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Updated: June 29, 2025
The Enterprise had borne the Ward sword and atom-symbol; the Nemesis should bear his own badge, but the bisonoid head, tawny on green, of Traskon, was no longer his. He chose a skull impaled on an upright sword, and it was blazoned on the ship when he and Harkaman took her out for her shakedown cruise.
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."
"Well, Baron Cragdale; speaking as Baron Trask of Traskon, suppose we just work out a rough outline of what this treaty ought to be, and then consult, unofficially, with a few people whom you can trust, and see what can be done about presenting it to the proper government officials...."
He had a thin, pointed face, almost femininely sensitive, and a small pointed beard. He was bareheaded except for the narrow golden circlet which he spent most of his waking time scheming to convert into a royal crown. The guard-captain repeated the question. "I am Sir Nikkolay Trask; I bring my cousin and liege-lord, Lucas, Lord Trask, Baron of Traskon.
"All right; let's shove off," Cousin Nikkolay said, stepping forward. Ten minutes since they had come outside; another five to get into position. Fifty minutes, now, till he and Elaine Lady Elaine Trask of Traskon, for real and for always would be going home. "Sure the car's ready?" he asked, for the hundredth time. His cousin assured him that it was.
The difference was that any of these were as large as Camelot on Excalibur or four Wardshavens on Gram, and Malverton itself was almost half the size of the whole barony of Traskon. "They aren't any more civilized that we are, Paytrik. There are just more of them. If there were two billion people on Gram which I hope there never will be Gram would have cities like this, too."
Give it fifteen more minutes to get started, and another fifteen to get away after the marriage toasts and the felicitations. And no marriage, however pompous, lasted more than half an hour. An hour, then, till he and Elaine would be in the aircar, bulleting toward Traskon. The love songs stopped abruptly; after a momentary silence, a trumpet, considerably amplified, blared; the "Ducal Salute."
Trask and a few of his former cattlemen from Traskon watched them anxiously, and the ship's doctor, acting veterinarian, made elaborate tests of vegetation they would be likely to eat. Three of the cows proved to be with calf; these were isolated and watched over with especial solicitude. The locals were inclined to take a poor view of the kreggs, at first.
He'd been in combat before; he'd led the fighting-men of Traskon during the boundary dispute with Baron Manniwel, and there were always bandits and cattle rustlers. He'd thought it would be like that. He remembered, five days, or was it five ages, ago, his excited anticipation as the city grew and spread in the screen and the Nemesis came dropping down toward it.
Khepera had been easy; the locals hadn't had anything to fight with. Small arms, and light cannon which hadn't been able to fire more than a few rounds. Wherever they had attempted resistance, the combat cars had swooped in, dropping bombs and firing machine guns and auto-cannon. Yet they had fought, bitterly and hopelessly just as he would have, defending Traskon.
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