Star Bridge (17 page)

“I can guarantee the safety of my residence,” Ronholm snapped, his handsome face flushed.

Duchane smiled broadly. “Can you?” He chuckled. “Can you really? The Director has made a motion. All in favor?” Only Ronholm's voice was heard. Duchane shrugged. “You seem to be in a minority.”

Wu sank gratefully into a deep chair directly opposite Duchane. Horn stood behind the pseudo-Matal and watched Duchane.

Fenelon asked a pointed question in his high-pitched, aristocratic voice. “What can Security report about the assassin? Has he been found?”

Duchane's face, sprinkled with a golden powder, darkened. “Not yet. It is only a matter of hours. We know that he is on Eron. We are closing in.”

“Are you?” Wu asked. “Are you really?”

Duchane shot him a swift, dark glance. “I'll get him. And when I'm finished with him, I'll give the remains to Panic.” He caressed the huge, black head. “It will be justice for the death of Terror.”

“You've mourned more over that hell-hound than you have about Kohlnar,” Ronholm said bitterly.

Duchane's eyes were heavy lidded. “Terror was my servant and my friend. No, we haven't laid our hands on the assassin. Not yet. But we've found the person who is even more guilty—the one who paid for the bullet.”

“Who?” Ronholm blurted out.

Duchane let his eyes slide from Ronholm to Wu, from Wu to Fenelon. “In due time, fellow Directors.” His lips twisted into the mockery of a smile. “First let us consider a more pressing matter: the election of a new General Manager.”

“Kohlnar's body is scarcely cold!” Ronholm objected.

“Events do not wait on sentiment,” Duchane said softly. “The immediate stabilization of Eron's leadership is vital. Discipline proceeds downward. We must present the Empire with a strong, new government, united behind one man, unshaken. If the Empire sees us faltering, fighting among ourselves, the hints of violence will become reality. We must decide now, and close ranks behind our choice.”

“Sensible,” Wu said.

Fenelon nodded. Ronholm looked sullen.

“I ask for nominations,” Duchane said, his eyes flickering over them.

“Wendre Kohlnar.” Surprisingly, it was Fenelon.

“Wendre!” Duchane exploded. “I ask for strength, and you give me a woman. Everything is against it: tradition, policy, strategy.”

“Everything except common sense,” Fenelon said slowly, his lean, chiseled face intent. “A woman, yes. But a woman qualified by birth and training. You ask for strength. I say that strength is not enough. Only Wendre has the confidence of the people. Only Wendre has the popularity to make rebellion hesitate before attacking—”

“Coddle them?” Duchane exclaimed incredulously. “Pamper these conquered slaves with a General Manager they'll like? Appease their hunger with golden blood? No, by Kellon! The only fit food for slaves is the whip; the only answer to rebellion is death!”

Horn was surprised to hear Wu's bubbling voice say, “Hear! Hear! I nominate our vigorous, bloodthirsty Director for Security for the office to which he aspires.”

Duchane's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction, but he only gave a slight nod of recognition.

“Wendre!” Ronholm said violently.

“Wendre,” Fenelon echoed.

Duchane studied them silently.

“But where is the lovely Wendre?” Wu asked again.

“Here,” Duchane said.

A door to his left, opposite the one through which Horn and Wu entered, slid open. Wendre stood behind it, dressed as Horn had seen her last. Her red-gold hair was disheveled; her dark-blue cloak hung from her shoulders revealing glimpses of torn gold beneath. Her hands were together in front of her. They were fastened with a thin snake of gleaming wire.

“Here she is,” Duchane said sardonically. “The lovely Wendre. Patricide.”

The room gasped. Horn couldn't separate the reactions. Wu was the first to regain his voice. “Ah, no!” he said.

“Fantastic!” Ronholm exploded. He half rose from his chair.

“Clever!” Fenelon said quietly.

A hand shoved Wendre. She staggered into the room. The door slid shut behind her. She stopped, straightened, and stood proudly in front of them. For a moment her smoldering, tawny eyes rested on Duchane, and then they turned to the other three Directors.

“Ask him for proof!” she said. Her voice was clear and unafraid.

