All explored space was divided into thirty-six wedge-shaped sectors, the line common to all sectors being the line through the center of Sol perpendicular to the plane of the Earth’s orbit. Each sector was owned, subject only to the whims of the Throne, by a grand duke. The planets of Sol’s system- and particularly Earth, the most important planet of the Empire - were the private property of the Throne. Each grand duke had a palace, several residences and a Hall of State on Earth. Since most administration was done on the mother planet, it was not uncommon that the grand dukes seldom left it and traveled but rarely into the sectors of space that were their dominions. If t he system encouraged absenteeism, it also kept incompetents happily away from doing any real harm.
(Singh, The Historical Basis of Feudalism, Reel 2, slot 48.)
Midafternoon of the next day they received a call from , their cousin Richard. He and five other men of his wrestling troupe had just gotten in and were awaiting further instructions. Jules told them what their target was to be, but that it wouldn’t be opened until late in the afternoon. Richard grinned at him from the video screen of the communicator hook-up and said that he and his boys would spend the interim preparing for trouble.
The hours dragged by for the impatient d’Alemberts, but eventually the time came to act. Jules was dressed inconspicuously in a beige shirt and brown knee britches, while Yvette settled for a loose, canary yellow blouse and green and yellow plaid slacks. Neither was dressing to be showy, this time; their only concern was how well they would be able to move in what they were wearing. They strapped blasters on in concealed holsters, wanting to be prepared for anything; and, thus attired, they left their hotel for their destination.
The Cobweb Corner was a bar down in the spaceport section of Rollon, Aston’s capital city. It represented a transition point in taste between the brusque vulgarity of the docks and the more delicate sensitivities of the middle class. As a result, it really pleased no one, though it had a regular clientele. The neighborhood was an uncertain one, not knowing whether to appear tough or respectable.
Having just opened for the day, the bar was still nearly empty. A couple of junior grade officers from the new ships in port had stopped by for a quick drink before going on about any other business in town, and one of them had struck up a casual conversation with a dyevka, one of the handful of girls who plied their own trade here. Six bouncers sat in various places around the room, keeping a seemingly casual eye on what took place here; but it was an unusual coincidence that all six of them were DesPlainians. Since that planet is known for the strength and agility of its citizens, a more than casual observer would wonder what was so special here that needed such special guarding.
Rick and his men entered, looking for all the world like spaceship crewmen on leave. Though they were obviously also DesPlainians, no one thought it unusual that they were here. DesPlainians might be allergic to alcohol, but there were plenty of other legal substances available to cloud and relax their minds, and DesPlainians were as fond of bars as most other people.
Rick’s team came in and quickly spread out over the room. A couple of them talked to the girls, who were interested in the possibility of grabbing an early customer before the real rush started, A few others ordered nonalcoholic stimulants and sat at scattered tables, nursing their drinks.
A few minutes later, Jules and Yvette entered, looking just like any ordinary middle-class couple stopping by for a quick drink before going on to a restaurant or play. How could the guards have suspected anything? Or the brains of the outfit, either, since the d’Alemberts had pitched them such a nice curve? There was no evidence that the Velasquez pair had had anything to do with what had happened on Algonia; and even if they had, they were nowhere near here - their ship had already left for Lateesta, a totally unimportant planet as far as the mob was concerned.
As they walked in, Yvette muttered something in Jules’ ear and started toward the back of the bar where the powder rooms were. Jules, meanwhile, strolled casually up to the bar. There was only one bartender on duty at this hour, and he came over to inquire as to Jules’ preferences. ‘I was told,’ Jules said in a quiet but distinct voice, ‘to ask for the Blinding Flash and say that the Deafening Report sent me.’
Within a split second, the room exploded into action. Those words, coming from the lips of a man who had no business to be saying them - or even knowing them - meant a breach of security, something which had to be corrected instantly. The six bouncers sprang to life; but the d’Alembert wrestlers were faster yet. Before any of the guards could get his blaster even halfway into action he was struck by more than a hundred and fifty kilograms of the hardest muscled body he’d ever felt.
