A STONE IN HEAVEN Poul Anderson [21 feb 2003—scanned for #bookz] [03 mar 2003—proofed for #bookz] I Through time beyond knowing, the Kulembarach clan had ranged those lands which reach south of Lake Roan and east of the Kiiong River. The Forebear was said to have brought her family up from the Ringdales while the Ice was still withdrawing beyond the Guardian Mountains. Her descendants were there on the territory she took when traders from West-Oversea brought in the arts of ironworking and writing. They were old in possession when the first Seekers of Wisdom arose, and no few of them joined the College as generations passed. They were many and powerful when the long-slumbering fires in Mount Gungnor awoke again, and the Golden Tide flowed forth to enrich this whole country, and the clans together established the Lords of the Volcano. They were foremost in welcoming arid dealing with the strangers from the stars. But about that time, the Ice began returning, and now the folk of Kulembarach were in as ill a plight as any of their neighbors. Yewwl had gone on a long hunt with her husband Robreng and their three youngest children, Ngao, Ych, and little Ungn. That was only partly to get food, when the ranchlands could no more support enough livestock. It was also to get away, move about, unleash some of their rage against the fates upon game animals. Besides, her oath-sister Banner was eager to learn how regions distant from Wainwright Station were changed by cold and snow, and Yewwl was glad to oblige. The family rode east for an afternoon and most of the following night. Though they did not hurry, and often stopped to give chase or to rest, that much travel took them a great ways, to one of the horn-topped menhirs which marked the territorial border of the Arrohdzaroch clan. Scarcity of meat would have made trespass dangerous as well as wrong. Yewwl turned off in a northwesterly direction. "We will go home by way of the Shrine," she explained to the others—and to Banner, who saw and heard and even felt what she did, through the collar around her neck. Had she wished to address the human unheard by anybody else, she would have formed the words voicelessly, down in her throat. The alien tone never came to any hearing but Yewwl's; Banner had said the sound went in through her skull. Eighteen years had taught Yewwl to recognize trouble in it: "I've seen pictures lately, taken from moon-height. You would not like what you found there, dear." Fur bristled, vanes spread and rippled, in sign of defiance. "I understand that. Shall the Ice keep me from my Forebear?" Anger died out. For Banner alone, Yewwl added softly, "And those with me hope for a token from her—an oracular dream, perhaps. And … I may be an unbeliever in such things, because of you, but I myself can nonetheless draw strength from them." Her band rode on. Night faded into hours of slowly brightening twilight. The storminess common around dawn and sunset did not come. Instead was eerie quiet under a moon and a half. The nullfire hereabouts did not grow tall, as out on the veldt, but formed a thick turf, hoarfrost-white, that muffled the hoofbeats of the onsars. Small crepuscular creatures were abroad, darters, scuttlers, light-flashers, and the chill was softened by a fragrance of nightwort, but life had grown scant since Yewwl and Robreng were young. They felt how silence starkened the desolation, and welcomed a wind that sprang up near morning, though it bit them to the bone and made stands of spearcane rattle like skeletons. The sun rose at last. For a while it was a red step pyramid, far and far on the blurry horizon. The sky was opalescent. Below, land rolled steeply upward, cresting in a thousand-meter peak where snow and ice flushed in the early light. That burden spilled down the slopes and across the hills, broken here and there by a crag, a boulder, a tawny patch of uncovered nullfire, a tree—brightcrown or saw-frond—which the cold had slain. A flyer hovered aloft, wings dark against a squat mass of clouds. Yewwl didn't recognize its kind. Strange things from beyond the Guardian Range were moving in with the freeze. Ungn, her infant, stirred and mewed in her pouch. Her belly muscles seemed to glow with it. She might have stopped and dismounted to feed him, but a ruddy canyon and a tarn gone steel-hard told her through memory how near she was to her goal. She jabbed foot-claws at her onsar's extensors and the beast stepped up its pace from a walk to a shamble, as if realizing, weary though it was and rapidly though the air was thinning, that it could soon rest. Yewwl reached into a saddlebag, took forth a strip of dried meat, swallowed a part for herself and chewed the remainder into pulp. Meanwhile she had lifted Ungn into her arms and cuddled him. Her vanes she folded around her front to give the beloved mite shelter from the whining, seeking wind. Ych rode ahead. The