The Chalice of Death: Three Novels of Mystery in Space by Robert Silverberg
“I assure you, sir that no such thing could—”
“I tell you there’s a concealed camera or microphone someplace in my room. Either find it or I’ll check into some other hotel.”
“Yes, Mr. Ewing. We’ll send an investigator up immediately.”
“Good. I’m going to the dining room, now. If anything turns up, contact me there.”
Chapter Four
The hotel dining room was gaudily, even garishly decorated. Glowing spheres of imprisoned radiant energy drifted at random near the vaulted ceiling, occasionally bobbing down to eye level. The tables themselves were banked steeply toward the outside edge, and in the very center of the room, where the floor level was lowest, a panchromaticon swiveled slowly, casting multicolored light over the diners.
A burnished, bullet-headed robot waited at the door.
“I have a reservation,” Ewing said. “Baird Ewing. Room 4113.”
“Of course, sir. Come this way, please.”
Ewing followed the robot into the main concourse of the dining room, up a sort of ramp that led to the outermost rim of the great hall, where a few empty tables were visible. The robot came to a halt in front of a table at which someone was already sitting: a Sirian girl, Ewing guessed, from her brawny appearance.
The robot pulled out the chair facing her. Ewing shook his head. “There’s been some mistake made. I don’t know this lady at all. I requested a table for one.”
“We ask indulgence, sir. There are no tables for one available at this hour. We consulted with the person occupying this table and were told that there was no objection to your sharing it, if you were willing to do so.”
Ewing frowned and glanced at the girl. She met his glance evenly, and smiled. She seemed to be inviting him to sit down.
He shrugged. “All right. I’ll sit here.”
“Very good, sir.”
Ewing slipped into the seat and let the robot nudge it toward the table for him. He looked at the girl. She had bright red hair, trimmed in what on Corwin would be considered an extremely mannish style. She was dressed in a tailored suit of some clinging purple material; it flared sharply at the shoulders and neck. Her eyes were dark black. Her face was broad and muscular looking, with upjutting cheekbones that gave her features an oddly slant-eyed cast.
“I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience,” Ewing said. “I had no idea they’d place me at your table—or at any occupied table.”
“I requested it,” she said. Her voice was dark of timbre and resonant. “You’re the Corwinite Ewing, I understand. I’m Byra Clork. We have something in common. We were both born on colonies of Earth.”
Ewing found himself liking her blunt, forthright approach, even though in her countryman Firnik it had been offensive. He said, “So I understand. You’re a Sirian, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“I guessed,” Ewing said evasively. He directed his attention to the liquor panel set against the wall. “Drink?” he asked her.
“I’ve had one. But I don’t mind if you do.”
Ewing inserted a coin and punched out a cocktail. The drink emerged from a revolving slot in the wall. The Corwinite picked it up and tasted it. It was sweet, with a disturbing undertaste of acridity.
“You said you requested my presence at your table,” Ewing remarked. “And you knew me by name. How come?”
“It isn’t every day that a stranger comes to Earth,” she said, in that impossibly deep, husky, almost-masculine voice. “I was curious.”
“Many people seem to be curious about me,” Ewing said.
A robowaiter hovered at his shoulder. Ewing frowned; he said, “I don’t have any idea what the speciality of the house is. Miss Clork, would you care to recommend something for my dinner?”
She said to the robot, “Give him the same thing I ordered. Venison, creamed potatoes, green beans.”
“Certainly,” murmured the robot. As it scuttled away Ewing said, “Is that the tastiest dish they have?”
“Probably. I know it’s the most expensive.”
Ewing grinned. “You don’t spare my pocketbook, do you?”
“You gave me free reign. Besides, you must have some money in your pocket. I saw you converting a stack of bills at the desk this morning.”
“You saw me, then?” An idea struck him. “You didn’t send me a note this afternoon, did you?”
“Note?” Her broad face showed seemingly, genuine confusion. “No, I didn’t send you any note. Why?”
