The queen of zamba, p.16
The Queen of Zamba, page 16
“Only what?”
“Well, you see, the stupid taxi driver must have misunderstood me and took me to the wrong place, so we got into an argument, and what with me not speaking any Spanish or Catalan and he not speaking any English or French or Arabic it was simply ghastly—and what with one thing and another, by the time I did get to the Cristobal I’d forgotten the name!”
“Then why didn’t you call me at the jail and find out?”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“Where were you during the evening, and again this morning when I called you?”
“In the evening I went to a movie, and when I got back to my room, Daddy called me by telephone from Aleppo to say he was chartering a special fast plane. So this morning I was so excited I left early to wait for him at the airport.”
Hasselborg sighed. Nice girl, but too scatterbrained for his taste.
“Has Daddy told you the news?” she continued. “Of course not; he just arrived. Tell him, Daddy.”
“I am going back to Krishna with Julnar,” said Batruni.
“Why?” said Hasselborg.
“It is this way. While you were gone, the government socialized my factories. They paid me for them, so I need not starve, but there is no more fun in life. I even offered to act as manager; but they turned it down. They do not trust a wicked capitalist to run them without sabotaging them. There is no pleasure on Earth any more. Everything is too orderly, planned, regulated. You cannot move a meter without tripping over red tape.
“Therefore, if you will give me a letter directing that person who has Anthony in custody to let him go, I will go to Krishna and live with this wild son-in-law of mine in his island kingdom. I shall be a genuine prince, which you cannot be on Earth any more unless you are a Scandinavian.”
“Isn’t it just too divine?” squealed Julnar. “Now I’m really grateful to you for kidnaping me!”
“Swell,” said Hasselborg. “I hope you’re satisfied with the way I carried out the assignment, Mr. Batruni.”
“Certainly, more than satisfied. In fact I am so pleased that I have an offer to make to you.”
“Another job? said Hasselborg in slight alarm.
“Yes, but not the kind you think. In addition to my regular fee I am offering you a lectureship at the University of Beyrût, of which I am a trustee.”
Hasselborg paused to let this sink in. “A lectureship in what?”
“Anglo-Saxon law.”
“My word! I’d have to think, even if I beat this rap; but my sincerest thanks. I’d have to brush up on my law and my Arabic. Say, how about seeing the sights of Barcelona? I promised Julnar but got pinched before I could deliver. Come on; ‘tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea, along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!”
The hearing took place the following morning. In the front row, like Alice between the two queens, sat
Papa Batruni, showing signs of a hangover, with his daughter on one side and Alexandra on the other. The magistrate had just called the case when a bulky Oriental walked down the aisle.
“Chuen!” cried Hasselborg, then to his lawyer: “Senor Agüesar, there’s the man we want!”
Chuen shook hands warmly. “I just arrived and learned you were in pokey. I left several days after you, but in faster ship.”
“I always get the scows,” said Hasselborg, and explained his plight.
When the Viagens officer, Ndombu, had explained the warrant, Agüesar called Chuen to the stand. Chuen, using an interpreter, told what had happened on Krishna, emphasizing the fact that only by a slight infraction of the anti-invention regulation had Hasselborg been able to survive to forestall another and much graver violation.
“Case dismissed,” said the magistrate.
Hasselborg asked Chuen: “Could you stay over two days and act as my best man?” At Chuen’s quizzical look he added: “Miss Garshin and I are getting married. We got our license yesterday, but they’ve got a three-day law in Iberia.”
“I’m so sorry! I have my ticket for airplane to China; leave this afternoon. If I miss, won’t be another seat for a week. Wish I knew sooner.”
“Oh. Too bad. When are you going?”
Chuen looked at his watch. “Should start in a few minutes.”
“I’ll go with you. Can you dear, sweet people excuse me for an hour?”
In the taxi Chuen said: “Glad to get back to civilization?”
“Right! What did you do after I left?”
“Collected evidence for several days. I got those letters from Gois to Dasht of Ruz, for instance. Took doing.”
“What happened to Gois?”