sun entered heaven fully, became round and dazzling, gilded his pelt and sent light aflow over the vanes that he spread in sheer eagerness. He was nearly grown, lithe, handsome; no ruinous weather could dim the pride of his youth. His sister Ngao, his junior by three years, rode behind, leading several pack animals which bore camp gear and the smoked spoils of the hunt. She was slightly built and quiet, but Yewwl knew she was going to become a real beauty. Let fate be kind to her! Having well masticated the food, the mother brought her lips around her baby's and, with the help of her tongue, fed him. He gurgled and went back to sleep. She imagined him doing it happily, but knew that was mere imagination. Just six days old—or fourteen, if you counted from his begetting—he was as yet tiny and unshapen. His eyes wouldn't open for another four or five days, and he wouldn't be crawling around on his own till almost half a year after that. Robreng drew alongside. "Here," Yewwl said. "You take him a while." She handed Ungn over for her husband to tuck in his pouch. With a close look: "What's wrong?" The tautness of his vane-ribs, the quivering along their surfaces, the backward slant of his ears, everything about him cried unease. He need but say: "I sense grief before us." Yewwl lifted her right thigh to bring within reach the knife sheathed there. (Strapped to the left was a purse for flint, steel, tinderbox, and other such objects.) "Beasts?" Veldt lopers seldom attacked folk, but a pack of them—or some different kind of carnivore—might have been driven desperate by hunger. "Invaders?" The nightmare which never ended was of being overrun by foreigners whom starvation had forced out of their proper territory. His muzzle wrinkled, baring fangs, in a negative. "Not those, as far as I can tell. But things feel wrong here." In twenty years of marriage, she had learned to trust his judgment nearly as much as her own. While a bachelor, he had fared widely around, even spending two seasons north of the Guardians to hunt in the untenanted barrens there. He it was who had argued, when last the clan leaders met before the Lord of the Volcano, that this country need not be abandoned. Orchards and grazing would wither, ranching come to an end, but creatures native to the cold lands would move in; the Golden Tide would make them abundant; folk could live entirely off the chase, without falling back into savagery. Of course, the transition would take lifetimes, and those would be grim, but surely the star-beings would help … Thus it was daunting to see him shaken. "What do you mark, then?" Yewwl asked. "I am not sure," Robreng confessed. "It's been too long since I was in snow-decked uplands. Once my partner went down in a deep drift and was stuck, but we got him out. Our guide took us well clear of high hillsides, but I can't recall why. He had few words of our language." "Banner," Yewwl said aloud, each word a fog-puff, "do you know of any danger we might be in?" Across hundreds of kilometers, the secret voice replied, "No. That doesn't mean there is none, you realize. Your world is so different from mine—and so few humans have visited it, really, in all these centuries—and now everything is changing so fast—How I wish I could warn you." "Well, thank you, my oath-sister." Yewwl told Robreng what she had heard. Decision came. "I think I grasp what the matter is. It's within us—in me too. I remember how these parts were fair and alive when we were children; we remember caretakers, pilgrims, offerings and feasts and Oneness. Today we come back and find all gone dead and hollow. No wonder if dread arises." She straightened in her saddle. "Strike it down! Onward!" Ych crossed a root of the mountain and dropped out of sight. In a moment, his shout rang over ice and rock. He had spied the Shrine. His kin urged their onsars to speed, from shamble to swing. Four massive legs went to and fro; sparks flew where hoofs smote rock. Between, the thick extensors did more than help support the body; they gripped, pulled, shoved, let go, seized hold afresh on the ground. Aft of the hump where saddles or packs were, dorsal fins wagged, black triangles as high as a rider's head. Sweat gleamed on gray skin, sparse brown hair, big ears. Breath went loud, harsh, in and out of muzzles. Thews pulsed to the rocking motion. Yewwl topped the ridge and glanced aloft. Sharply through the thin, clear air of the heights, she saw her goal. The tomb of Kulembarach stood on a ledge a third of the way up the mountainside. It was a dolmen, rough granite slabs chiseled out of some quarry, somehow brought here and fitted together, in an age before iron. But around it, generation after generation had built terraces, raised houses and statues, nurtured exquisite gardens where fountains played and flutes replied. Here had been gathered the finest works of the clan and the best that