Divide and Rule Read online

  "Again, yes?" said Lediacre. It was "again," quite literally. Sir Howard sat up and stretched his sore muscles. Lediacre, very solicitous, said: "I did not twist too hard, did I? I learned that one from a Japanese man. I should be glad to teach it to you."

  The knight accepted the lesson with thanks but without enthusiasm. The man, in addition to his social graces, was a big noise in the Organization, whereas he was just a rookie. And his attempt to demonstrate physical superiority had backfired. What could you do against a combination like that? Oh, well, he thought, if she likes him better she likes him better, that's all. We Van Slycks can't afford to let things like that bother us. After all, we have our self-respect to consider.

  10

  The two riders jogged south at an experienced horseman's long-distance pace; walk, trot, canter, trot, walk, over and over. A horse expert might have surmised that the enormous black gelding and the slim red mare were too fine a quality horseflesh to go with the somewhat shabby specimens that sat on them. Haas had grumbled about leaving his chaps and high-heeled boots behind, and had accepted the ancient felt hat with a couple of fishing flies stuck in the band in place of his seventy-five-dollar Western special only under vehement protest. Sir Howard likewise felt self-conscious as he never had when dashing about the country in alloy-steel plate. They had been allowed to tote their swords, as these would not attract the dangerous and unwelcome attention of hoppers.

  "The idea," the knight explained to Haas, "is that my old man isn't supposed to know about this expedition. He thinks I'm up at Watertown or somewhere. Otherwise we'd just walk in and make ourselves at home. Personally I think they're making us do this play acting to see how good we are at it."

  "I don't mind the dressing up so much," said Haas. "But every time I see a hopper I think he's gonna hop up and ask questions. It makes me uneasy as all hell. I never noticed 'em before; just considered 'em a nuisance you had to put up with. It's got so I can't enjoy cheese sandwiches any more; the smell makes me think of hoppers."

  "Myself," replied Sir Howard, "I think I'd like that of a three weeks' corpse better. If they stop us, you know who you're supposed to be, and you've got a complete set of forged papers to prove it." He was feeling much the same way. A human enemy, whom you could knock off his horse with a well-aimed toothpick thrust was one thing; this invisible power with its mysterious weapons and ruthless thoroughness was another.

  "Nothing in here," whispered Sir Howard. They had gone microscopically over the little room in the back of the tool shed that Frank van Slyck had used as a laboratory. Their flickering pencils of light showed nothing but bits of twisted metal, wire gauze, and broken glass.

  Haas murmured: "Looks like the hoppers done a good job of cleaning up your brother's stuff."

  "Yes. They examined his poor little apparatus and then smashed it up so its own mother wouldn't know it. They broke open the cases his bugs were in, and dumped the bugs out in the yard. They burned his notebooks, and took his textbooks away to put in one of their own libraries. Come on, there's nothing left to try but the manor house."

  "You sure they ain't no secret rooms around here?"

  "Yes. This shed is raised up off the ground, and there's nothing but dirt under it. The wall here is nothing but beaver board. You can see through the cracks into the tool room, so there isn't any space between walls or anything. Come on."

  They calculated when the watchman would be at the other end of the grounds, then stole across the lawn. Sir Howard, being the heavier, boosted Haas up. Judicious use of a glass cutter gave him access to the latch, and the window opened with a faint squeak, no louder than the constant buzz and click and chirp of nocturnal insects. The slightly musty smell of the library mingled with the fragrance of the gardens.

  "God help us," said Sir Howard, "if my old man finds out what we've done to his roses. He'll be madder'n a hungry wolf with nine lambs and a sore mouth."

  They snooped around the room like a pair of large and inquisitive rats, running through desk drawers and waste-baskets. Sir Howard had almost despaired of finding anything when he remembered Frank's habit of putting papers between the leaves of books and forgetting them. His heart sank when he ran his flashlight over the well-filled stacks. There were hundreds of them, the books that had so bored him as a boy—poetry, fairy tales, romantic novels, theology. How different from the meaty Elsmith assortment! At least, he could use some selection. One shelf held books on farming, business, and other practical matters pertaining to the running of the duchy. If Frank had been reading any of the books, they'd be these. He and Haas began going through them.

