Poul Anderson - Flandry 01 - Agent of the Terran Empire

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AGENT OF THE TERRAN EMPIRE - Poul Anderson

AGENT OF THE TERRAN EMPIRE

Poul Anderson

[29 jan 2003—scanned by Wickman99]

[30 jan 2003—proofread for #bookz]

Introduction

Here is a set of swashbuckling, breathtaking adventures among the stars, in the future yet to come. Sir

Dominic Flandry, captain in Earth's Imperial Naval Intelligence Corps, schemes and fights his way

through a clutch of enemies, human and nonhuman.

At the same time, these stories deal with more than wild battles, hairbreadth escapes, and escapades

involving some of the galaxy's most enticing young ladies. Beneath all the swashbuckling there is a view

of history, as it has been and as it perhaps always will be.

The wildest adventures seem to come at two different stages in the life of a civilization. First the

adventures come when the civilization is fresh, vigorous, and aggressively expanding. But there is also

the time when the civilization is old, when it wants nothing but to be left in peace. Then the ruthless new

peoples arise, beyond the imperial borders or even within them. It happened to Egypt, Persia, India,

China, Greece, Rome. Someday it may happen to all Earth.

In those eras, someone must man the ramparts. He may be a Roman legionnaire, or he may be an

intelligence agent of Terra's empire among the stars. But he is always a lonely man. Sir Dominic, no grim

and humorless professional hero, can crack a joke, hoist a bottle, or kiss a girl with the best of them. But

he sees the barbarians pressing inward through the stellar marches. He sees the purpose of the powerful,

nonhuman Merseian Empire—to end the uneasy peace with mankind by sweeping mankind aside. And he

sees corruption and cowardice at home. If the Long Night is not to come in his own lifetime, if the things

he cares about are to be saved, he must do what he can.

And he does it very well—often lethally well. When a gang of atomic-powered savages are unwise

enough to kidnap him, they find they have a tiger by the tail. When a traitor begins to intrigue with the

enemy, that creature finds himself up against an agent who can out-intrigue him in cards and spades.

From world to world Flandry goes, risking his neck time after time, that Earth may live.

—To Ted Cogswell and the ITFCS

Tiger by the Tail

Captain Flandry opened his eyes and saw a metal ceiling. Simultaneously, he grew aware of the thrum

and quiver which meant he was aboard a spaceship running on ultradrive.

He sat up with a violence that sent the dregs of alcohol swirling through his head. He'd gone to sleep in a

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room somewhere in the stews of Catawrayannis, with no prospect or intention of leaving the city for an

indefinite time—let alone the planet! Now—

The chilling realization came that he was not aboard a human ship. Humanoid, yes, from the size and

design of things, but no vessel ever built within the borders of the Empire, and no foreign make that he

knew of.

Even from looking at this one small cabin, he could tell. There were bunks, into one of which he had

fitted pretty well, but the sheets and blankets weren't of plastic weave. They seemed—he looked more

closely—the sheets seemed to be of some vegetable fiber, the blankets of long bluish-gray hair. There

were a couple of chairs and a table in the middle of the room, wooden, and they must have seen better

days for they were elaborately handcarved in an intricate interwoven design new to Flandry—and

planetary art-forms were a hobby of his. The way and manner in which the metal plating had been laid

was another indication, and—

He sat down again, buried his whirling head in his hands, and tried to think. There was a thumping in his

head and a vile taste in his mouth which liquor didn't ordinarily leave—at least not the stuff he'd been

drinking—and now that he remembered, he'd gotten sleepy much earlier than one would have expected

when the girl was so good-looking—Drugged—oh, no! Tell me I'm not as stupid as a stereofilm hero!

Anything but that!

But who'd have thought it, who'd have looked for it? Certainly the people and beings on whom he'd been

trying to get a lead would never try such a stunt. Besides, none of them had been around, he was sure of

it. He'd simply been out building part of the elaborate structure of demimonde acquaintances and

information which would eventually, by exceedingly indirect routes, lead him to those he was seeking.

He'd simply been out having a good time—quite a good time, in fact—and—

And now someone from outside the Empire had him. And now what?