traders abroad could bring home: pictures, jewelry, weavings, books, such awesome memorabilia as the Sword Which Held the Bridge, Amarao's cup, the skulls of the Seven Heroes, the quern of Gro the Healer. Today— Nearing, Yewwl could barely make out the balustrades of the terraces, overflowed by snow. Frost had shattered several, and brought low a number of the sculptures which elsewhere stood forlorn as the stricken trees. When the last caretakers must depart or die, cold had numbed them into carelessness, fire had escaped a hearth, nothing but blackened stonework was left of the delicately carpentered buildings. Bereft of its wooden gate, the arch before the tomb gaped with horrible emptiness. The onsars turned onto the road which led thither. It ascended too abruptly to be much drifted over, and the paving blocks were not yet sundered and tumbled and split, except in a few places. They rang under hoofs, answering the wind that wailed and bit and scattered a haze of dry ice crystals to shatter what sunlight came over the eastern shoulder into this darkling passage. Beyond the Shrine grounds the mountain rose steeper yet for a space, in a talus slope which clingplant had once made colorful but which was now only jagged and bleak. Above it, where the slope was easier, the snowpack began, that went on over the peak. It formed a white cliff, meters tall, mysteriously blue-shadowed. Nonetheless … amidst the ruins, rearing over banks, upbearing what had fallen upon it during the night, the dolmen remained, foursquare. Kulem-barach abided, at watch over her people. To those who sought her, she would still give dreams and luck … or, at least, the strength that came from remembering that she had prevailed in her day, and her blood endured … Yewwl's pulse thuttered. Ych was already there. When no keepers were left, that had earned him the right to greet the Forebear on behalf of his party. He unslung the bugle at his saddlebow and put it to his lips. Riding around and around the tomb, he challenged desolation with the hunting call of his mother. The snowcliff stirred. A mighty wind rushed downward from it, smote like hammers, roared like thunder. Statues and tree boles toppled before the blow. Earth shuddered. Hill-huge masses broke from the sliding precipice, flew, struck, smashed and buried what they hit. Behind them came the doom-fall itself. Yewwl never remembered what happened. Surely she vaulted to a stance on her saddle and sprang from it, spreading her vanes, as if she were about to attack game on an open plain. Surely she went gliding, and she did not come down soon enough to be engulfed. Therefore surely she caught updrafts, rode the buffeting airs that the slide hurled before it, crashed bruised and bleeding but not truly wounded in her body, down onto a ridge above the path of destruction. What she knew, at first, was nothing but a noise that should break the world apart, blindness, choked throat, tumbling well-nigh helpless—being tossed against raw rock and clawing herself fast while chaos raged—finally, silence, but for the ringing in her ears; and pain; and dazedly rising to stare. Where the Shrine had been, the road, the onsars, her companions: snow filled the vale, nearly as high as she was. A mist of crystals swallowed vision within fifty meters; it would be hours in settling. Suddenly there was no wind, as if that also had been seized and overwhelmed. "Robreng!" Yewwl screamed. "Ungn! Ych! Ngao!" It took her hours of crawling about and shouting to become certain that none of them had escaped. By then she was at the bottom of the slide, in the foothills under the mountain. She staggered away. She would not rest before she must, before flesh and bones fell down in a heap. And then she would not be long a-swoon; she would rise again, again she would howl and snarl her sorrow, she would hunt and kill whatever stirred in the waste, because she could not kill the thing that had slain her darlings. In Wainwright Station, Miriam Abrams slapped the switch of her multitransceiver, tore herself free of every connection to it, and surged from her chair. A calculator happened to be lying on the console shelf. She dashed it to the floor. It didn't break as she wanted, but it skittered. "God damn them!" she yelled. "God damn them to the deepest hole in hell!" The single person in the room with her was Ivan Polevoy, electronician, who had had some tinkering to do on a different piece of equipment. He had seen Abrams rapt in her rapport with the native, but not what was happening, for side panels effectively blocked his view of the video screen. The woman maintained that her relationship was sufficient invasion of privacy—though she admitted "privacy" was a notion hard to apply between unlike species. She herself spent incredible lengths of time following the life of her subject. The Ramnuan obviously didn't mind, no matter how intimate