Cluster (19 page)

“Yes. They did not trust me to visit my home world. Afraid I might skip back to the better life.”

“Ha ha,” the man laughed dutifully, though Flint had been serious. “Well, we shall take good care of you. Tonight is a very special occasion, locally. Good Queen Bess is having a birthday party. Capella is in the midrange of regression, culturally and technologically, you know. Post-medieval, early Renaissance, though of course that isn't exact. You'd think that in the three hundred years it's been settled they'd have advanced further, but there have been complicating factors. A number of the parallels to Earth history are contrived; the Queen is a student of history, and you can guess who her idol is.”

“I'd have to,” Flint remarked. “I'm more of a student of Paleolithic events myself. I'm not much on contemporary Earth.”

But he did remember that the Shaman had called Capella “Victorian.” Evidently it was further regressed than that. Maybe its population had been too thin to sustain the Victorian level.

The ambassador chuckled again. “Well, I have made arrangements for you to attend as the representative from System Etamin. Should make quite a splash. Do you have any idea what it costs to mattermit a man your size a hundred light years?”

“Two trillion dollars,” Flint said immediately.

The Ambassador looked startled; evidently he had expected ignorance. “Ah, yes. Queen Bess will be flattered to think that a system over thirty parsecs distant has sent a man to honor her. I would imagine you'll be feted. You should enjoy it. These are a lusty people, for all their mannerisms, much given to feasting and, er, wenching.”

Flint thought of Honeybloom, back on Outworld. When would he see her again? At any rate, she was not the jealous type. His dallying elsewhere would not bother her, as long as she knew he preferred her. Men were men, after all. “Sounds great.”

“Let's get you outfitted.” The man brought out an armful of costume clothing. “This habiliment may seem outlandish, but believe me, it's what they wear. This is a suit appropriate to a high-ranking envoy.”

“Wouldn't an authentic Outworld outfit be better?”

“Possibly. What is the established Outworld costume?”

“Nothing,” Flint said. “We run naked.”

The man forced yet another laugh. Flint got the message. When in the Capella system, dress Capella style.

He tugged his way into the skintight pants. “These are awful,” he complained. “They're one size smaller than my skin.”

“That's the style. Actually, you have very nice legs. The Queen has a fine eye for that sort of thing. Muscle in the right places, no fat. Now this.”

Flint eyed the bright-red bag. “What's that?”

“The codpiece.”

“A piece of fish? Looks more like a scrotum.”

“Precisely. A crotch guard. This one's armored, just in case.”

“It's uncomfortable as hell! Suppose I need to–?”

“Ha-ha. It's removable. Wait till you try on the armor.”

“Armor?”

The Ambassador brought out a pile of metal. “This is a parade vest, decorative yet functional. Note the articulation of the joints, the polish of the surface. They have fine metalsmiths here.”

“I'm a flintsmith, myself,” Flint observed, frowning. But he struggled into the thing, clank by clank. And suffered an unpleasant memory. “It's worse than an old Luna spacesuit!”

“Undoubtedly. But even more proof against punctures.” The man got it on him efficiently, then dropped an elegant blue sash across his right shoulder, knotting it over his left hip. Then slippers with blue bows. And some kind of trinket.

“I'm no lady!”

“You misunderstand the role of jewelry historically. Many virile men have worn it. But this happens to be a watch. These are very important here. Queen Bess has her own palace watchmaker.”

Flint looked at it: a round object about the heft of a good throwing stone, glassed on one side, with a decorated dial and two pointers. “What's it for?”

“For telling time. You wear it on a chain, tucked into a special pocket, here.”

Flint balked again at the next object. “A snuffbox,” the Ambassador explained patiently. “It contains powdered tobacco—don't do that!”

But he was too late. Flint had opened the box and done what was natural: taken a good sniff to find out what it smelled like. His paroxysm of sneezing blew tobacco powder all over the room, setting the Ambassador off too.

When the spasms subsided, the dressing resumed. “I think we can safely dispense with the snuffbox,” the Ambassador said. Flint agreed emphatically. “And we won't need the helmet and gauntlets, since this is a festive occasion. But the sword must be worn. It is a rank of honor.”

