Cluster

6. Eye of the Charioteer

*notice agent mired in sphere spica cannot remove for some time*

—we know! what of the target kirlian?—

*retransferred to sphere sol no subsequent transfer*

—well check the mattermission indications, idiot!—

*target kirlian mattermitted to system capella within own sphere*

—detail on system—

*renaissance culture despotic center of internal resistance to domination of earth planet some infiltration by agents of anti-coalition spheres dominated by scheming queen*

—excellent that system may take care of our problem for us!—

*POWER*

—CIVILIZATION—

Capella was forty-five light-years from Sol, in the general direction of Sphere Nath but only a sixth as far. Its closest colonized neighbor was Castor, about as far away from it as Sirius was from Sol. What were eight or ten light-years between friends? Nothing like the hundred and some light-years to Etamin. Some day Flint meant to stop in at his home planet—but alas, Capella was not on that route.

He arrived in his own body in the afternoon, unannounced. Sol controlled the mattermitter, so that could be arranged. The station attendant, another pale-whitish specimen in an Imperial black tunic, introduced himself as Ambassador Jones of Earth. Flint identified himself. The man looked him up in the Orders of the Day and became more affable. “I’ve never met a genuine Outworlder before,” he remarked. “I had understood that planet was—”

“Stone Age,” Flint finished for him. “Right. And I really am a jolly green giant. And I chipped stone for a living, until the Imps snatched me. I’m here to—” he hesitated.

“Do not be concerned; I am cleared for such information. It’s in your dossier. You are our chief transfer agent, on temporary leave to recover your aura. I gather it fades somewhat during transfer.”

“Yes. They did not trust me to visit my home world. Afraid I might skip back to the better life.”

“Ha ha,” the man laughed dutifully, though Flint had been serious. “Well, we shall take good care of you. Tonight is a very special occasion, locally. Good Queen Bess is having a birthday party. Capella is in the midrange of regression, culturally and technologically, you know. Post-medieval, early Renaissance, though of course that isn’t exact. You’d think that in the three hundred years it’s been settled they’d have advanced further, but there have been complicating factors. A number of the parallels to Earth history are contrived; the Queen is a student of history, and you can guess who her idol is.”

“I’d have to,” Flint remarked. “I’m more of a student of Paleolithic events myself. I’m not much on contemporary Earth.”

But he did remember that the Shaman had called Capella “Victorian.” Evidently it was further regressed than that Maybe its population had been too thin to sustain the Victorian level.

The Ambassador chuckled again. “Well I have made arrangements for you to attend as the representative from System Etamin. Should make quite a splash. Do you have any idea what it costs to mattermit a man your size a hundred light-years?”

“Two trillion dollars,” Flint said immediately.

The Ambassador looked startled; evidently he had expected ignorance. “Ah, yes. Queen Bess will be flattered to think that a system over thirty parsecs distant has sent a man to honor her. I would imagine you’ll be feted. You should enjoy it. These are a lusty people, for all their mannerisms, much given to feasting and, er, wenching.”

Flint thought of Honeybloom, back on Outworld. When would he see her again? At any rate, she was not the jealous type. His dallying elsewhere would not bother her, as long as she knew he preferred her. Men were men, after all. “Sounds great.”

“Let’s get you outfitted.” The man brought out an armful of costume clothing. “This habiliment may seem outlandish, but believe me, it’s what they wear. This is a suit appropriate to a high-ranking envoy.”

“Wouldn’t an authentic Outworld outfit be better?”

“Possibly. What is the established Outworld costume?”

“Nothing,” Flint said. “We run naked.”

The man forced yet another laugh. Flint got the message. When in the Capella system, dress Capella style.

He tugged his way into the skintight pants. “These are awful,” he complained. “They’re one size smaller than my skin.”

“That’s the style. Actually, you have very nice legs. The Queen has a fine eye for that sort of thing. Muscle in the right places, no fat. Now this.”

Flint eyed the bright-red bag. “What’s that?”

“The codpiece.”

“A piece of fish? Looks more like a scrotum.”

“Precisely. A crotch guard. This one’s armored, just in case.”

“It’s uncomfortable as hell! Suppose I need to—?”

“Ha ha. It’s removable. Wait till you try on the armor.”

“Armor?”

The Ambassador brought out a pile of metal. “This is a parade vest, decorative yet functional. Note the articulation of the joints, the polish of the surface. They have fine metalsmiths here.”

“I’m a flintsmith, myself,” Flint observed, frowning. But he struggled into the thing, clank by clank. And suffered an unpleasant memory. “It’s worse than an old Luna spacesuit!”

“Undoubtedly. But even more proof against punctures.” The man got it on him efficiently, then dropped an elegant blue sash across his right shoulder, knotting it over his left hip. Then slippers with blue bows. And some kind of trinket.

