Buck Rogers 2 - That Man on Beta (16 page)

“I don’t know,” Buck shook his head. “I just know there’s something fishy going on here. We both know what a scoundrel Kane is, and as for Von Norbert, I wouldn’t trust that high-and-mighty professor any farther than I could throw a D-IV super-spaceliner.”

“So—what does that have to do with us?” Wilma gestured with one hand, indicating their beautiful surroundings as well as themselves.

“Just that—if they’re making it so easy for us to get together . . . setting up this little Eden for us, providing a cozy little love nest in the middle of it, even furnishing us with free 3Vs to give us the idea if we didn’t have it ourselves . . . then Kane and Von Norbert must have some sort of motive of their own that I just don’t trust. I don’t know what it is, but if it’s good for the enemy it’s pretty sure to be bad for us.”

Wilma slumped disconsolately into a crouch. “You’re right.”

“On the other hand,” Buck knelt on the mossy ground beside her and slid an arm around her shoulders, “if this is what we both want anyway . . .”

They clung together for a long, tender embrace. This time it was Wilma who pushed Buck away from her. “I’m sorry, Buck,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. “But I keep thinking—what if you were right? I mean—before—what if we’re just playing into their hands by . . . this . . .”

“Yeah,” Buck grunted. He heaved himself to his feet and walked away from Wilma. “Why did I have to think of that, just when everything was so nice?”

With tears now falling from Wilma’s eyes, and Buck’s expression no cheerier than Wilma’s, they remained, yards from each other, backs turned to one another, while a grim silence descended upon them both. Through it they could hear the tinkling of the little stream, the steady purring sound of the miniature waterfall, the occasional cry of a bird or splash of a fish.

“What fun,” Buck grumbled miserably.

A few hours later, Buck lay stretched on the yielding moss, staring at a swaying fern. Soft music played. For all his strength and stamina, and for all the emotional tension of the situation, he finally yielded to sleep. As his breathing became deep, steady, rhythmic, Wilma Deering trod slowly and softly across the open area between them.

She knelt beside the sleeping man, touched his face with her trembling fingertips. He started to stir. Wilma drew back, held her breath. Buck subsided into unconsciousness again. Wilma sighed, rose to her feet, walked away.

Buck awoke, found the lighting low, the music soft in the miniature Eden. He looked through the gloom, saw Wilma sitting miserably with her back to him, staring abstractedly at nothing.

Buck walked to a bowl of fruit, selected a juicy melonito, started toward Wilma as if to offer it to her as an opening conversational gambit. He halted behind her, aware that she sensed his presence and chose to avoid any exchange.

He walked back to the bowl and dropped the melonito into it again. “Damn it,” he grumbled, “this place has everything we need but a cold shower.”

Still later, Buck and Wilma sat face to face. They had improvised a gaming circle on the ground of their Eden. From two bunches of grapes, one vividly verdant, the other lushly purple, they had improvised a batch of marbles. They shifted their positions, knelt opposite each other, just beyond the boundaries of the circle, in the time-honored fashion of marble-shooters.

“Okay,” Buck was explaining. “I’m sorry that this great old game has somehow died out. Maybe we can reintroduce it to Earth if we ever make it back there from Villus.

“Now, all the marbles are divided into regular marbles and shooters. Here”—he reached toward a nearby bowl of fruit—“this plum is going to be my shooter. Now, the object of the game is to knock your opponent’s marbles out of the circle. You use your shooter to . . .”

In the great hall of Villus Beta, Professor Von Norbert stood beside Kane, watching the proceedings in Buck and Wilma’s Eden with angry and disappointed expressions.

“So much for your methods of subtle persuasion,” Kane growled. He reached with one hand and flicked off the telescreen on which they had been watching the Earth people. The concealed monitor-camera that had been focused on Buck and Wilma continued to scan their activities, but Kane and Von Norbert no longer watched.

Von Norbert shook his head. “I can’t understand it. Everything was carefully calculated—the setting, the music, the soft perfumes with the aphrodisiac gases blended into them. How could I fail?”

