Chapter 11
IT WAS NOT the first time that Brasidus had been inside the palace, but, as always, he was awed (although he tried not to show it in front of the foreigners) by the long, colonnaded, high-ceilinged halls, each with its groups of heroic statuary, each with its vivid murals depicting scenes of warfare and the chase. He marched along beside his charges (who, he was pleased to note, had fallen into step), taking pride in the rhythmic, martial clank of the files of hoplites on either side of them, the heralds, long, brazen trumpets already upraised, ahead of them. Past the ranks of Royal Guards—stiff and immobile at attention, tiers of bright-headed spears in rigid alignment—they progressed. He realized, with disapproval, that John Grimes and Margaret Lazenby were talking in low voices.
“More anachronisms for you, Peggy. Those guards. Spears in hand—and projectile pistols at the belt . . .”
“And look at those murals, John. Pig-sticking—those animals aren’t unlike boars—on motorcycles. But these people do have good painters and sculptors.”
“I prefer my statues a little less aggressively masculine. In fact, I prefer them nonmasculine.”
“You would. I find them a pleasant change from the simpering nymphs that are supposed to be decorative on most planets.”
“You would.”
Brasidus turned his head. “Quiet, please, sirs. We are approaching the throne.”
There was a sharp command from the officer in charge of the escort. The party crashed to a halt. The heralds put the mouthpieces of their instruments to their lips, sounded a long, discordant blast, then another. From a wide, pillared portal strode a glittering officer. “Who comes?” he demanded.
In unison the heralds chanted, “John Grimes, master of the star ship Seeker. Margaret Lazenby, one of his officers.”
“Enter, John Grimes. Enter, Margaret Lazenby.”
Again a command from the leader of the escort, and with a jangle of accouterments, the march resumed, although at a slower pace. Through the doorway they passed, halted again. There was another prolonged blast from the heralds’ trumpets, a crash of grounded spear butts.
There was the King, resplendent in golden armor (which made the iron crown somehow incongruous), bearded (the only man on Sparta to be so adorned), seated erect on his high, black throne. There, ranged behind him on marble benches, was the Council—the doctors in their scarlet robes, the engineers in purple, the philosophers in black, the generals in brown and the admirals in blue. There was a small group of high-ranking helots—agronomists robed in green, industrialists in gray. All of them stared curiously at the men, from the ship, from whom the guards had fallen away. But, Brasidus noted, there was more than curiosity on the faces of the scarlet-robed doctors as they regarded Margaret Lazenby. There was recognition, puzzlement and . . . guilt?
Grimes, at heel-clicking attention, saluted smartly.
“You may advance, Lieutenant Commander,” said the King.
Grimes did so, once again drawing himself to attention when within two paces from the throne.
“You may relax, John Grimes. At ease.” There was a long pause, then, “We have been told that you come from another world—another world, that is, beyond our polity of Sparta and Latterhaven. We have been told that you represent a government calling itself the Interstellar Federation. Assuming that there is such an entity, what is your business on Sparta?”
“Your Majesty, my mission is to conduct a census of the Man-colonized planets in this sector of space.”
“The members of our Council concerned with such matters will be able to give you all the information you need. But we are told that you and your officers wish to set foot on this world—a privilege never accorded to the crews of Latterhaven ships. May we inquire as to your motives?”
“Your Majesty, in addition to the census, we are conducting a survey.”
“A survey, Lieutenant Commander?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. There are worlds, such as yours, about which little is known. There are worlds—and yours is one of them—about which much more should be known.”
“And this Federation of yours”—Brasidus, watching the King’s face, could see that he had not been surprised by any of Grimes’ answers, that he accepted the existence of worlds other than Sparta and Latterhaven without demur, that even the mention of this fantastic Federation had been no cause for amazement—”it has considerable military strength?”
“Considerable strength, Your Majesty. My ship, for example, is but a small and unimportant unit of our fleet.”
“Indeed? And your whereabouts are known?”
“The movements of all vessels are plotted by Master Control.”
“And so . . . and so, supposing that some unfortunate accident were to happen to your ship and your crew on Sparta, we might, just possibly, expect a visit from one or more of your big battleships?”
“That is so, Your Majesty.”
“And we could deal with them, sire!” interpolated a portly, blue-robed Council member.
The King swiveled around in his throne. “Could we, Admiral Philcus? Could we? We wish that we possessed your assurance. But we do not. It does not matter how and by whom the planets of this Federation were colonized—what does matter is that they own spaceships, which we do not, and even space warships, which even Latterhaven does not. We, a mere monarch, hesitate to advise you upon naval tactics, but we remind you that a spaceship can hang in orbit, clear of the atmosphere—and therefore beyond reach of your airships—and, at the same time, release its shower of bombs upon our cities. Consider it, Philcus.” He turned back to Grimes. “So, Lieutenant Commander, you seek permission for you and your men to range unhindered over the surface of our world?”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“Some of our ways and customs may be strange to you. You will not interfere. And you will impart new knowledge only to those best qualified to be its recipients.”
