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It was a relief globe of a world, partly in shadows, spinning under the impetus of a fat hand that glittered with rings. The globe sat on a freeform stand at one wall of a windowless room whose other walls presented a patchwork of multicolored scrolls, filmbooks, tapes and reels. Light glowed in the room from golden balls hanging in mobile suspensor fields.
An ellipsoid desk with top of jade-pink petrified arocco wood stood at the room's center. Veriform suspensor chairs ringed it, two of the occupied. In one sat a dark-haired youth of about 16 years, round of face and with sullen eyes. The other held a slender, short man with an effeminate face.
Both youth and man stared at the globe and the man half-hidden in the shadows responsible for spinning it.
A chuckle sounded beside the globe. A basso voice rumbled out of the chuckle: "There it is, Yakov---the biggest mantrap in galactic history. And the Duke's headed into its jaws. Is it not a magnificent thing that I, the Baron Nikusha Seppanen, do?"
"It assuredly is, Baron," said the man. His voice came out tenor with a sweet, musical quality.
The fat hand descended onto the globe, stopping the spinning. Now, all eyes in the room could focus on the motionless surface and see that it was the kind of globe made for wealthy collectors or planetary governors of the Empire. It had the stamp of Imperial handicraft all over it. Latitude and longitude lines were laid in with hair-fine platinum wire. The polar caps were insets of cloud-milk diamonds.
The fat hand moved, tracing details on the surface. "I invite you to observe," the basso voice rumbled. "Observe closely, Yakov, and you too, Ram-Gurgen, my darling; from sixty degrees north of seventy degrees south---these exquisite ripples. Their coloring---does it not remind you of sweet caramels? And nowhere do you see blue of lakes, rivers, or seas. And these lovely polar caps---so small. Could anyone mistake this place? Dyuna! Truly unique. A superb setting for a unique victory."
A smile touched Yakov's lips. "And to think, Baron: The Pbejtibi Sultan believes he's given the duke your spice planet. How poignant."
"That's a nonsensical statement," the Baron rumbled. "You say this to confuse young Ram-Gurgen, but it is not necessary to confuse my nephew."
The sullen-faced youth stirred in his chair, smoothed a wrinkle in the black leotards he wore. He sat upright as a discreet tapping sounded at the door in the wall beside him.
Yakov unfolded from his chair, crossed to the door, cracked it wide enough to accept a message cylinder. He shut the door, unrolled the cylinder, and scanned it. A chuckle sounded from him. Another.
"Well?" the Baron demanded.
"The fool answered us, Baron!"
"Whenever did a Romanov refuse the opportunity for a gesture?" the Baron asked. "Well, what does he say?"
"He's most uncouth, Baron. Addresses you as 'Seppanen'---no 'Sire et Cher Cousin,' no title, nothing."
"Why not? It's a good name," the Baron growled, and his voice betrayed his impatience. "What does dear Nicholas say?"
"He says: 'To your offer of a meeting, I fear that I must say a most emphatic no. Ofttimes, I have met your treachery and all men know of this."
"What else?" the Baron asked.
"He says: 'The art of kanly still has admirers in the Empire.' He signs it: 'Duke Nicholas Romanov of Dyuna.'" Yakov started to laugh. "Of Dyuna! Oh, dear! How hysterical this is."
"Quiet. Yakov," the Baron said, and the laughter stopped as if shut off with a switch. "Kanly, is it?" the Baron asked. "Vendetta, eh? And he uses the nice old word so rich in tradition to make sure I knew he means it."
"You made the peace gesture," Yakov said. "The forms have been obeyed."
"For a Technopath, you talk way too much, Yakov," the Baron said. And he thought: I must eliminate this one soon. He has almost outlived his usefulness. The Baron stared across the room at his Technopath assassin, seeing the feature about him that most people noticed first: the eyes, the shaded slits of blue within blue, the eyes without any white in them at all.
In a cold voice, the Baron said, "You have an unfortunate flux of the mouth, Yakov."
"Yet I am content, my Baron. Whereas you---you are plagued by jealousy."
"Yakov!"
"Ah-ah, Baron! Is it not regrettable that you were unable to devise this delicious scheme on your own?"
"Someday I will have you garroted, Yakov!"
"Of a certainty, Baron. Emkem! But a kind act is never lost, no?"