Ronholm sank back into his chair. “Release her!” he said with cold intensity.

“Yes,” Wu seconded. “Release her, and then we will listen to your proof.”

“Of course,” Duchane said blandly. “If she will come close—”

Wendre hesitated and then took two quick steps toward him. She held out her hands above the huge, black head of Duchane's hunter. The dog sniffed once, curiously, and then looked away. Duchane reached toward Wendre, touched the metal snake. It slithered off her wrists into his hand. He toyed with the half-alive thing as Wendre turned and walked away. It coiled and twisted in his hand.

“Proof,” he mused. “A delicate thing. Without the assassin, we cannot prove that he was contacted by Wendre or her agent, given his instructions and his payment, and that he carried them out. I can build you a substantial edifice, however. Consider these questions: who was responsible for the planning of the Victory Dedication? Who opposed the use of my men as guards? And who, except for the quick action of one of my men, would have led the assassin aboard her scoutship and from there to safety?”

Horn's eyes narrowed. The pattern became clearer. That bullet hadn't been meant for him. Duchane had acted quickly after Kohlnar's death. He had commissioned an agent to assassinate Wendre.

It could have been planned earlier than that. Duchane could have hired him to assassinate Kohlnar.

Duchane had recovered quickly from the failure of the attempt on Wendre. He had arrested her and assassinated Matal. But Wu was speaking.

“Is this true?” he asked Wendre.

“Half-truth, twisted cleverly like that chain he has in his hand. Duchane's agent is a curious contradiction. He was so close that he could identify an unknown assassin. And yet his eyesight was so poor that he couldn't see the pistol the assassin had at my back. And his aim was so bad that the bullet came closer to me than to the assassin. Duchane's story is absurd. I was arrested at the Terminal cap before he knew that the assassin had come back to the monument and escaped—before he could have known. What was my motive in hiring someone to kill my own father?”

Duchane seemed amused. “Practical or psychological? Need I point out that your father was dying, that you had no hope of succeeding him in a peaceful transfer of authority? Only just now we heard your candidacy for your late father's office argued on the basis of your popularity with the people.”

Wendre's chin came up. “I have no desire to be General Manager. I won't accept the nomination.”

Duchane's lips twisted. “A little late, my dear. Shall I go into your psychological motives? Shall I recite from the Index? Shall I prove that you hated your father for making a loveless marriage with your mother, for using her money and the name of Kallion as rungs in the ladder of his ambition, and then for casting her aside to make room for a succession of mistresses? Shall I—”

“Shut up!” Wendre shouted. And then, quietly, “I'm glad I didn't even consider your suggestion of marriage.” She turned to face the other Directors. “That was his price for dropping this absurd accusation. Does he really believe I'm guilty, or is he willing to shield a murderer to further his own ambition? He can't have it both ways.”

“I won't even deny it,” Duchane said calmly. “I suggest a third interpretation. Guilt and justice are irrelevant abstractions compared with the future of Eron.”

“A fascinating suggestion,” Wu mused. “The marriage of strength and popularity. It might make all the—”

“Never!” Ronholm exclaimed.

Wendre glanced at him gratefully. “Never,” she echoed calmly.

“Not even to save the Empire?” Wu asked.

“I don't believe the Empire needs such measures to save it,” she said coldly. “But if it is that rotten, it deserves to perish. I'd rather marry a barbarian.”

Horn's eyelids flickered.

“Duchane has accused me of hiring the assassin,” she went on, “but his edifice of truth turned out to be a house of cards. As good a case can be built against Duchane. Who has gained the most from my father's death? Who tried to get the Dedication security arrangements under his control? Who was in the best position to hire or assign a man daring enough and desperate enough to attempt the assassination? Who tried to have me assassinated and, failing that, tried to pin on me his own guilt? Who—”

“Enough!” Duchane roared. Responsively, a menacing growl rumbled deep in the throat of the hell-hound named Panic. “I have additional proofs—”

“I suggest,” Wu said quietly, “that these accusations are not only pointless but dangerous. If we fight among ourselves, how can we expect to suppress rebellion from below? Guilt has no meaning among us. If Wendre is publicly accused, Eron would suffer. She must be freed. In turn, she must forget your actions against her. It is a question of survival—our own and the Empire. We must not divide our forces now.”