events became. Possibly she'd not mind if other humans observed too. However, Abrams had made it plain from the start, a couple of decades ago, that she alone would receive the raw data. The reports she prepared on that basis were detailed, insightful contributions to xenology; but nobody else knew how much she chose to leave out. The former chief of planetside operations had supported her in that policy. It was doubtless prudent, when little was known about Ramnuan psychology. Nowadays Abrams was the chief, so the staff didn't object either. Besides, their own jobs or projects kept them amply busy, undermanned as the place was. Hence Polevoy had to ask in surprise: "Damn who? What's wrong, Banner?" It was as if her nickname calmed her a little. Yet she had borne it for many years. Translated from the local language—wherein it derived from the flag which identified Wainwright Station at a distance to travelers—it had practically supplanted "Miriam," even in her mind. At this hour, it seemed to tell her that dear ones died, but the race lived on. Regardless, tears glistened on her lashes. The hand shook that fished a cigarette from a tunic pocket, struck it, and brought it to her mouth. Cheeks caved in with the violence of her smoking. Her voice was hoarse rather than husky, and wavered. "Avalanche. Wiped out Yewwl's whole family … and, oh, God, the Shrine, the heart of her clan's history—like wiping out Jerusalem—" A fist beat itself unmercifully against the console. "I should have guessed. But … no experience … I'm from Dayan, you know, warm, dry, no snow anywhere, and I've just been a visitor on worlds like Terra—" Her lips drew wide, her eyes squinched nearly shut. "If I'd thought! That much snowpack, and seven Terrestrial gravities to accelerate it—Yewwl, Yewwl, I'm sorry." "Why, that's terrible," Polevoy said. After a pause: "Your subject, she's alive?" Abrams jerked a nod. "Yes. With nothing to ride, no tent or supplies or tools or anything but what she's got on her person, and doubtless not a soul for a hundred kilometers around." "Well, we'd better send a gravsled for her. It can home on her transceiver, can't it?" Polevoy was fairly new here. "Sure, sure. Not right away, though. Don't you know what grief usually does to a Ramnuan? It's apt to drive him or her berserk." Abrams spoke in rough chunks of phrase. "Coping with that is a problem which every society on this planet has had to solve, one way or another. Maybe that's a main reason why they've never had wars—plenty of individual fights, but no wars, no armies, therefore no states—A soldier who lost his buddy would run amok." Laughter rattled from her. "Too bad we humans don't have the same trait. We wouldn't be cobwebbed into our Terran Empire then, would we?" She stubbed out the cigarette, viciously, and started the next. "We'll go fetch Yewwl when she's worked off the worst of what's in her, if she lives through it. Sometime this afternoon." That would be several standard days hence. "Meanwhile, I can be preparing to take on the wretched Empire." Shocked, Polevoy could merely say, "I beg your pardon?" Abrams slumped. She turned from him and stared out a viewscreen. It gave a broad overlook across the locality. On her right, the Kiiong River flowed seaward, more rapidly than any stream on Terra or Dayan would have gone through a bed as level as was here. Spray off rocks dashed brilliant above water made gray-green by glacial flour. Sonic receptors brought in a booming of great slow airs under more than thirty bars of pressure. Beyond the river was forest: low, thick trunks from which slender branches swayed, upheld by big leaves shaped like parachutes, surrounded by yellowish shrubs. To her left, eastward, chanced to be rare clarity. Dun pyrasphale rippled across twelve kilometers to Ramnu's horizon. Trees and canebrakes broke the sameness of that veldt; a kopje reared distance-blued; clouds cruised above, curiously flattened. A small herd of grazers wandered about, under guard of a mounted native. A score of flying creatures were aloft. When Abrams first arrived, this country had swarmed with life. Overhead, the sky was milky. Niku, the sun, appearing two-thirds as wide as Sol seen from Terra, cast amber light; a frost halo circled it. Diris, the innermost moon, glimmered pale toward the west. It would not set until Ramnu's long day had become darkness. "Another ice age on its way," Abrams mumbled. "The curse of this world. And we could stop it and all its kind. Whatever becomes of us and our Empire, we could be remembered as saviors, redeemers, for the next million years. But the Duke will not listen. And now Yewwl's people are dead." "Uh," Polevoy ventured, "uh, doesn't she have a couple of children who're adult, married?" "Yes. And they have children, who may well not survive what's coming down from the north," Abrams said. "Meanwhile she's lost her husband, her