The clockwork traitor, p.1
The Clockwork Traitor, page 1
The Clockwork Traitor
Volume Three of The classic Family d'Alembert series
By E.E. 'Doc' Smith
With Stephen Goldin
Prologue
Rawl Winsted's head felt bruised. It was not a physical feeling but a mental one, a fuzziness in his mind as though his entire brain were wrapped in cotton wool. And there was one particular portion of his memory that he simply could not touch. Every time he would send an exploratory thought in that direction it would dissipate into nothingness, leaving him with a feeling of mild confusion.
He knew precisely what was causing that sensation: a hypnotic block. It had been placed there to prevent him from knowing exactly why he had come to the planet Kolokov, whom he had worked for, and what he had done. He resented it a little-after all, what man liked having a portion of his life permanently taken away from him? To never know what he had done or said for a period of about a week was a slightly chilling concept.
But his resentment was slight. He bad accepted the necessity for the hypnotic block as one of the conditions of his employment on the just-completed job. And besides, his employer-whoever it had been-had given him a substantial bonus for agreeing to the treatment. The thought of the extra ten thousand rubles tucked neatly away in his bank account was a very consoling one.
Even so, his thoughts could not help but be attracted to that blank spot in his mind, just like a tongue playing over the vacancy left by a recently extracted tooth.
He brought his mind back to the business at hand. Since he was here on Kolokov anyway, he could not resist the temptation to make a little extra money, and the piece of jewelry on the worktable before him represented a sizeable investment that could pay off handsomely. It was a brooch that had been stolen two nights ago-gold set with several small diamonds in the center of a triangle of enormous emeralds. It was an expensive piece, but totally useless in its present form because it was an original and easily identifiable. He had paid the thief only two thousand rubles for it, which was less than half the value of the stones and the gold by themselves.
But when he was finished practicing his art, the piece could easily be worth five times what he had paid for it. Using ultra miniature equipment, he could alter some of the crystal striations in the stones so that even under radiometric tests they would not appear to be the stolen ones. The gold he would melt down and re-form into an entirely new structure, so beautiful it would command a fine price and so different that he could even sell it to its original owner without fear that it would be recognized.
This was Winsted's trade, and he was a master at it. So intense was his concentration upon the brooch that it took him several seconds to realize that someone was knocking on the door of his rented studio. Concealment was second nature to him; he slipped the brooch into a secret pocket of his vest and walked cautiously to the door. "Who's there?"
"Police, Gospodin Winsted. Open up at once."
Rawl Winsted knew a moment of blind panic. There was enough evidence in this room alone to send him to prison for twenty years. He fought at the mist that beclouded his mind, and then remembered that he had arranged a back exit to this room specifically against the possibility of being discovered. Without saying another word, he moved toward the concealing door that led to the crawlspace that in turn led to the roof, where his personal copter was waiting.
My mind is working slowly today, he thought as he crawled through the hatchway and pulled the door shut behind him. Must be the aftereffects of the hypnotic block. But I'd better shake it off soon, or I'll be in real trouble.
The police, he knew, would wait no more than thirty seconds outside the door before smashing it in and discovering him missing. He had heard only the voice of one man outside the door, but there might be a second. Winsted doubted there would be any more than that-he was realistic enough to know that his own place in the hierarchy of crime did not warrant sending more than two policemen out after him. There was a very good chance, therefore, that his copter would be unguarded and that he'd be able to make his escape before they could catch him. He'd have to move quickly, though.
The rooftop seemed clear as he emerged from the crawl way and began running across the open surface to his vehicle. He made it and slid into the pilot's seat just as two men came out of the elevator tube. Both had their stunners drawn and, as they caught sight of him, one dropped to his knees to fire while the other ran toward the copter. The first officer's stun-gun beam bounced harmlessly off the windshield of Winsted's vehicle as it began lifting rapidly into the air. The second man had dropped his stunner and had reached, instead, for his blaster. It was probably a low-powered field weapon, but even so it was something to respect.
Winsted changed all of his copter's acceleration from vertical to horizontal and skimmed sideways off the rooftop, avoiding the fire of the policeman who expected him to go upward. In doing so, Winsted narrowly avoided a collision with another copter coming in for a landing on the building next door. Swerving his vehicle around, the fugitive took off into the metropolitan sky, hoping to lose himself in the dense downtown air traffic.
As he flew, he kept a careful watch all about him. At first it seemed as though he had made a successful getaway; the radar screen showed no other vehicles at this altitude following him in the traffic pattern. But the policemen at the building must have recorded and broadcast his serial number, because from out of nowhere five copters surrounded him, paralleling his course-one below, one above, and three in a triangle around him at the same altitude.
The radio on his control panel came to life. "Land your craft at once, Winsted, or face the consequences. We have authorization to fire on your copter if necessary."
Think, man, Winsted told himself. But his mind still felt slightly muzzy from the hypnotic block and his thoughts jammed up against one another in a hopeless tangle. He knew there would be no way he could break out of this formation if the law officers were authorized to shoot and he would not be likely to survive the crash that would follow their blasting his vehicle. He had no choice but to give in and hope to win his case in court.
