The Last Castle Read Free Page A

feet. “Come forward, B. F. Robarth; what is your news?” For this was the significance of the newcomer’s genuflection.
    “The news is a message broadcast from Halcyon. The Meks have attacked; they have fired the structure and are slaughtering all. The radio went dead one minute ago.”
    All swung around, some jumped to their feet. “Slaughter?” croaked Claghorn.
    “I am certain that by now Halcyon is no more.”
    Claghorn sat staring with eyes unfocused. The others discussed the dire news in voices heavy with horror.
    Hagedorn once more brought the council back to order. "This is clearly an extreme situation; the gravest, perhaps, of our entire history. I am frank to state that I can suggest no decisive counteract.”
    Overwhele inquired, “What of the other castles? Are they secure?”
    Hagedorn turned to B. F. Robarth: “Will you be good enough to make general radio contact with all other castles, and inquire as to their condition?”
    Xanten said, “Others are as vulnerable as Halcyon: Sea Island and Delora, in particular, and Maraval as well.”
    Claghorn emerged from his reverie. “The gentlemen and ladies of these places, in my opinion, should consider taking refuge at Janeil or here until the uprising is quelled.”
    Others around the table looked at him in surprise and puzzlement. 0. Z. Garr inquired in the silkiest of voices: “You envision the gentlefolk of these castles scampering to refuge at the cock-a-hoop swaggering of the lower orders?”
    “Indeed I do, should they wish to survive,” responded Claghorn politely. A gentleman of late middle-age, Claghorn was stocky, strong, with black-gray hair, magnificent green eyes, a manner which suggests great internal force under stern control. “Flight by definition entails a certain diminution of dignity,” he went on to say. “If 0 Z. Garr can propound an elegant manner of taking to one’s heels. I will be glad to learn it, and everyone else should likewise heed, because in the days to come the capability may be of comfort to all.”
    Hagedorn interposed before 0. Z. Garr could reply. “Let us keep to the issues. I confess I cannot see to the end of all this. The Meks have demonstrated themselves to be murderers. How can we take murderers back into our service? But if we don’t—well, to say the least, conditions will be austere until we can locate and train a new force of technicians.”
    “The spaceships!” exclaimed Xanten. “We must see to them at once!”
    “What’s this?” inquired Beaudry, a gentleman of rock-hard face. “How do you mean: ‘see to them’?”
    “They must be protected from damage! What else? They are our link to the Home Worlds. The maintenance Meks probably have not deserted the hangars, since, if they propose to exterminate us, they will want to deny us the spaceships.”
    “Perhaps you care to march with a levy of Peasants to take the hangars under firm control?” suggested 0. Z. Garr in a somewhat supercilious voice. A long history of rivalry and mutual detestation existed between himself and Xanten.
    “It may be our only hope,” said Xanten. “Still—how does one fight with a levy of Peasants? Better that I fly to the hangars and reconnoiter. Meanwhile, perhaps you, and others with military expertise, will take in hand the recruitment and training of a Peasant militia.”
    “In this regard,” stated 0. Z. Garr, “I await the outcome of our current deliberations. If it develops that here lies the optimum course, I naturally will apply my competences to the fullest degree. If your own capabilities are best fulfilled by spying out the activities of the Meks, I hope you will be large-hearted enough to do the same.”
    The two gentlemen glared at each other.
    A year previously their enmity had almost culminated in a duel. Xanten, a gentleman tall, clean-limbed, nervously active, was gifted with great natural flair, but likewise evinced a disposition too easy for absolute elegance. The traditionalists