The Currents of Space (22 page)

Strictly speaking, all foreign embassies throughout the Galaxy maintained extraterritorial rights over the immediate areas of their location. Generally this amounted to nothing more than a pious wish, except where the strength of the home planet enforced respect. In actual practice it meant that only Trantor could truly maintain the independence of its envoys.

The grounds of the Trantorian Embassy covered nearly a square mile and within it armed men in Trantorian costume and insignia maintained patrol. No Sarkite might enter but on invitation, and no armed Sarkite on any account. To be sure, the sum of Trantorian men and arms could withstand the determined attack of a single Sarkite armored regiment for not more than two or three hours, but behind the small band was the power of reprisal from the organized might of a million worlds.

It remained inviolate.

It could even maintain direct material communication with Trantor, without the need of passing through Sarkite ports of entry or debarkation. From the hold of a Trantorian mother-ship, hovering just outside the hundred-mile limit that marked off the boundary between “planetary space” and “free space,” small gyro-ships, vane-equipped for atmospheric travel with minimum power expenditure, might emerge and needle down (half coasting, half driven) to the small port maintained within the embassy grounds.

The gyro-ship which now appeared over the embassy port,
however, was neither scheduled nor Trantorian. The mosquito-might of the embassy was brought quickly and truculently into play. A needle-cannon lifted its puckered muzzle into the air. Force screens went up.

Radioed messages whipped back and forth. Stubborn words rode the impulses upward, agitated ones slipped down.

Lieutenant Camrum turned away from the instrument and said, “I don’t know. He claims he’ll be shot out of the sky in two minutes if we don’t let him down. He claims sanctuary.”

Captain Elyut had just entered. He said, “Sure. Then Sark will claim we’re interfering in politics and if Trantor decides to let things ride, you and I are broken as a gesture. Who is he?”

“Won’t say,” said the lieutenant with more than a little exasperation. “Says he must speak to the Ambassador. Suppose you tell me what to do, Captain.”

The short-wave receiver sputtered and a voice, half hysterical, said, “Is anyone
there?
I’m just coming down, that’s all. Really! I can’t wait another moment, I tell you.” It ended in a squeak.

The captain said, “Great Space, I know that voice. Let him down! My responsibility!”

The orders went out. The gyro-ship sank vertically, more quickly than it should have, the result of a hand at the controls that was both inexperienced and panicky. The needle-cannon maintained focus.

The captain established a through line to Abel and the embassy was thrown into full emergency. The flight of Sarkite ships that hovered overhead not ten minutes after the first vessel had landed maintained a threatening vigil for two hours, then departed.

They sat at dinner, Abel, Junz and the newcomer. With admirable aplomb, considering the circumstances, Abel had acted the unconcerned host. For hours he had refrained from asking why a Great Squire needed sanctuary.

Junz was far less patient. He hissed at Abel, “Space! What are you going to do with him?”

And Abel smiled back. “Nothing. At least until I find out whether I have my Townman or not. I like to know what my hand is before tossing chips onto the table. And since he’s come to me, waiting will rattle him more than it will us.”

He was right. Twice the Squire launched into rapid monolog and twice Abel said, “My dear Squire! Surely serious conversation is unpleasant on an empty stomach.” He smiled gently and ordered dinner.

Over the wine, the Squire tried again. He said, “You’ll want to know why I have left Steen Continent.”

“I cannot conceive of any reason,” admitted Abel, “for the Squire of Steen ever to have fled from Sarkite vessels.”

Steen watched them carefully. His slight figure and thin, pale face were tense with calculation. His long hair was bound into carefully arranged tufts held by tiny clips that rubbed against one another with a rustling sound whenever he moved his head, as though to call attention to his disregard for the current Sarkite clipped-hair fashion. A faint fragrance came from his skin and clothing.

Abel, who did not miss the slight tightening of Junz’s lips and the quick way in which the Spatio-analyst patted his own short, woolly hair, thought how amusing Junz’s reaction might have been if Steen had appeared more typically, with rouged cheeks and coppered fingernails.

Steen said, “There was an intercontinental conference today.”

“Really?” said Abel.

Abel listened to the tale of the conference without a quiver of countenance.

“And we have twenty-four hours,” Steen said indignantly. “It’s sixteen hours now. Really!”

