The Chalice of Death: Three Novels of Mystery in Space by Robert Silverberg
“We’ll miss you here,” Antrok said.
Navarre shrugged. “Thanks. But you know it’s not really true. You can manage without me. By the Cosmos, you have to manage without me! The day Earth finds that just one particular man is absolutely indispensable to its existence is the day you all might as well crawl back into the Chalice and go back to sleep.”
Antrok nodded. “When are you leaving?”
“Tonight. I waited this long only because I wanted to get things shaped up.”
“Then you won’t even stay for the election?”
“There’s no need of that. You’ll win. And I’ve prepared a memorandum of suggestions for your use after you officially take over again.”
Antrok looked doubtful. He said, “Of course I’m expecting to win the election, Hallam. But I’ll admit I was counting on you to be here, to—”
“Well, I won’t be. I’ll be doing more important work elsewhere. But you know my general plans. As soon as the settlement’s population reaches twelve thousand, detach two thousand and start building the second city—as far from this one as possible. That’s the important thing to push right now—spreading out over Earth. Keep that starship factory intact, of course—and have the new city set to work building ships as soon as it’s practical. You know the rest. Constant expansion, strengthening of government, close contact with the outfit on Procyon.” Navarre grinned. “You can get along without me, Mikel. And if I’m lucky, I’ll be back.”
“And if you’re not lucky?”
Navarre’s expression darkened. “Then you’ll know about it, Mikel. When the galactic fleet gets here to blast the settlement to atoms.”
He left that night, in the small Joran ship that had originally carried him across space on the quest for the Chalice, more than two years before. Just before blasting off he sent a subradio message to Helna, at the court of Marhaill, to warn her that he was on his way back.
Even by hyperdrive, the trip took days, so great was the gulf separating Earth and its island universe from the star-cluster containing the Joran and Kariadi solar systems. Navarre was stale and weary by the time the mass indicator told him that Kariad, his destination, was in range.
He dropped down toward the Kariadi system, rapidly setting up the coordinates on the autopilot as the warpship lurched back into normal space; the journey would be completed on ion-drive.
Navarre fed in the coordinates for a landing at the main spaceport. He was aware that the Kariadi detector-net was too accurate for a craft such as his. He would never be able to slip unnoticed onto the planet’s surface.
But he expected no trouble. It was seven months since he had last been in this galaxy, and he had let his hair grow; instead of an Earthman’s traditional shaven scalp, he now presented a crop of wavy dark-brown hair. Anyway, he hoped that the search for Hallam Navarre had died down, on Kariad at least if not on Jorus.
He brought the ship down lightly on the broad concrete landing-apron of the spaceport and radioed Main Control for his clearance. It came promptly enough. He left the ship and joined the long line passing through the customs building.
He handed over his passport—a fraudulent one that had been drawn up for him on Earth. The document declared that he was one Nolliwar Strumo, a manufacturer of interplanetary space-vessels who was vacationing on Kariad.
The customs official was a weary-looking little Kariadi whose dark blue skin was streaked with bright rivulets of sweat; he had been passing people perfunctorily, without bothering to ask them more than the routine few questions. Waiting, Navarre scanned the line; he saw plenty of Kariadi, of course, and also the usual scattering of alien beings.
But no Jorans. That was queer.
Why, he wondered?
The customs man took his passport, scanned it boredly, and recited the standard question: “Name and planet of origin?”
“Nolliwar Strumo,” Navarre said. He started to add, Of Jorus, but the words died lamely as he saw the cold expression on the official’s face. The man had come suddenly awake.
“Is this a joke?” the official asked hoarsely.
“Of course not. My name is Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus. My papers are in order, aren’t they?”
What’s happened while I was away? he wondered. What mistake could I have made?
“In order?” the man repeated sardonically. He chuckled harshly and gestured to several nearby spaceport guards. Navarre tensed himself for a breakaway, but realized he’d never make it. “Your papers in order? Well, not exactly. You just brought a small ship down on Kariad and thought you could march in with a passport like this?”
“I’ve been traveling quite a while,” Navarre said. “Is there some change in the procedure? Is there a visa required now?”
“Visa! Friend, this passport’s dated five weeks ago. I don’t know where you got it or who you are, but the passport’s obviously fake and so are you.”
“I—”
The little man glared triumphantly at Navarre. “You may or may not be aware of it, but Kariad and Jorus severed diplomatic relations six months ago. We’ll probably be at war with them within a month. This is a hell of a time for you to decide to take your vacation on Kariad, Mr. Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus—or whoever you are!”
He signaled to the guards. “Take him away and shut him up until Security can investigate his background. I wonder if he thought I was a fool? Next, please!”
Chapter Thirteen
Navarre sat in a windowless box of a room far below the surface level of the spaceport, breathing shallowly to keep the foul taste of the exhausted air from reaching the depths of his lungs, where it would linger for hours. He wondered what had gone wrong.
