Lest We Forget Thee, Earth Page 2

  “Of course. Produce this Carso.”

  “He was here today, Sire. He searched for pardon from an unfair sentence of banishment over some silly barroom squabble. Alas, the finger of fate did not fall on him, and he leaves for Kariad tonight. But perhaps if the sentence were revoked I could get further information from him concerning the Chalice, which I would most dearly love to win for Your Majesty…”

  Joroiran’s fingers drummed the desktop. “Ah, yes—revokement. It would be possible, perhaps. Can you reach the man?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Tell him not to pay for his passage tickets, that the Royal Treasury will cover the cost of his travels from now on.”

  “But—”

  “The same applies to you, of course.

  Taken aback, Navarre lost a little of his composure. “Sire?”

  “I’ve spoken to Kausirn. Navarre, I don’t know if I can spare you, and Kausirn is uncertain as to whether he can handle the double load in your absence. But he is willing to try it, noble fellow that he is.”

  “I don’t understand,” Navarre stammered.

  “You say you have a lead on the whereabouts of this Chalice—correct? Kausirn has refreshed my overburdened memory with some information on this Chalice, and I find myself longing for its promise of eternal life, Navarre. You say you have a lead; very well. I’ve arranged for an indefinite leave of absence for you. Find this man Carso and together you can search the galaxies at my expense. I don’t care how long it takes, nor what it costs. But bring me the Chalice, Navarre!”

  The Earthman nearly fell backward in astonishment. Bring Joroiran the Chalice? Dizzily, Navarre realized that this was the work of the clever Kausirn: he would send the annoying Earthman all over space on a fool’s mission, while consolidating his own position securely at the side of the Overlord.

  Navarre forced himself to meet Joroiran’s eyes.

  “I will not fail you, my Lord,” he said in a strangled voice.

  He had been weaving twisted strands, he thought later in the privacy of his rooms, and now he had spun himself a noose. Talk of tradition! Nothing could melt it faster than a king’s desire to keep his throne eternally.

  For seven generations there had been an Earthman adviser at the Overlord’s side. Now, in a flash, the patient work of years was undone. Dejectedly, Navarre reviewed his mistakes.

  One: He had allowed Kausirn to worm his way into a position of eminence on the Council. Allow a Lyrellan an inch and he’ll grab a parsec. Navarre now saw—too late, of course—that he should have had the many-fingered one quietly put away while he had had the chance.

  Two: He had caroused the night before an audience day. Inexcusable. Someone—an agent of Kausirn’s, no doubt—had slipped a sleep drug into one of his drinks. He should have been on guard. By hereditary right and by his own wits he had always chosen the cases to be heard, and in the space of a single hour the Lyrellan had done him out of that.

  Three: He had lied too well. This was something he should have foreseen; he had aroused weak Joroiran’s desire to such a pitch that Kausirn was easily able to plant the suggestion that the Overlord send the faithful Earthman out to find the Chalice.

  Three mistakes. Now, he was on the outside and Kausirn in control.

  Navarre tipped his glass and drained it. “You’re a disgrace to your genes,” he told the oddly distorted reflection on the wall of the glass. “A hundred thousand years of Earth-man labor to produce what? You? Fumblewit!”

  Still, there was nothing to be done for it now. Joroiran had given the word, and here he was, assigned to chase a phantom, to pursue a will-o’-the-wisp. The Chalice! Chalice, indeed! There was no such thing.

  He tossed his empty glass aside and reached for the communicator. He punched the stud, quickly fed in four numbers and a letter.

  A blank radiance filled the screen, and an impersonal dry voice said, “Citizen Carso is not at home. Citizen Carso is not at home. Citizen Car—”

  Navarre cut the contact and dialed again. This time the screen lit, glowed, and revealed a tired-looking man in a stained white smock.

  “Jublain Street Bar,” the man said. “You want to see the manager?”

  “No. Is there a man named Domrik Carso there? A heavy-set fellow, with a thick beard?”

  “I’ll look around,” the barkeep grunted. A few moments later, Carso came to the screen; as Navarre had suspected, he was indulging in a few last swills of Joran beer before taking off for the outworlds.