“I’m no lady!”

“You misunderstand the role of jewelry historically. Many virile men have worn it. But this happens to be a watch. These are very important here. Queen Bess has her own palace watchmaker.”

Flint looked at it: a round object about the heft of a good throwing stone, glassed on one side, with a decorated dial and two pointers. “What’s it for?”

“For telling time. You wear it on a chain, tucked into a special pocket, here.”

Flint balked again at the next object. “A snuffbox,” the Ambassador explained. “It contains powdered tobacco—don’t do that!”

But he was too late. Flint had opened the box and done what was natural: taken a good sniff to find out what it smelled like. His paroxysm of sneezing blew tobacco powder all over the room, setting the Ambassador off too.

When the spasms subsided, the dressing resumed. “I think we can safely dispense with the snuffbox,” the Ambassador said. Flint agreed emphatically. “And we won’t need the helmet and gauntlets, since this is a festive occasion. But the sword must be worn. It is a mark of honor.”

“But it has no cutting edge!” Flint objected, running his thumb along it. Swords were not yet in use on Outworld, but the Shaman had told him of them, and he found them intrinsically fascinating.

“It is a rapier, not a machete,” the Ambassador said. “Remember the level of culture here. Three musketeers—know what I mean?”

“Guns haven’t yet been invented on my world. But I thought a musket was a firearm.”

“Come to think if it, you’re right. I wonder why they called them the three musketeers? They were French swordsmen of the seventeenth century. Furthermore, there were four of them, counting D’Artagnan. Though of course they did have muskets there—and have them here too—but they aren’t used as weapons of honor. Except for pistols, in arranged duels.” He shrugged. “Well, we’ve dressed you for the part, and if you watch your manners you won’t have to use the sword. You can’t get into any trouble wishing the Queen happy birthday. So long as you don’t mention her age, ha ha.”

So the Queen was an old bag. Well, he could wish her happy birthday, all right. Then get into the feasting and wenching.

The ritual of dressing had taken some time. It was night already. They went outside to wait for the transportation provided by the Queen. The stars were bright, but Flint hardly had time to look at them before the thud of hooves signaled the approach of his coach. He did identify his home star, Etamin, and that made him feel he had gotten his bearings, though the constellation it now occupied did not look much like Draco the Dragon. A shift of forty-five light-years to the side made a big difference in the apparent positions of the nearer stars. There was no Charioteer constellation, of course, because Capella was in it, as the eye of Auriga, mythological inventor of the chariot. The colonies were well aware of the places of their systems in human mythology, and Flint had no doubt the chariot was an important symbol here, just as the dragon was around Etamin. The visible constellations changed with each planet, but they lacked the human authenticity of the Earth-sky, and had not built up followings of their own. Even as a child in Etamin’s system, Flint had learned the constellations of Sol’s system. And some, like Orion’s Belt, were the same anywhere in Sol Sphere, because those three stars were so far away.

Flint had a premonition about the probable nature of his steed. Sure enough: what hove into view was a dragon drawing a chariot. “They have several beasts of burden here,” the Ambassador explained. “Since your world is considered to be a primitive warrior-system—”

“An accurate description,” Flint agreed, pleased. Actually, from what he had seen and beard, more civilized cultures were far more combative than his own. There were no wars on Outworld, and few individual combats. But each man liked to think of himself as a warrior.

The man coughed. “Yes. So you will be expected to have a rather crude, forceful bearing. But remember: The Queen’s courtiers are all expert swordsmen, and dead shots with pistols. No one not raised to the manner can match them. Whatever you do, don’t get into a duel! Don’t draw your weapon at all in the palace.”

“Tantamount to a challenge, eh?” Flint inquired as servitors guided the dragon in, like little tugboats beside its mass. “But why would they bother an honorary delegate from another system who only comes to wish their Queen well?”

“They wouldn’t, ordinarily. But there has been unrest recently. There’s a lot of local intrigue; it’s part of the manners of the period. The Queen had her last lover beheaded some time ago for treason—he was guilty, incidentally; she’s very fair about such things—and that heightens it.”

“Because they’re afraid there’ll be more beheadings?”

“No. Because all the young nobles are jockeying for her favor, hoping to become her next lover. The Queen’s specific favor means a lot, as she is the source of all power here. So she has been in a bad mood, and the whole planet reflects it. Duels are frequent. But as I said, you aren’t part of this, so you’re safe enough so long as you don’t go out of your way to antagonize anyone. Sol isn’t sending a delegate, and I’m staying here in the embassy. Diplomatic immunity goes only so far. Rumors of transfer have gotten about, and these people have confused medieval notions about that. The mood is generally antiscientific. Do you know what I mean by the Inquisition?”