two youngsters, the last baby she'll ever bear; her clan has lost its Jerusalem; and none of that needed to happen." Tendons stood forth in her neck. "None of it! But the Grand Duke of Hermes would never listen to me!" After more silence, she straightened, turned around, said quite calmly: "Well, I'm done with him. This has been the last thing necessary to decide me. I'm going to leave pretty soon, Ivan. Leave for Terra itself, and appeal for help to the very top." Polevoy choked. "The Emperor?" Abrams grinned in gallows mirth. "No, hardly him. Not at the start, anyhow. But … have you ever perchance heard of Admiral Flandry?" II First she must go to the Maian System, nineteen light-years off, a journey of four standard days in the poky little starcraft belonging to the Ramnu Research Foundation. The pilot bade her farewell at Williams Field on Hermes and went into Starfall to see what fleshpots he could find before returning. Banner also sought the planet's chief city, but with less frivolous intentions. Mainly she wanted shelter, and not from the mild climate. She had cut her schedule as close as feasible. The liner Queen of Apollo would depart for Sol in fifty hours. Through Sten Runeberg, to whom she had sent a letter, she had a ticket. However, coming as she did from a primitive world of basically terrestroid biochemistry, she must get a checkup at a clinic licensed to renew her medical certificate. That was a ridiculous formality—even had she been exposed in shirtsleeves to Ramnu, no germ there could have lived a minute in her bloodstream—but the bureaucrats of Terra were adamant unless you held rank or title. Equally absurd, she thought, was the quasi-necessity of updating her wardrobe. She didn't think Flandry would care if she looked provincial. Yet others would, and her mission was difficult enough without her being at a psychological disadvantage. Therefore she sallied forth on the morning after she arrived at the Runebergs' town house, and didn't come back, her tasks completed, till sundown. "You must be exhausted, fairling," said her host. "How about a drink before dinner?" Fairling—The mild Hermetian endearment had taken on a special meaning for the two of them, when he was in charge of industrial operations at Ramnu and they had been lovers whenever they could steal time together. The three-year relationship had ended five years ago, with his inexplicable replacement by taciturn Nigel Broderick; it had never been deeply passionate; now he was married, and they had exchanged no more than smiles and glances during her stay, nor would they. Nonetheless, memory stabbed. Runeberg's wife was belated at her office. He, who had become a consulting engineer, had quit work early for his guest and put his child in charge of the governess. He mixed two martinis himself and led the way onto a balcony. "Pick a seat," he invited, gesturing at a couple of loungers. Banner stayed by the rail. "I'd forgotten how beautiful this is," she whispered. Dusk flowed across the quicksilver gleam of Daybreak Bay. The mansion stood on the southern slope of Pilgrim Hill, near the Palomino River. It commanded a view of the keeps above; of its own garden, fragrant with daleflower and roses, where a tilirra flew trilling and glowflies were blinking alight; of Riverside Common, stately with million-leaf and rainroof trees; of multitudinous old spires beyond and windows that'had begun to shine; of domes and towers across the stream, arrogantly radiant as if this were still that heyday of their world in which they had been raised. The air was barely cooled by a breeze and murmured only slightly of traffic. Heaven ranged from blue in the west to violet in the east. Antares was already visible, rising Venus-bright and ruby-red out of the Auroral Ocean. "You should have come here more often," Runeberg said. "You know I could hardly drag myself away from my work, ever, and then mostly to visit my parents," Banner replied. "Since Dad's death—" She broke off. The big blond man regarded her carefully. She stood profile to, so that he saw the curve of her nose below the high forehead, the set of her wide mouth and the jut of her chin and the long sweep of her throat down to the small bosom. Clad in a shimmerlyn gown—for practice at being a lady, she had said—she stood tall and slim, athletic despite the scattered silver in a shoulder-length light-brown mane. Then she turned around, briefly silhouetting a cheekbone ivory against the sky, and her eyes confronted his. They were perhaps her best feature, large and luminous green under dark brows. "Yes," he blurted, "you've let yourself get crazily wrapped up in those beings. Sometimes I'd find you slipping into styles of thought, emotion, that, well, that weren't human. It must have gotten worse since I left. Come back, Miri." He disliked calling me Banner, she remembered. "You imply that involvement with