“Someone did,” Ewing said. “I just wondered who it might have been.”
He sipped his drink thoughtfully. A few minutes later a robot arrived with their dinners. The meat smelled pungent and good. Obviously it was no synthetic; that explained its high cost.
They ate in silence for a while. When Ewing had made substantial inroads on his plate, he paused, looking up, and said, “What do you do on Earth, Miss Clork?”
She smiled. “I’m with the Sirian Consulate. I look out for the interests of any of my people who happen to visit Earth. It’s a very dull job.”
“There seem to be quite a few Sirians on Earth,” Ewing remarked casually. “It must be very popular among your people as a tourist attraction.”
She seemed momentarily disconcerted by Ewing’s remark. Her voice hesitated slightly as she said, “Y-yes, it’s very popular. Many Sirians like to vacation on Earth.”
“How many Sirians would you say there were on Earth right now?”
This time she stiffened visibly; Ewing realized he had accidently asked a question which touched on very delicate grounds. “Just why are you interested, Colonist Ewing?”
He smiled disarmingly. “A matter of curiosity, that’s all. No ulterior motives.”
She pretended the question had never been asked. Music welled up about them, blending with the vague general hum of conversation. She finished her dinner quietly, and while starting on the dessert said, “I suppose you didn’t think much of Firnik.”
“Of who?”
“You met him this morning,” she said. “The Sirian. He tends to be rather clumsy at times. He’s my boss, actually. Sirian Vice-Consul in Valloin.”
“Did he tell you to wangle dinner with me?” Ewing asked suddenly.
A blaze flamed in the Sirian girl’s eyes, but it died down quickly enough, though with reluctance. “You put things crudely.”
“But accurately?”
“Yes.”
Ewing smiled and reached into his doublet pocket; he drew forth the anonymous note he had received earlier, unfolded it, and shoved it across the table toward her. She read it without displaying any apparent reaction, and nudged it back toward him.
“Is this the note you suspected me of having sent you?” she asked.
Ewing nodded. “I had a visit from Scholar Myreck this afternoon. Several hours later I found this note outside my door. Perhaps Vice-Consul Firnik sent it, eh?”
She stared at him as if trying to read his mind. Ewing sensed that a chess game of sorts was going on, that he was rapidly becoming the center of a web of complications. While they stared silently at each other a robot glided up to them and said, “Mr. Ewing?”
“That’s right.”
“I bear a message from the manager of the hotel.”
“Let’s have it,” Ewing said.
“The message is: a spyvent outlet has been discovered in your room at the intersection of the wall and the ceiling. The outlet has been removed and a protective device planted in the room to prevent any future re-insertion of spying equipment. The manager extends his deep regrets and requests you to accept a week’s rent as partial compensation for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”
Ewing grinned. “Tell him I accept the offer, and that he’d better be more careful about his rooms the next time.”
When the robot was gone, Ewing stared sharply at Byra Clork and said, “Somebody was listening and watching today when I had my visitor. Was
“Do you think so?”
“I do.”
“Then so be it,” the girl said lightly. She rose from the table and said, “Do you mind putting my meal on your account? I’m a little short of cash just now.”
She started to leave. Ewing caught a robot’s eye and quickly instructed, “Bill me for both dinners. Ewing, room 4113.”
He slid past the metal creature and caught up with the Sirian girl as she approached the exit to the dining room. The sphincter-door widened; she stepped through, and he followed her. They emerged in a luxurious salon hung with abstract paintings of startling texture and hue. Fierce atonal music came pulsing out of speakers concealed near the paintings.
She was ignoring him, pointedly. She moved at a rapid pace down the main corridor of the salon, and stopped just before an inlaid blue-and-gold door. As she started to enter, Ewing grasped her by the arm. Her biceps were remarkably sturdy.
She wriggled loose and said, “Surely you don’t intend to follow me in here, Mr. Ewing!”
