THE CLOCKWORK TRAITOR

 

Volume Three of The classic Family d'Alembert series

 

By E.E. ‘Doc' Smith

With Stephen Goldin

 

 

Prologue

 

Rawl Winsted's head felt bruised. It was not a physical feeling but a mental one, a

fuzziness in his mind as though his entire brain were wrapped in cotton wool. And there

was one particular portion of his memory that he simply could not touch. Every time he

would send an exploratory thought in that direction it would dissipate into nothingness,

leaving him with a feeling of mild confusion.

 

He knew precisely what was causing that sensation: a hypnotic block. It had been

placed there to prevent him from knowing exactly why he had come to the planet

Kolokov, whom he had worked for, and what he had done. He resented it a little-after

all, what man liked having a portion of his life permanently taken away from him? To

never know what he had done or said for a period of about a week was a slightly chilling

concept.

 

But his resentment was slight. He bad accepted the necessity for the hypnotic block as

one of the conditions of his employment on the just-completed job. And besides, his

employer-whoever it had been-had given him a substantial bonus for agreeing to the

treatment. The thought of the extra ten thousand rubles tucked neatly away in his bank

account was a very consoling one.

 

Even so, his thoughts could not help but be attracted to that blank spot in his mind, just

like a tongue playing over the vacancy left by a recently extracted tooth.

 

He brought his mind back to the business at hand. Since he was here on Kolokov

anyway, he could not resist the temptation to make a little extra money, and the piece

of jewelry on the worktable before him represented a sizeable investment that could pay

off handsomely. It was a brooch that had been stolen two nights ago-gold set with

several small diamonds in the center of a triangle of enormous emeralds. It was an

expensive piece, but totally useless in its present form because it was an original and

easily identifiable. He had paid the thief only two thousand rubles for it, which was less

than half the value of the stones and the gold by themselves.

 

But when he was finished practicing his art, the piece could easily be worth five times

what he had paid for it. Using ultra miniature equipment, he could alter some of the

crystal striations in the stones so that even under radiometric tests they would not

appear to be the stolen ones. The gold he would melt down and re-form into an entirely

new structure, so beautiful it would command a fine price and so different that he could

even sell it to its original owner without fear that it would be recognized.

 

This was Winsted's trade, and he was a master at it. So intense was his concentration

upon the brooch that it took him several seconds to realize that someone was knocking

on the door of his rented studio. Concealment was second nature to him; he slipped the

brooch into a secret pocket of his vest and walked cautiously to the door. "Who's

there?"

 

"Police, Gospodin Winsted. Open up at once."

 

Rawl Winsted knew a moment of blind panic. There was enough evidence in this room

alone to send him to prison for twenty years. He fought at the mist that beclouded his

mind, and then remembered that he had arranged a back exit to this room specifically

against the possibility of being discovered. Without saying another word, he moved

toward the concealing door that led to the crawlspace that in turn led to the roof, where

his personal copter was waiting.

 

My mind is working slowly today, he thought as he crawled through the hatchway and

pulled the door shut behind him. Must be the aftereffects of the hypnotic block. But I'd

better shake it off soon, or I'll be in real trouble.

 

The police, he knew, would wait no more than thirty seconds outside the door before

smashing it in and discovering him missing. He had heard only the voice of one man

outside the door, . but there might be a second. Winsted doubted there would be any

more than that-he was realistic enough to know that his own place in the hierarchy of

crime did not warrant sending more than two policemen out after him. There was a very

good chance, therefore, that his copter would be unguarded and that he'd be able to

make his escape before they could catch him. He'd have to move quickly, though.

 

The rooftop seemed clear as he emerged from the crawl way and began running across

the open surface to his vehicle. He made it and slid into the pilot's seat just as two men

came out of the elevator tube. Both had their stunners drawn and, as they caught sight

of him, one dropped to his knees to fire while the other ran toward the copter. The first

officer's stun-gun beam bounced harmlessly off the windshield of Winsted's vehicle as it

began lifting rapidly into the air. The second man had dropped his stunner and had

reached, instead, for his blaster. It was probably a low-powered field weapon, but even

so it was something to respect.

 

Winsted changed all of his copter's acceleration from vertical to horizontal and skimmed

sideways off the rooftop, avoiding the fire of the policeman who expected him to go

upward. In doing so, Winsted narrowly avoided a collision with another copter coming in

for a landing on the building next door. Swerving his vehicle around, the fugitive took off

into the metropolitan sky, hoping to lose himself in the dense downtown air traffic.

 

As he flew, he kept a careful watch all about him. At first it seemed as though he had

made a successful getaway; the radar screen showed no other vehicles at this altitude

following him in the traffic pattern. But the policemen at the building must have recorded

and broadcast his serial number, because from out of nowhere five copters surrounded

him, paralleling his course-one below, one above, and three in a triangle around him at

the same altitude.

 

The radio on his control panel came to life. "Land your craft at once, Winsted, or face

the consequences. We have authorization to fire on your copter if necessary."

 

Think, man, Winsted told himself. But his mind still felt slightly muzzy from the hypnotic

block and his thoughts jammed up against one another in a hopeless tangle. He knew

there would be no way he could break out of this formation if the law officers were

authorized to shoot and he would not be likely to survive the crash that would follow

their blasting his vehicle. He had no choice but to give in and hope to win his case in

court.

 

"Acknowledged," he said in a weary tone as he began piloting his craft slowly down to a

nearby rooftop. The copter under him got respectfully out of his way and the rest of the

police followed him, maintaining a cautious distance.

 

Oh well, it could be worse, Winsted thought. I've got a lot of money in the bank, I can

afford a sharp lawyer. I may worm my way out of this yet.

 

But Winsted's case was never to come to trial ... and what began as a routine police

arrest would shortly come to the notice of the Service of the Empire. The repercussions

would be felt from the planet Kolokov all the way to Earth, and would threaten the

stability of the succession to the very Throne of the Empire itself.

 

Chapter 1

The Princess's Progress

 

For Crown Princess Edna Stanley, heiress to the Throne of the Empire of Earth, there

was little time for unhappiness. Her schedule was so filled with official duties that her

own personal emotions had to wait. There was always some bridge to dedicate or a

new starship to christen; there were endless testimonial banquets given in honor of this

or that outstanding personage; there were school graduations at which she was

requested to speak, charity benefits where the presence of a member of the Imperial

Family would bring in more money for some worthy cause; there were art exhibitions

and theater performances and sporting events that she, as a patroness of such

activities, could not avoid. Also, her father insisted that she sit in and give advice at

more and more meetings of the Imperial Council; in two more years she would be

inheriting the Throne following his abdication, and he wanted to make certain that she

was fit to govern the affairs of the Empire wisely. More and more often, he asked her to

make the decisions in his place, to accustom her to the responsibility of power.

 

All of these things, and a myriad more besides, stole time away from the young

woman's private life. If she had had any brothers or sisters it would have lightened the

load, for they could have shared the duties. But there were no siblings. Her parents had

thought it best to have only one child, and that fairly late in life; the history of the

Stanley dynasty was replete with insurrections and conspiracies brought about by

dissident family members.

 

Six previous Stanley rulers had been assassinated by their own relatives; the current

Emperor and his wife wanted to spare their child the trauma of dealing with scheming

siblings.

 

Edna Stanley sighed. Perhaps it was a blessing that she had been raised as an only

child, without having to compete for so high a prize as the Crown. But it certainly was a

mixed blessing, and one that left her no time for herself.

 

She had been moping around listlessly for a week before her mother spotted the

change in her behavior and took her aside to talk to her.

 

"What's the matter, dear?" asked the Empress Irene. "Nothing, really."

 

"Don't try to tell me that, I know you a little too well. Something is depressing you, and

I'd like to know what it is."

 

Edna looked down at her feet, avoiding her mother's eyes. "It just all seems so

pointless, somehow."

 

"What does?"

 

"All of it The speeches, the handshakes, the aching feet, the boring dinners, the. . ."

She stopped suddenly. "Go on. I think you were getting to the important one." "The

Progresses." Edna's voice was tinged with sarcasm. Light began to dawn inside the

Empress's mind. "I see. And the fact that you're due to go on another Progress at the

end of next week is making you feel depressed, is that it?"

 

"It wouldn't be so bad if anyone interesting went along. But they always choose such

dull people. The men are always of two types-either the athlete with the flashy smile or

the bookworm with the squinty eyes. I'm twentyfour years old; why can't they realize I'm

looking for someone a little more balanced?"

 

Irene took her daughter's arm gently and led her over into one of the numerous alcoves

in the Imperial Palace. The two women sat down on a bench and faced each other for a

serious mother-daughter talk. "Each grand duke is responsible for the men you meet

while on Progress through his Sector. They know how important it is that you find the

right man, and perhaps they're being a little conservative. After all, they don't want to

present anyone who'd be wildly unsuitable."

 

"It'd be a welcome change," Edna grumbled. "I just wish they'd give me more of a

choice. I am old enough to make up my own mind."

 

"The Progresses can't be all that bad," the older woman said. "I seem to recall meeting

your father on one, and it was a distinctly pleasant experience." She smiled warmly,

recalling that happy time. It was obviously a cherished memory.

 

"I'm sure it was for you," her daughter answered. "You were a commoner then, selected

to meet the Crown Prince, chosen out of I don't know how many thousands. It was a

great honor for you, I'm sure, and I'm glad you went." She smiled at her mother. "I really

do mean that. I couldn't have a better set of parents. But you really had to be something

special for Father to pick you out of that crowd, because I'm sure it was no enormous

honor for him to meet a group of commoners."

 

"You have to meet them sometime. Your father would like to see you marry before you

ascend the Throne" Edna nodded. The Stanley Doctrine, laid down by Empress Stanley

Three, declared that members of the Imperial Family must marry commoners; that was

done to insure a continuation of strong bloodlines and to avoid intermarriage solely

within the nobility. And the only real chance she had to meet commoners at other than

formal occasions was at these Progresses.

 

"I know, another of my royal duties. Don't worry, I won't shirk it. I only wish there were

some way to keep them from being so dull."

 

"Oh, it won't be all that bad. You'll be spending the time at Cambria, won't you? You've

always liked that place, ever since you first vacationed there as a small girl. And Sector

Twenty-Nine has some interesting planets and people in it. I'm sure it won't be nearly as

dull as you think it's going to be."

 

"You're probably right," Edna said, trying valiantly to give her mother a convincing smile.

"I'm so used to going to dull ceremonies and dull banquets that I begin to think

everything is going to be dull. At least it'll give me a chance to drop a lot of the formality.

I need to relax and be myself."

 

But though her words were optimistic, inside she was still wondering how to avoid being

bored to death.

 

Nearly fifty parsecs away, the subject of the Crown Princess's Progress was also on the

mind of a young man waiting with more than a dozen others inside a plush office in the

administration building of the duke of his planet. Magazines were scattered about the

waiting room, but most of the young men were too nervous to read. This was the day of

decision, and only one of them would be chosen to represent their planet in the

Progress.

 

The door to the inner office opened and Gospodin Rhee's bald head poked out. He

called out a name, and the young man in the comer looked up. It was his name; he was

the chosen one. Struggling to maintain his appearance of outward calm, he rose to his

feet and walked to the door of the inner office. He could feel the stares of the other

applicants upon him, cold as winter clouds. All of them were thinking the same thought:

The one who was picked was certainly no better than they were. Why was it him

instead of them?

 

He went into the office with the bald man, shook hands, then sat down in the proffered

chair. "Congratulations," Rhee said. "Out of better than fifteen hundred applicants, you

have been selected to represent our world in the upcoming Progress."

 

"I'm honored, sir," said the young man. "I don't know what to say. I hardly think I'm

worthy."

 

"Our computers say otherwise. They've decided you're the best eligible bachelor our

planet can offer the Princess. In personality, intellect, and fitness you came out far

superior to all the others. It's we who should thank you for representing us.

 

"Khorosho. Be that as it may, there are millions of tiny details to be taken care of, and

only a short while to do them in. There are reams of papers for you to sign -purely

formalities, of course. Part of your prize is that we will provide you with a whole new

wardrobe, luggage, and travel accessories. We'll have to arrange for your passage to

Ansegria, too. You're lucky, you know. All you had to do was compete with a lot of other

men. You didn't have to fill out all the forms that went with it, like I did."

 

He sighed. "Well, we might as well get to it. Start by signing these," and he handed the

young man a thick sheaf of papers.

 

Half an hour later, the young man emerged from the building with his right hand sore

from all the signatures he'd had to write. He flexed the muscles slowly as he walked out

the door into the late afternoon sunlight.

 

He sensed, more than saw, the man coming up from behind him. A brown-cloaked

figure slithered up out of the shadows and poked an object into his ribs. It felt

suspiciously like the barrel of a gun. "Do just as I say," came a gravelly voice, "and you

won't get hurt."

 

The young man was far from a coward, but he was not about to risk certain death by

disobeying. "Whatever you say." He put his hands out slightly at his sides in a gesture

of submission.

 

"Move toward that alley." The man with the gun gestured over to the right where a

narrow corridor ran between two buildings. The young man walked in the indicated

direction, with his kidnapper directly behind him. The gun never left the young man's

ribs the entire time.

 

They walked some little distance into the alley until the dark shadows from the buildings

completely hid them and they were out of sight of the street. "What do you want with

me?" the young man finally dared to ask. His captor didn't answer, so he asked again,

more loudly this time.

 

"Quiet!" came the muffled voice. Then, after a pause, it added, "You wouldn't

understand."

 

The kidnaper, at this point, moved over beside him, and the gun barrel left his ribs for a

moment. Deciding that this might be his only opportunity to put up a fight, the young

captive swung into action. One of the reasons he had been picked for the Progress was

that he was in top-notch physical condition and possessed lightning reflexes. With his

left hand, he reached out to grab the gun from his captor while with his right he pulled

off the cowl that had hidden the abductor's face.

 

From that point on, nothing went as he intended. He had hit the other's gun hand fairly

hard, he thought. The strength he'd put into the blow should at least have deflected his

adversary's aim, if not knocked the blaster totally out of his grasp. Instead, his hand hit

the other's and stopped there. The kidnaper's arm did not move in the slightest from its

position, as though sheer physical strength kept it pointed straight at its intended victim.

But the failure of that attack was only a minor surprise compared to what the young

man saw as he ripped off the other's facial covering.

 

He found himself looking directly into his own face. His own eyes stared calmly back at

him, his lips curled in a casual smile. There was now no attempt to disguise the timbre

as the other said, in his own voice, "Yes, aren't the wonders of science marvelous?"

 

Then, before the young man could even cry out in his astonishment, his exact duplicate

squeezed the trigger and a bolt of searing heat lashed out, burning a hole completely

through the hapless young man's abdomen. He crumpled to the ground without ever

having an answer to his unspoken question: Why?

 

The duplicate bent over him, clucking slightly and shaking his head. Then, with one

casual gesture, he lifted the body over his shoulder as though it were a sack of feathers

and continued walking down the alley to the spot where he'd parked his car. His

business in this place was done.

 

And in the immense metal monolith that was known as Rimskor Castle, two other men

were also engrossed in the subject of the Princess's upcoming Progress.

 

Duke Fyodor Paskoi of Kolokov was a skeleton of a man who looked as though he had

no right to still be alive. He massed barely thirty-five kilograms, yet stood close to two

meters tall. The skin was stretched taut over his bony frame, his tendons and ligaments

were like tough cords, and he had no muscles to speak of. Veins stood out like

enormous blue highways just under his skin. He resembled nothing so much as a stick

figure a child might draw. What little hair he had on his bead was confined to a few

white wisps that straggled out from either side of his skull. His eyes were enormous

orbs of white with small green irises and black pinpoints of pupils. They gleamed with

the eerie glow of fanaticism.

 

But for all the horror of his appearance, Duke Fyodor was most definitely alive. Though

he had contracted his rare and usually fatal illness as a child nearly thirty years ago, he

did not die of it. His father, the then duke, had spared no expense to ensure his survival

and the survival of the family name. Prosthetic devices of every kind known to medical

science of the twenty-fifth century kept him functioning.

