The Astral Mirror (27 page)

He was encased in a one-man protective outfit that was half armored suit, half vehicle. An internal liquid suspension system kept him tolerably comfortable at four times normal gravity, but still the suit was cumbersome, and a man could move only very slowly in it, even with the aid of servomotors.

The weapon he had chosen was simplicity itself: a hand-held capsule of oxygen. But in a hydrogen/ammonia atmosphere, oxygen could be a deadly explosive. Massan carried several of these “bombs” hooked to his suit. So did Odal
. But the trick,
Massan thought to himself,
is to throw them accurately under these conditions; the proper range, the proper trajectory. Not an easy thing to learn, without years of experience.

The terms of the duel were simple: Massan and Odal were situated on a rough-topped iceberg that was being swirled along one of the methane/ammonia ocean’s vicious currents. The ice was rapidly crumbling. The duel was to end when the iceberg was completely broken up.

Massan edged along the ragged terrain. His suit’s grippers and rollers automatically adjusted to the roughness of the topography. He concentrated his attention on the infrared detector that hung before his view plate.

A chunk of ice the size of a man’s head sailed through the murky atmosphere in the steep glide peculiar to heavy gravity and banged into the shoulder of Massan’s suit. The force was enough to rock him slightly off balance before the servos readjusted. Massan withdrew his arm from the sleeve and felt inside the shoulder seam. Dented, but not penetrated. A leak would have been disastrous, fatal. Then he remembered:
Of course, I cannot be killed except by the direct action of my antagonist. That is one of the rules of the game.

Still, he carefully fingered the shoulder seam to make certain it was not leaking. The dueling machine and its rules seemed so very remote and unsubstantial, compared to this freezing, howling inferno.

He diligently set about combing the iceberg, determined to find Odal and kill him before their floating island disintegrated. He thoroughly explored every projection, every crevice, every slope, working his way slowly from one end of the berg toward the other. Back and forth, cross and recross, with the infrared sensors scanning 360 degrees around him.

It was time-consuming. Even with the suit’s servomotors and propulsion units, motion across the ice, against the buffeting wind, was a cumbersome business. But Massan continued to work his way across the iceberg, fighting down a gnawing, growing fear that Odal was not there at all.

And then he caught just the barest flicker of a shadow on his detector. Something, or someone, had darted behind a jutting rise of ice, off by the edge of the berg.

Slowly and carefully, Massan made his way across to the base of the rise. He picked one of the oxygen bombs from his belt and held it in his right-hand claw. Edging around the base of the ice cliff, he stood on a narrow ledge between the cliff and the churning sea. He saw no one. He extended the detector’s range to maximum and worked the scanners up the sheer face of the cliff toward the top.

There he was! The shadowy outline of a man etched itself on his detector screen. And at the same time, Massan heard a muffled roar, then a rumbling, crashing noise, growing quickly louder and more menacing. He looked down the face of the ice cliff and saw a small avalanche of ice tumbling, sliding, growling toward him.
That devil set off a bomb at the top of the cliff!

Massan tried to back out of the way, but it was too late. The first chunk of ice bounced harmlessly off his helmet, but the others knocked him off balance so repeatedly that the servos had no chance to recover. He staggered blindly for a few moments, as more and more ice cascaded down on him, and then toppled off the ledge into the boiling sea.

Relax!
he ordered himself
. Do not panic! The suit will float you. The servos will keep you right side up. You cannot be killed accidentally; Odal must perform the coup de grace himself.

There were emergency rockets on the back of the suit. If he could orient himself properly, a touch of the control stud on his belt would set them off and he would be boosted back onto the iceberg. He turned slightly inside the suit and tried to judge the iceberg’s distance through the infrared detector. It was difficult, since the suit was bobbing madly in the churning currents.

Finally he decided to fire the rockets and make final adjustments of distance and landing site while he was in the air.

But he could not move his hand.

He tried, but his entire right arm was locked fast. He could not budge it a millimeter. And the same for the left. Something, or someone, was clamping his arms tight. He could not even pull them out of their sleeves.

Massan thrashed about, trying to shake off whatever it was. No use.