“That is understood, Your Majesty.”
“Sire!” This time it was one of the doctors. “I respectfully submit that permission to leave this outworld ship be extended only to human crew members.”
“And what is your reason, Doctor? Let Margaret Lazenby advance so that we may inspect him.”
The Arcadian walked slowly toward the King. Looking at his face, Brasidus could see that the being had lost some of his cockiness. But there was a certain defiance there still. Should this attitude result in punishment ordered by the King, thought Brasidus, there will be a large measure of injustice involved. The major portion of the blame would rest with Grimes who, after all, had so obviously failed to maintain proper disciplinary standards aboard his ship.
Cresphontes, King of All Sparta, looked long and curiously at the alien spaceman. He said at last, “They tell us that you are an Arcadian.”
“That is so, Your Majesty.”
“And you are a member of a space-faring race.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Turn around, please. Slowly.”
Margaret Lazenby obeyed, his face flushing.
“So . . .” mused the King. “So . . .” He swiveled in his throne so that he faced the Council. “You have all seen. You have all seen that this Arcadian is smaller than a true man, is more slightly built. Do you think that he would be a match for one of our warriors, or even for a helot? A thousand of these creatures, armed, might be a menace. But . . .” He turned to address Grimes. “How many of them are there in your crew, Lieutenant Commander?”
“A dozen, Your Majesty.”
“A mere dozen of these malformed weaklings, without arms . . . No, there can be no danger. Obviously, since they are members of Seeker’s crew, they can coexist harmoniously with men. So, we repeat, there is no danger.”
“Sire!” It was the doctor who had raised the objection. “You do not know these beings. You do not know how treacherous they can be.”
“And do you, Doctor Pausanias? And if you do know, how do you know?”
The Councilman paled. He said, lamely, “We are experienced, sire, in judging who is to live and who is not to live among the newborn. There are signs, reliable signs. She”—he pointed an accusing finger at Margaret Lazenby—”exhibits them.”
“Indeed, Doctor Pausanias? We admit that a child emerging from the birth machine with such a deformed chest would be among those exposed, but how is that deformity an indication of character?”
“It is written in her face, sire.”
“In her face? Have you suddenly learned a new language, Doctor?”
“Sire, it was a slip of the tongue. His face.”
“So . . . Face us, Margaret Lazenby. Look at us.” The King’s right hand went up to and stroked his short beard. “We read no treachery in your countenance. There is a softness, better suited to a children’s nurse than to a warrior, but there is courage, and there is honesty.”
“Sire!” Pausanius was becoming desperate. “Do not forget that sh—that he is an alien being. Do not forget that in these cases expression is meaningless. A woods boar, for example, will smile, but not from amiability. He smiles when at his most ferocious.”
“And so do men at times.” The King grinned, his teeth very white in his dark, bearded face. “We become ferocious, and we smile, when councilmen presume to tell us our business.” He raised his voice. “Guards! Remove this man.”
“But, sire . . .”
“Enough.”
There was a scuffle at the back of the chamber as the doctor was hustled out by four hoplites. Brasidus noticed, with grim satisfaction, that none of the man’s scarlet-robed colleagues made any move to defend him. He thought, Cresphontes knows where his real strength lies. With us, the military.
“Lieutenant Commander Grimes!”
“Your Majesty?”
“We have decided that you may carry out your survey. You and your officers and men, both human and Arcadian, may leave your ship—but only as arranged with our Captain Diomedes, and only under escort. Is that quite clear?”
“Quite clear, Your Majesty. We shall see only what we are allowed to see.”
“You have made a correct assessment of the situation. And now, as we have matters of import to discuss with our Council, you are dismissed.”
Grimes saluted and then, slowly, he and Margaret Lazenby backed from the royal presence. Brasidus accompanied them. Beyond the door to the throne room the escort fell in about them.
As they marched out of the palace to the waiting car, Grimes asked, “Brasidus, what will happen to that doctor? The one who was dragged out of the chamber?”
“He will he beheaded, probably. But he is lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes. If he were not a doctor and a councilman, he could have his arms and legs lopped off before being exposed on the hillside with the defective children.”
“You’re joking, Brasidus!” exclaimed Margaret Lazenby.
“Joking? Of course not.”
The Arcadian turned to Grimes. “John, can’t we do something?”
Grimes shook his head. “Anything that we could do would mean the death of more than one man. Besides, our strict orders are not to interfere.”
“It is expedient,” said Margaret Lazenby bitterly, “that one man should die for the good of the people.”
“Careful, Peggy. This place may be bugged. Remember that we aren’t members of the Council.”
“Spoken like a true naval officer of these decadent days. I often think that the era of gunboat diplomacy had much to recommend it.”