The general paced nervously up and down before the screen, looking at his watch unnecessarily often. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Flandry sat relaxed; only one who knew him well could have read the tension that was like a coiled spring in him. Only Aline seemed remote from the scene, too wrapped in her own thoughts to care what went on.
“If this doesn’t work, you know, we’ll probably be hanged,” said Bronson.
“It ought to,” answered Flandry tonelessly. “If it doesn’t, I won’t give much of a damn whether we hang or not.”
He was prevaricating there; Flandry was most fond of living, for all the wistful half-dreams that sometimes rose in him.
A trumpet shrilled, high brassy music between the walls and up to the ringing rafters. They rose and stood at attention as the Sartaz and his court swept in.
His yellow eyes were suspicious as they raked the three humans.
“You said that there was to be a showing of an important matter,” he declared flatly. “I hope that is correct.”
“It is, your Majesty,” said Flandry easily. He was back in his element, the fencing with words, the casting of nets to entrap minds. “It is a matter of such immense importance that it should have been revealed to you weeks ago. Unfortunately, circumstances did not permit that — as the court shall presently see — so your Majesty’s loyal general was forced to act on his own discretion with what help we of Terra could give him. But if our work has gone well, the moment of revelation should also be that of salvation.”
“It had better be,” said the Sartaz ominously. “I warn you — all of you — that I am sick of the spying and corruption the empires have brought with them. It is about time to cut the evil growth from Betelgeuse.”
“Terra has never wished Betelgeuse anything but good, your Majesty,” said Flandry, “and as it happens, we can offer proof of that. If—”
Another trumpet cut off his voice, and the warder’s shout rang and boomed down the halclass="underline" “Your Majesty, the Ambassador of the Empire of Merseia asks audience.”
The huge green form of Lord Korvash of Merseia filled the doorway with a flare of gold and jewelry. And beside him — Aycharaych!
Flandry was briefly rigid with shock. If that opponent came into the game now, the whole plan might crash to ruin. It was a daring, precarious structure which Aline had built; the faintest breath of argument could dissolve it — and then the lightnings would strike!
One was not permitted to bear firearms within the palace, but the dueling sword was a part of full dress. Flandry drew his with a hiss of metal and shouted aloud: “Seize those beings! They mean to kill the Sartaz!”
Aycharaych’s golden eyes widened as he saw what was in Flandry’s mind. He opened his mouth to denounce the Terran — and leaped back in bare time to avoid the man’s murderous thrust.
His own rapier sprang into his hand. In a whirr of steel, the two spies met.
Korvash the Merseian drew his own great blade in sheer reflex. “Strike him down!” yelled Aline. Before the amazed Sartaz could act, she had pulled the stun pistol he carried from the holster and sent the Merseian toppling to the floor.
She bent over him, deftly removing a tiny needle gun from her bodice and palming it on the ambassador. “Look, your Majesty,” she said breathlessly, “he had a deadly weapon. We knew the Merseians planned no good, but we never thought they would dare—”
The Sartaz’s gaze was shrewd on her. “Maybe we’d better wait to hear his side of it,” he murmured.
Since Korvash would be in no position to explain his side for a good hour, Aline considered it a victory.
But Flandry — her eyes grew wide and she drew a hissing gasp as she saw him fighting Aycharaych. It was the swiftest, most vicious duel she had ever seen, leaping figures and blades that were a blur of speed, back and forth along the hall in a clamor of steel and blood.
“Stop them!” she cried, and raised the stunner.
The Sartaz laid a hand on hers and took the weapon away. “No,” he said. “Let them have it out. I haven’t seen such a show in years.”
“Dominic—” she whispered.
Flandry had always thought himself a peerless fencer, but Aycharaych was his match. Though the Chereionite was hampered by gravity, he had a speed and precision which no human could ever meet, his thin blade whistled in and out, around and under the man’s guard to rake face and hands and breast, and he was smiling — smiling.
His telepathy did him little or no good. Fencing is a matter of conditioned reflex — at such speeds, there isn’t time for conscious thought. But perhaps it gave him an extra edge, just compensating for the handicap of weight.
Leaping, slashing, thrusting, parrying, clang and clash of cold steel, no time to feel the biting edge of the growing weariness — dance of death while the court stood by and cheered.
Flandry’s own blade was finding its mark; blood ran down Aycharaych’s gaunt cheeks and his tunic was slashed to red ribbons. The Terran’s plan was simple and the only one possible for him. Aycharaych would tire sooner, his reactions would slow — the thing to do was to stay alive that long!
He let the Chereionite drive him backward down the length of the hall, leap by leap, whirling around with sword shrieking in hand. Thrust, parry, riposte, recovery — whirr, clang! The rattle of steel filled the hall and the Sartaz watched with hungry eyes.
The end came as he was wondering if he would ever live to see Betelgeuse rise again. Aycharaych lunged and his blade pierced Flandry’s left shoulder. Before he could disengage it, the man had knocked the weapon spinning from his hand and had his own point against the throat of the Chereionite.
The hall rang with the savage cheering of Betelgeuse’s masters. “Disarm them!” shouted the Sartaz.
Flandry drew a sobbing breath. “Your Majesty,” he gasped, “let me guard this fellow while General Bronson goes on with our show.”
The Sartaz nodded. It fitted his sense of things.
Flandry thought with a hard glee: Aycharaych, if you open your mouth, so help me, I’ll run you through.
The Chereionite shrugged, but his smile was bitter.
“Dominic, Dominic!” cried Aline, between laughter and tears.
General Bronson turned to her. He was shaken by the near ruin. “Can you talk to them?” he whispered. “I’m no good at it.”
Aline nodded and stood boldly forth. “Your Majesty and nobles of the court,” she said, “we shall now prove the statements we made about the treachery of Merseia.
“We of Terra found out that the Merseians were planning to seize Alfzar and hold it and yourselves until their own fleet could arrive to complete the occupation. To that end they are assembling this very night in Gunazar Valley of the Borthudian range. A flying squad will attack and capture the palace—”
She waited until the uproar had subsided. “We could not tell your Majesty or any of the highest in the court,” she resumed coolly, “for the Merseian spies were everywhere and we had reason to believe that one of them could read your minds. If they had known anyone knew of their plans, they would have acted at once. Instead we contacted General Bronson, who was not high enough to merit their attention, but who did have enough power to act as the situation required.
“We planted a trap for the enemy. For one thing, we mounted telescopic telecameras in the valley. With your permission, I will now show what is going on there this instant.”