Then his detector screen was slowly lifted from the view plate. He felt something vibrating on his helmet. The oxygen tubes! They were being disconnected.

He screamed and tried to fight free. No use. With a hiss, the oxygen tubes pulled free of helmet. Massan could feel the blood pounding through his veins as he fought desperately to free himself.

Now he was being pushed down into the sea. He screamed again and tried to wrench his body away. The frothing sea filled his view plate. He was under. He was being held under. And now... now the view plate itself was being loosened.

No! Don't!
The scalding cold methane/ammonia sea seeped through the opening view plate.

“It’s only a dream!” Massan shouted to himself. “Only a dream! A dream! A...”

Dr. Leoh stared at the dinner table without really seeing it. Coming to the restaurant had been Hector’s idea. Three hours earlier Massan had been removed from the dueling machine—dead.

Leoh sat stolidly, hands in lap, his mind racing in many different directions at once. Hector was off at the phone, getting the latest information from the meditechs. Odal had expressed his regrets perfunctorily, and then left for the Kerak embassy, under a heavy escort of his own plain-clothes guards. The government of the Acquataine Cluster was quite literally falling apart, with no man willing to assume the responsibility of leadership... and thereby expose himself. One hour after the duel, Kanus’ troops had landed on all the major planets of Szarno; the annexation was complete.

And what have I done since I arrived here?
Leoh demanded of himself
. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have sat back like a doddering old professor and played academic games with the machine, while younger, more vigorous men have USED the machine to suit their own purposes.

Used the machine. There was a fragment of an idea there. Something nebulous that must be approached carefully or it will fade away. Used the machine... used it... Leoh toyed with the phrase for a few moments, then gave it up with a sigh of resignation.
Lord, I’m too tired even to think.

He focused his attention on his surroundings and scanned the busy dining room. It was a beautiful place, really, decorated with crystal and genuine woods and fabric draperies. Not a synthetic in sight. The odors of delicious food, the hushed murmur of polite conversation. The waiters and cooks and bus boys were humans, not the autocookers and servers that most restaurants employed. Leoh suddenly felt touched at Hector’s attempt to restore his spirits—and at a junior lieutenant’s salary.

He saw the young Watchman approaching the table, coming back from the phone. Hector bumped two waiters and stumbled over a chair before reaching the relative safety of his own seat.

“What’s the verdict?” Leoh asked.

Hector’s lean face was bleak. “They couldn’t revive him. Cerebral hemorrhage, the meditechs said... brought on by shock.”

“Shock?”

“That’s what they said. Something must’ve, um, overloaded his nervous system... I guess.”

Leoh shook his head. “I just don’t understand any of this. I might as well admit it. I’m no closer to an answer now than when I arrived here. Perhaps I should have retired years ago, before the dueling machine was invented.”

“No...”

“I mean it,” said Leoh. “This is the first real intellectual problem I’ve had to contend with in years. Tinkering with machinery, that’s easy. You know what you want and all you need is to make the machinery perform properly. But this... I’m afraid I’m too old to handle a puzzle like this.”

Hector scratched his nose thoughtfully. Then he answered, “If you can’t handle the problem, sir, then we’re going to have a war on our hands in a matter of months... or maybe just weeks. I mean, Kanus won’t be satisfied with swallowing the Szarno group. The Acquataine Cluster is next... and he’ll have to fight to get it.”

“Then the Star Watch will step in,” Leoh said.

Hunching forward in his chair in eagerness to make his point, Hector said, “But... look, it’ll take time to mobilize the Star Watch. Kanus can move a lot faster than we can. Sure, we could throw in a task force, I mean, a token group. Kerak’s army will chew them up pretty quick, though. I... I’m no politician, but I think what’ll happen is... well, Kerak will gobble up the Acquataine Cluster and wipe out a Star Watch force in the process. Then we’ll end up with the Commonwealth at war with Kerak. And that’ll be a big war, because Kanus’ll have Acquatainia’s, uh, resources to draw on.”

Leoh began to answer, then stopped. His eyes were fixed on the far entrance of the dining room. Suddenly every murmur in the busy restaurant stopped dead. Waiters stood frozen between tables. Eating, drinking, conversation hung suspended.

