Chapter 7
SLOWLY DIOMEDES AND BRASIDUS made their way down the ramp from the airlock. Both were silent, and the Sergeant, at least, was being hard put to sort and to evaluate the multitude of new impressions that had crowded upon him. The coffee—could it be a habit-forming drug? But it was good. And that burning weed the fumes of which Lieutenant Commander Grimes had inhaled with such enjoyment. And the un-Spartan luxury in which Grimes lived—luxury utterly unsuitable for a fighting man. And this Interstellar Federation, an officer of whose navy—although it was called the Survey Service—he claimed to be.
And those oddly disturbing Arcadians (if they were Arcadians)—the doctor Lazenby, the steward Sheila, and one or two more whom the Spartans had glimpsed on their way ashore . . .
They were out of earshot of the ship now, halfway between the airlock and the gate, outside which Hector and the other hoplites had stiffened to attention. Diomedes said, “Come to my office, Sergeant. I want to talk things over with you. There’s a lot that I don’t understand, but much of it strengthens my suspicions.”
“Of whom, sir? This Lieutenant Commander Grimes?”
“No. He’s just a spaceman, the same as Captain Bill and Captain Jim of the Venus and the Hera. If his service prefers to tack a double-barreled label on him, that’s his worry. Oh, I want to find out where the ship is from and what’s the real reason for its visit, but my main suspicions are much nearer home.”
They passed through the gate, opened for them and locked after them by Hector. Old Cleon approached them, was brushed off by Diomedes. They continued their march to the office, although in the case of Diomedes it was more of a waddle.
“In my job,” went on the Security Captain, buckling on his pistol belt as he walked, “I’m no respecter of persons. I shouldn’t be earning my pay if I were.” He gestured upwards. “Flight Admiral Ajax up there, for example. He holds his rank—and his life—only because I do not choose to act yet. When I do . . .” He closed his pudgy fist decisively and suggestively. “You’re an ambitious man, Brasidus. And an intelligent one. I’ve had my eye on you for some time. I have been thinking of asking to have you transferred to Security. And when Diomedes asks, people hurry to oblige him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“With promotion to lieutenant, of course.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it. I need a young assistant for the . . . the legwork.” He smiled, showing all his uneven, discolored teeth, obviously pleased with the expression that he had just coined. “The legwork,” he repeated.
The two men entered the Spaceport Security Office, passed through into Diomedes’ private room. At the Captain’s order, Brasidus sat down. The chair was hard, comfortless, yet he felt far happier on it than he had felt in the luxury of Lieutenant Commander Grimes’ day cabin. Diomedes produced a flagon of beer, two mugs. He poured. “To our . . . partnership,” he said.
“To our partnership, sir.”
“Now, Lieutenant Brasidus, what I am saying to you is strictly confidential. I need not remind you of the consequences to yourself if you abuse my confidence. To begin with, I played along with this man Grimes. I asked the silly questions that he’d assume that I would ask. But I formed my own conclusions.”
“And what were they, sir?”
“Oh, I’m not telling you yet, young Brasidus. I could be wrong—and I want your mind to remain uninfluenced by any theories of mine. But they tie in, they tie in. They tie in with the most heinous crime of all—treason to the State. Now, tell me, who’re the most powerful men on Sparta?”
“The most powerful man is the King, sir.”
Diomedes’ thin eyebrows lifted, arching over his muddy eyes. “Is he? But no matter. And I said ‘the most powerful men’.”
“The Council, sir.”
“H’m. Could be. Could be. But . . .”
“What are you driving at, sir?”
“What about the doctors, our precious medical priesthood? Don’t they control the birth machines? Don’t they decide who among the newly born is to live, and who, to die? Don’t they conduct the fatherhood tests? Don’t they say, in effect, that there shall be so many members of the military caste, so many helots—and so many doctors?”
“Yes. That’s so, sir. But how could they be traitors?”
“Opportunity, dear boy. Opportunity. Opportunity for a betrayal of the principles upon which our State was founded. Frankly, although I have long harbored suspicions, I did not really think that it was possible until the man Grimes landed here with his ship and his mixed crew. Now I realize the evil spell that can be exerted by those . . . creatures.”
“What creatures?” demanded Brasidus as impatiently as he dared.
“The Arcadians? Yes—that’s as good a name as any.” He refilled the mugs. “Now, I have to make my report and my recommendations to the Council. When Grimes made his first psionic contact with the spaceport authorities, before he reentered normal Space-Time, he requested permission to land and to take a census, and also to carry out ecological and ethological surveys. Ethology, by the way, is the science of behavior. I learned that much, although I’ve been making use of its principles for years. Later he confirmed this by normal radio—psionic reception at this end was rather garbled as our telepaths were completely unfamiliar with so many new concepts.
“As you well know, after your many spells of spaceport guard duty, it has always been contrary to Council policy to allow visiting spacemen to mingle with our population. But I shall recommend that in this case an exception be made, arguing that Grimes and his men are quite harmless, also that the Federation—yes, I’m afraid that there is one—is obviously powerful and might take offense if its servants are not hospitably received.
“My real reason for the recommendation I shall keep to myself.”
“And what is it, sir?”
“When a pot boils, Brasidus, all sorts of scum comes to the top. A few . . . Arcadians running around on Sparta might well bring the pot to the boil. And who will get scalded? That is the question.”
“You don’t like the doctors, Captain?”
“That I do not. I am hoping that those whom I suspect of treason will be forced to act—and to act rashly.”
“There is something suspicious about them—or about some of them.” Briefly, but omitting nothing, Brasidus told Diomedes of his encounter with Heraklion in the crËche. “He was hiding something,” he concluded. “I am sure of that.”
“And you’re ideally situated to find out what it was, Brasidus.” Diomedes was thoughtful. “This is the way that we shall play it. Officially you are still a sergeant in the Police Battalion. Your pay will be made up, however, to lieutenant’s rates out of Security funds. You will be relieved of spaceport guard duties. You will discover, in fact, that your captain will be allowing you considerable free time—free insofar as he is concerned. As far as I am concerned, it will not be so free. Off duty, you will be able to visit your friend Achron at the crËche. I already knew of your friendship with him, as a matter of fact—that was one of the reasons why I was considering having you transferred to my Branch. One of the nurses might have been a better recruit—but their loyalties are so unreliable. On duty, you will act as escort to Lieutenant Commander Grimes and his officers.
“And you will report to me everything—and I mean everything—you learn.”
“And what shall I learn, sir?”
“You’ll be surprised. It could be that I shall be, too.” He picked up the telephone on his desk, ordered his car brought round to the office. Then he said to Brasidus, “Give Hector his instructions. He can carry on until relieved. Then you can ride with me back to the city.”