“Oh, he got ten years; couple of others who were in with him, shorter terms.”
“Was Abreu in on it?”
“No; he’s all right. He wouldn’t believe Gois was a crook at first, but when I convinced him he helped me very much. But while I was still in Hershid, the most awful thing happened to me!
“What?”
“Fouri made me marry her on threat of exposing me as Terran spy! Embarrassing, especially since I already got wife and eight children in Gweilin.”
“What’s the dope on Haste and Fouri? She can’t be his niece—”
“No.”
“Mistress?”
“Think no. Haste real old ascetic.”
“She is a Krishnan?”
“Oh, yes,” said Chuen.
“Then how—”
“Haste was a deserter from one of earliest ships to land on Krishna. Pretty old then, over two hundred. Set himself up as holy hermit, lived in cave, became a power in their church in Gozashtand. Then when there was deadlock in election a few years ago, they picked him for high priest as compromise. Not bad man really, but too small for his job. Was owing to his weak leadership the Church was failing, I think, which is after all good thing if you don’t believe that astrological nonsense.”
“But Fouri?”
“She was young girl from caravan of Gavehona—you know, a wandering tribe, like our Gypsies. Went live with him while he was still hermit; don’t know how much for religion, how much for regular meals. When he became high priest, she moved in with him—like father and daughter. Now Haste getting really old, so Fouri start looking for another berth. Fall in love with you; genuine, I think. Made Haste cooperate by threatening to expose him as Earthman.
“Meanwhile Haste is looking for another berth too, since his Established Church is failing, so he entered plot with Fallon. He was going to hail Fallon as Messiah or something like that when Fallon took Hershid. We fixed that. But when you escaped, idea of getting married had become an obsession with Fouri. Haste couldn’t marry her, obviously, so she picked me; better than nothing, I suppose. Maybe she thought I’d fall in love with her and stay. Hard enough to tell what goes on in Earthwoman’s mind.”
Hasselborg brought his friend up to date on the Batruni affairs, adding: “I didn’t mention that Alexandra was Fallon’s ex; the Batrunis don’t know it and it would only embarrass everybody. How’s Fallon doing?”
“All right. Was planning to put himself in trance when I left; wanted to make sure you took off with Julnar first.”
Hasselborg said: “It’ll be years by objective time before they get back to Krishna, and anything might have happened by then. However, that’s their lookout. You know, I’m sometimes bothered by the feeling that Gois and his gang were right and we and the Interplanetary Council wrong.”
“I know, but not our business. We do our jobs. Speaking of jobs—you taking up this teaching offer?”
“I think so.”
“Sounds dull.”
“D’you like manhunting?”
“Of course. Why you think I work as a cop?”
“Well, I’ve had my fill. While I’ve usually taken things pretty much as they came, I pushed my luck on Krishna as far as anybody could, what with being shot at with crossbows and slashed at with swords and stabbed with knives and almost eaten by yekis.” Hasselborg, feeling expansive, drew on his cigar. “I remember in Plato’s Republic where a character named Er gets knocked cold in a fight. His soul goes to Hades and later returns to his body, and Er comes to and tells how in Hades he saw the souls of other dead people picking their next incarnations. Ajax is choosing the life of a lion and so on. But Odysseus is smart. He figures he’s had enough excitement in his last life, so he’s selecting the life of an obscure private citizen leading a peaceful existence. And that’s how I feel. Any time you’re in Beyrût, come see Professor and Mrs. Hasselborg and all the little Hasselborgs. We’ll bore you to death with placid domesticity.”
As Chuen waddled up the companionway into the fuselage, he turned to wave at Hasselborg, who waved back. A good guy, thought Hasselborg, but I hope I never have anything to do with the detective business again. That’s that.
A young man brushed by Hasselborg, flashed him a quick glance, and ran up the companionway into the fuselage just before the door shut and the tractor towed the plane away to the catapult strip. Although Hasselborg had only a glimpse of the man’s face, it was enough.
The man was the young Gozashtando priest who used to come in and murmur in Haste’s ear, disguised as an Earthman by a wig that came down over his forehead to hide the antennae. Fouri must have sent him to Earth to track down her fugitive and bigamous husband!
