The action had taken only a moment. Flint was not even disheveled. He bowed again to the Queen. "The Dragon apologizes for allowing the curs to annoy the gracious Queen, and begs forgiveness."
"He didn't even draw!" someone murmured in the throng.
"The two best duelists in the realm!"
The Queen smiled as graciously as she could manage. She could not admit complicity in the plot to embarrass Imperial Earth, and did not care to subject herself to public embarrassment. Had Flint threatened her, she could have had her guards mob him; but Flint had put himself on her side, an ally, and that was distinctly awkward.
"The Dragon shows more mettle in apology than others in victory," she observed. "It is fitting that the Dragon determine the appropriate mode of disposition of these ruffians."
"They failed in their assassin's assignment," the voice in his skull explained. "Death is the penalty—not only for failure, but to ensure their silence. Don't protest it."
But Flint didn't like it. He could kill in the heat of battle, but not coldbloodedly. He realized Queen Bess was still testing him. A true friend of hers would not hesitate to do her bidding. "The Dragon does not deign to kill curs," he said. "Let them redeem themselves by serving loyally as attendants to the Queen's chariot dragon." A probable sentence of death, as Old Scorch would not take kindly to such types—especially if the Good Queen wanted them dead. But it shifted the responsibility back to her. "If they fail to perform well, their bodies shall be exposed to the scavengers of the wilderness, and when the bones are clean they shall be buried under the floors of their living quarters. In this manner their ghosts shall continue to serve their Queen."
There was silence. Flint had prescribed the honorable tribal burial of Outworld, but he was aware it would seem otherwise to these more civilized people. And he had dodged the actual sentence of death. How would the Queen react?
"My man is almost there," the Ambassador said.
"Get lost, Imp," Flint mumbled subvocally.
"Your sword, Dragon," the Queen said, holding out her blue hand.
Somehow he had miscalculated. Whom did she plan to dispatch—him or them?
Flint put his fingers on the upper blade and drew the sword out, placing his hilt in her hand. As it touched her, something like an electric current traveled along it to his hand. It was the channelized impulse of a strong Kirlian aura!
"Kneel," she said firmly.
Well, he had done his best. The penalty for failure might be death, but he was not going to beg for his life. If he had misjudged her, it was his own fault. He kneeled.
Queen Bess raised the sword, then brought it down. The tip tapped one of his shoulders, then the other. "I knight thee Lord of Valor," she intoned. "Rise, Sir Dragon."
Flint stood, amazed, as she handed back his sword.
The Queen winked. "I suspected you had a strong aura when you tamed Old Scorch," she murmured so that only he could hear. "He is a very special beast—my own pet. Tonight, after the party, you shall have opportunity again to prove your valor. Come to my chambers."
The last was said loudly enough for others to overhear. There was a murmur of surprise and awe.
"She means it," the Ambassador in his skull said, sounding awed himself. "She hasn't taken a lover in months. You'll have to go, unfortunately. We'll try to slip you an aphrodisiac so you can perform—"
Flint poked his tongue up under the radio unit, dislodging it from the roof of his mouth. He swallowed it. Now the voice was gone. "May the union of the Imperial Empire be as strong as that we shall experience tonight," he said with a flourish.
"So you ditched the Imp radio," she murmured.
She had known! She probably had a constant monitor on it. The culture of this planet might be pre-Machine Age, but there would be ways to obtain samples of higher technology, and a smart ruler would see to it. There was no law against it, after all; Earth wanted the colonies to progress. No wonder she was right on top of the situation—and no wonder she had been provoked by him. He must have seemed like a very active spy, with his constant advice from the Sol embassy.
"The Imp insulted me—and you," he said. "I don't need civilized snooping. It takes a man to know a real woman—though she be a queen."
"You may be surprised at how young a queen can be when she washes off her makeup."
"Not beneath the age of consent, I trust," Hint said, raising an eyebrow.
"There is an age of consent in your culture?"
"Of course not."