“But it has no cutting edge!” Flint objected, running his thumb along it. Swords were not yet in use on Outworld, but the Shaman had told him of them, and Flint found them intrinsically fascinating.

“It is a rapier, not a machete,” the Ambassador said. “Remember the level of culture here. Three musketeers—know what I mean?”

“Guns haven't yet been invented on my world. But I thought a musket was a firearm.”

“Come to think of it, you're right. I wonder why they called them the three
musketeers
? They were French swordsmen of the seventeenth century. Furthermore, there were four of them, counting D'Artagnan. Though of course they did have muskets there—and have them here too—but they aren't used as weapons of honor. Except for pistols, in arranged duels.” He shrugged. “Well, we've garbed you for the part, and if you watch your manners you won't have to use the sword. You can't get into any trouble wishing the Queen happy birthday. So long as you don't mention her age, ha ha.”

So the Queen was an old bag. Well, he could wish her happy birthday, all right. Then get into the feasting and wenching.

The ritual of dressing had taken some time. It was night already. They went outside to wait for the transportation provided by the Queen. The stars were bright, but Flint hardly had time to look at them before the thud of hooves signaled the approach of his coach. He did identify his home star, Etamin, and that made him feel he had gotten his bearings, though the constellation it now occupied did not look much like Draco the Dragon. A shift of forty-five light-years to the side made a big difference in the apparent positions of the nearer stars. There was no Charioteer constellation, of course, because Capella was
in
it, as the eye of Auriga, mythological inventor of the chariot. The colonies were well aware of the places of their systems in human mythology, and Flint had no doubt the chariot was an important symbol here, just as the dragon was around Etamin. The visible constellations changed with each system, but they lacked the human authenticity of the Earth-sky, and had not yet built up followings of their own. Even as a child in Etamin's system, Flint had learned the constellations of Sol system. And some, like Orion's Belt, were much the same anywhere in Sol Sphere, because the three stars were so far away.

Flint had a premonition about the probable nature of his steed. Sure enough: what hove into view was a dragon drawing a chariot. “They have several beasts of burden here,” the ambassador explained. “Since your words is considered to be a primitive warrior-system–”

“An accurate description,” Flint agreed, pleased. Actually, from what he had seen and heard, more civilized cultures were far more combative than his own. There were no wars on Outworld, and few individual combats. But each man had liked to think of himself as a warrior.

The man coughed. “Yes. So you will be expected to have a rather crude, forceful bearing. But remember: the Queen's courtiers are all expert swordsmen, and dead shots with pistols. No one not raised to the manner can match them. Whatever you do, don't get into a duel! Don't draw your weapon at all in the palace.”

“Tantamount to a challenge, eh?” Flint inquired as servitors guided the dragon in, like little tugboats beside its mass. “But why would they bother an honorary delegate from another system who comes only to wish their Queen well?”

“They wouldn't, ordinarily. But there has been unrest recently. There's a lot of local intrigue; it's part of the manners of the period. The Queen had her last lover beheaded some time ago for treason—he was guilty, incidentally; she's very fair about such things—and that heightens it.”

“Because they're afraid there'll be more beheadings?”

“No. Because all the young nobles are jockeying for her favor, hoping to become her next lover. The Queen's specific favor means a lot, as she is the source of all power here. So she has been in a bad mood, and the whole planet reflects it. Duels are frequent. But as I said, you aren't part of this, so you're safe enough so long as you don't go out of your way to antagonize anyone. Sol isn't sending a delegate, and I'm staying here in the embassy. Diplomatic immunity goes only so far. Rumors of transfer have gotten about, and these people have confused medieval notions about that. The mood is generally antiscientific. Do you know what I mean by the Inquisition?”

“No.” But Flint made a mental note to find out, at his convenience; the Ambassador had spoken the word with a suggestive intonation that hinted at horrible things.