He got up, a little unsteadily, and looked around for his clothes. No sign of them. And he'd paid three

hundred credits for that outfit, too. He stamped savagely over to the door. It didn't have a photocell

attachment; he jerked it open and found himself looking down the muzzle of a blaster.

It was of different design from any he knew, but it was quite unmistakable. Captain Flandry sighed,

relaxed his taut muscles, and looked more closely at the guard who held it.

He was humanoid to a high degree, perhaps somewhat stockier than Terrestrial average—and come to

think of it, the artificial gravity was a little higher than one gee—and with very white skin, long tawny

hair and beard, and oblique violet eyes. His ears were pointed and two small horns grew above his heavy

eyebrow ridges, but otherwise he was manlike enough. With civilized clothes and a hooded cloak he

could easily pass himself off for human.

Not in the getup he wore, of course, which consisted of a kilt and tunic, shining beryllium-copper cuirass

and helmet, buskins over bare legs, and a murderous-looking dirk. As well as a couple of scalps hanging

at his belt.

He gestured the prisoner back, and blew a long hollow blast on a horn slung at his side. The wild echoes

chased each other down the long corridor, hooting and howling with a primitive clamor that tingled

faintly along Captain Flandry's spine.

He thought slowly, while he waited: No intercom, apparently not even speaking tubes laid the whole

length of the ship. And household articles of wood and animal and vegetable fibres, and that archaic

costume there—They were barbarians, all right. But no tribe that he knew about.

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That wasn't too surprising, since the Terrestrial Empire and the half-dozen other civilized states in the

known Galaxy ruled over several thousands of intelligent races and had some contact with nobody knew

how many thousands more. Many of the others were, of course, still planet-bound, but quite a few tribes

along the Imperial borders had mastered a lot of human technology without changing their fundamental

outlook on things. Which is what comes of hiring barbarian mercenaries.

The peripheral tribes were still raiders, menaces to the border planets and merely nuisances to the Empire

as a whole. Periodically they were bought off, or played off against each other—or the Empire might

even send a punitive expedition out. But if one day a strong barbarian race under a strong leader should

form a reliable coalition—then vae victis!

A party of Flandry's captors, apparently officers, guardsmen, and a few slaves, came down the corridor.

Their leader was tall and powerfully built, with a cold arrogance in his pale-blue eyes that did not hide a

calculating intelligence. There was a golden coronet on his head, and the robes that swirled around his big

body were rainbow-gorgeous. Flandry recognized some items as having been manufactured within the

Empire. Looted, probably.

They came to a halt before him and the leader looked him up and down with a deliberately insulting gaze.

To be thus surveyed in the nude could have been badly disconcerting, but Flandry was immune to

embarrassment and his answering stare was bland.

The leader spoke at last, in strongly accented but fluent Anglic: "You may as well accept the fact that you

are a prisoner, Captain Flandry."

They'd have gone through his pockets, of course. He asked levelly, "Just to satisfy my own curiosity, was

that girl in your pay?"

"Of course. I assure you that the Scothani are not the brainless barbarians of popular Terrestrial

superstition, though—" a bleak smile—"it is useful to be thought so."

"The Scothani? I don't believe I've had the pleasure—"

"You have probably not heard of us, though we have had some contact with the Empire. We have found it

convenient to remain in obscurity, as far as Terra is concerned, until the time is ripe. But—what do you

think caused the Alarri to invade you, fifteen years ago?"

Flandry thought back. He had been a boy then, but he had, of course, avidly followed the news accounts

of the terrible fleets that swept in over the marches and attacked Vega itself. Only the hardest fighting at

the Battle of Mirzan had broken the Alarri. Yet it turned out that they'd been fleeing still another tribe, a

wild and mighty race who had invaded their own system with fire and ruin. It was a common enough

occurrence in the turbulent barbarian stars; this one incident had come to the Empire's notice only

because the refugees had tried to conquer it in turn. A political upheaval within the Terrestrial domain

had prevented closer investigation before the matter had been all but forgotten.

"So you were driving the Alarri before you?" asked Flandry with as close an approximation to the right

note of polite interest as he could manage in his present condition.

"Aye. And others. The Scothani have quite a little empire now, out there in the wilderness of the Galaxy.

But, since we were never originally contacted by Terrestrials, we have, as I say, remained little known to

them."