  Several blank pieces of paper were found, apparently mere place marks. Sir Howard put them in his shirt pocket. There was an exquisite drawing of a bee's head. There was a piece with several addresses on it. There was a piece with the cryptic notation:

  Pulex irr.

  M—146 Attr. fac. .17

  M—147 A. f. .88

  M—148 A. f. .39

  M—149 A. f. .99 ! ! !

  This was in a volume entitled "The Genetics of Stock Raising," which was about as scientific a book as the hoppers permitted. There was another sheet, in a small dictionary, with an algebraic problem worked out. There was—

  "Hands up, you two!" A yellow eye opened in the dark, flooding the burglars with light. Behind the eye, barely visible, was an elderly man in a dressing gown. He held a burglar bow, that is, a crossbow with a flashlight fixed to its end. The bow was drawn and cocked.

  "Easy on the trigger, father," said Sir Howard, getting up, "unless you want to put a bolt through your heir and assign."

  "Howard! I didn't recognize you." As a measure of disguise the knight had let his face alone for a week, and the resulting coal-black stubble was child-frightening.

  "What on earth . . . what the devil . . . what in bloody hell are you doing, burgling your own home?"

  "I was looking for something, and didn't want to get you up at this time of night. We can't stay, unfortunately." Sir Howard knew the excuse sounded feeble.

  "What's going on here, anyway? What are you looking for? And who's this man?"

  Sir Howard introduced Haas. "I was just looking for some papers I thought I'd left. It's nothing, really."

  "What papers? That doesn't explain this . . . this—"

  "Oh just some papers. I think we've about finished, eh, Lyman? It's nice to have seen you, father."

  "Oh, no, you don't. You don't stir out of here until you've given me a sensible explanation."

  "Sorry, father, but I've given you all I can. And I really am going."

  The duke was working himself up into one of his rare tempers. "You . . . you young . . . you leave here, equipped like a proper gentleman, and say you're going on a pleasure trip. And six weeks later I find you dressed like a tramp, running around with commoners, and breaking into people's houses. What do you mean, sir? What do you mean?"

  "Sorry, father; it's just my way of amusing myself."

  "It doesn't amuse me! You'll stop this nonsense now, or I'll . . . I'll cut you off!"

  "That would be too bad for the duchy."

  "I'll stop your income! I still control most of your money, you know."

  Sir Howard was careful not to show how much this threat really jarred him. "Oh, I can get along. If need be, we'll join a traveling circus."

  "You'll what? But you couldn't! I mean, that's preposterous. A Van Slyck working in a circus!

  "You'd be surprised. Remember Great-uncle Waldo? The one who swindled those bank people? I can get a job as a strong man, and Lyman here can do rope tricks. We'll manage."

  The duke took a deep breath. "You win. I don't understand you, Howard. Just when I think you're turning into a sensible, level-headed adult you act like this. But you win. Anything would be better than that! A circus performer!" He shuddered. "By the way, how did you get over the wall?"

  "Lyman threw his lasso over one of the merlons on the battlement. You know what a lasso is—a rope with a
sliding noose. He's an expert. You remember, when you had the wall built, I advised you not to put those open crenelations on top."

  "They won't be there long!"

  "Oh, while I think of it," said Sir Howard casually. "Are there any pups in the kennels just now?"

  "Let me think . . . Yes, Irish Mist whelped about six months ago, and we have several that we haven't given away yet. Do you want one?"

  "Yes, I'd like one."

  "Why—if you don't mind an old man's curiosity?"

  "Oh, I just thought I'd like to give one to a friend."

  "Friend, huh? I hope she isn't another commoner wench?"

  "Oh, you needn't worry about the Van Slyck escutcheon. It's nothing serious; just returning a favor."

  "Favor, humph! There are all kinds of favors." The duke led them out to the kennels, and Sir Howard looked over the squirming Kerry-blue terrier pups with his flashlight. He picked one up.

