“Maybe. Don’t let that make you underestimate the Chereionites.” Flandry studied the readouts before him.
His pulse lifted. They were matched to their goal world. A few minutes at faster-than-light would bring them there, and—
“Stand by,” he called.
XX
The eeriest thing was that nothing happened.
The planet spun in loneliness around its ember sun. Air made a thin bordure to its shield, shading from blue to purple to the winter sky of space. Hues were iron-rusty and desert-tawny, overlaid by blue-green mottlings, hoar polar caps, fierce glint off the few shrunken seas which remained. A small, scarred moon swung near.
It had to be the world of Flandry’s search. No other was possible. But who stood guard? War raved through outer space; here his detectors registered only a few automatic traffic-control stations in orbit, easily bypassed. Silence seeped through the hull of his vessel and filled the pilot’s cabin.
Chives broke it: “Analysis indicates habitability for us is marginal, sir. Biotypes of the kind which appear to be present—sparsely—have adapted to existing conditions but could not have been born under them. Given this feeble irradiation, an immense time was required for the loss of so much atmosphere and hydrosphere.” He paused. “The sense of age and desolation is quite overwhelming, sir.”
Flandry, his face in the hood of a scannerscope, muttered, “There are cities. In good repair, fusion powerplants at work … though putting out very little energy for complexes their size … The deserts are barren, the begrown regions don’t look cultivated—too saline, I’d guess. Maybe the dwellers live on synthetic food. But why no visible traffic? Why no satellite or ground defenses?”
“As for the former, sir,” Chives ventured, “the inhabitants may generally prefer a contemplative, physically austere existence. Did not Aycharaych intimate that to you on various occasions? And as for the latter question, Merseian ships have maintained a cordon, admitting none except an authorized few.”
“That is”—the tingle in Flandry sharpened—“if an intruder like us ever came this close, the game would be up anyway?”
“I do not suggest they have no wiles in reserve, sir.”
“Ye-e-es. The Roidhunate wouldn’t keep watch over pure philosophers.” Decision slammed into Flandry like sword into sheath. “We can’t learn more where we are, and every second we linger gives them an extra chance to notice us and load a trap. We’re going straight down!”
He gave the boat a surge of power.
Nonetheless, his approach was cautious. If naught else, he needed a while to reduce interior air pressure to the value indicated for the surface ahead of them. (Sounds grew muffled; pulse quickened; breast muscles worked enough to feel. Presently he stopped noticing much, having always taken care to maintain a level of acclimation to thin air. But he was glad that gravity outside would be weak, about half a gee.) Curving around the night hemisphere, he studied light-bejeweled towers set in the middle of rock and sand wastes, wondered greatly at what he saw, and devised a plan of sorts.
“We’ll find us a daylit place and settle alongside,” he announced on the intercom. “If they won’t talk to us, we’ll maybe go in and talk to them.” For his communicator, searching all bands, had drawn no hint of—
No! A screen flickered into color. He looked at the first Chereionite face he could be certain was not Aycharaych’s. It had the same spare beauty, the same deep calm, but as many differences of sculpture as between one human countenance and the next. And from the start, even before speech began, he felt a … heaviness: nothing of sardonic humor or flashes of regret.
“Talk the conn, Chives,” he directed. A whistling had begun, and the badlands were no longer before but below him. Hooligan was an easier target now than she had been in space; she had better be ready to dodge and strike back.
“You are not cleared for entry,” said the screen in Eriau which was mellow-toned but did not sing like Aycharaych’s. “Your action is forbidden under strict penalties, by command of the Roidhun in person, renewed in each new reign. Can you offer a justification?”
Huh? jabbed through Flandry. Does he assume this is a Merseian boat and I a Merseian man? “Em—emergency,” he tried, too astonished to invent a glib story. He had expected he would declare himself as more or less what he was, and hold his destination city hostage to his guns and missiles. Whether or not the attempt could succeed in any degree, he had no notion. At best he’d thought he might bear away a few hints about the beings who laired here.
“Have you control over your course?” inquired the voice.
“Yes. Let me speak to a ranking officer.”
“You will go approximately five hundred kilometers northwest of your immediate position. Prepare to record a map.” The visage vanished, a chart appeared, two triangles upon it. “The red apex shows where you are, the blue your mandatory landing site, a spacefield. You will stay inboard and await instructions. Is this understood?”
“We’ll try. We, uh, we have a lot of speed to kill. In our condition, fast braking is unsafe. Can you give us about half an hour?”
Aycharaych would not have spent several seconds reaching a decision. “Permitted. Be warned, deviations may cause you to be shot down. Proceed.” Nor would he have broken contact with not a single further inquiry.
Outside was no longer black, but purple. The spacecraft strewed thunder across desert. “What the hell, sir?” Chives exploded.
“Agreed,” said Flandry. His tongue shifted to an obscure language they both knew. “Use this lingo while that channel’s open.”
“What shall we do?”
“First, play back any pictures we got of the place we’re supposed to go.” Flandry’s fingers brushed a section of console. On an inset screen came a view taken from nearby space under magnification. His trained eyes studied it and a few additional. “A spacefield, aye, standard Merseian model, terminal and the usual outbuildings. Modest-sized, no vessels parked. And way off in wilderness.” He twisted his mustache. “You know, I’ll bet that’s where every visitor’s required to land. And then he’s brought in a closed car to a narrowly limited area which is all he ever sees.”
“Shall we obey, sir?”
“Um, ’twould be a pity, wouldn’t it, to pass by that lovely city we had in mind. Besides, they doubtless keep heavy weapons at the port; our pictures show signs of it. Once there, we’d be at their mercy. Whereas I suspect that threat to blast us elsewhere was a bluff. Imagine a stranger pushing into a prohibited zone on a normal planet—when the system’s being invaded! Why aren’t we at least swarmed by military aircraft?”
“Very good, sir. We can land in five minutes.” Chives gave his master a pleading regard. “Sir, must I truly stay behind while you debark?”
“Somebody has to cover us, ready to scramble if need be. We’re Intelligence collectors, not heroes. If I call you and say, ‘Escape,’ Chives, you will escape.”
“Yes, sir,” the Shalmuan forced out. “However, please grant me the liberty of protesting your decision not to wear armor like your men.”
“I want the full use of my senses.” Flandry cast him a crooked smile and patted the warm green shoulder. “I fear I’ve often strained your loyalty, old chap. But you haven’t failed me yet.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chives stared hard at his own busy hands. “I … endeavor … to give satisfaction.”