So—the Scothani had learned their technology from some other race, possibly other barbarians. It was a

familiar pattern, Flandry could trace it out in his mind. Spaceships landed on the primitive world, the

initial awe of the natives gave way to the realization that the skymen weren't so very different after

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all—they could be killed like anyone else; traders, students, laborers, mercenary warriors visited the more

advanced worlds, brought back knowledge of their science and technology; factories were built, machines

produced, and some local king used the new power to impose his rule on all his planet; and then, to unite

his restless subjects, he had to turn their faces outward, promise plunder and glory if they followed him

out to the stars—Only the Scothani had carried it farther than most. And lying as far from the Imperial

border as they did, they could build up a terrible power without the complacent, politics-ridden Empire

being more than dimly aware of the fact—until the day when—Vae victis!

"Let us have a clear understanding," said the barbarian chief. "You are a prisoner on a warship already

light years from Llynathawr, well into the Imperial marches and bound for Scotha itself. You have no

chance of rescue, and mercy depends entirely on your own conduct. Adjust it accordingly."

"May I ask why you picked me up?" Flandry's tone was mild.

"You are of noble blood, and a highranking officer in the Imperial intelligence service. You may be worth

something as a hostage. But primarily we want information."

"But I—"

"I know." The reply was disgusted. "You're very typical of your miserable kind. I've studied the Empire

and its decadence long enough to know that. You're just another worthless younger son, given a high-

paying sinecure so you can wear a fancy uniform and play soldier. You don't amount to anything."

Flandry let an angry flush go up his cheek. "Look here—"

"It's perfectly obvious," said the barbarian. "You come to Llynathawr to track down certain dangerous

conspirators. So you register yourself in the biggest hotel in Catawrayannis as Captain Dominic Flandry

of the Imperial Intelligence Service, you strut around in your expensive uniform dropping dark hints

about your leads and your activities—and these consist of drinking and gambling and wenching the whole

night and sleeping the whole day!" A cold humor gleamed in the blue eyes. "Unless it is your intention

that the Empire's enemies shall laugh themselves to death at the spectacle."

"If that's so," began Flandry thinly, "then why—"

"You will know something. You can't help picking up a lot of miscellaneous information in your circles,

no matter how hard you try not to. Certainly you know specific things about the organization and

activities of your own corps which we would find useful information. We'll squeeze all you know out of

you! Then there will be other services you can perform, people within the Empire you can contact,

documents you can translate for us, perhaps various liaisons you can make—eventually, you may even

earn your freedom." The barbarian lifted one big fist. "And in case you wish to hold anything back,

remember that the torturers of Scotha know their trade."

"You needn't make melodramatic threats," said Flandry sullenly.

The fist shot out, and Flandry fell to the floor with darkness whirling and roaring through his head. He

crawled to hands and knees, blood dripping from his face, and vaguely he heard the voice: "From here on,

little man, you are to address me as befits a slave speaking to a crown prince of Scotha."

The Terrestrial staggered to his feet. For a moment his fists clenched. The prince smiled grimly and

knocked him down again. Looking up, Flandry saw brawny hands resting on blaster butts. Not a chance,

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not a chance.

Besides, the prince was hardly a sadist. Such brutality was the normal order among the barbarians—and

come to think of it, slaves within the Empire could be treated similarly.

And there was the problem of staying alive.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

The prince turned on his heel and walked away.

They gave him back his clothes, though someone had stripped the gold braid and the medals away.

Flandry looked at the soiled, ripped garments and sighed. Tailor-made—!

He surveyed himself in the mirror as he washed and shaved. The face that looked back was wide across

the cheekbones, straight-nosed and square-jawed, with carefully waved reddish-brown hair and a

mustache trimmed with equal attention. Probably too handsome, he reflected, wiping the blood from

under his nose, but he'd been young when he had the plasti-cosmetician work on him. Maybe when he got

out of this mess he should have the face made over to a slightly more rugged pattern to fit his years. He

was in his thirties now, after all—getting to be a big boy, Dominic.

