At that moment the cat said “Yowl” and punched her with its paw and then, of all things, pointed out an upper window of the salon.
The Duchess turned and stared. She spotted something in the sky. She leaped up and she said, “Oh, no! Jettero is coming in! He’s a day early!” She looked down at her stained leather jumper. “Good heavens! I’m a wreck! No one’s even been told what’s for dinner!”
She rushed from the salon into the rest of the house.
The cat scampered out the door toward the landing target in the Rose Park.
I followed the cat.
IV
The spaceship came in so fast I was certain that it was going to crash.
Then it made a sudden swoop at the last moment and settled on its tail so gently, it hardly bent the grass.
Now that it was standing still, I gawped.
IT WAS A TUG!
The air lock door opened and a safety line was thrown out and a man slid down it gracefully. He was dressed in a pale blue civilian suit, without ornament but of very expensive cut. He hit the bottom with a light-footed bounce and turned. Somebody still in the ship tossed a briefcase, a box and a wrapped bouquet of flowers down to him, each of which he caught.
Belatedly, a crew from the nearby hangar was rolling out some steps. But far from being abashed as they should have been, they gave him a wave.
I was standing in a rose archway to the house. He was walking straight toward me with an easy step.
IT WAS JETTERO HELLER!
He was quite tall, very slender, the sort of man who even in late middle age keeps himself in condition. Although his features had thickened, he was still a very handsome fellow. He fixed his gray-blue eyes upon me. He said, “Where’s Hightee?”
I said, “Oh, she went back this noon to Voltar.”
“Oh, blast,” he said, “I hoped to catch her. You must be the young man I heard she had in tow.”
“The Honorable Monte Pennwell, Crown, Your Lordship, sir,” and I would have knelt but he stopped me.
“Let’s dispense with all the protocol. I get enough of that at Palace City.” He smiled and it was a very engaging smile. “I’m home. Just call me Jet.”
“Sir,” I said, because I couldn’t restrain my curiosity another moment, “isn’t that Tug One?”
“Of course not,” he said with a slight frown.
“But it IS a tug,” I persisted. “It’s got a blunt butting nose with arms. It’s the same size and shape. It has a fin down the back to get rid of excess charge from Will-be Was main drives. When you opened the air lock, I distinctly saw silver handrails. It even has Prince Caucalsia on its nose!”
“Young Pennwell, that ship is NOT Tug One. But your use of the term makes me suspect you have been talking to the women of the family. Gossiping.”
I drew myself up. I came to just above his shoulder. “Not gossiping. I am an investigative reporter!”
He laughed good-naturedly. “‘Investigative reporter’? I haven’t heard that term for nearly a century.”
“I want to write the story of your life,” I said.
He handed me the box he was carrying and the flowers. “Well, come on into the park salon and I will tell you all about it. No reason to keep you out here standing in the sun.”
I tagged after him. He entered the room. A footman was standing there with cool drinks, smiling a welcome. Heller draped himself into a chair. A man in blue livery, evidently a major-domo, rushed in, still getting into his coat.
“Blin,” said Heller to the newcomer, “take that box and send it to Hightee. I’m sorry I missed her: I was looking forward to some do-you-remembers as we rambled around Atalanta. Pack it carefully, as it’s antique glass: now it will have to be shipped all the way back to Pausch Hills. The flowers are for Her Grace.”
Blin relieved me of my load. The footman presented me with a drink. Heller motioned for me to sit down.
“So what I heard was right,” he said. “Dear Hightee was helping you write a book. Do you have a publisher?”
“Oh, yes, Your . . . Jet. Biographics Publishing Company was fascinated with the idea of publishing a book about you. They even signed a contract, without even demanding an outline. They were avid, really.” I didn’t advise him that they had assumed I must know him very well, when actually it was not until I started this project that I found out that Jettero Heller had been the common name of the enormously popular and fabulously powerful Duke of Manco. They had been stunned when they realized that there was not a single book about him and had said, “Young Pennwell, if you’ve got an inside track and can actually write the biography of Crown, your fortune will be made!” I was going to go them one better. What a book I had! A sky-buster!
“Well, that’s fine,” said Heller. “I imagine the girls must have been assisting you.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “They have been splendid—made all your logs and things available, opened up the whole Memorial Library to me as well.”
“I imagine you’ve been very busy. Did you have any other material?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” I said. “The most amazing thing. An earthquake must have opened up some passages at Spiteos out in the Great Desert. The place you pulled down, you know. And it was my luck to find the whole Apparatus master files.” I was trying to trick him into some new disclosures, some comments I could use.
But he only said, “Imagine that,” and sipped at his cool drink. “But I should imagine it gets pretty rough for a young writer. Are you not having any trouble at all?”