 

Because his body was too weak to stand against the normal gravity of his planet, a

mechanical exoskeleton supported him. Minuscule motors powered every movement of

his limbs. A pacemaker regulated the beating of his weakened heart; in fact, machines

controlled the activities of virtually all his internal organs. Even his teeth were artificial,

as the real ones had fallen out long ago.

 

As life, it was pitiful; but as survival, it was a triumph. His weak white eyes-aided by tiny,

almost invisible lenses-scanned the note he had been handed and the news caused

him to chuckle. It was an eerie sound, very much akin to a death rattle. "It's done," he

said. "The substitution is complete." His voice was flat and buzzy, being electronically

modulated; it emanated from twin speakers on either side of his head, giving authority

to even his most trivial pronouncements.

 

The man with him, Dr. Immanuel Rustin, smiled. "Did Your Grace have any doubts

about my abilities?" "None whatsoever. I knew the man who designed this hell cage

that keeps me alive could devise anything. But other factors than your abilities entered

into this endeavor. We're playing the game for large stakes, my friend, and every

moment must be considered critical. Detection at this stage would prove fatal."

 

"He will not be detected." Dr. Rustin, a small man with deep set, intense eyes and a

beak of a nose, made one of his emphatic gestures with his arms. "Our little creation

was built to perfection, even down to fingerprints, voiceprint, and retinal patterns. Only

an X ray would reveal his true nature, so stop worrying. They're not about to give him

another medical exam-at least not for a while yet and by that time we'll be in a position

to fake the results."

 

"I know, I know, we've been all over this a thousand times before. It's just that all my life

has been an uphill struggle; I could never afford to take anything for granted, and I don't

intend to start now."

 

He stopped for a minute and gazed down at his companion, his eyes seeming to burn

twin holes through the doctor's soul. "There's one thought I've been afraid to voice all

this time, yet has me more worried than anything. What if he's wrong about the

programming?"

 

There was no question in Rustin's mind about the antecedent of that pronoun. Only one

person was spoken about in those reverent tones-their mysterious superior, known to

them only as "C." "Has he ever been wrong before?"

 

The Duke raised a hand to finger the little integrated circuit chip he wore on a golden

chain around his neck. "No," he admitted, "it's uncanny, but he's never been wrong ...

yet. I don't know what his source of information is, but there are times he seems to

know everything in the entire empire."

 

"So trust in him," Rustin soothed. "He says that the physical body plus the personality

we programmed into our robot will be precisely what Princess Edna will fall in love with

and want to marry. In two years she will rule the Empire-and our robot will be her

consort." He smiled. "It's as I've told you on so many occasions: we're planting a time

bomb against the Princess-and against the Imperial Family itself."

 

"But to what purpose? That's what disturbs me sometimes at night, before the

sedatives put me out completely. We've worked for years getting this just right, always

on his orders, and yet we have no more idea of the ultimate goal than we did when we

started. For what purpose does he want to rule the Empire?"

 

"Why does anyone want to?" Rustin shrugged. "I know I wouldn't want that

responsibility. Frankly, I don't care. We've been rewarded well so far, and we've been

promised even greater rewards in the future. I shan't question it. If you're so curious,

you ask him; it's almost time, you know."

 

"Yes, that's why I'm so nervous. Our job is technically done, now; I'm wondering what

comes next."

 

Over against a wall, a readout screen flashed into life. The telecom unit was hooked

into a computer terminal, and it was through this linkage that they received their orders.

They had never seen or spoken to their enigmatic boss, and had no idea who he (or

she) might be. The mechanical exoskeleton that supported Duke Fyodor's fragile body

moved quickly over to view the one word that the screen had printed on it:

 

REPORT.

 

Duke Fyodor did so, as concisely and accurately as possible. His mechanically aided

fingers moved slowly and uncertainly over the keyboard as he typed; his exoskeleton,

while perfectly mobile, was not as dextrous as he would have liked it to be. When he

finished his report, he typed in the end code and waited for "C's" response.

 

The answer came back within a minute. Fyodor stood over the teletype, reading each

word as it printed out on the screen. Even after the message had stopped, he stood

silently for a long moment, staring at the machine.

 

"Well," Rustin said, "don't keep me in suspense. What does it say?"

 

Duke Fyodor laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "All that worry for nothing," he said,

punching for a printout of the message and handing the paper to his companion. Then

he walked out of the room.

 

Dr. Rustin took the sheet of paper and studied it, perplexed. The message written on it

was simple and direct:

 

CONGRATULATIONS, JOB WELL DONE. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER

COMMUNICATION UNTIL AFTER THE SUCCESS OF THE PLAN.

 

C.

 

As always, Rustin burned the message.

 

Chapter 2

"Time Bomb"

 

Each of the thirty-sir. Sectors into which all of human occupied space was divided was

administered from Earth, the seat of Imperial government. Since most Sectors

contained several dozen inhabited planets apiece, the administrative problems were

immense, requiring an elaborate bureaucratic structure to handle the myriad problems

that could arise among so many peoples. Each Sector had a Hall of State on Earth

staffed by thousands of civil servants.

 

The Hall of State for Sector Four was bigger than most. Ostensibly, the reason for this

was that Sector Four had a much larger number of planets to govern-upwards of a

hundred, in fact. Located in Miami, Florida, North America, the building towered

ninety-three stories high, dwarfing all others around it. And while it was true that a

goodly percentage of the people working there were ordinary bureaucrats, there was a

much stronger reason why not only the Hall of State itself, but all the smaller buildings

surrounding it for a two-block radius-buildings which supposedly housed innocuous

businesses-were crammed with people and computer equipment. This building was, in

fact, the top secret headquarters for the Service of the Empire, or SOTE.

 

Even at right, the building was well lighted, for the Service could never sleep. Being

ultimately responsible for the internal security of the entire realm, it could not afford to.

Lights could be seen on in offices at almost any hour -particularly in one well-appointed

office on the thirty first floor.

 

A small jet vehicle zoomed in toward the roof of that impressive building. The edifice's

defenses were such that even so small an aircraft was constantly in gunsight, but no

action was taken against it. This vehicle was cleared for landing, and its occupants

were two people who, for security's sake, could never be allowed to be seen entering

through the front door.

 

The small jet-actually a Mark Forty-One Service Special camouflaged to look like a

sports model Frascati ground car-landed expertly on the flat rooftop and two people, a

man and a woman, got out. Without bothering to look around-they knew they were as

safe here as anywhere in the Universe-they walked straight to the door of an elevator

tube and stepped inside. The air solidified beneath their feet and dropped them gently

down sixty-three levels, where a set of doors opened in front of them and they stepped

out.

 

At first glance, neither Jules nor Yvette d'Alembert looked like what they actually

were-the two top agents in the entire SOTE network. Neither fitted into the tall, sleek

image that the words "secret agent" conveyed to the public mind. Brother and sister

were short and chunky; draft horses rather than thoroughbreds. But that first glance

would be deceiving.

 

True, both of them were shorter and more massive than normal Earthers, but that was

because they came from very special stock. The d'Alembert family came from the

planet DesPlaines, where the gravity was slightly more than three times as strong as

Earth normal. To survive under such harsh conditions, a person had to be built close to

the ground; even a slight stumble could have serious consequences in so powerful a

field. Tall people just did not survive long on DesPlaines.

 

But even beyond the strength and quickness of reflexes they shared with other natives

of their world, Jules and Yvette d'Alembert had more specialized qualities going for

them-for up until a year ago, they had been the star aerialists of the Circus of the

Galaxy, skilled athletes with physical agility honed to absolute perfection by a lifetime of

rigorous training.

 

The Circus of the Galaxy was virtually synonymous with the Family d'Alembert. That

clan had founded the show several centuries ago, and it had continued to be mainly a

family enterprise, with nearly a thousand d'Alemberts making up the current troupe. The

Circus was managed by Etienne d'Alembert, who also happened to be the duke of the

entire planet of DesPlaines. Running the Circus was so much more in his blood,

though, that he left the administration of his world in the more than capable hands of his

eldest son, Robert.

 

Managing the Circus was a full-time job, for more than one reason-for in addition to

being the most popular single attraction in the entire Empire, the Circus was also the

most powerful and versatile weapon in SOTE's considerable arsenal. Consider: it could

and did travel anywhere in the Galaxy without arousing suspicion. Most planets, in fact,

were overjoyed when the Circus decided to visit them. The personnel were all extremely

agile, extremely talented in any number of areas-and extremely loyal to the Empire.

Almost since its inception, the Circus had been the unofficial right arm of SOTE's

intelligence gathering network.

 

And of all the hundreds of d'Alemberts currently serving with the Circus, none

surpassed in ability the two who had just emerged from the elevator tube. Yvette and

Jules d'Alembert, the second and third children respectively of Duke Etienne, were, as

far as the Service of the Empire was concerned, the perfect secret agents.

 

"Hello," Jules said as he walked through the doors of the elevator into the plush office

beyond. "It's good to see you again."

 

"And it's good to know you've got some more work for us," Yvette added with a smile. "I

hate just sitting around." The office they bad entered was obviously one belonging to an

important executive. The floor was carpeted with a thick brown rug, the walls were

paneled with beautifully grained solentawood and the beamed ceiling was also of that

same rich wood. The large solentawood desk that faced the elevator was, as usual,

nearly buried in mountains of paperwork, while behind it, inlaid in the wall and

dominating much of the room, was the gold-crowned Shield of Empire. The enormous

double-headed eagle cast its all-seeing gaze over everything in the room. The large

picture window that overlooked Miami and the Atlantic Ocean was covered-there was

no point to risking having the d'Alemberts' identities learned through telephone pictures

that could be taken up to a kilometer away.

 

The man behind the desk stood up to greet them. He was dressed conservatively in a

gray overtunic and slacks. The tunic was of the slightly-out-of-date high-collar fashion,

and was fastened at the neck with an ornate platinum pin. The man's head was almost

completely bald and the face was creased with lines of worry and responsibility, making

him look much older than his forty-seven years. His eyes, though, were bright with life,

and behind them glowed a force of intellect so strong that anyone would know this was

a very special man.

 

And indeed he was special. He was Grand Duke Zander von Wilmenhorst, the ruler of

the vast Sector Four, one-half Stanley blood, fifth in line of succession, and considered

one of the most important men in the Galaxy. But what added to that importance-more

than most people knew-was that he was also the head of SOTS, the man responsible

for the peace and internal security of the Empire. As such, he was an intimate

counselor and most trusted adviser to His Imperial Majesty Stanley Ten.

 

There was no trace of pomp or formality in his manner, though, as he rose to greet his

two top agents. "How are you both?" he asked warmly, his interest genuine. He spoke,

as they had, in Empirese, the Russian-English mixture that was the Galaxy's official

tongue.

 

"Keeping in shape," Yvette replied. "We've had a nice rest back on DesPlaines since

our last assignment, but it's been too long-and unless you give us some work, we don't

have anything to do."

 

"There's not really even any room for us in the Circus anymore," Jules said wistfully.

When he and his sister had graduated up to their present roles, their star spots were

filled by their younger cousins, also named Jules and Yvette, so the outside world did

not even know they had left.

 

The Head smiled as he came around from behind his desk to kiss Yvette politely on the

cheek and shake Jules's hand firmly. "It never fails to amaze me," he said, "how eager

the two of you are to risk your lives. If I had fifty more agents like you, I could retire and

know the Empire was still safe. Come on in and be seated; I'll fix you something to

drink."

 

Yvette looked around, startled. "Where's Helena? Doesn't she usually tend to details

like that?"

 

The person referred to was the Head's daughter, Duchess Helena von Wilmenhorst,

who acted as her father's girl Friday. It was Helena who normally handled the routine

matters in the Head's office.

 

"She's been much too overworked lately, so I gave her a month's vacation," their boss

told them. "It's a luxury I can never afford anymore, but she's young and there's no

reason why she should stay cooped up with business matters. Let her live a little first."

He moved over to the bar and filled two glasses with ice.

 

"What she'd really like," Yvette said, "is for you to give her a field assignment. She's

dying to get out there and prove herself." She watched as the older man poured each

d'Alembert a tall glass of orange juice. DesPlainian bodies did not tolerate alcohol very

well and, as health-conscious as the two agents were, they were very careful what sorts

of stimulants they put into their systems.

 

"Absolutely out of the question," the Head said, bringing the glasses over to them. "I've

got plenty of field agents; what I need most is someone around the office I can depend

on. You've no idea what hell it is trying to keep the Service running efficiently. Besides,"

he lowered his voice to conspiratorial tones, "I'm training her to take over as Head when

I retire. Nothing immediate, of course-but then, she's got a lot to learn, too."

 

"We rather thought you had something like that in mind" Jules grinned. "I think she'll do

a good job, if and when." "Please don't tell her about it," their superior cautioned them.

"If she knew what she was really being trained for, she'd become self-conscious and

freeze up. I want her limber enough to still learn."

 

"We understand," Yvette winked. "And we wouldn't dream of telling her. What else are

secret agents for?" "Ah, yes." Having served them their drinks, the Head returned to the

big chair behind his desk and sat down. "About that. You know I have another

assignment for you; much as I like you both, I can't just go summoning you to my office

anytime I like. It's another luxury I can't afford. You know, I presume, that the Princess

is going on a Progress next week."

 

"Yes, that's no secret," Yvette said. "The newsrolls have been full of almost nothing else

for weeks. Sector Twenty-Nine is hosting it this time, I believe."

 

"Correct. I'm glad you keep up with things. I have what may be an extremely easy and

pleasant assignment for you this time-you are both to go along with the Princess and

keep her safe."

 

Jules's eyes narrowed. "By that, I presume you are expecting that this will not be just an

innocent little social affair."

 

"Right again, unfortunately. We have only the faintest of clues to go on, and it may

mean nothing at all, but with the heiress's life at stake, we can't afford to take chances."

 

"I'd heard," Yvette said slowly, "that she was going to the planet Ansegria and would be

staying with Baron Piers and Baroness Ximena of Cambria. I've met both of them and

they're delightful people. Surely you don't suspect them of plotting anything, do you?"

 

"Let me start at the beginning," the Head sighed. "About a week ago, on the planet

Kolokov, the local police picked up a man named Rawl Winsted on suspicion of

accepting stolen property. On checking their files, they learned that Winsted was an

interstellar fugitive and so, as a matter of routine, they transferred him over to SOTE's

custody.

 

"Winsted, it seems, had quite a record. He was a jeweler by training and a crook by

instinct. His normal line of business was to disguise jewelry, watches, what have you, to

look like other things. Thieves would bring him their loot which is too well known to sell

as is, and he would rearrange it-for a fee. Supposedly, he was an expert at working with

miniature components." The Head sighed again. "We live in an age of specialization,

that's for certain. As our methods for tracking stolen property become more

sophisticated, so do the crooks' methods for hiding it.

 

"At any rate, the local branch of the Service began questioning him. They were hoping

to discover as many of his previous contacts and associates as possible so that they

could begin tracking down the loot he'd rearranged. Winsted was very closed-mouthed,

but eventually they pried him open a little and discovered a secret infinitely more

valuable than what they were seeking. There had been a hypnotic block placed in his

mind concerning the reason he'd come to Kolokov in the first place."

 

Both d'Alemberts looked interested. A hypnotic block was a form of mental conditioning

that prevented a person from remembering-except under the most illegal of

inducements-the information that was within the block. It was an expensive and

cumbersome treatment, and was only worth doing to hide information of the most

crucial sort.

 

The Head noted their expressions. "I see it's piqued your curiosity, too. Yes, the chief of

the local branch was also wondering why someone would go to all the trouble and

expense of blocking that information. Certainly it wouldn't be merely to cover up the

details of a jewel robbery-and besides, there hadn't been any thefts that major in the

area for quite some time.