The fundamental bone structure of head and face was his own, however, and so were the eyes: large and

bright, with a hint of obliquity, the iris of that curious gray which can seem any color, blue or green or

black or gold. And the trim, medium-tall body was genuine too. He hated exercises, but went through a

dutiful daily ritual since he needed sinews and coordination for his work. And, too, a man in condition

was something to look at among the usually flabby nobles of Terra; he'd found his figure no end of help

in making his home leaves pleasant.

Well, can't stand here admiring yourself all day, old fellow. He slipped blouse, pants, and jacket over his

silkite undergarments, pulled on the sheening boots, tilted his officer's cap at an angle of well gauged

rakishness, and walked out to meet his new owners.

The Scothani weren't such bad fellows, he soon learned. They were big brawling lusty barbarians, out for

adventure and loot and fame as warriors; they had courage and loyalty and a wild streak of sentiment that

he liked. But they could also fly into deadly rages, they were casually cruel to anyone that stood in their

way, and Flandry acquired a not too high respect for their brains. It would have helped if they'd washed

oftener, too.

This warship was one of a dozen which Cerdic, the crown prince, had taken out on a plundering cruise.

They'd sacked a good many towns, even some on nominally Imperial planets, and on the way back had

sent down a man in a lifeboat to contact Cerdic's agents on Llynathawr, which was notoriously the

listening post of this sector of the Empire. Learning that there was something going on which a special

agent from Terra had been investigating, Cerdic had ordered him picked up. And that was that.

Now they were homeward bound, their holds stuffed with loot and their heads stuffed with plans for

further inroads. It might not have meant much, but—well—Cerdic and his father Penda didn't seem to be

just ordinary barbarian chiefs, nor Scothania an ordinary barbarian nation.

Could it be that somewhere out there among the many stars someone had finally organized a might that

could break the Empire? Could the Long Night really be at hand?

Flandry shoved the thought aside. He had too much to do right now. Even his own job at Llynathawr,

important as it was, could and would be handled by someone else—though not, he thought a little sadly,

with the Flandry touch—and his own immediate worry was here and now. He had to find out the extent

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of power and ambition of the Scothani; he had to learn their plans and get the information to Terra, and

somehow spike them even a little. After that there might be time to save his own hide.

Cerdic had him brought to the captain's cabin. The place was a typical barbarian chief's den, with the

heads of wild beasts on the walls and their hides on the floors, old shields and swords hung up in places

of honor, a magnificent golden vase stolen from some planet of artists shining in a corner. But there were

incongruous modern touches, a microprint reader and many bookrolls from the Empire, astrographic

tables and computer, a vodograph. The prince sat in a massive carven chair, a silkite robe flung carelessly

over his broad shoulders. He nodded with a certain affability.

"Your first task will be to learn Scothanian," he said without preliminary. "As yet almost none of our

people, even nobles, speak Anglic, and there are many who will want to talk to you."

"Yes, sir," said Flandry. It was what he would most have desired.

"You had better also start organizing all you know so you can present it coherently," said the prince.

"And I, who have lived in the Empire, will be able to check enough of your statements to tell whether you

are likely speaking the truth." He smiled mirthlessly. "If there is reason to suspect you are lying, you will

be put to the torture. And one of our Sensitives will then get at the truth."

So they had Sensitives, too. Telepaths who could tell whether a being was lying when pain had

sufficiently disorganized his mind were as bad as the Empire's hypnoprobes.

"I'll tell the truth, sir," he said.

"I suppose so. If you cooperate, you'll find us not an ungrateful people. There will be more wealth than

was ever dreamed of when we go into the Empire. There will also be considerable power for such humans

as are our liaison with their race."

"Sir," began Flandry, in a tone of weak self-righteousness, "I couldn't think of—"

"Oh, yes, you could," said Cerdic glumly. "I know you humans. I traveled incognito throughout your

whole Empire, I was on Terra itself. I posed as one of you, or when convenient as just another of the

subject races. I know the Empire—its utter decadence, its self-seeking politicians and pleasure-loving

mobs, corruption and intrigue everywhere you go, collapse of morals and duty-sense, decline of art into

craft and science into stagnancy—you were a great race once, you humans, you were among the first to

aspire to the stars and we owe you something for that, I suppose. But you're not the race you once were."

