III
—
It was official: the Emperor Hans would shortly leave Terra, put himself
at the head of an armada, and personally see to quelling the
barbarians–war lords, buccaneers, crusaders for God knew what strange
causes–who still harassed a Sector Spica left weak by the late struggle
for the Imperial succession. He threw a bon voyage party at the Coral
Palace. Captain Sir Dominic Flandry was among those invited. Under such
circumstances, one comes.
Besides, Flandry reflected, I can’t help liking the old bastard. He may
not be the best imaginable thing that could happen to us, but he’s
probably the best available.
The hour was well after sunset in this part of Oceania. A crescent moon
stood high to westward; metrocenter star-points glinted across its dark
side. The constellations threw light of their own onto gently rolling
waves, argent shimmer on sable. Quietness broke where surf growled white
against ramparts. There walls, domes, towers soared aloft in a
brilliance which masked off most of heaven.
When Flandry landed his car and stepped forth, no clouds of perfume (or
psychogenic vapors, as had been common in Josip’s reign) drifted from
the palace to soften salt odors. Music wove among mild breezes, but
formal, stately, neither hypersubtle nor raucous. Flandry wasn’t sure
whether it was composed on a colony planet–if so, doubtless
Germania–or on Terra once, to be preserved through centuries while the
mother world forgot. He did know that a decade ago, the court would have
snickered at sounds this fusty-archaic.
Few servants bowed as he passed among fellow guests, into the main
building. More guardsmen than formerly saluted. Their dress uniforms
were less ornate than of yore and they and their weapons had seen
action. The antechamber of fountains hadn’t changed, and the people who
swirled between them before streaming toward the ballroom wore clothes
as gorgeous as always, a rainbow spectacle. However, fantastic collars,
capes, sleeves, cuffs, footgear were passe. Garb was continuous from
neck or midbreast to soles, and, while many men wore robes rather than
trousers, every woman was in a skirt.
A reform I approve of, he thought. I suspect most ladies agree. The
suggestive rustle of skillfully draped fabric is much more stimulating,
really, and easier to arrange, than cosmetics and diadems on otherwise
bare areas of interest. For that matter, though it does take more
effort, a seduction is better recreation than an orgy.
There our good Hans goes too far. Every bedroom in the palace locked!
Ah, well. Conceivably he wants his entourage to cultivate ingenuity.
Crown Prince Dietrich received, a plain-faced middle-aged man whose
stoutness was turning into corpulence. Though he and Flandry had worked
together now and then in the fighting, his welcome was mechanical. Poor
devil, he must say a personal hello to each of three or four hundred
arrivals important enough to rate it, with no drug except stim to help
him. Another case of austere principles overdone, Flandry thought. The
younger brother, Gerhart, was luckier tonight, already imperially drunk
at a wallside table with several cronies. However, he looked as sullen
as usual.
Flandry drifted around the circumference of the ballroom. There was
nothing fancy about the lighting, save that it was cast to leave
unobscured the stars in the vitryl dome overhead. The floor sheened with
diffracted reflections from several score couples who swung through the
decorous measures of a quicksilver. He hailed acquaintances when he
glimpsed them, but didn’t stop till he had reached an indoor arbor where
champagne was available. A goblet of tickle in his hand, roses around
him, a cheerful melody, a view of pretty women in motion–life could be
worse.
It soon was. “Greetin’, Sir Dominic.”
Flandry turned, and bowed in dismay to the newcomer beneath the leaves.
“Aloha, your Grace.”
Tetsuo Niccolini, Duke of Mars, accepted a glass from the attendant
behind the table. It was obviously not his first. “Haven’t seen you for
some while,” he remarked. “Missed you. You’ve a way o’ puttin’ a little
spark into a scene, dull as the court is these days.” Shrewdly: “Reason
you don’t come often, what?”
“Well,” Flandry admitted, “his Majesty’s associates do tend to be a bit
earnest and firm-jawed.” He sipped. “Still, my impression is, your Grace