an intelligent, feeling race was bad in the first place," she said. "Why? On the whole, I've had a wonderful, fascinating, exciting life. And how else can we get to understand them? A different psychology, explored in depth … What can we not learn, also about ourselves?" Runeberg sighed. "Who is really paying attention? Be honest. You're studying one clutch of sophonts among countless thousands; and they're barbarians, impoverished, insignificant. Their planet was always more interesting to science than they were, and it was investigated centuries back, in plenty of detail. Xenology is a dying discipline anyway. Every pure science is; we live in that kind of era. Why do you think your foundation is marginally funded? Hai-ah, it'd have been closed down before you were born, if Ramnu didn't happen to have some value to Hermetian industry. You've sacrificed every heritage that was yours—for what, Miri?" "We've wasted time on that battleground in the past," she snapped. Her tone softened. "I don't want to quarrel, Sten. You mean well, I know. From your viewpoint, I suppose you're right." "I care about you, my very dear friend," he said. And it hurt you from the start to learn what I'd lost, she did not answer aloud. My marriage—Already established in the profession when he took a fresh graduate from the Galactic Academy for his bride, Feodor Sumarokov had seen their appointments to Ramnu as a steppingstone to higher positions; when he left after three years, she would not. My true love—She had never wedded Jason Kamunya, because they wanted to do that back on Dayan where her parents were, and somehow they never found a time when so long an absence wouldn't harmfully interrupt their research, and meanwhile they could live and work together … until that day in their fourth year when a stone falling from a height under seven gravities shattered his air helmet and head … My chance for children—Well, perhaps not yet. She was only forty-four. But not all the gero treatment known to man could stave off menopause for more than a decade, or add more than two or three to a lifespan; and where she was, she had had access to nothing but routine cell therapy. My home, my kindred, my whole civilization— Ramnu is my home! Yewwl and her folk are my kin in everything but flesh. And what is Technic civilization worth any longer? Unless I can make it save my oath-sister's world. Banner smiled and reached out to stroke the man's cheek. "Thank you for that," she murmured. "And for a lot else." Raising her glass: "Shalom." Rims clinked together. The liquor was cold and pungent on her tongue. She and he reclined facing each other. Twilight deepened. "You completed your business today?" he inquired. "Yes. Inconspicuously, I hope." He frowned. "You really are obsessive about secrecy, aren't you?" "Or forethoughtful." Her voice wavered the least bit. "Sten, you did do your best to handle my reservation and such confidentially, didn't you?" "Of course, since you asked. I'm not sure why you did." "I explained. If the Duke knew, he might well decide to stop me. And he could, in a dozen different ways." "Why would he, though?" Banner took a protracted sip. Her free hand fumbled in her sash pocket for a cigarette case. "He's neutronium-solid set against any project to reverse the glaciation on Ramnu." "Hoy? … True, true, you complained to me, in person and afterward in those rare letters you sent, that he won't consider Hermes making the effort." Runeberg drew breath for an argument. "Maybe he is being ungenerous. We could afford it. But he may well deem—in fact, you've quoted him to me to that effect—that our duty to ourselves is overriding. Hermes isn't poor, but it's not the rich, powerful world it used to be, either, and we're developing plenty of problems, both domestic and vis-a-vis the Imperium. I can understand how Duke Edwin may think an expensive undertaking for the sake of aliens who can never pay us back—how that might strain us dangerously, rouse protest, maybe even provoke an attempt at revolution." Banner started her smoke before she said bitterly, "Yes, he must feel insecure, yes, indeed. It's not as if he belonged to the House of Tamarin, or as if constitutional government still existed here. His grandfather was the latest in a string of caudillos, and he himself eased his elder brother off the throne." "Now, wait," Runeberg protested. "You realize I'm not too happy with him either. But he is doing heroic things for Hermes, and he does have ample popular support. If he has no Tamarin genes in him, he does carry a few Argolid ones, distantly, but from the Founder of the Empire just the same. It's the Imperium that's jeopardized its own right to rule—Hans Molitor seizing the crown by force—later robbing us of Mirkheim, to buy the goodwill of the money lords on Terra—" He checked himself. It was talk heard often nowadays, in private. But he didn't