"Have you been chewing flephite or konidu, Yakov?"
"Truth without fear surprises the Baron," Yakov said. His face drew down into a caricature of a frowning mask. "Ah, hah! But you see, Baron, I know as a Technopath when you will send the executioner. You will hold back just as long as I am useful. To move sooner would be wasteful and I'm yet of much use. I know what it is that you learned from that lovely Dyuna planet---waste not, want not. True, Baron?"
The Baron went on staring at Yakov.
Ram-Gurgen squirmed in his chair. These wrangling fools! he thought. My uncle cannot talk to his Technopath without arguing. Do they think I've nothing better to do than to listen to their arguments?
"Ram," the Baron said. "I told you to listen and learn when I invited you here. Are you learning?"
"I am, Uncle," the voice was carefully subservient.
"Sometimes I wonder about Yakov," the Baron said. "When I make pain, it is out of need, but him---he takes a positive delight in it. For myself, i can feel pity towards the poor Duke Nicholas. Dr. Rasputin will move against him soon, and that'll be the end of all the Romanovs. But surely Nicholas will know whose hand guided the corrupt doctor---and knowing that will be an awful thing."
"Then, why hadn't you directed the doctor to slip a nazis between his ribs silently and efficiently?" Yakov asked. "You talk pity, but..."
"The Duke must know when I encompass his doom," the Baron said. "And the other Great Houses must learn of it. The knowledge will give them pause. I'll gain a bit more room to maneuver. The need is obvious, but I don't have to like it."
"Room to maneuver," Yakov sneered. "Already you have to Sultan's eyes on you, Baron. You move too boldly. One day the Sultan will send a legion or two of his Sordoi down here onto G'ob' Prime, and that'll be an end to the Baron Nikusha Seppanen."
"You'd like to see that, wouldn't you, Yakov?" the Baron asked. "You'd enjoy seeing the Warrior-Elite of Sordoi pillage my cities and sack my palace. You'd truly enjoy that?"
"As if the Baron had to ask," Yakov whispered.
"You should have been a Hetman of the Warrior-Elite," the Baron said. "You're obsessed unhealthily with bloodletting and pain. Perhaps I was too quick with my promise of the spoils of Dyuna."
Yakov took five curiously mincing steps into the room, stopped directly behind Ram-Gurgen. There was a tight air of tension in the room, and the youth looked up at Yakov with a worried frown.
"Toy not with Yakov, Baron," Yakov said. "You promised me the Lady Alexandra. You promised her to me."
"For what, Yakov?" the Baron asked. "Pain?"
Yakov stared at him, dragging out the silence.
Ram-Gurgen moved his suspensor chair to one side, said, "Must I remain here, Uncle? You said you'd..."
"My dear Ram-Gurgen grows impatient," the Baron said. He moved within the shadows beside the globe. "Patience, Ram." And he turned his attention back to the Technopath. "What of the Dukeling, the child Alexei, my darling Yakov?"
"The trap will deliver him unto you, Baron," Yakov muttered.
"That is not what I asked you," the Baron admonished. "You'll recall that you predicted the Bala Garrasaid enchantress would bear a daughter to the Duke. You were wrong, eh, Technopath?"
"I'm not often wrong, Baron," Yakov said, and for the first time there was fear in his voice. "Allow me that: I'm not often wrong. And you yourself these Bala Garrasaid enchantresses bear mostly daughters. Why, even the Sultan's consort had produced only daughters!"
"Uncle," said Ram-Gurgen, "did you not say that there'd be something vital here for me to..."
"Listen to my nephew," the Baron said. "He aspires to rule my Barony, yet he cannot rule himself." The Baron stirred beside his globe, a shadow among shadows. "Well, then, Ram-Gurgen Seppanen, I summoned you here hoping to teach you a bit of wisdom. Have you observed our good Technopath? You should've learned something from this exchange."
"But, Uncle...."
"A most efficient Technopath, our Yakov, wouldn't you say, Ram?"
"Yes, but..."
"No buts! However, he does consume too much spice, eats it like a child eats candy. Just look into his eyes! He might've come directly from the Dyuni labor pool. Though efficient, poor Yakov is still emotional and prone to childish outbursts. Though efficient, poor Yakov can still make mistakes."
