SPACEROGUE

                           By WEBBER MARTIN

                        Illustrated by ED EMSH

                  _The proteus could change its shape
                    to anything at all--and Herndon
              discovered it made a perfect red herring!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                        Infinity November 1958.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




                               CHAPTER I


They were selling a proteus in the public auctionplace at Borlaam, when
the stranger wandered by. The stranger's name was Barr Herndon, and he
was a tall man, with a proud, lonely face. It was not the face he had
been born with, though his own had been equally proud, equally lonely.

He shouldered his way through the crowd. It was a warm and muggy day
and a number of idling passersby had stopped to watch the auction.
The auctioneer was an Agozlid, squat and bull-voiced, and he held the
squirming proteus at arm's length, squeezing it to make it perform.

"Observe, ladies and gentlemen--observe the shapes, the multitude of
strange and exciting forms!"

The proteus now had the shape of an eight-limbed star, blue-green at
its core, fiery red in each limb. Under the auctioneer's merciless
prodding it began to change, slowly, as its molecules lost their hold
on one another and sought a new conformation.

A snake, a tree, a hooded deathworm--

The Agozlid grinned triumphantly at the crowd, baring fifty inch-long
yellow teeth. "What am I bid?" he demanded in the guttural Borlaamese
language. "Who wants this creature from another sun's world?"

"Five stellors," said a bright-painted Borlaamese noblewoman down front.

"Five stellors! Ridiculous, milady. Who'll begin with fifty? A hundred?"

Barr Herndon squinted for a better view. He had seen proteus life-forms
before, and knew something of them. They were strange, tormented
creatures, living in agony from the moment they left their native
world. Their flesh flowed endlessly from shape to shape, and each
change was like the wrenching-apart of limbs by the rack.

"Fifty stellors," chuckled a member of the court of Seigneur Krellig,
absolute ruler of the vast world of Borlaam. "Fifty for the proteus."

"Who'll say seventy-five?" pleaded the Agozlid. "I brought this being
here at the cost of three lives, slaves worth more than a hundred
between them. Will you make me take a loss? Surely five thousand
stellors--"

"Seventy-five," said a voice.

"Eighty," came an immediate response.

"One hundred," said the noblewoman in the front row.

The Agozlid's toothy face became mellow as the bidding rose
spontaneously. From his vantage-point in the last row, Barr Herndon
watched.

The proteus wriggled, attempted to escape, altered itself wildly and
pathetically. Herndon's lips compressed tightly. He knew something
himself of what suffering meant.

"Two hundred," he said.

"A new voice!" crowed the auctioneer. "A voice from the back row! Five
hundred, did you say?"

"Two hundred," Herndon repeated coldly.

"Two-fifty," said a nearby noble promptly.

"And twenty-five more," a hitherto-silent circus proprietor said.

Herndon scowled. Now that he had entered into the situation, he was--as
always--fully committed to it. He would not let the others get the
proteus.

"Four hundred," he said.

For an instant there was silence in the auction-ring, silence enough
for the mocking cry of a low-swooping sea-bird to be clearly audible.
Then a quiet voice from the front said, "Four-fifty."

"Five hundred," Herndon said.

"Five-fifty."

Herndon did not immediately reply, and the Agozlid auctioneer craned
his stubby neck, looking around for the next bidder. "I've heard
five-fifty," he said crooningly. "That's good, but not good enough."

"Six hundred," Herndon said.

"Six-twenty-five."

Herndon fought down a savage impulse to draw his needler and gun
down his bidding opponent. Instead he tightened his jaws and said,
"Six-fifty."

The proteus squirmed and became a pain-smitten pseudo-cat on the
auction stand. The crowd giggled in delight.

"Six-seventy-five," came the voice.

       *       *       *       *       *

It had become a two-man contest now, with the others merely hanging
on for the sport of it, waiting to see which man would weaken first.
Herndon eyed his opponent: it was the courtier, a swarthy red-bearded
man with blazing eyes and a double row of jewels round his doublet. He
looked immeasurably wealthy. There was no hope of outbidding him.

"Seven hundred stellors," Herndon said. He glanced around hurriedly,
found a small boy standing nearby, and bent to whisper to him.

"Seven-twenty-five," said the noble.

Herndon whispered, "You see that man down front--the one who just
spoke? Run down there and tell him his lady has sent for him, and wants
him at once."

He handed the boy a golden five-stellor piece. The boy stared at it
popeyed a moment, grinned, and slid through the onlookers toward the
front of the ring.

"Nine hundred," Herndon said.

It was considerably more than a proteus might be expected to bring
at auction, and possibly more than even the wealthy noble cared to
spend. But Herndon was aware there was no way out for the noble except
retreat--and he was giving him that avenue.

"Nine hundred is bid," the auctioneer said. "Lord Moaris, will you bid
more?"

"I would," Moaris grunted. "But I am summoned, and must leave." He
looked blankly angry, but he did not question the boy's message.
Herndon noted that down for possible future use. It had been a lucky
guess--but Lord Moaris of the Seigneur's court came running when his
lady bid him do so.

"Nine hundred is bid," the auctioneer repeated. "Do I hear more? Nine
hundred for this fine proteus--who'll make it an even thousand?"

There was no one. Seconds ticked by, and no voice spoke. Herndon waited
tensely at the edge of the crowd as the auctioneer chanted, "At nine
hundred once, at nine hundred for two, at nine hundred ultimate--

"Yours for nine hundred, friend. Come forward with your cash. And I
urge you all to return in ten minutes, when we'll be offering some
wonderful pink-hued maidens from Villidon." His hands described a
feminine shape in the air with wonderfully obscene gusto.

Herndon came forward. The crowd had begun to dissipate, and the inner
ring was deserted as he approached the auctioneer. The proteus had
taken on a frog-like shape and sat huddled in on itself like a statue
of gelatin.

Herndon eyed the foul-smelling Agozlid and said, "I'm the one who
bought the proteus. Who gets my money?"

"I do," croaked the auctioneer. "Nine hundred stellors gold, plus
thirty stellors fee, and the beast's yours."

Herndon touched the money-plate at his belt and a coil of
hundred-stellor links came popping forth. He counted off nine of them,
broke the link, and laid them on the desk before the Agozlid. Then he
drew six five-stellor pieces from his pocket and casually dropped them
on the desk.

"Let's have your name for the registry," said the auctioneer after
counting out the money and testing it with a soliscope.

"Barr Herndon."

"Home-world?"

Herndon paused a moment. "Borlaam."

The Agozlid looked up. "You don't seem much like a Borlaamese to me.
Pure-bred?"

"Does it matter to you? I am. I'm from the River Country of Zonnigog,
and my money's good."

Painstakingly the Agozlid inscribed his name in the registry. Then he
glanced up insolently and said, "Very well, Barr Herndon of Zonnigog.
You now own a proteus. You'll be pleased to know that it's already
indoctrinated and enslaved."

"This pleases me very much," said Herndon flatly.

The Agozlid handed Herndon a bright planchet of burnished copper with
a nine-digit number inscribed on it. "This is the code key. In case
you lose your slave, take this to Borlaam Central and they'll trace it
for you." He took from his pocket a tiny projector and slid it across
the desk. "And here's your resonator. It's tuned to a mesh network
installed in the proteus on the submolecular level--it can't change to
affect it. You don't like the way the beast behaves, just twitch the
resonator. It's essential for proper discipline of slaves."

Herndon accepted the resonator. He said, "The proteus probably knows
enough of pain without this instrument. But I'll take it."

The auctioneer seized the proteus and scooped it down from the
auction-stand, dropping it next to Herndon. "Here you are, friend. All
yours now."

The marketplace had cleared somewhat; a crowd had gathered at the
opposite end, where some sort of jewel auction was going on, but as
Herndon looked around he saw he had a clear path over the cobbled
square to the quay beyond.

       *       *       *       *       *

He walked a few steps away from the auctioneer's booth. The auctioneer
was getting ready for the next segment of his sale, and Herndon caught
a glimpse of three frightened-looking naked Villidon girls behind the
curtain being readied for display.

He stared seaward. Two hundred yards away was the quay, rimmed by the
low sea-wall, and beyond it was the bright green expanse of the Shining
Ocean. For an instant his eyes roved beyond the ocean even, to the far
continent of Zonnigog where he had been born. Then he looked at the
terrified little proteus, halfway through yet another change of shape.

Nine hundred thirty-five stellors, altogether, for this proteus.
Herndon scowled bitterly. It was a tremendous sum of money, far
more than he could easily have afforded to throw away in one
morning--particularly his first day back on Borlaam after his sojourn
on the outplanets.

But there had been no help for it. He had allowed himself to be drawn
into a situation, and he refused to back off halfway. Not any more, he
said to himself, thinking of the burned and gutted Zonnigog village
plundered by the gay looters of Seigneur Krellig's army.

"Walk toward the sea-wall," he ordered the proteus.

A half-formed mouth said blurredly, "M-master?"

"You understand me, don't you? Then walk toward the sea-wall. Keep
going and don't turn around."

He waited. The proteus formed feet and moved off in an uncertain
shuffle over the well-worn cobbles. Nine hundred thirty-five stellors,
he thought bitterly.