“No.” But Flint made a mental note to find out, at his convenience; the Ambassador had spoken the word with a suggestive intonation that hinted at horrible things.

“Well, Queen Bess has suppressed the Inquisition anyway. But it typifies the alienophobic attitudes to which such cultures are prone. To them, Earth is alien. So Sol and Sirius are in bad repute; they make much of the fact that Capella is a hundred and fifty times as luminous as Sol. But Etamin is well regarded, perhaps because it is far away and primitive. So just be careful not to mention transfer, and you’ll have a good time.”

“A good time—in the midst of this caldron of animosities?”

“For a Stone Age man, you have quite a vocabulary! But perhaps I have exaggerated the situation. Those in favor are very well treated, and when the Queen throws a party, there’s nothing like it in Sphere Sol. Their ladies are very provocative and, er, free. But I’d advise against—well—”

“Why not?” Flint asked, more curious than alarmed.

“Well, the Queen—” The Ambassador paused. “You really don’t know much about this culture, do you? No reason you should, of course. I just hadn’t thought it through. I think as a precaution you’d better take this.”

He held out a flattish flesh-colored bit of plastic. “Stick it to the roof of your mouth.”

“Why?”

“It’s a communicator. Two-way radio. Picks up all sounds in your neighborhood, including your own speech, and transmits our messages through the bony structure to your ears, inaudible to anyone else. Essential for guiding you in local etiquette, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“You’re very direct.”

“You’re beating about the bush. If this is such a party, why all the precautions?”

The Ambassador sighed. “We don’t expect any trouble, but this is a volatile situation and you are a very important individual. If you met with any misfortune my head would roll. Literally, I fear. Imperial Earth holds you in high regard.”

“No accounting for tastes,” Flint said.

“I may be overreacting, but now I question the advisability of sending you to this party. We can make an excuse—”

“No, I want to go,” Flint said. He inserted the radio, pressing it into place with his tongue. It was small, and bothered him only momentarily. Since he valued his hide fully as much as the Ambassador did, this was useful insurance.

His transportation had been docked and was waiting with growing signs of impatience. Flint walked up to the chariot and stared at the dragon. “That’s some animal!” he remarked appreciatively.

“Of course. The Queen employs the best. Don’t worry—it should be perfectly tame, and it knows the route.”

Flint eyed it There was something about it, a kind of nobility, quite apart from its impressive size. The animal was like a dinosaur, with huge bone flanges ridged along its backbone. But it was no dinosaur, neither of the Earthly nor the Outworldly types, but a genuine dragon complete with fiery breath and bright wings. Its feet terminated in claws so massive they resembled hooves; one of those extremities could readily kill a man by puncture and squeeze. Yes, magnificent!

Under his cynosure, the thing turned its head, swinging it on a sinuous neck, and brought a steely eye to bear on Flint. No figure of speech; the surface of the eyeball shone like polished metal.

Tame? Flint was reminded of the time he had looked the trapped dinosaur, Old Snort, in the eye. This dragon-creature held him in contempt. Flint’s gut level reaction was to view this as a challenge.

Flint stepped up close and extended one hand. “Don’t touch it!” the Ambassador cried with the same alarmed tone of his warning about the snuffbox—again, too late. Flint placed his right hand on the massive snout, firmly. The dragon swelled up. visibly at this indignity. A kind of furnace-roaring emanated from its belly. Its nose became burning hot. A puff of steam jetted from its nostrils, heating Flint’s slippered toes. But Flint stood firm, staring the beast down, and after a moment the dragon broke the contact.

The Ambassador gaped. “That was very chancy,” he said, wiping perspiration—or perhaps it was condensed steam—from his brow. “They’re tame—but not pets. They tolerate the harness because they like to run, but only a given dragon’s master may touch it about the head. If the master dies, the dragon usually has to be destroyed, lest it run wild. You must have the eye of a charioteer. The locally fabled gaze of command. It’s rare.”

Flint shrugged. He knew it had not been his gaze but his touch that had daunted the dragon. He was familiar with this type of creature, so had respect without fear—but more than that, he had the Kirlian aura with special intensity. And so did the dragon. Animals, like men, possessed it, usually of indifferent intensity but highly variable. And a high-intensity creature responded to Flint’s aura in much the way Flint himself had responded to the aura of Pnotl of Sphere Knyfh. There was now a mutual respect between man and dragon.

Flint mounted the chariot and took the reins. A tiny twitch put the dragon in motion. “Don’t let it go too fast,” a voice said.

Flint glanced about, but there was no one. “Where are you?” He believed in dragons, but not in ghosts.

“Here. It’s the Ambassador. I’m using the radio.”

The voice was in his own skull. “I’ll keep it in mind. The dragon’s not going to wreck himself.”