That reached a tender spot. “Well,” I said, “there’s my family. Ever since I graduated from the Royal Academy of Arts, they haven’t taken my writing seriously. I’ve written ever so many odes and they don’t even listen to them. No encouragement at all.”
He shook his head and looked very sympathetic. “Well, youth has its penalties. But I don’t imagine they actively put any blocks in your way.”
“Oh, but they do!” I countered. “Every relative I’ve got has been nudging and pushing at me to take a post doing this or that.”
“Oh, my,” said Heller, “that must be pretty grim.”
“It is!” I said, emphatically. “But they’ve eased up on that. Now it’s something else absolutely horrible. My mother is leading a conspiracy to marry me off to the Lady Corsa.”
“Lady Corsa?” he said, wide-eyed. “Why, she’s the heiress to half of the planet Modon!”
“She’s awfully athletic, half again my size. And she has no soul at all! She thinks writing is a waste of time.”
“But, good heavens,” said Heller, “you’d wind up one of the richest men on Modon in another half-century. The lands of that planet are legendary for their productivity and the uplands are beautiful and full of game. A paradise!”
I shook my head. “Provincial,” I said. “Bucolic beyond belief. All they do is dig irrigation ditches or stand around with their caps in their hands muttering about the woolly crop. Even the gentry is illiterate and they go to bed the moment the sun there sets. I wouldn’t be able to get to the bright lights of Voltar even as often as once a year. Oh, I assure you, Your Grace, it would be DEATH!”
“You poor fellow,” Heller said. “This writing must mean a lot to you.”
“Oh, it does, it does. So please, Jet, tell me the story of your life.”
He looked very solemn. He finished off his cool drink and put it down. “Very well, then. Where shall I begin?”
I was a bit taken aback. I hadn’t realized it would be so easy. “Well, usually one begins with where he was born,” I said.
He nodded. He settled himself comfortably. I got my recorder running, aching to hear his every word. Now I would get to the bottom of this. With the adroit and tricky questioning I had worked out that an investigative reporter must pursue, I would get him to reveal in his own words the substance of the most gigantic coverup of all time.
“I was born,” said Heller, “in Tapour, Atalanta Province, planet Manco, 127 y
ears ago.”
I was tense. His eyes took on the hue of nostalgia and reminiscence. Now I would get down to it.
“Then,” said Heller, “I lived until now. And here I am.”
I felt the very room spin. I opened my mouth. I closed it.
A bland and innocent smile remained on Heller’s face.
Some footfalls were sounding in the hall. The Duchess of Manco swept in. Despite her age, she was beautiful. She was wearing a dinner gown that shimmered blue and yellow and seemed to reflect the color of her hair and eyes. Had I not known how old she was, her skill at makeup would have had me fooled.
He stood to welcome her and she kissed him. “You’re a bad boy to come blasting in here a day early, catching everything in a mess. But I am delighted,” and she kissed him again very warmly. Then she became aware of me. She said, “Jettero, I couldn’t help but overhear what you told this nice young man. Spare him your jokes. He’s really trying awfully hard and it’s time you got some recognition.”
“That’s right!” said Heller. “Recognition! Just what I want. Recognition that I am starved. What’s for dinner?”
And that was ALL I ever got out of Jettero Heller, Viceregal Chairman of the Grand Council, Duke of Manco.
So you see?
HE IS STILL ENFORCING THE HUGEST COVERUP THE CONFEDERACY EVER SUFFERED!
But there is still time, dear reader, there is still time. The sacred Invasion Timetable can yet be restored and executed.
However, as Shafter is reminding me, I have not told you all.
V
When I got back to Voltar I was, of course, busy for a very long time writing the story you have read. Honestly, I have never worked so hard in all my life. I blackmailed Hound—he drinks—into telling people I was studying to take examination for a position, without saying which relative had won and, as Lady Corsa and her brother had gone back to Modon, I was not bothered. Oh, how I sweated.
And then the fabulous day came when I thought that I had finished, only to be told by Shafter I had my wires loose.
“All right,” I said impatiently, “all right. But Shafter, I don’t have any more material here. It’s all written up!”
He sighed. He said, “Young Monte, have you ever realized how boring it has been for me puttering around here while you inked your fingers up? Every car you have is tuned. And you know what?”
I said, “What?”
“I think you’re writing fairy tales.”
“Oh, Shafter, have you turned against me, too?”
“I wouldn’t do that, young Monte. But I could keep you from making an awful mistake.” He went to the door of the old air-tourer he had picked up for a song (I should be more accurate: it wasn’t one of my odes, for nobody will take them; it was with my unspent allowance built up while I was writing) and he opened the creaky door and pushed a panel button. He said, “Look.”
