The Currents of Space (24 page)

She had never looked back to see if she were followed. Three times as they turned he had noted the same car to the rear, keeping its distance, neither closing the gap nor falling behind.

It was not just a car. That was certain. It might be Trantor, which would be well. It might be Sark, in which case the Lady would be a decent sort of hostage.

He said, “I’m ready to speak.”

She said, “You were on the ship that brought the native from Florina? The one wanted for all those killings?”

“I said I was.”

“Very well. Now I’ve brought you out here so that there’ll be no interference. Was the native questioned during the trip to Sark?”

Such naïveté, Terens thought, could not be assumed. She really did not know who he was. He said guardedly, “Yes.”

“Were you present at the questioning?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I thought so. Why did you leave the ship, by the way?”

That, thought Terens, was the question she should have asked first of all.

He said, “I was to bring a special report to——” He hesitated.

She seized on the hesitation eagerly. “To my father? Don’t worry about that. I’ll protect you completely. I’ll say you came with me at my orders.”

He said, “Very well, my Lady.”

The words “my Lady” struck deeply into his own consciousness. She was a Lady, the greatest in the land, and he was a Florinian. A man who could kill patrollers could learn easily how to kill Squires, and a Squire-killer might, by the same token, look a Lady in the face.

He looked at her, his eyes hard and searching. He lifted his head and stared down at her.

She was very beautiful.

And because she was the greatest Lady in the land, she was unconscious of his regard. She said, “I want you to tell me everything that you heard at the questioning. I want to know all that was told to you by the native. It’s very important.”

“May I ask why you are interested in the native, my Lady?”

“You may not,” she said flatly.

“As you wish, my Lady.”

He didn’t know what he was going to say. With half his consciousness he was waiting for the pursuing car to catch up. With the other half he was growing more aware of the face and body of the beautiful girl sitting near him.

Florinians in the Civil Service and those acting as Townmen were, theoretically, celibates. In actual practice, most evaded that restriction when they could. Terens had done what he dared and what was expedient in that direction. At best, his experiences had never been satisfactory.

So it was all the more important that he had never been so near a beautiful girl in a car of such luxuriance under conditions of such isolation.

She was waiting for him to speak, dark eyes (such dark eyes) aflame with interest, full red lips parted in anticipation, a figure more beautiful for being set off in beautiful kyrt. She was completely
unaware that anyone,
anyone
, could possibly dare harbor dangerous thought with regard to the Lady of Fife.

The half of his consciousness that waited for the pursuers faded out.

He suddenly knew that the killing of a Squire was not the ultimate crime after all.

He wasn’t quite aware that he moved. He knew only that her small body was in his arms, that it stiffened, that for an instant she cried out, and then he smothered the cry with his lips. . . .

There were hands on his shoulder and the drift of cool air on his back through the opened door of the car. His fingers groped for his weapon, too late. It was ripped from his hand.

Samia gasped wordlessly.

The Sarkite said with horror, “Did you see what he did?”

The Arcturian said, “Never mind!”

He put a small black object into his pocket and smoothed the seam shut “Get him,” he said.

The Sarkite dragged Terens out of the car with the energy of fury. “And she let him,” he muttered. “She let him.”

“Who
are
you?” cried Samia with sudden energy. “Did my father send you?”

The Arcturian said, “No questions, please.”

“You’re a foreigner,” said Samia angrily.

The Sarkite said, “By Sark, I ought to bust his head in.” He cocked his fist.

“Stop it!” said the Arcturian. He seized the Sarkite’s wrist and forced it back.

The Sarkite growled sullenly, “There are limits. I can take the Squire-killing. I’d like to kill a few myself, but standing by and watching a native do what he did is just about too much for me.”

Samia said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Native?”

The Sarkite leaned forward, snatched viciously at Terens’ cap.
The Townman paled but did not move. He kept his gaze steadily upon the girl and his sandy hair moved slightly in the breeze.

Samia moved helplessly back along the car seat as far as she could and then, with a quick movement, she covered her face with both hands, her skin turning white under the pressure of her fingers.

