"Well?" the young man insisted. "You've summoned me from my duties, threatened to withhold from me what is mine by right, and insulted my officers. I want to know why, Father. What have I done to warrant this treatment?"
Ebert laughed bitterly. "My son," he said, weighting the second word with all the! irony he could muster; but what he felt was hurt—a deep, almost overwhelming feeling of hurt—and a sense of disillusionment that threatened to unhinge his mind. He stood up and moved away from the desk, circling his son until he stood-; with his back to the door.
"What have you done, Hans? What have you done?"
The young man turned, facing his father, his fists clenched at his sides. He seemed barely in control of himself. "Yes, what have I done?" Ebert pointed across at the desk. "See that file?"
"So?" Hans made no move to look. "You could have sent it to me. I would have read it."
Ebert shook his head. "No, Hans. I want you to read it now." There was a small movement in the young man's face, a moment's doubt, and then it cleared. He nodded and turned, taking his father's seat.
Ebert went to the door and locked it, slipping the key into his pocket. Hans was reading the first page, all color drained from his face. Why? the old man asked himself for the thousandth time that day. But in reality he knew. Selfishness. Greed. A cold self-interest. These things were deeply rooted in his son. He looked at him, his vision doubled, seeing both his son and the stranger who sat there wearing the T'ang's uniform. And, bitterly, he recognized the source.
Berta, he thought. Yfou're Berta's child.
Hans closed the file. For a moment he was silent, staring down at the unmarked cover of the folder, then he looked up, meeting his fathers eyes. "So . . ."he said. There was sober calculation in his eyes: no guilt or regret, only a simple cunning. "What now, Father?"
Ebert kept the disgust he felt from his voice. "You make no denial?" "Would you believe me if I did?" Hans sat back, at ease now. The old man shook his head.
Hans glanced at the file, then looked back at his father. "Who else knows, besides Tolonen?"
"His one-time lieutenant, Haavikko." Ebert moved slowly, crossing the room in a half-circle that would bring him behind his son. "Then Li Yuan has yet to be told?" He nodded.
Hans seemed reassured. "That's good. Then I could leave here this evening." He turned in his seat, watching his father's slow progress across the room toward him. "I could take a ship and hide out among the Colony planets."
Ebert stopped. He was only paces from his son. "That's what you want, is it? Exile? A safe passage?"
Hans laughed. "What else? I can't argue with this." He brushed the file with the fingertips of his left hand. "Li Yuan would have me killed if I stayed."
Ebert took another step. He was almost on top of his son now. "And what if I said that that wasn't good enough? What if I said no? What would you do?"
The young man laughed uncomfortably. "Why should you?" He leaned back, staring up at his father, puzzled now.
Ebert reached out, placing his hand gently on his son's shoulder.
"As a child I cradled you in my arms, saw you learn to walk and utter your first, stumbling words. As a boy you were more to me than all of this. You were my joy. My delight. As a man I was proud of you. You seemed the thing I'd always dreamed of."
Hans licked at his top lip, then looked down. But there was no apology. "Shall I go?"
The old man ignored the words. The pressure of his hand increased. His fingers gripped and held. Reaching out, he placed his other hand against Hans's neck, his thumb beneath the chin. Savagely, he pushed Hans's head up, forcing him to look into his face. When he spoke, the words were sour, jagged-edged. "But now all that means nothing." He shook his head, his face brutal, pitiless. "Nothing! Do you hear me, Hans.7"
Hans reached up to free himself from his father's grip, but the old man was unrelenting. His left hand slipped from the shoulder to join the other about his son's neck. At the same time he leaned forward, bearing down on the younger man, his big hands tightening their grip, his shoulder muscles straining.
Too late the young man realized what was happening. He made a small, choked sound in his throat, then began to struggle in the chair, his legs kicking out wildly, his hands beating, then tearing, at his father's arms and hands, trying to break the viselike grip. Suddenly the chair went backward. For a moment Hans was free, sprawled on the floor beneath his father's body; but then the old man had him again, his hands about his throat, his full weight pressing down on him, pushing the air from the young man's lungs.
For one frozen moment the old man's face filled the younger man's vision, the mouth gasping as it strained, spittle flecking the lips. The eyes were wide with horror, the cheeks suffused with blood. Sweat beaded the brow. Then, like a vast, dark wave, the pain became immense. His lungs burned in his chest and his eyes seemed about to burst.
And then release. Blackness . . .
He gasped air into his raw throat, coughing and wheezing, the pain in his neck so fierce that it made him groan aloud; a hoarse, animal sound.
After a moment he opened his eyes again and pulled himself up onto one elbow. His father lay beside him, dead, blood gushing from the hole in the back of his head.
He looked around, expecting to see his lieutenants, but they were not in the room. The door to his father's private suite was open, however, and there was movement inside. He called out—or tried to—then struggled up into a sitting position, feeling giddy, nauseated.
At the far end of the room a figure stepped into the doorway; tall as a man, but not a man. Its white silk jacket was spattered with blood, as were its trousers. It looked at the sitting man with half-lidded eyes; eyes that were as red as the blood on its clothes. Over one arm was a suit of Hans's father's clothes.
"Here, put these on," said the goat-creature in its soft, animal voice. It crossed the room and stood there over him, offering the clothes.
He took them, staring at the beast, not understanding yet, letting it help him up and across the study to his father's room. There, in the doorway, he turned and looked back.
His father lay facedown beside the fallen chair, the wound at the back of his head still wet and glistening in the half light.
"We must go now," said the beast, its breath like old malt.
He turned and met its eyes. It was smiling at him, showing its fine, straight teeth. He could sense the satisfaction it was feeling. Years of resentment had culminated in this act. He shuddered and closed his eyes, feeling faint.
"We have an hour, two at most," it said, its three-toed hand moving to the side of Ebert's neck, tracing but not touching the weltlike bruise there. For a moment its eyes seemed almost tender.
He nodded and let it lead him. There was nothing for him here now. Nothing at all.
KARR looked UP over his glass and met the young officer's eyes. "What is it, Captain?"
"Forgive me, sir. I wouldn't normally come to you on a matter of this kind, but I think this will interest you."
He held out a slender dossier. Karr stared at it a moment, then took it from him. Putting down his glass, he opened it. A moment later, he started forward, suddenly alert.
"When did this come in?"
"Twenty minutes ago. Someone said you were down here in the Mess, sir, so I thought..."
Karr grinned at him fiercely. "You did well, Captain. But what put you on to this?"
"The name, sir. Mikhail Boden. It was one of the names we had as a suspect for the murder of a Fu Jen Maitland six years ago. It seems she was Under-Secretary Lehmann's wife at one time. She was burned to death in her rooms. An incendiary device. Boden was there shortly before she died. His retinal print was in the door camera that survived the blaze. When it appeared again, I thought I'd have a look at the visual image and see if it was the same man. As you can see, it wasn't."