The countryside was hardly visible at night, just a varied mat of vegetation, as on Outworld, the way a planet should be. Flint looked at the sky again, feeling nostalgic. He saw the tenuous cloud of the Milky Way, and the large faint patch of Galaxy Andromeda to the side, just as they were in the sky of Outworld. He pondered the notion that all his adventures stemmed from the malign influence of that distant cluster of stars.

He looked across to Etamin again, halfway around the sky. Home, so far away! What was Honeybloom doing now? Was the Shaman looking this way?

The dragon did know the way. It found its dragon-path and put on speed, spreading its vestigial wings for additional stability when banking around turns. The white steam jetting out from its nostrils puffed into the sky and drifted back, bathing Flint in its warm aroma. He knew that steam was invisible; this was merely the condensation of water droplets as the breath cooled. Small matter; it was pleasant being a dragonmaster, and he urged the creature on. This was an attitude it appreciated, for it responded with a burst of speed that had the chariot wheels bouncing over the irregularities of the trail. Now it was a high-velocity ride, but Flint gave the animal free play. The chariot shook so hard it seemed ready to fly apart, and Flint reveled in the sensation. Was this what it was like to be a god, coursing through the sky?

Yet he wondered. Why had the Queen provided an unchaperoned dragon for the visitor? A soft, civilized man like the Ambassador could have been injured or even killed. Was she testing him? He grinned in the dark as the waves of vapor blew out his hair. If the Queen were curious about the mettle of Outworld, she would learnt.

In due course they steamed into the palace demesne. There were a cluster of buildings and appurtenances, ornate affairs with columns and turrets and arches and flying buttresses—probably a mishmash of Earthly medieval architecture. What sort of buildings had resulted when the pleasantly primitive Goths become Gothic architects? This was the physical manifestation of cultural regression toward the fringe of the civilized Sphere. It was the same for all Spheres, whatever sapient species controlled them, for there was a built-in limitation—the lack of energy. With unlimited energy, all the Spheres could have been maintained at the highest level of civilization. Maybe it was really a blessing, for galactic conquest would become possible, and there were many creatures more advanced than humans. But as it was, many Spheres could flourish and their outer reaches had to fade. In no case was history reenacted; the technical approximation was echoed by culture. Where rapiers were the most advanced weapons, etiquette honored the proficient swordsman. The guidance of Earth history helped set the patterns, but this was a very general thing, with anomalies the rule. So there was no firm guide to the authenticity of the palace. The palace was what it was, and that was by local definition correct.

“Rogue dragon!” someone screamed as they slammed into the terminal. Men scurried about, spreading out a huge net with which to snare the rampant beast. But Flint smiled, and drew in on the reins gently. The dragon screeched to a stop precisely on target, its giant claws chiseling furrows out of the packed dirt. Flint dismounted in a cloud of steam and dust, gave the dragon a comradely pat on the nose, and marched regally into the main gate.

A shaken flunky took his name and planet, and another led away the dragon, who gave Flint another brief but meaningful glance. The rapport of Kirlians operated independently of species or intellect. Right now Flint had other things to do, but he would come to see the dragon again. He preferred its company to that of ordinary human beings.

And where there was one high-Kirlian animal, there might be others. Were all dragons like this here, or just this one? Probably no animals had been measured for this quality; few natives understood the nature of the regular Imperial surveys. Flint had been ignorant as a child and young warrior. Now he understood the secret of much of his success as a hunter on Outworld, and perhaps as a flintsmith too. Some animals and even some objects possessed auras, and he had unconsciously related to these.

“Ooooh, there’s a handsome one,” a female voice remarked as he entered the gate.

Flint picked out the owner of that voice. It was a girl—like none he had seen before. Her face was pretty, and her breasts were astonishingly uplifted and full, seeming about to burst out of harness, but the rest of her was grotesque. Her arms were grossly bloated to the wrists, and her hips jutted out at right angles into a posterior like an overgrown swamp hummock, a massive mound dropping vertically to the floor. Two pegs protruded from that voluminous skirt, and Flint realized these were her slippered feet. And her face and hands and the alarming cleavage of her bosom were light blue.

“Haven’t you seen a woman before?” she inquired.

“Don’t stare,” the voice in his skull said. It was the Ambassador, on the job. “I can’t look through your eyes, but I’m assuming from the voice that you’ve just met one of the palace escorts, a handmaiden to the Queen. She—”

“Shut up,” Flint mumbled, not pleased to have had this encounter intercepted.

The blue girl gave him an arch glance. “Well!”

“Not you,” Flint said quickly. “I was addressing my beating heart. I have not before observed such beauty.” The Shaman would not have approved of such a lie, but it seemed necessary.

“Wow! You’ll do fine here,” the Ambassador said. “That’s the ticket.” Flint wondered what a ticket was.