At the same instant, the barkeep reached under the counter to grab for his own blaster - but, not being a Des Plainian himself, his reactions were abysmally slow. Jules had vaulted over the bar and wrestled the man quickly to the ground. He crooked his elbow around the bartender’s neck and held it in a vise like grip. That unfortunate gagged weakly, but Jules made sure he could take in enough air to keep him conscious. By this time, too, he had drawn his own blaster and was waving it ominously in the direction of the bystanders - the girls and the ship’s officers who were bewildered by this sudden violent turn of events. They responded to Jules’ gesture with immediate obedience and pacifism, so he did not worry too much about them.
Yvette, too, had not been idle during the fracas. Her supposed jaunt to the powder room had been a ruse to bring her near the door to the downstairs office when the action started. The moment she heard Jules utter the code phrase, she acted. Without even waiting to see how her brother was doing, she slammed her powerfully packed body against the office door. It splintered and broke under her assault, sending her flying into the tiny cubicle where, as their informant had told them, a man sat lazily at a PBX board. He heard, more than saw, her entrance and jerked upright, reaching for a special switch at the top of his panel, but his motion was far too late - Yvette had drawn her blaster and one squeeze of the trigger had left him with just a pile of unrecognizably burned flesh sitting atop his neck.
The man had not even been wearing the headset - a very lax security agent. Yvette picked the earphones off the board and put them on her head. Then she pushed the dead body off the chair and sat down at the board to await further developments.
Back in the bar, the battle raged. It was a short one, but furiously fought. The place was a shambles in less than thirty seconds, as the combatants bowled their way through the furniture and fixtures. When a mass of three hundred kilograms - representing the combined weights of two embattled DesPlainian free- style brawlers - strikes some rather ordinary furniture, it is the furniture that breaks, not the men. In the entire room, only two tables and half a dozen chairs remained intact; one savagely warring pair had gone straight through the heavy yellow-wood bar itself.
Jules stood behind the bar, watching the scene with amusement. He still had his left arm around the bartender’s neck while holding his blaster loosely in his right hand as he watched the carnage taking place before him. His keen eyes studied the battle with careful appreciation, for he had not the slightest doubt about the outcome. Those guards were good, tough DesPlainians, but they were not d’Alemberts - and those six d’Alemberts were the pick of the hardest trained troupe of no holds-barred fighting wrestlers known to man. Only one result was possible.
After three and a half minutes, The Cobweb Corner was fit only for a lumber yard. Tables and chairs were splintered and strewn about the floor, and the glass from broken bottles crunched underfoot. Small pools of liquid made the footing hazardous at best. But the battle was over, with the six bouncers lying unconscious on the floor. The winners of the contest sported a few eyes that would soon be black, some contusions and abrasions, and miscellaneous cuts, tears, scratches, gouges and bites that were bleeding more or less freely - but they had sustained no major injuries at all.
‘Nice work, fellows. Thanks,’ Jules said as the last of the wrestlers got to his feet, grinning broadly. These strapping men loved a good fight. ‘Treat yourself to something on the house, if you can find anything left. I think there may be a few ginger ale bottles left around unbroken.’ Noticing the bar’s patrons still huddled, frightened, in one corner, he added, ‘Our apologies for the disturbance, folks. You know how these little squabbles can get out of hand. Rick, see what you can do about rounding up some champagne for these good people. On the house, of course.’
Then, lifting the petrified bartender by the shirt front with one hand, he went on quietly, ‘As for you, comrade, I think we have a little talking to do in private. Come with me.’ That Poor Wight actually had little choice in the matter, as Jules carried him bodily into the back room where Yvette awaited them.
The d’Alemberts waited for a second as the barkeep stared goggle eyed at the remains of the PBX operator on the floor. When they were certain the lesson had sunk in, Jules placed both his huge hands with uncomfortable tightness around the man’s throat. ‘Now then, I’d like a little information- namely, what sort of protective gizmos are there between this room and the boss’s office upstairs? You have the choice of talking voluntarily or having me wring your neck like a chicken’s.’ Jules’ voice was calm and low, but he left no doubt in the man’s mind that he would carry out his threat.