 

"The chief started to intensify her questioning. She used everything at her disposal

short of nitrobarb and got the block open just a crack-but it was a vital crack. A phrase

Winsted had heard had stuck in his mind: `a time bomb against the Princess."'

 

Both Jules and Yvette tensed. Their loyalty to the Crown was so deeply instilled that the

mere mention of treason chilled them to the bone. The fact that the Princess happened

to be a friend of theirs added to the sensation of horror.

 

"Of course," their boss went on, "that added a whole new dimension to the picture.

Treason is something that's anathema to all of us, or we wouldn't be in the Service. The

chief on Kolokov overreacted, I'm sorry to say. She beamed a message directly back

here to me, which was the exact proper thing to do, but then she got a little impatient.

Before I could reply-with Helena gone, I was backlogged with work-she took it on her

own authority to give Winsted a shot of nitrobarb."

 

Yvette nodded. She was trained in the use of that drug, the most powerful truth serum

yet discovered. It was impossible for anyone to lie or cover up facts under its influence,

even people under hypnotic blocks. Unfortunately, the drug had a very bad side

effect-namely, a 50 percent mortality rate. It was this fact that had placed the drug on

the proscribed list; mere possession of it was a capital offense, though that did not stop

a lot of people on both sides of the law from using it.

 

"Unfortunately," the Head continued, "she was not an expert and could not even spot

Winsted's allergy to it. He died writhing in agony thirty minutes later, and she learned

nothing further from him."

 

Again Yvette nodded. She had administered nitrobarb herself on a couple of occasions

and knew exactly how tricky a thing it could be. For someone not completely trained in

its use it was almost the equivalent of putting a blaster to the suspect's head and pulling

the trigger.

 

"I couldn't fault her motives," the Head said, his voice calm and level. "But I had to

reprimand her, anyway. Her rash action has placed the Princess in jeopardy. If she had

waited another day or two, we could have dispatched an expert to either dismantle the

block or use the nitrobarb in a more judicious manner, and we would have learned

more, if not all, of the story. As it is, we've blown our one lead and we're back in the

dark once more. You now know as much as we do."

 

"A time bomb," Jules mused. "But that's so general a threat. Haw can you be so sure

that it will happen during the Progress?"

 

"I can't," the Head admitted. "I can only go on hunches and guesswork. There may be

nothing to the threat at all, just something Winsted heard mentioned as a possibility.

But, of course, we have to act on the assumption that the threat is real. If so, where

could such a bomb be? The Imperial Palace or any of the various courts are out; they're

so well guarded it would be next to impossible for anyone to sneak a time bomb in

there. And remember, it was specifically said to be `against the Princess. The only

certain way of getting her and not someone else would be to place the bomb in her

rooms; again, our security is too tight for that.

 

"But in just seven days she goes on her Progress, to a place where the security is less

stringent. If anyone were going to use a time bomb, that would be the place to do it."

 

"I presume the Baron's castle at Cambria has been checked out?" Jules asked.

 

"Top to bottom. Most discreetly, of course-we didn't want to alarm the Baron and

Baroness. Nothing was found, which only means that the bomb hasn't been placed yet.

We'll need continual surveillance to make sure it never is. That's why I want the two of

you along you've got sharper eyes and quicker reflexes than anyone else available."

 

"Why not just cancel the Progress?" Yvette asked. "That would be the simplest way,

yes. But not necessarily the smartest. Remember, it was only a fluke that brought about

this discovery, so that we know a tiny smidgen of the enemy's plans. Hopefully, he

doesn't know that we know yet; Winsted was probably just a small cog in the plot and

won't be missed. If we cancel the Progress now, our opponent will know we suspect

something, and he'll change his plans. We might not learn about the next one until it's

too late. We have to go with what we've got."

 

"What about following up with an investigation on Kolokov?" Jules suggested. 'Maybe

we should try to find out what Winsted was doing there."

 

"I've already thought of that," said the Empire's master strategist. "The Circus is already

on its way there; I trust your father and the rest of your family to find out what we need

to know. But I want the two of you with the Princess. You're the best I've got, and she'll

need your brains and agility on her side."

 

"Time bombs come in all sizes, shapes and colors," Yvette said. "And we won't have

the faintest idea of what we're looking for."

 

"Exactly," their boss said with a grimace. "Winsted, remember, was an expert at

working with miniature components. It's quite possible that he was called in on this job

because of his talents-in which case, the bomb could be quite small indeed. It might be

a small article by itself, or it could be a small part of some larger thing. You'll have to

suspect everything that comes in contact with the Princess. You'll be given some

sensor equipment that may help, but it'll be impossible to use it on absolutely every

object. You'll have to go largely on instinct."

 

"Edna knows we'll be along, doesn't she?" Yvette asked. "Certainly. I couldn't hold

anything like this back from her. She had to okay the plans, as did her father. In fact,

Edna said she's looking forward to meeting the two of you again, though she wishes the

circumstances were more pleasant."

 

"So do we," Yvette agreed.

 

"What are our cover identities to be?" Jules asked. "You'll both be part of the Princess's

official retinue of bodyguards; only you and she will know you're anything more."

 

Jules shook his head. "I'm not sure if that's the best way. Uh, not that I mean to

question your plans or anything," he added hastily.

 

"Question away. You're the one who has to do the actual work. I trust your instincts. If

you can think of a better way, I'll be happy to hear it."

 

"Well," Jules began hesitantly, "if the bomb isn't in the castle now, it'll have to be

brought in."

 

"My brother has a way with these brilliant deductions," Yvette said, smiling.

 

Jules ignored her interruption. "Whoever brings the bomb in knows that the Princess

has bodyguards as a matter of routine. He will already have taken them into account,

and will have some plans for eluding them. We might have a chance to see more if

we're in a less official capacity. "

 

The Head thought on that for a second. "What do you suggest, then?"

 

"The whole purpose of the Progress, really, is for the Princess to meet some

commoners so that she can select her future husband. There will be many men there

about whom we know very little."

 

"Actually, we know more about them than we do about most people. They've each had

to undergo a thorough computer screening before they were picked. Theoretically

they're all beyond reproach."

 

"Again, can we take that chance? It seems to me that they might be the weak link. They

would have the best opportunity to bring in a bomb and place it near the Princess."

 

"And since the candidates don't know one another yet," Yvette said, picking up on her

brother's reasoning, "you could pretend to be one of them and keep an eye on them."

 

"Exactly," Jules agreed.

 

"And I could be a lady-in-waiting," Yvette went on. "It sounds an awful lot more pleasant

than `bodyguard,' and I could be just as close to her, if not closer. No one would

suspect a thing."

 

The Head smiled. "I knew I chose the right people. In less than half an hour you're

already taking charge and making this case your own. Yes, your suggestions make

excellent sense and we'll follow through on them immediately. Work up whatever cover

identities you want and I'll see that they're substantiated." He peered at their faces and

noticed that there was still the slightest hesitation in Jules's face. "Anything else?"

 

"Well, on something like this, I'm not sure the two of us could cover absolutely

everything. Would you mind if we brought in more help?"

 

"Who do you have in mind?"

 

Jules looked to his sister. "Do you think Vonnie and Jacques would be interested?"

 

"Mais oui! They'd be delighted." Her eyes narrowed as she smiled at her brother. "And,

of course, you would have no great objections to working with Vonnie."

 

"None at all," Jules grinned back, then turned to the Head. "Yvonne and Jacques

Roumenier."

 

"A good choice," their superior nodded. "Both topnotch agents. Of course, with her

being your fiancee I'd almost suspect a little nepotism . . ."

 

"Like with you and your daughter? Sorry, sir, but Vonnie is about the best for the job."

 

"You should let an older man finish a sentence. I was about to say, `but knowing you

that's impossible.' Besides, the Roumenier family has turned out agents almost

consistently as good as the d'Alemberts. When the families are that good, who minds a

little nepotism? Sure, have them come along. They can fill the bodyguard posts that you

two were originally scheduled for, and both of you can handle your own disguises."

 

He reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a medium-sized box. "This

contains sensor equipment that might help you spot the bomb, as well as bookreels of

the dossiers on the candidates the Princess will be meeting. Maybe you can find some

clue in there that our own people missed." He handed the box to Jules and went to the

bar to pour himself a glass of water; it was too late at night, and he had too much work

still to do, to fog his mind with alcohol.

 

"I know you realize this already," the Head concluded, "but I can't stress it enough. The

safety of Crown Princess Edna is of the utmost importance. In two years, when her

father plans to abdicate, she will be crowned Empress Stanley Eleven. She is the only

child of her parents. If anything should happen to her, it would throw the entire

succession into doubt. Theoretically there are other people in a neat line-I'm one

myself-but that procedure has fortunately never been tested. If a crisis should arise, the

entire Galaxy could dissolve into civil war. Keep that in mind-and keep Edna safe."

 

He raised his glass in the traditional Service salute: "Here's to tomorrow, fellows and

friends. May we all live to see it!"

 

Chapter 3

Arrival at Rockhold

 

"If any one of these guys is a traitor," Yvette said with disgust, "I'll eat this entire

bookreel."

 

The two d'Alemberts had stayed up the entire night viewing the files on the commoners

the Princess was scheduled to meet less than a week from now. With time so short,

there was little of it they could waste.

 

"It would be hard to find a more loyal lot," Jules admitted, munching on an apple.

Thirteen commoners, each the pride of his respective world. Screened by computer for

only the best qualities-or whatever the computer programmer thought the best qualities

were. But they're all honest, all loyal, all intelligent. . . ."

 

"All handsome," Yvette put in. "Really? I didn't notice."

 

"Someone had to. You don't expect a princess to hobnob with a gaggle of wumpmugs,

do you?"

 

"Eh bien, so what does that prove?"

 

"It proves that you may have a bit of a problem blending in with such a group."

 

"Vonnie hasn't complained about my looks."

 

"Vonnie's lapses in taste are her own affair. But seriously, you will have a bit of an

identification problem. There are thirteen male candidates, one from each inhabited

planet in Sector Twenty-Nine. While none of them knows any of the others, they do

know that there should only be a baker's dozen of them. They can all count to fourteen;

how will you explain the extra one?"

 

"Simple. I'm from Julea, an experimental colony that's just getting started. We're not

much yet, just a few thousand people, mostly agricultural types. Nothing exciting, which

is why they haven't read about us in the newsrolls. I'll play a real rube-not overly bright,

a little slow on the uptake.. . . "

 

"Typecasting."

 

Jules was used to his sister's friendly jibes, and paid it no notice. "If one of the

candidates is our bomber, I may be able to lull him into a false sense of security."

 

Yvette nodded slowly. "It may work. But if our bomber isn't in your crew, I may have my

work cut out for me. I'll have to stick with Edna every second-which won't be easy,

considering these events are designed to let her be alone with as many of the men as

she can. How else is the poor girl to find out anything about them?"

 

"She can read their dossiers, like we have. They're so complete I feel as though I've

known each of these men all my life."

 

"And speaking of getting to know them, mon f rere, hadn't you better light a fire under

your tail? The candidates will be assembling on Ansegria by now, and you don't want to

be too late or you'll arouse suspicion."

 

"Au juste. I'll take the Comet and flash on out there, while you can follow along with the

Princess's party. I'll leave the minor details up to you. You can message Vonnie and

Jacques and tell them to meet you on Ansegria-it's faster than having them come all the

way to Earth and then leaving again immediately. Oh, and you'd better send word along

to the Baron and Baroness that we'll be there under cover-part of a routine precaution,

tell them. No point in alarming them unduly."

 

"Will do. Now-get moving, and good luck."

 

Cambria was a coastal city bordering on the planet Ansegria's largest ocean. It was

known primarily as a resort town, and was noted throughout Sector Twenty-Nine for the

beauty and grandeur of its setting. It was replete with rolling hills and lush vegetation,

blue skies, and always moderate weather. It was a large, sprawling city of low buildings

and one-story houses spaced comfortably apart from one another. Its beaches were

clean and unpolluted, with high, white cliffs coming sometimes to within fifty meters of

the waterline. Sea birds flew constantly overhead, their raucous cries a part of

Cambria's enchanted atmosphere.

 

Rockhold Castle, home of the Baron and Baroness of Cambria, was located slightly

outside the city proper at the edge of a high cliff overlooking the shore. It was an

imposing stone edifice with a three-story building in the center, surrounded on three

sides by a wide courtyard and only the barest indications of a wall, for form's sake. At

the back of the building was nearly a full hectare of beautifully landscaped and terraced

gardens. As the Baron and Baroness were fond of entertaining, there were plenty of

accommodations within the castle itself for the number of guests the Princess's

Progress would bring. The cost of the Progress was being defrayed by Grand Duke

Manuel of Sector Twenty-Nine.

 

Jules had left his private ship, La Comete Cuivre, at the nearest spaceport in

Canyonville and had driven to the castle in the same Mark Forty-One Service Special

he bad used for calling on the Head. Not only was the vehicle designed as both a

ground car and personal jet, but it snugged neatly into place with the d'Alemberts'

two-person starship -ensuring that they always had good transportation whenever they

needed it.

 

Being on the guest list, Jules was instantly admitted inside the castle's walls after a

quick fingerprint and voiceprint check confirmed his identity. There were already a large

number of cars parked in the courtyard, indicating that the rest of the candidates had

already arrived. Jules parked his own car in the nearest available space, picked up his

suitcase, and stepped out into the bright Cambrian sunlight.

 

His clothing matched precisely the character he wanted to portray. It was not very

expensive-his home planet was ostensibly poor and would not be able to outfit him as

lavishly as the others-and was about two years out of style. The brown velvet slacks

were baggy and came only down to just above his ankles, exposing a trifle more of the

boots than was customary. The gold brocade shirt was a trifle too gaudy to completely

match the pants, and the ruffles were slightly over ornate down the front. The sleeves

reached only to the wrists, and had a tendency to ride up when he moved his arms. The

leather vest was too tight, and cut slightly askew so that its fit was noticeably off. Jules's

short brown hair was combed straight down over his forehead in a rustic manner. All in

all, he was the country bumpkin spruced up for a date with his lady love, not half ready

to be introduced to the Crown Princess of the Empire.

 

Jules carried his bag up to the main door, which was opened by a gaunt bearded man

with a dour expression. "Hi there, Your Honor," Jules grinned at him. "I'm John Dallum,

the candidate from Julea. I think you're expecting me."

 

"I am not His Honor, merely the steward," the man replied with an inborn sense of

dignity. "His Lordship regrets that he cannot greet you in person, but has instructed me

to show you to your quarters and introduce you to your fellow candidates." He made no

move to take Jules's one overstuffed suitcase from him as he continued, "Follow me."

 

Jules was led upstairs to the second floor and down a long corridor thickly carpeted and

lined with paintings of various seascape scenes. The room he was shown to was small,

perhaps, for a castle but large by his own personal standards. It had a full-sized bed

with night stands and lights on either side, a long dresser with a large mirror, a walk-in

closet that took up one entire wall, three chairs, a sensible booth, and a door that led

into a private bathroom.

 

Jules gawked admiringly. "This sure is some layout you've got here."

 

"Thank you, sir. You will find the other candidates gathered in the day room." And the

steward told him how to find that place, then left-ignoring Jules's awkward attempt to tip

him.

 

Confident, then, that his new persona would pass muster, Jules unpacked quickly and

hurried down to the day room, eager to meet the other men-and, perhaps, the

prospective bomber. He walked with quick, ground-devouring steps, the pace of a man

made bold by his own ignorance. He walked brashly through the double doors into the

day room, stopped and faced the thirteen other men with whom he was "competing."

 

All of them were taller and better dressed than be was. They sat or stood around in

small clumps, obviously engaged in routine conversations except for one young man

seated by himself in the corner. All of them stopped what they were doing as Jules

entered so that they could size up his potential threat to their own chances of winning

the Princess's favors. After one glance, it was obvious that most of them considered

him no threat at all.

 

"Hi there," Jules beamed his standard, overly friendly greeting at them. "I'm John

Dallum from Julea."