He drew his needler.

The proteus continued walking, through the marketplace and toward the
sea. Someone yelled, "Hey, that thing's going to fall in! We better
stop it!"

"I own it," Herndon called coolly. "Keep away from it, if you value
your own lives."

He received several puzzled glances, but no one moved. The proteus
had almost reached the edge of the sea-wall now, and paused
indecisively. Not even the lowest of life-forms will welcome its own
self-destruction, no matter what surcease from pain can be attained
thereby.

"Mount the wall," Herndon called to it.

Blindly, the proteus obeyed. Herndon's finger caressed the firing-knob
of the needler. He watched the proteus atop the low wall, staring down
into the murky harbor water, and counted to three.

On the third count he fired. The slim needle-projectile sped brightly
across the marketplace and buried itself in the back of the proteus'
body. Death must have been instantaneous; the needle contained a
nerve-poison that was effective on all known forms of life.

The creature stood frozen on the wall an instant, caught midway
between changes, and toppled forward into the water. Herndon nodded
and holstered his weapon. He saw people's heads nodding. He heard a
murmured comment: "Just paid almost a thousand for it, and first thing
he does is shoot it."

It had been a costly morning. Herndon turned as if to walk on, but he
found his way blocked by a small wrinkle-faced man who had come out of
the jewelry-auction crowd across the way.

"My name is Bollar Benjin," the little prune of a man said. His voice
was a harsh croak. His body seemed withered and skimpy. He wore a tight
gray tunic of shabby appearance. "I saw what you just did."

"What of it? It's not illegal to dispose of slaves in public," Herndon
said.

"Only a special kind of man would do it, though," said Bollar Benjin.
"A cruel man--or a foolhardy one. Which are you?"

"Both," Herndon said. "And now, if you'll let me pass--"

"Just one moment." The croaking voice suddenly acquired the snap of a
whip. "Talk to me a moment. If you can spare a thousand stellors to buy
a slave you kill the next moment, you can spare me a few words."

"What do you want with me?"

"Your services," Benjin said. "I can use a man like you. Are you free
and unbonded?"

Herndon thought of the thousand stellors--almost half his wealth--that
he had thrown away just now. He thought of the Seigneur Krellig, whom
he hated and whom he had vowed so implacably to kill. And he thought of
the wrinkled man before him.

"I am unbonded," he said. "But my price is high. What do you want, and
what can you offer?"

Benjin smiled obliquely and dipped into a hidden pocket of his tunic.
When he drew forth his hand, it was bright with glittering jewels.

"I deal in these," he said. "I can pay well."

The jewels vanished into the pocket again. "If you're interested,"
Benjin said, "come with me."

Herndon nodded. "I'm interested."

"Follow me, then."




                              CHAPTER II


Herndon had been gone from Borlaam for a year, before this day. A year
before--the seventeenth of the reign of the Seigneur Krellig--a band of
looters had roared through his home village in Zonnigog, destroying
and killing. It had been a high score for the Herndon family--his
father and mother killed in the first sally, his young brother stolen
as a slave, his sister raped and ultimately put to death.

The village had been burned. And only Barr Herndon had escaped, taking
with him twenty thousand stellors of his family's fortune and killing
eight of the Seigneur's best men before departing.

He had left the system, gone to the nineteen-world complex of Meld, and
on Meld XVII he had bought himself a new face that did not bear the
tell-tale features of the Zonnigog aristocracy. Gone were the sharp,
almost razorlike cheekbones, the pale skin, the wide-set black eyes,
the nose jutting from the forehead.

For eight thousand stellors the surgeons of Meld had taken these things
away and given him a new face: broad where the other had been high,
tan-skinned, narrow-eyed, with a majestic hook of a nose quite unlike
any of Zonnigog. He had come back wearing the guise of a spacerogue, a
freebooter, an unemployed mercenary willing to sign on to the highest
bidder.

The Meldian surgeons had changed his face, but they had not changed
his heart. Herndon nurtured the desire for revenge against
Krellig--Krellig the implacable, Krellig the invincible, who cowered
behind the great stone walls of his fortress for fear of the people's
hatred.

Herndon could be patient. But he swore death to Krellig, someday and
somehow.

He stood now in a narrow street in the Avenue of Bronze, high in the
winding complex of streets that formed the Ancient Quarter of the City
of Borlaam, capital of the world of the same name. He had crossed
the city silently, not bothering to speak to his gnomelike companion
Benjin, brooding only on his inner thoughts and hatred.

Benjin indicated a black metal doorway to their left. "We go in here,"
he said. He touched his full hand to the metal of the door and it
jerked upward and out of sight. He stepped through.

Herndon followed and it was as if a great hand had appeared and wrapped
itself about him. He struggled for a moment against the stasis-field.

"Damn you, Benjin, unwrap me!"

The stasis-field held; calmly, the little man bustled about Herndon,
removing his needler and his four-chambered blaster and the ceremonial
sword at his side.

"Are you weaponless?" Benjin asked. "Yes; you must be. The field
subsides."

Herndon scowled. "You might have warned me. When do I get my weapons
back?"

"Later," Benjin said. "Restrain your temper and come within."

He was led to an inner room where three men and a woman sat around
a wooden conference table. He eyed the foursome curiously. The men
comprised an odd mixture: one had the unmistakable stamp of noble birth
on his face, while the other two had the coarseness of clay. As for the
woman, she was hardly worth a second-look: slovenly, big-breasted, and
raw-faced she was undoubtedly the mistress of one or more of the others.

Herndon stepped toward them.

Benjin said, "This is Barr Herndon, free spacerogue. I met him at the
market. He had just bought a proteus at auction for nearly a thousand
stellors. I watched him order the creature toward the sea-wall and put
a needle in its back."

"If he's that free with his money," remarked the noble-seeming one in a
rich bass voice, "What need does he have of our employ?"

"Tell us why you killed your slave," Benjin said.

Herndon smiled grimly. "It pleased me to do so."

One of the leather-jerkined commoners shrugged and said, "These
spacerogues don't act like normal men. Benjin, I'm not in favor of
hiring him."

"We need him," the withered man retorted. To Herndon he said, "Was your
act an advertisement, perhaps? To demonstrate your willingness to kill
and your indifference to the moral codes of humanity?"

"Yes," Herndon lied. It would only hurt his own cause to explain
that he had bought and then killed the proteus only to save it from
a century-long life of endless agony. "It pleased me to kill the
creature. And it served to draw your attention to me."

Benjin smiled and said, "Good. Let me explain who we are, then. First,
names: this is Heitman Oversk, younger brother of the Lord Moaris."

       *       *       *       *       *

Herndon stared at the noble. A second son--ah, yes. A familiar pattern.
Second sons, propertyless but bearing within themselves the spark of
nobility, frequently deviated into shadowy paths. "I had the pleasure
of outbidding your brother this morning," he said.

"Outbidding Moaris? Impossible!"

Herndon shrugged. "His lady beckoned him in the middle of the auction,
and he left. Otherwise the proteus would have been his, and I'd have
nine hundred stellors more in my pocket right now."

"These two," Benjin said, indicating the commoners, "are named Dorgel
and Razumod. They have full voice in our organization; we know no
social distinctions. And this--" gesturing to the girl--"is Marya. She
belongs to Dorgel, who does not object to making short-term loans."

Herndon said, "_I_ object. But state your business with me, Benjin."

The dried little man said, "Fetch a sample, Razumod."

The burly commoner rose from his seat and moved into a dark corner of
the poorly-lit room; he fumbled at a drawer for a moment, then returned
with a gem that sparkled brightly even through his fisted fingers. He
tossed it down on the table, where it gleamed coldly. Herndon noticed
that neither Heitman Oversk nor Dorgel let their glance linger on the
jewel more than a second, and he likewise turned his head aside.

"Pick it up," Benjin said.

The jewel was icy-cold. Herndon held it lightly and waited.

"Go ahead," Benjin urged. "Study it. Examine its depths. It's a lovely
piece, believe me."

Hesitantly Herndon opened his cupped palm and stared at the gem. It was
broad-faceted, with a luminous inner light, and--he gasped--a face,
within the stone. A woman's face, languorous, beckoning, seeming to
call to him as from the depths of the sea--

Sweat burst out all over him. With an effort he wrenched his gaze from
the stone and cocked his arm; a moment later he had hurled the gem with
all his force into the farthest corner of the room. He whirled, glared
at Benjin, and leaped for him.

"Cheat! Betrayer!"

His hands sought Benjin's throat, but the little man jumped lithely
back, and Dorgel and Razumod interposed themselves hastily between
them. Herndon stared at Razumod's sweaty bulk a moment and gave ground,
quivering with tension.

"You might have warned me," he said.

Benjin smiled apologetically. "It would have ruined the test. We must
have strong men in our organization. Oversk, what do you think?"

"He threw down the stone," Heitman Oversk said heavily. "It's a good
sign. I think I like him."

"Razumod?"

The commoner gave an assenting grunt, as did Dorgel. Herndon tapped
the table and said, "So you're dealing in starstones? And you gave me
one without warning? What if I'd succumbed?"

