turned to Rizzett again. “Don’t you see that he didn’t want the Autarch alive? The Tyranni are snakes. He wanted the Autarch’s information; he didn’t want to pay for it; he couldn’t risk killing him. You did it for him.”
“Correct,” said Aratap, “and I have my information.”
Somewhere there was the sudden clamor of bells.
Rizzett began, “All right. If I did him a favor, I did myself one at the same time.”
“Not quite,” said the Commissioner, “since our young friend has not carried the analysis far enough. You see, a new crime has been committed. Where the only crime is treason against Tyrann, your disposal would be a delicate matter politically. But now that the Autarch of Lingane has been murdered, you may be tried, convicted, and executed by Linganian law and Tyrann need play no part in it. This will be convenient for——”
And then he frowned and interrupted himself. He heard the clanging, and stepped to the door. He kicked the release.
“What is happening?”
A soldier saluted. “General alarm, sir. Storage compartments.”
“Fire?”
“It is not yet known, sir.”
Aratap thought to himself, Great Galaxy! and stepped back into the room. “Where is Gillbret?”
And it was the first anyone knew of the latter’s absence.
Aratap said, “We’ll find him.”
They found him in the engine room, cowering amid the giant structures, and half dragged, half carried him back to the Commissioner’s room.
The Commissioner said dryly, “There is no escape on a ship, my lord. It did you no good to sound the general alarm. The time of confusion is even then limited.”
He went on, “I think it is enough. We have kept the cruiser you stole, Farrill, my own cruiser, on board ship. It will be used to explore the rebellion world. We will make for the lamented Autarch’s reference points as soon as the Jump can be calculated. This will be an adventure of a sort usually missing in this comfortable generation of ours.”
There was the sudden thought in his mind of his father in command of a squadron, conquering worlds. He was glad Andros was gone. This adventure would be his alone.
They were separated after that. Artemisia was placed with her father, and Rizzett and Biron were marched off in separate directions. Gillbret struggled and screamed.
“I won’t be left alone. I won’t be in solitary.”
Aratap sighed. This man’s grandfather had been a great ruler, the history books said. It was degrading to have to watch such a scene. He said, with distaste, “Put my lord with one of the others.”
And Gillbret was put with Biron. There was no speech between them till the coming of space-ship “night,” when the lights turned a dim purple. It was bright enough to allow them to be watched through the televiewing system by the guards, shift and shift about, yet dim enough to allow sleep.
But Gillbret did not sleep.
“Biron,” he whispered. “Biron.”
And Biron, roused from a dull semi-drowse, said, “What do you want?”
“Biron, I have done it. It is all right, Biron.” Biron said, “Try to sleep, Gil.”
But Gillbret went on, “But I’ve done it, Biron. Aratap may be smart, but I’m smarter. Isn’t that amusing? You don’t have to worry, Biron. Biron, don’t worry. I’ve fixed it.” He was shaking Biron again, feverishly.
Biron sat up. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. Noth
ing. It’s all right. But I fixed it.” Gillbret was smiling. It was a sly smile, the smile of a little boy who has done something clever.
“What have you fixed?” Biron was on his feet. He seized the other by the shoulders and dragged him upright as well. “Answer me.”
“They found me in the engine room.” The words were jerked out. “They thought I was hiding. I wasn’t. I sounded the general alarm for the storage room because I had to be alone for just a few minutes—a very few minutes. Biron, I shorted the hyperatomics.”
“What?”
“It was easy. It took me a minute. And they won’t know. I did it cleverly. They won’t know until they try to Jump, and then all the fuel will be energy in one chain reaction and the ship and us and Aratap and all knowledge of the rebellion world will be a thin expansion of iron vapor.”
Biron was backing away, eyes wide. “You did that?”
“Yes.” Gillbret buried his head in his hands and rocked to and fro. “We’ll be dead. Biron, I’m not afraid to die, but not alone. Not alone. I had to be with someone. I’m glad I’m with you. I want to be with someone when I die. But it won’t hurt; it will be so quick. It won’t hurt. It won’t—hurt.”
Biron said, “Fool! Madman! We might still have won out but for this.”
Gillbret didn’t hear him. His ears were filled with his own moans. Biron could only dash to the door.
“Guard,” he yelled. “Guard!” Were there hours or merely minutes left?
21. HERE?
The soldier came clattering down the corridor. “Get back in there.” His voice was sour and sharp.
They stood facing one another. There were no doors to the small bottom-level rooms which doubled as prison cells, but a force field stretched from side to side, top to bottom. Biron could feel it with his hand. There was a tiny resilience to it, like rubber stretched nearly to its extreme, and then it stopped giving, as though the first initial pressure turned it to steel.
It tingled Biron’s hand, and he knew that though it would stop matter completely, it would be as transparent as space to the energy beam of a neuronic whip. And there was a whip in the guard’s hand.