Star Winds

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. What a farcical joke he had played on himself! What a fool he would look in the eyes of the men he had dragged with him across space! Momentarily Zhorga’s spirit was crushed. He stood with his back ramrod straight, gazing emptily ahead.

“I may pay a visit to Earth myself, when I am finished here,” the baron was saying lightly. “It is reputed by some to be the birthplace of space travel, not to say of mankind itself. If, that is, it is the same planet I am thinking of.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Zhorga rumbled absently. “Ether silk cannot be manufactured there; the sun is too close. So it cannot be the origin of space travel. Or of mankind, either, for the same reason. Both must have arrived there from outside.”

Matello shrugged. “Not worth a visit after all, then. Well, Captain, what are you going to do now? No ship, no silk to buy.”

“Hmmmmm …” The sound, a combination of chagrin and reappraisal, came from deep within Zhorga’s chest.

What, indeed, was he going to do? He was crushed, defeated, his plans destroyed.

He glanced wildly about him, sensing the vast bulk of the Bucentaur all around. He thought of the Wandering Queen; thought of the ships he had grown up with and struggled with all his life.

Suddenly it seemed to him that he had not really appreciated what it could mean to him to be standing on a starship. True, he had lost the Wandering Queen—but was it not ridiculous to be still obsessed with the need to take ether silk to Earth, a dilapidated backwater? Ridiculous—when this great ship could take him to a new life among the stars!

He took a deep breath. “My future lies in your hands, my lord. You have destroyed my ship. You have left me stranded. It lies in your power simply to abandon me here, or—”

He stopped. Matello frowned, looking dangerous. “Or?”

“Earth was never the place for a man of adventure. Swear me into your service. Permit me to wear your lordship’s coat of arms.”

Captain Veautrin’s rigid expression told Zhorga that he had committed a considerable faux pas. The baron tossed away his goblet, which went spinning across the room.

“And your men? You would desert them?”

“Any who want to grub on Mars, let them,” Zhorga said, blinking. “As for the others, swear them in, too.”

“To serve with the Margrave of the Marsh Worlds,” the baron said harshly, “is accounted an honor. It is not something to be handed out to any passing rabble of merchants and air sailors.”

Zhorga persisted. “I’ve been a fighting man in my time,” he claimed. “I was a midshipman on the Victorious—one of Earth’s last fighting ships.”

“Oh, you’re a fighting man!” Matello echoed mockingly. “What weapons do you know?”

“I prefer the cutlass or the broadsword.”

Matello had not lost his good humor; he sensed an opportunity for sport, of which there had been precious little since his departure for Mars. He rose and crossed the room to open a wall cupboard. Within, weapons were clipped to a rack—swords, pistols, long-barreled shooters.

He selected a pair of matched blades and returned to hand one apiece to Zhorga and Veautrin, before stepping back to lounge once more in his chair, though there was little need for it in the null gravity, the special cloth of his garments adhering crepe-like to the thick-piled upholstery.

“Match yourself against the good Captain Veautrin here,” he drawled. “He’ll be only too pleased to accommodate you.”

Zhorga tested his sword for balance, difficult though it was to assess in free-fall, and probably immaterial anyway. The weapon was broad-bladed and somewhat longer than he was used to. The metal, however, was excellent—much springier and tougher, he judged, than anything to be found on Earth.

He turned to Veautrin, who stared expressionlessly back at him, his sword pointing military-style at the floor.

“To what limit?” Zhorga asked the baron.

“’Til one of you yields.”

Veautrin took a step back, saluted Zhorga, and took up a formal stance, one arm extended behind him, his sword thrust forward and down, and apparently expecting Zhorga to do the same. His was obviously an impeccable kind of swordsmanship.

Zhorga was trained in a rougher school, however. With a growl he charged at Veautrin, wielding his blade in a whirl of savage strokes. Veautrin easily parried the flurry, stepping neatly in his cling-slippers—while Zhorga found himself tromping clumsily like an elephant.

Then Veautrin’s blade found an opening. Its tip hacked at Zhorga’s cheek, narrowly missing his ear. Zhorga knocked the sword aside with a bellow and a clang of steel. His blood spilled into the air, forming floating globules which he batted with his free hand, splitting them into a fine mist of droplets.