Galactic Odyssey Read online

  “These new hulls we’ve been looking at,” Fsha-fsha said; “mass-produced junk; not like the good old days-”

  “The old stuff isn’t much, either,” I countered. “They were built to last, and at those crawl-speeds, they had to.”

  “Anything we can afford, we don’t want,” Fsha-fsha summed it up. “And anything we want, costs too much.”

  The landlord who was refilling our wine jug spoke up. “If you gentlebeings are looking for something a little out of the usual line, I have an old grand-uncle-fine old chap, full of lore about the old times-he’s over three hundred you know-who still dabbles in buying and selling. There’s a hull in his yard that might be just what the sirs are looking for, with a little fixing up-”

  We managed to break into the pitch long enough to find out where the ship was, and after emptying our jug, took a walk down there. It looked like every junkyard I’ve ever seen. The place was grown with weeds taller than I was, and the sales office was a salvaged escape blister, with flowers growing in little clay pots in the old jet orifices. There was a light on, though, and we pounded until an old crookbacked fellow with a few wisps of pink hair and a jaw like a snapping turtle poked his head out. We explained what we wanted, and who had sent us. He cackled and rubbed his hands and allowed as how we’d come to the right place. By this time we were both thinking we’d made a mistake. There was nothing here but junk so old that even the permalloy was beginning to corrode. But we followed him back between towering stacks of obsolete parts and assemblies, over heaps of warped hull-plates, through a maze of stacked atmosphere fittings to what looked like a thicket dense enough for Bre’r Rabbit to hide in.

  “If you sirs’ll just pull aside a few tendrils of that danged wire vine,” the old boy suggested. Fsha-fsha had his mouth open to decline, but out of curiosity, I started stripping away a finger-thick creeper, and back in the green-black gloom I saw a curve of dull-polished metal. Fsha-fsha joined in, and in five minutes we had uncovered the stern of what had once been elegance personified.

  “She was built by Sanjio,” the oldster told us. “See there?” he pointed at an ornate emblem, still jewel-bright against the tarnished metal. Fsha-fsha ran his hand over curve of the boat’s flank, peered along the slim-lined hull. Our eyes met.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “You’ll put her in shape, restore her,” the old man said. “You wouldn’t cut her up for the heavy metal in her jump fields, or convert her for rock-prospecting.” It was a question. We both yelled no loud enough to satisfy him.

  The old man nodded. “I like you boys’ looks,” he said. “I wouldn’t sell her to just anybody. She’s yours.”

  It took us a day to cut the boat free of the growth that had been crawling over her for eighty years. The old man, whose name was Knoute, managed, with curses and pleas and some help from a half-witted lad named Dune, to start up a long-defunct yard-tug and move the boat into a cleared space big enough to give us access to her. Fsha-fsha and I went through her from stem to stern. She was complete, original right down to the old logbook still lying in the chart table. It gave us some data to do further research on. I spent an afternoon in the shipping archives in the city, and that evening at dinner read the boat’s history to Fsha-fsha:

  “Gleerim, fifty-five feet, one hundred and nine tons. Built by Sanjio, master builder to Prince Ahax, as color-bearer to the Great House, in the year Qon.

  . . .”

  “That would be just over four thousand years ago,” Knoute put in.

  “In her maiden year, the Prince Ahax raced her at Poylon, and at Gael, and led a field of thirty-two to win at Fonteraine. In her fortieth year, with a long record of brilliant victories affixed to her crestplate, the boat was sold at auction by the hard-pressed and aged prince. Purchased by a Vidian dealer, she was passed on to the Solarch of Trie, whose chief of staff, recognizing the patrician lines of the vessel, refitted her as his personal scout. Captured nineteen years later in a surprise raid by the Alzethi, the boat was mounted on a wooden-wheeled platform and hauled by chained dire-beasts in a triumphal procession through the streets of Alz. Thereafter, for more than a century, the boat lay abandoned on her rotting cart at the edge of the noisome town.