She smiled, glancing down at the fallen dandies, and she looked younger already. He had supposed the makeup was intended to make her look younger than she was, but the opposite could be true. "So you are from Outworld," she said.
"Yes. But I do work for Earth, in what capacity you surely know."
She smiled. "I admit we have had our doubts about Imperial policy in the past. But I doubt very much there will be any difficulties in the future. The Empire sends impressive envoys." And she turned away and floated regally back to her throne area.
The music started, and the dance resumed. Delle smiled.
Flint knew it would be days or weeks before the Queen chose to dispense with his services. She was a real woman, with strength and intelligence and nerve—and a Kirlian aura that gave her more sex appeal than any of the palace beauties possessed.
These humans were in many ways odder than the alien creatures of other Spheres, but Flint fully expected to enjoy his stay here in System Capella.
7
Tail of the Small Bear
* notice subject kirlian transfer to sphere polaris agent remains unavailable*
—polaris is the most advanced sphere of that region! ready another agent necessary to eliminate subject immediately—
*caution local factors make infiltration difficult for any but high-kirlian experienced agent*
—what factors?—
*polarian philosophy of circularity presence of cult of tarotism debt system excellent intelligence network*
—won't those same factors inhibit mission of subject entity?—
*true*
—POWER—
*what?*
—signoff, idiot power, as in what we need for—
*oh sorry CIVILIZATION*
—(what a mess!)—
REPORT
SPHERICAL RECONNAISSANCE
TO: His Ultimate Circularity, Pole Prime:
O Biggest of Wheels, my little report: as thou didst direct, I placed myself in the way of he whom our Neighbor Sphere sought, he of the extraordinarily intense Kirlian aura, the Solarian Flintsmith. I intercepted him as he traveled to the hunting party of his Chief, he of the Powerful Stick. (Solarians, O Illustrious Spinner, do not employ the wheel at this fringe of their Sphere, and tend to think in terms of the stiff hinged rods by which they ambulate. Hence "Powerful Stick" or "Strong Spear" translate loosely into "Big Wheel," no offense to thee.) We held converse, and the alien Flintsmith, worker of stone, was obliged to invite me to accompany him on his round, and I accepted. In the course of our journey we exchanged minor favors and I had occasion to make physical contact with him, and so verified that he does indeed possess the strongest Kirlian ambiance I have ever touched: a hundred, perhaps two hundred times as dense as my own ordinary one. The report we intercepted from the Solarian government was accurate; it may well be the single finest Kirlian aura in our galaxy.
Having ascertained that, O Honored Cog, I could not conveniently disengage, for we were now amidst the Solarians' primitive hunt. There was danger to the Flintsmith, and because we maintain amicable relations with these stick figures, I felt constrained to protect him somewhat. Though his body is grotesque in the fashion of his kind, there may never be his Kirlian like again within our region of the Myriad-Mote Galaxy. In fact, taking no presumption to suggest to advise so massive a Revolver as Your Wheelship, I would be inclined to spin into the tightest cultural and economic affinity with the Solarian Sphere, in the interests of exploring th
is remarkable Kirlian manifestation. Perhaps when our breakthrough into the secret of transfer occurs—apology, my association with Solarians has affected my vocabulary: I mean when our revolution of transfer occurs—we can discover how to engender similar auras in our own kind, where at present our highest intensity is about fifty.
I was able to preserve the Flintsmith's life from extinction by the animal they hunted, "Ancient Nose-Blow." (Solarians of most species, sapient and sentient, possess separate respiratory apparatus capable of producing sounds, particularly in the presence of infection. Thus the creature frequently honked or snorted; hence its name, variously rendered as "Aged Honk" or "Old Snort.") But thereafter, the Flintsmith also preserved my own life from a similar threat. In this manner we inadvertently exchanged life-debts, and were obliged to make the Compact—the first, if I mistake not, between a Polarian and a Solarian. (And there have not been many between Polarians and Nathians either. In fact, Exchanges between Spheres are quite rare.) (But of course Sphere Nath is our longest association.) I therefore terminate my report as of the moment our mutual vow was completed, and resign from this case. In no way shall I betray the interest of my Debt Brother, and should he ever manifest within our Sphere I claim Debt Priority with regard to him.
