After their meal, Jules and Yvette went back up to their suite and read through the story with great interest and also with an occasional snort or giggle. The official version was, of course, new to them, but they had to admit that Borton had done a credible job in fabricating it. SOTS, under the masterly direction and leadership of its planetary chief, had been keeping this band of traitors under close and continuous surveillance for over a year. They had waited until they were sure they had found every member and connection of the band, and then had struck at every point simultaneously. They had made a clean sweep.
Faced with the absolute proof of their guilt, each of the traitors had confessed fully. The Service, acting in its capacity as administrator of the Emperor’s justice, promptly carried out the mandatory sentence for treason: death.
That sentence even included the Baron of Osberg, who had been the group’s ringleader. Normally he would have been entitled, as a peer of the realm, to a High Court of justice; but so overwhelming was the evidence against him that he broke down, confessed his crimes and was permitted to take the ‘honorable’ way out.
The news report hastened to point out that the Baron was the only member of his family to be involved in these treasonous activities, and so his barony would not revert to the Crown. Instead, his wife became the Baroness Dowager Carlotta, and his daughter Ilse – only nineteen years old – became the new Baroness. Ilse was known as a kind, generous woman, active in sports as well as in numerous philanthropic organizations, and would give Osberg the new, dynamic leadership it needed -and so on.
Planetary Chief Borton had had only the help of his brave assistant, Alf Rixton; none had come from Earth. No suggestion was made anywhere that nitrobarb had been used – and for good reason. The mere possession of that powerful drug had been made a capital offense some fifteen years earlier.
‘Nice,’ Yvette said. ‘That story’s so tight I almost believe it myself.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Jules, leaning back on his bed. ‘But now comes the roughest part of all waiting. I’d love nothing better than to move on to Aston and follow up that lead we got from the Baron … it could dry up before we can move. But we’re stuck here for a while at least because we can’t draw attention to ourselves. If Carlos and Carmen left right after this raid, somebody might put two and two together to get twenty-two.’
Yvette thought for a moment. ‘I know that’s what I told Borton last night, but I’m not so sure right now. The fact that we were here on Algonia – coupled with the fact that those two ‘Delfians’ in the Dunedin Arms could only have been a high-grav twosome – would be plenty of evidence already for people not half as smart as the ones we’re up against. It won’t take the enemy too long to associate the Velasquezes with the Delfians. So whether we stay here a month or leave today makes no difference – except, perhaps, as an exercise in the old guessing game.’
‘Tu as raison, as always. But, as you said, the old guessing game can be important, and I think we should take some time to set up some sleight of hand. Let’s put in a call back home and see what we can arrange, shall we?’
It was eight days later that Carlos and Carmen Velasquez bid a tearful farewell to the Hotel Splendide. Tears were plentiful on the other side of the counter as well, because the staff knew they might never again encounter such heavy tippers. True to their fashion, the dizzy pair of ex-Puritans scattered their parting largesse from the penthouse all the way to their limousine, and thence to the spaceport.
Once there, they boarded a luxury liner bound for Lateesta via Aston. As the ship’s last port of call had been DesPlaines – and as it had taken on some passengers there – sections of the vessel had been marked out for artificial gravity. Feeling what they considered to be the only honest gravitational pull after so long made Jules and Yvette considerably homesick; but that homesickness was at least in part alleviated in a couple of minutes when they visited the suite of the three passengers who had traveled here from DesPlaines.
The door to the suite opened, and there stood a small, powerfully-built girl with brown hair, almond- shaped eyes and an exquisitely beautiful face. That face lit up with surprise and delight as the girl belatedly recognized the pair standing before her.
‘Jules!’ she shrieked, and leaped at him so suddenly that even with his strength he had to take a step back to maintain his balance.
‘Vonnie! Sweetheart!’ His arms clasped around her solid but decidedly feminine – body as their lips met in a passionate kiss. Time froze for them for maybe half a minute as the two young people renewed their love after a four-month separation.
After being motionless in each other’s arms for so long, Yvonne Roumenier pulled back a little, looked Jules up and down with critical eyes, and finally shook her head. ‘I have got to have a picture of you like that. Both of you,’ she added, seeming to notice Yvette for the first time. The two girls kissed affectionately on the cheek. ‘Come on in,’ Yvonne said, opening the door wider to admit them.
The stateroom was first-class, but not the deluxe one that the ‘Velasquezes’ had taken, several levels away. The furniture was all comfortably upholstered and solidly built; it had to be to withstand the three gees of artificial gravity within the room.
‘They told me you’d disguised yourselves,’ Yvonne continued, ‘but this is something that has to be seen to be believed. Gabby, Jacques, come on out here and see the pair of peacocks who dropped by.’
As the two people so addressed entered the room, Yvonne continued to look at Jules. ‘You always were a handsome so-and-so, Julie, but now you’re simply beautiful!’ She kissed him a few more times. ‘But I’m not wild about that mustache – it tickles.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Jules smiled back at his fiancee. ‘I did.’
The two other people who now entered the room were both DesPlainians, with the short, stocky bodies that characterized inhabitants of that planet. The woman was Gabrielle d’Alembert, sister in-law to Jules and Yvette. Her husband was their older brother Robert, heir to the Duke’s title and the man who really ran DesPlaines while the Duke was off managing the Circus. Gabrielle had an aristocratic tilt to her nose and steel-gray eyes that could be quite cold, though they seemed friendly enough right at the moment.
She was slightly older than Yvette, though she kept her skin so smooth and perfect that they might have been sisters in fact as well as in law.
The man beside her was Jacques Roumenier, Yvonne’s younger brother. Both the Roumeniers were children of one of Duke Etienne’s best friends, Baron Ebert Roumenier of Nouveau Calais; they themselves were lifelong friends of Jules and Yvette and had, in fact, been raised together. They were also cracking good SOTS agents.
Jacques was a slightly horse faced man, homely but nice. His face now sported the same type of mustache as Jules’. ‘Hello, Yvette,’ he said softly, gazing intently at her feet. Jacques had always had a crush on her and, while she loved him as a friend, her feelings did not extend beyond that – and he knew it. She was always warm and companionable with him, though, for she hated to hurt him any more than necessary.
‘Hello, Jacques,’ she beamed back at him. ‘You know, there’s something about that mustache that looks familiar.’
‘Of course,’ said Yvonne, leaping into the conversational breach. ‘He’s going to be the new Carlos, and Gabby’s going to replace you. I asked the Duke to let me be Carmen Velasquez – begged him, practically on my knees – but the dirty mudlug wouldn’t listen. He went by the thousand point test, like always, and Gabby’s nine ninety three beat me out.’
Jules grinned. ‘Did you think he’d skip the scores on something this important?’
‘Well, he certainly ought to’ve given me the job, since I’ve got a nine eighty nine and I’m engaged to his son, the only thousand-pointer alive.’
‘I’m still proud of you, darling,’ he cooed, slipping his arms around her delicate waist. ‘You’re still more than enough woman for me to handle.’
Then he looked up and smiled at the two newcomers. ‘Hi, Gabby; hi, Jacques’ he said, giving them the belated salutation.
‘”Cabby” indeed,’ said Gabrielle, pulling herself up to her full aristocratic height of one hundred and sixty- four centimeters. ‘That’s Marchioness Gabrielle to you, varlet. I don’t think I’ll deign to speak to any of the common herd any more unless they come crawling, bumping their foreheads on the floor.’ Her words were haughty, as was her tone, but there was a slight sparkle to her eyes that indicated she was joking.