The viewpoint was biased, but enough truth lay in it to make Flandry wince. Cerdic went on, his voice

rising: "There is a new power growing out beyond your borders, young peoples with the strength and

courage and hopefulness of youth, and they'll sweep the rotten fragments of the Empire before them and

build something new and better."

Only, thought Flandry, only first comes the Long Night, darkness and death and the end of civilization,

the howling peoples in the ruins of our temples and a myriad petty tyrants holding their dreary courts in

the shards of the Empire. To say nothing of the decline of good music and good cuisine, taste in clothes

and taste in women and conversation as a fine art.

"We've one thing you've lost," said Cerdic, "and I think ultimately that will be the deciding factor.

Honesty. Flandry, the Scothani are a race of honest warriors."

"No doubt, sir," said Flandry.

"Oh, we have our evil characters, but they are few and the custom of private challenges soon eliminates

them," said Cerdic. "And even their evil is an open and clean thing, greed or lawlessness or something

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like that; it isn't the bribery and conspiracy and betrayal of your rotten politicians. And most of us live by

our code. It wouldn't occur to a true Scothani to do a dishonorable thing, to break an oath or desert a

comrade or lie on his word of honor. Our women aren't running loose making eyes at every man they

come across; they're kept properly at home till time for marriage and then they know their place as

mothers and houseguiders. Our boys are raised to respect the gods and the king, to fight, and to speak

truth. Death is a little thing, Flandry, it comes to everyone in his time and he cannot stay it, but honor

lives forever.

"We don't corrupt ourselves. We keep honor at home and root out disgrace with death and torture. We

live our code. And that is really why we will win."

Battleships help, thought Flandry. And then, looking into the cold bright eyes: He's fanatic. But a hell of

a smart one. And that kind makes the most dangerous enemy.

Aloud he asked, humbly: "Isn't any stratagem a lie, sir? Your own disguised travels within the Empire—"

"Naturally, certain maneuvers are necessary," said the prince stiffly. "Nor does it matter what one does

with regard to alien races. Especially when they have as little honor as Terrestrials."

The good old race-superority complex, too. Oh, well.

"I tell you this," said Cerdic earnestly, "in the hope that you may think it over and see our cause is just

and be with us. We will need many foreigners, especially humans, for liaison and intelligence and other

services. You may still accomplish something in a hitherto wasted life."

"I'll think about it, sir," said Flandry.

"Then go."

Flandry got.

The ship was a good three weeks en route to Scotha. It took Flandry about two of them to acquire an

excellent working knowledge of the language, but he preferred to simulate difficulty and complained that

he got lost when talk was too rapid. It was surprising how much odd information you picked up when you

were thought not to understand what was being said. Not anything of great military significance, of

course, but general background, stray bits of personal history, attitudes and beliefs—it all went into the

neat filing system which was Flandry's memory, to be correlated with whatever else he knew or learned

into an astonishingly complete picture.

The Scothani themselves were quite friendly, eager to hear about the fabulous Imperial civilization and to

brag of their own wonderful past and future exploits. Since there was obviously nothing he could do,

Flandry was under the loosest guard and had virtually the freedom of the ship. He slept and messed with

the warriors, swapped bawdy songs and dirty jokes, joined their rough-and-tumble wrestling matches to

win surprised respect for his skill, and even became the close friend and confidant of some of the younger

males.

The race was addicted to gambling. Flandry learned their games, taught them some of the Empire's, and

before the trip's end had won back his stolen finery plus several other outfits and a pleasantly jingling

purse. It was—well—he almost hated to take his winnings from these overgrown babies. It just never

occurred to them that dice and cards could be made to do tricks.

The picture grew. The barbarian tribes of Scotha were firmly united under the leadership of the Frithian

kings, had been for several generations. Theoretically it was an absolute monarchy, though actually all

classes except the slaves were free. They had conquered at least a hundred systems outright, contenting

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themselves with exacting tribute and levies from most of these, and dominated all others within reach.

Under Penda's leadership, a dozen similar, smaller barbarian states had already formed a coalition with

the avowed purpose of invading the Empire, capturing Terra, destroying the Imperial military forces, and

making themselves masters. Few of them thought beyond the plunder to be had, though apparently some

of them, like Cerdic, dreamed of maintaining and extending the Imperial domain under their own rule.