FROM: Small Bearing, Pole Agent Tsopi, Perimeter Detail.
APPENDED CIRCULAR by Big Wheel:
How brazenly the Small Bear twists her tail into Wheelish matters, presuming to inform us of elementary history and even proffering advice! Yet despite her frequent irrelevancies and truncated spin, there goes one of our best field agents. Note how subtly she imposed on the Solarian in the interest of her mission, and how loyally she protects his own interest now that she has wangled Debt Exchange. The little disk has rolled into love with an alien stick, overwhelmed by his Kirlian aura. Beauty and the Beast! She probably wanted to get into the Round of Records: first Debt Exchange between Pole and Sole. Now she even demands Consummation! Well, we can gyre through this vortex too; if the Solarian Flintsmith ever does manifest here (fat chance!), assign Tsopi as his guide. A cycle or two of forced association with the alien will cure her of such looping fancies; she'll have her notoriety, and soon her wheel will be spinning normally. (We'd never put up with this, if she weren't such an efficient operator, and cute as a whirlbug too.)
Flint started to fall, tried to put his foot forward, found he had no foot, grabbed with a hand, and had no hand.
A strong, supple tentacle caught him. "Gently, friend," a soft voice said against his glowing skin. "Use your wheel; you're a Polarian now. No rodlike appendages, no human reactions. Think circular."
He used his wheel, gaining a precarious balance. It was like logrolling in a river; he had to keep reversing to avoid getting dumped. Intellectually as well as physically. "You know!" he said—and discovered that he had spoken by spinning the little ball in the end of his trunk against his own illuminated hide.
"Our Spheres maintain diplomatic channels," the other replied. "We were advised of your coming by matter-mission capsule, and I was summoned from the Fringe to escort you."
Now he contemplated his companion. He had no eyes, but his skin-surface was a radiation receptor that provided a less specific but quite adequate notion, somewhat like human peripheral vision extended into a full circle—or rather, a full sphere. He could literally see in all directions at once. He was in the presence of a female Polarian, shaped like a huge chocolate candy kiss and very nicely proportioned from little ball to great wheel. In fact, she was beautiful. "Then you know that I am Flint of Sphere Sol," he said. "May I know you?"
"I am Tsopi of Sphere Polaris," she replied.
Something clicked. "Topsy—of Outworld?"
She glowed good-naturedly. "The same, Plint."
"But you should be out at the Fringe, two hundred light-years from—"
"I claimed preemptive right. We are debt-siblings."
Oh, yes. She had attached some importance to that, he recalled. They had saved each other's lives from Old Snort. Still.... "And your government mattermitted you two hundred light-years to nursemaid me?"
"It is our way," she said. "I will see to all your needs."
Several trillion dollars' worth of energy expended to bring her here—because it was their way. Yet he found he liked that. It was not just that she was the prettiest entity in the limited memory of his host-body; it was also that he knew her from his human experience, and respected her. This was the first time he had seen a creature from both the human and the transfer views; it provided an added perspective.
But business first. "I must deliver the secret of transfer to your government."
"There will be occasion for that," she said. "We shall meet with the Big Wheel himself in a few days." Local days, his memory informed him, were somewhat longer than those of either Outworld or Earth, but the essence was similar.
His communication ball made a sound like a human fingernail rasping across slate. (He noted peripherally that the little talk-ball was termed a ball, while the ambulation-ball was called a wheel, though both were spherical. And the tentacle-appendage was a male trunk, or a female tail.) "A few days! Topsy, this is urgent!"
"There will be occasion," she repeated, like a nurse calming a distraught patient.