  "Don't you want something to carry him in?"

  "Yes, if you have a basket or something."

  "Hm-m-m—I think this would do. Sure you and your friend won't reconsider and stay the night?"

  "No; thanks, anyway. I'll be seeing you. And by the way, better not mention our visit."

  "Don't worry! I don't want everybody to know that my son's gone squirrely! Take care of yourself, won't you? And try to come back in one piece? I couldn't stand having anything happen. Please, Howard. Good-by and good-luck!"

  11

  "I hated to treat the old man like that. Hope I get a chance to explain some day."

  "H-m-m. He did seem kinda riled up. Say, How, maybe that wasn't such a good idea, us trying to make Renssalaer. Maybe we shoulda stopped the night at Hudson. It's gonna be blacker'n t'other side of hell. And I think she's liable to rain." Haas pulled his damp shirt front away from his skin. "Danged if I like your Yank summer weather, specially when it's fixing up to rain. Your clothes stick to you."

  "If it starts to rain we'll stop at Valatie. That's only a little way; we just passed Kinderhook."

  "Better use your flashlight, or you'll ride into the ditch. Is the little critter still in his basket? Cute little devil. Oh-oh, there goes a flash of lightning, off to the west. If I had my chaps, they'd shed the water."

  "The lightning's over the Helderbergs. The rain won't get here for hours yet. Trot!"

  Plop-plop-plop-plop went the hoofs. Something—something—made the hair on Sir Howard's neck rise. Did he imagine it, or was there a faint smell of cheese?

  "Halt, Man!" It was the familiar, detestable chirp. A blinding light was in his face. He looked around for Haas, but the Westerner and his mount appeared to have vanished into thin air.

  There were two of them, in one of their two-wheeled vehicles. Or rather, one was in the vehicle, and the other was out and peering up at him. He slid his right foot out of the stirrup. "Do not dismount!" There were chirpings and trillings in the dark, and the command, "Give me your reins!"

  The vehicle purred ahead at a bare six miles an hour; Paul Jones trotted in tow. One of the hoppers had squirmed around in its seat to keep an eye on the rider.

  He thought, these things belong to the road patrol. They're taking me to the station at Valatie—which the hoppers persisted in calling Vallity, to the annoyance of the natives, who claimed they lived in Valaysha. They'll interrogate me, probably with the use of veramin. They'll want to know who I really am. They may even want to know about Elsmith. I must not tell them. I ought to kill myself first. But maybe there's an easier way out than that. It's no use trying to run; they've got flood-lights and guns. But if that fellow would only get a crick in his neck for a minute. His hand stole toward one of the saddle compartments—

  The procession drew up at the Valatie station. There was a hopper with a long gun by the door, a sentry. The two hoppers in the cycle got out. Another came out the door, and there was still another inside, using a typewriter.

  "Dismount, Man."

  Oh, God, he thought. I mustn't stagger. I must keep my brain clear. He scooped the small gray dog out of the basket on Paul Jones' rump.

  "Enter. Wait! Leave your sword outside."

  The knight unbuckled his sword belt fumblingly, and leaned the weapon against the wall of the station.

  "What is that?" The flashlight made the puppy blink. "Dogs are not allowed in the station. You must leave it outside also."

  "He'll run away, your excellency."

  "Place it back in the basket, then."

  "The basket has no top, your excellency. He'll jump out."

  Twitterings in the dark. Then: "Leave it with the sentry. He shall hold it."

  The sentry took the leash in one hand and tried to scratch the dog's ears with the other. The dog backed as far as he could, trembling. Sir Howard slouched into the station with his best commoner walk.

  "Your papers, Man. Sit here. Bare your arm."

  The needle pricked. The hoppers went through the papers.

  He thought, I must talk right. I hope this works. If there's a God, I hope He'll let me say the right things. Elsmith doesn't seem to think there is a God; at least, that's what he's implied at times. But if there is one, I hope He'll let me say the right things.

