A. Smith: Royal Road

An abrupt and thunderous crashing from the speaker, and all sound went out; even to the thin hiss of the carrier. The two noble conspirators stared at each other with a wild surprise. And Duke Harald reached out to cut the playback. Suddenly the speaker burst into a senseless gabble.

“What? Oh, sure,” said Duke Harald, and he deftly changed the scramble setting.

“Your grace,” a voice was saying, in purest Arkadian accents, “the Sonotec transmission went out at 0435 hours. From the nature of the readings at the time of the break, destruction of the sender is most likely. I shall try to pass this spool to you at the assigned time and place. I am now abandoning this location.”

“Good lad!” Duke Harald commented. “I guess they didn’t trace him.”

“You think, then, that your Sonotec was discovered?”

“And smashed. Well, I guess it served its purpose. I don’t suppose trying to plant another would be wise?”

“Most unwise.” Count Godfrey was emphatic.

“You’re probably right,” Duke Harald conceded. “But I would have liked to hear some more. However, we have something. Let’s pool our wits and see just what that something is.” Brief discussion found them in agreement on two points. That the rumor of a telepathic drug seemed now to have some sure foundation. And that Duke Harald would have to contrive to be present at the often mentioned but still mysterious “vigil.”

“But how?” Count Godfrey wondered.

“Oh, I’ve got a few things in my lock-box that may help.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, gadgets.” Duke Harald was deliberately vague. Then, as the old ambassador half-opened his mouth in protest, “No, I don’t know yet just what I’ll use, or how I’ll work it. And even if I did, you know my thoughts : share a plan in detail, and you’re psychologically committed to trying to make it work in just that way, even when the situation changes.” He yawned, and set the silvery wire to spinning through the erasing coils. Instinctively he wished to be rid of that piece of tangible evidence.

The nightly “one o’clock rain” was still misting gently down over the streets and towers of the city, when Duke Harald emerged from the embassy. The Terran weather machines, he thought, were marvels of efficiency. But their unvarying regularity made the climate seem a little dull to anyone born and bred on a more primitive, storm-tossed world. A closed three-wheeler bore the Arkadian nobleman home through streets temporarily deserted for the hour-long duration of the rain.

Morning brought a disturbing reminder of Arkadian politics, in the shape of a coded spacegram from the Council of Peers.

“Recall!” said Duke Harald blankly, staring at the yellow message slip. Now, of all times! He translated the order again, and this time noted the signature: Duke Charles, President-Elect. Enlightenment came. Obviously he had stayed away too long. There had been one of those swift realignments of power to which the Council was all too prone. And it had for the moment left control in the hands of his arch-rival.

“And the next step, I suppose, will be to call on Terra for an adept! Well, back I go—but not before I get what I came after.”

Even as he said this, Duke Harald crossed the simply furnished sitting room of his apartment to the alcove where his visiphone was placed. He started to set up a calling-pattern ; and just as swiftly canceled it.

“Tapped!” said Duke Harald, watching a tiny spot of amber light fade slowly from the screen. The secret, unofficial changes he had made within the instrument had detected interference from a tapping circuit. Someone was set to monitor his calls; And he could make a reasonably accurate guess as to who and why. This, and the finding of his Sonotec in Master Elwyn’s office—the two events trod much too closely on each other’s heels to be called sheer coincidence.

But were the Terran adepts just suspicious, or—something more?

“There’s one way to find out,” he muttered, and donned his newest scarlet tunic. No dull student garb today!

His hand was on the door switch, when a soft chiming stopped the movement of his fingers. Flicking on the scanner, he looked at the call-plate; to see, in the outside corridor a Terran in part-uniform.

“Yes?” he queried softly.

“Duke Harald of Arkady?” the other asked in turn.

“Here,” said the Arkadian, half regretting that he wore no weapon. If this man were of the police—but no! Events could not have marched that fast. “What is it?”

“Your pardon, Duke Harald. I am Cam Hardy. A public runner, in the service of the Esper Institute. My number,” he touched his cap badge, “is 4063. I have an urgent message for you from the adept, Master Elwyn.”

“Oh,” said Duke Harald flatty. “Right—come in.” And the door slid back into its recess as he released the force lock. He took the folded slip of heavy paper, read it with expressionless features.

“No answer,” he said then, signing the message book. Then waited while the runner disappeared along the corridor.

Did this change anything, he wondered; this sudden summons to a meeting he had decided to request? To beard the lion in his den was one thing. But if the lion asked you in, what then?

There was one precaution he could take. Closing the door again, he folded Master Elwyn’s message into the smallest possible compass, and sealed it—together with the coded spacegram—into a tamper-proof capsule which he marked with the address of the Arkadian embassy. That would be sufficient information for Count Godfrey’s alert old brain, he thought, as he dropped the metal egg into the automatic pneumo-tube. Slower, but surer and more private than the phones, the controls of the tube system could hardly have been altered over night.

And now—Master Elwyn!

“Please be seated, your grace,” said the adept, when Duke Harald had presented himself. Master Elwyn was, the Arkadian had noticed, always studiously careful about the use of titles and terms of courtesy.

“Thank you, Master Elwyn.” Duke Harald was as courteous in his turn; although he could not altogether bring himself to do as Terrans did, and address the other simply as “Master.”

“You have faced me with a problem of some delicacy,” the white-haired adept remarked without preamble. His intelligent old eyes glowed solemnly at Duke Harald. From apparently nowhere he produced—and with something of the air of a conjuror—a battered little plastic cube. Less than half an inch it measured on its sole unbroken side. It looked as though a grinding heel had crushed it under foot.

“I have? And how, may I ask?” Duke Harald spoke calmly, striving to keep mind and voice and features under such control that even the control itself would not be noticed.

“You do not recognize this, then?”

“Only as a Sonotec unit. Why?”

“I see,” said Master Elwyn, slowly. And inwardly, Duke Harald tensed. He knew that, by the Rule of Privacy, the adept could not read his mind without consent. But still—that Sonotec was his, despite his bland denial; and the Terran obviously guessed as much. Were there, he wondered, any limitations to the Rule? In short, were his thoughts being scanned?

Apparently not.

“Let us,” Master Elwyn was saying quietly, “consider this small device.” He touched the broken Sonotec negligently with one finger. “Its presence in this office was detected only yesterday. The implications of that fact are—serious.”

“Serious? In what way?” Duke Harald asked. Then, allowing a measure of indignation to warm his tones, “And what connection do you fancy that I have with this?”

“The Sonotec beam was traced. To a certain hotel in this city. Before investigators could arrive, however, two men left hurriedly and have not since been found.”