“And you’re X,” cried Junz, who had been growing increasingly restless during the recitation. “You’re X. You’ve come here because he’s caught you. Well now, that’s fine. Abel, here’s our
proof as to the identity of the Spatio-analyst. We can use him to force a surrender of the man.”

Steen’s thin voice had difficulty making itself heard over Junz’s staunch baritone.

“Now really. I say, now really. You’re mad. Stop it! Let me speak, I tell you. . . . Your Excellency, I can’t remember this man’s name.”

“Dr. Selim Junz, Squire.”

“Well then, Dr. Selim Junz, I have never in my life seen this idiot or Spatio-analyst or whatever in the world he may be. Really! I never heard such nonsense. I am certainly not X. Really! I’ll thank you not even to use the silly letter. Imagine believing Fife’s ridiculous melodrama! Really!”

Junz clung to his notion. “Why did you run then?”

“Good Sark, isn’t it clear? Oh, I could choke. Really! Look here, don’t you see what Fife was doing?”

Abel interrupted quietly. “If you’ll explain, Squire, there will be no interruptions.”

“Well, thank
you
at least.” He continued, with an air of wounded dignity. “The others don’t think much of me because I don’t see the point of bothering with documents and statistics and all those boring details. But, really, what is the Civil Service for, I’d like to know? If a Great Squire can’t
be
a Great Squire?

“Still that doesn’t mean I’m a ninny, you know, just because I like my comfort. Really! Maybe the others are blind, but I can see that Fife doesn’t give a darn for the Spatio-analyst. I don’t even think he exists. Fife just got the idea a year ago and he’s been manipulating it ever since.

“He’s been playing us for fools and idiots. Really! And so the others are. Disgusting fools! He’s
arranged
all this perfectly awful nonsense about idiots and Spatio-analysis. I wouldn’t be surprised if the native who’s supposed to be killing patrollers by the dozen isn’t just one of Fife’s spies in a red wig. Or if he’s a real native, I suppose Fife has hired him.

“I wouldn’t put it past Fife. Really! He would use natives against his own kind. That’s how low he is.

“Anyway, it’s obvious that he’s using it just as an excuse to ruin the rest of us and to make himself dictator of Sark. Isn’t it obvious to you?

“There isn’t any X at all, but tomorrow, unless he’s stopped, he’ll spread the sub-etherics full of conspiracies and declarations of emergencies and he’ll have himself declared Leader. We haven’t had a Leader on Sark in five hundred years but that won’t stop Fife. He’d just let the constitution go hang. Really!

“Only I mean to stop him. That’s why I had to leave. If I were still in Steen, I’d be under house arrest.

“As soon as the conference was over I had my own personal port checked, and, you know, his men had taken over. It was in clear disregard of continental autonomy. It was the act of a cad. Really! But nasty as he is, he isn’t so bright. He thought some of us might try to leave the planet so he had the spaceports watched, but”—here he smiled in vulpine fashion and emitted the ghost of a giggle—“it didn’t occur to him to watch the gyro-ports.

“Probably he thought there wasn’t a place on the planet that would be safe for us. But I thought of the Trantorian Embassy. It’s more than the others did. They make me tired. Especially Bort. Do you know Bort? He’s terribly uncouth. Actually
dirty
. Talks at me as though there were something wrong with being clean and smelling pleasant.”

He put his finger tips to his nose and inhaled gently.

Abel put a light hand on Junz’s wrist as the latter moved restlessly in his seat. Abel said, “You have left a family behind. Have you thought that Fife can still hold a weapon over you?”

“I couldn’t very well pile all my pretty ones in my gyroplane.” He reddened a trifle. “Fife wouldn’t dare touch them. Besides, I’ll be back in Steen tomorrow.”

“How?” asked Abel.

Steen looked at him in astonishment. His thin lips parted. “I’m offering alliance, Your Excellency. You can’t pretend Trantor isn’t
interested
in Sark. Surely you’ll tell Fife that any attempt to change Sark’s constitution would necessitate Trantor’s intervention.”

“I scarcely see how that can be done, even if I felt my government would back me,” said Abel.

“How can it
not
be done?” asked Steen indignantly. “If he controls the entire kyrt trade he’ll raise the price, ask concessions for rapid delivery and all sorts of things.”

