Jerry Pournelle: King David's Spaceship

“That’s the simplest part of the plan, Colonel. The Imperials have already offered to take us there.” He smiled at Nathan’s startled look. “They’re not all Navy and Military, you know. Some Imperial citizens are Traders. There’s one batch of them right now negotiating with King David over the rights to grua. They think our brandy will be worth a fortune on their capital.

“They want platinum and iridium, too; those metals seem to be very useful to them and in short supply. But there isn’t much they can give us in return, because the Navy won’t let them sell us what we really want -technology. The Navy rule is, you can’t trade anything more technologically advanced than what your customer already has without special permission from the Imperial Council. We offered to buy those little devices they all carry around like notebooks. ‘Pocket computers,’ the Navy men call them. They seem to be machines. They can’t sell those.”

“What can they sell?”

“Not much, it appears. But they have offered the king transportation to a world less advanced than ours, someplace where we can try out luck at selling. They suggested a planet at the star we call the Eye of the Needle as the closest, and we are already discussing an expedition to go there and try to organize trade …”

“The Navy will permit this?” MacKinnie asked.

“Under conditions. Stringent conditions, I might add. We can’t take anything more advanced than the natives already have. The Navy inspects our trade mission and goods before we go to the planet. But they will let us go. It appears that the Imperial Traders Association has a good-sized block of votes in the Imperial Council. I don’t pretend to understand capital politics, but the ITA seems very influential. They can force the Navy to let us trade with that planet, Makassar, it’s called.”

“Won’t they be watching to see that we don’t get near the library?” MacKinnie asked. The whiskey fog was gone from his mind now, but more than that, he felt useful again, as if there were something he might do which could not be taken away by a whim of fate. He listened to Dougal with keen interest, not noticing that Sergeant Stark was stirring on the couch to his right.

“They have never mentioned the library,” Dougal said. “Until that young lieutenant babbled about it in the Blue Bottle, I never knew it existed. I think the library’s an anomaly in their records, hot listed as an advanced artifact because it’s so old and the people on Makassar don’t know how to use it. That’s only a guess. I do know they’ve been willing to let us go there.”

Dougal paused and again looked intently at MacKinnie. “That leaves me with the problem of one Colonel MacKinnie, who knows about the library. I decided when I heard about it that we’d have to try to get the knowledge there, and since you know about the library, I’d either have to kill you or send you on the expedition. I don’t know how to get those books, and I’m not sure that anyone on this planet does know. But I’d rather have you on our side than dead. You were very resourceful against Haven, Colonel. Will you swear allegiance to King David and work for Haven now?”

MacKinnie woke to the stale taste of ’robac and the sick feeling of whiskey in his stomach. He lay for a few moments on the caltworm-silk sheets, slowly recalling where he was. There were no windows to the room, and the only light was from a soft glowplate on one wall. To his right there was a rest room with marble appointments, and through it was a connecting door to a room similar to the one where he was lying. He knew it was there, because Sergeant Stark had lumbered unsteadily into it when they left Dougal’s office. They were in the same building, but beyond that MacKinnie had no idea of his location. The only doors leading outside the suite were locked, and he had no doubt that Dougal’s guards stood watch in the hall.

He raised himself on one elbow. To his left a closet stood open, revealing racks of rich clothing. His own kilt and jacket, freshly cleaned and pressed, hung neatly on the door, and with them hung his service pistol. MacKinnie wryly slipped from the bed to examine it, not surprised that there were no cartridges. His watch was in the pouch hanging with his clothes, but it had stopped. He had no idea of the time.

Now that he was up, he decided he might as well stay up. He took his time in the rest room, using luxurious shaving equipment and treating himself to a double dash of the most expensive lotions and powders he had ever seen. If all guests of King David’s secret police fared as well as he, there would be long lines of people hoping to be arrested for high treason, but he suspected there were more dungeons in the building than guest suites.

As he finished shaving, Stark knocked at the door, then waited for MacKinnie to finish. The sergeant had shaved and dressed by the time Nathan had put on his kilt and was buttoning his coat. Stark seemed no different from the hundreds of mornings they had spent in garrison as he expertly straightened MacKinnie’s jacket and made tiny adjustments in the kilt and fall.

“What have we got ourselves into, Colonel?” Stark asked. As he spoke he made tiny signals with his hands, indicating the walls, then his ears.

MacKinnie nodded. “I’m not sure, but it beats chasing Southies. This could be a job worth doing. Tell me, can you round up some of the Wolves who can keep their mouths shut and act like Traders’ guards?”

“Many as you want, Colonel. How many do you think we need?”

“All of them, but I don’t think the Imperial Navy will let us take a regiment to Makassar.”

“We’ll get as many as you want. Going to be funny calling you Trader, but I reckon I can get used to it.” Stark looked around the chamber, noting the carved wooden furniture, and the crystalline rock formation patterns in the parts of the floor not covered by carpets woven in the Archipelago. “Fancy quarters, uh, Trader, sir.”

“Yes. Well, I suppose we might as well get on with it. We wouldn’t want to keep Dougal and Inspector Solon waiting.”

“Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, I hope he won’t go with us to that crazy place. Going up high like that, off the world even, that’s enough without that walking corpse to give me the creeps.”

“He won’t be coming along. Nervous, Hal?”

“No, sir, not if you say not to be. But I am having a little trouble getting used to the idea.”

“That’s two of us. All right, Hal, tell them we’re ready for breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” Stark found the speaking tube in a small recess under the dim light, uncapped it, and whistled. After a second there was an answering note. “Our respects, and the colonel and I are ready for breakfast.” Stark listened for a few moments, then returned to MacKinnie. “He says someone will be with us in five minutes, sir. Seemed polite, anyway.” When there was no answer from Nathan, Hal capped the tube.

Four guards were visible when the door opened. At least two of them were from the party which had captured MacKinnie and Stark the night before. Their weapons were holstered, and they were extremely polite as they invited MacKinnie and Stark to accompany them, but Nathan noticed that as one led the way the other three fell in well behind, eyeing Stark nervously as they walked stiffly along.

They were ushered into the big office MacKinnie had seen the night before. The curtains were drawn back along one wall to reveal a walled veranda beyond where Solon and Dougal sat at a glass-topped table sipping chickeest. As MacKinnie approached, Solon stood, nodded to Dougal, and left without speaking to them.

“Good morning, Trader,” Dougal said. He stood, waited for MacKinnie to be seated, and indicated a place at a table a few feet away for Stark. “Your breakfast will be here shortly. I trust you enjoyed your sleep?”