PERPETUAL MOTION
I.
“My good senhor,” said Abreu, “where the devil did you get those? Raid half the Earth’s pawnshops?” He bent closer to look at the decorations on Felix Borel’s chest. “Teutonic Order, French Legion of Honor, Third World War, Public Service Award of North America, Fourth Degree of the Knights of St. Stephen, Danish Order of the Elephant, something-or-other from Japan, Intercollegiate Basketball Championship, Pistol Championship of the Policia do Rio de Janeiro… Tamates, what a collection!”
Borel smiled sardonically down on the fat little security officer. “You never can tell. I might be a basketball champion.”
“What are you going to do, sell these things to the poor ignorant Krishnans?”
“I might, if I ran short. Or maybe I’ll just dazzle them so they’ll give me whatever I ask for.”
“Humph. I admit that in that private uniform, with all those medals and orders, you’re an awe-inspiring spectacle.”
Borel, amusedly watching Abreu fume, knew that the latter was sore because he had not been able to find any excuse to hold Borel at Novorecife. Thank God, thought Borel, the universe is not yet so carefully organized that personal influence can’t perform a trick or two. He would have liked to do Abreu a bad turn if for no better reason than that he harbored an irrational prejudice against Brazzies, as though it were Abreu’s fault that his native country was the Earth’s leading power.
Borel grinned at the bureaucrat. “You’d be surprised how helpful this—uh—costume of mine has been. Flunkeys at spaceports assume I’m at least Chief of Staff of the World Federation. ‘Step this way, senhor! Come to the head of the line, senhor!’ More fun than a circus.”
Abreu sighed. “Well, I can’t stop you. I still think you’d have a better chance of survival disguised as a Krishnan, though.”
“And wear a green wig, and false feelers on my forehead? No thanks.”
“That’s your funeral. However, remember Regulation 368 of the Interplanetary Council rules. You know it?”
“Sure. ‘It is forbidden to communicate to any native resident of the planet Krishna any device, appliance, machine, tool, weapon, or invention representing an improvement upon the science and technics already in existence upon this planet…’ Want me to go on?”
“Ndo, you know it. Remember that while the Via-gens Interplanetarias will ordinarily let you alone once you leave Novorecife, we’ll go to any length to prevent and punish any violation of that rule. That’s Council orders.”
Borel yawned. “I understand. If the type has finished X-raying my baggage, I’ll be pushing off. What’s the best route to Mishe at present?”
“You could go straight through the Koloft Swamps, but the wilder tribes of the Koloftuma sometimes kill travelers for their goods. You’d better take a raft down the Pichide to Qou, and follow the road southwest from there to Mishe.”
“Obrigado. The Republic of Mikardand is on a gold standard, isn’t it?”
“Pois sim.”
“And what’s gold at Novorecife worth in terms of World Federation dollars on Earth?”
“Oh, Deus meu! That takes a higher mathematician to calculate, what with freight and interest and the balance of trade.”
“Just approximately,” persisted Borel.
“As I remember, a little less than two dollars a gram.”
Borel stood up and shook back his red hair with a characteristic gesture. He gathered up his papers. “Adeus, Senhor Cristovao; you’ve been most helpful.”
He smiled broadly as he said this, for Abreu had obviously wanted to be anything but helpful and was still gently simmering over his failure to halt Borel’s invasion of Krishna.
The next day found Felix Borel drifting down the Pichide on a timber raft under the tall clouds that paraded across the greenish sky of Krishna. Next to him crouched the Kolofto servant he had hired at Novorecife, tailed and monstrously ugly.
A brisk shower had just ended. Borel stood up and shook drops off his cloak as the big yellow sun struck them. Yerevats did likewise, grumbling in broken Gozashtandou: “If master do like I say, put on poor man clothes, could take towboat and stay close to shore. Then when rain come, could put up tarpaulin. No get wet, no be afraid robbers.”
