Chapter 10
DIOMEDES SENT HIS CAR round to the barracks in the morning to pick up Brasidus. It was another fine day, and the drive out to the spaceport was pleasant. The driver was not disposed to talk, which suited Brasidus. He was turning over and over in his mind what he would tell Diomedes and was wondering what conclusions Diomedes would draw from the events in the créche. Meanwhile, there was the morning air to enjoy, still crisp, not yet tainted by the pungency from the spice fields on either side of the road.
Above the spaceport the ships of the Air Navy still circled and, as the car neared the final approaches, Brasidus noted that heavy motorized artillery as well as squadrons of armored cavalry had been brought up. Whatever John Grimes had in mind, the Police Battalion would be ready for him. But Brasidus did not regret that he had not, as a recruit, been posted to a mechanized unit. A hoplite such as himself was always fully employed, the armored cavalry, but rarely, the artillery, almost never.
The main gates opened as the car, without slackening speed, approached them. The duty guard saluted smartly—the vehicle rather than himself, Brasidus guessed. There was a spectacular halt in a column of swirling dust outside the Security office. Diomedes was standing in the doorway. He sneezed, glared at the driver, withdrew hastily into the building. Brasidus waited until the dust had subsided before getting out of the car.
“That Agis!” snarled the Captain as he sketchily acknowledged Brasidus’ salute, “I’ll have him transferred to the infantry!”
“I’ve seen him do the same when he’s been driving you, sir.”
“Hmph! That’s different, young man. Well, he got you here in good time. Just as well, as I’ve instructions for you.”
“And I’ve a report for you, sir.”
“Already, Brasidus? You’ve wasted no time.” He smiled greasily. “As a matter of fact, I’ve already had a call from Captain Lycurgus, passing on a complaint from Doctor Heraklion. What did you learn?”
Brasidus, who possessed a trained memory, told his superior what he had seen and heard. Diomedes listened intently. Then he asked, “And what do you think, Brasidus?”
“That Arcadians were already on Sparta before Seeker landed, sir.”
“Arcadians? Oh, yes. The twin-turreted androids. Did you hear that rumor, too? And how do you think they got here?”
“There could have been secret landings, sir. Or they could have been smuggled in aboard Latterhaven Venus and Latterhaven Hera.”
“And neither of these theories throws Security in a very good light, does it? And the smuggling one rather reflects upon the spaceport guards.”
“They needn’t be smuggled in as adults, sir. Children could be hidden in some of those crates discharged by the Latterhaven ships. They could be drugged, too, so that they couldn’t make any noise.”
“Ingenious, Brasidus. Ingenious. But I’ve been aboard the Venus and the Hera often enough and, believe me, it would be impossible for either ship to carry more than her present complement. Not even children. They’re no more than cargo boxes with a handful of cubicles, cells that we should consider inadequate for our criminals, perched on top of them.”
“The cargo holds?”
“No. You can’t have a man—or a child—living in any confined space without his leaving traces.”
“But they didn’t just happen, sir. The Arcadians, I mean.”
“Of course not. They either budded from their fathers or came out of a birth machine.” Diomedes seemed to find this amusing. “No, they didn’t just happen. They were either brought here or came here under their own power. But why?”
“Heraklion seemed to like the one that he was with last night. It was . . . unnatural.”
“And what were your feelings toward him? Or it?”
Brasidus blushed. He muttered, “As you said yourself, sir, these beings possess a strange, evil power.”
“So they do. So they do. That’s why we must try to foil any plot in which they’re engaged.” He looked at his watch. “Meanwhile, my own original plan still stands. The Council has approved my suggestion that Seeker’s personnel be allowed to leave their ship. Today you will, using my car and driver, escort Lieutenant Commander Grimes and Doctor Lazenby to the city, where an audience with the King and the Council has been arranged for them. You will act as guide as well as escort, and—you are armed—also as guard.”
“To protect them, sir?”
“Yes. I suppose so. But mainly to protect the King. How do we know that when they are in his presence they will not pull a weapon of some kind? You will be with them; you will be situated to stop them at once. Of course, there will be plenty of my own men in the Council Chamber, but you would be able to act without delay if you had to.”
“I see, sir.”
“All right. Now we are to go aboard the ship to tell them that everything has been organized.”
A junior officer met them in the airlock, escorted them up to the commander’s quarters. Grimes was attired in what was obviously ceremonial uniform—and very hot and uncomfortable it must be, thought Brasidus. Professionally he ran his eye over the spaceman for any evidence of weapons. There was one, in full sight, but not a very dangerous one. It was a sword, its hilt gold-encrusted, in a gold-trimmed sheath at his left side. More for show than use, was Brasidus’ conclusion.
John Grimes grinned at his two visitors. “I hate this rig,” he confided, “but I suppose I have to show the flag. Doctor Lazenby is lucky. Nobody has ever gotten around to designing full dress for women officers.”
There was a tap at the door and Margaret Lazenby entered. He was dressed as he had been the previous day, although the clothing itself, with its bright braid and buttons, was obviously an outfit that was worn only occasionally. He said pleasantly, “Good morning, Captain Diomedes. Good morning, Sergeant. Are you coming with us, Captain?”
“Unfortunately, no. I have urgent business here at the spaceport. But Brasidus will be your personal escort. Also, I have detailed two chariots to convoy you into the city.”
“Chariots? Oh, you mean those light tanks that we’ve been watching from the control room.”
“Tanks?” repeated Diomedes curiously. “A tank is something you keep fluids in.”
“There are tanks and tanks. Where we come from, a tank can be an armored vehicle with caterpillar tracks.”