"We would have sold you the stone and let you leave," Benjin said.

"What sort of work would you have me do?"

Heitman Oversk said, "Our trade is to bring starstones in from the Rim
worlds where they are mined, and sell them to those who can afford
our price. The price, incidentally, is fifty thousand stellors. We
pay eight thousand for them, and are responsible for shipping them
ourselves. We need a supervisor to control the flow of starstones from
our source-world to Borlaam. We can handle the rest at this end."

"It pays well," Benjin added. "Your wage would be five thousand
stellors per month, plus a full voice in the organization."

Herndon considered. The starstone trade was the most vicious in the
galaxy; the hypnotic gems rapidly became compulsive, and within a year
after being exposed to one constantly a man lost his mind and became
a drooling idiot, able only to contemplate the kaleidoscopic wonders
locked within his stone.

The way to addiction was easy. Only a strong man could voluntarily rip
his eyes from a starstone, once he had glimpsed it. Herndon had proven
himself strong. The sort of man who could slay a newly-purchased slave
could look up from a starstone.

He said, "What are the terms?"

"Full bonding," Benjin said. "Including surgical implantation of a
safety device."

"I don't like that."

"We all wear them," Oversk said. "Even myself."

"If all of you wear them," Herndon said, "To whom are you responsible?"

"There is joint control. I handle the outworld contacts; Oversk, here,
locates prospective patrons. Dorgel and Razumod are expediters who deal
in collection problems and protection. We control each other."

"But there must be somebody who has the master-control for the safety
devices," Herndon protested. "Who is that?"

"It rotates from month to month. I hold them this month," Benjin said.
"Next month it is Oversk's turn."

       *       *       *       *       *

Herndon paced agitatedly up and down in the darkened room. It was a
tempting offer; five thousand a month could allow him to live on high
scales. And Oversk was the brother of Lord Moaris, who was known to be
the Seigneur's confidante.

And Lord Moaris' lady controlled Lord Moaris. Herndon saw a pattern
taking shape, a pattern that ultimately would put the Seigneur Krellig
within his reach.

But he did not care to have his body invaded by safety devices. He
knew how those worked; if he were to cheat against the organization,
betray it, attempt to leave it without due cause, whoever operated
the master-control could reduce him to a grovelling pain-racked slave
instantly. The safety-device could only be removed by the surgeon who
had installed it.

It meant accepting the yoke of this group of starstone smugglers. But
there was a higher purpose in mind for Herndon.

"I conditionally accept," he said. "Tell me specifically what my duties
will be."

Benjin said, "A consignment of starstones has been mined for us on our
source-world, and is soon to be shipped. We want you to travel to that
world and accompany the shipment through space to Borlaam. We lose much
by way of thievery on each shipment--and there is no way of insuring
starstones against loss."

"We know who our thief is," Oversk said. "You would be responsible for
finding him in the act and killing him."

"I'm not a murderer," Herndon said quietly.

"You wear the garb of a spacerogue. That doesn't speak of a very high
moral caliber," Oversk said.

"Besides, no one mentions murder," said Benjin. "Merely execution. Yes:
execution."

Herndon locked his hands together before him and said, "I want two
months' salary in advance. I want to see evidence that all of you are
wearing neuronic mesh under your skins before I let the surgeon touch
me."

"Agreed," Benjin said after a questioning glance around the room.

"Furthermore, I want as an outright gift the sum of nine hundred thirty
golden stellors, which I spent this morning to attract the attention of
a potential employer."

It was a lie, but there was cause for it. It made sense to establish
a dominating relationship with these people as soon as possible. Then
later concessions on their part would come easier.

"Agreed," Benjin said again, more reluctantly.

"In that case," Herndon said. "I consider myself in your employ. I'm
ready to leave tonight. As soon as the conditions I state have been
fulfilled to my complete satisfaction, I will submit my body to the
hands of your surgeon."




                              CHAPTER III


He bound himself over to the surgeon later that afternoon, after money
to the amount of ten thousand, nine hundred thirty golden stellors had
been deposited to his name in the Royal Borlaam Bank in Galaxy Square,
and after he had seen the neuronic mesh that was embedded in the bodies
of Benjin, Oversk, Dorgel, and Razumod. Greater assurance of good faith
than this he could not demand; he would have to risk the rest.

The surgeon's quarters were farther along the Avenue of Bronze, in a
dilapidated old house that had no doubt been built in Third Empire
days. The surgeon himself was a wiry fellow with a puckered ray-slash
across one cheek and a foreshortened left leg. A retired pirate-vessel
medic, Herndon realized. No one else would perform such an operation
unquestioningly. He hoped the man had skill.

The operation itself took an hour, during which time Herndon was under
total anesthesia. He woke to find the copper operating-dome lifting off
him. He felt no different, even though he knew a network of metal had
been blasted into his body on the submolecular level.

"Well? Is it finished?"

"It is," the surgeon said.

Herndon glanced at Benjin. The little man held a glinting metal object
on his palm. "This is the control, Herndon. Let me demonstrate."

His hand closed, and instantaneously Herndon felt a bright bolt of pain
shiver through the calf of his leg. A twitch of Benjin's finger and
an arrow of red heat lanced Herndon's shoulder. Another twitch and a
clammy hand seemed to squeeze his heart.

"Enough!" Herndon shouted. He realized he had signed away his liberty
forever, if Benjin chose to exert control. But it did not matter to
him. He had actually signed away his liberty the day he had vowed to
watch the death of the Seigneur Krellig.

Benjin reached into his tunic-pocket and drew forth a little leather
portfolio. "Your passport and other travelling necessities," he
explained.

"I have my own passport," Herndon said.

Benjin shook his head. "This is a better one. It comes with a visa to
Vyapore." To the surgeon he said, "How soon can he travel?"

"Tonight, if necessary."

"Good. Herndon, you'll leave tonight."

       *       *       *       *       *

The ship was the _Lord Nathiir_, a magnificent super-liner bound on a
thousand light-year cruise to the Rim stars. Benjin had arranged for
Herndon to travel outward on a luxury liner without cost, as part of
the entourage of Lord and Lady Moaris. Oversk had obtained the job for
him--second steward to the noble couple, who were vacationing on the
Rim pleasure-planet of Molleccogg. Herndon had not objected when he
learned that he was to travel in the company of Lord--and especially
Lady--Moaris.

The ship was the greatest of the Borlaam luxury fleet. Even on Deck C,
in his steward's quarters, Herndon rated a full-grav room with synthik
drapery and built-in chromichron; he had never lived so well even at
his parents' home, and they had been among the first people of Zonnigog
at one time.

His duties called for him to pay court upon the nobles each evening,
so that they might seem more resplendent in comparison with the other
aristocrats travelling aboard. The Moarises had brought the largest
entourage with them, over a hundred people including valets, stewards,
cooks, and paid sycophants.

Alone in his room during the hour of blastoff, Herndon studied his
papers. A visa to Vyapore. So _that_ was where the starstones came
from--! Vyapore, the jungle planet of the Rim, where civilization
barely had a toehold. No wonder the starstone trade was so difficult to
control.

When the ship was safely aloft and the stasis generators had caused the
translation into nullspace, Herndon dressed in the formal black-and-red
court garments of Lord Moaris' entourage. Then, making his way up the
broad companionway, he headed for the Grand Ballroom, where Lord Moaris
and his lady were holding court for the first night of the voyage
outward.

The ballroom was festooned with ropes of living light. A dancing
bear from Albireo XII cavorted clumsily near the entrance as Herndon
entered. Borlaamese in uniforms identical to his own stood watch at the
door, and nodded to him when he identified himself as Second Steward.

He stood for a moment alone at the threshold of the ballroom, watching
the glittering display. The _Lord Nathiir_ was the playground of the
wealthy, and a goodly number of Borlaam's wealthiest were here, vying
with the ranking nobles, the Moarises, for splendor.

Herndon felt a twinge of bitterness. His people were from beyond the
sea, but by rank and preference he belonged in the bright lights of
the ballroom, not standing here in the garment of a steward. He moved
forward.

The noble couple sat on raised thrones at the far end, presiding over
a dancing-area in which the grav had been turned down; the couples
drifted gracefully, like figures out of fable, feet touching the ground
only at intervals.

Herndon recognized Lord Moaris from the auction. A dour, short,
thick-bodied individual he was, resplendent in his court robes, with a
fierce little beard stained bright red after the current fashion. He
sat stiffly upright on his throne, gripping the armrests of the carven
chair as if he were afraid of floating off toward the ceiling. In the
air before him shimmered the barely perceptible haze of a neutralizer
field designed to protect him from the shots of a possible assassin.

By his side sat his Lady, supremely self-possessed and lovely. Herndon
was astonished by her youth. No doubt the nobles had means of restoring
lost freshness to a woman's face, but there was no way of recreating
the youthful bloom so convincingly. The Lady Moaris could not have been
more than twenty-three or twenty-five. Her husband was several decades
older. It was small wonder that he guarded her so jealously.