He glanced at the inscription on the door. “I’m a rude, untutored, primitive colonial,” he said grimly. “If it serves my purpose to go in there after you, I’ll go in there after you. You might just as well stay here and answer my questions as try to run away.”
“Is there any reason why I should?”
“Yes,” he said. “Because I ask you to. Did you or Firnik spy on me this afternoon?”
“How should I know what Firnik does in his free time?”
Ewing applied pressure to her arm, and at the same time silently recited verses designed to keep his own inward metabolism on a level keel during a time of stress. His pulse was pounding; methodically, he forced it to return to its normal rate.
“You’re hurting me,” she said in a harsh whisper.
“I want to know who planted that spy ray in my room, and why I should be warned against dealing with Myreck.”
She twisted suddenly and broke loose from his grasp. Her face was flushed, and her breathing was rapid and irregular. In a low voice she said, “Let me give you some free advice, Mr. Corwinite Ewing. Pack up and go back to Corwin. There’s only trouble for you on Earth.”
“What sort of trouble?” he demanded relentlessly.
“I’m not saying anything else. Listen to me, and get as far from Earth as you can. Tomorrow. Today, if you can.” She looked wildly around, then turned and ran lithely down the corridor. Ewing debated following her, but decided against it. She had seemed genuinely frightened, as if trouble loomed for her.
He stood for a moment before a mounted light-sculpture, pretending to be staring at the intertwining spirals of black and pearl-gray, but actually merely using the statuary as pretext for a moment’s thought. His mind was racing; rigidly, he forced his adrenalin count down. When he was calm again, he tried to evaluate the situation.
Someone had gimmicked his room. He had been visited by an Earther, and a Sirian girl had maneuvered him into eating dinner with her. The incidents were beginning to mount up, and they grew more puzzling as he attempted to fit them into some coherent pattern. He had been on Earth less than fifteen hours. Events moved rapidly here.
He had been trained in theories of synthesis; he was a gifted extrapolator. Sweat beaded his forehead as he labored to extract connectivity from the isolated and confusing incidents of the day.
Minutes passed. Earthers in dazzling costumes drifted past him in twos and sometimes threes, commenting in subdued tones on the displays in the salon. Painstakingly, Ewing manipulated the facts. Finally a picture took shape; a picture formed on guesswork, but nonetheless a useful guide to future action.
The Sirians were up to no good on Earth. Quite possibly they intended to make the mother world a Sirian dominion. Assuming that, then the unexpected arrival of a colonist from deep space might represent a potential threat to their plans.
New shadows darkened the horizon, Ewing saw. Perhaps Firnik suspected him of intending to conspire with the Scholars against the Sirians. Doubtless that had been Myreck’s intention in proffering the invitation.
In that case—
“Mr. Ewing?” a gentle voice said.
He turned. A robot stood there, man-high, armless, its face a sleek sheet of viewing plastic.
“That’s right, I’m Ewing. What is it?”
“I speak for Governor-General Mellis, director of Earth’s governing body. Governor-General Mellis requests your presence at the Capital City as soon as is convenient for you.”
“How do I get there?”
“If you wish I will convey you there,” the robot purred.
“I so wish,” Ewing said. “Take me there at once.”
Chapter Five
A jetcar waited outside the hotel for them—sleek, stylishly toned, and yet to Ewing’s eyes old-fashioned in appearance. The robot opened the rear door and Ewing climbed in.
To his surprise the robot did not join him inside the car; he simply closed the door and glided away into the gathering dusk. Ewing frowned and peered through the door window at the retreating robot. He rattled the doorknob experimentally and discovered that he was locked in.
A bland robot voice said, “Your destination, please?”
Ewing hesitated. “Ah—take me to Governor-General Mellis.”
A rumble of turbogenerators was the only response; the car quivered gently and slid forward, moving as if it ran on a track of oil. Ewing felt no perceptible sensation of motion, but the spaceport and the towering bulk of the hotel grew small behind him, and soon they emerged on a broad twelve-level superhighway a hundred feet above the ground level.
