Down he went with a loud cry. Up went the table, driving the second man toward the wall and keeping him there, while Raych's right arm flashed out, with the edge of the palm striking hard against the larynx of the third, who coughed and went down.
It had taken two seconds and Raych now stood there with a knife in each hand and said, "Now which one of you wants to move?"
They glared at him but remained frozen in place and Raych said, "In that case, I will now leave."
But the server, who had retreated to the back room, must have summoned help, for three more men had now entered the store, while the server screeched, "Troublemakers! Nothing but troublemakers!"
The newcomers were dressed alike in what was obviously a uniform-but one that Raych had never seen. Trousers were tucked into boots, loose green T-shirts were belted, and odd semispherical hats that looked vaguely comic were perched on top of their heads. On the front of the left shoulder of each T-shirt were the letters Jo.**
They had the Dahlite look about them but not quite the Dahlite mustache. The mustaches were black and thick, but they were carefully trimmed at lip level and were kept from luxuriating too widely. Raych allowed himself an internal sneer. They lacked the vigor of his own wild mustache, but he had to admit they looked neat and clean.
The leader of these three men said, "I'm Corporal Quinber. What's been going on here?"
The defeated Billibottoners were scrambling to their feet, clearly the worse for wear. One was still doubled over, one was rubbing his throat, and the third acted as though one of his shoulders had been wrenched.
The corporal stared at them with a philosophic eye, while his two men blocked the door. He turned to Raych-the one man who seemed untouched. "Are you a Billibottoner, boy?"
"Born and bred, but I've lived elsewhere for eight years." He let the Billibotton accent recede, but it was still there, at least to the extent that it existed in the corporal's speech as well. There were other parts of Dahl aside from Billibotton and some parts with considerable aspirations to gentility.
Raych said, "Are you security officers? I don't seem to recall the uniform you're-"
"We're not security officers. You won't find security officers in Billibotton much. We're the Joranum Guard and we keep the peace here. We know these three and they've been warned. We'll take care of them. You're our problem, buster. Name. Reference number."
Raych told them.
"And what happened here?"
Raych told them.
"And your business here?"
Raych said, "Look here. Do you have the right to question me? If you're not security officers-"
"Listen," said the corporal in a hard voice, "don't you question rights. We're all there is in Billibotton and we have the right because we take the right. You say you beat up these three men and I believe you. But you won't beat us up. We're not allowed to carry blasters-" And with that, the corporal slowly pulled out a blaster.
"Now tell me your business here."
Raych sighed. If he had gone directly to a sector hall, as he should have done-if he had not stopped to drown himself in nostalgia for Billibotton and coke-icers-
He said, "I have come on important business to see Mr. Joranum, and since you seem to be part of his organi-"
"To see the leader?"
"Yes, Corporal."
"With two knives on you?"
"For self-defense. I wasn't going to have them on me when I saw Mr. Joranum."
"So you say. We're taking you into custody, mister. We'll get to the bottom of this. It may take time, but we will."
"But you don't have the right. You're not the legally const-"
"Well, find someone to complain to. Till then, you're ours."
And the knives were confiscated and Raych was taken into custody.
15
Cleon was no longer quite the handsome young monarch that his holographs portrayed. Perhaps he still was-in the holographs-but his mirror told a different story. His most recent birthday had been celebrated with the usual pomp and ritual, but it was his fortieth just the same.
The Emperor could find nothing wrong with being forty. His health was perfect. He had gained a little weight but not much. His face would perhaps look older, if it were not for the microadjustments that were made periodically and that gave him a slightly enameled look.
He had been on the throne for eighteen years-already one of the longer reigns of the century-and he felt there was nothing that might necessarily keep him from reigning another forty years and perhaps having the longest reign in Imperial history as a result.
Cleon looked at the mirror again and thought he looked a bit better if he did not actualize the third dimension.
Now take Demerzel-faithful, reliable, necessary, unbearable Demerzel. No change in him. He maintained his appearance and, as far as Cleon knew, there had been no microadjustments, either. Of course, Demerzel was so close-mouthed about everything. And he had never been young. There had been no young look about him when he first served Cleon's father and Cleon had been the boyish Prince Imperial. And there was no young look about him now. Was it better to have looked old at the start and to avoid change afterward?
Change!
It reminded him that he had called Demerzel in for a purpose and not just so that he might stand there while the Emperor ruminated. Demerzel would take too much Imperial rumination as a sign of old age.
"Demerzel," he said.
"Sire?"
"This fellow Joranum. I tire of hearing of him."
"There is no reason you should hear of him, Sire. He is one of those phenomena that are thrown to the surface of the news for a while and then disappears."