Flint let it drop for the moment. Tsopi knew him, and shared a bond with him that was evidently important to her. Was she trying to tell him something? After the mannered intrigues of System Capella, he was not surprised to find complications here in Sphere Polaris, but he was disappointed.
She showed him the way through the building. It reminded him strongly of its counterpart at Earth-Prime, with its broad halls, high ceilings, forced-circulation air and lack of growing things. What was there about civilization that made it so restrictive? Yet his host-mind informed him that this was natural to Polarians, even pleasant; individuals of this species, like native Earthians, liked to be massively enclosed by their architecture.
How did no-handed creatures manage to build such edifices? Again his memory provided the answer: Polarians were adept at circular manipulation of objects and concepts. They did not carry building blocks into place, they rolled building spheres into place. Where men laid bricks, Polarians rolled stones. Where men hammered nails, Polarians squeezed glue. The end result was rather similar, as though civilization shaped itself into certain configurations regardless of the sapient species invoking it. Here there were no square skyscrapers, but domed dunes serving the same purpose.
They passed down a smooth ramp, where on Earth there would have been stairs. Of course; ramps were better for wheels, stairs for legs. Ramps were everywhere, contributing to the fluidity of the architectural design.
They had to roll single file, for efficient progress through the throng. Tsopi's trail just ahead of him was sweet; she had a tantalizingly feminine taste.
Taste? Flint concentrated, and it came: Polarians laid down taste trails with their wheels, much as humans laid down scent. No, more than that: These were actual, conscious signatures of passage, like the trails of Earthly snails. He remembered the first snail he had seen, beside the huge water of the ocean inlet, under the odd blue sky of Earth. Today he didn't even notice the color of the sky of a given planet; sky was sky color, right for its world. But this taste; every Polarian was really a super-bloodhound, sniffing out every other, all the time. It was the natural way. In fact, it was already difficult to imagine how it could be otherwise.
"These are our power generators," Tsopi murmured against his hide, flinging back her tail in a very fetching way. This mode of communication was pleasantly ultimate: touch and speech together. In fact, Polarians were a togetherness species, expecting and requiring closer camaraderie than the creatures of Sphere Sol. "Orbiting micro-satellites reflect half the sunlight passing near our planet into our generators, and that fuels our matter transport system. Our remaining energy needs are met by—"
"The center of power," Flint said, rolling his own ball on her surface. My
, this was fun! "The highest Minister, Regent, ruler—"
"Big Wheel," she supplied. "He's really more of a coordinator, a converger of spirals. We don't have your sort of—"
"Whatever you call him: the one to whom I should report. He's in this vicinity?"
"Yes, the Wheel is here. But there is no—"
"I'm sorry if I affront your sensitivities," Flint said. "I like your company a lot, and do want to learn about your Sphere. But my mission is of galactic importance. Business before pleasure." And he broke away from her, dodging into the nearest crosshall.
"You do not understand," she buzzed against the floor, dodging after him. "With us, there is no separation between—first there must be—"
But Flint, in any body, was adept at pursuit and eluding. He accelerated, getting the feel of his wheel—and it was a good wheel, even though it was spherical. Tsopi could outspeed his human body on level ground, but his mind in a healthy Polarian body was too much for her. He zipped around another corner, shot across the ramp, and damped out his scent amidst a welter of tastes on a well-used trail. In moments he had lost her, as surely as he had lost his pursuers on Luna, back three worlds ago.
Yet he had not, in the end, been able to escape his fate, there on Earth's huge barren moon. He had carried his destiny within himself. Poor parallel, though; now he was not running from, but rolling to his mission.
He paused to reflect, working out his rationale after the fact. Flint trusted his primitive instincts, but his mind refused to give them complete play without comprehending them. There were civilized aspects to his mind, like them or not, and he had to give them their turn. Why had he needed to free himself of so helpful and lovely a creature as Tsopi? Especially since he had known her back home on Planet Outworld and chased a dinosaur with her. Rather, had been chased with her; nobody chased Old Snort!