“Well, Queen Bess has suppressed the Inquisition anyway. But it typifies the alienophobic attitudes to which such cultures are prone. To them, Earth is alien. So Sol and Sirius are in bad repute; they make much of the fact that Capella is a hundred and fifty times as luminous as Sol. But Etamin is well regarded, perhaps because it is far away and primitive. So just be careful not to mention transfer, and you'll have a good time.”

“A good time—in the midst of this cauldron of animosities?”

“For a Stone Age man, you have quite a vocabulary! But perhaps I have exaggerated the situation. Those in favor are very well treated, and when the Queen throws a party, there's nothing like it in Sphere Sol. Their ladies are very provocative and, er, free. But I'd advise against, well–”

“Why not?” Flint asked, more curios than alarmed.

“Well, the Queen–” The Ambassador paused. “You really don't know much about this culture, do you? No reason you should, of course. I just hadn't thought it through. I think as a precaution you'd better take this.”

He held out a flattish flesh-colored bit of plastic, another thing Flint knew about only because of the Shaman. “Stick this to the roof of your mouth.”

“Why?”

“It's a communicator. Two-way radio. Picks up all sounds in your neighborhood, including your own speech, and transmits our messages through the bony structure to your ears, inaudible to anyone else. Essential for guiding you in local etiquette, just in case.”

“Just in case
what
?”

“You're very direct.”

“You're beating about the bush. If this is such a party, why all the precautions?”

The Ambassador sighed. “We don't expect any trouble, but this is a volatile situation and you are a very important individual. If you met with any misfortune my head would roll. Literally, I fear. Imperial Earth holds you in high regard.”

“No accounting for tastes,” Flint said.

“I may be overreacting, but now I question the advisability of sending you to this party. We can make an excuse–”

“No, I want to go,” Flint said. He inserted the radio, pressing it into place with his tongue. It was small, and bothered him only momentarily. Since he valued his hide fully as much as the Ambassador did, this was useful insurance.

His transportation had been docked and was waiting with growing signs of impatience Flint walked up to the chariot and stared at the dragon. “That's some animal!” he remarked appreciatively.

“Of course. The Queen employs the best. Don't worry—it should be perfectly tame, and it knows the route.”

Flint eyed it. There was something about it, a kind of nobility, quite apart from its impressive size. The animal was like a dinosaur, with huge bone flanges ridged along its backbone. But it was no dinosaur, neither of the Earthly nor the Outworldly types, but a genuine dragon complete with fiery breath and bright wings. Its feet terminated in claws so massive they resembled hooves; one of those extremities could readily kill a man by puncture and squeeze. Yes, magnificent.

Under his cynosure, the thing turned its head, swinging it on a sinuous neck, and brought a steely eye to bear on Flint. No figure of speech; the surface of the eyeball shone like polished metal.
 

Tame? Flint was reminded of the time he had looked the trapped dinosaur, Old Snort, in the eye. This dragon-creature held him in contempt. Flint's gut level reaction was to view this as a challenge.

Flint stepped up close and extended one hand. “Don't touch it!” the Ambassador cried with the same alarmed tone of his warning about the snuffbox—again, too late. Flint placed his right hand firmly on the massive snout.

The dragon swelled up visibly at this indignity. A kind of furnace-rearing emanated from its belly. Its nose became burning hot. A puff of steam jetted from it nostrils, heating Flint's slippered toes. But Flint stood firm, staring the beast down, and after a moment the dragon broke the contact.

The Ambassador gaped. “That was very chancy,” he said, wiping perspiration, or possibly condensed steam, from his brow. “They're tame, but not pets. They tolerate the harness because they like to run, but only a given dragon's master may touch it about the head. If the master dies, the dragon usually has to be destroyed, lest it run wild. You must have the eye of a charioteer. The locally fabled gaze of command. It's rare.”

Flint shrugged. He knew it had not been his gaze but his touch that had daunted the dragon. He was familiar with this type of creature, so had respect without fear. But more than that, he had the Kirlian aura with special intensity.
And so did the dragon
. Animals, like men, possessed it, usually of indifferent intensity, but highly variable. A high-intensity creature responded to Flint's aura in much the way Flint himself had responded to the aura of Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh. There was now a mutual respect between man and dragon.