The Sarkite said, “What are we going to do with her?”

“Nothing.”

“She saw us. She’ll have the whole planet after us before we’ve gone a mile.”

“Are you going to kill the Lady of Fife?” asked the Arcturian sarcastically.

“Well, no. But we can wreck her car. By the time she gets to a radio-phone, we’ll be all right.”

“Not necessary.” The Arcturian leaned into the car. “My Lady, I have only a moment. Can you hear me?”

She did not move.

The Arcturian said, “You had better hear me. I am sorry I interrupted you at a tender moment but luckily I have put that moment to use. I acted quickly and was able to record the scene by tri-camera. This is no bluff. I will transmit the negative to a safe place minutes after I leave you and thereafter any interference on your part will force me to be rather nasty. I’m sure you understand me.”

He turned away. “She won’t say anything about this. Not a thing. Come along with me, Townman.”

Terens followed. He could not look back at the white, pinched face in the car.

Whatever might now follow, he had accomplished a miracle. For one moment he had kissed the proudest Lady on Sark, had felt the fleeting touch of her soft, fragrant lips.

Diplomacy has a language and a set of attitudes all its own. Relationships between the representatives of sovereign states, if conducted strictly according to protocol, are stylized and stultifying. The phrase “unpleasant consequences” becomes synonymous with war and “suitable adjustment” with surrender.

When on his own, Abel preferred to abandon diplomatic double-talk. With a tight personal beam connecting himself and Fife, he might merely have been an elderly man talking amiably over a glass of wine.

He said, “You have been hard to reach, Fife.”

Fife smiled. He seemed at ease and undisturbed. “A busy day, Abel.”

“Yes. I’ve heard a bit about it.”

“Steen?” Fife was casual.

“Partly. Steen’s been with us about seven hours.”

“I know. My own fault, too. Are you considering turning him over to us?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“He’s a criminal.”

Abel chuckled and turned the goblet in his hand, watching the lazy bubbles. “I think we can make out a case for his being
a political refugee. Interstellar law will protect him on Trantorian territory.”

“Will your government back you?”

“I think it will, Fife. I haven’t been in the foreign service for thirty-seven years without knowing what Trantor will back and what it won’t.”

“I can have Sark ask for your recall.”

“What good would that do? I’m a peaceable man with whom you are well acquainted. My successor might be anybody.”

There was a pause. Fife’s leonine countenance puckered. “I think you have a suggestion.”

“I do. You have a man of ours.”

“What man of yours?”

“A Spatio-analyst. A native of the planet Earth, which, by the way, is part of the Trantorian domain.”

“Steen told you this?”

“Among other things.”

“Has he seen this Earthman?”

“He hasn’t said he has.”

“Well, he hasn’t. Under the circumstances, I doubt that you can have faith in his word.”

Abel put down his glass. He clasped his hands loosely in his lap and said, “Just the same, I’m sure the Earthman exists. I tell you, Fife, we should get together on this. I have Steen and you have the Earthman. In a sense we’re even. Before you go on with your current plans, before your ultimatum expires and your
coup d’état
takes place, why not a conference on the kyrt situation generally?”

“I don’t see the necessity. What is happening on Sark now is an internal matter entirely. I’m quite willing to guarantee personally that there will be no interference with the kyrt trade regardless of political events here. I think that should end Trantor’s legitimate interests.”

Abel sipped at his wine, seemed to consider. He said, “It seems we have a second political refugee. A curious case. One of your Florinian subjects, by the way. A Townman. Myrlyn Terens, he calls himself.”

Fife’s eyes blazed suddenly. “We half suspected that. By Sark, Abel, there’s a limit to the open interference of Trantor on this planet. The man you have kidnaped is a murderer. You can’t make a political refugee out of him.”

“Well, now, do you want the man?”

“You have a deal in mind? Is that it?”

“The conference I spoke of.”

“For one Florinian murderer. Of course not.”

“But the manner in which the Townman managed to escape to us is rather curious. You may be interested . . .”