“That’s my responsiblity,” replied Borel, moving about to get his circulation going again. He gazed off to starboard, where the low shore of the Pichide broke up into a swarm of reedy islets. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Koloft Swamps,” said Yerevats.
“Your people live there?”
“No, not by river. Further back. By river is all uj-ero.” (He gave the Kolofto name for the quasi-human people of the planet, whom most Earthmen thought of simply as Krishans because they were the dominant species.) “Robbers,” he added.
Borel, looking at the dark horizontal stripe of reeds between sky and water, wondered if he had been wise to reject Yerevats’s advice to buy the full panoply of a garm or knight. Yerevats, he suspected, had been hoping for a fancy suit of armor for himself. Borel had turned down the idea on grounds of expense and weight; suppose one fell into the Pichide in all that stove-piping? Also, he now admitted to himself, he had succumbed to Terran prejudice against medieval Krishman weapons, since one Terran bomb could easily wipe out a whole Krishnan city and one gun mow down a whole army. Perhaps he had not given enough weight to the fact that, where he was going, no Terran bombs or guns would be available.
Too late now for might-have-beens. Borel checked over the armament he had finally bought: a sword for himself, as much a badge of status as a protection. A cheap mace with a wooden handle and a star-shaped iron head for Yerevats. Sheath knives of general utility for both. Finally, a crossbow. Privately Borel, no swashbuckler, hoped that any fighting they did would be at as long a range as possible. He had tried drawing a longbow in the Outfitting Shop at Novorecife, but in his unskilled grip it bob-bled about too much and would have required more practice than he had time for.
Borel folded his cloak, laid it on his barracks bag, and sat down to go over his plans again. The only flaw he could see lay in the matter of getting an entre to the Order of Qarar after he arrived at Mi-she. Once he had made friends with members of the Brotherhood, the rest should be easy. By all accounts, the Mikardanduma were natural-born suckers. But how to take that first step? He would probably have to improvise after he got there.
Once he had gotten over that first hurdle, his careful preparation and experience in rackets like this would see him through. And the best part would be that he would have the laugh on old Abreu, who could do absolutely nothing about it. Since Borel considered honesty a sign of stupidity, and since Abreu was not stupid for all his pompous ways, Borel assumed that Abreu must be out for what he could get like other wise joes, and that his moral attitudes and talk of principles were mere hypocritical pretence.
“Ao!” The shout of one of the raftmen broke into Borel’s reverie. The Krishnan was pointing off towards the right bank, where a boat was emerging from among the islets.
Yerevats jumped, up, shading his eyes with his hairy hand. “Robbers!” he said.
“How can you tell from here?” asked Borel, a horrid fear making his heart pound.
“Just know. You see,” said the Koloftu, his tail twitching nervously. He looked appealingly at Borel. “Brave master kill robbers? No let them hurt us?”
“Sh-sure,” said Borel. He pulled out his sword halfway, looked at the blade, and shoved it back into its scabbard, more as a nervous gesture than anything else.
“Ohe!” said one of the raftmen. “Think you to fight the robbers?”
“I suppose so,” said Borel.
“No, you shall not! If we make no fight, they will slay only you, for we are but poor men.”
“Is that so?” said Borel. The adrenalin being poured into his system made him contrary, and his voice rose. “So you think I’ll let my throat be cut quietly to save yours, huh? I’ll show you baghana!” The sword whipped out of the scabbard, and the flat slapped the raftman on the side of the head, staggering him. “We’ll fight whether you like it or not! I’ll kill the first coward myself!” he was screaming at the three raftmen, now huddled together fearfully. “Make a barricade of the baggage! Move that stove forward!” He stood over them, shouting and swishing the air with his sword, until they had arranged the movables in a rough square.
“Now,” said Borel more calmly, “bring your poles and crouch down inside there. You too, Yerevats. I’ll try to hold them off with the bow. If they board us anyway, we’ll jump out and rush them when I give the signal. Understand?”
The boat had been slanting out from the shore on a course converging toward that of the raft. Now Borel, peering over the edge of his barricade, could make out the individuals in it. There was one in the bow, another in the stern, and the rest rowing— perhaps twenty in all.