She smiled in sweet content at the scene before her. Herndon, too,
smiled--at her beauty, and at the use to which he hoped to put it. Her
skin was soft pink; a wench of the bath Herndon had met belowdecks had
told him she bathed in the cream of the ying-apple twice daily. Her
eyes were wide-set and clear, her nose finely made, her lips two red
arching curves. She wore a dress studded with emeralds; it flowed from
her like light. It was open at the throat, revealing a firm bosom and
strong shoulders. She clutched a diamond-crusted scepter in one small
hand.

Herndon looked around, found a lady of the court who was unoccupied
at the moment, and asked her to dance. They danced silently, gliding
in and out of the grav field; Herndon might have found it a pleasant
experience, but he was not primarily in search of pleasant experiences
now. He was concerned only with attracting the attention of the Lady
Moaris.

He was successful. It took time; but he was by far biggest and most
conspicuous man of the court assembled there, and it was customary for
Lord and Lady to leave their thrones, mingle with their courtiers,
even dance with them. Herndon danced with lady after lady, until
finally he found himself face to face with the Lady Moaris.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked. Her voice was like liquid gossamer.

Herndon lowered himself in a courtly bow. "I would consider it the
greatest of honors, good Lady."

They danced. She was easy to hold; he sensed her warmness near him,
and he saw something in her eyes--a distant pinched look of pain,
perhaps--that told him all was not well between Lord and Lady.

She said, "I don't recognize you. What's your name?"

"Barr Herndon, milady. Of Zonnigog."

"Zonnigog, indeed! And why have you crossed ten thousand miles of ocean
to our city?"

Herndon smiled and gracefully dipped her through a whirling series of
pirouettes. "To seek fame and fortune, milady. Zonnigog is well and
good to live in, but the place to become known is the City of Borlaam.
For this reason I petitioned the Heitman Oversk to have me added to the
retinue of the Lord Moaris."

"You know Oversk, then? Well?"

"Not at all well. I served him a while; then I asked to move on."

"And so you go, climbing up and over your former masters, until you
scramble up the shoulders of the Lord Moaris to the feet of the
Seigneur. Is that the plan?"

She smiled disarmingly, drawing any possible malice from the words she
had uttered. Herndon nodded, saying in all sincerity, "I confess this
is my aim. Forgive me, though, for saying that there are reasons that
might cause me to remain in the service of the Lord Moaris longer than
I had originally intended."

A flush crossed her face. She understood. In a half-whisper she said.
"You are impertinent. I suppose it comes with good looks and a strong
body."

"Thank you, milady."

"I wasn't complimenting you," she said as the dance came to an end and
the musicians subsided. "I was criticizing. But what does it matter?
Thank you for the dance."

"May I have the pleasure of milady's company once again soon?" Herndon
asked.

"You may--but not too soon." She chuckled. "The Lord Moaris is highly
possessive. He resents it when I dance twice the same evening with one
member of the court."

Sadness darkened Herndon's face a moment. "Very well, then. But I will
go to Viewplate A and stare at the stars a while. If the Lady seeks a
companion, she will find one there."

She stared at him and flurried away without replying. But Herndon felt
a glow of inner satisfaction. The pieces were dropping into place.

The ladder was being constructed. Soon it would bring him to the
throneroom of the Seigneur Krellig. Beyond that he would need no plans.

       *       *       *       *       *

Viewplate A, on the uppermost deck of the vast liner, was reserved for
the first-class passengers and the members of their retinues. It was an
enormous room, shrouded at all times in darkness, at one end of which
a viewscreen opened out onto the glory of the heavens. In nullspace,
a hyperbolic section of space was visible at all times, the stars in
weird out-of-focus colors forming a breathtaking display. Geometry went
awry. A blazing panorama illuminated the room.

The first-class viewing-room was also known to be a trysting-place.
There, under cover of darkness, ladies might meet and make love to
cooks, lords to scullery-maids. An enterprising rogue with a nolight
camera might make a fortune taking a quick shot of such a room and
black-mailing his noble victims. But scanners at the door prevented
such devices from entering.

Herndon stood staring at the fiery gold and green of the closest stars
a while, his back to the door, until he heard a feminine voice whisper
to him.

"Barr Herndon?"

He turned. In the darkness it was difficult to tell who spoke; he saw
a girl about the height of the Lady Moaris, but in the dimness of the
illumination of the plate he could see it was not the Lady. This girl's
hair was dull red; the Lady's was golden. And he could see the pale
whiteness of this girl's breasts; the Lady's garment, while revealing,
had been somewhat more modest.

This was a lady of the court, then, perhaps enamoured of Herndon,
perhaps sent by the Lady Moaris as a test or as a messenger.

Herndon said, "I am he. What do you want?"

"I bring a message from--a noble lady," came the answering whisper.

Smiling in the darkness Herndon said, "What does your mistress have to
say to me?"

"It cannot be spoken. Hold me in a close embrace as if we were lovers,
and I will give you what you need."

Shrugging, Herndon clasped the go-between in his arms with feigned
passion. Their lips met; their bodies pressed tight. Herndon felt the
girl's hand searching for his, and slipping something cool, metallic
into it. Her lips left his, travelled to his ear, and murmured:

"This is her key. Be there in half an hour."

They broke apart. Herndon nodded farewell to her and returned his
attention to the glories of the viewplate. He did not glance at the
object in his hand, but merely stored it in his pocket.

He counted out fifteen minutes in his mind, then left the viewing-room
and emerged on the main deck. The ball was still in progress, but he
learned from a guard on duty that the Lord and Lady Moaris had already
left for sleep, and that the festivities were soon to end.

Herndon slipped into a washroom and examined the key--for key it was.
It was a radionic opener, and imprinted on it were the numbers 1160.

His throat felt suddenly dry. The Lady Moaris was inviting him to her
room for the night--or was this a trap, and would Moaris and his court
be waiting for him, to gun him down and provide themselves with some
amusement? It was not beyond these nobles to arrange such a thing.

But still--he remembered the clearness of her eyes, and the beauty of
her face. He could not believe she would be party to such a scheme.

He waited out the remaining fifteen minutes. Then, moving cautiously
along the plush corridors, he found his way to Room 1160.

He listened a moment. Silence from within. His heart pounded
frantically, irking him; this was his first major test, possibly the
gateway to all his hopes, and it irritated him that he felt anxiety.

He touched the tip of the radionic opener to the door. The substance
of the door blurred as the energy barricade that composed it was
temporarily dissolved. Herndon stepped through quickly. Behind him, the
door returned to a state of solidity.

The light of the room was dim. The Lady Moaris awaited him, wearing a
gauzy dressing-gown. She smiled tensely at him; she seemed ill-at-ease.

"Would I do otherwise?"

"I--wasn't sure. I'm not in the habit of doing things like this."

Herndon repressed a cynical smile. Such innocence was touching, but
highly improbable. He said nothing, and she went on: "I was caught by
your face--something harsh and terrible about it struck me. I had to
send for you, to know you better."

Ironically Herndon said, "I feel honored. I hadn't expected such an
invitation."

"You won't--think it's cheap of me, will you?" she said plaintively. It
was hardly the thing Herndon expected from the lips of the noble Lady
Moaris. But, as he stared at her slim body revealed beneath the filmy
robe, he understood that she might not be so noble after all once the
gaudy pretense was stripped away. He saw her as perhaps she truly was:
a young girl of great loveliness, married to a domineering nobleman who
valued her only for her use in public display. It might explain this
bedchamber summons to a Second Steward.

He took her hand. "This is the height of my ambitions, milady. Beyond
this room, where can I go?"

But it was empty flattery he spoke. He darkened the room illumination
exultantly. _With your conquest, Lady Moaris_, he thought, _do I begin
the conquest of the Seigneur Krellig!_




                              CHAPTER IV


The voyage to Molleccogg lasted a week, absolute time aboard ship.
After their night together, Herndon had occasion to see the Lady
Moaris only twice more, and on both occasions she averted her eyes from
him, regarding him as if he were not there.

It was understandable. But Herndon held a promise from her that she
would see him again in three months' time, when she returned to
Borlaam; and she had further promised that she would use her influence
with her husband to have Herndon invited to the court of the Seigneur.

The _Lord Nathiir_ emerged from nullspace without difficulty and was
snared by the landing-field of Molleccogg Spacefield. Through the
viewing-screen on his own deck, Herndon saw the colorful splendor of
the pleasure-planet on which they were about to land, growing larger
now that they were in the final spiral.

But he did not intend to remain long on the world of Molleccogg.

He found the Chief Steward and applied for a leave of absence from Lord
Moaris' service, without pay.

"But you've just joined us," the Steward protested. "And now you want
to leave?"

"Only for a while," Herndon said. "I'll be back on Borlaam before any
of you are. I have business to attend to on another world in the Rim
area, and then I promise to return to Borlaam at my own expense to
rejoin the retinue of the Lord Moaris."

The Chief Steward grumbled and complained, but he could not find
anything particularly objectionable in Herndon's intentions, and so
finally he reluctantly granted the spacerogue permission to leave Lord
Moaris' service temporarily. Herndon packed his court costume and clad
himself in his old spacerogue garb; when the great liner ultimately put
down in Danzibool Harbor on Molleccogg, Herndon was packed and ready,
and he slipped off ship and into the thronged confusion of the terminal.

