“But this does give us our chance. All we need do is keep Persis from knowing when her lord and master is coming back. She don’t mix much with the rest of the compound—can’t say I blame her—and you can provide the distraction to make sure. Then the message sent ahead—which won’t be to her personally anyhow, only to alert the servants in the expectation they’ll tell everyone—I’ll see to it that the word doesn’t reach her. For the rest, let nature take its course.”
“No!” Flandry raged.
“Have no fears for her,” Abrams said. “She may suffer no more than a scolding. Lord Hauksberg is pretty tolerant. Anyway, he ought to be. If she does lose her position … our corps has a slush fund. She can be supported in reasonable style on Terra till she hooks someone else. I really don’t have the impression she’d be heartbroken at having to trade Lord Hauksberg in on a newer model.”
“But—” Confound that blush! Flandry stared at the deck. His fists beat on his knees. “She trusts me. I can’t.”
“I said this was a dirty business. Do you flatter yourself she’s in love with you?”
“Well—uh—”
“You do. I wouldn’t. But supposing she is, a psych treatment for something that simple is cheap, and she’s cool enough to get one. I’ve spent more time worrying about you.”
“What about me?” asked Flandry miserably.
“Lord Hauksberg has to retaliate on you. Whatever his private feelings, he can’t let something like this go by; because the whole compound, hell, eventually all Terra is going to know, if you handle the scene right. He figures on dispatching a courier home a day or two after he gets back from Dhangodhan, with a progress report. You’ll go on the same boat, in disgrace, charged with some crime like disrespect for hereditary authority.
“Somewhere along the line—I’ll have to work out the details as we go—my agent will nobble the information and slip it to me. I’ll pass it to you. Once on Terra, you’ll use a word I’ll give you to get the ear of a certain man. Afterward—son, you’re in. You shouldn’t be fumblydiddling this way. You should be licking my boots for such an opportunity to get noticed by men who count. My boots need polishing.”
Flandry shifted, looked away, out to the clouds which drifted across the green and brown face of Merseia. The motor hum pervaded his skull.
“What about you?” he asked finally. “And the rest?”
“We’ll stay here till the farce is over.”
“But … no, wait, sir … so many things could go wrong. Deadly wrong.”
“I know. That’s the risk you take.”
“You more.” Flandry swung back to Abrams. “I might get free without a hitch. But if later there’s any suspicion—”
“They won’t bother Persis,” Abrams said. “She’s not worth the trouble. Nor Hauksberg. He’s an accredited diplomat, and arresting him would damn near be an act of war.”
“But you, sir! You may be accredited to him, but—”
“Don’t fret,” Abrams said. “I aim to die of advanced senile decay. If that starts looking unlikely, I’ve got my blaster. I won’t get taken alive and I won’t go out of the cosmos alone. Now: are you game?”
It took Flandry’s entire strength to nod.
12
Two days later, Abrams departed the Embassy again in his boat. Ahead, on the ocean’s rim, smoldered a remnant of sunset. The streets of Ardaig glowed ever more visible as dusk deepened into night. Windows blinked to life, the Admiralty beacon flared like a sudden red sun. Traffic was heavy, and the flier’s robopilot must keep signals constantly flickering between itself, others, and the nearest routing stations. The computers in all stations were still more tightly linked, by a web of data exchange. Its nexus was Central Control, where the total pattern was evaluated and the three-dimensional grid of airlanes adjusted from minute to minute for optimum flow.
Into this endless pulsation, it was easy to inject a suitably heterodyned and scrambled message. None but sender and recipient would know. Nothing less than a major job of stochastic analysis could reveal to an outsider that occasional talk had passed (and even then, would not show what the talk had been about). Neither the boat nor the Terran Embassy possessed the equipment for that.
From the darkness where he lay, Dwyr the Hook willed a message forth. Not sent: willed, as one wills a normal voice to speak; for his nerve endings meshed directly with the circuits of the vessel and he felt the tides in the electronic sea which filled Ardaig like a living creature feeling the tides in its own blood.
“Prime Observer Three to Intelligence Division Thirteen.” A string of code symbols followed. “Prepare to receive report.”
Kilometers away, a Merseian tautened at his desk. He was among the few who knew about Dwyr; they alternated shifts around the clock. Thus far nothing of great interest had been revealed to them. But that was good. It proved the Terran agent, whom they had been warned was dangerous, had accomplished nothing. “Division Thirteen to Prime Three. Dhech on duty. Report.”
“Abrams has boarded alone and instructed the ’pilot to take him to the following location.” Dwyr specified. He identified the place as being in a hill suburb, but no more; Ardaig was not his town.
“Ah, yes,” Dhech nodded. “Fodaich Qwynn’s home. We knew already Abrams was going there tonight.”
“Shall I expect anything to happen?” Dwyr asked.
“No, you’ll be parked for several hours, I’m sure, and return him to the Embassy. He’s been after Qwynn for some time for an invitation, so they could talk privately and at length about certain questions of mutual interest. Today he pressed so hard that Qwynn found it impossible not to invite him for tonight without open discourtesy.”
“Is that significant?”
“Hardly. We judge Abrams makes haste simply because he got word that his chief will return tomorrow with the Hand of the Vach Ynvory, great protector of us all. Thereafter he can expect once more to be enmeshed in diplomatic maneuverings. This may be his last chance to see Qwynn.”
“I could leave the boat and spy upon them,” Dwyr offered.
“No need. Qwynn is discreet, and will make his own report to us. If Abrams hopes to pick up a useful crumb, he will be disappointed. Quite likely, though, his interest is academic. He appears to have abandoned any plans he may have entertained for conducting espionage.”
“He has certainly done nothing suspicious under my surveillance,” Dwyr said, “in a boat designed to make him think it ideal for hatching plots. I will be glad when he leaves. This has been a drab assignment.”
“Honor to you for taking it,” Dhech said. “No one else could have endured so long.” A burst of distortion made him start. “What’s that?”
“Some trouble with the communicator,” said Dwyr, who had willed the malfunction. “It had better be checked soon. I might lose touch with you.”
“We’ll think of some excuse to send a technician over in a day or so. Hunt well.”
“Hunt well.” Dwyr broke the connection.
Through the circuits, which included scanners, he observed both outside and inside the hull. The boat was slanting down toward its destination. Abrams had risen and donned a formal cloak. Dwyr activated a speaker. “I have contacted Division Thirteen,” he said. “They are quite unsuspicious. I planted the idea that my sender may go blank, in case for some reason they try to call me while I am absent.”
“Good lad.” Abrams’ tones were likewise calm, but he took a last nervous pull on his cigar and stubbed it out viciously. “Now remember, I’ll stay put for several hours. Should give you ample time to do your job and slip back into this shell. But if anything goes wrong, I repeat, what matters is the information. Since we can’t arrange a safe drop, and since mine host tonight will have plenty of retainers to arrest me, in emergency you get hold of Ensign Flandry and tell him. You recall he should be in Lord Hauksberg’s suite, or else his own room; and I’ve mapped the Embassy for you. Now also, make damn sure the phone here is hooked to the ’pilot, so you or he can call this boat to him. I haven’t told him about you, but I have told him to trust absolutely whoever has the key word. You remember?”