The airlock door opened and a safety line was thrown out and a man slid down it gracefully. He was dressed in a pale blue civilian suit, without ornament but of very expensive cut. He hit the bottom with a light-footed bounce and turned. Somebody still in the ship tossed a briefcase, a box and a wrapped bouquet of flowers down to him, each of which he caught. Belatedly, a crew from the nearby hangar was rolling out some steps. But far from being abashed as they should have been, they gave him a wave. I was standing in a rose archway to the house. He was walking straight toward me with an easy step.
He was quite tall, very slender, the sort of man who even in late middle age keeps himself in condition. Although his features had thickened, he was still a very handsome fellow. He fixed his gray-blue eyes upon me. He said, "Where's Hightee?" I said, "Oh, she went back this noon to Voltar." "Oh, blast," he said, "I hoped to catch her. You must be the young man I heard she had in tow." "The Honorable Monte Pennwell, Crown, Your Lordship, sir," and I would have knelt but he stopped me. "Let's dispense with all the protocol. I get enough of that at Palace City." He smiled and it was a very engaging smile. "I'm home. Just call me Jet." "Sir," I said, because I couldn't restrain my curiosity another moment, "isn't that Tug One?" "Of course not," he said with a slight frown. "But it IS a tug," I persisted. "It's got a blunt butting nose with arms. It's the same size and shape. It has a fin down the back to get rid of excess charge from Will-be Was main drives. When you opened the airlock, I distinctly saw silver handrails. It even has Prince Caucalsia on its nose!" "Young Pennwell, that ship is NOT Tug One. But your use of the term makes me suspect you have been talking to the women of the family. Gossiping." I drew myself up. I came to just above his shoulder. "Not gossiping. I am an investigative reporter!" He laughed good-naturedly. "'Investigative reporter'? I haven't heard that term for nearly a century." "I want to write the story of your life," I said. He handed me the box he was carrying and the flowers. "Well, come on into the park salon and I will tell you all about it. No reason to keep you out here standing in the sun." I tagged after him. He entered the room. A footman was standing there with cool drinks, smiling a welcome. Heller draped himself into a chair. A man in blue livery, evidently a major-domo, rushed in, still getting into his coat. "Blin," said Heller to the newcomer, "take that box and send it to Hightee. I'm sorry I missed her: I was looking forward to some do-you-remembers as we rambled around Atalanta. Pack it carefully, as it's antique glass: now it will have to be shipped all the way back to Pausch Hills. The flowers are for Her Grace." Blin relieved me of my load. The footman presented me with a drink. Heller motioned for me to sit down, "So what I heard was right," he said. "Dear Hightee was helping you write a book. Do you have a publisher?" "Oh, yes, Your… Jet. Biographies Publishing Company was fascinated with the idea of publishing a book about you. They even signed a contract, without even demanding an outline. They were avid, really." I didn't advise him that they had assumed I must know him very well, when actually it was not until I started this project that I found out that Jettero Heller had been the common name of the enormously popular and fabulously powerful Duke of Manco. They had been stunned when they realized that there was not a single book about him and had said, "Young Pennweil, if you've got an inside track and can actually write the biography of Crown, your fortune will be made!" I was going to go them one better. What a book I had! A sky-buster! "Well, that's fine," said Heller. "I imagine the girls must have been assisting you." "Oh, yes," I said. "They have been splendid-made all your logs and things available, opened up the whole Memorial Library to me as well." "I imagine you've been very busy. Did you have any other material?" "Oh, yes sir," I said. "The most amazing thing. An earthquake must have opened up some passages at Spiteos out in the Great Desert. The place you pulled down, you know. And it was my luck to find the whole Apparatus master files." I was trying to trick him into some new disclosures, some comments I could use. But he only said, "Imagine that," and sipped at his I cool drink. "But I should imagine it gets pretty rough for a young writer. Are you not having any trouble at all?" That reached a tender spot. "Well," I said, "there's my family. Ever since I graduated from the Royal Academy of Arts, they haven't taken my writing seriously. I've written ever so many odes and they don't even listen to them. No encouragement at all." He shook his head and looked very sympathetic. "Well, youth has its penalties. But I don't imagine they actively put any blocks in your way." "Oh, but they do!" I countered. "Every relative I've got has been nudging find pushing at me to take a post doing this or that." "Oh, my," said Heller, "that must be pretty grim." "It is!" I said, emphatically. "But they've eased up on that. Now it's something else absolutely horrible. My mother is leading a conspiracy to marry me off to the Lady Corsa." "Lady Corsa?" he said, wide-eyed. "Why, she's the heiress to half of the planet Modon!" "She's awfully athletic, half again my size. And she has no soul at all! She thinks writing is a waste of time." "But, good Heavens," said Heller, "you'd wind up one of the richest men on Modon in another half-century. The lands of that planet are legendary for their productivity and the uplands are beautiful and full of game. A paradise!" I shook my head. "Provincial," I said. "Bucolic beyond belief. All they do is dig irrigation ditches or stand around with their caps in their hands muttering about the woolly crop. Even the gentry is illiterate and they go to bed the moment the sun, there, sets. I wouldn't be able to get to the bright lights of Voltar even as often as once a year. Oh, I assure you, Your Grace, it would be DEATH!" "You poor fellow," Heller said. "This writing must mean a lot to you." "Oh, it does, it does. So please, Jet, tell me the story of your life." He looked very solemn. He finished off his cool drink and put it down. "Very well, then. Where shall I begin?" I was a bit taken aback. I hadn't realized it would be so easy. "Well, usually one begins with where he was born," I said. He nodded. He settled himself comfortably. I got my recorder running, aching to hear his every word. Now I would get to the bottom of this. With the adroit and tricky questioning I had worked out that an investigative reporter must pursue, I would get him to reveal in his own words the substance of the most gigantic cover-up of all time. "I was born," said Heller, "in Tapour, Atalanta Province, planet Manco, 127 years ago." I was tense. His eyes took on the hue of nostalgia and reminiscence. Now I would get down to it. "Then," said Heller, "I lived until now. And here I am." I felt the very room spin. I opened my mouth. I closed it. A bland and innocent smile remained on Heller's face. Some footfalls were sounding in the hall. The Duchess of Manco swept in. Despite her age, she was beautiful. She was wearing a dinner gown that shimmered blue and yellow and seemed to reflect the color of her hair and eyes. Had I not known how old she was, her skill at makeup would have had me fooled. He stood to welcome her and she kissed him. "You're a bad boy to come blasting in here a day early, catching everything in a mess. But I am delighted," and she kissed him again very warmly. Then she became aware of me. She said, "Jettero, I couldn't help but overhear what you told this nice young man. Spare him your jokes. He's really trying awfully hard and it's time you got some recognition." "That's right!" said Heller. "Recognition! Just what I want. Recognition that^I am starved. What's for dinner?" And that was ALL I ever got out of Jettero Heller, Viceregal Chairman of the Grand Council, Duke of Manco. So you see?