The girl flushed very prettily, her face, breasts, and hands turning so dark they were almost green. That made her look better. Flint realized that the flunkies outside had been blue too, but he hadn’t noted it in the poor light. Just as his own people were green, and Sol’s people were shades of white, brown, and black, these Capellans were blue. It all depended on the environment, especially the type of stellar radiation they received.

“You must be the envoy from Etamin. We know there are real men there.”

“Yes,” Flint agreed. “Will you guide me to the…”

“Throneroom,” the Ambassador supplied.

“Throneroom?” Flint finished. “I am a stranger here.”

“Gladly, sir,” she agreed, putting one hand on his elbow, sliding her arm inside his. “I am Delle.”

“I am Flint of Outworld,” he said as she walked him down a long hall. “I am from a primitive world.”

“Yes. The gossip is all over the palace, how you brought Old Scorch to heel. That must have been some—”

“The dragon?” But of course it was. Just as the most ornery dinosaur of his region of Outworld had been dubbed Old Snort, a term both respectful and descriptive, the most ornery dragon here would be Old Scorch. Evidently news traveled like lightning in the palace, unless the girls had been watching from a window. “He’s a fine animal.”

“He’s burned eleven men in his day,” she said. “That’s approaching a record. Usually an animal is destroyed after three, but he’s the Queen’s pet. He never scorches her, you bet. He’s not supposed to be used beyond the palace grounds, but there must have been a foulup.”

“Very interesting,” the voice in his skull remarked. “They were supposed to send a docile animal.”

“As I said,” Flint proceeded, “I am primitive. Please do not take offense—but I am unfamiliar with your apparel. Does it reflect your form?”

“My form?” She looked perplexed.

“On my world, women have thinner arms and—”

“Watch it!” the Ambassador snapped.

“—legs,” Flint finished.

Delle laughed so heartily her breasts actually flopped in the rigid half-cups. “Here, I’ll show you.” She glanced back down the hall, then drew him into an alcove. When she was satisfied they had privacy she pulled the side of her neckline away from her shoulder, baring her upper arm and half of the rest of her breast. “See, these are padded sleeves. It’s the fashion, also warm on cold nights. I’m really quite skinny underneath.”

And all blue. “Oh.” Flint was relieved. “Forgive the confusion of a barbarian.”

“You really thought all that was me?”

“I could not be certain. The skirt—”

“What a fat ass you thought I had!” she exclaimed, delighted. “Well, catch a glimpse of this!” And she drew up a bulging hank of her skirt and petticoats to display as slender and symmetrical a pair of blue legs as Flint could have wished. “This is a farthingale, a kind of bustle under the skirt. I’m quite human underneath. I have all the things a woman needs. Here, put your hand—”

“Careful!” the voice in his skull cried.

“Why?” Flint asked both girl and voice.

“To feel my thigh,” Delle said. “To prove it’s real. And whatever else you may doubt. It really is all there.”

“Because she’ll seduce you if she can, quite without qualm,” the Ambassador explained at the same time, like a conscience. “You are a handsome man from an enticingly primitive planet, and she would gain notoriety. Don’t let it happen. Suppose the Queen wanted your service, and you just had exhausted yourself with a handmaiden, little better than a chambermaid? Very bad form.”

Oho! Flint did not know the distinction between a handmaiden and a chambermaid, but he got the drift. First the dragon, then the flirt, testing him. The Queen was taking a greater interest in him than he had supposed.

Flint put his hand on her firm thigh. “Excellent,” he remarked sincerely. He slid his fingers up to cup her supple buttock. “How I regret I cannot explore this matter further.”

“Oh, but you can,” Delle said warmly. “I know a room where no one goes, and it has a huge bed—”

“But my urgency to wish Queen Bess a happy birthday is so pressing that all else palls. I may not dally.” And as he spoke the word “pressing” he gave her buttock a good hard pinch, so that she jumped involuntarily, and withdrew.

“Beautiful!” the Ambassador said. “You are a born diplomat!”

No, Flint thought. No diplomat. He merely liked to make his own decisions, to seduce rather than be seduced. The more someone pushed him, the more he went his own way. As the bastard speaking in his skull might find out in due course. The Ambassador was taking entirely too much interest.

The girl could make no serious objection. She was loyal to her Queen—perhaps a direct agent doing the Queen’s specific bidding. Flint had learned on the slave world of Sphere Canopus not to confuse the relation between master and servant. People who failed the Queen could lose their heads. Probably nothing that went on in this palace was hidden from the monarch. This place was like a giant spider web (one of Sol system’s more intriguing phenomena), and woe betide the visiting fly who misstepped.

They came sedately to the entrance of the main hall. “Now you must wait for the herald,” Delle explained. “Then walk slowly up and make obeisance to the Queen.”

