Part 25 (2/2)

”Oh? What a pity. Still, I'd wondered why we didn't get any of those coming through the time-gate.” He broadcast a brief order on the command mode and a jolly-looking Polynesian couple in flowered lava-lavas trotted in bearing trays of carnations. They wore silver torcs, and as they pa.s.sed the flowers to the bemused b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, they seemed to radiate comfortable rea.s.surance.

”Salote and Malietoa will see to your comfort,” Parthol said.

”We're a bit short-handed, so you'll have to scrub one another's backs, but I think you'll enjoy your ablutions. Try the bubble bath! That Sullivan thought of the d.a.m.nedest things. And when that's done, you can have fresh clothes. I'm proud to say that Calamosk boasts a really first-rate tailoring moduplex-a Halston 2100. Make any type of apparel you like.”

Mr. Betsy, who had been savouring his carnation, let out a great sigh of rapture.

Parthol beamed at the Elizabethan in the sadly dilapidated finery. ”We're a bit short of Milieu fabrics since the time-gate closed-not much of a selection in nebulin or dacolite or repelvel-but you'll find some very nice linen and fine cotton: and I'm quite certain there's at least twenty ells of tourmaline silk brocade left, and you might fancy silver lace for that collar thingy of yours.”

Phronsie Gillis smothered a wicked simper. ”And I'll just have me some silk knickers from the sc.r.a.ps!” Betsy ignored her.

Parthol Swiftfoot said to Basil, ”I'll come to fetch you in a couple of hours. You won't try to escape or hide or anything tedious like that, will you? Not to put too fine a point on it-you are all wearing grey torcs. We could track you down easily. At least wait until you've heard what the High King has to say before you begin plotting and scheming.”

”Very well,” said Basil. ”We'll wait.”

As the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds finished King Aiken-Lugonn's high tea, the noncommittal chit-chat slowly faded to silence and all eyes turned to the small figure of the monarch. He was sitting in front of the unlit hearth of the presence room on a throne of gilded oak; his guests had had to make do with tufted floor cus.h.i.+ons and most now lounged on these, leaving only a few of the recalcitrantly suspicious and Mr. Betsy standing. The King was wearing his golden storm-suit without the hood; a simple circlet of black gla.s.s rested on his dark red hair. He drank minted iced tea from a Waterford tumbler and then chewed the cubes as the stillness grew and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds stared.

”How many of you,” the King said at last, ”would like to go back through the time-gate to the Galactic Milieu?”

Pandemonium.

Aiken smiled and raised a hand. An appalling blast of coercion struck every mind dumb. ”Sorry about that, but we don't have much time to spare. More guests will be arriving very shortly to join our little party. Among them will be the lady who clapped you all into the Afaliah slammer after helping to steal your aircraft-Cloud Remillard.”

”Remillard!” exclaimed the minds and voices of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

”I see that a bell has rung,” the King remarked. His smile was grim. ”Yes, she's his daughter. Marc Remillard and his exrebels have been living in North America for twenty-seven years, mostly minding their own business. But not any longer. It seems the rebels had children, and the kids decided that they'd had enough of the old folks' domination, and so they packed up and blew the homestead and came here.

Cloud was first, with a handful of others. Later her brother Hagen came with all the rest of the second generation.”

”Good G.o.d,” said Basil. ”It's incredible! Marc Remillard was alleged to have perished in the Rebellion, together with his top confederates.”

Aiken shrugged. ”Madame Guderian had a lot to answer for.

I don't know if she let 'em go through willingly, or if they coerced her. Probably the latter. They brought contraband galore.”

”Oh, Your Majesty, never mind that!” cried little Miss w.a.n.g pa.s.sionately. ”Tell us more about reopening the time-gate-and going back!”

”Not possible,” Dimitri Anastos told her. ”It's a one-way warp, Milieu to Pliocene.”

”Not,” said Aiken, ”if you build a second Guderian tau-field generator here.

Which is what Marc Remillard's children and their friends propose to do.”

”To go home!” cried Miss w.a.n.g. ”To undo the terrible error!

To leave this awful place and live once again in the tranquillity of the Milieu-”

<script>