"No use taking foolish chances," he told himself.
He reached for the starting bar, then hesitated.
"Wait a minute," he told himself. "Who's the prime minister around
here, anyway? I can----"
He sat back, thinking. Of course. It was such a beautifully simple
idea. Really foolproof. He should have thought of it before.
There would be only the few of them in that private conversation. He
should have realized that. They'd present no difficulty. The wardens?
He snorted.
Just a bunch of dressed-up idiots. No trouble there. Anyway, only one
of them was directly concerned. And he wouldn't really know what was
going on. Only the claimant would know. He laughed.
"Wonder just how it feels to get ordered around like that?"
After the conversation, he could walk into the conclave with signed
papers. And who would dare challenge that? Even the commissioner's
people would have to admit defeat. He smiled. Michaels? He'd be
standing there with his mouth open. Nothing he could do. It would be
too late.
And once he got that crowd back into his jurisdiction, there'd be no
further problems. He'd be sure of that.
This was actually what he'd been waiting for! This was a formal
conclave, called at the request of the tribes themselves. They'd have
to choose now. And there was no one else.
He, Daniel Stern, would walk out of that Throne Room with the silver
robes over his shoulders.
King Daniel!
He climbed out of the yacht and paced toward the small doorway, at the
back of the Blue Palace.
He came into the private conference room and walked with dignified
stride toward his place. As he came under the canopy, he stopped and
placed his hands on the rail.
With haughty appraisal, he allowed his gaze to roam over the men who
stood to flank the outer door. At last, he stopped, to center his
attention on the two who stood in the doorway.
Here were the two key figures--the claimant and his warden.
The man on the right was dressed as for battle, his polished sling
stick shoved into his sash at an angle so as to be easy to his right
hand, just to the left of it was thrust the long hillman's knife. There
was only one thing unorthodox about his equipment. Stern frowned as he
inspected that.
In his right hand, the man carried a long device of wood and metal.
Obviously, it was a weapon of sorts. Stern examined it carefully,
speculating as to its nature.
It was, he finally decided, some type of beam projector. Judging from
the long barrel, it would throw a narrow cone. Mentally, Stern
calculated the probable dispersion.
Some Stellar Guard weapon, he thought, that had been loaned to this
fellow. Well, it made no difference. Whoever the fellow was, he'd never
dare use such a device here. He turned his attention to the other--the
claimant.
So this was Pete Waern?
The boy was slight, he noted, even for a native. Definitely, the
studious type, decided Stern. He'd present no problem at all.
The regent almost allowed himself a smile. This was going to be easy!
He motioned the two forward.
"You have matters for our attention?" he inquired formally.
Waern stepped to the rail.
"I here claim to be the rightful heir to the throne of Oredan," he said
slowly. He took a book from under his arm and laid it on the table
beside Stern.
"I here present the book of my ancestors," he went on. "In it, at the
place marked, is the contract of the last lawful king of Oredan, and of
his queen. I was designated to be their son."