Yakov spoke in a low, sullen tone. "Did you call me in here to impair my efficiency with criticism, Baron?"
"Impair your efficiency? You know me better than that, Yakov. I wish only for my nephew to understand the limitations of a Technopath."
"Are you already training my replacement?" Yakov demanded.
"Replace you? Why, Yakov, where could I find another Technopath with your cunning and venom?"
"The same place you found me, Baron."
"Maybe I should at that," the Baron mused. "You do seem a bit unstable lately. And the spice you eat!"
"Are my pleasures too costly, Baron? Do you object to them?"
"My dear Yakov, your pleasures are what tie you to me. How could I object to that? I merely wish my nephew to observe this about you."
"Then I'm on display," Yakov said. "Shall I dance? Shall I perform my various functions for the eminent Ram-Gur...."
"Precisely!" the Baron said. "You are on display. Now be quiet." He glanced at Ram-Gurgen, noting his nephew's lips, the full and pouting look of them, the Seppanen genetic marker, now twisted slightly in amusement. "This is a Technopath, Ram. It has to be trained and conditioned to perform certain tasks. The fact that it's encased in a human body, however, must not be overlooked. That is a serious drawback. So serious that sometimes I think the ancients with their thinking machines had the right idea."
"They were toys compared to me!" Yakov snarled. "You, yourself, Baron, could outdo those machines!"
"I'm sure I could," the Baron said. "Ah, well..." He took a deep breath, belched. "Now, Yakov, outline for my nephew the salient features of our campaign against House Romanov. Function as a Technopath for us, if you please."
"Baron, I've warned you not to trust one so young with this data. My observations of..."
"I'll be the judge of that," the Baron said. "I gave you an order, Technopath. Carry out your directive---now!"
"So be it," Yakov said. He straightened, assuming an odd attitude of dignity---as if it were another mask, but this time clothing his whole body. "In a few days Standard, the whole household of Duke Nicholas Romanov will embark on a Space Guild transjumper for Dyuna. The Guild will deposit them at the city of Mat E'trov rather than at our city of Mur Eldhe. The Duke's Technopath, Eugene Botkin, will have concluded rightly that Mat E'trov is easier to defend."
"Listen carefully, Ram," the Baron said. "Observe the plans within plans."
Ram-Gurgen nodded, thinking: This is more like it. The old monster is letting me in on secret things at last. He really means for me to be his heir.
"There are several tangential possibilities," Yakov said. "I predict that House Romanov will go to Dyuna. We must not, however, ignore the possibility that the Duke has contracted with the Guild to remove him to a place of safety outside the Adil System. Others in like circumstances have become rouge Houses, taking family nuclears and shields and fleeing beyond the Imperium."
"The Duke is too proud a man to do that," the Baron said.
"It is a possibility," Yakov said. "The ultimate effect for us would be the same, however."
"No, it would not!" the Baron growled. "I must have him dead and his bloodline ended!"
"That's the high probability," Yakov said. "There are certain preparations that indicate when a House is going rogue. The Duke seems to be doing none of these things."
"So," the Baron sighed. "Get on with it, Yakov."
"At Mat E'tov," Yakov said, "the Duke and his family will occupy the Residency, lately the home of Count and Lady Pasternak."
"The Ambassador to the Smugglers himself," the Baron chuckled.
"Ambassador to what?" Ram-Gurgen asked.
"Your uncle makes a joke," Yakov said. "He calls Count Pasternak Ambassador to the Smugglers, indicating the Sultan's interest in Smuggling operations on Dyuna.
Ram-Gurgen turned a puzzled stare on his uncle. "Why?"
"Are you a dullard, Ram?" the Baron snapped. "So long as the Guild remains effectively beyond Imperial dominance, it could not be otherwise. How else could spies and assassins move about?"
Ram-Gurgen's mouth made a soundless "Oh-h-h-h."
"We've arranged diversions at the Residency," Yakov said. "There'll be an attempt on the life of the Romanov heir---an attempt that could succeed."
"Yakov," the Baron rumbled, "did you not indicate..."
"I indicated that accidents could happen," Yakov said. "The attempt must therefore look valid."
"Ah, but the lad has such a sweet young body," the Baron said. "Of course, he's potentially more dangerous than the father...with that enchantress mother training him. Devil woman! Ah, well, please go on, Yakov."