‘I’ll talk!’ the man squeaked quickly. ‘Don’t wring my neck, please don’t. This is only a job to me, I really don’t have anything to do with running it. Honest, comrade, you’ve got to believe that.’
‘Should we believe him?’ Jules asked his sister.
‘I think so,’ she answered coolly. ‘They wouldn’t have picked anyone this cowardly to be in charge of anything more demanding than pouring a drink.’
‘Okay, we believe you.’ Jules told the fellow. ‘But you still haven’t told us what we want to hear.’ His grip on the other’s neck tightened perceptibly.
‘It’s all run from that board there, really it is. The whole works!’
‘I think he may actually be telling the truth,’ Yvette said. ‘There’s a whole row of special red indicators that doesn’t belong on any PBX unit I’ve ever seen. Looks like the boss rings down and they set the traps from the board here.’
‘That’s it, that’s it!’ the bartender burbled, hoping to impress his captors with his helpfulness. ‘There are blacklight beams and pressure plates across the halls up there, set to trigger blasters or stunners. The boss can call down and the man on the board sets up whatever is ordered, or else I can signal from the bar and everything is set automatically. You didn’t give me time to signal, though, so Hans didn’t have time to set anything up.’
Jules loosened his grip a little, and the man twisted his neck around to keep it from getting stiff. ‘Khorosho,’
Jules said. Now. what’s the boss’s door like wood or steel? Locked? And what about guards up there?’
‘It’s wood. Unlocked, too. No guards no trouble has ever gotten that far before. The booby-traps in the hallways have always worked before. Hans would’ve set them, of course, but ...’ His voice trailed off as he looked down again at his friend’s still smoldering remains.
‘I believe you, comrade,’ Jules said, taking his hands completely away from the other’s throat. ‘And to show you how much we trust you, we’re going to let you lead the way up to your boss’s office. That way, if there are any little surprises waiting for us, you’ll be the first to know about them. You’re sure you’ve told us everything?’
‘Everything I know about it,’ the man hastened to say. ‘Then lead on.’
The two d’Alemberts followed the barkeep up the stairs, blasters drawn and at the ready. The man was so nervous he was quivering and could not walk terribly fast - but he did speed up at Jules’ prodding. The upper floor, they noticed, was soundproof. All the better; the boss would not have heard the fighting that went on downstairs a short while before.
Nothing happened until the bartender came to a stop in front of one particular door. At Jules’ insistence he knocked - no code, just a couple of sharp raps. A voice from inside the room called, ‘Come in,’ whereupon they did - quickly, and with their blasters drawn and ready.
The room was not big, but it was comfortably appointed with luxuriant furniture and a broad solentawood desk. The man behind the desk - of medium height, balding, and tending to fat - was alone in the room.
He gasped in surprise at the invasion of his inner sanctum and reached for a row of buttons on the desktop, but stopped the motion halfway as Jules’ blaster burned a hole through the surface of the desk just centimeters away from his hand.
‘Go ahead, push ‘em,’ Jules dared, but the boss remained transfixed, motionless but for the fear induced quiverings of his muscles.
Jules turned his blaster on the bartender while Yvette stepped forward toward the desk. She kept her blaster aimed at the boss with one hand while with the other she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small hypodermic kit. The hypo was already filled, and she squirted out a little of the clear fluid inside to get rid of any air bubbles.
The man’s eyes widened in fear as Yvette approached him. ‘Not that please not nitrobarb!’ he pleaded desperately. ‘I’m allergic to the stuff - it’ll kill me sure, my doctor says.’
‘What makes you think this is nitrobarb?’ Yvette asked innocently. ‘Nitrobarb’s illegal, you know. This could be just plain distilled water.’
For some reason, the man did not believe that. ‘Don’t juice me, comrades. I think I probably know what you want ... and you don’t need to give me anything! I’ll tell you everything I know without it, honest I will!’
‘Isn’t it remarkable how cooperative these people are on Aston?’ Jules observed to his sister.
