Джон Вэнс - Scanned by Highroller

Opposite the entrance was a dais, flanked by two heavy balustrades of rust-red wood, and a wide throne-like seat of the same russet wood. At the moment the throne was empty.

Twenty or thirty men stood about the room–large, sun-tanned, some with bristling mustaches–awkward and ill at ease as if unused to a roof over their heads. All wore red knee-length breeches. Some wore blouses of various colors while others were bare-chested with capes of black fur slung back from their shoulders. All bore short heavy sabers in their belts and all eyed the newcomers without friendliness.

Joe looked from face to face. Harry Creath would not be far from Vail-Alan, the center of activity. But he was not in the hall.

Beside the dais in a group stood the Redbranch Mangs. Erru Kametin spoke in a harsh staccato to the woman. The two proctors listened silently, half-turned away.

A house-marshal with a long brass clarion stepped into the room, blew a brilliant fanfare. Joe smiled faintly. Like a musical comedy–warriors in bright uniforms, pageantry, pomp, punctilio...

The fanfare again– tantara-tantivy– shrill, exciting.

«The Prince of Vail-Alan! Ruler Preemptor across the face of Ballenkarch!»

A blond man, slight beside the Ballenkarts, stepped briskly up on the dais, seated himself on the throne. He had a round bony face with lines of humor'around his mouth, nervous twitching hands, an air of gay intelligence, reckless impatience. From the crowd came a hoarse « Aaaaah» of reverence. Joe nodded slowly without surprise. Who else? Harry Creath flicked his eyes around the room. They rested on Joe, passed, swung back. For a minute he stared in amazement.

« Joe Smith ! What in Heaven's name are you doing out here?»

This was the moment he had come a thousand light years for. And now Joe's mind refused to function correctly. He stuttered the words he had rehearsed for two years, through toil, danger, boredom–the words which expressed the two-year obsession–»I came out to get you.»

He had said them, he was vindicated. The compulsion which was almost auto-suggestion had been allayed. But the words had been spoken and Harry's mobile face expressed astonishment. «Out here? All the way– to get me?»

«That's right.»

«Get me to do what?» Harry leaned back and his wide mouth broke into a grin.

«Well–you left some unfinished business on Earth.»

«None that I know of. You'd have to talk long and fast to get me in motion.» He turned to a tall guard with a face like a rock. «Have these people been searched for weapons?»

«Yes, Prince.»

Harry turned back to Joe with a grimace of jocular apology. «There's too many people interested in me. I can't ignore the obvious risks. Now, you were saying– you want me to go back to Earth. Why?»

Why? Joe asked himself the question. Why? Because Margaret thought herself in love with Harry and Joe thought she was in love with a dream. Because Joe thought that if Margaret could know Harry for a month, rather than for two days, if she could see him in day-to-day living, if she could recognize that love was not a series of lifts and thrills like a roller-coaster ride–that marriage was not a breathless round of escapades.

In short, if Margaret's pretty frivolous head could be rattled loose from its nonsense–then there would be room in it for Joe. Was that it? It had seemed easy, flung out to Mars for Harry only to find Harry had departed for Io. And from Io to Pluto, the Jumping-off Place. And then the compulsion began to take hold, the doggedness. Out from Pluto, on and on and on. Then Kyril, then Junction, now Ballenkarch.

Joe blushed, intensely aware of Elfane at his back, watching him with bright-eyed speculation. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.

Why?

Eyes were on him, eyes from all over the room. Curious eyes, cold uninterested eyes, hostile eyes, searching eyes–Hableyat's placid, Elfane's probing, Harry Creath's mocking eyes. And into Joe's confused mind one hard fact emerged–he would be displaying himself as the most consummate ass in the history of the universe if he told the truth.

«Something to do with Margaret?» asked Harry mercilessly. «She send you out here?»

Joe saw Margaret as if in a vision, inspecting the two of them derisively. His eyes swung to Elfane. A hellion, obstinate, intolerant, too intense and full of life for her own good. But sincere and decent.

«Margaret?» Joe laughed. «No. Nothing to do with Margaret. In fact I've changed my mind. Keep to hell away from Earth.»

Harry relaxed slightly. «If it had to do with Margaret-why, you're rather outdated.» He craned his neck. «Where the devil is she? Margaret !»

«Margaret?» muttered Joe.

She stepped up on the dais beside Harry. «Hello, Joe» –as if she'd taken leave of him yesterday afternoon– «what a nice surprise.»

She was laughing inside, very quietly. Joe, grinned also, grimly. Very well, he'd take his medicine. He met their eyes, said, «Congratulations.» It occurred to him that Margaret was in sheer fact living the life she claimed she wanted to lead–excitement, intrigue, adventure. And it seemed to agree with her.

Harry had been speaking to him. Joe suddenly became aware of his voice. «–You see, Joe, this is a wonderful thing we're doing out here, a wonderful world. It's busting open with high-grade ore, timber, organic produce, manpower. I've got a picture in my mind, Joe–Utopia.

«There's a good bunch of lads behind me, and we're working together. They're a little rough yet but they see this world the way I see it and they're willing to take a chance on me. To begin with, of course, I had to knock a few heads together but they know who's boss now and we're getting on fine.» Harry looked fondly over the crowd of Ballenkarts, any one of whom could have strangled him with one hand.

«In another twenty years,» said Harry, «you won't believe your eyes. What we're going to do to the planet! It's marvelous, I tell you, Joe. Excuse me now, for a few minutes. There's affairs of state.» He settled himself into his chair, looked from Mangs to Druids.

«We might as well talk it over now. I see it's all fresh and ripe in your minds. There's my old friend Hableyat.» He winked at Joe. «Foxy Grandpa. What's the occasion, Hableyat?»

Hableyat strutted forward. «Your Excellency, I find myself in a peculiar position. I have not communicated with my home government and I am not sure as to the extent of my authority.»

Harry said to a guard. «Find the Magnerru.» To Hableyat, «Magnerru Ippolito is fresh from Mangtse and he claims to speak with the voice of your Ampianu General.»

From an archway to the side a Mang approached–a sturdy square-faced Mang with the brightest of black eyes, a lemon-yellow skin, bright orange lips. He wore a scarlet robe embroidered with a border of purple and green squares, a cubical black hat.

Erru Kametin and the other Mangs of his party bowed deeply, saluting with outflung arms. Hableyat nodded respectfully, a fixed smile on his plump lips.

«Magnerru,» said Prince Harry, «Hableyat wants to know the extent of his freedom to make policy.»

«None,» rasped the Magnerru. «None whatever. Hableyat and the Bluewaters have been discredited in the Ampianu, the Lathbon sits with the Redbranch. Hableyat speaks with no voice but his own and it will soon be stilled.»

Harry nodded. «Then it will be wise to hear, before his demise, what his views are.»

«My Lord,» said Hableyat, his face still frozen in its jovial mask, «my words are trivial. I prefer to hear the enunciations of the Magnerru and of the two Arch-Thearchs we have with us. My Lord, I may state that the highest of Kyril face you–Arch-Thearchs Oporeto Implan and Gameanza. They will ably present their views.»