want to speak anger this evening. Moreover, she was leaving tomorrow in hopes of getting help there. "The point is," he said, "why should the Duke mind having your project financed and organized from outside? He ought to welcome that. Most of the resources and labor could come from our economic sphere. We'd get nice jobs, profits, contacts, every sort of benefit." "I don't know why he should object," Banner admitted. "I do know he will, if he finds out. I've exchanged enough letters and tapes with his immediate staff. I've come in person, twice, to plead, and got private audiences both times. Oh, the responses were more or less courteous, but always absolutely negative; and meeting with him, I could sense outright hostility." Runeberg gulped from his drink before he ventured to say: "Are you sure you weren't reading that into his manner? No offense, fairling, but you are not too well acquainted with humankind." "I've objective facts in addition, in full measure," she retorted. "My last request was that he ask the Emperor to aid Ramnu. His answer, through an undersecretary, was that this would be politically inadvisable. I'm not too naive to recognize when I'm being fobbed off. Especially when the message closed by stating that they were tired of this business, and if I persisted in it I could be replaced. Edwin Cairncross is quite willing to use his influence on Terra to crush one obscure scientist!" She drew hard on her cigarette, leaned forward, and continued: "That's not the only clue. For instance, why were you discharged from General Enterprises? Everybody I talked to was astounded. You'd been doing outstanding work." "I was simply told 'reorganization,' " he reminded her. "I did get handsome severance pay and testimonials. As near as I've been able to find out, somebody in a high position wanted Nigel Broderick to have my post. Bribery? Blackmail? Nepotism? Who knows?" "Broderick's been less and less cooperative with the Foundation," she said. "And that in spite of his expanding operations on Ramnu as well as its moons. Though it's impossible to learn exactly what the expansion amounts to. The time is past when my people or I could freely visit any of those installations." "Um-m, security precautions—There's been a lot of restriction in the Protectorate, too, lately. These are uneasy years. If the Imperium breaks down again—which could give the Merseians a chance to strike—" "What threat to security is a xenological research establishment? But we're being denied adequate supplies, that we used to get as a matter of course from Dukeston and Elaveli. The pretexts are mighty thin, stuff like unspecified 'technical difficulties.' Sten, we're being slowly strangled. The Duke wants us severely restricted in our activities on both Ramnu and Diris, if not out of there altogether. Why?" Banner finished her cigarette and reopened the case. "You smoke too much, Miri," Runeberg said. "And drink too little?" Her laugh clanked. "Very well, let's assume my troubles have made me paranoid. What harm in keeping alert? If I return in force, maybe my questions will get answered." He raised his brows. "In force?" "Oh, not literally. But with backing too powerful for a mere lord of a few planetary systems." "Whose backing?" "Haven't you heard me mention Admiral Flandry?" "Ye-es, occasionally in conversation, I believe. I got the impression he is—was a friend of your father's." "Dad was his first superior in action, during the Starkad affair," she said proudly. "He got him started in Naval Intelligence. They kept in touch afterward. I met Flandry myself, as a girl, when he paid a visit to a base where Dad was stationed. I liked him, and he wouldn't have stayed Dad's friend if he weren't a decent man at heart, no matter what he may have had to do in his career. He'll receive a daughter of Max Abrams. And … he has the Emperor's ear." She tossed down her cigarette case, raised her glass, and said almost cheerfully, "Come, let's drink to my success, and then let's hear more about what's been happening to you, Sten, old dear." Night rolled westward across Greatland. Four hours after it had covered Starfall it reached Lythe, in the middle of the continent. That estate of Edwin Cairncross, Grand Duke of Hermes, was among his most cherished achievements. Reclamation of the interior for human settlement had faltered a century ago, as the wealth and importance of the planet declined. Civil war had stopped it entirely, and it had not resumed at once after Hans Molitor battered the Empire back together. He, Cairncross, had seen an extinct shield volcano rising mightily above an arid steppe, and desired an eyrie on the heights. He had decreed that canals be driven, land be resculptured and planted, lovely ornithoids and big game be introduced, a town be founded down below and commerce make it prosper. The undertaking was minor compared to other works of his, but