They had a formidable fleet—Flandry couldn't find out its exact size—and its organization and

technology seemed far superior to that of most barbarian forces. They had a great industry, mostly slave-

manned with the Scothan overlords supervising. They had shrewd leaders, who would wait till one of the

Empire's recurring political crises had reduced its fighting strength, and who were extremely well

informed about their enemy. It looked—bad!

Especially since they couldn't wait too long. Despite the unequalled prosperity created by industry,

tribute, and piracy, all Scotha was straining at the leash, nobles and warriors in the whole coalition

foaming to be at the Empire's throat; a whole Galactic sector had been seized by the same savage dream.

When they came roaring in—well, you never could tell. The Empire's fighting strength was undoubtedly

greater, but could it be mobilized in time? Wouldn't Penda get gleeful help from two or three rival

imperia? Couldn't a gang of utterly fearless fanatics plow through the mass of self-seeking officers and

indifferent mercenaries that made up most of the Imperial power today?

Might not the Long Night really be at hand?

III

Scotha was not unlike Terra—a little larger, a little farther from its sun, the seas made turbulent by three

small close moons. Flandry had a chance to observe it telescopically—the ship didn't have

magniscreens—and as they swept in, he saw the mighty disc roll grandly against the Galactic star-blaze

and studied the continents with more care than he showed.

The planet was still relatively thinly populated, with great forests and plains standing empty, archaic

cities and villages huddled about the steep-walled castles of the nobles. Most of its industry was on other

worlds, though the huge military bases were all on Scotha and its moons. There couldn't be more than a

billion Scothani all told, estimated Flandry, probably less, and many of them would live elsewhere as

overlords of the interstellar domain. Which didn't make them less formidable. The witless hordes of

humankind were more hindrance than help to the Empire.

Cerdic's fleet broke up, the captains bound for their estates. He took his own vessel to the capital,

Iuthagaar, and brought it down in the great yards. After the usual pomp and ceremony of homecoming, he

sent for Flandry.

"What is your attitude toward us now?" he asked.

"You are a very likeable people, sir," said the Terrestrial, "and it is as you say—you are a strong and

honest race."

"Then you have decided to help us actively?" The voice was cold.

"I really have little choice, sir," shrugged Flandry. "I'll be a prisoner in any case, unless I get to the point

of being trusted. The only way to achieve that is to give you my willing assistance."

"And what of your own nation?"

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"A man must stay alive, sir. These are turbulent times."

Contempt curled Cerdic's lip. "Somehow I thought better of you," he said. "But you're a human. You

could only be expected to betray your oaths for your own gain."

Surprise shook Flandry's voice. "Wasn't this what you wanted, sir?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Now come along. But not too close—you make me feel a little sick."

They went up to the great gray castle which lifted its windy spires over the city, and presently Flandry

found himself granted an audience with the King of Scothania.

It was a huge and dimlit hall, hung with the banners and shields of old wars and chill despite the fires that

blazed along its length. Penda sat on one end, wrapped in furs against the cold, his big body dwarfed by

the dragon-carved throne. He had his eldest son's stern manner and bleak eyes, without the prince's bitter

intensity—a strong man, thought Flandry, hard and ruthless and able—but perhaps not too bright.

Cerdic had mounted to a seat on his father's right. The queen stood on his left, shivering a little in the

damp draft, and down either wall reached a row of guardsmen. The fire shimmered on their breastplates

and helmets and halberds; they seemed figures of legend, but Flandry noticed that each warrior carried a

blaster too.

There were others in evidence, several of the younger sons of Penda, grizzled generals and councillors,

nobles come for a visit. A few of the latter were of non-Scothan race and did not seem to be meeting

exceptional politeness. Then there were the hangers-on, bards and dancers and the rest, and slaves

scurrying about. Except for its size—and its menace—it was a typical barbarian court.

Flandry bowed the knee as required, but thereafter stood erect and met the king's eye. His position was

anomalous, officially Cerdic's captured slave, actually—well, what was he? Or what could he become in

time?

Penda asked a few of the more obvious questions, then said slowly: "You will confer with General

Nartheof here, head of our intelligence section, and tell him what you know. You may also make

suggestions if you like, but remember that false intentions will soon be discovered and punished."