A state of war imminent between Jorus and Kariad, after hundreds of years of peace. And he had picked just this time to try to masquerade as a Joran citizen visiting Kariad! Why, it would have been safer to attempt to bluff his way through under his own identity, he realized. Or perhaps even to assume his false Kariadi guise and become, once again, Melwod Finst, Admiral of the Navy of Kariad.
He heard footsteps and straightened up. The interrogators were coming at last.
The positronic relays of the cell-door lock whirred momentarily; the door swung smoothly back into its niche, and Navarre blinked at the sudden bright stream of light that came bursting in. When he could see clearly again, he found himself confronted by the stout, stubby bore of a Kariadi blaster.
There were two interrogators, a large fat one and a small wizened one. Security interrogators always worked in teams of somatic opposites; it was part of the vast body of technique accumulated for the purpose of keeping the prisoner off-balance.
“Come with us,” said the small one with the blaster, and gestured.
Navarre pushed himself up off the cot and followed. He knew resistance was out of the question now.
They led him up a long dreary cell-block, past a double door, and into a glass-doored room somewhat larger than his cell, brightly lit, with glowing luminescent panels casting a soft, pleasant radiance over everything.
Pointing to a large chair in the center of the room, the small one said, “Sit there.”
Navarre sat.
The interrogators took seats against the walls, at opposite sides of him. He glanced from one to the other. They were dark blue in color, but otherwise they had little in common. The small man was dried and wrinkled like a prune; glittering, fast-moving eyes glinted at Navarre out of a mousy face. As for the other, he must have weighed nearly four hundred pounds; he slumped relievedly in his chair, a mountain of blue flesh, and dabbed futilely at the rivulets of sweat that came dribbling down from his forehead and bushy eyebrows and lost themselves in the wilderness of his many successive chins.
“Very well,” the fat one began, in a patient, friendly voice. “You say you are Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus. Your passport says so also. Who are you?”
“Nolliwar Strumo, of Jorus,” Navarre said.
“Highly doubtful,” the heavy man
While he was speaking, the character of the luminescent panels had been changing steadily. The pastel greens and gentle oranges had faded, and were gradually replaced by harsher tones, more somber ones, blues, violets. It was part of the psychological approach to interrogation, Navarre knew; the room color would get less friendly as the interview went on.
The small man said, in a dry rasping voice, “Your passport is obviously a forgery. We have laboratory confirmation on that. Who are you?”
“Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus.” Navarre was determined to be stubborn as long as possible.
The fat man scowled mildly. “You have the virtue of consistency, at least. But tell us this: if you’re from Jorus, as you insist, why are you here on Kariad? And why did you foolishly take no precautions to conceal your planet of origin when you must have been aware that traffic between Jorus and Kariad is currently prohibited? No, it doesn’t stand up. What’s your game?”
“I sell spaceships,” Navarre said blandly.
“Another lie. No Nolliwar Strumo is listed in the most recent munitions directory published on Jorus.”
Navarre smiled. “You’ve been very clever, both of you. And busy.”
“Thank you. The identity of Nolliwar Strumo is obviously false. Will you tell us who you are?”
“No.”
“Very well, then. Place your hands on the armrests of your chair, please,” the fat man ordered.
“If I don’t?”
“We’ll place them there for you. If you want to keep all your fingers, do it yourself.”
Navarre shrugged and grasped the armrests. The fat man jabbed a button on a remote-control panel in his hands, and immediately metal clamps sprang out of the Earthman’s chair and pinioned him firmly.
The fat man touched another knob. A shudder of pain rippled through Navarre’s body, making him wince.
“Your pain threshold is abnormally high,” the fat one remarked conversationally. “Eight-one-point-three on the scale. No other Joran we’ve tested has run higher than sixty-six. Would you say he was a Joran, Ruiil?”
The small Kariadi shook his head. “On the basis of that, highly doubtful.”
“You’ve had a sample, Nolliwar Strumo. That was just a test. The chair is capable of producing pain more than eighteen degrees above even your extraordinary threshold—and I can guarantee you won’t enjoy it.” He touched his hands lovingly to the control panel. “You understand the consequences. Now, tell us your name, stranger.”
A bolt of pain shot up Navarre’s left leg; it felt as if his calf muscle had been ripped from his living leg. He waited until some of the pain had receded, and forced a smile.
“I am not Nolliwar Strumo,” he said. “The passport is forged.”
“Ah! A fact at last! But who are you, then?”
Another lancing burst of pain racked him—this time, as if fleshy fingers had grasped the delicate chambers of his heart and squeezed, gently enough, but numbingly. Navarre felt torrents of sweat come dribbling down his face.
“Who I am is not for your ears,” he said.
“Eh? And for whose, then?”
“Marhaill’s. And the Oligocrat will roast both of you when he learns what you’ve done.”
“We simply carry out a job,” remarked the smaller man. “If you have business with Marhaill, you should have spoken up about it earlier.”
“My business is secret. But I’d be of no use to him dead or mad from torture, which is why I’m letting you know this now.”