  “Greu of Balgreu found the forgotten boat, and set a crew to cutting her out of her bed of tangled wildwood. Fancying the vessel’s classic lines, the invading chieftain removed her to a field depot, where his shipfitters hammered in vain at her locked port. Greu himself hacked in at her crestplate, desiring it as an ornament, but succeeded only in shattering his favorite dress short-sword. In his rage, he ordered flammable rubble to be heaped on the boat, soaked with volatiles, and fired. After he razed the city and departed with his troops, the boat again lay in neglect for two centuries. Found by the Imperial Survey Team of His Effulgent Majesty, Lleon the fortieth, she was returned to Ahax, where she was refitted and returned to service as color-bearer to the Imperial House.”

  “That was just her first days,” Knoute said. “She’s been many places since then, seen many sights. And the vessel doesn’t exist to this day that can outrun her.”

  It took us three months to repair, refit, clean, polish, tune and equip the boat to suit ourselves and old Knoute. But in the end even he had to admit that the Prince Ahax himself couldn’t have done her more proud. And when the time came to pay him, he waved the money aside.

  “I won’t live to spend it,” he said. “And you boys have bled yourselves white, doing her up. You’ll need what you’ve got left to cruise her as she should be cruised, wanting nothing. Take her, and see that the lines you add to her log don’t shame her history.”

  Two thousand light-years is a goodly distance, even when you’re riding the ravening stream of raw power that Jongo III ripped out of the fabric of the continuum and convert-ed to acceleration that flung us inward at ten, a hundred, a thousand times the velocity of propagation of radiation. We covered the distance in jumps of a month or more, while the blaze of stars thickened across the skies ahead like clotting cream. We saw worlds where intelligent life had existed for thousands of centuries, planets that were the graveyards of cultures older than the dinosaurs of Earth. When our funds ran low, we made the discovery that even here at the heart of the Galaxy, there were people who would pay us a premium for fast delivery of passengers and freight.

  Along the way we encountered life-forms that ranged from intelligent gnat-swarms to the titanic slumbering swamp-minds of Buroom. We found men on a hundred worlds, some rugged pioneers barely holding their own against hostile environments of ice or desert or competing flora and fauna, others the polished and refined products of millenia-old empires that had evolved cultural machinery as formal and complex as a lifelong ballet. There were worlds where we were welcomed to cities made of jade and crystal, and worlds where sharpers with faces like Neapolitan street-urchins plotted to rob and kill us; but our Riv souvenirs served us well, and a certain instinct for survival got us through.

  And the day came when Zeridajh swam into our forward screens, a misty green world with two big moons.

  The Port of Radaj was a multilevel composition of gardens, pools, trees, glass-smooth paving, sculpture-clean facades, with the transient shipping parked on dispersed pads like big toys set out for play. Fsha-fsha and I dressed up in our best shore-going clothes and rode a toy train in to a country-club style terminal.

  The landing formalities were minimal; a gray-haired smoothie who reminded me of an older Sir Orfeo welcomed us to the planet, handed us illuminated handmaps that showed us our position as a moving point of green light, and asked how he could be of service.

  “I’d like to get news of someone,” I told him. “A Lady-the Lady Raire.”

  “Of what house?”

  “I don’t know; but she was traveling in the company of Lord Desroy.”

  He directed us to an information center that turned out to be manned by a computer. After a few minutes of close questioning and a display of triograms, the mac
hine voice advised me that the lady I sought was of the House of Ancinet-Chanore, and that an interview with the head of the house would be my best bet for further information.

  “But is she here?” I pressed the point. “Did she get back home safely?”

  The computer repeated its advice and added that transportation was available outside gate twelve.

  We crossed the wide floor of the terminal and came out on a platform where a gorgeous scarlet and silver inlaid porcelain car waited. We climbed in, and a discreet voice whispered an inquiry as to our destination.

  “The Ancinet-Chanore estate,” I told it, and it clicked and whooshed away along a curving, soaring avenue that lofted us high above wooded hills and rolling acres of lawn with glass-smooth towers in pastel colors pushing up among the crowns of multi-thousand-year-old Heo trees. After a fast half-hour run, the car swooped down an exit ramp and pulled up in front of an imposing gate. A gray-liveried man on duty there asked us a few questions, played with a console inside his glass-walled cubicle, and advised us that the Lord Pastaine was at leisure and would be happy to grant us an interview.