“Argh,
that’s what you intellectuals always wind up wondering,” Kane gritted. “Call me barbarian if you want to, but for my scrip it’s the iron fist that does the job. If anybody gets in your way, don’t reason with him.
Smash him!
They learn soon enough to obey.”

“You may be right,” Von Norbert conceded. “But with the Princess Ardala arriving in a few hours, what are we going to have to report to Her Highness?”

“That’s your problem, Von Norbert. I handle the military side of things, and I’ve been doing a damned fine job, if I say so myself. If you can’t handle your job, you might want to try out for another one—like, a member of the stoker gang! Ah, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

T H I R T E E N

Kane and Professor Von Norbert stood side by side once again. This time it was for the formal welcome of the Princess Ardala to Villus Beta. The spaceport was spic-and-span. Draconian troops were ranged in precise formation, their uniforms clean and pressed, the metal accouterments of the equipment polished to a blinding brightness in the ever-changing light of the Villus star-complex.

A Draconian military band played the harsh and strident airs of the official Draconian military repertoire—music marked by strident brasses and loud percussion, music that raised the hackles and set the blood to pounding, music designed to rouse and anger the hearer.

The spaceship that hove into view was of the largest class ever constructed. Of Draconian design, it would have made a magnificent spaceliner for the passenger run or the cruise trade; or, converted for freight, it could have carried uncounted metric tons of agricultural products, industrial raw materials, or useful manufactured goods between the stars.

But being of Draconian design, the D-VIII was furnished as a battlewagon. It bristled with laser-howitzers, space-torpedo launching tubes, space-marine assault-craft bays, heavy-bomber launching decks, armories and fuel and ammunition dumps.

The only compromise on the D-VIII was the Imperial Suite. Outfitted now for the use of the Princess Ardala, the suite had every sensuous luxury imaginable to the mind of twenty-fifth century designers. There was hardly a world in the Draconian Empire that had not been looted to yield up some fillip of comfort and self-indulgence for the princess.

As the D-VIII settled with military precision into the receiving pods of the Villus Beta spaceport, the battlewagon’s repellor beams dancing in multicolored patterns beneath her hull, the band struck up a strident, military air.

As the main passenger hatch swung open and the princess emerged, along with her personal entourage of sycophants and retainers, the band swung into the Draconian Imperial Anthem, a tune—if its angry, discordant tones could be said to make up a tune—reserved for personal appearances by the Emperor Draco and members of the immediate imperial household alone.

The princess was garbed in flowing satin robes trimmed in barbaric natural furs. Her breathtaking, vaguely exotic features were framed by a mass of rippling, blue-black hair as thick and as beautiful as the coat of a wild Yuggothian ice-otter. She sneered at the military band and tossed a glittering coin at the feet of its conductor, swept past the musicians, ignored battalions of smartly saluting soldiers, strode up to Kane and Von Norbert and accepted her official welcome.

“My dear Princess Ardala,” Kane hissed, “welcome to our little outpost here in the boonies.”

The princess’ eyes snapped. “It’s most charming, Kane, for a backwoods rustic village. All that mars its rural perfection is your presence.”

She sneered at the fawning Kane, turned a chilling smile upon Professor Von Norbert. “And your side of things?” Ardala demanded.

“I, also, welcome you to Villus Beta, Your Imperial Highness,” the scientist bowed formally.

“Hah! I’ve had enough of ceremony and abasement, Von Norbert. I want to see the results of your experiments. The empire needs results, and you’d better have something good to show me!”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness. If you wish to be briefed immediately, we can cover the situation on the way to my laboratory.”

Ardala indicated assent with an imperious gesture. They started to walk, the professor explaining the theories of his work in layman’s terms as they moved past saluting soldiers. By the time they reached the edge of the spaceport he had moved on to the experimental aspect of his project. Ardala’s questioning was probing and ruthless.