“Don’t the five of you control the price as is?”

Steen threw himself back in the seat. “Well, really! I don’t know all the details. Next you’ll be asking me for figures. Goodness, you’re as bad as Bort.” Then he recovered and giggled. “I’m just teasing, of course. What I mean is that, with Fife out of the way, Trantor
might
make an arrangement with the rest of us. In return for your help, it would only be right that Trantor get preferential treatment, or even maybe a small interest in the trade.”

“And how would we keep intervention from developing into a Galaxy-wide war?”

“On, but really, don’t you see? It’s plain as day. You wouldn’t be
aggressors
. You would just be preventing civil war to keep the kyrt trade from disruption. I’d announce that I’d appealed to you for help. It would be worlds removed from aggression. The whole Galaxy would be on your side. Of course, if Trantor benefits from it afterward, why, that’s nobody’s business at all. Really!”

Abel put his gnarled fingers together and regarded them. “I can’t believe you really mean to join forces with Trantor.”

An intense look of hatred passed momentarily over Steen’s weakly smiling face. He said, “Rather Trantor than Fife.”

Abel said, “I don’t like threatening force. Can’t we wait and let matters develop a bit——”

“No, no,” cried Steen. “Not a day. Really! If you’re not firm now, right now, it will be too late. Once the deadline is past, he’ll have gone too far to retreat without losing face. If you’ll help me now, the people of Steen will back me, the other Great Squires will join me. If you wait even a day, Fife’s propaganda mill will begin to grind. I’ll be smeared as a renegade. Really! I!
I!
A renegade! He’ll use all the anti-Trantor prejudice he can whip up and you know, meaning no offense, that’s quite a bit.”

“Suppose we ask him to allow us to interview the Spatio-analyst?”

“What good will that do? He’ll play both ends. He’ll tell us the Florinian idiot is a Spatio-analyst, but he’ll tell you the Spatio-analyst is a Florinian idiot. You don’t know the man. He’s
awful!
”

Abel considered that. He hummed to himself, his forefinger keeping gentle time. Then he said, “We have the Townman, you know.”

“What Townman?”

“The one who killed the patrollers and the Sarkite.”

“Oh! Well, really! Do you suppose Fife will care about that if it’s a question of taking all Sark?”

“I think so. You see, it isn’t that we have the Townman. It’s the circumstances of his capture. I think, Squire, that Fife will listen to me and listen very humbly, too.”

For the first time in his acquaintance with Abel, Junz sensed a lessening of coolness in the old man’s voice, a substitution for it of satisfaction, almost of triumph.

It was not very usual for the Lady Samia of Fife to feel frustrated. It was unprecedented, even inconceivable, that she had felt frustrated for hours now.

The commander of the spaceport was Captain Racety all over again. He was polite, almost obsequious, looked unhappy, expressed his regrets, denied the least willingness to contradict her, and stood like iron against her plainly stated wishes.

She was finally forced from stating her desires to demanding her rights as though she were a common Sarkite. She said, “I suppose that as a citizen I have the right to meet any incoming vessel if I wish.”

She was poisonous about it.

The commander cleared his throat and the expression of pain on his lined face grew, if anything, clearer and more definite. Finally he said, “As a matter of fact, my Lady, we have no wish at all to exclude you. It is only that we have received specific orders from the Squire, your father, to forbid your meeting the ship.”

Samia said frozenly, “Are you ordering me to leave the port, then?”

“No, my Lady.” The commander was glad to compromise. “We were not ordered to exclude you from the port. If you
wish to remain here you may do so. But, with all due respect, we will have to stop you from approaching closer to the pits.”

He was gone and Samia sat in the futile luxury of her private ground-car, a hundred feet inside the outermost entrance of the port. They had been waiting and watching for her. They would probably keep on watching her. If she as much as rolled a wheel onward, she thought indignantly, they would probably cut her power-drive.

She gritted her teeth. It was unfair of her father to do this. It was all of a piece. They always treated her as though she understood nothing. Yet she had thought he understood.

He had risen from his seat to greet her, a thing he never did for anyone else now that Mother was dead. He had clasped her, squeezed her tightly, abandoned all his work for her. He had even sent his secretary out of the room because he knew she was repelled by the native’s still, white countenance.