Junz paced the floor, shaking his head. The night was already well advanced. He would like to be able to sleep but he knew he would require somnin once again.

Abel said, “I might have had to threaten force, as Steen suggested. That would have been bad. The risks would have been awful, the results uncertain. Yet until the Townman was brought to us I saw no alternative, except of course, a policy of do-nothing.”

Junz shook his head violently. “No. Something had to be done. Yet it amounted to blackmail.”

“Technically, I suppose so. What would you have had me do?”

“Exactly what you did. I’m not a hypocrite, Abel. Or I try not to be. I won’t condemn your methods when I intend to make full use of the results. Still, what about the girl?”

“She won’t be hurt as long as Fife keeps his bargain.”

“I’m sorry for her. I’ve grown to dislike the Sarkite aristocrats for what they’ve done to Florina, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her.”

“As an individual, yes. But the true responsibility lies with Sark itself. Look here, old man, did you ever kiss a girl in a ground-car?”

The tip of a smile quivered at the corners of Junz’s mouth. “Yes.”

“So have I, though I have to call upon longer memories than
you do, I imagine. My eldest granddaughter is probably engaged in the practice at this moment, I shouldn’t wonder. What is a stolen kiss in a ground-car, anyway, except the expression of the most natural emotion in the Galaxy?

“Look here, man. We have a girl, admittedly of high social standing, who, through mistake, finds herself in the same car with, let us say, a criminal. He seizes the opportunity to kiss her. It’s on impulse and without her consent. How ought she to feel? How ought her father to feel? Chagrined? Perhaps. Annoyed? Certainly. Angry? Offended? Insulted? All that, yes. But disgraced? No! Disgraced enough to be willing to endanger important affairs of state to avoid exposure? Nonsense.

“But that’s exactly the situation and it could happen only on Sark. The Lady Samia is guilty of nothing but willfulness and a certain naïveté. She has, I am sure, been kissed before. If she kissed again, if she kissed innumerable times, anyone but a Florinian, nothing would be said. But she
did
kiss a Florinian.

“It doesn’t matter that she did not know he was a Florinian. It doesn’t matter that he forced the kiss upon her. To make public the photograph we have of the Lady Samia in the arms of the Florinian would make life unbearable for her and for her father. I saw Fife’s face when he stared at the reproduction. There was no way of telling for certain that the Townman was a Florinian. He was in Sarkite costume with a cap that covered his hair well. He was light-skinned, but that was inconclusive. Still, Fife knew that the rumor would be gladly believed by many who were interested in scandal and sensation and that the picture would be considered incontrovertible proof. And he knew that his political enemies would make the greatest possible capital out of it. You may call it blackmail, Junz, and maybe it is, but it’s a blackmail that would not work on any other planet in the Galaxy. Their own sick social system gave us this weapon and I have no compunction about using it.”

Junz sighed. “What’s the final arrangement?”

“Well meet at noon tomorrow.”

“His ultimatum has been postponed then?”

“Indefinitely. I will be at his office in person.”

“Is that a necessary risk?”

“It’s not much of one. There will be witnesses. And I am anxious to be in the material presence of this Spatio-analyst you have been searching for so long.”

“I’ll attend?” asked Junz anxiously.

“Oh yes. The Townman as well. We’ll need him to identify the Spatio-analyst. And Steen, of course. All of you will be present by trimensic personification.”

“Thank you.”

The Trantorian Ambassador smothered a yawn and blinked at Junz through watering eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve been awake for two days and a night and I’m afraid my old body can take no more antisomnin. I must sleep.”

With trimensic personification perfected, important conferences were rarely held face to face. Fife felt strongly an element of actual indecency in the material presence of the old Ambassador. His olive complexion could not be said to have darkened, but its lines were set in silent anger.

It had to be silent. He could say nothing. He could only stare sullenly at the men who faced him.

Abel! An old dotard in shabby clothes with a million worlds behind him.

Junz! A dark-skinned, woolly-haired interferer whose perseverance had precipitated the crisis.