Ewing stared nervously out the window. “Exactly where is the Governor-General located?” he asked, turning to peer at the dashboard. The jetcar did not even have room for a driver, he noted, nor a set of manual controls. It was operated totally by remote control.
“Governor-General Mellis’ residence is in Capital City,” came the precise, measured reply. “It is located one hundred ninety-three miles to the north of the City of Valloin. We will be there in forty-one minutes.”
The jetcar was strict in its schedule. Exactly forty-one minutes after it had pulled away from the plaza facing the Grand Valloin Hotel, it shot off the highway and onto a smaller trunk road that plunged downward at a steep angle. Ewing saw a city before him—a city of spacious buildings spaced far apart, radiating spirally out from one towering, silver-hued palace.
A few minutes later the car came to a sudden halt, giving Ewing a mild jolt.
The robot voice said, “This is the palace of the Governor-General. The door at your left is open. Please leave the car now and you will be taken to the Governor-General.”
Ewing nudged the door-panel and it swung open. He stepped out. The night air was fresh and cool, and the street about him gave off a soft gentle glow. Accumulator batteries beneath the pavement were discharging the illumination the sun had shed on them during the day.
“You will come this way, please,” a new robot said.
He was ushered speedily and efficiently through the swinging door of the palace, into a lift, and upward. The lift opened out onto a velvet-hung corridor that extended through a series of accordion-like pleats into a large and austerely furnished room.
A small man stood alone in the center of the room. He was gray haired but unwrinkled, and his body bore no visual sign of the surgical distortions that were so common among the Earthers. He smiled courteously.
“I am Governor-General Mellis,” he said. His voice was light and flexible, a good vehicle for public speaking. “Will you come in?”
“Thanks,” Ewing said. He stepped inside. The doors immediately closed behind him.
Mellis came forward—he stood no higher than the middle of Ewing’s chest—and proffered a drink. Ewing took it. It was a sparkling purplish liquid, with a mildly carbonated texture. He settled himself comfortably in the chair Mellis drew up for him, and looked up at the Governor-General, who remained s
“You wasted no time in sending for me,” Ewing remarked.
The Governor-General shrugged gracefully. “I learned of your arrival this morning. It is not often that an ambassador from an outworld colony arrives on Earth. In truth”—he seemed to sigh—“you are the first in more than three hundred years. You have aroused considerable curiosity, you know.”
“I’m aware of that.” Casually he sipped at his drink, letting the warmth trickle down his throat. “I intended to contact you tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. But you’ve saved me that trouble.”
“My curiosity got the better of me,” Mellis admitted with a smile. “There is so little for me to do, you see, in the way of official duties.”
“I’ll make my visit brief by starting at the beginning,” Ewing said. “I’m here to ask for Earth’s help, on behalf of my planet, the Free World of Corwin.”
“Help?” The Governor-General looked alarmed.
“We face invasion by extra-galactic foes,” Ewing said. Quickly he sketched out an account of the Klodni depredations thus far, adding, “And we sent several messages to Earth to let you know what the situation was. We assume those messages have gone astray en route. And so I’ve come in person to ask for Earth’s aid.”
Mellis moved about the room in impatient birdlike strutting motions before replying. He whirled suddenly, then calmed himself, and said, “The messages did not go astray, Mr. Ewing.”
“No?”
“They were duly received and forwarded to my office. I read them!”
“You didn’t answer,” Ewing interrupted accusingly. “You deliberately ignored them. Why?”
Mellis spread his fingers on his thighs and seemed to come stiffly to attention. In a quiet, carefully modulated voice he said, “Because there is no possible way we can help you or anyone else, Mr. Ewing. Will you believe that?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We have no weapons, no military forces, no ability or desire to fight. We have no spaceships.”
Ewing’s eyes widened. He had found it impossible to believe it when the Sirian Firnik had told him Earth was defenseless; but to hear it from the lips of the Governor-General himself!