Roberts strolled into the narrow lane between the roboid police. “Draw these lines apart!”
The roboid police backed up an inch.
With one violent blow of his sword, Roberts sliced the nearest roboid policeman in half. He chopped the next one apart, hewed his way through the third—
Suddenly there was room around him.
He strode between the lines toward the Council Hall, then abruptly came to a halt. Ahead and a little to his left, where he would have had to step if he had gone between the original lines, was what looked like a repaired place in the concrete.
Roberts drew his fusion gun, aimed deliberately, and fired.
A geyser of flame roared up. Chunks of concrete shot skyward like the discharge of a volcano.
From the patrol ship, searing shafts of energy reached out. There was a sizzling multiple Crack! like a dozen thunderbolts striking at once.
The roboid police were two lines of glowing wreckage.
Roberts jumped the smoking crater, and headed for the building. On the way, he shot down a large sign that proclaimed, “Municipal Detention Center,” uncovering the more solidly anchored plaque bearing the words, “Barons Council Hall.” Roberts kicked the fallen sign out of his way, and opened the door.
At the near end of a big table, two men came to their feet. They were Kelty, the lean, well-dressed assistant chief of the planetary computer’s roboid police, and the redbearded giant who was spokesman for the technicians. At the foot of the table sat P. W. Glinderen, and to his right a knowing cynical individual who looked at Roberts with a smirk. Beside this individual was a bored-looking man with broad shoulders and a detectable bulge in his armpit. To Glinderen’s left were seated several neatly-dressed smooth-shaven men who apparently were administrators of some kind.
Roberts stepped to the empty place at the head of the table, and pulled out the chair.
Hammell and Morrissey took their places to Roberts’ right, but as he remained standing, they, too, stayed on their feet. At the far end, Glinderen and the officials to his left methodically glanced over papers, while to Glinderen’s right, the shrewd-looking individual eyed Roberts, Hammell and Morrissey with a knowing smile.
Hammell’s voice remarked, “Your Grace, I like not the air of this rabble at the foot of the table. They should stand till you are seated.”
Glinderen looked up.
“You are at the foot of the table. And let me warn you, before you try any theatrical display, that I have notified the Space Force, and the three of you will be in prison before the week is out.” His voice changed to a whiplike crack. “Now, sit down.”
Roberts, aware of the orders he had earlier heard the symbiotic computer give, knew that Glinderen was not to have been allowed the use of a communicator.
Roberts glanced at Kelty. “Is this true?”
Kelty nodded unhappily. “I tried to stop him. But Glinderen convinced the planetary computer, and it blocked me.”
Roberts said coldly, “Then this means war. Their so-called Space Force is in the asteroid belt. If it attempts to interfere with this world, I shall summon the battle fleets of the Empire.”
At the other end of the table, the crafty individual to Glinderen’s right laughed silently.
As Roberts contemplated this low point in his plans, Hammell’s voice reached him:
“Your Grace, I know that these outspacers have customs different from ours. But their bearing is an insult. Not alone to Trasimere and the Empire, but to Malafont and Greme as well.”
Roberts looked at the individuals at the far end of the table. Glinderen and his officials were ignoring everyone else. To Glinderen’s right, the crafty individual sat back and grinned, while to his right, the tough was studying Hammell as if he were a peculiar kind of insect. No one at the far end of the table was taking Roberts and his party seriously. Moreover, they now controlled the planetary computer, and they had already called the Space Force.
Hammell’s voice was courteous but firm:
“I know, Your Grace, of your desire to avoid conflict with the outspacers while our own struggles are yet unsettled. Nevertheless, Your Grace, I respectfully call to your attention that this world is yours, and that I am your guest upon it.”
The shrewd individual rocked back in his chair, grinning.
Roberts said politely, “If the gentlemen to Mr. Glinderen’s right belongs to Mr. Glinderen’s party, I trust that Mr. Glinderen will call him to order while there is yet time for Mr. Glinderen to call him to order.”
Glinderen glanced up, frowning. “Mr. Peen is a commercial representative for Krojac Enterprises. He is entirely—”
“I see,” said Roberts.
