Ian Voerster exploded again. “Idiot. Cretin. They even took the Starman and you stood by and did nothing?”
“Mynheer The Voerster-- I protest! You left me no orders--”
“I made you my Chief of Security because I thought you would not need orders to know what must be done,” Ian Voerster shouted. “But you let my wife intimidate you, gull you--or did she charm you, Oberst? Is that how it was?”
“Sir!” Transkei was aghast at the accusation.
“You stood by and let them all climb aboard
Volkenreiter
and simply sail away into the blue. To Einsamberg, by all that’s holy! Weren’t you by my side when I signed the marriage contract with Winter? Didn’t you sign as a witness?”
Transkei remembered the second meeting with Vikter Fontein and his advocate. The most secret one at the university in Pretoria. It had been a moment of enormous pride and achievement for a simple policeman (which is how Transkei liked to think of himself) to be part of so momentous and personal a transaction involving the Voersters and the most powerful family of the Planetia. He had imagined. as he affixed his signature to the documents, that the act assured him of a sinecure in the Wache until retirement. Chief of Security was only a beginning. Why, there was no limit to how far a confidant of the Voertrekker-Praesident might go. Even Minister of the Interior was not unthinkable.
So he had thought. Now it was a nightmare.
“Has there been any word from my wife?” Voerster demanded.
“There are heavy storms between here and Einsamberg, sir,” Transkei said. The Voerster did not need to be reminded how severe the storms could be at this time of year on the Sea of Grass.
Ian Voerster said curtly, “Get Wache Kapitan Grunner to bring me the wireless log for yesterday. Next, order out a police commando and call the airship sheds at Voersterstaad for a transport. Have them stand by for orders. Now get out of my sight.”
The colonel fled. He felt clammy with sweat and his cheeks burned with humiliation. How was a simple policeman to know that there had been something strange about the marriage contract between The Fontein and The Voerster? The terms had seemed straightforward enough. The Fonteins got Broni, Einsamberg, and Grimsel--a shabby town of no value. The Voertrekker-Praesident got a hard and efficient viceroy for the Planetia. He had been rather shocked that the mynheera Broni was being given to old Vikter rather than to Eigen. But that was not his business. What else was there to consider?
This was the price, Transkei thought self-pityingly, that one paid for associating too closely with the powerful. At the door to Wache Kapitan Grunner’s cubicle, he paused and said harshly, “Report to the Voertrekker-Praesident with the wireless logs for yesterday.” When the portly captain leaped to his feet to comply, Transkei said sharply, “Wait, idiot. I am not finished. What airships are available at the Voersterstaad sheds?”
Grunner, red-faced and asthmatic, lifted a clipboard from a rack. “There are two Hippo-class dirigibles in for new fabric. Neither is flyable, Mynheer Oberst.”
Transkei shut his eyes in frustration. Now he would be blamed for that as well.
The captain eyed his superior very carefully. The colonel was in some sort of trouble and it was not Grunner’s task to make it easier for him. But a little helpfulness now might be rewarded later, when it counted for more. “There is an Impala-class police cruiser en route from Pretoria to Detention One, Oberst. I could probably reach her by wireless and divert her.”
Transkei considered. Not a perfect solution, but far better than having to tell Ian Voerster in his present frame of mind that there was no air transport available to move his police commando. “Do it.”
“They wouldn’t be able to get here before midafternoon tomorrow, Oberst. Even then, the weather--”
“Damn and blast. What’s the matter with Staadluftflot? But it will have to do. Go ahead. Don’t suggest anything to the Voertrekker-Praesident. He is very preoccupied. Understood?”
“Yes, Mynheer Oberst.”
Transkei watched the plump Wache officer trotting away in the direction of The Voerster’s cabinet. What a bitter thing a policeman’s life was when he had to rely on such help as that. Then he hurried on himself to assemble the commando and inform their officer that they were on standby alert to perform a task for the Voertrekker-Praesident.
When Kapitan Grunner presented himself at the Voertrekker-Praesident’s inner office, Leutnant Benno, The Voerster’s personal aide-de-camp, was making notes on a pad, and the Praesident’s kaffir body servant was changing Ian Voerster’s travel-mussed clothes. The Voerster was running to fat as his years increased. He hated it. He liked to say that one could not do good work if one looked like a
lumpenscheiss
.