 

A tall, pleasant-looking chap came over and shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you. I'm

Paul Symond from Lateesta." His grip was firm and decisive, his smile friendly, his voice

warm. Jules decided right away that he liked this man.

 

"Come along," Symond continued. "I'll introduce you to the others." Then, having made

himself Jules's unofficial escort, he led the SOTE agent around the room, naming the

names that Jules already knew but had to pretend he didn't.

 

As they approached one tall, dark-haired man, Symond said, "This is Anton Ilyich Borov

from the planet Kolokov. Anton, this is...."

 

"Yes, I know," said the Kolokovnik with a faint sneer. "'John Dallum from Julea,'

wherever the hell that is. Yes, he made himself abundantly conspicuous on his arrival."

 

Jules knit his brow in puzzlement. "Did I do something to offend you, Gospodin Borov?"

 

"It's not what you've done, really, it's what you are. Here we all are, contestants for the

hand of the next Empress of the Galaxy. We're supposed to be suave, courtly, gallant

... then you come in here and turn this whole thing into a joke."

 

"I'm sorry, Comrade, but we don't have much time to learn elegant manners on

Julea-we're too busy trying to stay alive. A colony planet is a hard place for survival, and

we've all got to work hard just to eat."

 

Borov looked as though he were struggling to hold down further nasty remarks and take

a more diplomatic approach. After a moment he smiled and offered Jules his hand.

"Please don't misunderstand me, Dallum; there's certainly nothing sinful about the way

you earn your living. I'm sure you're a very nice fellow, and I didn't mean any of what I

said as personal invective. If I've inadvertently insulted you, then please accept my

deepest apologies. But you must realize that the Princess is used to certain standards

at, the Imperial Court-standards which you, simply because you come from a colony

planet, could hardly be expected to match. You just seem out of place here, and I

question the wisdom of the Progress Committee in placing you with our group."

 

Jules shook hands with him, meanwhile eyeing the bigger man critically. Being from

Kolokov, the planet where the time bomb conspiracy was supposedly hatched, Borov

was the most likely suspect as the potential assassin, The SOTS agent tried to recall

what the files had said about him. Borov was a champion chess player, president of a

debating society and an amateur boxer and weightlifter. He came from a wealthy family;

his mother ran one of the most influential financial consultant firms on Kolokov. Borov

had seldom lost out on anything he'd ever wanted, and the computer personality profile

did admit that he bad a tendency to be overbearing. That, and a short temper, were

considered his main weak points, but he had still ranked above everyone else on his

planet and so had been selected to join the Progress. Jules made up his mind that this

was definitely a man to watch.

 

"Oh, don't mind him," Symond said, taking Jules's arm and leading him further around

the room. Then, in a lower, more private, tone, he added, "I think Borov is a little too

filled with his own self-importance for his own good. In fact, from what I hear, the

Princess actually has a preference for the short, dark types. You may actually stand

more of a chance than a tall, blond, blue-eyed lunk like me. Come on, the rest of the

guys aren't half that bad."

 

One by one, Jules was introduced to the rest of the candidates, and he had to agree

that they were all an affable group of men; any of them would make admirable

companions on a sports team or good company for sitting around and conversing about

life and love. The atmosphere was definitely like a country club, a sociable setting for

sociable people to get together and enjoy themselves.

 

The last man Symond introduced him to was Choyen Liu from the planet Anares. Liu

was only slightly taller than Jules himself, though much slimmer and more delicate. His

Oriental features made a nice contrast to the deep blue brocade of the robes he wore,

the native dress of his home world. Anares had been settled three centuries before by a

group of mystics and, with some modifications, the religious philosophies had remained

to this very day. Anarians didn't travel much, and so remained largely a mystery to the

outside Universe.

 

"Hi," Jules said upon being introduced to this strange man. He stuck out his hand to

shake Liu's, and the Anarian took it with a grip so strong that Jules was genuinely

surprised. It nearly crushed him to his superstrong bones, yet there was no sign of

either animosity or strain on the man's face. Jules was tempted to squeeze back with

his DesPlainian strength, which would be sure to shatter the other's hand, but then

thought better of it; it would be out of character. So instead he pulled his hand away

and gave a low whistle. "Wow, you sure do have some strong grip for such a

frail-looking fella."

 

Liu looked straight into his face. "The Universe is filled with illusion, Gospodin Dallum.

Which of us is ever really the person he appears to be?"

 

Jules stared at Liu. Through his mind raced the dozens of different - and sometimes

contradictory - tales he'd heard about the mysterious Anarians and their even more

mysterious powers of the mind. Was Liu telling him that he'd seen through Jules's

disguise already? Could Liu be the assassin, playing word games to tease those

around him? Could both of the questions be true? Or was Liu just playing the role of the

Anarian mystic, making simple statements sound profound for theatrical effect?

 

There was no clue whatsoever in the other man's face. Those two dark eyes stared out

at Jules impassively, without show of emotion. Whatever game Liu was playing, he was

not about to tip his hand just yet.

 

Jules could not afford to tip his hand, either. He let John Dallum stare, amazed, at Liu

for several seconds. "That sure is a deep thought," he said at last.

 

Liu bowed his head. "It's not original with me, I'm afraid. I'm just a humble scholar of

philosophy."

 

"Say, I admire that. I've always wanted to be a philosopher myself, but I've always been

too busy. We'll have to talk about it sometime."

 

"Indeed we will, Gospodin Dallum."

 

Jules walked away after Symond. "He's a strange one, isn't he?"

 

"Yes," Symond admitted. "None of us has been able to get particularly close to him. But

he's a polite enough chap, if a little distant."

 

Jules was trying to recall what he knew about Liu from the files. Anares did not keep

very thorough records of its citizens, and Liu's file had been the sparsest of the lot. But

Jules knew that Liu's claim to being a humble philosophy student was a mistruth. At the

age of only twenty-eight, Choyen Liu was an ordained priest and was recognized as

one of the top philosophical mystics on the entire planet of Anares.

 

"Certainly an unusual bunch of people, aren't we?" Jules said to his guide, and he

meant it. Each young man present was the best his planet could produce . . . and yet,

Jules had to contend with the possibility that one of them was a potential assassin.

"Yes, sir, a real unusual bunch."

 

The Princess and her party, including Yvette, arrived two days later. When the two

women had met again they had greeted each other as long lost sisters, despite the fact

that they had met once before, for a single evening a year earlier. But a close bond had

been cemented then, and the two resumed their relationship as though there had been

no gap at all. They had much to tell each other on the long trip from Earth to Ansegria,

and they spent the time almost constantly in each other's company.

 

Yvonne and Jacques Roumenier met them at the spaceport, having arrived from

DesPlaines several hours earlier. Yvette introduced this other brother-sister team of

DesPlainian agents to the Princess; the Roumeniers were suitably awed, but Edna

quickly put them at their ease. Vonnie and Jacques were given uniforms indicating they

were members of the Princess's official bodyguards, and were introduced to the rest of

Her Highness's staff. That bit of business over with, the entire party proceeded to

Rockhold Castle.

 

This time, the Baron and Baroness were on hand to greet her personally. The castle

was decked out with banners and pennons, and the Imperial flag flew above the banner

of Cambria on the staff. Amid a flourish of trumpets, the Princess was led through the

gate into the courtyard to meet her old friends, the rulers of Cambria.

 

Baron Piers Howell was a tall man in his late fifties. His face had aged with dignity, and

no one could have imagined a more noble countenance. His hair was white, but his

eyes held a spark of life that denied the years. His wife, the Baroness Ximena, was a

petite woman several years his junior. She had an olive complexion and dark hair, and

moved in quick, frenetic bursts of activity. She had a ready laugh and a charming

manner that was legendary throughout the Sector.

 

This noble pair greeted the Princess warmly with kisses on the cheeks, then went on

about the formal business of speech making. They said, in more words than it pays to

recount, how pleased they were that she was honoring them with her presence and that

they would do everything they could to make her stay enjoyable. Then the Princess,

one lady-in-waiting (Yvette) and two bodyguards (Jacques and Yvonne), were escorted

into the dining hall, while the rest of Her Highness's retinue busied themselves with

transporting the Princess's numerous pieces of luggage into her prearranged quarters.

 

The candidates were already in the dining hall, and they naturally stood when the

Imperial party entered the room. Yvette spotted her brother seated with the other

candidates, but gave him no sign of recognition. Besides, she could tell that his eyes

were busy elsewhere-Vonnie had entered the room, too.

 

It is much to the credit of those two young lovers that they did not show in their faces

the emotions they felt in their hearts. They had not seen each other for several weeks

and their longing to be together had grown considerably; but they knew that to betray

those emotions would be to betray their mission for the Empire. So, with admirable

willpower, they kept their eyes mostly to the fore, with only occasional glances in the

other's direction.

 

Crown Princess Edna took her place at the head of the table, between the Baron and

Baroness, but did not sit down immediately. Instead, she looked over the men

assembled in front of her for a silent moment. Then she spoke.

 

"Dear friends, and those of you whom I hope to soon call friends. I know that this is a

new and exciting experience for you, and that you may be a little nervous at meeting

me. But I must point out that a Progress is no place for formality-it defeats the entire

purpose. I will give you only two orders as your Princess. The first is that you are to

treat me simply as Edna Stanley, a young lady about the same age as yourselves; the

first one who calls me 'Your Imperial Highness' gets tossed in the pool by me

personally." She paused to let that have effect. "The second order is enjoy yourselves.

Now, lets eat, I'm starving."

 

Jules and Yvette risked an exchange of glances as they sat down to supper. The same

thought was uppermost in both their minds. The Progress had now begun. For the next

two weeks, they and they alone were responsible for the safety of the heiress to the

Empire.

 

And somewhere, a time bomb could be ticking.

 

Chapter 4

Evekian the Arranger

 

When the Circus of the Galaxy arrived at a new planet, it was no small event. Duke

Etienne had several advance men out taking care of prepublicity. Advertisements

normally were in all the newsrolls and broadcast over all the television, radio, and

sensible networks at least a week in advance of the arrival, telling about the wonders

and the marvels to be seen in the Galaxy's Greatest Show.

 

On Kolokov, of course, there had been little time for such advance publicity because of

the suddenness of the Duke's decision to go there. That suddenness was not suspect,

however, for Duke Etienne had something of a reputation for doing the

unexpected-usually, though not always, at the whim of the Service of the Empire.

 

But even with just a few spot announcements scattered here and there, the Circus still

attracted the public's attention. It had not played on this planet for nearly twenty years,

and its reputation as the Galaxy's premiere entertainment event ensured massive

popular interest.

 

As usual, a crowd gathered at the spaceport just to watch the crews unload. The Circus

traveled about in twelve enormous cargo ships that carried all their paraphernalia, and

these ships squatted at one end of the spaceport field while the equipment was loaded

onto trucks to be carried to the fairgrounds where they would actually perform.

 

The d'Alemberts could not entrust the loading and unloading of their specialized

equipment to the hands of regular dock workers; consequently, they did it all

themselves. Everyone, from the star performers down to the behind the-scenes work

crews, pitched in and helped. But just because it was work did not mean it couldn't be

fun as well.

 

The unloading was itself a show. The strongmen tossed enormous crates around as

though they were loaded with feathers, making the onlookers gasp at their skills. The

aerialists and acrobats bounced all over the scene, flying through the air with smaller

boxes, arranging packages on the truck beds, fetching crates that appeared to be

stored in places impossible for humans to reach without mechanical assistance. The

clowns ran amok through the area, seeming to create endless chaos yet actually

coordinating the whole event. The wild animals, when brought out in their cages, were

suitably savage to chill and excite the most bored observer. There was music, noise,

bright colors and chaos; yet despite all the apparent pandemonium, the unloading was

done with unbelievable efficiency and in a minimum amount of time.

 

This performance was free to the thousands who thronged to the spaceport to watch it;

but it was not wasted. For there was hardly a witness to it who did not then and there

vow to go see the full Circus when it was finally set up and in operation. The unloading

was just one more effective publicity stunt by the crafty Duke Etienne.

 

The actual setting up of the main tents and the midway was done in a more casual and

relaxed manner since it was in the seclusion of the fairgrounds, where outsiders could

be kept from seeing it until the Circus officially opened. Specialized crews took care of

such details, while the performers rested up for their own tasks.

 

All was going smoothly in preparation for the show's opening the next day, but Etienne

d'Alembert could not relax. Not only did he carry on his shoulders the massive

responsibility of keeping all aspects of the Circus running without incident, but he also

had the weightier task of coordinating the sub rosa activities for SOTS.

 

The Duke was a short man, as were most DesPlainians, standing but 160 centimeters

tall. Though he himself had been a prime performer in his youth, he was inclining

toward portliness more and more as middle age overtook him. His hair was thinning in

front and graying at the temples, but his eyes normally had a humorous gleam to them.

He looked so innocuous that he could have been mistaken for anyone's favorite uncle;

but to evaluate him thusly would have been a grave error. For though his body was

round, it was not soft and behind that cheerful facade lay a mind that, in matters of

espionage and intelligence, was second-perhaps-only to that of the Head of SOTE

himself.

 

At present the Duke was conferring with his brother Marcel, the Circus's magician-and

Etienne's partner in many daring exploits in their younger days. Marcel was tall and thin

for a d'Alembert-at 180 centimeters and eighty kilograms, he was virtually a DesPlainian

beanpole. "We have no specific orders, then?" Marcel asked in the French-English

patois that was the native language of DesPlaines.

 

"The Head left it entirely to our discretion," the Duke replied. "Our only instructions are

to find out as much as possible about the bomb threat and to stop it at this end if we

can. If not, we're to message Jules and Yvette on Ansegria so that they can take

effective action there."

 

"And we have only one clue, this man called Winsted. So we must do some ferreting,

n'est-ce pas?"

 

"Oui. I figured that the most logical approach was to check Winsted's roots, such as

they were. He was, by occupation, closely associated with thieves of various sorts. This

was not his native planet; he must have come here for some specific reason, probably

related to the bomb threat. But that sort of man will seldom make a long journey just for

one job, and I'm willing to bet he established contact with some other criminals just to

`make the trip worth it," as it were.

 

"The local SOTE office furnished me with a list of some of the better known contact

points for the higher-class members of the underworld-the kind Winsted would be

associating with. By mentioning his name around often enough, we should evoke

enough interest to learn something from the reaction. After all, most of the underworld

doesn't even know that Winsted was picked up yet-just that he's missing."

 

"When do we start?" Marcel asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

 

"Ah, Marcel, always the eager one, eh? Well, it's possible we may get to see some

action on this assignment, but not right now. There are others in our family who are

equally qualified and who occasionally like a chance to have some of the fun. We

mustn't be piggish about these things. "

 

"Then who is handling it?"

 

"I've put Luise in charge. She can use the experience, and I think she'll do quite nicely."

 

Luise deForrest was the daughter of Emil deForrest and Etienne's and Marcel's sister

Margaret. She was not as obviously DesPlainian as many other members of the

d'Alembert family, being relatively tall and slender, which was one of the reasons why

the Duke bad chosen her for this assignment. At this early stage of the game there was

no point to advertising the fact that DesPlainians were involved in this investigation-it

would draw unwelcome suspicion onto the Circus.

 

Luise was not beautiful in the classical sense, but she had the strong presence of

personality that many simply beautiful women lacked. Her thin face was highlighted by

eyes that shone with intelligence, and she had a long, thin nose whose tip wiggled

slightly when she spoke. Long black hair flowed elegantly down her back. Though she

was only in her middle twenties, Luise was already one of the Circus's premiere clowns

and mimes-and she possessed one of the sharpest young minds in the family. A natural

clown had to be able to think quickly, and Luise was one of the best.

 

She was dressed in a loose-fitting blouse and long skirt that was the current fashion on

the planet Belange, where Winsted had originally come from, and her shoulders were

covered by a brown waist-length capelet. She walked in a brisk, businesslike manner,

and the stern look in her eyes was that of a woman who brooked no nonsense from

anyone.