"Acknowledged," he said in a weary tone as he began piloting his craft slowly down to a nearby rooftop. The copter under him got respectfully out of his way and the rest of the police followed him, maintaining a cautious distance.
Oh well, it could be worse, Winsted thought. I've got a lot of money in the bank, I can afford a sharp lawyer. I may worm my way out of this yet.
But Winsted's case was never to come to trial... and what began as a routine police arrest would shortly come to the notice of the Service of the Empire. The repercussions would be felt from the planet Kolokov all the way to Earth, and would threaten the stability of the succession to the very Throne of the Empire itself.
Chapter 1
The Princess's Progress
For Crown Princess Edna Stanley, heiress to the Throne of the Empire of Earth, there was little time for unhappiness. Her schedule was so filled with official duties that her own personal emotions had to wait. There was always some bridge to dedicate or a new starship to christen; there were endless testimonial banquets given in honor of this or that outstanding personage; there were school graduations at which she was requested to speak, charity benefits where the presence of a member of the Imperial Family would bring in more money for some worthy cause; there were art exhibitions and theater performances and sporting events that she, as a patroness of such activities, could not avoid. Also, her father insisted that she sit in and give advice at more and more meetings of the Imperial Council; in two more years she would be inheriting the Throne following his abdication, and he wanted to make certain that she was fit to govern the affairs of the Empire wisely. More and more often, he asked her to make the decisions in his place, to accustom her to the responsibility of power.
All of these things, and a myriad more besides, stole time away from the young woman's private life. If she had had any brothers or sisters it would have lightened the load, for they could have shared the duties. But there were no siblings. Her parents had thought it best to have only one child, and that fairly late in life; the history of the Stanley dynasty was replete with insurrections and conspiracies brought about by dissident family members.
Six previous Stanley rulers had been assassinated by their own relatives; the current Emperor and his wife wanted to spare their child the trauma of dealing with scheming siblings.
Edna Stanley sighed. Perhaps it was a blessing that she had been raised as an only child, without having to compete for so high a prize as the Crown. But it certainly was a mixed blessing, and one that left her no time for herself.
She had been moping around listlessly for a week before her mother spotted the change in her behavior and took her aside to talk to her.
"What's the matter, dear?" asked the Empress Irene. "Nothing, really."
"Don't try to tell me that, I know you a little too well. Something is depressing you, and I'd like to know what it is."
Edna looked down at her feet, avoiding her mother's eyes. "It just all seems so pointless, somehow."
"What does?"
"All of it The speeches, the handshakes, the aching feet, the boring dinners, the..." She stopped suddenly. "Go on. I think you were getting to the important one." "The Progresses." Edna's voice was tinged with sarcasm. Light began to dawn inside the Empress's mind. "I see. And the fact that you're due to go on another Progress at the end of next week is making you feel depressed, is that it?"
"It woul
Irene took her daughter's arm gently and led her over into one of the numerous alcoves in the Imperial Palace. The two women sat down on a bench and faced each other for a serious mother-daughter talk. "Each grand duke is responsible for the men you meet while on Progress through his Sector. They know how important it is that you find the right man, and perhaps they're being a little conservative. After all, they don't want to present anyone who'd be wildly unsuitable."
"It'd be a welcome change," Edna grumbled. "I just wish they'd give me more of a choice. I am old enough to make up my own mind."
"The Progresses can't be all that bad," the older woman said. "I seem to recall meeting your father on one, and it was a distinctly pleasant experience." She smiled warmly, recalling that happy time. It was obviously a cherished memory.
"I'm sure it was for you," her daughter answered. "You were a commoner then, selected to meet the Crown Prince, chosen out of I don't know how many thousands. It was a great honor for you, I'm sure, and I'm glad you went." She smiled at her mother. "I really do mean that. I couldn't have a better set of parents. But you really had to be something special for Father to pick you out of that crowd, because I'm sure it was no enormous honor for him to meet a group of commoners."
"You have to meet them sometime. Your father would like to see you marry before you ascend the Throne" Edna nodded. The Stanley Doctrine, laid down by Empress Stanley Three, declared that members of the Imperial Family must marry commoners; that was done to insure a continuation of strong bloodlines and to avoid intermarriage solely within the nobility. And the only real chance she had to meet commoners at other than formal occasions was at these Progresses.
"I know, another of my royal duties. Don't worry, I won't shirk it. I only wish there were some way to keep them from being so dull."
"Oh, it won't be all that bad. You'll be spending the time at Cambria, won't you? You've always liked that place, ever since you first vacationed there as a small girl. And Sector Twenty-Nine has some interesting planets and people in it. I'm sure it won't be nearly as dull as you think it's going to be."
"You're probably right," Edna said, trying valiantly to give her mother a convincing smile. "I'm so used to going to dull ceremonies and dull banquets that I begin to think everything is going to be dull. At least it'll give me a chance to drop a lot of the formality. I need to relax and be myself."
But though her words were optimistic, inside she was still wondering how to avoid being bored to death.
