“I believe he’s making a terrible mistake,” Hazeltine said.
“What do you think the Dennitzans have in mind, then?”
“If not a breakaway, and inviting the Merseians in—I’m far from convinced that that’s unthinkable to them, but I haven’t proof—if not that, then insurrection … to make the Gospodar Emperor.”
Flandry sat still for a while. The ship murmured, the music sang around him. Terra waxed in his sight.
Finally, taking forth a fresh cigarette, he asked, “What gives you that notion? Your latest work didn’t bring you within a hundred parsecs of Dennitza, did it?”
“No.” Hazeltine’s mouth, which recalled the mouth of Persis, drew into thinner lines than ever hers had done. “That’s what scares me. You see, we’ve collected evidence that Dennitzans are engineering a rebellion on Diomedes. Have you heard of Diomedes?”
“Ye-e-es. Any man who appreciates your three primaries of life ought to study the biography of Nicholas van Rijn, and he was shipwrecked there once. Yes, I know a little. But it isn’t a terribly important planet to this day, is it? Why should it revolt, and how could it hope to succeed?”
“I wasn’t on that team myself. But my unit was carrying out related investigations in the same sector, and we exchanged data. Apparently the Diomedeans—factions among them—hope the Domain of Ythri will help. They’ve acquired a mystique about the kinship of winged beings … Whether the Ythrians really would intervene or not is hard to tell. I suspect not, to the extent that’d bring on overt conflict with us. But they might well use the potentiality, the threat, to steer us into new orbits—We’ve barely started tracing the connections.”
Flandry scowled. “And those turn out to be Dennitzan?”
“Correct. Any such conspiracy would have to involve members of a society with spaceships—preferably humans—to plant and cultivate the seed on Diomedes, and maintain at least enough liaison with Ythri that the would-be rebels stay hopeful. When our people first got on the track of this, they naturally assumed the humans were Avalonian. But a lucky capture they made, just before I left for Sol, indicated otherwise. Dennitzan agents, Dennitzan.”
“Why, on the opposite side of Terra from their home?”
“Oh, come on! You know why. If the Gospodar’s planning an uprising of his own, what better preliminary than one in that direction?” Hazeltine drew breath. “I don’t have the details. Those are, or will be, in the reports to GHQ from our units. But isn’t something in the Empire always going wrong? The word is, his Majesty plans to leave soon for Sector Spica, at the head of an armada, and curb the barbarians there. That’s a long way from anyplace else. Meanwhile, how slowly do reports from an obscure clod like Diomedes grind their way through the bureaucracy?”
“When a fleet can incinerate a world,” Flandry said bleakly, “I prefer governments not have fast reflexes. You and your teammates could well be quantum-hopping to an unwarranted conclusion. For instance, those Dennitzans who were caught, if they really are Dennitzans, could be freebooters. Or if they have bosses at home, those bosses may be a single clique—may be, themselves, maneuvering to overthrow the Gospodar—and may or may not have ambitions beyond that. How much more than you’ve told me do you know for certain?”
Hazeltine sighed. “Not much. But I hoped—” He looked suddenly, pathetically young. “I hoped you might check further into the question.”
Chives entered, on bare feet which touched the carpet soundlessly though the gee-field was set at Terran standard. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he addressed his master. “If you wish dinner before we reach the landing approach zone, I must commence preparations. The tournedos will obviously require a red wine. Shall I open the Chateau Falkayn ’35?”
“Hm?” Flandry blinked, recalled from darker matters. “Why … um-m … I’d thought of Beaujolais.”
“No, sir,” said Chives, respectfully immovable. “I cannot recommend Beaujolais to accompany a tournedos such as is contemplated. And may I suggest drinking and smoking cease until your meal is ready?”
Summer evening around Catalina deepened into night. Flandry sat on a terrace of the lodge which the island’s owner, his friend the Mayor Palatine of Britain, had built on its heights and had lent to him. He wasn’t sleepy; during the space trip, his circadian rhythm had slipped out of phase with this area. Nor was he energetic. He felt—a bit sad?—no, pensive, lonesome, less in an immediate fashion than as an accumulation from the years—a mood he had often felt before and recognized would soon become restlessness. Yet while it stayed as it was, he could wonder if he should have married now and then. Or even for life? It would have been good to help young Dominic grow.
He sighed, twisted about in his lounger till he found a comfortable knees-aloft position, drew on his cigar and watched the view. Beneath him, shadowy land plunged to a bay and, beyond, the vast metallic sheet of a calm Pacific. A breeze blew cool, scented with roses and Buddha’s cup. Overhead, stars twinkled forth in a sky that ranged from amethyst to silver-blue. A pair of contrails in the west caught the last glow of a sunken sun. But the evening was quiet. Traffic was never routed near the retreats of noblemen.
How many kids do I have? And how many of them know they’re mine? (I’ve only met or heard of a few.) And where are they and what’s the universe doing to them?
Hm. He pulled rich smoke across his tongue. When a person starts sentimentalizing, it’s time either to get busy or to take antisenescence treatments. Pending this decision, how about a woman? That stopover on Ceres was several days ago, after all. He considered ladies he knew and decided against them, for each would expect personal consideration—which was her right, but his mind was still too full of his son. Therefore: Would I rather flit to the mainland and its bright lights, or have Chives phone the nearest cepheid agency?
As if at a signal, his personal servant appeared, a Shalmuan, slim kilt-clad form remarkably humanlike except for 140 centimeters of height, green skin, hairlessness, long prehensile tail, and, to be sure, countless more subtle variations. On a tray he carried a visicom extension, a cup of coffee, and a snifter of cognac. “You have a call, sir,” he announced.
How many have you filtered out? Flandry didn’t ask. Nor did he object. The nonhuman in a human milieu—or vice versa—commonly appears as a caricature of a personality, because those around him cannot see most of his soul. But Chives had attended his boss for years. “Personal servant” had come to mean more than “valet and cook”; it included being butler of a household which never stayed long in a single place, and pilot, and bodyguard, and whatever an emergency might require.
Chives brought the lounger table into position, set down the tray, and disappeared again. Flandry’s pulse bounced a little. In the screen before him was the face of Dominic Hazeltine. “Why, hello,” he said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this soon.”
“Well”—excitement thrummed—“you know, our conversation—When I came back to base, I got a chance at a general data scanner, and keyed for recent material on Dennitza. A part of what I learned will interest you, I think. Though you’d better act fast.”