somehow, to him, Lythe symbolized the will to prevail, to conquer. It was no sanctuary for fantasy, but a nucleus for renewed growth. From it he did considerable of his governing, through an electronic web that reached across the globe and beyond. An invitation to spend some days here could be portentous. This evening he had passed hours alone in his innermost office, hunched above the screen whose sealed circuits brought him information gathered by a bare dozen secret agents. They were the elite of their corps; they reported directly to him, and he decided if their nominal superiors would be told. Now he must make a heavier choice than that. With a blind urge to draw strength from his land, he strode out of the room and through the antechambers. Beyond, a sentry snapped a salute. Cairncross returned it as precisely. His years in the Imperial Navy had taught him that a leader is wise to give his underlings every courtesy due them. An aide sprang from a chair and inquired, "Sir?" "I don't want to be disturbed, Wyatt," Cairncross said. "Sir!" Cairncross nodded and went on down the hall. Until new orders came, the lieutenant would make sure that nobody, not the Duchess herself, got near the Grand Duke. A gravshaft brought Cairncross up onto a tower. He crossed its deck and halted at the battlement. That was pure ornamentation, but not useless; he had ordered it built because he wanted to feel affirmed in his kinship to Shi Huang Ti, Charlemagne, Suleiman the Magnificent, Pyotr the Great, every man who had ever been dominant on Terra. Silence dwelt enormous. The fog of his breath caught the light of a crescent Sandalion; he savored the bracing chill that he inhaled. Vision winged across roofs, walls, hoar treetops, cliffs and crags, a misty shimmer of plains, finally the horizon. He raised his eyes and beheld stars in their thousands. Antares burned brightest. Mogul was sufficiently near to rival it, an orange spark: Mogul, sun of Babur, the Protectorate. His gaze did not seek Olga, for in that constellation, invisible to him, was the black sun of Mirkheim; and he had no time on hand to think about regaining the treasure planet for Hermes. Sol was hidden too, by distance. But Sol—Terra—was ruler of the rest … He turned his glance from the Milky Way. Its iciness declared that the Empire was an incident upon certain attendants of a hundred thousand stars, lost in the outskirts of a galaxy which held more than a hundred billion. A man must ignore mockery. Wryness: A man must also buckle down to practical details. What Cairncross had learned today demanded instant action. The trouble was, he could not do the quick and simple thing. Abrams had been too wary. His fists knotted. Thank God for giving him the foresight to have Sten Runeberg's house bugged, after he'd gotten the man fired from Ramnu. Not that Runeberg had made trouble. He might have, though. The family was extensive and influential; Duchess Iva was a second cousin of Sten. And he had been at Ramnu, he had been close to Abrams, he had surely acquired ideas from her … and maybe worse ones afterward, since they did irregularly correspond and meet. Nothing worth reporting had happened until today. But what finally came was a blow to the guts. The witch outmaneuvered me, Cairncross thought. I have the self-confidence to realize that. She'd written to Runeberg in care of the spaceship he used in his business; no bug could escape the safety inspections there. She'd arrived unannounced and gone straight to his place. The ducal government lacked facilities to monitor every slightly distrusted site continuously; tapes were scanned at intervals. Given reasonable luck, Abrams would have been in and out of Hermes well before Cairncross knew. She did chance to pick the wrong time slot. (That was partly because surveillance was programmed to intensify whenever a passenger liner was due in, until it had departed.) But she had anticipated the possibility. Runeberg and a couple of his spacemen were going to escort her tomorrow, not just onto the shuttle but to the Queen in orbit, and see her off. He had objected that that was needless, but to soothe her he had agreed. Meanwhile, his wife and several others knew about it all. There was no way, under these conditions, to arrange an abduction or assassination. Anything untoward would be too damnably suspicious, in a period when a degree of suspicion was already aimed at Cairncross. Well, I've made my own contingency plans. I didn't foresee this turn of events exactly, but— Decision crystallized. Yes, I'll go to Terra myself. My speedster can outrun her by days. Cairncross made a fighting grin. Whatever came next should at least be interesting! III Vice Admiral Sir Dominic Flandry, Intelligence Corps, Imperial Terran Navy, maintained three retreats in different areas that he liked. None was as sybaritic as his home base in Archopolis, a part of