I
First he was aware of rain. Its noise filled the opened airlock chamber, a great slow roar that reverberated through the spaceship’s metal. Light struck outward, glinted off big raindrops crowded together in their falling. Each globule shone quicksilver. But just beyond that curtain was total night. Here and there in blackness a lamp could be seen, and a watery glimmer reflected off the concrete under its pole. The air that gusted into the lock chamber was as warm as wet, and full of strange smells; Flandry thought some were like jasmine and some like rotting ferns, but couldn’t be sure.
He tossed his cigarette to the deck and ground it under his heel. The hooded raincape which he slipped on seemed useless in such weather. Diving suit might help, he grumbled to himself. All his careful elegance had gone for naught: from the peaked cap with the sunburst of Empire, down past flowing silkite blouse and embroidered blue doublet, red sash with the fringed ends hanging just so, to sleek white trousers tucked in soft but shiny leather halfboots. He pressed a control button and descended from the lock. As he reached ground, the ladder retreated, the valve closed, lights went out in the ports of the flitter. He felt very much alone.
The rain seemed even louder here in the open. It must be striking on foliage crowding every side of the field. Flandry heard water gurgle in gutters and drains. He could make out several buildings now, across the width of concrete, and started toward them. He hadn’t gone far when half a dozen men approached from that direction. It must be the receiving committee, he thought, and halted so that they might be the ones coming to him. Imperial prestige and so forth, what?
As they neared, he saw they were not an especially tall race. He, who was about three-fourths caucasoid, topped the biggest by half a head. But they were wide-shouldered and well-muscled, walking lithely. A nearby lamp showed them to be tawny brown of skin, with black hair banged across the forehead and falling past the ears, a tendency toward almond eyes and flattish noses. They wore a simple uniform: green pocketed kilt of waterproof synthetic, sandals on their feet, a medallion around each neck. They moved with a confident semi-military stride, and haughtiness marked the beardless faces. Yet they were armed only with truncheon and dagger.
Odd. Flandry noted the comforting weight of the blaster at his own hip.
The squad reached him and deployed. There had been another man with them. One of the squad continued to hold a gracefully shaped umbrella over this one’s head. It was a head shaven smooth, with a symbol tattooed on the brow in fluorescing gold. The man was short and slender, but seemed athletic. Hard to judge his age; the face was unlined, but sharper and with more profile than the others, a sensitive mouth and disconcertingly steady eyes. He wore a robe which flared outward from the shoulders (held by a yoke, Flandry judged, to permit free air circulation around the body) and fell in simple white folds to the ankles. On its breast was the image of a star.
He regarded Flandry for several seconds before speaking, in archaic and thickly accented Anglic: “Welcome to Unan Besar. It is long since an . . . outsider . . . has been on this planet.”
The newcomer sketched a bow and answered in Pulaoic, “On behalf of His Majesty and all the peoples of the Terran Empire, greetings to your world and yourself. I am Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of the Imperial Navy.” Intelligence Corps, field division, he did not add.
“Ah. Yes.” The other man seemed glad to slip back into his own language. “The dispatcher did mention to me that you spoke our tongue. You honor us by taking the trouble to learn.”
Flandry shrugged. “No trouble. Neural educator, don’t y’ know. Doesn’t take long. I got the implantation from a Betelgeusean trader on Orma, before I came here.”
The language was musical, descended from Malayan but influenced by many others in the past. The ancestors of these people had left Terra to colonize New Djawa a long time ago. After the disastrous war with Gorrazan, three centuries back and a bit, some of those colonists had gone on to Unan Besar, and had been isolated from the rest of the human race ever since. Their speech had evolved along its own track.
Flandry was more interested in the reaction of the robed man. His beautifully curved lips drew taut, for just an instant, and a hand curved its fingers to claws before withdrawing into the wide sleeve. The others stood impassive, rain running off their shoulders, but their eyes never left Flandry.
The robed man exclaimed, “What were you doing on Orma? It’s no planet of the Empire. We’re beyond the borders of any empire!”
“More or less.” Flandry made his tone careless. “Terra is a couple of hundred light-years away. But you must be aware how indefinite interstellar boundaries are—how entire hegemonies can interpenetrate. As for Orma, well, why shouldn’t I be there? It has a Betelgeusean trading base, and Betelgeuse is friendly to Terra.”
“The real question,” said the other, hardly audible above the rainfall, “is why you should be here.”
And then, relaxing, donning a smile: “But no matter. You are most welcome, Captain. Permit self-introduction. I am Nias Warouw, director of the Guard Corps of the Planetary Biocontrol.”
Chief of detectives, translated Flandry. Or . . . chief of military intelligence? Why else should the Emperor’s representative—as they must figure I am—be met by a policeman rather than the head of government?
Unless the police are the government.
Warouw startled him by switching briefly to Anglic: “You might call me a physician.”
Flandry decided to take things as they came. As the tourist in the sultan’s harem said. A folk out of touch for three hundred years could be expected to develop some strange customs.
“Do you always get these rains?” He drew his cloak tighter. Not that it could prevent his collar from wilting. He thought of Terra, music, perfumed air, cocktails at the Everest House with some bit of blonde fluff, and wondered dismally why he had ever come to this sinkhole planet. It wasn’t as if he had orders.
“Yes—normally about nightfall in these latitudes,” said Warouw.
Unan Besar has a mere ten-hour rotation period, thought Flandry. They could easily have waited another five of those hours, till their one and only spaceport came around into daylight again. I’d have been glad to stay in orbit. They kept stalling me long enough as it was; and then suddenly their damn dispatcher ordered me down on the instant. Five extra hours—why, I could have spent them cooking myself a really decent dinner, and eating it at a decent speed, instead of gobbling a sandwich. What kind of manners is this, anyhow?
I think they wanted me to land in darkness and rain.
Why?
Warouw reached beneath his robe and took out a vial. It held some large blue pills. “Are you aware of the biochemical situation here?” he asked.
“The Betelgeuseans mentioned something about it, but they weren’t too clear or thorough on the subject.”
“They wouldn’t be. Having a nonhuman immunochemistry, they are not affected, and thus are not very interested. But to us, Captain, the very air of this planet is toxic. You have already absorbed enough to cause death in a few days.”
Warouw smiled sleepily. “Of course, we have an antitoxin,” he went on. “You will need one of these pills every thirty or so of our days while remaining here, and a final dose before you leave.”
Flandry gulped and reached for the vial. Warouw’s movement of withdrawal was snake smooth. “Please, Captain,” he murmured. “I shall be happy to give you one now. But only one at a time. It is the law, you understand. We have to keep a careful record. Can’t be careless, you know.”
The Terran stood motionless for what seemed a long while. At last he grinned, without much jollity. “Yes,” he said, “I believe I do understand.”