“That’s right,” the Ambassador said. “I will guide you. After that formality, you should have no trouble. Once the liquor starts flowing, just about anything goes.”

Flint clicked his teeth once in acknowledgment. Maybe then the Ambassador would kindly take a nap and leave Flint to his own devices. He needed no advice in handling liquor, food, and pretty girls.

“His Excellency Lord Pimpernel, Envoy Extraordinary of System Sheriton, realm of the Ram,” the herald announced. A rather pudgy little man with spotty skin minced up and made a deep bow to the Queen, who was out of the line of Flint’s vision.

“The Lord High Poopdoodle of Pollux, Most Gracious Tzar of the Twins, Gentleman of Gemini.” And a tall, thin, old man marched out, almost stumbling over his hanging sword, while Flint stifled a laugh. Poopdoodle of Pollux? It sounded like dragon refuse.

But the next introduction was even worse. “The Regent of the Fabled Green Planet, Scion of Star Etamin, Conqueror of the Dragon, Flint of Outworld!” the herald bawled.

Flint stood still, stunned by the audacity of the fanciful credits he had been assigned. Outworld had no Regent, and he had no authority even in his local tribe, let alone his planet. Were they trying to mock him?

“Get in there!” the skull-voice cried. “All their titles are ludicrous. Popdod of Pollux is just an ambassador, same as me. He didn’t balk!”

So Popdod had become Poopdoodle. The Ambassador was right: Flint had nothing to complain about.

He marched in. Now he saw the Queen, standing before her throne. She was short and blue, but impressive in padded sleeves and farthingale hoops that made her skirt even more like a barrel than that of Delle’s. The material of her dress was thick and quilted, with golden thread and bright jewels at every interstice. She wore several necklaces of jewels that hung halfway down her body, reaching out to the edge of the vertical skirt. On either side of her neck were huge ruffs and wire frames extending the lines of her head out a foot or more. She wore an obvious wig pinned to her scalp, but still looked almost bald beneath it Her crown perched at the top like the spire of a church. In her right hand she held the scepter of power.

“Bow,” the voice said urgently. “Slow and deep.”

Flint faced Queen Bess and bowed.

“Well, it has manners after all,” the Queen said. Her voice was harsh and somewhat scratchy. She was a robust woman, not young but not yet old, with makeup caked on her face so that it looked like a fright mask. Flint suspected that her body under the elaborate dress did resemble the outer configuration: bloated into the shape of a hogshead of strong liquor. Maybe that was why she had set this style: to cover her defects, and make all others cover their assets.

“She’s the spitting image of the original Elizabeth of England, you know,” the Ambassador remarked. “She uses the caked makeup deliberately, because that’s the way the original did it; underneath she’s actually a somewhat younger woman. Like Elizabeth, Bess is tough and smart. No coincidence, of course; she’s studied history. Don’t forget that for one instant. Wish her happy birthday, but don’t mention her age.”

Small chance; Flint didn’t know her age, and the Ambassador had warned him about this before. But she was obviously older than the average Outworld tribeswoman. “Planet Outworld bids you an enjoyable birthday, gracious Queen.”

“The whole planet!” she exclaimed, chuckling mannishly. “We welcome the emissary of the Dragon.”

“Now back off,” the Ambassador said. “There are others to be introduced, but you’re home free. Queen Bess has accepted you.”

Flint backed off. So far so good; if this were the worst of it, he would have an easy evening. The smell of the feast was already circulating through the room, and he saw barrels of liquor being set up in a corner. He was hungry and thirsty, and he might even get a chance to go out and look at the stars at greater leisure. That was one thing about having a party at night: the stars were out.

He bumped into someone. A young man was standing in his way, a man who hadn’t been there a moment ago. He wore brown tights with a padded codpiece, a brilliant red cape, and a supercilious sneer. “I beg your pardon,” the youth said loudly. “I was not aware of your optical infirmity. Stupid of me not to realize that anyone as green as you could not be in the best of health.”

“He’s baiting you,” the Ambassador advised. “Ignore him. The court’s full of young dandies on the prowl for trouble.”

“Green is my natural color,” Flint said mildly. “It has to do with the radiation of my star and the atmosphere of my planet, as most people know. My vision is satisfactory—but the eyes of my head were on the Queen, and I do not possess eyes elsewhere.”

“Are you suggesting that I do?” the dandy demanded, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He seemed more than willing to be insulted. “I, Lord Boromo of the Chariot?”

“Ignore him,” the voice in the skull repeated. “I recognize the name. He’s a notorious troublemaker, but an expert swordsman, as these things go. He’s killed several innocent men, but if he draws in the presence of the Queen, he insults her, and his head will roll. And don’t you draw!”