  “Navarre? What do you want?”

  Navarre ignored the belligerent greeting. “Have you bought your ticket for Kariad yet?”

  Carso blinked. “Not yet. What’s it to you?”

  “If you haven’t bought the ticket yet, don’t. How soon can you get over here?”

  “Couple of centuries, maybe. What’s going on, Navarre?”

  “You’ve been pardoned.”

  “What? I’m not banished?”

  “Not exactly,” Navarre said. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it at long range. How soon can you get yourself over here?”

  “I’m due at the spaceport at twenty-one to pick up my tick—”

  “Damn your ticket,” Navarre snapped. “You don’t have to leave yet. Come over, will you?”

  Navarre peered across the table at Domrik Carso’s heavy-shouldered figure. “That’s the whole story,” the Earthman said. “Joroiran wants the Chalice—and he wants it real hard.”

  Carso shook his head and exhaled a beery breath. “Your damnable glib tongue has ruined us both, Hallam. With but half an Earthman’s mind I could have done better.”

  “It’s done, and Kausirn has me in a cleft stick. If nothing else, I’ve saved you from banishment.”

  “Only under condition that I help you find this nonexistent Chalice,” Carso grunted. “Some improvement that is. Well, at least Joroiran will foot the bill. We can both see the universe at his expense, and when we come back—”

  “We come back when we’ve found the Chalice,” said Navarre. “This isn’t going to be any pleasure jaunt.”

  Carso glared at him sourly. “Hallam, are you mad? There is no Chalice!”

  “How do you know? Joroiran says there is. The least we can do is look for it.”

  “We’ll wander space forever,” Carso said, scowling. “As no doubt the Lyrellan intends for you to do. Well, there’s nothing to do but accept. I’m no poorer for it than if I were banished. Chalice! Pah!”

  “Have another drink,” Navarre suggested. “It may make it easier for you to get the idea down your gullet.”

  “I doubt it,” the half-breed said, but he accepted the drink anyway. He drained it, then remarked, “A chalice is a drinking cup. Does this mean we seek a potion of immortality, or something of the like?”

  “Your guess weighs as much as mine. I’ve given you all I know on the subject.”

  “Excellent; now we both know nothing! Do you at least have some idea where this Chalice is supposedly located?”

  Navarre shrugged. “The legend’s incomplete. The thing might be anywhere. Our job is to find a particular drinking cup on a particular world in a pretty near infinite universe. Unfortunately, we have only a finite length of time in which to do the job.”

  “The typical short-sightedness of kings,” Carso muttered. “A sensible monarch would have sent a couple of immortals out in search of the Chalice.”

  “A sensible monarch would know when he’s had enough, and not ask to rule his system forever. But Joroiran’s not sensible.”

  They were silent for a moment, while the candle between them flickered palely. Then Carso grinned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Listen, Hallam. Why don’t we assume a location for the Chalice? At least it’ll give us a first goal to crack at. And it ought to be easier to find a planet than a drinking cup, shouldn’t it?”

  Navarre’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t follow you. Just where will we assume the Chalice is?”

  Ther
e was a mischievous twinkle in the half-breed’s dark eyes. He gulped another drink, grinned broadly, and belched.

  “Where? Why, Earth, of course!”

  III

  On more-or-less sober reflection the next morning, it seemed to Navarre that Carso had the right idea: finding Earth promised to be easier than finding the Chalice, if it made any sense to talk about relative degrees of ease in locating myths. Earth.

  Navarre knew the stories that each Earthman told to his children, that few non-Earthmen knew. Even though he was a half-breed, Carso would be aware of them too.

  Years ago—a hundred thousand, the legend said—man had sprung from Earth, an inconsequential world revolving around a small sun in an obscure galaxy. He had leaped forward to the stars, and carved out a mighty empire for himself. The glory of Earth was carried to the far galaxies, to the wide-flung nebulae of deepest space.

  But no race, no matter how strong, could hold sway over an empire that spanned a billion parsecs. The centuries passed; Earth’s grasp grew weaker. And, finally, the stars rebelled.

