Marin wept, quietly and brokenly, as she followed them.
Chanthavar was in the plantation office. The walls were ringed with guards, and Brannoch stood gloomily to one side. The Solarian was immaculate, and his cheerfulness hardly showed at all.
“How do you do, Captain Langley,” he said. “And Goltam Valti, sir, of course. Well, gentlemen, I seem to have arrived in the well-known nick of time.”
“Go ahead,” said the spaceman. “Shoot us and get it over with.”
Chanthavar raised his brows. “Why such a flair for drama?” he asked.
An officer entered, bowed, and reeled off his report. The hideaway was taken, all personnel dead or under arrest, our casualties six killed and ten wounded. Chanthavar gave an order, and Saris was herded into a specially prepared cage and borne outside.
“In case you’re wondering, captain,” said the agent, “the way I found you was—”
“I know,” said the spaceman.
“Oh? Oh... yes, of course. Saris would have detected it. I was gambling there; didn’t think he’d realize in time what it was, and apparently he didn’t. There were other tracing procedures in readiness, this happens to be the one which worked.” Chanthavar’s lips curved into his peculiarly engaging smile. “No grudges, captain. You tried to do what seemed best, I’m sure.”
“How about us?” rumbled Brannoch.
“Well, my lord, the case clearly calls for deportation.”
“All right. Let us go. I have a ship.”
“Oh, no, my lord. We couldn’t be so discourteous. The Technate will prepare transportation for you. It may take a while—even a few months—”
“Till you get a head start on the nullifier research. I see.”
“Meanwhile, you and your staff will kindly remain in your own quarters. I shall post guards to see that you are not... disturbed.”
“All right.” Brannoch forced his mouth into a sour grin. “I have to thank you for that, I suppose. In your position, I’d have shot me down out of hand.”
“Some day, my lord, your death may be necessary,” said Chanthavar. “At present, though, I owe you something. This affair is going to mean a good deal to my own position, you understand—there are higher offices than my present one, and they will soon be open for me.”
He turned back to Langley. “I’ve already made arrangements for you, captain. Your services won’t be required any longer; we have found a couple of scholars who can talk Old American, and between them and the hypnotic machines Saris can be given a near-perfect command of the modern language in a few days. As for you, a position and an apartment at the university in Lora has been fixed up. The historians, archeologists, and planetographers are quite anxious to consult you. The pay is small, but you’ll keep free-born rank.”
Langley said nothing. So he was to be taken out of the game already. That was the end—back in the box with you, my pawn.
Valti cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said pompously, “I must remind you that the Society—”
Chanthavar gave him a long stare through narrowed eyes. The smooth face had gone utterly expressionless. “You have committed criminal acts within the laws of Sol,” he said.
“Extraterritoriality—”
“It doesn’t apply here. At best, you can be deported.” Chanthavar seemed to brace himself. “Nevertheless, I am letting you go free. Get your men together, take one of the plantation fliers, and go on back to Lora.”
“My lord is most gracious,” said Valti. “May I ask why?”
“Never mind why. Get out.”
“My lord, I am a criminal. I confess it. I want a fair trial by a mixed tribunal as provided in Article VIII, Section 4, of the Treaty of Lunar.”
Chanthavar’s eyes were flat and cold. “Get out or I’ll have you thrown out.”
“I demand to be arrested!” shouted Valti. “I insist on my right and privilege of clearing my own conscience. If you won’t book me, I shall complain directly to the Technon.”
“Very well!” Chanthavar spat it out. “I have orders from the Technon itself to let you go scot-free. Why, I don’t know. But it’s an order; it came as soon as I filed report of the situation and of my intention to attack. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Valti blandly. “Thank you for your” kindness. Good day, gentlemen.” He bowed clumsily and stumped out.
Chanthavar broke into a laugh. “Insolent old beetle! I didn’t want to tell him, but he’d have learned it anyway in time. Now let him wonder along with the rest of us. The Technon gets mysterious now and then—a brain planning a thousand years ahead has to, I suppose.” He rose and stretched. “Let’s go. Maybe I can still make that concert at Salma tonight.”
Langley blinked at the sunshine outside. The tropics of Earth had gotten still hotter in five thousand years. He saw a group of armed men boarding a military flier, and there was a sudden wrenching in his heart.
“Chanthavar,” he asked, “can I say good-by to Saris?”
“I’m sorry.” The agent shook his head, not without compassion. “I know he’s your friend, but there have been too many risks taken in this business already.”
“Well... will I ever see him again?”
“Perhaps. We aren’t brutes, captain. We don’t intend to mistreat him if he cooperates.” Chanthavar waved to a smaller machine. “I think that’s yours. Good-by, captain. I hope to see you again sometime if I get the chance.” He turned and strode briskly off. The dust scuffed up under his buskins.
Langley and Marin entered the flier. One silent guard went along; he set the autopilot, they rose smoothly, and he sat down in front of them to wait with drilled patience.
The girl was mute for a long while. “How did they find us?” she asked at last.
The spaceman told her.
She didn’t cry this time. There seemed to be no tears left. They said almost nothing during the hour of bulleting homeward flight.
Lora raised over a nighted horizon, like one huge fountain of soaring metal pride. The flier buzzed around, finding a ledge on one of the smaller towers on the north side. The guard nodded. “Your apartment is No. 337, right down the hall, sir,” he stated. “Good evening.”
Langley led the way. When the door opened for him, he saw a layout of four small rooms, comfortable but unostentatious. There was a service robot, but clearly his new position did not include live slaves.
Except—
He faced around to Marin, and stood looking at her for a minute. She returned his gaze steadily, but she was pale and there was a darkness in her eyes. This blanched creature was not Peggy, he thought.
The rage and bitterness rose in his throat like vomit. All over. C’est fini. Here ends the saga. He had tried, and all his hopes had been kicked down, and she was the one who had wrecked them!
“Get out,” he said.
She lifted a hand to her mouth, as if he had struck her, but no words would come.
“You heard me.” He walked over the floor, it yielded ever so little as if it were of rubbery flesh, and stared through the window. “I’m giving you your freedom. You’re not a slave now. Understand?”
She made no reply, not yet.
“Are there any formalities involved?” he asked.
She told him. There was no life in her voice. He dialed the records office and filed notice that he, sole owner of chattel slave No. Such—and-such, was hereby emancipating her. Then he turned, but he couldn’t quite meet the green eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said thickly. There was a thundering in his temples, and his legs wobbled under him. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault, we’re all poor little victims of circumstance, and I’ve had enough of that line. You were just a helpless tool, sure, I’m not condemning you. Nevertheless, I can’t stand having you around any longer. There’s too much failure in you. You have to go.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“So am I,” he said insincerely. “Go on... get out... make something of yourself.” With a barely conscious impulse, he unfastened his purse and threw it at her. “There. Good bit of money in that. Take it—use it to establish yourself.”