Hector turned in his chair and saw at the far entrance the slim, stiff, blue-uniformed figure of Odal.

The moment of silence passed. Everyone turned to his own business and avoided looking at the Kerak major. Odal, with a faint smile on his thin face, made his way slowly to the table where Hector and Leoh were sitting.

They rose to greet him and exchanged perfunctory salutations. Odal pulled up a chair and sat with them, unasked.

“What do you want?” Leoh asked curtly.

Before Odal could reply, the waiter assigned to the table walked up, took a position where his back would be to the Kerak major, and asked firmly, “Your dinner is ready, gentlemen. Shall I serve it now?”

“Yes,” Hector said before Leoh could speak. “The major will be leaving shortly.”

Again the tight grin pulled across Odal’s face. The waiter bowed and left.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation of last night,” Odal said to Leoh.

“Yes?”

“You accused me of cheating in my duels.”

Leoh’s eyebrows arched. “I said someone was cheating...”

“An accusation is an accusation.”

Leoh said nothing.

“Do you withdraw your words, or do you still accuse me of deliberate murder? I’m willing to allow you to apologize and leave Acquatainia in peace.”

Hector cleared his throat noisily. “This is no place for an argument... besides, here comes our dinner.”

Odal ignored the Watchman, kept his ice-blue eyes fastened on Leoh. “You heard me, Professor. Will you leave? Or do you...”

Hector banged his fist on the table and jerked up out of his chair—just as the waiter arrived with a heavy tray of appetizers and soups. There was a loud crash. A tureen of soup, two bowls of salad, glasses, assorted rolls, cheeses, and other delicacies cascaded over Odal.

The Kerak major leaped to his feet, swearing violently in his own language. The restaurant exploded with laughter.

Sputtering back into basic Terran, Odal shouted, “You clumsy, stupid oaf! You maggot-brained misbegotten peasant-faced...”

Hector calmly picked a salad leaf from the sleeve of his tunic, while Odal’s voice choked with rage.

“I guess I am clumsy,” Hector said, grinning. “As for being stupid, and the rest of it, I resent that. In fact, I’m highly insulted.”

A flash of recognition lighted Odal’s eyes. “I see. Of course. My quarrel is not with you. I apologize.” He turned back to Leoh, who was also standing now.

“Not good enough,” Hector said. “I don’t, uh, like the tone of your apology... I mean...”

Leoh raised a hand as if to warn Hector to be silent.

“I apologized,” Odal said, his face red with anger. “That is enough.”

Hector took a step toward Odal. “I guess I could call you names, or insult your glorious Leader, or something like that... but this seems more direct.” He took the water pitcher from the table and carefully poured it over Odal’s head.

The people in the restaurant roared. Odal went absolutely white. “You are determined to die.” He wiped the dripping water from his eyes. “I’ll meet you before the week is out. And you’ve saved no one.” He turned and stalked out.

Everyone else in the room stood up and applauded. Hector bobbed his head and grinned.

Aghast, Leoh asked, “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“He was going to challenge you...”

“He’ll still challenge me, after you’re dead.”

Shrugging, Hector said, “Well, yes, maybe so. I guess you’re right. But at least we’ve gained a little more time.”

“Four days.” Leoh shook his head. “Four days to the end of this week. All right, come on, we have work to do.”

Hector was grinning broadly as they left the restaurant. He began to whistle.

“What are you so happy about?” Leoh grumbled.

“About you, sir. When we came in here, you were, well... almost beaten. Now you’re right back in the game again.”

Leoh stared at him. “In your own odd way, my boy, you’re quite something... I think.”

Their ground car glided from the parking building to the restaurant’s entrance ramp, at the radio call of the doorman. Within minutes, Hector and Leoh were cruising through the city in the deepening shadows of night.

“There’s only one man,” Leoh mused, “who’s faced Odal and lived through it.”

“Dulaq,” Hector said. “But... he might as well be dead, for all the information anybody can get from him.”

“He’s still completely withdrawn?”

Hector nodded. “The medicos think that... well, maybe with drugs and therapy and all that... maybe in a few months or so they might be able to bring him back.”