Stetson moved out from the wall. “It’s pretty clear,” he said. Heads turned toward him. “To stay in power, the Nathians had to give us fairly good government. Admit it. The fact is obvious. On the other hand, if we expose them, we give a bunch of political amateurs, every fanatic and power-hungry demagogue in the universe, just the weapons they need to sweep them into office.”
“After that, chaos,” Orne said. “So we let the Nathians continue—with two minor alterations.”
“We alter nothing,” Polly said.
“You haven’t learned the lesson of the hoe and the handle,” Orne said.
“And you haven’t learned the lesson of real political power,” Polly countered. “It occurs to me, Lewis, that you don’t have a leg to stand on. You have me, but you’ll get nothing out of me. The rest of the organization can go on without me. You don’t dare expose us. You’d discredit too many important people. We hold the whip hand.”
“We have the hoe and the handle,” Orne said. “The I-A could have ninety percent of your organization in protective custody within ten days.”
“You couldn’t find them!” Polly snapped.
“How, Lew?” Stetson asked.
“Nomads,” Orne said. “This house is a glorified tent. Men on the outside, women on the inside. Look for inner courtyard construction. It may be instinctive with Nathian blood.”
“Is that enough?” Spencer asked.
“Add an inclination for odd musical instruments,” Orne said. “The kaithra, the tambour, the oboe—all nomad instruments. Add female dominance of the family, an odd twist on the nomad heritage, but not unique. Dig into political backgrounds where women have guided their men to power. We’ll miss damn few of them.”
Polly stared at him with open mouth.
Spencer said: “Things are moving too fast for me. I know just one thing for sure. I’m dedicated to preventing another Rim War. That’s my oath. If I have to jail every last one of…”
“An hour after this conspiracy became known, you wouldn’t be in a position to jail anyone,” Orne said. “The husband of a Nathian! You’d be in jail yourself or more likely dead at the hands of a mob.”
Spencer paled.
Stetson nodded his agreement with Orne.
“Tell us about the hoe and the handle,” Polly said. “What’s your suggestion for compromise?”
“Number one: veto power on any candidate you put up,” Orne said. “Number two: You can never hold more than half of the top offices.”
“Who vetoes our candidates?” Polly asked.
“Admiral Spencer, Stet, myself… anyone else we deem trustworthy,” Orne said.
“You think you’re God or something?” Polly demanded.
“No more than you do,” Orne said. “I remember my mother’s lessons well. This is a check and balance system. You cut the pie, we get first choice on which pieces to take. One group makes the head of the hoe, another makes the handle. We assemble it together.”
There was a protracted silence broken when Spencer said: “It doesn’t seem right just to…”
“No political compromise is ever totally right,” Orne said.
“You keep patching things that always have flaws in them,” Polly said. “That’s how government is.” She chuckled, glanced at Orne. “All right, Lewis, we accept.” She looked at Spencer, who shrugged glumly.
Polly returned her attention to Orne, said: “Just answer me one question, Lewis: How’d you know I was boss lady?”
“Easy,” Orne said. “Those records we found said the… Nathian”—he’d almost said traitor—“family on Marak carried the code name ‘The Head.’ Your name, Polly, contains the ancient word Poll which means ‘head.’”
Polly shot a demanding look at Stetson. “Is he always that sharp?”
“Every time,” Stetson said.
“If you want to go into politics, Lewis,” Polly said, “I’d be delighted to…”
“I’m already in politics,” Orne growled. “What I want now is to settle down with Di and catch up on some of the living I’ve missed.”
Diana stiffened, addressed the wall beyond Orne: “I never want to see, hear from or hear of Lewis Orne ever again! That is final, emphatically final!”
Orne’s shoulders drooped. He turned away, stumbled and abruptly collapsed full length on the thick carpets. A collective gasp came from behind him.
Stetson shouted: “Call a doctor! They warned me at the hospital that he was still very weak.”
There was the sound of Polly’s heavy footsteps running toward the communications alcove in the hall.
“Lew!” It was Diana’s voice. She dropped to her knees beside him, soft hands fumbling at his neck, his head.
“Turn him over and loosen his collar,” Spencer said. “Give him air.”
Gently, they turned Orne onto his back. He looked pale.
Diana loosened his collar, buried her face in his neck. “Oh, Lew, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean it. Please, Lew… please don’t die. Please!”
Orne opened his eyes, looked up through the red-gold haze of Diana’s hair at Spencer and Stetson. There was the sound of Polly’s voice giving rapid instructions at the communications center. Orne felt Diana’s cheek warm against his neck, the dampness of her tears. Slowly, deliberately, Orne winked at the two men.
Diana shook convulsively against his neck. Her movement activated the transceiver stud. Orne heard the carrier wave hiss in his ears. The sound filled him with anger and he thought: That damn thing has to go! I wish it were at the bottom of the deepest sea on Marak!
As he thought this, Orne felt an abrupt vacuum in his flesh where the transceiver had been. The hissing carrier wave cut off sharply. With an abrupt feeling of blank shock, Orne realized the tiny instrument was gone.
A slow sensation of awareness flooded through him. He thought: Psi! For the love of all that’s holy, I’m a Psi!
Gently, he disengaged himself from Diana, allowed her to help him to a sitting position.
“Oh, Lew,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.
Polly appeared behind them. “Doctor’s on his way. He said to keep the patient warm and inactive. Why’s he sitting up?”
Orne only half-heard them. He thought: I’ll have to go to Amel. No helping that. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he knew it would happen.
To Amel.
Chapter Seventeen
Death has many aspects: Nirvana, the endless wheel of Life, the balance between organism and thinking as a pure activity, tension/relaxation, pain and pleasure, goal seeking and abnegation. The list is inexhaustible.
The instant he stepped out of the transport’s shields into the warmth of Amel’s sunlight on the exit ramp, Orne felt the Psi forces at play in this place. It was like being caught in competing magnetic fields. He caught the ramp’s handrail as dizziness held him. The sensation passed and he stared down some two hundred meters at the glassy tricrete of the spaceport. Heat waves shimmered off the glistening surface, baking the air even at his height. No wind stirred the air, but hidden gusts of psi force howled against his recently awakened senses.