Bollar Benjin and Heitman Oversk had instructed him most carefully on
what he was to do now. He pushed his way past a file of vile-smelling
lily-faced green Nnobonn and searched for a ticket-seller's window. He
found one, eventually, and produced the pre-paid travel vouchers Benjin
had given him.

"I want a one-way passage to Vyapore," he said to the flat-featured,
triple-eyed Guzmanno clerk who stared out from back of the wicker
screen.

"You need a visa to get to Vyapore," the clerk said. "These visas are
issued at infrequent intervals to certified personages. I don't see how
you--"

"I have a visa," Herndon snapped, and produced it. The clerk
blinked--one-two-three, in sequence--and his pale rose face flushed
deep cerise.

"So you do," he remarked at length. "It seems to be in order. Passage
will cost you eleven hundred sixty-five stellors of the realm."

"I'll take a third-class ship," Herndon said. "I have a paid voucher
for such a voyage."

He handed it across. The clerk studied it for a long moment, then said:
"You have planned this very well. I accept the voucher. Here."

Herndon found himself holding one paid passage to Vyapore aboard the
freight-ship _Zalasar_.

The _Zalasar_ turned out to be very little like the _Lord Nathiir_.
It was an old-fashioned unitube ship that rattled when it blasted
off, shivered when it translated to nullspace, and quivered all
the week-long journey from Molleccogg to Vyapore. It was indeed a
third-class ship. Its cargo was hardware: seventy-five thousand
dry-strainers, eighty thousand pressors, sixty thousand multiple
fuse-screens, guarded by a supercargo team of eight taciturn Ludvuri.
Herndon was the only human aboard. Humans did not often get visas to
Vyapore.

They reached Vyapore seven days and a half after setting out from
Molleccogg. Ground temperature as they disembarked was well over a
hundred. Humidity was overpowering. Herndon knew about Vyapore: it
held perhaps five hundred humans, one spaceport, infinite varieties of
deadly local life, and several thousand non-humans of all descriptions,
some of them hiding, some of them doing business, some of them
searching for starstones.

Herndon had been well briefed. He knew who his contact was, and he set
about meeting him.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was only one settled city on Vyapore, and because it was the only
one it was nameless. Herndon found a room in a cheap boarding-house run
by a swine-eared Dombruun, and washed the sweat from his face with the
unpleasantly acrid water of the tap.

Then he went downstairs into the bright noonday heat. The stench of
rotting vegetation drifted in from the surrounding jungle on a faint
breeze. Herndon said at the desk, "I'm looking for a Vonnimooro named
Mardlin. Is he around?"

"Over there," said the proprietor, pointing.

Mardlin the Vonnimooro was a small, weaselly-looking creature with the
protuberant snout, untrustworthy yellow eyes, and pebbly brown-purple
fur of his people. He looked up when Herndon approached. When he spoke,
it was in lingua spacia with a whistling, almost obscene inflection.

"You looking for me?"

"It depends," Herndon said. "Are you Mardlin?"

The jackal-creature nodded. Herndon lowered himself to a nearby seat
and said in a quiet voice, "Bollar Benjin sent me to meet you. Here are
my credentials."

He tossed a milky-white clouded cube on the table between them. Mardlin
snatched it up hastily in his leathery claws and nudged the activator.
An image of Bollar Benjin appeared in the cloudy depths, and a soft
voice said, "Benjin speaking. The bearer of this cube is known to me,
and I trust him fully in all matters. You are to do the same. He will
accompany you to Borlaam with the consignment of goods."

The voice died away and the image of Benjin vanished. The jackal
scowled. He muttered, "If Benjin sent a man to convey his goods, why
must I go?"

Herndon shrugged. "He wants both of us to make the trip, it seems. What
do you care? You're getting paid, aren't you?"

"And so are you," snapped Mardlin. "It isn't like Benjin to pay two
men to do the same job. And I don't like you, Rogue."

"Mutual," Herndon responded heartily. He stood up. "My orders say I'm
to take the freighter _Dawnlight_ back to Borlaam tomorrow evening.
I'll meet you here one hour before to examine the merchandise."

       *       *       *       *       *

He made one other stop that day. It was a visit with Brennt, a
jewelmonger of Vyapore who served as the funnel between the native
starstone-miners and Benjin's courier, Mardlin.

Herndon gave his identifying cube to Brennt and said, once he had
satisfactorily proven himself, "I'd like to check your books on the
last consignment."

Brennt glanced up sharply. "We keep no books on starstones, idiot. What
do you want to know?"

Herndon frowned. "We suspect our courier of diverting some of our
stones to his own pocket. We have no way of checking up on him, since
we can't ask for vouchers of any kind in starstone traffic."

The Vyaporan shrugged. "All couriers steal."

"Starstones cost us eight thousand stellors apiece," Herndon said. "We
can't afford to lose any of them, at that price. Tell me how many are
being sent in the current shipment."

"I don't remember," Brennt said.

Scowling, Herndon said, "You and Mardlin are probably in league. We
have to take his word for what he brings us--but always, three or four
of the stones are defective. We believe he buys, say, forty stones from
you, pays the three hundred twenty thousand stellors over to you from
the account we provide, and then takes three or four from the batch
and replaces them with identical but defective stones worth a hundred
stellors or so apiece. The profit to him is better than twenty thousand
stellors a voyage.

"Or else," Herndon went on, "You deliberately sell him defective stones
at eight thousand stellors. But Mardlin's no fool, and neither are we."

"What do you want to know?" the Vyaporan asked.

"How many functional starstones are included in the current
consignment?"

Sweat poured down Brennt's face. "Thirty-nine," he said after a long
pause.

"And did you also supply Mardlin with some blanks to substitute for any
of these thirty-nine?"

"N-no," Brennt said.

"Very good," said Herndon. He smiled. "I'm sorry to have seemed so
overbearing, but we had to find out this information. Will you accept
my apologies and shake?"

He held out his hand. Brennt eyed it uncertainly, then took it. With
a quick inward twitch Herndon jabbed a needle into the base of the
other's thumb. The quick-acting truth-drug took only seconds to operate.

"Now," Herndon said, "the preliminaries are over. You understand the
details of our earlier conversation. Tell me, now: how many starstones
is Mardlin paying you for?"

Brennt's fleshless lips curled angrily, but he was defenseless against
the drug. "Thirty-nine," he said.

"At what total cost?"

"Three hundred twelve thousand stellors."

Herndon nodded. "How many of those thirty-nine are actually functional
starstones?"

"Thirty-five," Brennt said reluctantly.

"The other four are duds?"

"Yes."

"A sweet little racket. Did you supply Mardlin with the duds?"

"Yes. At two hundred stellors each."

"And what happens to the genuine stones that we pay for but that never
arrive on Borlaam?"

Brennt's eyes rolled despairingly. "Mardlin--Mardlin sells them to
someone else and pockets the money. I get five hundred stellors per
stone for keeping quiet."

"You've kept very quiet today," Herndon said. "Thanks very much for
the information, Brennt. I really should kill you--but you're much
too valuable to us for that. We'll let you live, but we're changing
the terms of our agreement. From now on we pay you only for actual
functioning starstones, not for an entire consignment. Do you like that
setup?"

"No," Brennt said.

"At least you speak truthfully now. But you're stuck with it. Mardlin
is no longer courier, by the way. We can't afford a man of his tastes
in our organization. I don't advise you try to make any deals with his
successor, whoever he is."

He turned and walked out of the shop.

       *       *       *       *       *

Herndon knew that Brennt would probably notify Mardlin that the game
was up immediately, so the Vonnimooro could attempt to get away.
Herndon was not particularly worried about Mardlin escaping, since he
had a weapon that would work on the jackal-creature at any distance
whatever.

But he had sworn an oath to safeguard the combine's interests,
and Herndon was a man of his oath. Mardlin was in possession of
thirty-nine starstones for which the combine had paid. He did not want
the Vonnimooro to take those with him.

He legged it across town hurriedly to the house where the courier lived
while at the Vyapore end of his route. It took him fifteen minutes from
Brennt's to Mardlin's--more than enough time for a warning.

Mardlin's room was on the second story. Herndon drew his weapon from
his pocket and knocked.

"Mardlin?"

There was no answer. Herndon said, "I know you're in there, jackal. The
game's all over. You might as well open the door and let me in."

A needle came whistling through the door, embedded itself against the
opposite wall after missing Herndon's head by inches. Herndon stepped
out of range and glanced down at the object in his hand.

It was the master-control for the neuronic network installed in
Mardlin's body. It was quite carefully gradated; shifting the main
switch to _six_ would leave the Vonnimooro in no condition to fire a
gun. Thoughtfully Herndon nudged the indicator up through the degrees
of pain to _six_ and left it there.

He heard a thud within.

Putting his shoulder to the door, he cracked it open with one quick
heave. He stepped inside. Mardlin lay sprawled in the middle of the
floor, writhing in pain. Near him, but beyond his reach, lay the
needler he had dropped.

A suitcase sat open and half-filled on the bed. He had evidently
intended an immediate getaway.

