Space Viking, H. Beam Piper [best classic romance novels txt] 📗

and then forced himself on to the open window and stood for a moment staring out. Then he turned.

“Captain Harkaman, it might be that you could still get a command, here on Gram. That’s if you don’t mind commanding under me as owner-aboard. I am going hunting for Andray Dunnan.”

They both looked at him. After a moment, Harkaman said:

“I’d count it an honor, Lord Trask. But where will you get a ship?”

“She’s half finished now. You already have a crew for her. Duke Angus can finish her for me, and pay for it by pledging his new barony of Traskon.”

He had known Rovard Grauffis all his life; until this moment, he had never seen Duke Angus’ henchman show surprise.

“You mean, you’ll trade Traskon for that ship?” he demanded.

“Finished, equipped and ready for space, yes.”

“The Duke will agree to that,” Grauffis said promptly. “But, Lucas; Traskon is all you own.”

“If I have a ship, I won’t need them. I am turning Space Viking.”

That brought Harkaman to his feet with a roar of approval. Grauffis looked at him, his mouth slightly open.

“Lucas Trask⁠—Space Viking,” he said. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

Well, why not? He had deplored the effects of Viking raiding on the Sword-Worlds, because Gram was a Sword-World, and Traskon was on Gram, and Traskon was to have been the home where he and Elaine would live and where their children and children’s children would be born and live. Now the little point on which all of it had rested was gone.

“That was another Lucas Trask, Rovard. He’s dead, now.”

VI

Grauffis excused himself to make a screen call and then returned to excuse himself again. Evidently Duke Angus had dropped whatever he was doing as soon as he heard what his henchman had to tell him. Harkaman was silent until after he was out of the room, then said:

“Lord Trask, this is a wonderful thing for me. It’s not been pleasant to be a shipless captain living on strangers’ bounty. I’d hate, though, to have you think, some time, that I’d advanced my own fortunes at the expense of yours.”

“Don’t worry about that. If anybody’s being taken advantage of, you are. I need a space-captain, and your misfortune is my own good luck.”

Harkaman started to pack tobacco into his pipe. “Have you ever been off Gram, at all?” he asked.

“A few years at the University of Camelot, on Excalibur. Otherwise, no.”

“Well, have you any conception of the sort of thing you’re setting yourself to?” The Space Viking snapped his lighter and puffed. “You know, of course, how big the Old Federation is. You know the figures, that is, but do they mean anything to you? I know they don’t to a good many spacemen, even. We talk glibly about ten to the hundredth power, but emotionally we still count, ‘One, Two, Three, Many.’ A ship in hyperspace logs about a light-year an hour. You can go from here to Excalibur in thirty hours. But you could send a radio message announcing the birth of a son, and he’d be a father before it was received. The Old Federation, where you’re going to hunt Dunnan, occupies a space-volume of two hundred billion cubic light-years. And you’re hunting for one ship and one man in that. How are you going to do it, Lord Trask?”

“I haven’t started thinking about how; all I know is that I have to do it. There are planets in the Old Federation where Space Vikings come and go; raid-and-trade bases, like the one Duke Angus planned to establish on Tanith. At one or another of them, I’ll pick up word of Dunnan, sooner or later.”

“We’ll hear where he was a year ago, and by the time we get there, he’ll be gone for a year and a half to two years. We’ve been raiding the Old Federation for over three hundred years, Lord Trask. At present, I’d say there are at least two hundred Space Viking ships in operation. Why haven’t we raided it bare long ago? Well, that’s the answer: distance and voyage-time. You know, Dunnan could die of old age⁠—which is not a usual cause of death among Space Vikings⁠—before you caught up with him. And your youngest ship’s-boy could die of old age before he found out about it.”

“Well, I can go on hunting for him till I die, then. There’s nothing else that means anything to me.”

“I thought it was something like that. I won’t be with you, all your life. I want a ship of my own, like the Corisande, that I lost on Durendal. Some day, I’ll have one. But till you can command your own ship, I’ll command her for you. That’s a promise.”

Some note of ceremony seemed indicated. Summoning a robot, he had it pour wine for them, and they pledged each other.

Rovard Grauffis had recovered his aplomb by the time he returned accompanied by the Duke. If Angus had ever lost his, he gave no indication of it. The effect on everybody else was literally seismic. The generally accepted view was that Lord Trask’s reason had been unhinged by his tragic loss; there might, he conceded, be more than a crumb of truth in that. At first, his cousin Nikkolay raged at him for alienating the barony from the family, and then he learned that Duke Angus was appointing him vicar-baron and giving him Traskon New House for his residence. Immediately he began acting like one at the deathbed of a rich grandmother. The Wardshaven financial and industrial barons, whom he had known only distantly, on the other hand, came flocking around him, offering assistance and hailing him as the savior of the duchy. Duke Angus’ credit, almost obliterated by the loss of the Enterprise, was firmly reestablished, and theirs with it.

There were conferences at which lawyers and bankers argued interminably; he attended a few at first, found himself completely uninterested, and told everybody so. All he wanted was a ship; the best