Flint turned away from the young man, though he would rather have bashed him. But Boromo would not let it drop. “Only a complete barbarian stumbles into his betters and lacks the wit to apologize.”

“Agreed,” Flint said, moving on. There was a ripple of laughter through the hall. There had been more than casual interest in the encounter.

“Boromo must be jealous of you,” the Ambassador said. “He was trying to provoke you into a duel, so he could kill you, or at least humiliate you, and win favor for himself. Politics is like that, here. You handled it well, reversing the insult—but I had not anticipated this. Perhaps you’d better excuse yourself and return to the embassy.”

“When the party’s just beginning?” Flint demanded. And let the young punk have the satisfaction of putting me to flight? he added mentally “I’m enjoying myself.” And he drifted toward the liquor.

From behind a drape an orchestra starting playing. The fancy courtiers began to dance with the hoopskirted girls. The movements were measured and stately, stylized like the courtship ritual of certain animals. The barreled skirts began to sway, then swing like great bells, in time to the music, while hinting at enticingly shapely derrières beneath them. There was, Flint realized, some point in this complicated clothing; proper suggestion had a refined sex appeal that could build to a higher peak than mere exposure. Honeybloom, back on Outworld, was lovely in her nakedness—but she lacked the artful challenge of these boxed beauties.

Delle glided up. “Do you care to ask me to dance, handsome envoy of the Dragon?” she inquired pertly.

Flint had no notion how to do this dance, suspecting he would make a fool of himself if he tried it. But he thought it inexpedient to advertise this. “I prefer to watch,” he said.

She made a moue. “Sir, you humiliate me.”

Another dandy came up, as brightly and tastelessly clad as the first. “Do you have the audacity to insult a lady?” he demanded.

“That depends on the lady,” Flint replied.

The dandy swelled up. “This insolence cannot be tolerated!”

“Why not?” Flint asked.

The first dandy, Boromo, approached. “The animal lacks the wit to take umbrage.”

“A prick of the sword could be the cure of that,” the other said. A glance of understanding passed between them.

Delle faced Flint angrily. “Are you going to let them talk about you like that?”

Flint affected surprise. “I thought they were addressing each other.”

There was another ripple of laughter in the hall. Both dandies glowered, their hands going to the hilts of their swords in an obviously well-rehearsed gesture.

“Ho! What is this?” the Queen demanded, sailing forward majestically.

“Oh oh,” the Ambassador said. “Bess is in on it too, and the maid. They must know what you are, Kirlian and all.”

Flint agreed. It did look like trouble. There had been too many little episodes. Suppose these people, antiscience as they were, opposed the formation of the galactic coalition? They could strike a real blow for their dubious cause by eliminating him. But still they dared not do it openly, lest a twenty-fourth-century battleship be dispatched from the nearest Imperial space armory. One barrage from such a ship could put this planet back into the Dark Ages, literally. So they had to be at least somewhat subtle.

He had walked into a nest of vipers. Still he had certain assets. One was the putative battleship; another was the Ambassador in his skull; then there was his own ingenuity. A bit of bold initiative might work. It really wasn’t worse than being a transferee in an alien Sphere!

“This oaf insults Your Majesty,” Lord Boromo said.

Flint made a little bow to the Queen. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding, Queen Bess. I proffered no insult.”

“And now he calls me a liar!” the dandy exclaimed theatrically. “I call these assembled to witness…”

And the others would back the dandy up, of course, completing the frameup. They were only waiting to see which way the Queen wanted it.

“I’m sending an Imperial Guard to get you out of there!” the Ambassador said. “But it will take a few minutes. Stall them if you can. Whatever you do, don’t draw! Then we’d have no case at all.”

The Queen faced Flint, and he saw the calculating glint in her eyes. She had not quite decided what she could risk. “I had not supposed the Dragon would send a minion to disrupt our party,” she said.

Flint had had enough of this mousetrapping. “Even the Dragon can at last become annoyed at the yapping of curs.”

Queen Bess’s mouth dropped open. Both dandies drew their swords partway from their belts. “Lese majesty!” they cried together. “Give us permission—!”

The Queen nodded almost imperceptibly. The swords moved up to clear the belts—and Flint acted.

He backhanded Lord Boromo across the face, his knuckles making hard contact with the bone of the jaw. The man went down as if clubbed—as well he might have been, for the barbarian fist, augmented by Sphere Sol karate training, was like a club, capable of breaking bones. Then Flint caught hold of the emerging sword of the second dandy. Because the weapon had no edge, he suffered no cut on his fingers. He brought it up, twisted it easily from the man’s grip, put both hands on the metal, and flexed his muscles in one violent spasm. The sword snapped in half. Flint then kneed the man in the bulging codpiece and let him fall. He threw away the two parts of the sword.