I looked.
He had turned on a map. It was the Western Ocean.
“I don’t see anything,” I said, mystified.
“That’s what I’m showing you,” Shafter said. “You could be making an awful mistake. Look carefully. NOTHING!”
Believe me, it was an awful shock when I understood and verified what he was saying. Not only was there no Relax Island, THERE WAS NO ISLAND AT ALL!
“Good heavens!” I cried. “The coverup even extends to corrupting a Voltar planetary chart!”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” said Shafter. “I’ll ask Hound to pack us a lunch and we’re on our way!”
We flew over there at once. Two thousand miles. The old air-tourer wasn’t fast—it could only make three hundred—but it had lots of instruments and screens.
The overcast was very high and gray, the ocean was very ominous and green. At four in the afternoon we were on the exact coordinates.
“Be careful not to run into the mountaintop,” I said. “I’ve forgotten how high it is.”
“Well, you won’t find out from the pilot book. There’s no such island listed. But I’ve got a system. I’ve drawn a grid and we will just fly back and forth, going lower and lower, and scout this whole area of ocean.”
“Don’t run into the mountainside!” I said.
“I won’t,” replied Shafter. “For I’m quite certain there’s nothing there. Besides, I’m flying with all screens live. Sit back and have another sweetbun. This is going to take time.”
We combed and combed, lower and lower, splitting through the tendrils of mist and patches of sun. Now and then we glimpsed the ocean below.
The waves began to look more and more prominent. We were finally so low, I even saw a batfish being chased by a whole school of toothers. It made me nervous, particularly since Shafter had chosen that moment to lift an interior cowl and shove in another fuel bar: I hoped we had enough of them.
The sun abruptly blinded me. It was shining under the mist, horizontally. SUNSET!
And then a weird thought hit me. “Say, Shafter, have you had a flash from Planetary Defense?”
“No,” he said, skimming the waves.
“Well, for heavens’ sakes, make sure your traffic channel is operating. We don’t want a warhead being slammed into us. This island is very out-of-bounds. Check your channel!”
He shrugged and put a call in. “Just testing,” he said into the microphone.
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” came a Planetary Defense Base voice. “We thought you were probably looking for a place to fish.”
Shafter turned and winked at me. “That’s right,” he said into the microphone. “But we’re being careful not to run into the mountain.”
“What mountain?” said Planetary Defense.
“Teon,” said Shafter. “The mountain on Relax Island.”
There was a silence, then, “Air-tourer 4536729-MY7. We have just issued cautionary citation on you for cruising without charts or pilot books. Please report at your convenience to Traffic Safety and get your screens and publications checked.”
“Oh, here now,” said Shafter, “we don’t need that.”
“Then probably you’d rather have a real citation for flying under the influence of tup.”
“No, no,” said Shafter hastily, “I’ll take the cautionary one, thank you. It’s not my fault your publications are hard to read. I could have sworn I saw a Mount Teon listed out here.”
“You’re seeing things. We’re issuing the real citation. There’s no such island and no such mountain. We’ll monitor your progress home. Check in to court tomorrow morning. And bring ten credits for the fine. End.”
Shafter turned to me. “Please don’t have any other suggestions, young Monte. Give me the ten credits now so I can go to court and pay it before you get up. There’s no land here, we’re going home.”
I was boggled. This was more than just a coverup.
What had been the fate of Queen Teenie and Madison, the catamites, the Palace City staff and five thousand people?
Oh, Shafter had been right. I had my wires loose and waving in the air!
WHAT HAD HAPPENED?
The island was just a volcanic bubble.
Had Heller, that archvillain, sent a warship in to blow it out of the water and cover up his coverup for keeps?
VI
I spent a very restless night. I paced. Only by dawn did I get to sleep. Hound let the sunlight in like a clap of thunder by slamming back the blinds.
“You’re getting worse and worse,” he said. “Now you’ve got poor Shafter standing in court like a common felon. Your father should have taken my advice and sent you for military duty. Charging to the thunder of guns would have made a man out of you.”
“Hound,” I said, “do I have a relative in the geological office?”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “No, you don’t have a relative in the geological office. And if you don’t straighten out soon, you won’t have any relatives at all. They’ll disown you! Plying poor Shafter with strong drink! You should be ashamed of yourself.
”
“He didn’t tell you that.”
“He didn’t have to! The citation was in the morning mail slot! And here you are at two o’clock in the afternoon, sleeping it off!”
“You drink.”
“Not in public, you little blackmailer! Get into that washroom and I’ll steam it out of you!”
Actually, it did me good. It soothed the jangled nerves, even though they got all jangled again by my trying to phone while Hound shaved me. He kept brushing the mouthpiece away.