Gordon Dickson: Dorsai!

“I thought a Select of Kultis would be—” Donal stopped, honestly at a loss, “more… more in control of herself.”

“She’s very healthy, very normal, very intelligent — but those are only potentialities,” retorted the marshal, almost gruffly. “What did you expect?”

He threw open the door, ushered them both in, and closed the door firmly behind them. When he turned around, there was a harder, more formal note to his voice.

“All right now,” he said, sharply, “what’s all this about a letter?”

Donal took a deep breath. He had tried hard to read Galt’s character during the course of the dinner — and he staked everything now in the honesty of his answer, on what he thought he had seen there.

“No letter, sir,” he said. “To the best of my knowledge, my father never met you in his life.”

“Thought as much,” said Galt. “All right — what’s it all about, then?” He crossed to a desk on the other side of the room, took something from a drawer, and when he turned about Donal was astonished to find him filling an antique pipe with tobacco.

“That Anea, sir,” he said. “I never met such a fool in my life.” And he told, fully and completely, the story of the episode in the corridor. Galt half-sat on the edge of the desk, the pipe in his mouth now, and alight, puffing little clouds of white smoke which the ventilating system whisked away the second they were formed.

“I see,” he said, when Donal had finished. “I’m inclined to agree with you. She is a fool. And just what sort of insane idiot do you consider yourself?”

“I, sir?” Donal was honestly astonished.

“I mean you, boy,” said Galt, taking the pipe out of his mouth. “Here you are, still damp from school, and sticking your nose into a situation a full planetary government’d hesitate at.” He stared in frank amazement at Donal. “Just what did you think — what did you figure… hell, boy, what did you plan to get out of it?”

“Why, nothing,” said Donal. “I was only interested in seeing a ridiculous and possibly dangerous situation smoothed out as neatly as possible. I admit I hadn’t any notion of the part William played in the matter — he’s apparently an absolute devil.”

The pipe rattled in Galt’s suddenly unclenched jaws and he had to grab it quickly with one thick hand to keep it from falling. He took it from his lips and stared in amazement at Donal.

“Who told you that?” he demanded.

“No one,” said Donal. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Galt laid his pipe down on the table and stood up. “Not to ninety-nine per cent of the civilized worlds, it isn’t,” he retorted. “What made it so obvious to you?”

“Certainly,” said Donal, “any man can be judged by the character and actions of the people with which, he surrounds himself. And this William has an entourage of thwarted and ruined people.”

The marshal stiffened.

“You mean me?” he demanded.

“Naturally not,” said Donal. “After all — you’re a Dorsai.” The stiffness went out of Galt. He grinned a little sourly and, reaching back for his pipe, retrieved and relit it.

“Your faith in our common origin is… quite refreshing,” he said. “Go on. On this piece of evidence you read William’s character, do you?”

“Oh, not just that,” said Donal. “Stop and think of the fact that a Select of Kultis finds herself at odds with him. And the good instincts of a Select are inbred. Also, he seems to be an almost frighteningly brilliant sort of man, in that he can dominate personalities like Anea, and this fellow Montor, from Newton — who must be a rather high-level mind himself to have rated as he did on his tests.”

“And someone that brilliant must be a devil?” queried Galt, dryly.

“Not at all,” explained Donal, patiently. “But having such intellectual capabilities, a man must show proportionately greater inclinations toward either good or evil than lesser people. If he tends toward evil, he may mask it in himself — he may even mask its effect on the people with which he surrounds himself. But he has no way of producing the reflections of good which would ordinarily be reflected from his lieutenants and initiates — and which, if he was truly good — he would have no reason to try and hide. And by that lack, you can read him.”

Galt took the pipe from his mouth and gave a long, slow whistle. He stared at Donal.

“You weren’t brought up on one of the Exotics, by any chance, were you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Donal. “My father’s mother was a Maran, though. And my mother’s mother was Maran.”

“This,” Galt paused and tamped thoughtfully in the bowl of his pipe — it had gone out — with one thick forefinger, “business of reading character — did you get this from your mother, or your grandmother — or is it your own idea?”

“Why, I imagine I must have heard it somewhere,” replied Donal. “But surely it stands to reason — anyone would arrive at it as a conclusion, with a few minutes’ thought.”

“Possibly the majority of us don’t think,” said Galt, with the same dryness. “Sit down, Donal. And I’ll join you.”

They took a couple of armchair floats facing each other. Galt put his pipe away.

“Now, listen to me,” he said, in a low and sober voice. “You’re one of the oddest young fish I can remember meeting. I don’t know quite what to do with you. If you were my son, I’d pack you up in quarantine and ship you home for ten more years seasoning before I let you out among the stars — all right—” he interrupted himself abruptly, raising a silencing hand as Donal’s mouth opened. “I know you’re a man now and couldn’t be shipped anywhere against your will. But the way you strike me now is that you’ve got perhaps one chance in a thousand of becoming something remarkable, and about nine hundred and ninety-nine chances of being quietly put out of the way before the year’s out. Look, boy, what do you know about the worlds, outside the Dorsai?”

“Well,” said Donal. “There are fourteen planetary governments not counting the anarchic setups on Dunnin’s World and Coby—”

“Governments, my rear echelon!” interrupted Galt, rudely. “Forget your civics lessons! Governments in this twenty-fourth century are mere machinery. It’s the men who control them who count. Project Blaine, on Venus; Sven Holman, on Earth; Eldest Bright on Harmony, the very planet we’re headed for — and Sayona the Bond on Kultis, for the Exotics.”

“General Kamal—” began Donal.

“Is nothing!” said Galt, sharply. “How can the Elector of the Dorsai be anything when every little canton hangs to its independence with tooth and nail? No, I’m talking about the men who pull the strings between the stars. The ones I mentioned, and others.” He took a deep breath. “Now, how do you suppose our Merchant Prince and Chairman of the Board on Ceta ranks with those I mentioned?”

“You’d say he’s their equal?

“At least,” said Galt. “At least. Don’t be led astray by the fact that you see him traveling like this, on a commercial ship, with only the girl and Montor with him. Chances are he owns the ship, the crew and officers — and half the passengers.”

“And you and the commandant?” asked Donal, perhaps more bluntly than was necessary. Galt’s features started to harden; and then he relaxed.

“A fair question,” he rumbled. “I’m trying to get you to question most of the things you’ve taken for granted. I suppose it’s natural you’d include myself. No — to answer your question — I am First Marshal of Freiland, still a Dorsai, and with my professional services for hire, and nothing more. We’ve just hired out five light divisions to the First Dissident Church, on Harmony, and I’m coming along to observe that they operate as contracted for. It’s a complicated deal — like they are all — involving a batch of contract credits belonging to Ceta. Therefore William.”