  “Sounds like a real VIP,” Fsha-fsha commented as the car tooled up the drive and deposited us at the edge of a terrace fronting a sculptured facade.

  “Maybe it’s just a civilized world,” I suggested. Another servitor in gray greeted us and ushered us inside, through a wide hall where sunlight slanting down through a faceted ceiling shed a rosy glow on luminous wood and brocaded hangings, winked from polished sculptures perched in shadowy recesses. And I thought of the Lady Raire, coming from this, living in a cave grubbed out of a dirt-bank, singing to herself as she planted wild flowers along the paths. . . . We came out into a patio, crossed that and went along a colonnaded arcade, emerged at the edge of a stretch of blue-violet grass as smooth as a billiard table, running down across a wide slope to a line of trees with the sheen of water beyond them. We followed a tiled path beside flowering shrubs, rounded a shallow pool where a fountain jetted liquid sunshine into the air, arrived at a small covered terrace, where a vast, elderly man with a face like a clean-shaven Moses rested in an elaborately padded chair.

  “The Lord Pastaine,” the servant said casually and stepped to adjust the angle of the old gentleman’s chair to a more conversational position. Its occupant looked us over impassively, said, “Thank you, Dos,” and indicated a pair of benches next to him. I introduced myself and Fsha-fsha and we sat. Dos murmured an offer of refreshment and we asked for a light wine. He went away and Lord Pastaine gave me a keen glance.

  “A Man from a very distant world,” he said. “A Man who is no stranger to violence.” His look turned to Fsha—fsha. “And a being equally far from his home-world, tested also in the crucible of adversity.” He pushed his lips out and looked thoughtful. “And what brings such adventurers here, to ancient Zeridajh, a world in the twilight of its greatness, to call upon an aged idler, dozing away the long afternoon of his life?”

  “I met a lady, once, Milord,” I said. “She was a long way from home-as far as I am, now, from mine. I tried to help her get home, but . . . things went wrong.” I took a deep breath. “I’d like to know, sir, if the Lady Raire is here, safe, on Zeridajh.”

  His face changed, turned to wood. “The Lady Raire?” His voice had a thin, strained quality. “What do you know of her?”

  “I was hired by Sir Orfeo,” I said. “To help on the hunt. There was an accident. . . .” I gave him a brief account of the rest of the story. “I tried to find a lead to the H’eeaq,” I finished. “But with no luck.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the rest, about Huvile and the glimpse I’d gotten of her, three years before, on Drath; but for some reason I didn’t say it. The old man watched me all the while I talked. Then he shook his head.

  “I am sorry, sir,” he said, “that I have no good tidings for you.”

  “She never came back, then?”

  His mouth worked. He started to speak, twice, then said, “No! The devoted child whom I knew was spirited away by stealth, by those whom I trusted, and never returned!”

  I let that sink in. The golden light across the wide lawn seemed to fade suddenly to a tawdry glare. The vision of the empty years rose up in front of me.

  “ . . . send out a search expedition,” Fsha-fsha was saying. “It might be possible-”

  “The Lady Raire is dead!” the old man raised his voice. “Dead! Let us speak of other matters!”

  The servant brought the wine, and I tried to sip mine and make small talk, but it wasn’t a success. Across the lawn a servant in neat gray livery was walking a leashed animal along a path that sparkled blood-red in the afternoon sun. The animal didn’t seem to like the idea of a stroll. He planted all four feet and pulled backward. The man stopped and mopped at his forehead while the reluctant pet sat on his haunches and yawned. When he did that, I was sure. I hadn’t seen a cat for almost three years, but I knew this one. His name was Eureka.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ten minutes later, as Fsha-fsha and I crossed the lawn toward the house, a broad-shouldered man with curled gray hair and an elegantly simple tunic emerged from a side path ahead.

  “You spoke to His Lordship of Milady Raire?” he said in a low voice as we came up.

  “That’s right.”