  Navarre remembered his mother’s vivid description. Earthmen had been outnumbered a billion to one, yet they kept the defensive screens up, and kept the home world untouched, had beaten back the invaders. But still the persistent starmen came, sweeping down on the small planet like angry beetles.

  Earth drew back from the stars; its military forces came to the aid of the mother world, and the empire crumbled.

  The withdrawal was to no avail. The hordes from the stars won the war of attrition, sacrificing men ten thousand to one and still not showing signs of defeat. The mother world yielded; the proud name of Earth was humbled and stricken from the roll call of worlds.

  What became of the armies of Earth no one knew. Those who survived were scattered about the galaxies, seeded here and there, a world of one cluster, a planet of another.

  Fiercely the Earthmen clung to their name. They shaved their heads to distinguish themselves from humanoids of a million star-systems—and death it was to the alien who offered himself as counterfeit Earthman!

  The centuries rolled by in their never-ending sweep, and Earth herself was forgotten. Yet the Earthmen remained, a thin band scattered through the heavens, proud of their heritage, guarding jealously their genetic traits. Carso was rare; it was but infrequently that an Earthwoman could be persuaded to mate with an alien. Yet Carso regarded himself as an Earthman, and never spoke of his father.

  Where was Earth? No on could name the sector of space, but Earth was in the hearts of the men who lived among the stars. Earthmen were sought out by kings; the bald- heads could not rule themselves, but they could advise those less fitted than they to command. ‘

  Then would come a fool like Joroiran, who held his throne because his father seven times removed had hewed an empire for him—and Joroiran would succumb to a Lyrellan’s wiles and order his Earthman off on a madman’s quest.

  Navarre’s fists stiffened. Send me for the Chalice? Aye, I’ll find something for him!

  The Chalice was an idiot’s dream; immortal life was a filmy bubble. But Earth was real; Earth merely awaited finding. Somewhere it bobbed in the heavens, forgotten symbol of an empire that had been.

  Smiling coldly, Navarre thought, I’ll find Earth for him.

  Unlimited funds were at his disposal. He would bring Joroiran a potion too powerful to swallow at a gulp.

  Later that day he and Carso were aboard a liner of the Royal Fleet, bearing tickets paid for by Royal frank, and feeling against their thighs the thick bulge of Imperial scrip received with glee from the Royal Treasury.

  “Ready for blasting,” came the stewardess’s voice. “We depart for Kariad in fifteen seconds. I hope you’ll relax and enjoy your trip.”

  Navarre slumped back in the acceleration cradle and closed his eyes. In a few seconds the liner would spring into space. The two hunters for the Chalice would have begun their quest.

  His heart ticked the seconds off impatiently. Twelve. Eleven.

  Nine. Six.

  Two. One.

  Acceleration took him, thrust him sharply downward as the liner left ground. Within seconds, they were high above the afternoon sky, plunging outward into the brightly dotted blackness speckled with the hard points of a billion suns.

  One of those suns was Sol, Navarre thought. And one of the planets of Sol was Earth.

  Chalice of Life, he thought scornfully. As Jorus dwindled behind him, Navarre wondered how long it would be before he would again see the simpering face of the Overlord Joroiran VII.

  Kariad, the planet nearest to the Joran Empire in their cluster, was the lone world of a double sun. This arrangement, economical as it was in terms of cosmic engineering, provided some spectacular views and made the planet a much-visited pleasure place.

  As Navarre and Carso alighted from the liner they could see that Primus, the massive red giant that was the heart of the system, hung high overhead, intersecting a huge arc of the sky, while Secundus, the smaller main-sequence yellow sun, flickered palely near the horizon. Kariad was moving between the two stars in its complex and eccentric hourglass orbit, and, in the light of the two suns, all objects acquired a strange purple shimmer.

  Those who had disembarked from the liner were standing in a tight knot on the field while Kariadi customs officials moved among them. Navarre stood with arms folded, waiting for his turn to come.

  The official wore a gilt-encrusted surplice and a bright red sash that seemed almost brown in the light of the double suns. He yanked forth a metal-bound notebook and began to scribble things.

