"Therefore," the General said, "it behooves us to get you off-planet as quickly as possible, before your would-be assassins create an incident that does rip Wolmar apart."
Rod looked up, with a sour smile. "To our mutual benefit, eh?"
"Let us say, a point of intersection between our areas of interest."
"Well, no offense, General, but we'd love to leave. Any ideas how to escape from a prison planet?"
"Ah, but we're no longer a prison." Shacklar held up a forefinger. "When the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra cut us off from the central government, we became an independent entity by default. Of course, I do understand that I have some genuine homicidal maniacs living here, and I wouldn't loose them on the galaxy—nor any of my sado-masochists." He shivered, took a deep breath. "Nor any of the truly dedicated thieves. Still, you must understand that we do have some export trade in the raw materials for Pharmaceuticals…"
"He's talking about pipeweed," Cholly explained.
"Quite. And we've discovered that we can actually make a small profit, trading with other outlying planets."
"Enough to exchange for the few imports you really need?"
Shacklar nodded. "Our main markets are Haskerville and Otranto."
"Otranto?" Rod frowned. "That's a resort planet!" It still had that reputation in Rod's time, five hundred years later. Then his eyes widened. "Oh. That kind of pharmaceutical."
"No, not really." Shacklar smiled. "It's simply that a great many ships berth at Otranto, with pleasure-seekers from all over the Terran Sphere. They also carry a bit of cargo, especially if it's low-bulk—so one of the pharmaceutical companies operates a factory there, bringing in raw materials from several of the outlying planets, extracting their essential chemicals, and shipping them on to the central planets for further processing and distribution. Thus we've managed to maintain some trade."
"The rejects have managed to stay civilized in spite of the in-group, eh?" Rod couldn't help smiling.
"If you must put it in the vulgar cant," Shacklar sighed. "In fact, it was one of the freighters that brought us word of the PEST coup."
Rod suddenly realized where the conversation was heading. "There wouldn't happen to be a freighter in port right now, would there?"
Shacklar nodded. "On our moon. You must understand that due to our genesis as a prison planet, it can be quite difficult to go from our spaceport to our moon. In fact, there are some very elaborate security procedures left over from the PEST days, which I've seen no reason to relax. However, since I've no records of any of you three being criminals, I've no reason to detain you."
"And every reason to help us move on, huh?"
"Thou wilt assist us in our travels, then?" Gwen asked.
"I shall be delighted." Shacklar gravely bowed his head.
Rod held his breath, screwed up his courage, and took a chance. "Of course, we couldn't agree to go without our guide."
Yorick looked surprised, then grinned. "Yeah. We think we're gonna need her expertise, no matter where we go."
Shacklar gave Chornoi a long, assessing gaze. Slowly, he nodded. "Given her history, I don't believe she should have been with us to begin with."
Hope flared in Chornoi's eyes.
"I certainly see no reason to detain you further, mademoiselle." Shacklar inclined his head with grave courtesy. "And to be certain no other officials misunderstand, I'll equip you with an official pardon."
Rod sat back with a sigh of relief. "General, your cooperation is amazing." He frowned at a sudden thought. "But there is the little matter of the fare. I'm afraid we don't have enough money for the tickets."
Yorick started to say something, but Shacklar was already gazing off into space and nodding. "I'm certain that could be managed. As I say, we do have something of a trade balance. I believe the Bank of Wolmar will prove willing to advance funds for the next leg of your journey."
"Our greatest thanks." Gwen's eyes sparkled.
The General held his eyes on her for a few moments. He may have been always calm and cool, but he wasn't immune.
Personally, Rod was amazed at just how anxious Shacklar was to be rid of them.
PART II
OTRANTO
Gwen released her shock webbing with a bemused frown. "Why, that was naught! Or, at least, 'twas naught when I liken it to the terror of that devil's ride from the planet to the moon." She turned to Rod, anxiety shadowing her eyes. "Be we truly in the sky, my lord?"
"We be," Rod assured her.
"And that bare, great hall that we came into from the ship—that was truly on the moon? Truly perched upon that circle of light within the nighttime sky?"
"It really was, dear. Of course, that 'circle of light' was actually a ball of rock, five hundred miles thick."
She sank back into her seat, shaking her head. "Tis wondrous!" Then she looked down at the chair beneath her. "As is this throne! How marvelously soft it is, and how wondrous is this cloth that covers it!" She looked up at Rod. "And they are not for nobility alone?"
"Well, technically, no." Rod frowned. "Though I suppose anyone who can afford space travel has to be as rich as an aristocrat."
"Or a criminal," Yorick added, from across the aisle. "In which case, he doesn't have to pay anything at all."
"Yeah, but the accommodations aren't quite this classy. And he doesn't really want to be going where he's headed, either."
"True," Yorick said judiciously. "Of course, if you're going away from prison, you're not too picky about the service."
"This isn't really all that fancy," Rod explained to Gwen.
"This whole room is just a little blip on the side of a great, big freight-carrier, so they can carry passengers if they have to."
"Or get a chance to," Yorick added. "We bring in a lot more money per cubic meter than cargo does."
"That is somewhat reassuring." Gwen looked up at Rod. "But explain to me again the nature of this moment of strangeness that we but now suffered, when it seemed that up was down and, for a moment, I had thought we were on the outside of this ship of the skies."
Rod shook his head. "Don't know if I really can, dear. I know the words for it, but I'm not sure what they mean."
"Then say them to me," she urged.
"Okay. The fastest anything can go is the speed of light— about 186,280 miles per second, remember? But the only reason light goes that fast is because it's made of infinitesimal little motes called photons…"
"There's nothing to it," Yorick confided.
Rod nodded. "Right. Nothing at all. Photons don't weigh anything, don't have any substance, any 'mass.' If you or I climbed into a spaceship and tried to go faster and faster until we got to the speed of light, our ship would get shorter and shorter, and heavier and heavier, and more and more massive. And the more mass it would have, the more power it would take to make it go faster."
"So there doth come a point at which each mite more of power, doth make so much more 'mass,' that the ship doth go no faster?"
"Right!" Rod beamed at her, delighted again by her quickness of understanding. But a chill passed through his belly—how could she understand so quickly, when her culture didn't give her the necessary background concepts? "Technically, we would be going just a fraction faster; we'd always be getting a tiny bit closer to the speed of light, and a tiny bit more, and a tiny bit more, but we'd never quite reach it."
"I cannot truly understand it," she sighed, sinking back.
"Yet an thou dost say it, my lord, I will credit it."
"Well, that helps a little. But you'll understand it thoroughly soon enough, dear, or I quite mistake you. Then you can decide for yourself whether you believe it or not."