  He jerked his head toward the house. “Come along to where we can talk quietly. Perhaps we can exchange information to our mutual advantage.” He led us by back passages into the deep, cool gloom of a room fitted up like an office for a planetary president. He told us his name was Sir Tanis, and got out a flagon and glasses and poured a round.

  “The girl reappeared three months ago,” he said. “Unfortunately,” he added solemnly, “she is quite insane. Her first act was to disavow all her most hallowed obligations to the House of Ancinet-Chanore. Now, I gather from the few scraps of advice that reached my ears-”

  “Dos talks as well as listens, I take it,” I said.

  “A useful man,” Sir Tanis agreed crisply. “As I was saying, I deduce that you know something of Milady’s activities while away from home. Perhaps you can tell me something which might explain the sad disaffection that afflicts her.”

  “Why did Lord Pastaine lie to us?” I countered.

  “The old man is in his dotage,” he snapped. “Perhaps, in his mind, she is dead.” His lips quirked in a mirthless smile. “He’s unused to rebellion among the very young.” The brief smile dropped. “But she didn’t stop with asserting her contempt for His Lordship’s doddering counsels; she spurned as well the advice of her most devoted friends!”

  “Advice on what?”

  “Family matters,” Tanis said shortly. “But you were about to tell me what’s behind her incomprehensible behavior.”

  “Was I?”

  “I assumed as much-I confided in you!” Tanis looked thwarted. “See here, if it’s a matter of, ah, compensation for services rendered . . .”

  “Maybe you’d better give me a little more background.”

  He looked at me sternly. “As you’re doubtless aware, the House of Ancinet-Chanore is one of the most distinguished on the planet,” he said.

  “We trace our lineage back through eleven thousand years, to Lord Ancinet of Traval. Naturally, such a house enjoys a deserved preeminence among its peers. And the head of that house must be an individual of the very highest attainments. Why . . .” he looked indignant, “if the seat passed to anyone but myself, in a generation-less! we should deteriorate to the status of a mere fossil, lacking in all finesse in the arts that mark a truly superior seat!”

  “What’s the Lady Raire got to do with all that?”

  “Surely you’re aware. Why else are you here?”

  “Pretend we’re not.”

  “The girl is an orphan,” Sir Tanis said shortly. “Of the primary line. In addition . . .” he sounded exasperated, “ . . . all the collateral heirs-all!

  are either dead, exiled, or otherwise disqualified in the voting!”
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  “So?”

  “She-a mere girl, utterly lacking in experience-other than whatever bizarre influences she may have come under during her absence-holds in her hands five ballots! Five, out of nine! She-ineligible herself, of course, on a number of counts-controls the selection of the next head of this house! Why else do you imagine she was kidnapped?”

  “Kidnapped?”

  He nodded vigorously. “And since her return, she’s not only rebuffed my most cordial offers of association-but has alienated every other conceivable candidate as well. In fact . . .” he lowered his voice, “it’s my personal belief the girl intends to lend her support to an Outsider!”

  “Sir Tanis, I guess all this family politics business is pretty interesting to you, but it’s over my head like a wild pitch. I came here to see Milady Raire, to find out if she was safe and well. First I’m told she’s dead, then that she’s lost her mind. I’d like to see for myself. If you could arrange-”

  “No,” he said flatly. “That is quite impossible.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Sir Revenat would never allow it. He closets her as closely as a prize breeding soumi.”

  “And who’s Sir Revenat?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Her husband,” he said. “Who else?”

  “Tough,” Fsha-fsha consoled me as we walked along the echoing corridor, following the servant Sir Tanis had assigned to lead us back into the outside world. “Not much joy there; but at least she’s home, and alive.”

  We crossed an inner court where a fountain made soft music, and a door opened along the passage ahead. An elderly woman, thin, tight-corseted, dressed in a chiton of shimmering white, spoke to the servant, who faded away like smoke. She turned and looked at me with sharp eyes, studied Fsha-fsha’s alien face.

  “You’ve come to help her,” she said to him in a dry, husky voice. “You know, and you’ve come to her aid.”