 

Luise walked into Brovnik's Cocktail Lounge and went directly up to the bar. "A Starship

Sling," she ordered. Though she shared, along with all DesPlainians, an allergy to

alcohol, she could drink the stuff; the results would be uncomfortable for her

metabolism, but a member of the Clan d'Alembert would do almost anything in the line

of duty. As the bartender mixed the drink for her, Luise turned to survey the lounge.

 

The room was darkened to highlight the entertainment, which was a holographic

recording of two female dancers doing an impressionistic performance of their art to

Raussad's Opus Number 4. All around the stage were tables which were less than

crowded-not unusual, considering this was a week night. A few other people stood

around, either at the bar or a few meters away, several of them were engaged in private

conversations, and the SOTS agent saw the flash of money being exchanged at one

spot. She could not tell bow much or what it was for.

 

Her drink arrived, and she took as small a sip as she could get away with while still

appearing to enjoy it. "I'm looking for a friend of mine," she said conversationally to the

bartender. "Perhaps you know him, he asked me to meet him here. His name's Rawl

Winsted."

 

By the way the bartender's eyebrows arched quickly, Luise could tell that the man had

heard that name before. The other recovered his demeanor, though; aside from that

one little flick there was no sign of recognition. "No, can't say that I have. Of course, I

see a lot of people go by here every day; maybe if you described him I could remember

him better."

 

Luise pulled out a ten-ruble bill, folded it, and set it gently down on edge on top of the

bar. She was very glad this bartender knew the victim; this was the eleventh spot she'd

visited, and she was running low on bribe money. "Well, he's tall and kind of skinny,

with long, delicate fingers-usually wears gloves, in fact. Dresses fairly conservatively.

Dark, heavy eyebrows. . . ."

 

"Yeah, I think I know the guy you mean," the barkeep said, palming the bill with one deft

gesture and putting it in his own pocket. "Came in here a couple of times with some

friends."

 

"Do you know where I might find him or these friends?" The bartender hesitated a

second, then said, "Sure. Gospodin Cheevers over here was one of them." He signaled

the indicated man to come over, and when he did the bartender continued, "Jos, this

lady here is looking for Rawl Winsted."

 

The man called Jos Cheevers was big, nearly a full two meters tall and close to a

hundred kilos in mass. His looming posture was carefully calculated to make smaller

people feel ill-at-ease. "Yeah?" he said in a gravelly voice. "What's your business with

Winsted?"

 

"He sent for me," Luise said calmly.

 

Cheevers's eyes narrowed. "You his woman or somethin'?"

 

Luise's glare would have pierced a hole through a bar of iron. "I'm his partner. We

worked together back on Belange. He sent me a message a couple of weeks ago that

he wanted to see me here, that he might have some work for me."

 

"What kind of work do you do?" "The same kind Rawl does."

 

The big man looked at her curiously. "What did Winsted tell you about his job here?"

 

"I believe," Luise said slowly, "I have told you all I am going to, for the present. Perhaps

if you would tell me where I can find Rawl, you and I could talk further."

 

Cheevers was not used to having a woman speak to him in such a manner. In the

social circles he frequented, there were only two types of females: the shy, decent ones

whom he could terrify and bully, and the brash, indecent ones who would accept

anything he had to say with bland passivity. This woman did not fit into either category,

and that disturbed him. "What's your name?"

 

Luise deForrest just looked at him, not saying a word. Cheevers stood beside her for a

moment, just clenching and unclenching his fists, then finally said, "Wait here. I gotta

make a call."

 

Luise watched patiently as the big man went over to the booth and placed a

communicator call to someone whose face Luise could not make out over the vision

screen. The agent dared not crane her neck or appear anxious. All she could do was

wait until Cheevers had finished his call, sipping slowly on her drink and trying not to

wince as the alcohol burned its way down her throat.

 

The big man came back from the com booth and stood beside her. "Come along with

me," he ordered.

 

"Will you take me to Rawl?" "Yeah."

 

Since Luise knew that Winsted was dead, she doubted the big man's sincerity. "I

haven't finished my drink yet." "I thought you wanted to meet your friend."

 

"What proof do I have that you'll really take me to him?"

 

Cheevers moved up closely against her and nudged her in the side. Luise could feel the

hard, circular rim of a weapon pressing into her ribs. She couldn't tell whether it was a

blaster or merely a stun-gun, but she didn't particularly want to take chances with either.

"This is my proof," Cbeevers growled.

 

"Ah, well, as long as you put it that way, of course," Luise replied. "I never argue with

irrefutable evidence." She set the drink down on the bar-with inward thanks at not

having to drink the rest of it-and moved toward the door with Cheevers directly behind

her.

 

Another man joined them at the door. The newcomer was only slightly smaller than

Cheevers but looked, if anything, tougher. Together, the two men escorted Luise out

the door and into the darkness of the night. Wherever they're taking me, the agent

thought, they certainly want to make sure I get there. "Why couldn't Rawl come and

meet me himself?" she asked aloud.

 

"Shut up," was Cheever's laconic reply.

 

"Is he in any danger? Is he hiding out? You can tell me, I'm his partner."

 

"I said, shut up!" Cheevers raised his hand as though to smack the woman across the

face-but he did not carry through on that action for one very good reason. The reason's

name was Richard d'Alembert.

 

Rick, as he was known to his family and friends, was the leader of the Circus's team of

wrestlers. As such, he was better than a hundred kilos of the most efficient fighting

machine capable of being packaged in a body of flesh and bone. Not only were his

muscles supertightened for action, but he had training in every branch of the martial

arts and the speed to carry out his actions before most ordinary opponents would be

able to think straight.

 

He had come along with Luise and waited outside the lounge just in case some trouble

might arise. Luise's situation was obvious as soon as she emerged with the two toughs,

and Rick had followed them along in the shadows until the moment came for him to

make his move.

 

That moment was now, with Cheevers's arm raised to attack in a different direction and

the other blasterbat's attention focused on his comrade. Rick launched himself at

Cheevers with all the strength in his massive DesPlainian body.

 

Cheevers, caught by surprise, fell forward as Rick's body hit him from the rear. The

Circus wrestler came down on top of his foe, landing a succession of blows to the body

designed to daze any opponent. Cheevers, a veteran of many tough fights, was a little

more resilient than an ordinary person, and did manage to attempt one blow back at his

assailant. Rick parried that swing easily with his forearm, then returned it with a

vengeance. His fist caught Cheevers squarely on the jaw, knocking the thug's head

back against the sidewalk. Cheevers went out like a light.

 

Meanwhile, Luise had not been inactive. Clowns, as well as athletes, had to keep

themselves in top physical condition to perform their acts, and members of the Family

d'Alembert were more than ordinarily rigorous in their training. She knew that Rick was

waiting for the opportunity to attack, and was not caught by surprise when her relative

did so. As Rick came flying at Cheevers, Luise stepped aside so that the two bodies fell

past her to the ground. At the same time, she turned to the other crook and brought her

foot down squarely on the man's instep. The thug howled with pain, but the yell was cut

short as Luise swung her fist, with all the not inconsiderable DesPlainian strength at her

disposal, into the pit of her opponent's stomach.

 

There was a whoosh of air as the man doubled over. Luise interlaced her fingers,

thereby locking her hands into one powerful unit, and brought it down on the top of her

foe's exposed head. There was a dull thunk as she connected solidly; then the man fell

to the ground and lay quite still.

 

Luise clapped her hands together as though brushing off some imaginary dirt and

looked over at Rick. The wrestler was just getting to his feet, a big grin on his face. "For

someone who makes a living at being funny," he said jovially, "you sure taught that

bruiser a serious lesson."

 

"Thank you, cousin," Luise said with a mock curtsy. "Your timing was pretty good, too.

But I think we should stop congratulating each other and take care of our two friends

here. Cheevers, the one you knocked out, shouldn't be under too long-at least, I hope

not."

 

"I gave him but the gentlest of taps," Rick assured her. "Good, because we have to

learn where he was taking me-and fast. If we're not there in a reasonable time,

Cheevers's boss might get a little suspicious and that would only make our job harder."

 

Together, they dragged the two men back to their waiting car. The second thug was tied

and gagged securely and stashed away in the back seat. Cheevers also was bound,

but they made no attempt to cover his mouth - they wanted him to talk. Then they

revived him and began their questioning.

 

Their methods of interrogation were less than polite, but about on a par with what

Cheevers would have used had the roles been reversed. Thus, in a surprisingly short

time they learned that Cheevers had been ordered by his boss-a man named

Evekian-to bring the mysterious woman to his office immediately for further inquiry.

Coercion was authorized if the victim did not want to come voluntarily. The d'Alemberts

also learned the location of Evekian's headquarters and the details of how the place

was guarded. By the time he was finished telling them what he knew, Cheevers was

barely conscious; the two agents left him tied up in the back seat and placed a coded

call back to the Circus.

 

A team of their relatives was all set, just awaiting the word from them to move into

action. Luise gave the address of the headquarters and described a preliminary plan of

attack. She was told that the assault group would meet her there in fifteen minutes.

 

As scheduled, the d'Alemberts rendezvoused in the darkness outside the headquarters

building. The ground level of this block was mostly stores and commercial

establishments, but the top five floors of this one building were staffed by Evekian and

his minions. Evekian himself lived on the fourth floor, with several floors standing

between himself and an invasion from any ground forces, plus one floor of defense

above him in case enemies (or the police) should land by copter on the roof. The only

way out onto the street was down a narrow flight of stairs that led out of a currently

locked door. Cheevers had said there would be a pair of guards at the top of those

steps, and that both would be armed with blasters.

 

A setup like that would have daunted many people, but the Family d'Alembert was quite

adept at performing the impossible. Frontal attacks from the stairs or from the roof

would have resulted in Pyrrhic victories at best; they chose to go around the trouble and

sneak up behind it.

 

Among the attacking force was a goodly percentage of acrobats and aerialists. They

thought nothing, even in the darkness of Kolokov's night, of scaling the walls of the

building on the outside, using grappling hooks, ropes, and pulleys to lift themselves to

positions outside the windows facing the street. All of them were armed with stun-guns

and, more importantly, their own unique talents as rough-and-tumble fighters.

 

On a given signal, they launched their attack simultaneously from several spots at once.

Kicking in the glass of the windows, they crashed into the rooms beyond, tumbled, and

kept on running. This first wave had their stunners at the ready and set on four-a

two-hour stun. Anything that moved-anything that even looked like it might move-was

given a dose of stun rays from the d'Alemberts' guns.

 

This first wave of assault encountered no resistance. The defenders were caught

flatfooted; if there was any trouble expected at all, it was supposed to have been from

one woman whom Cheevers had picked up in a bar-not from an army of expertly

trained agents. Not a single shot was fired in defense as those people still in the

building at this hour fell from the d'Alembert assault.

 

But, quick as the d'Alemberts were, they were not quite fast enough to stop an alarm

from being raised. The noise of the shattering glass windows alone would have alerted

the forces inside; that and the fact that several of the people had time to push alarm

buzzers before they were felled meant that the d'Alemberts had won only the

preliminary skirmish. The full battle royal lay ahead.

 

More and more d'Alemberts poured in through the windows as the shock troops

pressed onward. The corridors outside the offices became battlefields, with the buzzing

of stun-guns reaching an almost monotonous staccato. Plenty of the defenders

slumped to the ground under the relentless assault, but there were also a large number

of d'Alemberts among the bodies that were soon littering the halls. The DesPlainians

were stronger, quicker, and better trained than the people they were fighting, but they

were not perfect.

 

Within two minutes, though, the objective of this first wave was achieved-the two guards

at the top of the front stairs had been eliminated. That left the way open for Rick's team

of wrestlers-not quite as adept at climbing the ropes to the upper stories as their

relatives-to come storming into the fray. These were the real troops, each better than

110 kilograms of calculated mayhem. What they couldn't shoot, they simply battered

their way through, berserking in combat like a horde of barbarians. Their hoarse battle

cries alone struck terror into the hearts of the building's defenders, and the sight of

those moving mountains of humanity was enough to dismay even the most stalwart

crook. Most of Evekian's guards were so stunned by the thought of Rick's men charging

down on top of them that they forgot to even fire their weapons. The d'Alemberts

moved triumphantly through the halls and upward to the third floor.

 

It was at this level that they encountered blaster fire, and they had to proceed a little

more cautiously. Once again the acrobats were brought in, for the speed of their

reflexes was greater, if only by an instant, than those of the wrestlers. These people

could roll into the corridor so quickly that the defenders would have trouble taking aim;

the first shots fired usually missed, but it gave the acrobats a chance to spot where their

enemies were. The d'Alemberts' first shots were usually much more accurate. Then the

acrobats would roll behind some cover and wait for the opportunity to pull the trick

again.

 

Slowly but surely they gained ground until finally the third floor was theirs. Quickly the

wrestling team moved on up to the largely undefended fourth floor where Evekian lived.

They found it empty.

 

The crime boss, after waiting a minute to see how the battle was progressing, realized

that his forces were being overwhelmed. He was not one to go down with his ship, so,

since there was no indication of activity on the roof, he headed up in that direction to his

own personal copter. Once there, he figured to escape easily.

 

He had just seated himself at the controls, though, when a female voice spoke up

calmly behind him. "Easy there, Tovarishch. I've got a stunner here, and I've got no

compunctions against using it." At the same time, Evekian could feel the hard plastic

nozzle press against the back of his head, so that he would know the threat was not an

idle one.

 

Luise deForrest moved from the back of the cockpit over to the seat beside the pilot's,

her aim never wavering from Evekian's head. The criminal leader, being both a realist

and a coward, made no attempt to escape. "I don't know who you are or why your

people are attacking my offices," he said, "but you've obviously made some mistake"

 

`"The mistake, mon ami, is yours, for siccing Cheevers on me in the first place. But I'm

going to let you rectify it. The two of us are going to have a nice long talk about a

certain Rawl Winsted and why he came to Kolokov."

 

"Evekian was really rather helpful once I persuaded him to start talking," Luise reported

to the Duke several hours later. "He didn't want to say anything at first-kept insisting I

was mistaking him for someone else. As though anyone without something to hide

would keep his offices staffed with an army like that. But eventually Rick and I induced

him to part with the information we wanted. I think it was the threat to make him a

soprano in the choir that did it."

 

Duke Etienne leaned back in his chair and stifled a yawn. It was very early in the

morning and he had stayed up all night awaiting Luise's report. He wished she would

get to the point, but he knew from long experience the futility of rushing his niece when

she was relating a story.

 

"It turns out," Luise continued, unaware of the Duke's restiveness, "that this Evekian is

a big arranger here on Kolokov. He doesn't necessarily do very much himself, but he

arranges things for other people-for a commission. If you knew the inside setup for a

robbery, for instance, but didn't have the necessary skills to carry off the job, you would

contact Evekian and he'd find you just the man to help. If you needed a murder

committed, he'd find the killer and you would have an airtight alibi. He's sort of like a

marriage broker, getting rich off of other people's talents and abilities.

 

"in the case of Rawl Winsted, he'd been asked to find an expert in dealing with

miniature workings like watches. There are plenty of legitimate jewelers around, but the

client specified someone with a background of illegality and who didn't have a scruple

to his name. Evekian sent for Winsted. Part of the job specification was that Winsted

would have to agree to have the hypnotic block implanted; but he was getting paid so

much money for the job that a slight loss of his memory wasn't so terrible a price to pay

in return."

 

"Does Evekian know what the job was?"

 

Luise shook her head. "He says he doesn't, and I tend to believe him. Evekian's the sort

who wouldn't ask, on the theory that he's not an accessory to the crime if he doesn't

know what the crime is. But Winsted performed his function, was paid, and then

disappeared. Evekian thought that would be the end of it, until I showed up, claiming to

be Winsted's partner whom he'd sent for to help him work on this job. Naturally Evekian

didn't want anyone coming into the picture unless he got his commission on it, so he

had me picked up to `discuss' the matter with me. It didn't work out that way."

 

"Did you at least find out the name of the client who wanted Winsted's services?"