  “Name and planet of origin?”

  “Hallam Navarre. Planet of origin, Earth.”

  The customs man glared impatiently at Navarre’s shaven scalp and snapped, “You know what I mean. What planet are you from?”

  “Jorus,” Navarre said.

  “Purpose of visiting Kariad?”

  “I’m a special emissary from Overlord Joroiran VII; intent peaceful, mission confidential.”

  “Are you the Earthman to the Court?” Navarre nodded. “And this man?”

  “Domrik Carso,” the half-breed growled. “Planet of origin, Jorus.”

  The official indicated Carso’s stubbly scalp. “I wish you Earthmen would show some consistency. One says he’s from Earth, the other—or are you not an Earthman, but merely prematurely bald?”

  “I’m of Earth descent,” Carso said stolidly. “But I’m from Jorus, and you can put it down. I’m Navarre’s traveling companion.”

  The customs officer riffled perfunctorily through their papers a moment, then handed them back. “Very well. You may both pass.”

  Navarre and Carso moved off the field and into the spaceport itself.

  “I could use a beer,” Carso said.

  “I guess you’ve never been on Kariad, then. They must brew their beer from sewer-flushings here.”

  “I’ll drink sewer-flushings when I must,” Carso said. He pointed to a glowing tricolored sign. “There’s a bar. Shall we go in?”

  As Navarre had expected, the beer was vile. He stared unhappily at the mug of green, brackish liquid, stirring it with a quiver of his wrist and watching the oily patterns forming and re-forming on its surface.

  Across the table, Carso was showing no such qualms. The half-breed tilted the bottle into his mug, raised the big mug to his lips, drank. Navarre shuddered.

  Grinning, Carso crashed the mug down and wiped his beard clean.

  “It’s not the best I’ve ever had,” he commented finally. “But it’ll do in a pinch.” Shrugging cheerfully, he filled his mug a second time.

  Very quietly, Navarre said, “Do you see those men sitting at the far table?”

  Carso squinted and looked at them without seeming to do so. “Aye. They were on board the ship with us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But so were at least five of the other people in this bar! Surely you don’t think—”

  “I don’t intend
to take any chances,” Navarre said flatly. “Finish your drink. I want to make a tour of the spaceport.”

  “Well enough, if you say so.” Carso drained the drink and left one of Overlord Joroiran’s bills on the table to pay for it. Casually, the pair left the bar.

  Their first stop was a tape shop. There, Navarre made a great business over ordering a symphony.

  The effusive, apologetic proprietor did his best. “The Anvils of Juno? I don’t think I have that number in stock. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of it. Could it be The Hammer of Drolon you seek?”

  “I’m fairly sure it was the Juno,” said Navarre, who had invented the work a moment before. “But perhaps I’m wrong. Is there any place here I can listen to the Drolon?”

  “Surely; we have a booth back here where you can experience full audiovisual effect. If you’d step this way, please…”

  They spent fifteen minutes sampling the tape, Carso with a prevailing expression of utter boredom, Navarre with a scowl for the work’s total insipidity. The symphony was banal and obvious—a typical Kariadi hack product, churned out by some weary tone-artist to meet the popular demand. At the end of the first fifteen-minute movement Navarre snapped off the playback and rose.

  The proprietor came bustling up to the booth. “Well?”

  “Sorry,” Navarre said. “This isn’t the one I want.”

  Gathering his cloak about him, he swept out of the shop, followed by Carso. As they re-entered the main concourse of the terminal arcade, Navarre saw two figures glide swiftly into the shadows—but not swiftly enough.

  “I do believe you’re right,” Carso muttered. “We’re being followed.”

  “Kausirn’s men, no doubt. The Lyrellan must be curious to see which way we’re heading. Or possibly he’s ordered my assassination, now that I’m away from the Court. But let’s give it one more test before we take steps.”

  “No more music!” Carso said hastily.

  “No. The next stop will be a more practical one.”

  Navarre led the way down the arcade until they reached a shop whose front display said simply, Weapons. They went in.