"_Shut ... that ... thing ... off_ ..." Mardlin muttered through
pain-twisted lips.

"First some information," Herndon said cheerfully. "I just had a talk
with Brennt. He says you've been doing some highly improper things with
our starstones. Is this true?"

Mardlin quivered on the floor but said nothing. Herndon raised the
control a quarter of a notch, intensifying the pain but not yet
bringing it to the killing range.

"Is this true?" he repeated.

"Yes--yes! Damn you, shut it off."

"At the time you had the network installed in your body, it was with
the understanding that you'd be loyal to the combine and so it would
never need to be used. But you took advantage of circumstances and
cheated us. Where's the current consignment of stones?"

"... suitcase lining," Mardlin muttered.

"Good," Herndon said. He scooped up the needler, pocketed it, and shut
off the master-control switch. The pain subsided in the Vonnimooro's
body, and he lay slumped, exhausted, too battered to rise.

Efficiently Herndon ripped away the suitcase lining and found the
packet of starstones. He opened it. They were wrapped in shielding
tissue that protected any accidental viewer. He counted through them;
there were thirty-nine, as Brennt had said.

"Are any of these defective?" he asked.

Mardlin looked up from the floor with eyes yellow with pain and hatred.
"Look through them and see."

Instead of answering, Herndon shifted the control switch past _six_
again. Mardlin doubled up, clutching his head with clawlike hands.
"Yes! Yes! Six defectives!"

"Which means you sold six good ones for forty-eight thousand stellors,
less the three thousand you kicked back to Brennt to keep quiet. So
there should be forty-five thousand stellors here that you owe us.
Where are they?"

"Dresser drawer ... top...."

Herndon found the money, neatly stacked. A second time he shut off the
control device, and Mardlin relaxed.

"Okay," Herndon said. "I have the cash and I have the stones. But
there must be thousands of stellors that you've previously stolen from
us."

"You can have that too! Only don't turn that thing on again, please!"

Shrugging, Herndon said, "There isn't time for me to hunt down the
other money you stole from us. But we can ensure against your doing it
again."

He fulfilled the final part of Benjin's instructions by turning the
control switch to _ten_, the limit of sentient endurance. Every
molecule of Mardlin's wiry body felt unbearable pain; he screamed and
danced on the floor, but only for a moment. Nerve cells unable to
handle the overload of pain stimuli short-circuited. In seconds, his
brain was paralyzed. In less than a minute he was dead, though his
tortured limbs still quivered with convulsive post-mortuary jerks.

Herndon shut the device off. He had done his job. He felt neither
revulsion nor glee. All this was merely the preamble to what he
regarded as his ultimate destiny.

He gathered up jewels and money and walked out.




                               CHAPTER V


A month later, he arrived on Borlaam via the freighter _Dawnlight_, as
scheduled, and passed through customs without difficulty despite the
fact that he was concealing more than three hundred thousand stellors'
worth of proscribed starstones on his person.

His first stop was the Avenue of Bronze, where he sought out Benjin and
the Heitman Oversk.

He explained crisply and briefly his activities since leaving Borlaam,
neglecting to mention the matter of the shipboard romance with the Lady
Moaris. While he spoke, both Benjin and Oversk stared eagerly at him,
and when he told of intimidating Brennt and killing the treacherous
Mardlin they beamed.

Herndon drew the packet of starstones from his cloak and laid them on
the wooden table. "There," he said. "The starstones. There were some
defectives, as you know, and I've brought back cash for them." He added
forty-five thousand stellors to the pile.

Benjin quickly caught up the money and the stones and said, "You've
done well, Herndon. Better than we expected. It was a lucky day when
you killed that proteus."

"Will you have more work for me?"

Oversk said, "Of course. You'll take Mardlin's place as the courier.
Didn't you realize that?"

Herndon had realized it, but it did not please him. He wanted to remain
on Borlaam, now that he had made himself known to the Lady Moaris. He
wanted to begin his climb toward Krellig. And if he were to shuttle
between Vyapore and Borlaam, the all-important advantage he had
attained would be lost.

But the Lady Moaris would not be back on Borlaam for nearly two months.
He could make one more round-trip for the combine without seriously
endangering his position. After that, he would have to find some means
of leaving their service. Of course, if they preferred to keep him on
they could compel him, but--

"When do I make the next trip?" he asked.

Benjin shrugged lazily. "Tomorrow, next week, next month--who knows? We
have plenty of stones on hand. There is no hurry for the next trip. You
can take a vacation now, while we sell these."

"No," Herndon said. "I want to leave immediately."

Oversk frowned at him. "Is there some reason for the urgency?"

"I don't want to stay on Borlaam just now," Herndon said. "There's no
need for me to explain further. It pleases me to make another trip to
Vyapore."

"He's eager," Benjin said. "It's a good sign."

"Mardlin was eager at first too," Oversk remarked balefully.

Herndon was out of his seat and at the nobleman's throat in an instant.
His needler grazed the skin of Oversk's adam's-apple.

"If you intend by that comparison to imply--"

Benjin tugged at Herndon's arm, "Sit down, rogue, and relax. The
Heitman is tired tonight, and the words slipped out. We trust you. Put
the needler away."

Reluctantly Herndon lowered the weapon. Oversk, white-faced despite his
tan, fingered his throat where Herndon's weapon had touched it, but
said nothing. Herndon regretted his hasty action, and decided not to
demand an apology. Oversk still could be useful to him.

"A spacerogue's word is his bond," Herndon said. "I don't intend to
cheat you. When can I leave?"

"Tomorrow, if you wish," Benjin said. "We'll cable Brennt to have
another shipment ready for you."

       *       *       *       *       *

This time he travelled to Vyapore aboard a transport freighter, since
there were no free tours with noblemen to be had at this season. He
reached the jungle world a little less than a month later. Brennt
had thirty-two jewels waiting for him. Thirty-two glittering little
starstones, each in its protective sheath, each longing to rob some
man's mind away with its beckoning dreams.

Herndon gathered them up and arranged a transfer of funds to the amount
of two hundred fifty-six thousand stellors. Brennt eyed him bitterly
throughout the whole transaction, but it was obvious that the Vyaporan
was in fear for his life, and would not dare attempt duplicity. No word
was said of Mardlin or his fate.

Bearing his precious burden, Herndon returned to Borlaam aboard
a second-class liner out of Diirhav, a neighboring world of some
considerable population. It was expensive, but he could not wait for
the next freight ship. By the time he returned to Borlaam the Lady
Moaris would have been back several weeks. He had promised the Steward
he would rejoin Moaris' service, and it was a promise he intended to
keep.

It had become winter when he reached Borlaam again with his jewels. The
daily sleet-rains sliced across the cities and the plains, showering
them with billions of icy knife-like particles. People huddled
together, waiting for the wintry cold to end.

Herndon made his way through streets clogged with snow that glistened
blue-white in the light of the glinting winter moon, and delivered his
gems to Oversk in the Avenue of Bronze. Benjin, he learned, would be
back shortly; he was engaged in an important transaction.

Herndon warmed himself by the heat-wall and accepted cup after cup
of Oversk's costly Thrucian blue wine to ease his inner chill. The
commoner Dorgel entered after a while, followed by Marya and Razumod,
and together they examined the new shipment of starstones Herndon had
brought back, storing them with the rest of their stock.

At length Benjin entered. The little man was almost numb with cold,
but his voice was warm as he said, "The deal is settled, Oversk!
Oh--Herndon--you're back, I see. Was it a good trip?"

"Excellent," Herndon said.

Oversk remarked, "You saw the Secretary of State, I suppose. Not
Krellig himself."

"Naturally. Would Krellig let someone like me into his presence?"

Herndon's ears rose at the mention of his enemy's name. He said,
"What's this about the Seigneur?"

"A little deal," Benjin chortled. "I've been doing some very delicate
negotiating while you were away. And I signed the contract today."

"_What_ contract?" Herndon demanded.

"We have a royal patron now, it seems. The Seigneur Krellig has gone
into the starstone business himself. Not in competition with us,
though. He's bought a controlling interest in us."

Herndon felt as if his vital organs had been transmuted to lead. In a
congealed voice he said, "And what are the terms of this agreement?"

"Simple. Krellig realized the starstone trade, though illegal, was
unstoppable. Rather than alter the legislation and legalize the trade,
which would be morally undesirable and which would also tend to lower
the price of the gems, he asked the Lord Moaris to place him in contact
with some group of smugglers who would work for the Crown. Moaris,
naturally, suggested his brother. Oversk preferred to let me handle the
negotiations, and for the past month I've been meeting secretly with
Krellig's Secretary of State to work out a deal."

"The terms of which are?"

"Krellig guarantees us immunity from prosecution, and at the same
time promises to crack down heavily on our competition. He pledges us
a starstone monopoly, in other words, and so we'll be able to lower
our price to Brennt and jack up the selling price to whatever the
traffic will bear. In return for this we turn over eight per cent of
our gross profits to the Seigneur, and agree to supply him with six
starstones annually, at cost, for the Seigneur to use as gifts to his
enemies. Naturally we also transfer our fealties from the combine to
the Seigneur himself. He holds our controls to assure loyal service."