 

Luise drew in a deep breath. "Yes, I did. It was Fyodor Paskoi-Duke of Kolokov."

 

Chapter 5

Competitions

 

The Princess's Progress started out in a relaxed enough way with a ride down the

beach. Everyone in the Princess's party was given a dorvat, a hexapedal animal about

the size of a burro. They were native to Ansegria, and had proved easily tamable for

riding. It took a little while for non-Ansegrians to get used to the strange six-legged gait

of these creatures, and a good deal of fun was had at the expense of those members of

the party who were particularly less adept at dealing with the tranquil but clumsy beasts.

Jules especially made himself look less agile than he was, and had a lot of fun poked at

him-all of which he took in good-natured stride, as befitted the character of John

Dallum.

 

The Princess's retinue had been carefully balanced so that there were enough

ladies-in-waiting to complement the candidates. Thus, no one would be without

companionship of a member of the opposite sex during any of the events scheduled for

the coming two weeks, and it was Edna's duty to mingle among the men and try to

spend as much time with each of them as she could. In this way, she hoped to find her

future consort and the father of the next Stanley ruler after herself.

 

The day was sunny and warm; the weather was nearly always pleasant around

Cambria, especially at this time of the year. As the party rode their dorvats along the

oceanside, the Princess chatted with one young man named Hans Gudding. He was a

banker's son from the planet Vandergast, and was making quite a name for himself in

the world of interstellar finance-particularly dealing in agricultural futures. He explained

to her the problems of that trade: how he had to keep apprised of the total food

situation on not just one but several planets; how he had to spot the trends developing

at least two years in advance; how he had to buy as discreetly as possible, since too

much activity in one area could affect the outcome adversely; and how he had to keep

updating his figures and weeding out the bad investments while continuing to improve

his stock on hand.

 

The subject was not as dry as it sounds, because Hans Gudding was a very personable

young man with a great deal of enthusiasm for his subject, and such enthusiasm is

generally contagious. Edna listened with interest that was unfeigned; she'd had a

considerable amount of training about the ins and outs of finance on interstellar levels,

and knew that she would need even more knowledge about such intricate matters once

she assumed the Throne. The ruler of this vast galactic empire had to know a great

deal about nearly every subject known to man, and Edna still considered herself

woefully ignorant of entirely too much.

 

So she listened intently as the young man spoke, occasionally interjecting a question or

comment of her own. She fielded very expertly his not-subtle hints that she should

choose a husband who was as adept as he was at manipulating situations and dealing

with people. She had been on enough previous Progresses to know that she was not

really a person to most of these men, but merely an object that could bring them untold

wealth and power. It was one of the facets of these jaunts that dismayed her the most,

and turned what should be pleasant vacations into boring duties.

 

They arrived at a predetermined spot on the beach where the Baron's servants had

gone ahead and prepared a barbecue lunch for the party. There was talking and

laughing on the sand as they ate, and Edna took the opportunity to slip politely away

from Gospodin Gudding and mingle with some of the other young men available.

 

After lunch, Anton Borov suggested some competitions as a method of passing the

time. Jules suspected that he had made the suggestion because he expected to win

and therefore bring himself more to the Princess's notice. At any rate, the idea met with

general approval, and they bickered for a while over what forms those contests would

take. Some wrestling matches were agreed on first, after which there were to be some

races. Most of the men were eager to participate, with the exception of Choyen Liu, who

sat silently off to one side while the others were limbering up. Curious, Edna went over

to him. "Aren't you going to compete?" she asked him.

 

"No," he said. "To compete is to acknowledge the illusion of life that some arbitrary

goals are more important than inward revelation. I prefer to let the others do the

competing, if they must."

 

"You don't believe in competing, yet you're along on this Progress, competing for my

hand. Doesn't that strike you as contradictory?"

 

"Not at all. You are a creature with free will, as are we all. You will eventually make your

choice; I was chosen by my planet as one of your alternatives, nothing more. To strive

against the other men would be folly, because you would still have to consider their

virtues and faults. Only by killing all of them, and thus depriving you of alternatives,

would competition avail me."

 

The novelty of Liu's ideas was so unexpected that Edna could just stare at him,

stunned. What an odd young man, she thought. His objectivity was refreshing after so

many clamors for her attentions. I should learn more about him. After all, the planet

Anares will be part of my realm, and I should learn how the people think and act, and

what they want and need. But despite her interest, and despite the fact that she was

normally a well-spoken young lady, she could think of nothing further to say to this

stranger. He seemed to transcend the normal topics of conversation. So, instead, she

sat silently by his side and watched the action taking place on the beach before her.

 

The wrestling matches quickly showed that they were a contest between three

people-Jules, Paul Symond, and Anton Borov. Jules knew that, with his incredible

DesPlainian strength and physical training, he could best either of the other two; but he

also knew that to do so would be to blow his cover identity. So, in the semi-final match,

he lost gracefully to Symond and sat back on the sand to watch the outcome of the final

pairing.

 

It was a hard-fought battle. It was clear to Jules quite early that Symond was the better

fighter, being both stronger and more agile. Borov, though, was much more determined

to win. As he and Symond circled one another there was an expression of near-animal

ferocity on the face of the Kolokovnik. He attacked again and again with blows that

were far too savage for friendly competition, and only Symond's agility enabled him to

escape without injury. Then Borov finally managed to flip his opponent onto the ground

and came down hard on top of him. The Lateestan wriggled like an eel and finally

managed to twist out of the other's grasp, turning him over and pinning him to the

ground instead. Borov had to concede the match.

 

The next competition was to be foot races along the shore, but that idea turned out to

be impractical; the sand was so loose that it was difficult to gain solid footing except

right down at the waterline. Borov came up with an alternative suggestion: "Why don't

we race on our dorvats?"

 

"Will they run?" another of the men asked dubiously. "They seem so tranquil."

 

"Of course they will," Borov said. "All animals that can walk can run; how else can they

escape from predators and from fires? It's just a question of giving them the proper

motivation. Who's game?"

 

Five of the other candidates, including Symond, decided to take up Borov's challenge.

Jules decided to sit out this particular contest. He was not as confident of his abilities

with an unpredictable animal-particularly with a species unfamiliar to him. Forcing a

strange beast to do something it was not trained for could have dire consequences.

 

The half dozen contestants lined their mounts up in a line at one spot along the beach.

They were to race to a rock about a kilometer down the shore, then turn their mounts

around and race back to the starting point.

 

At the starting signal, all six men dug their heels into the flanks of their dorvats. The

animals, not trained for anything more than a gentle, loping gait, did not react to this at

first, so several of the men dug in harder. The dorvats panicked and began rearing; the

riders, not expecting this maneuver, were thrown from their saddles to the ground. The

panic was contagious, and all six of the animals were trampling about and threatening

to grind the men beneath their hooves.

 

Jules, Jacques, and Yvonne reacted instantly to the menace by running to the scene

and trying to help. Yvette thought of going with them, then decided against it; someone

had to stay by Edna's side, no matter what, in case this miniature stampede were only a

diversion to attract people's attention while the threatened time bomb was planted.

While everyone else's eyes were on the scene below, hers were on everyone else. But

she saw no suspicious activity.

 

The trio of DesPlainians reached the site of the action just seconds after the riders were

thrown, due to the quickness of their reflexes and their fantastic speed. All at once they

found themselves in the middle of a forest of flailing legs. The dorvats had six limbs

apiece, and each animal massed better than three hundred kilograms-a formidable

obstacle to face. Dodging under the flying hooves, Jules reached for one of the fallen

bodies. The man, a Nagalian named Itsu Yabashi, had been stunned by his fall to the

earth, and would have been helpless under the dorvats' feet. Jules pulled him to safety,

noticing that Yvonne and Jacques were similarly occupied rescuing others of the

candidates. Symond, Jules noted happily, had managed to retain his senses and crawl

away from the area of danger. He was now standing to one side, not sure precisely

what to do and thus being of no positive help. But he was one less body the

DesPlainians would have to remove.

 

Jules spotted Anton Borov lying prone directly in the center of the stampede. Hooves

and rearing dorvat bodies were scattered all around him. Dodging between the

frightened animals, he tried to make it to Borov's side.

 

The middle left hoof of one dorvat caught him on the side of the head. Though it was

barely a glancing blow, the creature's three-hundred-kilo mass gave it a lot of impact.

Jules staggered slightly to the side, and collided with the body of another dorvat. This

second encounter knocked him to the ground, right into the path of a third oncoming

dorvat.

 

Vonnie, his fiancée, saw what had happened and gave an involuntary shriek. In an

instant she had dropped the body she was carrying and had started in Jules's direction

to save him. Her brother Jacques, who had not been watching Jules, looked up as she

cried out, and sized up the situation at a glance. He, too, dropped his burden and

started into the melee to rescue his future brother-in-law.

 

But both of them knew they would not be in time. They were on the other side of the

group, and had too much distance to cover, dodging through the panic-stricken dorvats,

to reach Jules before the danger did.

 

As Jules tried his best to roll out of the way of the charging beast, he felt the presence

of another person in the area. Out of the comer of his eye, he could see the slim, slight

form of Choyen Liu racing into the fray. One part of his mind had the fraction of a

second it needed to wonder what this fragile-looking religious scholar hoped to achieve

with this act of bravery.

 

Then the Anarian was beside the raging steed, seemingly unfazed by its flailing hooves.

Reaching up with one hand, he began stroking the creature's short, stubby neck and

making trilling sounds to soothe its confused mind. The dorvat slowed its charge and

began to return to its more tranquil self, and this slight slowing was all Jules needed. He

rolled free of the oncoming animal's path. By that time, Vonnie had reached him and

was helping him to his feet, and together the two of them left the danger zone. Jacques

Roumenier finished Jules's task of rescuing Borov.

 

Yvonne's first impulse once she and Jules were out of peril was to smother him with

kisses and tell him how happy she was that he was all right. But her sharp agent's

instincts came to the fore and reminded her that she and Jules were still acting the

parts of total strangers. Restraining herself admirably, she looked him over with a

formal glance and said, "Are you hurt, Gospodin?"

 

"All smooth," Jules replied, winking back at her. Then he turned to see what was

happening with the panicked dorvats.

 

Choyen Liu was doing a remarkable job. Without any trace of fear he walked calmly

through the crowd of frightened beasts talking to them, trilling at them, touching them

gently, and in general soothing the confusion and pain in their meager minds. Although

the animals were still reacting wildly when he entered the area, he moved among them

without being touched and, within thirty seconds, had calmed them down to an

approachable level; and, while they were still snorting uneasily, they were no longer a

threat.

 

Jules was frankly astonished. He had only seen one other person who could handle

animals that well-his second cousin Jeanne d'Alembert who, at only seventeen, was the

Circus's premiere animal trainer and was considered the top handler in the Galaxy. She

had such an affinity with all living things that she could persuade the fiercest beasts

man had found in the Galaxy to do her bidding. And it appeared that Choyen Liu had

some of this talent, too. It was a fact to remember, and Jules stored the item in a corner

of his mind.

 

For now, he simply got to his feet, walked over to the Anarian and patted him on the

back. "Thank you," he said. "That was pretty fancy work you did there, saving my life."

 

"You showed a good deal of bravery yourself, risking your life to save several others,"

Liu countered. "If I may be permitted to say so, you look as though you were born to be

a hero."

 

Again Liu was dropping hints that he thought Jules might be more than he seemed. And

again Jules deliberately ignored the bait. "Come on," he said, "let's see if our comrades

need any help."

 

By now everyone in the party was approaching the scene of the near-tragedy. The

Princess's natural instincts had been to run over to the site once the danger from the

dorvats was over, but Yvette reminded her that she was in enough peril already and

that she should, for safety's sake, hang back a little. Consequently, while the rest of the

group ran over to help, Edna, Yvette, and the rest of the bodyguards stayed at the top

of a little hillock and watched what was going on.

 

All things considered, the injuries were very slight. One of the young men remained

unconscious, though his breathing was regular and there was no sign of bleeding.

Another of the candidates had twisted an ankle and had two fingers trod upon by a

dorvat; otherwise he was all right. Borov regained consciousness and complained about

sharp pains on the right side of his chest. Jules and several of the other people

suspected he may have had a few ribs broken. One of the Princess's bodyguards was

dispatched back to the castle with the news of what had happened, and shortly

thereafter an ambulance copter arrived to take the injured men away.

 

The remaining members of the party rode their now tranquil mounts back to Rockhold

in gloomy silence. A pall had fallen over their spirits. This Progress, which was

supposed to be such a pleasant experience for all concerned, had in its first day turned

out to be a lot more serious a matter than most of the people had counted on.

 

Once back at the castle, there was a two-hour rest period to freshen up before dinner,

during which time they learned the fate of the three injured members of their party. The

young man who had remained unconscious had a concussion and a skull fracture; he

would not be returning to the Progress. The one with the twisted ankle and the

smashed fingers would be returning, though of necessity his physical activities would be

limited. The doctors diagnosed three cracked ribs on Borov and wanted to keep him

hospitalized for a while, but he insisted that he would be all right and asked to be

allowed to return to the Progress. So, reluctantly, they taped up his ribcage, shot him

full of regeneratives, and said they would send him back to Rockhold in the morning

after one night in the hospital for observation.

 

With the knowledge of what had befallen their companions, the spirits of the group

raised slightly. Making a monumental effort to shake off the afternoon's gloom,

everyone came down to supper in their finest clothing and seemed determined to be

carefree despite the incident. Edna ended up seated next to Paul Symond, and that

young man proved to be a very agreeable dinner partner. He did not bore her ear off

with talk about his job or about his qualifications to be her husband; instead, the two of

them swapped incidents that had happened in their childhood, traded a couple of

shaggy dog stories, and discussed items of current events in the newsrolls. By the time

the meal was finished and she was to retire for the evening, the Princess had almost

forgotten the unpleasantness of the afternoon.

 

She dismissed her maidservants and summoned Yvette to come alone into her room.

"Well," she asked her friend and protector, "the Progress is now one day old. What do

you think?"

 

"That's hard to say. I take it such excitement is not exactly common at these affairs."

 

"Hardly. This is the first time anything like that has happened. If it weren't for the fact

that three people were hurt and more could have been, I would almost have welcomed

the episode as a break in the monotony. But I was asking your professional- opinion,

primarily; how do things look with regard to your assignment?"

 

Yvette sighed. "I haven't spotted anything yet. I've been over your room thoroughly with

the equipment the Head gave me; there aren't any bombs in here yet. I was planning to

go over most of this wing of the castle once everyone's asleep, but it's an almost

impossible job-bombs can be made so small these days. Our best hope is still to catch

whoever's going to plant the bomb-if, indeed, there's going to be one."

 

"Any suspects?"

 

"I haven't had much time to look them over. I got a few minutes alone with Jules this

afternoon to compare notes, but he's a little puzzled, too. All of them are theoretically

loyal, yet all of them are potential assassins. Jules thought Borov should be the prime

suspect, since he comes from Kolokov, the planet where Winsted was captured and

where the plot apparently was conceived. I don't really like him too much."

 

Edna nodded in agreement. "Same here. He's far too intense, far too cocky. I've

encountered that type before on these outings. He thinks pure brashness and

snobbishness will get my attention, and he tries to show off at every opportunity.

Marriage to him would be intolerable; he'd always consider himself right and he'd try to

boss me around. I will want a partner to help me rule the Empire, but I can't tolerate a

boss."

 

"He certainly is determined, though, insisting on staying with the Progress despite those

broken ribs," Yvette mused. "I'm wondering whether it's because he's got an

assignment to plant a bomb and doesn't want to leave until he's completed it." She

shrugged. "Oh, well, Jules said he would go through Borov's room while he's still in the

hospital and check for any traces of a bomb. If it's there, he'll find it.

 

"Jules also said he's keeping an eye on that Anarian, Choyen Liu. He said the man

made some remark or other that made him a little suspicious."

