His tone of voice spoke of close familiarity with rules and regulations, accompanied by a dim understanding of human nature. It came to Roberts that even if the fellow had any power over him, his conclusion would be the same:
Better dead than that man’s prisoner.
The loudspeaker was now blaring the words:
” . . . THEREFORE, BY THE AUTHORITY VESTED IN ME, I HEREBY . . .”
Roberts suddenly had enough. The suit amplified his words into a voice of thunder:
“MASTER OF THE ORDNANCE! SILENCE THAT DOG!”
From the patrol ship, a bright line of light reached out to the loudspeaker. There was a brief display of sparks, then a pleasant quiet.
Beside the loudspeaker, the man with the microphone swung around. “Take that man prisoner!”
Roberts rested his hand on his sword hilt.
No one moved.
Roberts studied the usurper coldly. “What false illusion of power emboldens a fool to challenge the true liege-lord of this world?”
The only sound was the murmur of wind and the hiss of the generators spaced around the clearing.
Then the armed men in the clearing were grinning at the little group by the loudspeaker.
The individual in the center, firmly gripping the useless microphone, spoke in a determined voice. “I am P. W. Glinderen, Chief of Planet. Owing to the . . . spectacular irregularities . . . which have taken place on this planet, the Planetary Development Authority has regressed the planet to pre-provisional status. I have duly and officially been appointed Chief. You are evidently the cause of the irregularities. I, therefore, place you under arrest, and instruct you to strip yourself at once of all weapons and armor, open this other ship to immediate inspection, and instruct those within to come out at once, disarm themselves, and surrender. If you carry out these instructions promptly, I believe I can endorse a plea for clemency in your case.”
Roberts replied irritatedly: “No one can enforce his will where he lacks both right and power. The rulers of this world have yielded to me. Your vaunted authority is either fraudulent or void.”
P. W. Glinderen opened his mouth, shut it, and then spoke determinedly:
“In other words, you admit to planetary piracy? You state that you have seized this planet by force?”
Roberts spoke as if to a child: “Is the authority of lord over vassal based on force alone? Better to die, than to yield to such a claim, and better never to seize such a perilous allegiance. None need yield to a foul or empty cause. Against such, there is the appeal to Heaven, which will grant victory or apportion vengeance.”
P. W. Glinderen began to speak, looked thoughtful, and tried again:
“May I ask if your name is not—” he leaned over to another of his party, listened, nodded, and said, “—Vaughan N. Roberts, and if not, what is your exact identity?”
The question caused Roberts a moment of uneasiness. But one who has lost his identity, and then recovered it, is none too eager to let it go a second time. Roberts’ voice came out with anger and conviction:
“To question another in this manner assumes a superiority dangerous to one who is, in fact, a trespasser, without right or power, and with his life in the hands of him he seeks to question. You ask my name. I am Vaughan, Duke of Trasimere. Seek you any further answers?”
The Planetary Development official stared at Roberts, then again gathered himself to speak.
A loud ticking sounded from the patrol ship.
Someone in Glinderen’s party looked around, then urgently grabbed Glinderen.
The patrol ship’s big fusion cannon aimed directly at him.
Glinderen opened his mouth, and tried to speak, but was unable to get any words out.
Roberts turned to the men who had surrounded the patrol ship and were now gathered between the patrol ship and the space yacht.
“Take this man and his fellows prisoner, and return them to the city. Give warning that I shall soon be there to set straight whatever folly these people have brought about.”
The armored men below enthusiastically seized Glinderen and his companions, and hustled them onto the grav-skimmers. Then the men on the space yacht asked for orders, and Roberts sent them off with the rest. The whole outfit roared away with impressive efficiency, taking prisoners, loudspeakers, floodlights, and mist-generators with them.
Roberts, with the feeling of having satisfactorily completed an unpleasant task, turned to see Hammell and Morrissey, holding pressure-bottles and masks to their faces, watching him wide-eyed.