"I will be honest, your majesty."

"Is any Terrestrial honest?" snapped Cerdic.

"I am," said Flandry cheerfully. "As long as I'm paid, I serve faithfully. Since I'm no longer in the

Empire's pay, I must perforce look about for a new master."

"I doubt you can be much use," said Penda.

"I think I can, your majesty," answered Flandry boldly. "Even in little things. For instance, this admirably

decorated hall is so cold one must wear furs within it, and still the hands are numb. I could easily show a

few technicians how to install a radiant heating unit that would make it like summer in here."

Penda lifted his bushy brows. Cerdic fairly snarled: "A Terrestrial trick, that. Shall we become as soft and

luxurious as the Imperials, we who hunt vorgari on ski?"

Flandry's eyes, flitting around the room, caught dissatisfied expressions on many faces. Inside, he

grinned. The prince's austere ideals weren't very popular with these noble savages. If they only had the

nerve to—it was the queen who spoke. Her soft voice was timid: "Sire, is there any harm in being warm?

I—I am always cold these days."

Flandry gave her an appreciative look. He'd already picked up the background of Queen Gunli. She was

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AGENT OF THE TERRAN EMPIRE - Poul Anderson

young, Penda's third wife, and she came from more southerly Scothan lands than Iuthagaar; her folk were

somewhat more civilized than the dominant Frithians. She was certainly a knockout, with that dark

rippling hair and those huge violet eyes in her pert face. And that figure too—there was a suppressed

liveliness in her; he wondered if she had ever cursed the fate that gave her noble blood and thus a political

marriage.

For just an instant their eyes crossed. "Be still," said Cerdic.

Gunli's hand fell lightly on Penda's. The king flushed. "Speak not to your queen thus, Cerdic," he said. "In

truth this Imperial trick is but a better form of fire, which no one calls unmanly. We will let the Terrestrial

make one."

Flandry bowed his most ironical bow. Cocking an eye up at the queen, he caught a twinkle. She knew.

Nartheof made a great show of blustering honesty, but there was a shrewd brain behind the hard little

eyes that glittered in his hairy face. He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head and gave

Flandry a quizzical stare.

"If it is as you say—" he began.

"It is," said the Terrestrial.

"Quite probably. Your statements so far check with what we already know, and we can soon verify much

of the rest. If, then, you speak truth, the Imperial organization is fantastically good." He smiled. "As it

should be—it conquered the stars, in the old days. But it's no better than the beings who man it, and

everyone knows how venial and cowardly the Imperials are today."

Flandry said nothing, but he remembered the gallantry of the Sirian units at Garrapoli and the dogged

courage of the Valatian Legion and—well, why go on? The haughty Scothani just didn't seem able to

realize that a state as absolutely decadent as they imagined the Empire to be wouldn't have endured long

enough to be their own enemy.

"We'll have to reorganize everything," said Nartheof. "I don't care whether what you say is true or not, it

makes good sense. Our whole setup is outmoded. It's ridiculous, for instance, to give commands

according to nobility and blind courage instead of proven intelligence."

"And you assume that the best enlisted man will make the best officer," said Flandry. "It doesn't

necessarily follow. A strong and hardy warrior may expect more of his men than they can give. You can't

all be supermen."

"Another good point. And we should eliminate swordplay as a requirement; swords are useless today.

And we have to train mathematicians to compute trajectories and everything else." Nartheof grimaced. "I

hate to think what would have happened if we'd invaded three years ago, as many hotheads wanted to do.

We would have inflicted great damage, but that's all."

"You should wait at least another ten or twenty years and really get prepared."

"Can't. The great nobles wouldn't stand for it. Who wants to be duke of a planet when he could be viceroy

of a sector? But we have a year or two yet." Nartheof scowled. "I can get my own service whipped into

shape, with your help and advice. I have most of the bright lads. But as for some of the other

forces—gods, the dunderheads they have in command! I've argued myself hoarse with Nornagast, to no

use. The fool just isn't able to see that a space fleet the size of ours must have a special coordinating

division equipped with semantic calculators and—The worst of it is, he's a cousin to the king, he ranks

me. Not much I can do."

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