"Botkin will have divined that we have an agent placed on him," Yakov said. "The obvious suspect is Dr. Rasputin, who is indeed our inside man. But Botkin has investigated and found that our doctor is a Suk School graduate with Imperial Conditioning. It's assumed that ultimate conditioning cannot be removed without killing the subject. However, as someone once observed, given the right lever you can move a planet. We found the lever that moved the doctor."
"How?" Ram-Gurgen asked. He found this a fascinating subject. Everyone knew you couldn't subvert Imperial Conditioning?"
"Another time," the Baron said. "Go on, Yakov."
"In place of Rasputin," Yakov said, "we'll drag a most interesting suspect across Botkin's path. The very audacity of this suspect will recommend her to Botkin's attention."
"Her?" Ram-Gurgen asked.
"The Lady Alexandra herself," the Baron said.
"Sublime, is it not?" Yakov asked. "Botkin's mind will be so filled with this prospect it'll impair his function as a Technopath. He may even try to kill her." Yakov frowned, then: "But I don't think he'll be able to carry it out."
"Do you not want him to?" the Baron asked.
"Don't distract me," Yakov said. "While Botkin's occupied with the Lady Alexandra, we'll divert him further with uprisings in some garrison towns and the like. These will be put down. The Duke will believe he's gaining a significant measure of security. Then, when the moment is ripe, we'll signal Rasputin and move in with a major force...ah...."
"Go ahead and tell him all of it," the Baron said.
"We'll move in strengthened by two legions of Sordoi disguised in Seppanen livery."
"Sordoi!" Ram-Gurgen breathed. His mind focused on the dread Imperial Cossacks, the killers without mercy, the soldier-fanatics of the Pbejitbi Sultan.
"You see how I trust you, Yakov," the Baron said. "No hint of this must ever reach another Great House, lest the Paarlement unite against the Imperial House and cause unimaginable chaos and anarchy."
"The main point," Yakov said, "is this: since House Seppanen is being used to do the Imperial grunt work, we've gained a true advantage. It's a dangerous advantage, to be sure, but if used cautiously it will bring House Seppanen greater wealth than that of any other house of the Imperium."
"You have no idea how much wealth is involved, Ram," the Baron said. "Not in your wildest dreams. To start, we'll have an irrevocable directorship in the CCOAM Company."
Ram-Gurgen nodded. Wealth was all, all was wealth. CCOAM was the key to wealth, each noble House dipping from the company coffers whatever it could under the power of the directorship. Those CCOAM directorships---they were the real evidence of political power in the Imperium, passing with the shifts of voting strength within the Paarlement as it balanced itself against the Sultan and his followers.
"The Duke Nicholas," Yakov said, "may attempt to flee to the new Szgany scum along the desert's edge. Or he may try to send his family into that imagined security. But that path is blocked by one of His Highness's agents---the planetary ecologist. You may remember him---Holstein."
"Ram remembers him," the Baron said. "Get on with it."
"You do not drool very prettily, Baron," Yakov said.
"Get on with it, I command you!" the Baron roared.
"More profits," Ram-Gurgen said.
"Yes, indeed," the Baron said. And he thought: It's only just. We're the ones who tamed Dyuna....except for the few mongrel Szganys hiding in the skirts of the desert---and some tame smugglers bound to the planet almost as tightly as the local labor pool.
"And the Great Houses will know that the Baron has annihilated the Romanovs," Yakov said. "They will know."
"They will know," the Baron breathed.
"Loveliest of all," Yakov said, "is that the Duke will know, too. He knows now. He can already feel the trap."
"It's true that the Duke knows," the Baron said, and his voice held a note of sadness. "He could not help but know---more's the pity."
The Baron moved out and away from the globe of Dyuna. As he emerged from the shadows, his figure took on dimension---grossly and immensely fat. And with subtle bulges beneath folds of his dark robes to reveal that all this fat was partially sustained by portable suspensors harnessed within his flesh. He might weigh two hundred standard kilos in reality, but his feet would carry no more than fifty of them.
"I hunger now," the Baron rumbled, and he rubbed his protruding lips with a beringed hand, stared down at Ram-Gurgen through fat-enfolded eyes. "Send for food, my darling, that we may eat before we retire."
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