Herndon sat as if stunned. His hands felt chilled; coldness rippled
through his body. Loyalty to Krellig? His enemy, the person he had
sworn to destroy?

The conflict seared through his mind and body. How could he fulfill his
earlier vow, now that this diametrically opposed one was in effect?
Transfer of fealty was a common thing. By the terms of Benjin's
agreement, Herndon now was a sworn vassal of the Seigneur.

If he killed Krellig, that would violate his bond. If he served the
Seigneur in all faith, he would break trust with himself and leave home
and parents unavenged. It was an impossible dilemma. He quivered with
the strain of resolving it.

"The spacerogue doesn't look happy about the deal," Oversk commented.
"Or are you sick, Herndon?"

"I'm all right," Herndon said stonily. "It's the cold outside, that's
all. Chills a man."

_Fealty to Krellig!_ Behind his back they had sold themselves and him
to the man he hated most. Herndon's ethical code was based entirely on
the concept of loyalty and unswerving obedience, of the sacred nature
of an oath. But now he found himself bound to two mutually exclusive
oaths. He was caught between them, racked and drawn apart; the only
escape from the torment was death.

He stood up. "Excuse me," he said. "I have an appointment elsewhere
in the city. You can reach me at my usual address if you need me for
anything."

       *       *       *       *       *

It took him the better part of a day to get to see the Chief Steward of
Moaris Keep and explain to him that he had been unavoidably detained
in the far worlds, and that he fully intended to re-enter the Moaris'
service and perform his duties loyally and faithfully. After quite some
wrangling he was reinstated as one of the Second Stewards, and given
functions to carry out in the daily life of the sprawling residence
that was Moaris Keep.

Several days passed before he caught as much as a glimpse of the Lady
Moaris. That did not surprise him; the Keep covered fifteen acres
of Borlaam City, and Lord and Lady occupied private quarters on the
uppermost level, the rest of the huge place being devoted to libraries,
ballrooms, art galleries, and other housings, for the Moaris treasures,
all of these rooms requiring a daily cleaning by the household staff.

He saw her finally as he was passing through the fifth-level hallway in
search of the ramp that would take him to his next task, cataloguing
the paintings of the sixth-level gallery. He heard a rustle of
crinoline first, and then she proceeded down the hall, flanked on
each side by copper-colored Toppidan giants and in front and back by
glistening-gowned ladies-in-waiting.

The Lady Moaris herself wore sheer garments that limned the shapely
lines of her body. Her face was sad; it seemed to Herndon, as he saw
her from afar, that she was under some considerable strain.

He stepped to one side to let the procession go past; but she saw him,
and glanced quickly to the side at which he stood. Her eyes widened
in surprise as she recognized him. He did not dare a smile. He waited
until she had moved on, but inwardly he gloated. It was not difficult
to read the expression in her eyes.

Later that day, a blind Agozlid servant came up to him and silently
handed him a sealed note. Herndon pocketed it, waiting until he was
alone in a corridor that was safe from the Lord Moaris' spy-rays. He
knew it was safe; the spy-ray in that corridor had been defective, and
he himself had removed it that morning, meaning to replace it later in
the day.

He broke the seal. The note said simply: _I have waited a month for
you. Come to me tonight; M. is to spend the night at the Seigneur's
palace. Karla will admit you._

The photonically-sensitized ink faded from sight in a moment; the paper
was blank. He thrust it in a disposal hatch, smiling.

He quietly made his way toward the eleventh-level chamber of the Lady
Moaris when the Keep had darkened for the night. Her lady-in-waiting
Karla was on duty, the bronze-haired one who had served as go-between
aboard the _Lord Nathiir_. Now she wore night robes of translucent
silk; a test of his fidelity, no doubt. Herndon carefully kept his eyes
from her body and said, "I am expected."

"Yes. Come with me."

It seemed to him that the look in her eyes was a strange one: desire,
jealousy, hatred perhaps? But she turned and led him within, down
corridors lit only with a faint nightglow. She nudged an opener; a door
before him flickered and was momentarily nullified. He stepped through
and it returned to the solid state behind him.

The Lady Moaris was waiting.

She wore only the filmiest of gowns, and the longing was evident in her
eyes. Herndon said, "Is this safe?"

"It is. Moaris is away at Krellig's." Her lip curled in a bitter scowl.
"He spends half his nights there, toying with the Seigneur's cast-off
women. The room is sealed against spy-rays. There's no way he can find
out you've been here."

"And the girl--Karla? You trust her?"

"As much as I can trust anyone." Her arms sought his shoulders. "My
rogue," she murmured. "Why did you leave us at Molleccogg?"

"Business of my own, milady."

"I missed you. Molleccogg was a bore without you."

Herndon smiled gravely. "Believe me, I didn't leave you because I chose
to. But I had sworn to carry out duty elsewhere."

She pulled him urgently to her. Herndon felt pity for this lonely
noblewoman, first in rank among the ladies of the court, condemned to
seek lovers among the stewards and grooms.

"Anything I have is yours," she promised him. "Ask for anything!
Anything!"

"There is one prize you might secure for me," Herndon said grimly.

"Name it. The cost doesn't matter."

"There is no cost," Herndon said. "I simply seek an invitation to the
court of the Seigneur. You can secure this through your husband. Will
you do it for me?"

"Of course," she whispered. She clung to him hungrily. "I'll speak to
Moaris--tomorrow."




                              CHAPTER VI


At the end of the week, Herndon visited the Avenue of Bronze and
learned from Bollar Benjin that sales of the starstones proceeded
well, that the arrangement under royal patronage was a happy one, and
that they would soon be relieved of most of their stock. It would,
therefore, be necessary for him to make another trip to Vyapore during
the next several weeks. He agreed, but requested an advance of two
months' salary.

"I don't see why not," Benjin agreed. "You're a valuable man, and we
have the money to spare."

He handed over a draft for ten thousand stellors. Herndon thanked him
gravely, promised to contact him when it was time for him to make the
journey to Vyapore and left.

That night he departed for Meld XVII, where he sought out the surgeon
who had altered his features after his flight from sacked Zonnigog. He
requested certain internal modifications. The surgeon was reluctant,
saying the operation was a risky one, very difficult, and entailed a
fifty per cent chance of total failure, but Herndon was stubborn.

It cost him twenty-five thousand stellors, nearly all the money he had,
but he considered the investment a worthy one. He returned to Borlaam
the next day. A week had elapsed since his departure.

He presented himself at Moaris Keep, resumed his duties, and once
again spent the night with the Lady Moaris. She told him that she had
wangled a promise from her husband, and that he was soon to be invited
to court. Moaris had not questioned her motives, and she said the
invitation was a certainty.

Some days later a message was delivered to him, addressed to Barr
Herndon of Zonnigog. It was in the hand of the private secretary
to Moaris, and it said that the Lord Moaris had chosen to exert his
patronage in favor of Barr Herndon, and that Herndon would be expected
to pay his respects to the Seigneur Krellig.

The invitation from the Seigneur came later in the day, borne by a
resplendent Toppidan footman, commanding him to present himself at
the court reception the following evening, on pain of displeasing the
Seigneur. Herndon exulted. He had attained the pinnacle of Borlaamese
success, now; he was to be allowed into the presence of the sovereign.
This was the culmination of all his planning.

He dressed in the court robes that he had purchased weeks before for
just such an event--robes that had cost him more than a thousand
stellors, sumptuous with inlaid precious gems and rare metals. He
visited a tonsorial parlor and had an artificial beard affixed, in the
fashion of many courtiers who disliked growing beards but who desired
to wear them at ceremonial state functions. He was bathed and combed,
perfumed, and otherwise prepared for his debut at court. He also
made certain that the surgical modifications performed on him by the
Meldian doctor would be effective when the time came.

The shadows of evening dropped. The moons of Borlaam rose, dancing
brightly across the sky. The evening fireworks display cast brilliant
light through the winter sky, signifying that this was the birthmonth
of Borlaam's Seigneur.

Herndon sent for the carriage he had hired. It arrived, a magnificent
four-tube model bright with gilt paint, and he left his shabby
dwelling-place. The carriage soared into the night sky; twelve minutes
later, it descended in the courtyard of the Grand Palace of Borlaam,
that monstrous heap of masonry that glowered down at the capital city
from the impregnable vantage-point of the Hill of Fire.

Floodlights illuminated the Grand Palace. Another man might have been
stirred by the imposing sight; Herndon merely felt an upwelling of
anger. Once his family had lived in a palace too: not of this size, to
be sure, for the people of Zonnigog were modest and unpretentious in
their desires. But it had been a palace all the same, until the armies
of Krellig razed it.

He dismounted from his carriage and presented his invitation to the
haughty Seigneurial guards on duty. They admitted him, after checking
to see that he carried no concealed weapons, and he was conducted to an
antechamber in which he found the Lord Moaris.

"So you're Herndon," Moaris said speculatively. He squinted and tugged
at his beard.

Herndon compelled himself to kneel. "I thank you for the honor your
Grace bestows upon me this night."