 

"Choyen Liu is a very strange man," Edna agreed. "I talked to him a little bit this

afternoon. I don't know what to make of him, he's so different from any other man I've

ever met. It would be so easy to just dismiss him as a mystic or a spouter of pontifical

sayings, but then he does something like quieting those dorvats and you -begin to

wonder. He's certainly handsome, in an exotic sort of way. What do you think?"

 

"Can't say, I haven't really had any contact with him yet. But if Jules considers him a

suspect, I'll keep an eye on him as well."

 

"And what do you think of Paul Symond?" Edna asked suddenly.

 

"As a potential assassin or as a potential Imperial Consort?"

 

"Both."

 

"As a suspect, he ranks equal with everyone else. As a man-" she grinned,-"I'd say

yummy. As long as he's a ladykilIer only in the metaphorical sense I'll have to restrain

myself from slobbering all over his shoes. Can I have the leftovers when you're through

with him?"

 

"I promise," Edna laughed. "That's the word of a princess. Yes, I was impressed with

him, too. He's not so interested in proving he'd make a good Consort as in proving he'd

make a good husband. That's mostly what I'm looking for." Her laughter faded into a

warm smile and she looked straight into Yvette's eyes. "I'm so glad you're along, and

not just as protection. You're a friend I can talk to, and we're about the same age. I

need someone like that." She hugged Yvette, and the SOTE agent returned the gesture

affectionately.

 

The two women talked some more, then Yvette left to prepare for her midnight rounds.

Edna watched the door close behind her with satisfaction. With people like Jules and

Yvette d'Alembert looking out for her welfare, she knew she would be able to sleep

safely tonight and every night.

 

Chapter 6

Invitation to Rimskor

 

On any planet where the Circus of the Galaxy played, Duke Etienne always made it a

point to send free courtesy passes to all the local nobility, from the Baron in whose city

the Circus was stationed all the way up to the Duke of the entire world. If Kolokov was

any exception to this rule at all, it was because of the special attention Etienne

d'Alembert paid to the invitation he sent Duke Fyodor Paskoi.

 

The invitation was handwritten in letters of pure gold and elaborately illuminated by

Etienne's niece, Francoise, an expert in the almost extinct art of calligraphy. Included

with this impressive-looking document was a note from Duke Etienne, extending his

personal invitation as one duke to another to join him in his private box for a showing of

the Galaxy's greatest performers, and to sample Duke Etienne's fabulous supply of

wines and enjoy the cooking of his chefs, who were famed throughout the Galaxy.

 

The Duke was going to this trouble for a very special reason. It would be possible, of

course, for him to order an assault team of his own into Duke Fyodor's stronghold; but

such an endeavor would have been foolhardy. They would have no idea of the layout of

the castle; no idea of the defenses they would be going up against; and, worst of all, no

idea of what they were looking for. Three of his family had died in the assault on

Evekian's offices, and another thirteen had been hospitalized. That operation would

look like child's play compared to the losses he would sustain attacking a ducal fortress.

He had no doubt he would win; he had supreme confidence in the abilities of his family,

the most well-trained group of people in the history of the human race. But he wanted to

bring the cost of the operation, in terms of lives, down to absolute minimal limits.

 

So instead, be was hoping to win his way into Duke Fyodor's favor and possibly receive

an invitation in return to visit the local duke at his castle. Once inside, he would be able

to size up the situation a little better and plan his attack from there.

 

He had, of course, considered the possibility of having the local SOTE office arrest the

Duke just on the basis of what evidence they had obtained from Evekian, who was now

being detained indefinitely. But there simply was not enough proof to act on. Dukes

were of the second highest rank in the Empire's system of nobility, and questioning

them was not as freewheeling an affair as questioning some minor criminal. As the

Emperor's right arm, the Service of the Empire did have wide authority-but along with

that authority came the responsibility not to abuse it. If Duke Fyodor did not voluntarily

cooperate with his questioners, he would have to be held for a High Court of Justice to

try his case-which could take months. In the meantime, the Crown Princess's life would

still be in danger from the bomb threat. More subtle methods would have to be

employed.

 

The reply from Duke Fyodor's social secretary was disappointing. The Duke, it was

explained, seldom left his castle because of physical infirmities, and, in any event, could

not indulge in rich foods or wines because his delicate system would not tolerate them.

The Duke would be delighted to see the show via television hookup-his body would not

tolerate sensible shows, either-if that would be agreeable to Duke Etienne.

 

The senior d'Alembert answered back promptly saying that he respected the fact of

Duke Fyodor's health difficulties, but that it was against a nearly two-centuries old

tradition of the Circus to broadcast their performances in any way. That was how they

maintained such an interest in their show. He regretted that Duke Fyodor would be

unable to share the food and drinks, but he reiterated that the Circus was quite used to

caring for people with many problems, and that the utmost attention would be paid to

His Grace's particular needs. Duke Fyodor would be as well taken care of as if he were

still in his own castle.

 

This time, the missive met with success. A letter came back saying that the Duke was

pleased with Duke Etienne's concern, and would indeed be honored to be his guest at a

performance of the Circus. A date was arranged for that very night, and Etienne was

delighted. The Circus's manager began setting the wheels of his scheme in motion.

 

Duke Fyodor arrived in his own personal copter, accompanied by a smaller man whom

he introduced as his physician, Dr. Immanuel Rustin. The sight of Duke Fyodor's

skeletal figure, locked rigidly into its maze of tubing and machinery, startled Etienne at

first, even though it had been described in SOTE's files on the man. He tried gamely not

to react to the taut-stretched skin, bug eyes, and shining metal teeth, but apparently

was not completely successful. Duke Fyodor smiled a death's head smile and said,

"Yes, I have that effect on nearly everyone." His voice, coming from twin speakers on

either side of his head, had an eerie effect.

 

"I meant no disrespect, Sir," Etienne answered at once. "I admit to being startled, but

that's all. I'm dependent on prosthetics myself, you know."

 

To illustrate his point, Etienne held up his right arm and unscrewed the hand at the

wrist. He had lost that member fourteen years ago to a stray blaster beam while on an

assignment. The artificial hand that had replaced it was perfectly adequate for the job,

as it was indistinguishable from a natural one; it was, in fact, more than adequate,

because each of the fingers housed equipment of a very specialized nature. The fingers

were detachable just above the knuckles, and Duke Etienne had different ones for

different purposes; but this fact was not generally known outside the family. Etienne

concealed the finger joinings with a series of gaudy rings.

 

Duke Fyodor's eyes lit up as he recognized another rebuilt human. "How did it

happen'?" he asked.

 

Etienne shrugged his shoulders. "Accidents will happen at times in a circus," he replied

evasively.

 

As Duke Fyodor leaned forward to examine the false hand, Etienne noticed the odd

piece of jewelry around the other's neck-an integrated circuit chip on a golden chain.

I've seen something like that once before, he thought, but a quick skim of his memory

failed to turn up a concrete image. Finally he gave up the effort for now, and relegated it

to the status of an interesting datum. There were more important matters to attend to.

 

Now that the initial awkwardness had been cleared away, the two dukes got on quite

nicely. As Etienne had promised, they had the best seats in the house, the manager's

private box; and the performers, knowing that a very special guest was in the audience,

put on an especially impressive display of their considerable talents. Duke Fyodor was

flabbergasted by their acts.

 

"I must admit I've always admired good performances of physical agility. Perhaps it's

because I've always been so limited in that direction myself, but I get a thrill out of

watching people utilizing their bodies to perfection."

 

And when the show was over, Duke Fyodor told Duke Etienne how glad he was that

he'd chosen to come, after all, and that he couldn't recall when he'd enjoyed himself

more. "You really must be my guest while you're here on Kolokov. I know. I'm giving a

diplomatic reception tomorrow evening for the ambassador from Horatia-it's the two

hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the settling of their planet, and I have a big party

planned. I insist that you come along as my guest, in return for your splendid hospitality

today."

 

"I'd be delighted to come. May I bring my brother Marcel?"

 

"Of course. I absolutely adored his act. Do you think I could prevail upon him to perform

for my guests tomorrow?"

 

Etienne d'Alembert smiled. He'd been hoping for just such an opportunity. "Yes, I know

he'd be honored. Until tomorrow night, then." And the two dukes-one a traitor, the other

a loyal agent of the Crown-parted amiably.

 

Duke Fyodor sent one of his personal limousines around to the Circus the next evening

to pick up his two special guests. Duke Etienne d'Alembert of DesPlaines and Lord

Marcel d'Alembert, to use their full titles, were dressed in all their formal splendor. The

Duke was wearing a tunic of gray velvet over a pair of gray flared slacks. The tunic's

sleeves were slashed to show the silver undersleeves beneath them. An unadorned

platinum fillet rested on his head, almost hidden by the curls of his silver-gray hair, and

a platinum chain hung down from his shoulders, supporting a single sapphire in the

center of his chest that matched the sapphires in the rings on his artificial hand. He

wore a half-length gray velvet cape lined with gray satin, and his feet were shod in gray

velvet embroidered acrobat's shoes.

 

Marcel enhanced his mysterious, Mephistophelean image by wearing a skintight black

jumpsuit, whose sleeves were also slashed to reveal brilliant red fabric beneath. His

waist was circled by a belt of rubies set in black leather, and his jet black hair was

topped by a red velvet skullcap. His tall, spare frame was cloaked in a full-length black

cape with red satin lining. These two dashing, handsome widowers were bound to

attract the attention and interest of every eligible lady at the reception.

 

The limousine drove for about an hour, with neither of its passengers saying much from

the back seat. Eventually a large dark hill loomed before them. "Is the Duke's castle on

that mountain?" Etienne asked the chauffeur.

 

"The castle is the mountain" was the terse reply. Rimskor Castle was indeed an

imposing edifice. It rose an incredible 275 meters into the air, and the diameter at its

base was over a hundred meters. Built out of structural steel and covered with

aluminum and plastic, the outside of the castle was an artificial forest. Ersatz trees of

gleaming metal dotted its slopes, while robot animals frolicked and gamboled among

them. As an architectural achievement there was nothing to compare with it in this

entire Sector of space.

 

There was only one way into the mountain, which was otherwise solid. The private

roadway led up to an enormous arched gateway. An electrified gate, with vertical bars

only twenty-five centimeters apart, stood in their path while their car was bathed in light

from a series of spotlights directly over the entrance. Two armed guards stood inside

the gate eyeing the party coldly until the chauffeur produced a small electronically

coded plastic card and fitted it into a slot in the wall. As the gates swung slowly open,

the chauffeur retrieved the card, tucked it into his pocket and drove the limousine past

the guards and into the large garage that was the lowest level of the castle's interior.

There were already an enormous number of cars parked here, indicating that the

reception must be going at full strength upstairs. The chauffeur held the car door open

for the two men as they got out, and Marcel d'Alembert brushed slightly against the

driver. "I want to thank you for your fine service, my good man," he said with dignity. "I

trust it will be you who drives us back to the Circus when we leave."

 

"Me or one of the other chauffeurs on His Grace's staff, My Lord."

 

No, I insist that it must be you. You did such an outstanding job that I would entrust the

task to no other." "As you wish, My Lord." And he showed them the way to the elevator

tube.

 

"Did you get it?" Etienne whispered the instant they were alone.

 

In answer, Marcel d'Alembert slipped him the plastic entry card he had picked out of the

chauffeur's pocket when he bumped him. Etienne took the piece of plastic and ran the

fourth finger of his right hand lightly over its surface. The electronic sensing device

inside that artificial digit read the coded pattern and recorded it for future reference.

Then he handed the card back to his brother. "It'll be back in his pocket when we

leave," Marcel said. "They won't suspect anything, so they won't change the gate code."

 

"What if he misses it in the meantime?"

 

"He'll find it eventually in that same pocket and think he just searched haphazardly

before. Haven't you ever found something in a place where you thought you'd already

looked for it? Just one of life's little frustrations. What about the defenses?"

 

Duke Etienne stroked his right pinkie finger lightly. "There's a heavy minefield on either

side of the road. I detected pressure plates all along the roadway itself to let the guards

know someone's coming. The road's mined, too, so that if the guards see someone

approaching whom they don't like, they can blow him to smithereens."

 

Just then the doors to the elevator tube opened, cutting off further conversation, and

the two brothers emerged into the main hallway. As was the case with the rest of the

castle, this chamber had walls of metal that were polished to a perfect shine. Large

jewels set in the walls reflected rainbow patterns allover the immense room. The arched

ceiling was easily twenty meters over their heads and was composed of thousands of

mirrors, so that their movements on the floor were reflected above them. There were

several dozen people milling about in the hall, but both men knew that if the room had

been empty their footsteps, even in their relatively soft shoes, would have resounded

like gunshots in an echo chamber off the shiny metal floors.

 

A robot decked in fancy livery came over to them. The machine was standard for its

type, being a meter and a half tall and roughly cylindrical, with numerous tentacular

arms extending outward around its body. They showed it the invitations the Duke had

sent them and it promptly announced them over the loudspeaker. In just a few

moments, they could see the tall, thin machine-body of Duke Fyodor striding down the

corridor to greet them personally. "How are you both? I'm so glad you could make it. My

Lord Marcel, it's a pleasure to meet so talented a man. Your act yesterday was nothing

short of superb."

 

"You put on a pretty good act yourself, Your Grace. This castle of yours has got to be

one of the most incredible pieces of workmanship I've ever seen. It makes my own

magic look puny by comparison."

 

The compliment was precisely the perfect thing to say, for Duke Fyodor beamed like a

little boy winning a prize for having the best puppy in the show. This castle was

obviously a labor of love for him, and to have it praised so enthusiastically opened his

gates of cordiality. "I've done my best to make it unusual," he said. "Would you like me

to show you around?"

 

"I'd like nothing better," Marcel said truthfully. "Right now, your castle is the most

interesting thing in the Universe to me." He turned to his brother. "What about you?"

 

Etienne smiled. "Yes, I have to admit my own castle back on DesPlaines can't begin to

compare with this. We have to build short and solid there, you know, because of the

gravity. I'd be honored if you'd give us the grand tour."

 

"Right this way, then." Duke Fyodor began walking toward one end of the immense

hallway, and the d'Alemberts followed after him, having to quicken their pace to match

their guide's giant strides. They passed by many elegantly dressed dignitaries who gave

them curious glances, as though wondering who these two people were to be so

singled out for the Duke's attentions.

 

you will notice," the Duke continued as he led the way out of the public portion of the

hall and into a more secluded area, "that I chose to build almost exclusively in metal

and plastic. The great majority of my servants are robots, and a great deal of the

maintenance around the castle is done by automation. Some of my critics have actually

analyzed me using that as a basis, did you know that? Some nonsense about my

having more of an affinity for machines than for people because it's machines that keep

me alive; that because Nature has seemed to turn its back on me, that I in turn despise

Nature and try to shut it out of my life. Bah, nothing could be further from the truth."

There was a bright light glowing at the end of the hall, and as Fyodor led the two men

into the room, both had to squint not to be blinded by the incredible sight.

 

"Behold," the Duke of Kolokov said. "Behold, the Chamber of Angles, epitome of my

creations"

 

The sheer spectacle left the two DesPlainians speechless. The room itself was gigantic;

it must have occupied easily half the mountain that was Rimskor Castle. The ceiling

was so high that Etienne would have had to strain his neck to try to see it. The base of

the room was fully thirty meters across. Sloping ramps led from each of the various

entrance ways that were scattered about the perimeter all the way up to near the

ceiling, ascending in a series of sharp, zigzag passages. The crazy angles jangled on

the optic nerves of any rational human being who looked at them. The ramps were

suspended from the ceiling by long stretches of girders, and the entire construction

looked structurally unsound, as though a sharp gust of wind might topple everything.

 

Suspended from the ceiling also were large metal mobiles, seemingly thousands of

them, all composed solely of acute angles and each one polished to reflect a jagged

image around the room; the entire vast chamber was filled with pulsating, rotating

sparks of whiteness that were the reflections of an intense beacon that beamed down

from center ceiling. The room was almost hypnotic in its effect, and Etienne found that,

after looking at it for only a few seconds he had to turn his gaze resolutely to the

polished metal floor. Marcel, possibly because of all his own work with illusions, was

able to examine the room more closely, but even he had to bite his lips to keep from

letting the vision eat away at his consciousness.