Nearly fifty parsecs away, the subject of the Crown Princess's Progress was also on the mind of a young man waiting with more than a dozen others inside a plush office in the administration building of the duke of his planet. Magazines were scattered about the waiting room, but most of the young men were too nervous to read. This was the day of decision, and only one of them would be chosen to represent their planet in the Progress.
The door to the inner office opened and Gospodin Rhee's bald head poked out. He called out a name, and the young man in the comer looked up. It was his name; he was the chosen one. Struggling to maintain his appearance of outward calm, he rose to his feet and walked to the door of the inner office. He could feel the stares of the other applicants upon him, cold as winter clouds. All of them were thinking the same thought: The one who was picked was certainly no better than they were. Why was it him instead of them?
He went into the office with the bald man, shook hands, then sat down in the proffered chair. "Congratulations," Rhee said. "Out of better than fifteen hundred applicants, you have been selected to represent our world in the upcoming Progress."
"I'm honored, sir," said the young man. "I don't know what to say. I hardly think I'm worthy."
"Our computers say otherwise. They've decided you're the best eligible bachelor our planet can offer the Princess. In personality, intellect, and fitness you came out far superior to all the others. It's we who should thank you for representing us.
"Khorosho. Be that as it may, there are millions of tiny details to be taken care of, and only a short while to do them in. There are reams of papers for you to sign -purely formalities, of course. Part of your prize is that we will provide you with a whole new wardrobe, luggage, and travel accessories. We'll have to arrange for your passage to Ansegria, too. You're lucky, you know. All you had to do was compete with a lot of other men. You didn't have to fill out all the forms that went with it, like I did."
He sighed. "Well, we might as well get to it. Start by signing these," and he handed the young man a thick sheaf of papers.
Half an hour later, the young man emerged from the building with his right hand sore from all the signatures he'd had to write. He flexed the muscles slowly as he walked out the door into the late afternoon sunlight.
He sensed, more than saw, the man coming up from behind him. A brown-cloaked figure slithered up out of the shadows and poked an object into his ribs. It felt suspiciously like the barrel of a gun. "Do just as I say," came a gravelly voice, "and you won't get hurt."
The young man was far from a coward, but he was not about to risk certain death by disobeying. "Whatever you say." He put his hands out slightly at his sides in a gesture of submission.
"Move toward that alley." The man with the gun gestured over to the right where a narrow corridor ran between two buildings. The young man walked in the indicated direction, with his kidnapper directly behind him. The gun never left the young man's ribs the entire time.
They walked some little distance into the alley until the dark shadows from the buildings completely hid them and they were out of sight of the street. "What do you want with me?" the young man finally dared to ask. His captor didn't answer, so he asked again, more loudly this time.
"Quiet!" came the muffled voice. Then, after a pause, it added, "You wouldn't understand."
The kidnaper, at this point, moved over beside him, and the gun barrel left his ribs for a moment. Deciding that this might be his only opportunity to put up a fight, the young captive swung into action. One of the reasons he had been picked for the Progress was that he was in top-notch physical condition and possessed lightning reflexes. With his left hand, he reached out to grab the gun from his captor while with his right he pulled off the cowl that had hidden the abductor's face.
From that point on, nothing went as he intended. He had hit the other's gun hand fairly hard, he thought. The strength he'd put into the blow should at least have deflected his adversary's aim, if not knocked the blaster totally out of his grasp. Instead, his hand hit the other's and stopped there. The kidnaper's arm did not move in the slightest from its position, as though sheer physical strength kept it pointed straight at its intended victim. But the failure of that attack was only a minor surprise compared to what the young man saw as he ripped off the other's facial covering.
He found himself looking directly into his own face. His own eyes stared calmly back at him, his lips curled in a casual smile. There was now no attempt to disguise the timbre as the other said, in his own voice, "Yes, aren't the wonders of science marvelous?"
Then, before the young man could even cry out in his astonishment, his exact duplicate squeezed the trigger and a bolt of searing heat lashed out, burning a hole completely through the hapless young man's abdomen. He crumpled to the ground without ever having an answer to his unspoken question: Why?
The duplicate bent over him, clucking slightly and shaking his head. Then, with one casual gesture, he lifted the body over his shoulder as though it were a sack of feathers and continued walking down the alley to the spot where he'd parked his car. His business in this place was done.
And in the immense metal monolith that was known as Rimskor Castle, two other men were also engrossed in the subject of the Princess's upcoming Progress.
Duke Fyodor Paskoi of Kolokov was a skeleton of a man who looked as though he had no right to still be alive. He massed barely thirty-five kilograms, yet stood close to two meters tall. The skin was stretched taut over his bony frame, his tendons and ligaments were like tough cords, and he had no muscles to speak of. Veins stood out like enormous blue highways just under his skin. He resembled nothing so much as a stick figure a child might draw. What little hair he had on his bead was confined to a few white wisps that straggled out from either side of his skull. His eyes were enormous orbs of white with small green irises and black pinpoints of pupils. They gleamed with the eerie glow of fanaticism.