“And what does ‘caterpillar’ mean?”
Grimes said. “Over the generations new words come into the language and old words drop out. Obviously there are no caterpillars on Sparta, and so the term is meaningless. However, Captain Diomedes, you are welcome to make use of our microfilm library; I would suggest the Encyclopedia Galactica. “
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander.” Diomedes looked at his watch. “But may I suggest that you and Doctor Lazenby proceed now to your audience?”
“And will the rest of my crew be allowed ashore?”
“That depends largely upon the impression that you make upon the King and his Council.”
“Where’s my fore-and-aft hat?” muttered Grimes. He got up, went through one of the curtained doorways. He emerged wearing an odd, gold-braided, black cloth helmet. He said, “Lead on, MacDuff.”
“It should be ‘Lay on, MacDuff,’ “ Margaret Lazenby told him.
“I know, I know.”
“And who is MacDuff?” asked Diomedes.
“He’s dead. He was the Thane of Cawdor.”
“And where is Cawdor?”
Grimes sighed.
***
Brasidus, although he could not say why he did so, enjoyed the ride to the city. He, Grimes and Margaret Lazenby were in the back seat of the car, with the Arcadian (it was as good a label as any) sitting between the two humans. He was stirred by the close proximity of this strange being, almost uncomfortably so. When Margaret Lazenby leaned across him to look at a medusa tree swarming with harpies, he realized that those peculiar fleshy mounds, which even the severe uniform could not hide, were deliciously soft. So much for the built-in weapon theory. “What fantastic birds!” exclaimed the Arcadian.
“They are harpies,” said Brasidus.
“Those round bodies do look like human heads, don’t they? They could be straight out of Greek mythology.”
“So you have already made a study of our legends?” asked Brasidus, interested.
“Of course.” Margaret Lazenby smiled. (His lips against the white teeth were very red. Could it be natural?) “But they aren’t just your legends. They belong to all Mankind.”
“I suppose they do. Admiral Latterus must have carried well-stocked libraries aboard his ships.”
“Admiral Latterus?” asked Margaret Lazenby curiously.
“The founder of Latterhaven. I am surprised that you have not heard of him. He was sent from Sparta to establish the colony, but he made himself King of the new world and never returned.”
“What a beautiful history,” murmured the Arcadian. “Carefully tailored to fit the facts. Tell me, Brasidus, did you ever hear of the Third Expansion, or of Captain John Latter, master of the early timejammer Utah? Come to that, did you ever hear of the First Expansion?”
“You talk in riddles, Margaret Lazenby.”
“And you and your world are riddles that must be solved, Brasidus.”
“Careful, Peggy,” warned John Grimes.
The Arcadian turned to address his commander—and, as he did so, Brasidus was acutely conscious of the softness and resilience of the rump under the uniform kilt. “They’ll have to be told the truth some time, John—and I’m sure that Brasidus will forgive me for using him as the guinea pig for the first experiment. But I am a little drunk, I guess. All this glorious fresh air after weeks of the canned variety. And look at those houses! With architecture like that, there should be real chariots escorting us, not these hunks of animated ironmongery. Still, apart from his sidearms, Brasidus is dressed properly.”
“The ordinary hoplites,” said Brasidus with some pride, “those belonging to the subject city-states, are armed only with swords and spears.”
“They didn’t have wristwatches in ancient Sparta,” Grimes pointed out.
“Oh, be practical, John. He could hardly wear an hourglass or a sundial on his arm, could he?”
“It’s . . . phony,” grumbled Grimes.
“It should be as phony as all hell, but it’s not,” Margaret Lazenby told him. “I wish I’d known just how things are here, though. I’d have soaked up Hellenic history before we came here . . . What are those animals, Brasidus? They look almost like a sort of hairless wolf.”
“They are the scavengers. They keep the streets of the city clean. There is a larger variety, wild, out on the hills and plains. They are the wolves.”
“But that one, there. Look! It’s Siamese twins. It seems to be in pain. Why doesn’t somebody do something about it?”
“But why? It’s only budding. Don’t you reproduce like us—or like we used to, before Lacedaemon invented the birth machine?” He paused. “But I suppose you have birth machines, too.”
“We do,” said Grimes—and Margaret Lazenby reddened. It was obviously a private joke of some kind.
“The glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome,” murmured the Arcadian after a long pause. “But this isn’t—forgive me, Brasidus—quite as glorious as it should be. There’s a certain . . . untidiness in your streets. And this absence of women seems . . . odd. As I recall it, the average Greek housewife was nothing much to write home about, but the hetaerae must have been ornamental.”
“Did they have hetaerae in Sparta?” asked Grimes. “I thought that it was only in Athens.”
We do have hetaerae in Sparta, Brasidus thought but did not say, recalling what he had seen and heard in the créche. Sally (another queer name!) had admitted to being one. But what were hetaerae, anyhow?
“They had women,” said Margaret Lazenby. “And some of them must have been reasonably good-looking, even by our standards. But Sparta was more under masculine domination than the other Greek states.”
“Is that the palace ahead, Brasidus?” asked Grimes.
“It is, sir.”
“Then be careful, Peggy. Watch your step—and your tongue.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
“And I suppose that you, Brasidus, will report everything that you’ve heard to Captain Diomedes?”
“Of course, sir.”
“And so he should,” Margaret Lazenby said. “When it gets around, these pseudo-Spartans might realize all that they are missing.”
“And is the fact that they’re missing it grounds for commiseration or congratulation?” asked Grimes quietly.
“Shut up!” snapped his officer mutinously.