  There it was, that tingling, that dizzy feeling. I must say the right things. If I start to say the wrong things, I've got my pocketknife still. I could get it out quickly before they could stop me. The throat would be best, I think. I'm not sure the blade's long enough to try for my heart. Let me say the right things—

  It was beginning, now. The hopper who seemed to be boss was looking up from the papers. "You are Charles—Weier?"

  "Yes, your excellency."

  "You are a professional hockey player?"

  "Yes, your excellency." If only they wouldn't ask him questions about ice hockey!

  "Where were you born?"

  The form of the question was different; there might be a catch to this one. He was supposed to tell them "Ballston Spa."

  "Ballston Spaw, your excellency." Thank God, he'd remembered in time! If he'd followed his natural impulse to use the downstate pronunciation of "Spah," he might have given himself away.

  Twitterings. Then: "Do you know anything about a man, tall and dark like you, who has appeared in the Hudson-Mohawk region lately, and who sometimes passes himself off as William Scranton, and at other times pretends to be Howard van Slyck, the Duke of Poughkeepsie's son?"

  "No, your excellency." If only he didn't get his own name mixed up with his aliases! Scranton—Weier—Van Slyck—he wasn't sure he knew which was which himself.

  "These papers appear to be in order. We are examining men of your physical type in an attempt to solve the disappearance of one of our troopers last month. Do you know anything about it?"

  "No, your excellency." Hot dog, he was winning!

  More twitterings. If that was merely an order to check the stamps on his travel permit against the ledgers at Albany and Poughkeepsie, that was fine. The stamps were genuine. But if it was an order to check the permit itself against the central files in New York, that was something else.

  "We are satisfied, Man. You may go." The clawed, buff-haired hand shoved the papers at him across the table. I mustn't stagger when I get up—I mustn't swagger, either.

  At the door there was no sign of the sentry. Its long gun lay on the ground. At the edge of the light from the open door lay its leather helmet.

  Sir Howard was thunderstruck. He had no idea what could have happened. If they came out and found the sentry gone, they'd scour the country for it, and for him, too. He turned back to the door. "Excellencies!"

  "What is it, Man? You were told to go."

  "Your sentry has gone off with my dog."

  The four hoppers boiled out of the station like popping corn. They examined the discarded gun and helmet, sounding like a whole bird shop. A couple of them hopped off tentatively into the dark, trilling, then hopped back. They waved their clawed hands and wagged their ratlike heads, burbling. One h
opped inside and began cheeping into a microphone.

  "What are you waiting for, Man?" It was the boss hopper again. "Your services are not required here."

  "My dog, your excellency."

  The hopper seemed to think for a moment. "Man, your attitude has been admirably co-operative. In recognition, we will, as a special concession, keep your dog here, if we find it, until such time as you call for it. Provided, of course, that you leave a deposit to cover the cost of keeping it. A dollar will suffice."

  Sir Howard's economy complex winced, but he paid up, buckled on his sword, and led Paul Jones away.

  Out of hearing of the station he began whistling, softly at first, then more loudly. There was a click of claws on the pavement, the scrape of a trailing leash, and the sudden pressure of paws on his knee. He put the puppy, squirming with frantic joy, into the basket, mounted, and rode off. He hated leaving his dollar with the hopper, but the risk of going back to try to claim it was too great.

  "Hey, How!" came a hiss from the blackness.

  "Lyman! What happened to you?"

  "I seen those guys laying for you, but I couldn't warn you because you was too far up front—right on top of them when I seen 'em. Before they turned the light on I jumped Queenie over the ditch and into a field. I watched the hoppers tow you off, and I followed through the fields so's they wouldn't hear me. What happened to you?"

  Sir Howard told him.

  "Is that a fact? The sentry fella just plumb disappeared? I never. But how did you keep from telling them the truth, if they doped you up with that stuff?"

  "If anybody happens to notice an empty whiskey bottle in the ditch near the Valatie station, they can put two and two together, perhaps. Alcohol in the system counteracts the action of veramin, Elsmith said, and it looks as though he was right. But between the two of them I don't feel so good. You'd better ride clear, Lyman. It looks as though I were going to be sick from liquor for the second time in my life."