Inferno

Simcor Beddle was a small man. His face was round and sallow, with hard gimlet eyes of uncertain color. His hair was glossy black, and cut just long enough to lie flat against his skull. He was heavy-set, verging on the rotund, but there was nothing soft about him. He was a strong, hard, determined man, who knew what he wanted and did not care what he had to do to accomplish it.

And tonight he wanted to cause trouble. For starters, he was going to crash the party. If there were a law against robots, he would break that law. Just let them try and arrest him.

The passenger door of his aircar swung up and open, and Simcor got out of his chair and stepped to the hatch. Sanlacor 1321 was there with an umbrella, of course, to ward off any rain that might blow into the aircar port. A covered walkway led from the port to the portico of the Residence, and the other guests were hurrying along under it, but Simcor marched purposefully out into the rain, with absolute faith and certainty that Sanlacor 1321 would keep the umbrella positioned perfectly to protect him from the storm.

Sanlacor 1321 succeeded admirably, trotting alongside him, keeping the umbrella under tight control in the driving rain. Sanlacor 1322 and 1323 followed close behind, all three robots walking in perfect lockstep with their master. The Sanlacors were tall, graceful, dignified-looking robots, metallic-silver in color, a perfect mobile backdrop for Beddle himself.

They reached the main entrance, not stopping or even slowing. The SSS agents on duty at the door came forward a step or two, ready to protest, until they recognized Beddle. Seeming to be unsure whether they should stop him or not, they hesitated just long enough for him to get through the door without breaking stride. There were often distinct advantages to being the most recognized man on the planet.

And then he was in, his robots with him, and, as he had calculated, there was no one there with enough backbone to demand that he send his robots away, let alone ask if he had an invitation.

And that in and of itself was a victory. Let the Settlers tell everyone else they could and could not have robots on the premises-Simcor Beddle was not going to knuckle under. He would take his robots where he wanted, when he wanted.

And if that caused problems for Governor Chanto Grieg, then Beddle would not mind at all.

He stood, smiling, at the entry to the Grand Hall, his robots at his back, every eye on him. Someone began to applaud, and someone else joined in, and then someone else. Slowly, uncertainly at first, but then with growing enthusiasm, the crowd joined in, until Beddle was surrounded by cheering voices and clapping hands. Yes. Yes. Very good. No matter if he had planted a flunky or two in the crowd to get the applause started. The crowd had joined in. He had managed to upstage the Governor completely.

Which was no bad thing, as Beddle planned to be Governor himself before very much longer.

Fredda Leving watched with the rest of the guests as Simcor Beddle accepted the cheers of the crowd, but she was certainly not among those joining in. “It looks as if Simcor Beddle has solved your problem,” she said to Caliban as the cheers died down. “It doesn’t seem likely that you’ll be the center of attention tonight.”

“I fear that man,” Prospero said.

“As well you should,” Fredda said,

“Even after all this time, I must admit that I have a great deal of trouble understanding the man’s fanaticism.”

“If you ask me, he’s no fanatic at all,” Fredda replied. “I almost wish he were. He’d be far less dangerous if he actually believed in his cause. ”

“He doesn’t believe in it?”

“The Ironheads are a useful means to an end, but if you ask me, Simcor Beddle doesn’t believe in anyone or anything besides Simcor Beddle. He’s a demagogue, a rabble-rouser-and as much a danger to this planet as the collapsing ecology. ”

“But why is he here?” Prospero asked.

“To undermine the occasion and make the Governor look bad, I suppose,” Fredda replied.

“But what is the significance of the occasion? Caliban tells me this is an important event,” Prospero said, “but he has not explained its importance to my satisfaction. Perhaps you would have more success.”

“Well, it is the first time any Governor of Inferno has actually stayed in the Governor’s Winter Residence in more than fifty years.”

“And why is that of the slightest importance?” Prospero asked.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t, in and of itself,” Fredda admitted. “What is important is that it provides a way for the Governor to demonstrate that he-and through him, the Spacer government on Inferno-still controls the island of Purgatory.”

“Does ultimate control rest with the Spacers?” Prospero asked.