The interrogators glanced at each other uncertainly. Navarre held his breath, waiting, trying to blot out the lingering after-effects of the pain. Interrogators were probably accustomed to this sort of wild bluffing, he thought.
“You are not from Jorus?”
“I’m an Earthman,” Navarre said. “With my hair worn long.” Cautiously he asked, “Is Helna Winstin still adviser to Lord Marhaill?”
“She is.”
Navarre nodded. He had got into trouble once, by making incorrect assumptions about the status quo; from now on he was going to verify every point.
“Tell Helna Winstin that a long-haired Earthman is in the interrogation chambers, and would speak to her on urgent business. Then see if she allows your quiz game to continue any further.”
The interrogators looked doubtful. “If we waste her time, stranger—”
“If you fail to call her, and somehow I survive your gentle handling,” Navarre promised, “I’ll see to it that your fat is stripped away layer by layer, blubbery one, and that your tiny companion is smothered in it!”
There was a moment’s pause. Finally the small man, the one named Ruiil, stood up and said, “There’s no harm checking. I’ll call upstairs. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ruiil disappeared. He returned five minutes later, looking pale and shaken.
“Well? What’s the word?”
“We’re to free him,” he said. “There’s been some sort of mistake. The Earthman wants to see him in her chambers immediately.”
With consummate punctiliousness, the two interrogators helped Navarre out of the torture chair—he was a little wobbly of footing on the left leg, which had borne the force of the chair’s neural bolt—and paused a moment as he straightened up.
They led him back down the corridor, into a large and well-furnished room complete with a lavish bar. The interrogators live well down here, Navarre thought, as they drew a pale amber drink for him.
He gulped it. “Your hospitality is overwhelming. I’m impressed.”
“Please don’t hold this against us,” the fat man said. The resonance was gone from his voice, now. He was whining. “We do our jobs. You must admit we had cause to interrogate you—and you said nothing! If you had only spoken up earlier …”
“I’ll spare you,” Navarre declared magnanimously. “Take me to Earthman Winstin, now.”
They escorted him to a glide-channel furnished in clinging soft brown damask and shot upward with him toward the surface. A dull blue landcar waited there, and the fat interrogator scribbled an order on a stylopad and handed it to the waiting driver,
“Take him to the palace. The Earthman wants to see him quickly.”
Navarre glanced back once and saw the tense, anxious faces of the interrogators staring at him; then he turned his head, and promptly forgot them. The day was warm, and both suns were in the sky, the red and the yellow.
Fifteen minutes later he was at the sumptuous palace of the Oligocrat, and just five minutes after that he was being shown through a widening sphincter into the private chambers of Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Marhaill.
She was waiting for him, a slim, wiry figure in glittering platinum-cloth and red tights, looking graceful and delicate and as resilient as neofoam webwork. Her scalp was bare, in Earthman fashion
“I was worried about you,” she said.
“I ran into some snags when I landed. How was I supposed to know there was feuding going on between Jorus and Kariad? I posed as a Joran, and naturally the customs men collared me.”
“I sent you a message about it,” she said. “As soon as I received yours. But there are lags in subspace communication; you must have left too soon. Still, no damage has been done; you’ve arrived.”
No damage, thought Navarre wryly, except for one throbbing leg and an uneasy ache in the area of the chest. He dropped down wearily on a richly upholstered divan and felt the faint soothing caress of the massage-cells as they went to work on his fatigued thighs and back.
“Everything is fine.”
Briefly, he described the status of the settlement as of the time he had left. She nodded approvingly when he was finished.
“It sounds encouraging. Do you think Antrok will win the election?”
“He’s a logical choice. The boy’s a natural leader. But what’s this little storm brewing up between Jorus and Kariad?”
She smiled secretively. “You may remember that Admiral Melwod Finst left Kariad seven months ago on maneuvers, with three first-line ships at his command.”
“And a Joran fleet of the same size departed about that time for points unknown, under the command of the excellent Admiral Hannimon Drulk.”
“Exactly. Now, it became necessary in time for me to account for the whereabouts of Admiral Finst and his fleet. I could hardly reply that Admiral Finst was in reality an Earthman named Navarre, whose appointment to the Kariadi Admiralty I had obtained by coldly bamboozling my good Oligocrat Marhaill. So I took the alternate path of action and caused the maneuver of a subspace dispatch from the noted Admiral Finst saying he had been set upon in deep space by three unidentifiable starships, and was in the midst of a fierce battle.”
Grinning, Navarre said, “I begin to see.”
“Likewise,” she went on, “I caused to be filtered into the hands of my tame Joran spy a report that Admiral Drulk’s fleet had been destroyed in action somewhere in deep space. Then it was a simple matter to let Jorus accidentally find out about the similar fate that befell Admiral Finst.”
“And so both Marhaill and Joroiran concluded that there had been a pitched battle between fleets of Kariad and Jorus in some distant sector of space,” Navarre said. “Which led each of them to suspect that the other had some nefarious designs on him. And which kept both of them from guessing that their ships were perfectly safe, and were now serving as the main line of defense for the hated enemy Earth!”