Grunner stood respectfully while the Voertrekker-Praesident, first in his underwear and then in his quilted, fur-lined dressing gown, finished dictating orders to the leutnant. Grunner was a communications and electrical devices specialist, but it sounded to him as though the Voertrekker-Praesident was planning some sort of punitive raid.
“Make certain our kaffirs know nothing about the Wache commando, Benno. There is enough unrest in this house as it is. Now I hear that blacks in some of the townships think the Goldenwing is coming to search for future kaffir Starmen. We can thank kaffir Clavius for that,” he said, scowling. “When you finish assembling the troops, report to Transkei. Inform him that he will lead the commando at Einsamberg. And God help him if he fumbles this assignment.”
He brushed the old kaffir away and snapped at Grunner: “What word from the Goldenwing?”
‘They are in planetary orbit now, Mynheer. There have been some troubles with language-drift, but that was to be expected. And apparently their communications are sometimes handled by a woman. I am surprised at that.” Grunner pursed his lips in asthmatic disapproval.
“What surprises you, Kapitan, isn’t important,” Ian Voerster snapped. “What I need to know is when the Goldenwing syndicate will land the cargo.”
Grunner looked uneasy. He had received his last wireless message from the
Gloria Coelis
six hours before and there had been nothing since. That might be the way Starmen conducted their affairs, but the Voertrekker-Praesident, particularly in his present cranky mood, was certain not to like it.
Something had made The Voerster tear a strip off Oberst Transkei. Grunner had not seen the
Volkenreiter
depart, but there was household gossip about its destination The Voerster’s family did not customarily depart with so little ceremony.
“I asked you a question, Grunner,” Ian Voerster said, rising to his feet. He was like the carvings the kaffirs erected in the homelands. Thick, as though made of limestone, solid. All Voerster characteristics inherited from the line of BoI-Derek and Alfried and a hundred other protectors of tradition and privilege. Grunner felt a shiver of envy and resentment, but it was quickly overcome by feelings of the righteous loyalty his volk had given their leaders since the time of the first Great Trek and the Free State--events and values misted by, but not lost in, the millennial history of the Voertrekkers.
“I am sorry, Voerster. I do not have that information.” By calling the Voertrekker-Praesident “Voerster,” Grunner was addressing him as family head. The captain had a distant claim to kinship, as many Voertrekkers had. Grunner hoped it would serve to divert Ian Voerster’s anger, which had clearly already been aroused this day.
“Explain,” Voerster said dangerously.
“The last message was received at four this morning. The Goldenwing was also transmitting voice to some other destination, Mynheer. Our equipment is not good enough to pick up such transmission.” He paused, and then decided to risk what needed saying next. “The Astronomer-Select and his kaffirs have built more sophisticated radios than we have here. I sent in a report on this some months ago. I received no follow-up from the Trekkerpolizei office.”
“Never mind that now. You say the Goldenwing was transmitting voice messages? How many and when?”
“Three, Mynheer. The last was two hours ago. As soon as it gets dark I intend to set up a sky-watch to plot the Goldenwing’s orbit.”
“But the Starmen made no commitment about their shuttles?”
“They acknowledge that they carry a cargo for us,” Grunner said. “But nothing about a definite landing time. Not yet.”
“And you have no idea to whom they are talking now by voice radio?”
“No, Mynheer.” He made a show of looking into the communications log he carried, then he added, “May I speculate, Voertrekker-Praesident?”
“Wait. Kaffir Robert, get out.”
The ancient house kaffir inclined his head in the submissive gesture of the Xhosa tribe and withdrew.
“You carry on, Benno. Report back to me in an hour.”
“Sir.”
The leutnant marched woodenly from the office.
“Now, Grunner. You may speculate.”
“I think they have been speaking with the Astronomer-Select, Mynheer,” Grunner said. “In Einsamberg.”
“Are you suggesting that Osbertus Kloster is disloyal?”
The Wache officer wheezed nervously and said nothing. He was aghast at his own temerity. He was, in effect, accusing a cousin of the Voertrekker-Praesident of intriguing against the State. This was a cold homecoming for The Voerster.
“Did you know that Osbertus departed yesterday on the
Volkenreiter
?”