Duchane's dark eyes inspected the faces around the table. “A vote, then. A vote for the next General Manager of Eron.”

“Wendre!” Ronholm said.

“Wendre,” Fenelon repeated.

“Duchane,” Wu said.

They all turned to look at Wendre. She hesitated and looked puzzledly at Wu. Horn couldn't see the pseudo-Matal's face. Wendre's lips tightened.

“Duchane,” she whispered.

Duchane relaxed. “I should return the pretty compliment, but you all realize that I am not sentimental. Of course I vote for myself. The vote is three to two, the necessary majority—”

His voice broke off. His head swung to the right. The door slid open. A dark, little man in dirty, orange working clothes trotted into the room, sidled to Duchane's chair, and bent to whisper in his ear. Before he had time for more than one word, his restless eyes had darted around the room and stopped at Wu and widened.

The man stepped back. His hand darted toward the pocket of his ragged tunic. It came out with a pistol. Before the muzzle came up, the man was dead.

The bullet that killed him buried itself in the soft wall behind the falling body. It made a muffled
thunk
. Before then, Horn's pistol was centered on Duchane's black chest.

Beside Duchane, the giant dog was on its feet, poised, its massive head leaning forward, turning, jaws agape and drooling.

Without looking away from Duchane, Horn was conscious that the guards behind Ronholm and Fenelon had guns in their hands. Duchane faced the three muzzles without alarm.

“Assassination?” Wu said incredulously. “Here?”

Duchane's eyes were narrow with speculation. “He said your name.”

“Obviously,” Wu said.

The tension stretched thin. At any moment, Horn knew, it might snap and men would die. Anything could start it. The dog straining forward from Duchane's hand—

“Look at the walls,” Duchane said quietly.

Horn didn't look away from Duchane. He didn't have to. Behind Duchane, three slits had opened in the wall. Through each one poked the muzzle of a unitron pistol. One of them was pointing at him. There would be other slits in the other walls. The exception might be the wall behind him. The path of the bullets would be toward Duchane.

“No sudden moves,” Duchane said. “They might be misinterpreted.”

“A wise thing for you to remember, as well,” Wu said. “You can kill us, it is true. But remember that you will be the first to die. Keep your hands away from the table and the arms of your chair. Even the swiftest bullet can't stop a finger from squeezing.”

Silence. In that moment the tension that Horn had thought could stretch no tighter stretched beyond endurance.

“You had this planned from the start,” Fenelon said coldly. “But you underestimate us. Your residence has been surrounded ever since I entered.”

Duchane smiled. “Your guards were disposed of long ago,” he said easily. But he kept his hands in sight.

Only Ronholm said nothing. And his silence was difficult to understand.

Quickly, out of the corner of his mouth, Wu snapped, “Easy, there. Easy. There is no profit in that.”

Ronholm sagged back.

“We seem to have a stalemate,” Wu said quietly. “You can't assassinate us without being killed yourself. We are in the same predicament. I suggest that we find a solution quickly. There is a certain strain implicit in the situation. Fingers have been known to twitch involuntarily. It would be sad if the government of Eron were to destroy itself.”

No one spoke. No solution was possible. Neither side could trust the other; the first one that lowered its guns would die.

Beads of sweat broke out on Duchane's broad forehead. Horn watched them trickle through the gold powder on his face. The gun in Horn's hand began to shake just a little.

 

THE HISTORY

Decay.…

The odor is distinctive. Any historian can identify it when the scent is strong and trace it to the first rotten spot. But it takes a wise man to spot the symptoms early.

Eron had the symptoms. Keen nostrils began to wrinkle.

The Tube was a splendid achievement, but it was also power. The saying was old before Sunport; power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. For a thousand years, the Company stood as a magnificent and stubborn barrier to the further progress of all mankind. But the waters of life piled up behind it, and the barrier wore thin.

The space kings of Eron no longer fought their own battles. Mercenaries could be hired for that. The technicians, the spacemen, the engineers—they were barbarians. The Golden Folk clung only to shadows: hereditary wealth and titles, and a secret. The secret was the Tube.