Smith, E E 'Doc' - d'Alembert 03 - The Clockwork Traitor

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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

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

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

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

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 wouldn't be so bad if anyone interesting went along. But they always

choose such

dull people. The men are always of two types-either the athlete with the

flashy smile or

the bookworm with the squinty eyes. I'm twentyfour years old; why can't they

realize I'm

looking for someone a little more balanced?"

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

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.

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.

But for all the horror of his appearance, Duke Fyodor was most definitely

alive. Though

he had contracted his rare and usually fatal illness as a child nearly thirty

years ago, he

did not die of it. His father, the then duke, had spared no expense to ensure

his survival

and the survival of the family name. Prosthetic devices of every kind known to

medical

science of the twenty-fifth century kept him functioning.

Because his body was too weak to stand against the normal gravity of his

planet, a

mechanical exoskeleton supported him. Minuscule motors powered every movement

his limbs. A pacemaker regulated the beating of his weakened heart; in fact,

machines

controlled the activities of virtually all his internal organs. Even his teeth

were artificial,

as the real ones had fallen out long ago.

As life, it was pitiful; but as survival, it was a triumph. His weak white

eyes-aided by tiny,

almost invisible lenses-scanned the note he had been handed and the news

caused

him to chuckle. It was an eerie sound, very much akin to a death rattle. "It's

done," he

said. "The substitution is complete." His voice was flat and buzzy, being

electronically

modulated; it emanated from twin speakers on either side of his head, giving

authority

to even his most trivial pronouncements.

The man with him, Dr. Immanuel Rustin, smiled. "Did Your Grace have any doubts

about my abilities?" "None whatsoever. I knew the man who designed this hell

cage

that keeps me alive could devise anything. But other factors than your

abilities entered

into this endeavor. We're playing the game for large stakes, my friend, and

every

moment must be considered critical. Detection at this stage would prove

fatal."

"He will not be detected." Dr. Rustin, a small man with deep set, intense eyes

and a

beak of a nose, made one of his emphatic gestures with his arms. "Our little

creation

was built to perfection, even down to fingerprints, voiceprint, and retinal

patterns. Only

an X ray would reveal his true nature, so stop worrying. They're not about to

give him

another medical exam-at least not for a while yet and by that time we'll be in

a position

to fake the results."

"I know, I know, we've been all over this a thousand times before. It's just

that all my life

has been an uphill struggle; I could never afford to take anything for

granted, and I don't

intend to start now."

He stopped for a minute and gazed down at his companion, his eyes seeming to

burn

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THECLOCKWORKTRAITORVolumeThreeofTheclassicFamilyd'AlembertseriesByE.E.‘Doc'SmithWithStephenGoldinPrologueRawlWinsted'sheadfeltbruised.Itwasnotaphysicalfeelingbutamentalone,afuzzinessinhismindasthoughhisentirebrainwerewrappedincottonwool.Andtherewasoneparticularportionofhismemorythathesimplycouldnott...

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