“Well...ah, sir...yes, I did know that.” Grunner’s heart was pounding heavily.
“And did you also know that Black Clavius, who was my personal guest, is with them?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ian Voerster’s pale eyes were cold. “Sit down, Grunner.” He regarded the plump officer steadily. “You find it difficult to keep secrets, Grunner?”
“No, sir. I assure you I can be very private.”
“Can you. That is rare in this house,” Ian Voerster said bitterly. “The Wache may not be the best investigative force, but they are wonderfully adept at administering punishment. It is a tradition that stretches far back in our history. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very clear,” Grunner whispered hoarsely. The air in the room felt cold and clammy.
“Good,” Ian Voerster said. “Now stay here with me until there is some word from those strange creatures aboard the Goldenwing. The Wache may have work sooner than we could have expected,”
“We appeal for medical assistance. A daughter of the first house is ill and requires treatment we are unable to give. Payment will be extremely generous. May your star physician descend to these coordinates as soon as orbit is established? “
There were three more messages, sent at one-Earth-hour intervals.
They know how we keep time
, Duncan thought.
And they promise “generous payment.” They think us venal. Well, perhaps, in a way, we are.
“It needs investigating, Anya,” he said. “But carefully. I won’t risk Dietr.”
‘“A daughter of the first house.’ What an inducement.” Anya was unsmiling. She was actually jealous, Duncan Kr thought. Unheard of aboard a Goldenwing, where all was shared in common, even sexual satisfaction. But the experience in the rigging and Jean Marq’s instability had upset Anya Amaya’s balance.
“We must make special arrangements for Han Soo,” Duncan said. “If we do the colonists a good turn it might simplify matters.” Starmen knew that downworlders could be superstitious and difficult when it came to accepting the space dead. The Voertrekkers of Voerster would probably be more difficult than most.
“So you will go down to this Einsamberg rather than to Voersterstaad. Is that wise?”
Duncan understood her concern. It was not all vague jealousies. A shipmaster was expected to take no unnecessary personal risks. During his tenure as head of the syndicate, he
was
the ship.
“I’ll be safe with my Sailing Master to handle the air-sled,” Duncan said.
But Anya would not be mollified. She only said, “I’ll get ready,” and launched herself into a transit tube without further comment. Duncan frowned at her abrupt departure.
We are all on edge
, he thought.
Jean’s illness has affected us all.
Night descended on the tower at Einsamberg with a fitful series of rainshowers and buffeting winds. The clouds raced across the sky. In the clear intervals could be seen the familiar dusting of bright stars and three of the Six Giants, two low on the western horizon.
Osbertus Kloster, with the help of Buele, was putting the finishing touches on the erection of a twenty-centimeter Cassegrainian reflector next to a tall, stone-carved window open to the night.
The Astronomer-Select and the gawkish boy had spent many long nights at Sternhoem polishing and fitting out the small telescope. They were extremely proud of it.
“Are you certain you calculated the orbit properly, Buele?” Osbertus asked anxiously. He intended to give Broni and Eliana a proper view of the newly arrived Goldenwing, which passed from horizon to horizon every two hours, a gleaming-bright new star in Voerster’s sky. Broni needed distraction. She was unwell, and she had been depressed by the death of Airshipman Blier, killed in the fall from
Volkenreiter
as the airship approached the mooring mast last evening.
“The numbers are exactly right, Brother,” Buele said. “It is not possible for me to be wrong about numbers.” He smiled foolishly and saliva glistened at the corners of his mouth. “Have you arranged for the clouds to stop hiding the sky?”
The irony startled Osbertus. He frowned at what was more likely simply a spastic impertinence by the boy. His impulse to reprimand was interrupted by the arrival, at the head of the tower ramp, of Eliana and Tiegen Roark. They pushed a wheelchair in which sat the Voertrekkersdatter. The prospect of seeing the Goldenwing had cheered her. Her blue eyes were bright. Was it excitement, Osbertus wondered, or only her fever?
It was cold in the tower with the glass removed from the high window, but Eliana had been forewarned and Broni was warmly dressed. Behind the Healer, Eliana’s personal kaffir entered with a basket of earthen jars containing warm toddies. Osbertus’ mouth watered at the savory, pungent smell of spiced
greena
.