Mr. Peen went into a fresh fit of silent laughter.
Through no volition of his own, the fusion gun jumped to Roberts’ hand. A dazzling lance of energy reached across the table.
Glinderen and his aides sprang to their feet as Peen went over backwards.
Roberts heard his own voice say coolly, “I apologize to their Graces of Malafont and Greme for this incivility.”
Hammell’s voice said, “The stain is wiped away, Your Grace.”
Morrissey’s voice added coolly, “Say no more of it, Your Grace. However, that other fellow, also to the right of Glinderen, hath a look which I care not for.”
Roberts’ voice inquired politely, “That second gentleman, Mr. Glinderen, is of your party?”
Glinderen said, “No, no! He’s Mr. Peen’s—”
Crack!
The second gentleman, springing to his feet and yanking a short-barreled weapon from his armpit, collapsed on the floor.
Roberts’ voice said coolly, “I apologize to His Grace of Malafont, for this unpleasantness.”
Morrissey’s voice said cheerfully, “The unpleasantness is transmuted to pleasure, Your Grace.”
As a matter of fact, the sudden departure of the grinning pair was a relief to Roberts. But the way they had departed was something else again. To see whether he now had control, or whether the battle armor was just going to operate on its own from now on, Roberts said experimentally, “Let us be seated.”
The words were dutifully reproduced by the armor. He sat down, and Hammell, Morrissey, Kelty, and the redbearded giant, smiling cheerfully, followed his example.
At the far end of the table, Glinderen stared from the pair on the floor to Roberts.
“This is murder!”
Roberts was inclined to think Glinderen had a point. But, before he could open his mouth, a duplicate of his voice said coldly, “Had they been of your party, Mr. Glinderen, they might yet be alive, but you might not. The great houses of the Empire are not filled by hereditary lackwits or degenerate scions forty generations removed from greatness. Neither are they filled by those of such eager humility that they may at will be trodden underfoot by rats in human form. He who insults a Great Lord of the Empire, Mr. Glinderen, lives at the mercy of that Great Lord, out of religious motives, or as an exercise in self-command, not out of an innate right to insult his betters. You, Mr. Glinderen, are yourself deeply in my debt, and in the debt of their Graces of Malafont and Greme. Thus far I have used against you less than my full strength, out of recognition that you believe you do right. This is past. One wrong move on your part, and you go the way of the two on the floor. Seat yourself and let your men seat themselves. Let them keep silent, on peril of their lives. Let you answer my questions and ask none of your own. Your actions have already strung the bow of patience so tight that just a little more will break it.”
Glinderen sat down, wide-eyed. His subordinates swallowed, sat down, and kept their mouths shut.
* * *
Roberts waited an instant, but the battle armor had apparently said all it—or the symbiotic computer speaking through it—intended to say. It was up to Roberts to fill the growing uncomfortable silence.
Roberts leaned forward. “Where is the Baron of the Outer City, Mr. Glinderen?”
Glinderen swallowed hard. “He was carrying on a brutal policy. I—deposed him. He is in prison.”
Roberts glanced at Kelty. “Is this true?”
Kelty said, “From Glinderen’s viewpoint, it’s true. There was a lot of bloodshed in the Outer City—mostly in the attempt to straighten the place out in a hurry. I didn’t have any authority there any more. The roboid police couldn’t go in. That meant order had to be kept some other way. The way it was being kept was rough, all right. The general idea was that the first time a man was caught stealing, for instance, they beat him up. The second time, he lost a hand. The third time, they killed him. That was pretty tough, but it was creating a sense of property rights. Without that, they couldn’t get anywhere, because if someone did do a good job, and got rewarded for it, the reward could be robbed or stolen anytime, so it was meaningless. Well, it was working, and then Mr. Glinderen came down, and convinced the computer, which placed the roboid police at his command, and the next time the Baron of the Outer City came in here, Glinderen imprisoned him. Glinderen then tried to take over all the rest of the city with the roboid police, but by now it was too tough a proposition. Then he tried to pacify the populace by being very lenient. In the process, crime skyrocketed. We have crimes now that we never dreamed of before.”