When she uncovered the information that Von Norbert had been unable to maneuver Buck Rogers into mating with Wilma Deering, Ardala burst into vicious, spiteful laughter. “I know that Colonel Deering of Rogers’,” she snarled. “For once the man shows a little discernment.”

“But, Your Highness,” Von Norbert countered, “you see that Rogers’ recalcitrance has stymied the experimental side of my work. The theory is completely developed, up to this point. But we must have experimental verification in order to move on to the practical application of my theories.”

Kane had been pacing angrily along with the other two, listening in silence to their discussion of Von Norbert’s work. Now Kane put in, “Whatever you do, Ardala, I don’t want you to trust that Rogers!”

“Thank you, Kane,” the princess snapped. “When my imperial father appointed you my guardian, however, he failed to notify me of the act, so I think I shall go on ignoring your worthless opinions as I have done in the past.”

“Ah, to return to a scientific topic,” Von Norbert interrupted timidly, “I’m afraid that if we can’t convince Rogers to help us, we are without his antibodies. You can’t just order a man to . . . to . . . procreate.”

Ardala smiled, almost for the first time since her arrival aboard the imperial D-VIII battlewagon. “It depends on who his partner is, Professor. For instance, if I were to . . .”

“Hah, but you aren’t!” Kane sneered. “The computer did the choosing, Ardala, and even if you were willing, it didn’t pick you!”

“Moreover,” the professor interjected, aghast, “the imperial princess, the heiress-apparent to the throne of Draco himself . . . !”

“A princess, yes,” Ardala hissed. “But first, I am a woman. Remember that. Well—all things in the name of science, eh? Come along. In any case, I want to see Captain Rogers.”

“And Wilma Deering?” Kane asked.

“Not particularly,” Ardala replied. “But if you’re keeping them penned together, however unsuccessfully, I suppose I must.”

While Kane escorted Ardala to a lush garden near the professor’s laboratory, Von Norbert went ahead and brought Buck and Wilma back with him, accompanied by armed guards to prevent their escape. Kane briefed Ardala on progress within the Villus sector of space while they waited for the others.

When Buck and Wilma arrived, Buck bowed before the Princess Ardala. His movements and posture had all the proper forms dictated by imperial court etiquette—but his expression was one of mockery rather than respect.

Wilma and Ardala ignored each others presence completely.

Buck rose from his bow before the princess. “Ardala,” he said, dropping court formalities, “how nice of you to drop in.”

“How nice of you to be here when I arrived.” Ardala’s voice dripped rancid honey.

“Thank you,” Buck acknowledged. “Actually, it wasn’t exactly my idea. Your friend Kane here had a little to do with it.”

“Kane is no friend of mine,” Ardala shot back. “The man is an obvious social climber and power seeker. If I weren’t heiress to Draco’s throne, Kane wouldn’t give me a second glance.”

“That isn’t true!” Kane blurted angrily. “I would, too—”

“Are you calling the Princess Ardala a liar?” Ardala interrupted Kane, referring to herself in deliberately formal terms.

“No, no, of course I wouldn’t insult Your Royal Highness,” Kane backed away from his denial.

“Then you admit it,” Ardala triumphed, “you are nothing but a social-climbing power-seeker. Well, Kane, since you admit your own perfidy—”

“But—” Kane spluttered, “but—but . . .” His face turned beet red beneath his disorderly, greasy, black locks. “Oh, I give up, Princess. Have it any way your warped imagination would have it. But don’t think your father won’t hear about this!”

Ardala gave forth peal after peal of shrill, mocking laughter. When she finally regained her composure she said, “My father, the Emperor Draco, is off commanding his fleet against the Gregorians. He left me in complete charge of operations at home. Do you wish to file a formal protest of my conduct? With me?” she grinned wickedly.

Kane threw his arms out in disgust. Ardala did not so much intimidate him as enrage him with her behavior.

“Well, then.” The princess turned back toward Captain Rogers. “Now then, Buck, what are we going to do with you?” she asked.

“I have a great idea,” Buck said, “just send me home. Me and Wilma, that is—and our friend Theopolis while you’re at it.”