THE QUEEN OF ZAMBA
L. Sprague de Camp
FOREWORD
I wrote this novel from November 1948 to January 1949, and it was published as a serial in Astounding Science Fiction for August and September 1949. In 1954, Ace Books bought the paperback rights and published the story as half of an Ace Double, the other half being Clifford D. Simak's Ring Around the Sun. Donald A. Wollheim, then editor at Ace, changed my title to Cosmic Manhunt.
Don also insisted upon another change. In the original version, the hero's side-kick was a Chinese, Chuen (rhymes with "one.") The Ace publication took place soon after the signing of the armistice that ended the Korean War. The Chinese were then unpopular because of their intervention in this war, so I was asked to change Chuen's nationality. After some argument (Wollheim wanted to make him an (East) Indian, which I said would have been all wrong) we compromised by making Chuen an Okinawan, Yano. The Ace version was reprinted in 1966 by Roberts & Vintner, Ltd., of London, as A Planet Called Krishna.
The present version is the original Astounding one, except that I have made minor editorial changes, mostly in punctuation, spelling, &c, in line with my present canons of style.
L. Sprague de Camp
I.
Victor Hasselborg shook the reins and spoke to his aya: "Hao, Faroun!" The animal swung its head and blinked reproachfully at him from under its horns, then started to move. The carriage wheels crunched on the gravel of the Novorecife drive.
Beside him on the seat, Ruis said: "Give him a looser rein, Senhor Victor. And you must learn not to speak to him in so harsh a tone. You hurt his feelings."
"Tamates, are they as sensitive as all that?"
"So—yes. The Krishnans carefully grade the tones in which they speak to their beasts—"
The drumming of the aya's six hoofs mingled with Ruis's chatter to put Hasselborg into a slight trance. He smiled a little as he thought: No comic-book hero he, with ballet suit, ray gun, and one-man rocket. Instead he was about to invade the planet Krishna in this silly native outfit with its divided kilt, wearing a sword, and driving a buggy!
It had been some weeks before by subjective time that Hasselborg had drawn on his client's expensive cigar and asked: "What makes you think your daughter has gone off Earth?"
He watched Batruni narrowly. Although at first he had been ready to dislike the man, he was now beginning to think the textile manufacturer a friendly, generous, well-intentioned sort, if inclined to be lachrymose.
Yussuf Batruni shifted his paunch and blew his nose. Hasselborg, visualizing hordes of germs flying out of Batruni's nostrils, shrank back a little.
Batruni said: "She talked about it for months before she disappeared, and she read books. You know, The Planet of Romance, The Martian's Vengeance, and trash like that."
Hasselborg nodded. "Go on."
"She had enough money for the trip. I fear I gave her more than was good for a young girl alone in London. But she was all the family I had, so nothing was too good—" His voice caught and he shrugged sadly.
"I'll go over her belongings," said Hasselborg. "Meanwhile, do you think she went with somebody?"
"What do you mean?"
"I said, d'you think she went with somebody? And I don't mean your Aunt Susie, either."
"I—" Batruni stiffened, then checked himself. "Excuse me. Where I come from, we take care of our daughters' virtue, so I cannot help— But, now that you bring it up, I am afraid the answer is yes."
Hasselborg smiled cynically. "The Levant ought to advertise its virgins the way Egypt does its pyramids. Who's the man?"
"I do not know."
"Then how d'you know there is one?"
"There are only—little things. Nothing you can put a finger on. On my last trip to London, when I asked her about her young men, she evaded. Talked about other things. That was a big change from the times before, when I would learn every detail of the young man's appearance and habits whether I was interested or not."
"Don't you suspect anybody in particular?"
"No, just a vague general suspicion. You are the detective; you draw the inferences."
"I will," promised Hasselborg. "As soon as I've looked over her apartment, I'll wire Barcelona for the passenger lists of all the spaceships that have left in the last month. She couldn't get away under an assumed name, you know, because her prints would be checked against the European Central File as a matter of routine."
"That will be good," said Batruni, looking out of the window into a fog that had so far defied the efforts of the fog sweepers. His great Levantine nose showed in profile. "Do not spare the expense, and when you find where she has gone, follow her on the very next ship."
"Wait a minute!" said Hasselborg. "To chase somebody on another planet takes preparation: special equipment, training—"
"The very next!" said Batruni, beginning to wave his hands. "Do you think I like sitting around? Speed is of the utmost importance. I will pay you a bonus for speed. Have you never heard of the early bird, Mr. Hasselborg?"
"Yeah, and I've also heard of the early worm," said Hasselborg. "Nobody gives him a thought."
"Well, this is no joke. If you cannot hurry, I will go to—" He broke off in a fit of sneezing.
Hasselborg held his breath to let the germs settle, then said: "Now, now, I assure you I won't waste a minute. Not a microsecond."
"You had better not," said Batruni. "And if you can return my Julnar—ah—unharmed, I will add fifty percent to the fee."
Hasselborg cocked an eyebrow, thinking that if you could only strap a howdah to Batruni's back, he'd fit perfectly into a circus parade. "I get your point. However, Mr. Batruni, while I can trail runaways, I can't bring back the infirm glory of the positive hour, nor can I put Humpty Dumpty together again."
"Then you don't think there is any chance—?"
"About as much chance as there is of having an Irishman turn down a drink when you offer it to him. However, I'll do my best."
"Fine," said Batruni. "By the way, Mr. Hasselborg, you do not talk like a Londoner. Are you Swedish?"
Hasselborg pushed back the brown hair that drooped untidily over his broad forehead. "By descent only. I'm a North American; born in Vancouver."
"How did you happen to settle in London?"
"Why—" Hasselborg became wary, not wishing to go into the sordid details of his fall and partial resurrection. "After I left the Division of Investigation to go into private work, I specialized in insurance frauds. And Europe offers a good opportunity for that kind of work now." He laughed apologetically. "Investigating them, I mean. Follow me?"
"Yes." Batruni looked at his watch. "My plane leaves in an hour, so you must excuse me. You have the photographs, the key to her apartment, the list of addresses, and the letter of credit. I do not doubt that you will live up to your recommendations." However, he said this with a rising inflection that did imply a doubt.
Hasselborg, as he stood up, worked the little trick that he sometimes used on dubious clients: he pushed back his hair, straighted his scarf, took off his glasses, pulled back his shoulders, and stuck out his big square jaw. By these acts he changed in a couple of seconds from a nondescript, mild-looking person with an air of utter unimportance to a large, well-built character whom an evildoer would think twice about meddling with.
Batruni smiled with renewed confidence as he shook hands.
Hasselborg warned him: "I'm no miracle-working yogi, you know. If she's gone outside the. Solar System, it'll take years to bring her back. There's no extradition from most planets, and once I get her aboard the Viagens Interplanetarias she'll be under Earth law and I can't drag her by main force. It would cost me my license at least."