 

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Duke Fyodor asked proudly.

 

"It's ... stunning," Etienne said, trying hard to come up with the most diplomatic word

possible. "There never could have been anything like it before."

 

Their host took that as a compliment. "What I abhor is not Nature, but inefficiency. To

me, beauty is precision. The precision of a machine going perfectly through its

paces--or, in the case of your Circus, the precision of human beings performing their

elaborate and dangerous acts with a smoothness that beggars the imagination. The

Chamber of Angles is dedicated to the spirit of precision, to the mechanical ... in short,

to perfection."

 

"I think so much perfection must be an acquired taste," Etienne said. "Would you mind

if we continued on with the rest of the tour? I feel so . . . so overwhelmed here."

 

"I understand," replied the Duke of Kolokov. "It is an awe-inspiring sight. Let me show

you through some of the more prosaic parts of my domicile."

 

The "prosaic" portions of the castle, while less overwhelming than that chamber of

insanity, were all nonetheless masterpieces of applied technology. The enormous

kitchen, where meals for up to two hundred guests could be prepared, was a virtual

assembly line of food preparation, with computer programs set to fix anything from a

single deviled egg to six grosses of royal almondine layer torts. Dozens of little robots

scampered here and there, none of them more than a meter high and all of them with at

least six constantly busy hands.

 

"Note the dumbwaiter system," Duke Fyodor said with pride as he pointed to a large

opening in one wall. "Food-or for that matter, any sort of package or container-can

travel from here to any room in the castle. It's all inside the walls and out of sight.

Invisible, efficient, and totally automated. Like the Chamber of Angles, it's my own

design-and, if I do say so myself, it's virtually foolproof." The two guests inspected the

system and marveled at it, then went on with the rest of the tour.

 

The bedrooms were harsh and utilitarian, filled with mirrored walls and glaring lights.

The constant use of metals made them all seem cold and impersonal, and Etienne

doubted he would ever be able to fall asleep in such a room-he would be afraid he'd

dream of robot bogeymen crawling out from under the bed and spiriting him away.

 

The library was imposing but, again, cold. Long shelves stretched from floor to ceiling,

housing hundreds of thousands of bookreels with a detached, almost overbearing

elegance. The Duke of DesPlaines could not help but be reminded of his own collection

of literary works, which traveled with him wherever he went. He collected books, the

ancient examples of the art of printing and binding that was almost extinct in this

twenty-fifth century. Admittedly, the books were heavier and took up more room than an

equal number of bookreels; but there was something solid and substantial about them.

The knowledge they contained seemed so much more real.

 

No matter how many twists and turns their course took them along, nor how many

levels up and down they moved, Marcel d'Alembert's sharp mind kept exact track of

where they were. With his inborn sense of direction, he was composing a mental map

of the entire layout of the castle's interior. When they returned to the Circus later, he

would transfer his map onto paper for the benefit of the assault team that would soon

be invading this very stronghold.

 

"That's about all there is to see," Duke Fyodor said as he brought their tour to a

conclusion by leading them back into a large hall filled with other guests. "My Lord

Marcel, would you be so kind as to reciprocate by performing a portion of your

marvelous act for my guests?"

 

"I'd be delighted," the magician said. "Just give me a couple of minutes to prepare."

Duke Fyodor nodded and went off to find a servant who could make an announcement

about the forthcoming entertainment.

 

To his brother, Marcel added quietly, "There's one area he didn't take us into; it's a big

blank on my map. It's on this level, just off the eastern side of that enormous insanity of

a room. The blank area's only one or two rooms deep, but it extends upward for at least

eight stories."

 

"Do you think there's something in there our host doesn't want us to see?"

 

"It bears investigating. He's been eager enough to show us everything else in the place;

why not that?" He stopped talking as he heard his name being called out. "That sounds

like my cue to go on. Wish me luck."

 

"You wish me luck. I'll need it more than you will." Etienne smiled at his brother as

Marcel made his way through the crowd to the front of the room where an impromptu

stage had been arranged for him.

 

"Thank you for your attention, ladies and lords," the performer began. "I have been

called, at times, the greatest magician in the Galaxy. I know it isn't true, but what does

my opinion matter against that of so many others? But, if I am a great magician I owe it

all to my audiences-to you. You see, no magician could perform without the

unconscious aid of the people he's performing for. For instance-you, gospodin," and he

stepped up to a man standing in the first row, "I've never met you before, have I? And

you think that, because I've singled you out, I'm going to somehow use you to perform a

magical feat. Actually-" and here he pulled a large bouquet of flowers seemingly from

the ear of the woman standing next to the man "-I'm going to use her. Excuse me,

madame, but these are for you." He bowed low and presented the bouquet to the

startled matron, to a round of laughter and applause.

 

"Misdirection is the key," he continued when the reaction had subsided. "I can do

anything I choose and you won't ever see it because your attention is focused exactly

where I want it to be. That's how you all help me, by following my suggestions so well.

Say, for example, that I asked you to watch my right hand." He held up that hand with

an exaggerated gesture, and every eye in the room fixed on it. "I want you to look there,

because the trick is really being done with my left." To prove it, he held up his left hand,

which now held a lighted candle. Again there was laughter and applause.

 

This was Etienne's cue. As Marcel had said so well, misdirection was the key. While

every guest at the party was watching the performance with rapt attention, the Duke of

DesPlaines was able to vanish down the hall without anyone's noticing his

disappearance.

 

Moving as quietly as he could down the long corridor, he came once again to the

Chamber of Angles. As his brother had pointed out, there was one door on the cast

side that appeared to be locked. Etienne walked over to it, but did not touch it or

attempt to open it in any way. Instead, he ran the pinkie finger of his artificial right hand

around the doorsill, about a centimeter from the surface. Just as he suspected, the

sensitive instruments inside that synthetic digit detected an electronic lock and alarm

system of a fairly high degree of complexity. He did not have with him the tools he

would need to break in there, but that was a minor point-such tools were on hand back

at the Circus.

 

Marcel had said that this locked area extended upward for several stories. Leaning

backwards and craning his neck, he tried to see if there was a door leading from this

chamber to one of the upper levels. There did seem to be one three floors up, but the

very act of looking brought back the panicky sensation Etienne had first felt upon

entering this room. The hackles raised on his skin and he had to shut his eyes to avoid

the glare and the dizzying effects. Alone, with his eyes closed and the room completely

silent, he could sense, rather than hear, the strange vibrations. Subsonics, more than

likely, he thought. Vibrations in the air at a frequency inaudible to the human ear but

strong enough to affect a person's nervous system. No wonder the room felt eerie-it

was all part of Duke Fyodor's plan to impress people. He probably enjoyed putting

visitors into an uncomfortable position.

 

Knowing the room's secret made it a little less frightening, but the subsonics still made

him edgy despite himself. He made his way over to one of the ramps that led up to the

level of the door he wanted. He checked the metal ramp with his pinkie finger before

ascending, but there were no alarms on it, nor was it electrified. The ramps were no

more than they appeared to be-a means of going by foot from one level to another.

 

The ramp swayed ever so slightly as he trod upon it, but otherwise seemed stable

enough. He could feel the vibrations of the room coming even stronger through the

soles of his feet as he began to climb up the steep slope. The ramp went through four

abrupt changes of direction along the path before he reached the level he wanted; four

sharp turns through impossibly acute angles. And with each level upward, the vibrations

increased measurably in strength, so that by the time he reached the desired height,

Etienne felt his body trembling involuntarily. Duke Fyodor had planned the defenses of

this room subtly but well.

 

Much to his surprise, this doorway was neither locked nor switched into an alarm circuit;

apparently, Duke Fyodor put enough faith in the subsonics to discourage visitors to the

upper floors-or was it that he was sure most intruders would go for the lower door first?

Whichever way it was, Etienne was not going to pass up an opportunity to see what lay

behind the door in that area where the host would not take them.

 

He opened the door and saw only darkness on the other side. He didn't dare switch on

the light whose button was beside the door, since that action might alert anyone inside.

Again, he should leave that job to those who would be following after him; they would

be better equipped for this sort of work.

 

He had just closed the door and started down the ramp again when a loud voice

boomed out, "Hey! What are you doing up there?"

 

The head of the d'Alembert clan raised his right hand and pointed the forefinger in the

direction of the sound. That particular digit was a deadly one, concealing a miniature

blaster. At any hint of trouble, Etienne was prepared to blast his way out and explain the

messy details later.

 

The speaker had been a robot, one of the tiny machines that had been serving

refreshments out in the main ballroom. Since it had a limited function, it probably bad a

limited intelligence to go with it, and had probably been on its way to the kitchen when it

had spotted him. With any luck, he should be able to bluff his way out.

 

Lowering his hand, Duke Etienne wavered back and forth and feigned a spell of

dizzyness. "I was looking . . . for a fresher. Saw this door up here, climbed up . . . feel

very weak, dizzy." As he spoke, he began staggering down the ramp, hoping to confuse

the dim-witted machine into inaction. Each step away from the door would be a step in

his favor; it was proximity to that forbidden portal that was most suspicious, and

convincing the robot that he had no sinister intentions would probably mean that the

machine would not report him.

 

"You have no right to be up there," the machine said.

 

"Sorry, I felt so . . . so dizzy I didn't know what I was doing." Etienne was halfway down

the ramp now, and feeling safer with each step.

 

"Only authorized personnel are allowed up there," the robot reiterated. It was a machine

of limited intelligence but fierce tenacity.

 

"You're right, of course," Etienne said, reaching the bottom of the ramp. "Whew. I feel

much better down here now," he added truthfully. "I owe your master the Duke a

profound apology for trespassing in his castle without permission. Would you be so kind

as to tell me where he is so that I may go offer my apologies at once?"

 

This maneuver confused the poor device. If this strange person were a burglar-an as

yet unproven hypothesis anyway-then he was not acting in approved burglar fashion.

Asking to be told where the master of the castle was didn't seem to be regulation

behavior for criminals. After about thirty seconds of whirling that data around in its

computerized circuits, the robot decided that the intruder must be what he said he

was-a stranger who got lost looking for a fresher. "His Grace the Duke is in the

ballroom, watching a magic act," it said, then continued trundling on its way to the

kitchen. The matter of the intruder was now banished from its feeble mind.

 

Etienne breathed a sigh of relief and made his way back to the main entertainment

area. His primary mission had been accomplished. Rimskor Castle had been

reconnoitered and the approximate location of possible clues had been determined.

More fact finding would have to await a more serious assault by a team of d'Alemberts

in better condition than the two patriarchs of the clan.

 

In the meantime, he could enjoy watching the conclusion of his brother's act.

 

Chapter 7

Stalking

 

The second day of the Progress looked as beautiful as the first, but the two d'Alemberts

were in no real condition to appreciate it. Both had been up most of the night,

comparing notes and checking out the premises from top to bottom. Yvette had been

along every centimeter of the corridor in the wing of the castle where Edna was staying,

her electronic gadgetry out and working. Every crevice, every small hole in the plaster,

every picture frame, every piece of furniture was examined in minute detail. She gained

some red lines infiltrating the whites of her eyes and an intimate acquaintance with the

architecture of Rockhold Castle, but there was no other reward for her efforts.

 

Jules's search was also fruitless. While Borov was in the hospital for observation on his

ribs, Jules took the liberty of going through that candidate's room with his own

detectors. He checked all the personal belongings, all the clothing, the luggage, and the

furniture in the room where Borov might have stashed a bomb. Nothing. If Borov

actually was the assassin, he had taken the bomb with him to the hospital. It would be a

dangerous move-but then, the traitor was playing for dangerous stakes.

 

Of course, it was entirely possible that Borov was not the traitor-in which case, Jules

had only a dozen other suspects to worry about.

 

He and Yvette discussed the problem. "Edna's wing is clean," Yvette said, "and the

security is so tight I don't see how anyone could sneak in there to plant a bomb, even a

tiny one." She sighed with frustration. "I don't think we're doing so well on this

assignment, mon cher frere. There's got to be something we've overlooked, or else the

threat is coming from some entirely new direction that we know nothing about."

 

Jules felt equally frustrated, and pounded his right fist into his left palm. "Maybe.

Maybe. I've learned to trust your intuition. But that still doesn't give us any clue about

what we are looking for, and until we can come up with something better we'll have to

continue along with our only lead."

 

"And in the meantime we stay around the Princess all day and skulk around the castle

all night. If we don't find the traitor in the first three days, I think I'm going to drop from

exhaustion."

 

The two siblings parted then, to return to their respective rooms and try to get at least a

couple of hours' sleep before they had to go back on duty the next morning.

 

At breakfast, Crown Princess Edna was presented with a beautiful paper flower by

Choyen Liu. "It's lovely," she exclaimed. "Where did you get it?"

 

"I made it last night," he replied. "The petals represent the unfolding of the soul around

the center of essential being."

 

"Oh." That was all the Princess could think to say for a long second. "Thank you very

much. I appreciate it. It's very much like you."

 

"You're too kind. It's but a useful object for meditation."

 

As she sat down to breakfast with Yvette beside her, Edna placed the artificial bloom in

such a way that the female d'Alembert could check it out more closely. With seemingly

casual gestures, Yvette moved her camouflaged miniaturized sensors to within a couple

of centimeters of the object, but it was exactly what it seemed to be. Yvette gave a

slight nod of approval, and Edna pinned the paper flower to the shoulder of her tunic.

 

The previous day's activities at the beach had taken a higher toll on people than they

had realized. No precautions had been taken against the solar rays and, as a result,

nearly everyone in the party from the Princess on down was complaining of mild

sunburn. The only two who escaped that fate were Symond and Liu.

 

"Anares' sun is green, and hotter than this one," Liu remarked when questioned. "I'm

used to far more radiation than I'm receiving."

 

"My own skin is kind of funny," explained the blond, fair-complexioned Symond in turn.

"Either nothing at all happens or else I burn up completely. I guess I was just lucky

yesterday." All the others in the party agreed with that assessment.

 

The activity for the day was supposed to be a hunt in the small forest half a kilometer

from Rockhold. When the schedule had originally been made, both Jules and Yvette

had protested vigorously the inclusion of such an activity. "It's bad enough," Yvette

declared, "that we might have to be dealing with someone who wants to blow you up.

But going out in a group of armed people is ridiculous. Jules and Jacques and Yvonne

and I-and even your other bodyguards as well-can't keep an eye on everyone at once.

One quick shot would be all that's needed."

 

"Zander said that everything should be done as normally as possible," Edna

maintained. "It's been well reported in the press that I enjoy hunting. Our suspect might

become suspicious if there wasn't any during the Progress. And besides, everyone will

be armed. The killer might hesitate knowing that everyone around him has a weapon,

too. If he missed, he wouldn't get another chance."

 

In the end, of course, the Princess won out, though she did agree to the d'Alemberts'

suggestion that the hunt be scheduled fairly early during the Progress. Their thinking

was that the assassin would still be acting conservatively then; he might pass up a

chance at shooting her if he thought he might get a better opportunity later. If the hunt

were scheduled toward the end of the Progress, he might decide he wouldn't get a

better chance.

 

Borov joined them shortly after breakfast, just as they were about to leave on their

expedition. The pain of his broken ribs and the disappointment at missing some of his

time on the Progress bad done nothing to improve his disposition. He was sullen and

complained loudly about the terrible service he had received at the hospital. Yvette and

Edna exchanged disgusted glances, but said nothing. The party set out into the forest.

Because of the trouble they had had the previous day with the dorvats, they rode in

cars today instead. They parked their vehicles at the edge of the woods and walked the

rest of the way, which meant that the candidate who'd sprained his ankle the previous

day was unable to accompany them. To the people who had to protect the Princess

that was a bit of relief, because it meant one less suspect they'd have to keep an eye