Bearing in mind that the baron was also unlikely to look kindly on any long-windedness, Zhorga tried to keep his story concise. He recounted the perilous ascent into space, described the difficulties of keeping the galleon trim and maintaining a course; told of the brush with the vortex and the encounters with alchemical monsters. Captain Veautrin stood by impassively, showing no reaction even when Zhorga, with some bitterness, described how the lighter commanded by himself had effectively destroyed the Wandering Queen.
The baron listened in fascination. When Zhorga had finished, he chuckled.
“Don’t blame Captain Veautrin too much,” he said. “He was only doing his duty. You, no doubt, mourn the loss of your galleon—so think how I feel about a threat to my Bucentaur! An odd-looking ship like yours, appearing out of nowhere, was bound to arouse suspicion. But there’s something you haven’t told me. What were your reasons for embarking on this venture? They must have been pressing.”
“They were simple enough,” Zhorga said gruffly. “We came to Mars to trade. The merchants on Earth are running out of ether silk with which to ply the airways, and it is our hope to obtain some here.”
At this the baron threw up his hands and uttered a half-horrified, half-delighted exclamation. “But my dear fellow! Your efforts have all been for nothing! It is absolutely certain there is no silk to be had here!”
Zhorga stared at him blankly. “My lord—”
“There can be no doubt of it. This wretched planet has declined almost to a state of savagery. The people are barely capable of plowing the dirt—there are so few of them, anyway.” He shook his head, smiling with amusement. “No, I’m certain you won’t find a shred of silk. We’ve been here for nearly a month now, and yours is the first flying ship we’ve seen.”
Zhorga was dumbfounded. Somehow this possibility had simply not occurred to him. It was as if his mind had unconsciously put a block on the subject.
He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. What a farcical joke he had played on himself! What a fool he would look in the eyes of the men he had dragged with him across space! Momentarily Zhorga’s spirit was crushed. He stood with his back ramrod straight, gazing emptily ahead.
“I may pay a visit to Earth myself, when I am finished here,” the baron was saying lightly. “It is reputed by some to be the birthplace of space travel, not to say of mankind itself. If, that is, it is the same planet I am thinking of.”
“I seriously doubt it,” Zhorga rumbled absently. “Ether silk cannot be manufactured there; the sun is too close. So it cannot be the origin of space travel. Or of mankind, either, for the same reason. Both must have arrived there from outside.”
Matello shrugged. “Not worth a visit after all, then. Well, Captain, what are you going to do now? No ship, no silk to buy.”
“Hmmmmm…” The sound, a combination of chagrin and reappraisal, came from deep within Zhorga’s chest.
What, indeed, was he going to do? He was crushed, defeated, his plans destroyed.
He glanced wildly about him, sensing the vast bulk of the Bucentaur all around. He thought of the Wandering Queen; thought of the ships he had grown up with and struggled with all his life.
Suddenly it seemed to him that he had not really appreciated what it could mean to him to be standing on a starship. True, he had lost the Wandering Queen—but was it not ridiculous to be still obsessed with the need to take ether silk to Earth, a dilapidated backwater? Ridiculous—when this great ship could take him to a new life among the stars!
He took a deep breath. “My future lies in your hands, my lord. You have destroyed my ship. You have left me stranded. It lies in your power simply to abandon me here, or—”
He stopped. Matello frowned, looking dangerous. “Or?”
“Earth was never the place for a man of adventure. Swear me into your service. Permit me to wear your lordship’s coat of arms.”
Captain Veautrin’s rigid expression told Zhorga that he had committed a considerable faux pas. The baron tossed away his goblet, which went spinning across the room.
“And your men? You would desert them?”
“Any who want to grub on Mars, let them,” Zhorga said, blinking. “As for the others, swear them in, too.”
“To serve with the Margrave of the Marsh Worlds,” the baron said harshly, “is accounted an honor. It is not something to be handed out to any passing rabble of merchants and air sailors.”
Zhorga persisted. “I’ve been a fighting man in my time,” he claimed. “I was a midshipman on the Victorious—one of Earth’s last fighting ships.”
“Oh, you’re a fighting man!” Matello echoed mockingly. “What weapons do you know?”
“I prefer the cutlass or the broadsword.”
Matello had not lost his good humor; he sensed an opportunity for sport, of which there had been precious little since his departure for Mars. He rose and crossed the room to open a wall cupboard. Within, weapons were clipped to a rack—swords, pistols, long-barreled shooters.
He selected a pair of matched blades and returned to hand one apiece to Zhorga and Veautrin, before stepping back to lounge once more in his chair, though there was little need for it in the null gravity, the special cloth of his garments adhering crepe-like to the thick-piled upholstery.
“Match yourself against the good Captain Veautrin here,” he drawled. “He’ll be only too pleased to accommodate you.”
Zhorga tested his sword for balance, difficult though it was to assess in free-fall, and probably immaterial anyway. The weapon was broad-bladed and somewhat longer than he was used to. The metal, however, was excellent—much springier and tougher, he judged, than anything to be found on Earth.
He turned to Veautrin, who stared expressionlessly back at him, his sword pointing military-style at the floor.
“To what limit?” Zhorga asked the baron.
“’Til one of you yields.”
Veautrin took a step back, saluted Zhorga, and took up a formal stance, one arm extended behind him, his sword thrust forward and down, and apparently expecting Zhorga to do the same. His was obviously an impeccable kind of swordsmanship.
Zhorga was trained in a rougher school, however. With a growl he charged at Veautrin, wielding his blade in a whirl of savage strokes. Veautrin easily parried the flurry, stepping neatly in his cling-slippers—while Zhorga found himself tromping clumsily like an elephant.
Then Veautrin’s blade found an opening. Its tip hacked at Zhorga’s cheek, narrowly missing his ear. Zhorga knocked the sword aside with a bellow and a clang of steel. His blood spilled into the air, forming floating globules which he batted with his free hand, splitting them into a fine mist of droplets.
He regarded the waiting Veautrin with a more cautious eye. The fellow was used to free-fall swordplay; Zhorga was not, and besides he was out of practice. Just the same, he told himself, he had better put up a good show or he would be booted off this ship and onto the red desert below.
Cunning would be required.
He charged again at Veautrin, apparently in the same manner as before, but at the last moment changed direction. As he had anticipated, Veautrin was impeded by his cling-slippers and was unable to take advantage of Zhorga’s momentary defenselessness. As he lunged past the starman, Zhorga swung round and kicked him behind the knee—a trick he had learned on the Victorious. Veautrin buckled and in the next instant Zhorga’s whole bulk collided with him. In a moment the star captain was knocked to the floor, his sword arm pinned down by Zhorga’s knee, and Zhorga, teeth bared, held aloft his own blade in both hands, directing the point at Veautrin’s throat.