He had been impressed by Czinczar’s communications. The barbarian leader had important information to give. Somehow, somewhere, he had gotten hold of an object so valuable that he had risked his self-esteem in attempting to establish contact.
If too hasty action were taken, that knowledge might be lost.
Even as he walked on through the room, the mutation silently reaffirmed his purpose. A moment later he entered the office and informed the barbarian officer there that he had come for the job of taking care of the relics of the atom gods.
The big man stood up and squinted down at him, gave an almost naive start of recognition, and then called two soldiers from the hallway.
And then he said, “Lord Clane Linn, you are under arrest.’
To one of the soldiers he commanded, “Get ropes. Tie him up.”
Meekly, the mutation submitted to being bound.
The moment the news arrved, Czinczar headed for Linn. He was met on the roof of the central palace by Meewan. The big man had a smile on his plump, good-fellow face. “Your theory was right,” he said admiringly. “You thought he would take a chance at the critical period of the invasion. He arrived this morning.”
“Tell me exactly how you accepted his services.” The golden voice spoke softly. The strange face was thoughtful as the other man gave his detailed account. There seemed no end to his interest. When the story was finished, he asked question after question. Each answer seemed merely to stimulate new questions. Meewan said finally, querulously:
“Your excellency, I have no doubt that our men have put the best face on the capture to make themselves look good. They claim to have captured him as he entered the building, before he could do anything or touch anything. Since they’re a lax bunch of rascals, I question this. But what does it matter? What are you doubtful about?”
That gave Czinczar pause; he had not realized how tense he was. After all, he told himself, the situation was simple enough. He had issued an open invitation for temple scientists to come and take care of “some god-metal relics” that had fallen into possession of the conquerors. It was a cleverly worded request, designed to win general approval from the defeated even as it drew the temple scientist to his own undoing, Its only stipulation, very guardedly worded, was that in return for the privilege of sharing the “safe-guarding of the relics,” experiments should be continued as if no war were being waged.
“The gods,” Czinczar had said sanctimoniously in the invitation, ” are above the petty quarrels of mankind.”
Apparently, at least one of its purposes was accomplished. The mutation himself had applied for the job. Czinczar meditated cautiously on tactics. “Bring him here,” he said finally. “We can’t take any risks of his having established control over anthing at his house. We know too little and he too much.”
While he waited, he examined the rod of force – which was one of the few workable instruments that had been found in the house. He was not a man who accepted past truths as final. That it had worked a week ago did not mean that it would work now. He tested it from a great window, pointing it at the upper foliage of a nearby tree. No sound, no visible light spewed forth – but the upper section of the tree crashed down onto a pathway below. Czinczar experienced the satisfaction of a logical man whose logic had proved correet. It was not an uncommon satisfaction. From the early days when he had been a backcountry transcriber of messages to the days of his rise to power, he had taken risks that seemed necessary, no more, no less. Even now he could not be sure that the atomic wizard, Lord Clane, would not defeat him by some decisive wile. For several minutes, he pondered that and then ordered a box brought in from the ice room of the palace. The contents of the box had come all the way from Europa packed in ice. He was indicating to the slaves where to place the box when an officer burst breathlessly into the throne room.
“Excellency,” he cried. “Hundreds of spaceships. It’s an attack.”
Standing at the windows a moment later, watching the ships settling down, Czin~ar realized that his hazy suspicions had been correct. The appearance of Clane in the city was part of a planned maneuver that would now run its deadly course. It was a pleasure to know that Lord Clane himself was caught in a trap.
He wasted no time watching a battle that he could not hope to see from the palace in any important detail. Nor did he have the feeling Tews had had months earlier that it was necessary for commanders to know where he was in the early stages of the engagement. He issued quick instructions, ordering the ice-packed box sent after him, and wrote a note for Meewan. Then he rode with a strong escort to the headquarters of the reserve army in the middle of the city.
The reserve contained a barbarian core, but like the main defense of the city it was overwhelmingly made up of slaves. Czinczar’s arrival was greeted by a roar of excitement. The cheers did not die down until long afier he had entered the building.
He talked over the situation with some of the slave officers and found them calm and confident. According to their estimates sixty thousand Linnan soldiers had landed in the first wave. That that was exactly the number of barbarians who had originally invaded the city did not seem to occur to the slaves. But the comparison struck Czinczar sharply. He wondered if it was designed to have some symbolic meaning. The possibility made him sardonic. Not symbols but swords spoke the language of victory.
As the afternoon dragged on, the Linnan attack was being held everywhere. The box, still dripping, was delivered from the palace about three. Since there was no longer any immediate danger, Czinczar sent a messenger to Meewan. At three-thirty Meewan came in grinning broailly. He was followed by slave Linnans carrying a sedan chair. In the chair, bound hand and foot, was the acting Lord Leader of Linn. There was complete silence as the chair was set down, and the slaves withdrew.
Clane studied the barbarian leader with genuine interest. Lady Lydia’s opinion of the man had impressed him more than he cared to admit. The question was, could this strong, fine-looking military genius be panicked into thinking that the atom gods existed? Panicked now, during the next half hour? Fortunately, for the first time in his career as an atomic scientist, he had behind him the greatest power ever developed by the wizards of the fabulous days of the legends. He saw that the impersonal expression on the other’s face was transforming into the beginning of contempt.
“By the god pits,” said Czinczar in disgust, “you Linnans are all the same – weaklings every one.
Clane said nothing. He had looked often with regret into mirrors that showed him exactly what Czinczar was seeing. A slim, young man with a face that was white and womanish and … well, it couldn’t be helped.
Czinczar’s face changed again. There was suddenly irony in it. “I am speaking,” he asked politely, “to Lord Clane Linn? We have not made a mistake?”
Clane couldn’t let the opening pass. “No mistake,” he said quietly. “I came into Linn for the sole purpose of talking to you while the battle was on. And here I am.”
It must have sounded ridiculous, coming from a man bound as he was. The near guards guffawed, and Meewan giggled. Only Czinczar showed no sign. And his marvelous voice was as steady as steel as he said, “I have not the time to flirt with words, nor the inclination. I can see that you are counting on something to save you, and I presume it has something to do with your knowledge of atomic energy.”
He fingered the rod of force suggestively. “So far as I can see, we can kill you in less than a second whenever we desire.”
Clane shook his head. “You are in error. It is quite impossible for you to kill me.”
There was a sound from Meewan. The engnieer came forward. “Czinczar,” he said darkly, “this man is intolerable. Give me permission to slap his face, and we shall see if his atom gods protect him from indignity.”
Czinczar waved him aside. But he stared down at the prisoner with eyes that were abnormally bright. The swiftness with which tension had come into the room amazed him. And, incredibly, it was the prisoner who had seized the advantage – “Impossible to kill me!” In one sentence he dared them to make the attempt.
There was a crinkle of frown in Czinczar’s forehead. He had been careful in his handling of Clane as a matter of common sense, not because he actually anticipated disaster. But now, quite frankly, he admitted to himself that the man was not reacting normally. The words Clane had spoken had a ring in them, a conviction that could no longer be ignored.The purpose of his own invasion of the Linnan empire could be in danger.