True to his word, the crime boss babbled out everything he knew about the entire organization on Aston and else where. Jules taped every single word on the minirecorder he carried, to pass on eventually to the local Service officials. The organizational structure here was quite similar to that on Algonia, except that the man at the top was not of the nobility; but the man’s story did have one significant addition-word about shipments of stolen arms between planets. Thousands of smuggled guns and blaster cannons were traveling through the spaceways from point A to point B. The d’Alemberts’ guesses about a secret army were that much closer to being confirmed - and that meant that Banion, or whoever else was behind this conspiracy, was preparing to act soon.
When the man got around to listing his own boss, the trail - as Jules had expected - pointed clearly and unmistakably to one reclusive man living in a big, lonely mansion outside the capital city of the planet Durward.
‘See,’ Jules said when the crime boss hadfinished. ‘Isn’t everything so much more pleasant when you cooperate with us? Just because you’ve been so helpful we’ll even let you live. After all, a traitor whom you know is no real threat. You’ll be watched, of course, and maybe arrested if the local chief decides to, but you’ll probably live.’ Turning to his sister, he said, ‘I suppose our next move is to Durward.’
‘That’s where the action seems to be,’ she replied. ‘But we’d better go in armed to the teeth - that house won’t be easy to crack. Fortunately, we’ve got some equipment they’ve never even heard of.’
They tied their two captives up and headed back downstairs. ‘Do you think we laid it on thickly enough for them?’ Jules wondered aloud.
‘Undoubtedly. As soon as they get loose- and we tied those ropes pretty sloppily - they’ll be reporting every thing to whoever the contact man is on Durward.’
Gathering up their six relatives, the d’Alembert party moved back to the spaceport, where Jules and Yvette were in for a pleasant surprise. Rick and his team had come to Aston in one of the large transport ships the Circus used for heavy moving - and one of the items that had been fitted into the hold was Jules’ and Yvette’s own two person subspacer, La Comete Cuivre. They were delighted to see the ship, because now they could give it its first official use - and because it would get them back to Earth faster than the big, bulky freighter the others had come in.
They said farewell to their relatives and spent the rest of the evening and night inside the Comet’s control room - the most secure spot they could find on the planet. They occupied their time encoding and transmitting a report to the Head on all they had uncovered here and saying that they would be returning to Earth directly; but they did not mention their suspicions about grand ducal involvement. Better not to cast aspersions until they had a few more facts to go on.
When that was done, Jules rose, stretched and walked over to the galactic chart. His eyes brooding, he set it for maximum span and turned on the activating circuits. As the great wispy star clouds of the galactic lens took form, each surveyed star positioned with minute accuracy, he keyed the index locators for Durward - the planet to which all their hard-earned information pointed so surely - and then for Earth. Quickly the taped data spools whined and spun and printed out course and the dizzying distance in parsecs between the two planets. ‘Every single clue we’ve seen,’ he said slowly, ‘points directly and unequivocally to Durward as the spot where the action is...’
‘I know, Julie,’ said his sister, covering a yawn. ‘So of course we’re going to Earth. Well, what are we waiting for?’
Another green dot turned to blue, thought the tall, thin man as he angrily crumpled the report he’d just read on the Aston fiasco. Another planet lost, for the time being. He still had plenty, so the loss was not critical, but nevertheless ... nevertheless, this slow, tiny erosion was annoying.
A follow-up report indicated that most of the gang on Aston had been picked up by the local branch of SOTS and would probably receive prison sentences. Serves them right for being so incompetent, he thought, then turned his attention to the matter of the special SOTE team of agents. They had shown themselves to be terribly resourceful in their first two attempts, but of course they were bound to fail now.
The entire planet of Durward was filled with booby-traps, ready to spring on any agents who came looking for him there. No, now that they were heading for Durward he could dismiss them utterly from his mind and concentrate on the real problem - the fleet strategies for his upcoming naval uprising against the
Crown. But even that would have to wait a moment, as the chiming of his clock reminded him that it was time for his appointment with his physical fitness counselor.
Had he known that the two agents were heading toward Earth rather than Durward, he might have spent a few more minutes contemplating their identity and their fate. But, confident of his booby -traps, he proceeded on to his appointment without another thought given to those two determined operatives.