The action had taken only a moment. Flint was not even disheveled. He bowed again to the Queen. “The Dragon apologizes for allowing the curs to annoy the gracious Queen, and begs forgiveness.”

“He didn’t even draw!” someone murmured in the throng.

“The two best duelists in the realm!”

The Queen smiled as graciously as she could manage. She could not admit complicity in the plot to embarrass Imperial Earth, and did not care to subject herself to public embarrassment. Had Flint threatened her, she could have had her guards mob him; but Flint had put himself on her side, an ally, and that was distinctly awkward.

“The Dragon shows more mettle in apology than others in victory,” she observed. “It is fitting that the Dragon determine the appropriate mode of disposition of these ruffians.”

“They failed in their assassin’s assignment,” the voice in his skull explained. “Death is the penalty—not only for failure, but to ensure their silence. Don’t protest it.”

But Flint didn’t like it. He could kill in the heat of battle, but not coldbloodedly. He realized Queen Bess was still testing him. A true friend of hers would not hesitate to do her bidding. “The Dragon does not deign to kill curs,” he said. “Let them redeem themselves by serving loyally as attendants to the Queen’s chariot dragon.” A probable sentence of death, as Old Scorch would not take kindly to such types—especially if the Good Queen wanted them dead. But it shifted the responsibility back to her. “If they fail to perform well, their bodies shall be exposed to the scavengers of the wilderness, and when the bones are clean they shall be buried under the floors of their living quarters. In this manner their ghosts shall continue to serve their Queen.”

There was silence. Flint had prescribed the honorable tribal burial of Outworld, but he was aware it would seem otherwise to these more civilized people. And he had dodged the actual sentence of death. How would the Queen react?

“My man is almost there,” the Ambassador said.

“Get lost, Imp,” Flint mumbled subvocally.

“Your sword, Dragon,” the Queen said, holding out her blue hand.

Somehow he had miscalculated. Whom did she plan to dispatch—him or them?

Flint put his fingers on the upper blade and drew the sword out, placing his hilt in her hand. As it touched her, something like an electric current traveled along it to his hand. It was the channelized impulse of a strong Kirlian aura!

“Kneel,” she said firmly.

Well, he had done his best. The penalty for failure might be death, but he was not going to beg for his life. If he had misjudged her, it was his own fault. He kneeled.

Queen Bess raised the sword, then brought it down. The tip tapped one of his shoulders, then the other. “I knight thee Lord of Valor,” she intoned. “Rise, Sir Dragon.”

Flint stood, amazed, as she handed back his sword.

The Queen winked. “I suspected you had a strong aura when you tamed Old Scorch,” she murmured so that only he could hear. “He is a very special beast—my own pet. Tonight, after the party, you shall have opportunity again to prove your valor. Come to my chambers.”

The last was said loudly enough for others to overhear. There was a murmur of surprise and awe.

“She means it,” the Ambassador in his skull said, sounding awed himself. “She hasn’t taken a lover in months. You’ll have to go, unfortunately. We’ll try to slip you an aphrodisiac so you can perform—”

Flint poked his tongue up under the radio unit, dislodging it from the roof of his mouth. He swallowed it. Now the voice was gone. “May the union of the Imperial Empire be as strong as that we shall experience tonight,” he said with a flourish.

“So you ditched the Imp radio,” she murmured.

She had known! She probably had a constant monitor on it. The culture of this planet might be pre-Machine Age, but there would be ways to obtain samples of higher technology, and a smart ruler would see to it. There was no law against it, after all; Earth wanted the colonies to progress. No wonder she was right on top of the situation—and no wonder she had been provoked by him. He must have seemed like a very active spy, with his constant advice from the Sol embassy.

“The Imp insulted me—and you,” he said. “I don’t need civilized snooping. It takes a man to know a real woman—though she be a queen.”

“You may be surprised at how young a queen can be when she washes off her makeup.”

“Not beneath the age of consent, I trust,” Hint said, raising an eyebrow.

“There is an age of consent in your culture?”

“Of course not.”

She smiled, glancing down at the fallen dandies, and she looked younger already. He had supposed the makeup was intended to make her look younger than she was, but the opposite could be true. “So you are from Outworld,” she said.

“Yes. But I do work for Earth, in what capacity you surely know.”

She smiled. “I admit we have had our doubts about Imperial policy in the past. But I doubt very much there will be any difficulties in the future. The Empire sends impressive envoys.” And she turned away and floated regally back to her throne area.

The music started, and the dance resumed. Delle smiled.

Flint knew it would be days or weeks before the Queen chose to dispense with his services. She was a real woman, with strength and intelligence and nerve—and a Kirlian aura that gave her more sex appeal than any of the palace beauties possessed.

These humans were in many ways odder than the alien creatures of other Spheres, but Flint fully expected to enjoy his stay here in System Capella.