Too big, too fast. The United Worlds that had been set up back on Earth had handled it for a while, but it could not govern that vast sprawl of stars at anything like a local level. That was when the Sectors had been set up, the subdivisions of the UW. And that, thought Birrel, was when things had taken a different path.
There were five great Sectors, and there were five governors, who headed the Sector Councils. Solleremos of Orion, Vorn of Cepheus, Gianea of Leo, Strowe of Perseus, Ferdias of Lyra-and all of them jealous of each other. Five great pro-consuls, paying only a lip-service allegiance to the shadowy UW far away on Earth, all of them hungry for space, hungry for power. Yes, even Ferdias, thought Birrel. Ferdias was the man he served, respected, and even loved in a craggy sort of way. But Ferdias, like the others, played a massive game of chess with men and suns, moving his squadrons here and his undercover operatives there, laboring ceaselessly to hold on to what he had and perhaps enlarge his Sector just a little, a small star-system here and a minor cluster there…
And the game went on, and this mission was part of it. Ferdias wanted to know if Orion ships were secretly basing in here where they had no business to be. This cluster was no-man s-land, part of the buffer zones that were supposed to reduce friction between the Sectors. Actually, stellar wildernesses like this one were the scenes of frequent, nameless little struggles that were never reported at all. Birrel hoped, not too strongly, that he was not about to start another such.
"We're getting close,” said Garstang.
Birrel shook himself and got down to business. There followed a few minutes of activity on split-second timing, and then the Starsong was shuddering to the vibration of her mass-reconverters as she plunged toward a bright world almost dangerously close to her. There was still no sign of any enemy, and the communicators remained silent.
An hour later by ship's chrono they had located the one port of entry listed for the planet and they had set the Starsong down in the middle of a large piece of natural desert that served well enough for what little space traffic ever came here.
It was night on this side of the planet. There was no moon, but, on a cluster world, a moon is a useless luxury. The sky blazes with a million stars, so that day is replaced not by darkness, but by light of another sort, soft and many-colored, full of strange glimmers and flitting shadows. By this eerie star-glow, through the now unshuttered ports, a town of sorts was visible about a mile away.
Otherwise there was nothing. No ships, no base, no legions from Orion Sector.
"The ships could be hidden somewhere,” Garstang said pessimistically. “Maybe halfway around the planet, but waiting to jump us as soon as they get word."
Birrel admitted that that was possible. He had put on his best dress coverall of blue-and-silver, and now he stuffed a portable communicator into one pocket. Garstang watched him dourly.
"How many men will you want?” he asked.
"None. I'm better alone on this one."
Garstang's eyes widened a trifle. “I won't come right out and say you're crazy.
"Look, I know what I'm doing,” Birrel said impatiently. “I was here once before, years ago, when old Volland commanded the Fifth, and I know these people. They're what you might call poor, but proud. They have a lot of traditions about long-ago splendor, how their kings once ruled the whole cluster and so on. They detest strangers, and won't let more than one in at a time."
"Fine,” said Garstang. “But what if you run into trouble in there?"
"That's the reason I'm taking the porto.” Birrel frowned, trying to plan ahead. “Exactly thirty minutes after I enter the town I'll contact you, and I'll continue to call at thirty-minute intervals. If I'm so much as a minute late, take off and buzz hell out of the place. It'll give me a bargaining point, anyway."
They went down to the airlock, which was open now and filled with a dry, stinging wind. Birrel paused, looking toward the distant town that was a lonely blot of darkness between the star-blazing sky and the gleaming sand. Here and there in it lights burned, but they were few and somehow not welcoming.
Garstang said, “A lot can happen in thirty minutes. Suppose you're not able to bargain?"
"Then you're on your own. But don't get yourself trapped — if it looks hopeless, you take her away."
Garstang snorted. “I'd get a fine reception from Ferdias if I went back and told him I left you here."
"Don't fool yourself,” Birrel said roughly. “Ferdias would rather lose a commander than a ship, anytime. Just remember that."
He went down the ladder to the sand and began to walk.
He looked up at the incredible sky as he walked, and he thought of how wonderful that had seemed to him when he had first come here. But that had been a long time ago. He had been young and eager then and bursting with pride that he belonged to the Fifth, feeling somehow that space and stars were all his personal property.
What's changed me? Birrel wondered. I'm older, I'm thirty-seven, I'm a little tired, but it's more than that. I look at things differently now. Maybe it's the weight of command, or maybe being married, or it might be that this is something that happens to every man as he goes along, that the excitement goes out of things and, you have seen so much happen, that you glimpse the shape of possible disaster long before it ever reaches you. The devil with it, he thought, this is no time for brooding, I had better be on my toes.
The town took shape as he approached it. The stonebuilt houses, mostly round or octagonal, were scattered about with no particular plan. Under the red and gold and diamond-colored stars that burned above them as bright as moons, they looked curiously remote and evil, like old wizards in peaked hats, peering with winking eyes. The dry wind blew, laden with alien scents, and, apart from the wind, there was no sound at all.
CHAPTER 2
The quiet was only what Birrel had expected. Not a soul in this place could have remained unaware of the coming of the ship, but, with cold hostility, they were ignoring it. Nobody came out to meet him, no one moved against the scattered lights ahead. Birrel tramped on, wondering how many eyes watched him come.
Three men met him at the edge of the town. They wore pale cloaks and carried long staffs or wands of office that were tipped with horn. They were all of seven feet tall. They wore their hair high on their beads to accentuate this height, and they were slender and graceful as reeds, moving with a light, dancing step as though the wind blew them. But their faces in the starglow were smooth and secret, their eyes as expressionless as bits of shiny glass.
"What does the man from outside desire?” asked one of them, speaking in Basic.
Birrel said, “He desires to speak with your lord about the others who have come here from outside."
But they were not going to make it that easy for him. Their faces remained impassive, and the one who had spoken said coolly, “Others?"
Birrel retained his patience. The Sector held a great many worlds, and their different peoples varied widely in psychology, and anyone who got impatient would not get far with them. That was all the more true here in the no-man's-land of the cluster.