"You needn't thank me," Moaris grunted. "My wife asked for your name to
be put on my invitation list. But I suppose you know all that. You look
familiar, Herndon. Where have I seen you before?"

Presumably Moaris knew that Herndon had been employed in his own
service. But he merely said, "I once had the honor of bidding against
you for a captive proteus in the slave market, milord."

A flicker of recognition crossed Moaris' seamed face, and he smiled
coldly. "I seem to remember," he said.

A gong sounded.

"We mustn't keep the Seigneur waiting," said Moaris. "Come."

Together, they went forward to the Grand Chamber of the Seigneur of
Borlaam.

       *       *       *       *       *

Moaris entered first, as befitted his rank, and took his place to the
left of the monarch, who sat on a raised throne decked with violet and
gold. Herndon knew protocol; he knelt immediately.

"Rise," the Seigneur commanded. His voice was a dry whisper,
feathery-sounding, barely audible and yet commanding all the same.
Herndon rose and stared levelly at Krellig.

The monarch was a tiny man, dried and fleshless; he seemed almost to
be a humpback. Two beady, terrifying eyes glittered from a wrinkled,
world-weary face. Krellig's lips were thin and bloodless, his nose a
savage slash, his chin wedge-shaped.

Herndon let his eyes rove. The hall was huge, as he had expected; vast
pillars supported the ceiling, and rows of courtiers flanked the walls.
There were women, dozens of them: the Seigneur's mistresses, no doubt.

In the middle of the hall hung suspended something that looked to be a
giant cage, completely cloaked in thick draperies of red velvet. Some
pet of the Seigneur's probably lurked within: a vicious pet, Herndon
theorized, possibly a Villidoni gyrfalcon with honed talons.

"Welcome to the court," the Seigneur murmured. "You are the guest of my
friend Moaris, eh?"

"I am, Sire," Herndon said. In the quietness of the hall his voice
echoed cracklingly.

"Moaris is to provide us all with some amusement this evening,"
remarked the monarch. The little man chuckled in anticipatory glee. "We
are very grateful to your sponsor, the Lord Moaris, for the pleasure he
is to bring us this night."

Herndon frowned. He wondered obscurely whether he was to be the source
of amusement. He stood his ground unafraid; before the evening had
ended, he himself would be amused at the expense of the others.

"Raise the curtain," Krellig commanded.

Instantly two Toppidan slaves emerged from the corners of the
throneroom and jerked simultaneously on heavy cords that controlled
the curtain over the cage. Slowly the thick folds of velvet lifted,
revealing, as Herndon had suspected, a cage.

There was a girl in the cage.

She hung suspended by her wrists from a bar mounted at the roof of
the cage. She was naked; the bar revolved, turning her like an animal
trussed to a spit. Herndon froze, not daring to move, staring in sudden
astonishment at the slim bare body dangling there.

It was a body he knew well.

The girl in the cage was the Lady Moaris.

Seigneur Krellig smiled benignly; he murmured in a gentle voice,
"Moaris, the show is yours and the audience awaits. Don't keep us
waiting."

       *       *       *       *       *

Moaris slowly moved toward the center of the ballroom floor. The marble
under his feet was brightly polished and reflected him; his boots
thundered as he walked.

He turned, facing Krellig, and said in a calm, controlled tone, "Ladies
and gentlemen of the Seigneur's court, I beg leave to transact a little
of my domestic business before your eyes. The lady in the cage, as most
of you, I believe, are aware, is my wife."

A ripple of hastily-hushed comment was emitted by the men and women of
the court. Moaris gestured and a spotlight flashed upward, illuminating
the woman in the cage.

Herndon saw that her wrists were cruelly pinioned and that the blue
veins stood out in sharp relief against her pale arms. She swung in a
small circle as the bar above her turned in its endless rotation. Beads
of sweat trickled down her back and down her stomach, and the harsh
sobbing intake of her breath was audible in the silence.

Moaris said casually, "My wife has been unfaithful to me. A trusted
servant informed me of this not long ago: she has cheated me several
times with no less a personage than an obscure member of our household,
a groom or a lackey or some other person. When I questioned her,
she did not deny this accusation. The Seigneur"--Moaris bowed in a
throneward direction--"has granted me permission to chastise her here,
to provide me with greater satisfaction and you with a moment of
amusement."

Herndon did not move. He watched as Moaris drew from his sash a
glittering little heat-gun. Calmly the nobleman adjusted the aperture
to minimum. He gestured; a side of the cage slid upward, giving him
free target.

He lifted the heat-gun.

_Flick!_

A bright tongue of flame licked out--and the girl in the cage uttered a
little moan as a pencil-thin line was seared across her flanks.

_Flick!_

Again the beam played across her body. _Flick!_ Again. Lines of pain
were traced across her breasts, her throat, her knees, her back. She
revolved helplessly as Moaris amused himself, carving line after line
along her body with the heat-ray. It was only with an effort that
Herndon held still. The members of the court chuckled as the Lady
Moaris writhed and danced in an effort to escape the inexorable lash of
the beam.

Moaris was an expert. He sketched patterns on her body, always taking
care that the heat never penetrated below the upper surface of the
flesh. It was a form of torture that might endure for hours, until the
blood bubbled in her veins and she died.

Herndon realized the Seigneur was peering at him. "Do you find this
courtly amusement to your taste, Herndon?" Krellig asked.

"Not quite, Sire." A hum of surprise rose that such a newcomer to the
court should dare to contradict the Seigneur. "I would prefer a quicker
death for the lady."

"And rob us of our sport?" Krellig asked.

"I would indeed do that," said Herndon. Suddenly he thrust open his
jewelled cloak; the Seigneur cowered back as if he expected a weapon to
come forth, but Herndon merely touched a plate in his chest, activating
the device that the Meldian had implanted in his body. The neuronic
mesh functioned in reverse; gathering a charge of deadly force, it sent
the bolt surging along Herndon's hand. A bright arc of fire leaped from
Herndon's pointing finger and surrounded the girl in the cage.

"Barr!" she screamed, breaking her silence at last, and died.

       *       *       *       *       *

Again Herndon discharged the neuronic force, and Moaris, his hands
singed, dropped his heat-gun.

"Allow me to introduce myself," Herndon said, as Krellig stared
white-faced at him and the nobles of the court huddled together in
fright. "I am Barr Herndon, son of the First Earl of Zonnigog. Somewhat
over a year ago a courtier's jest roused you to lay waste to your fief
of Zonnigog and put my family to the sword. I have not forgotten that
day."

"Seize him!" Krellig shrieked.

"Anyone who touches me will be blasted with the fire," Herndon said.
"Any weapon directed at me will recoil upon its owner. Hold your peace
and let me finish.

"I am also Barr Herndon, Second Steward to Lord Moaris, and the lover
of the woman who died before you. It must comfort you, Moaris, to
know that the man who cuckolded you was no mere groom, but a noble of
Zonnigog.

"I am also," Herndon went on, in the dead silence, "Barr Herndon the
spacerogue, driven to take up a mercenary's trade by the destruction
of my household. In that capacity I became a smuggler of starstones,
and"--he bowed--"through an ironic twist, found myself owing a debt of
fealty to none other than you, Seigneur.

"I hereby revoke that oath of fealty, Krellig--and for the crime of
breaking an oath to my monarch, I sentence myself to death. But also,
Krellig, I order a sentence of death upon your head for the wanton
attack upon my homeland. And you, Moaris--for your cruel and barbaric
treatment of this woman whom you never loved, you must die too.

"And all of you--you onlookers and sycophants, you courtiers and
parasites, you too must die. And you, the court clowns, the dancing
bears and captive life-forms of far worlds, I will kill you too, as
once I killed a slave proteus--not out of hatred, but simply to spare
you from further torment."

He paused. The hall was terribly silent; then someone to the right of
the throne shouted, "He's crazy! Let's get out of here!"

He dashed for the great doors, which had been closed. Herndon let him
get within ten feet of safety, then blasted him down with a discharge
of life-force. The mechanism within his body recharged itself, drawing
its power from the hatred within him and discharging through his
fingertips.

Herndon smiled at Lord Moaris, pale now. He said, "I'll be more
generous to you than you to your Lady. A quick death for you."

He hurled a bolt of force at the nobleman. Moaris recoiled, but there
was no hiding possible; he stood bathed in light for a moment, and then
the charred husk dropped to the ground.

A second bolt raked the crowd of courtiers. A third Herndon aimed at
the throne; the costly hangings of the throne-area caught first, and
Krellig half-rose before the bolt of force caught him and hurled him
back dead.

Herndon stood alone in the middle of the floor. His quest was at its
end; he had achieved his vengeance. All but the last: on himself, for
having broken the oath he had involuntarily sworn to the Seigneur.

Life held no further meaning for him. It was odious to consider
returning to a spacerogue's career, and only death offered absolution
from his oaths.

He directed a blazing beam of force at one of the great pillars that
supported the throneroom's ceiling. It blackened, then buckled. He
blasted apart another of the pillars, and the third.

The roof groaned; the tons of masonry were suddenly without support,
after hundreds of years. Herndon waited, and smiled in triumph as the
ceiling hurtled down at him.