At that instant, with the tension relaxed and Roberts himself off guard, suddenly the thoughts he’d held off burst into consciousness.
Vaughan, Duke of Trasimere, Prince Contestant to the Throne, suddenly realized with a shock what was myth and what reality.
Morrissey held the mask away for a moment.
“Was that PDA Chief a fake—I hope?”
Hammell added nervously, “The whole Space Force will come out on a planetary-piracy charge.” He sucked in a fresh breath through the mask. “You know that, don’t you?”
Now Roberts knew it. Now that he had, in effect, challenged the whole human-occupied universe to war.
Then something more immediately urgent occurred to him.
“Once the fumes from the generators blow away, those gangbats will be down here, and no one knows what else. The yacht’s hull is riddled. You’d better be in the patrol ship before it’s too late.”
For once, Hammell and Morrissey made no objection, but hastily followed him down the handholds and across the clearing. The instant they were inside, Roberts slammed shut the hatch and locked it tight.
Now, he thought, he would have to answer some awkward questions.
But already, the two weapons lockers, that Roberts had been unable to open, were swinging wide. Glittering suits of battle armor traveled out on their slings.
“The new recruits,” said the symbiotic computer, “will suit up at once, and return to the yacht to gather necessary goods and equipment.”
Hammell and Morrissey stared at the two glittering suits of battle armor.
“New recruits?” said Morrissey.
Roberts said reassuringly, “Don’t worry about that. That’s just how it talks. But you’d better go along with it; otherwise you don’t get any food or water, and the bunk stays locked in place and you wind up having to sleep on the deck. But never mind that. We’ve got to get the want-generator over here anyway. Not only could animals damage it, but conceivably somebody might get at it while we’re away.”
“Away?” said Hammell. “Where are we going?”
“Where do you think?” said Roberts. “There’s only one place to straighten out this mess, and that’s the city.”
Hammell and Morrissey got into the battle armor without a word. But they looked as if they were doing a good deal of thinking.
Transferring the want-generator and spy screen to the patrol ship took the better part of two hours, but things didn’t stand still while they did it. At intervals they could hear, on the patrol’s ship communicator, the voice of Kelty, in charge of the city’s roboid police; the voice of the redbearded spokesman for the technicians; and the voice used by the planetary computer itself. On the other side was a harsh demanding voice that wrung the facts from stammering humans and toneless computer, and made it plain that everyone on the planet would obey his liege-lord the Duke, or his liege-lord the Duke would smash the place into smoldering rubble.
Once the want-generator and spy screen were set up, the three men got out of their armor and considered the restricted space in the patrol ship.
Standing near the hatch looking forward, the most prominent feature was the glistening three-foot-thick cylinder that ran down the axis of the ship, creating a shimmer of reflections exactly where anyone would naturally walk. Hammell and Morrissey had already banged into it, and now moved more warily. To the left of this cylinder was the control seat and console, forward of which was a blank wall. To the right of the cylinder, the space was now cluttered with the spy screen and want-generator, while straight ahead the deck itself warped sharply upward over the missile bay.
Aft of where Roberts stood, everything was constricted. Between the cylinder and the various drive and fuel-storage units, there was little but a set of claustrophobic crawl spaces so tight that it was necessary to exhale to get in.
Beside Roberts, however, was one of the patrol ship’s better features. Whatever might be said about other details, the final maddening touch—cramped sleeping arrangements—had been left out. The bunks were large and comfortable, and once in his bunk, a man could stretch out for a full night’s rest. But there was no denying, most of the ship lacked space.
Hammell and Morrissey, after looking around, glanced at each other, and then Hammell turned to Roberts accusingly.
“It’s even smaller on the inside than on the outside.”
Roberts was listening to the symbiotic computer warn Kelty that Glinderen’s party shouldn’t be allowed to use a communicator. Roberts replied absently. “It’s a thick hull.”