“Nonworking class, Your Imperial Majesty,” Lord Koreff explained.
“On Aditya,” First Citizen Yaggo declared, “there are no classes, and on Aditya everybody works. ‘From each according to his ability; to each according to his need.’ ”
“On Aditya,” an elderly Counselor four places to the right of him said loudly to his neighbor, “they don’t call them classes, they call them sociological categories, and they have nineteen of them. And on Aditya, they don’t call them nonworkers, they call them occupational reservists, and they have more of them than we do.”
“But of course, I was born a king,” Ranulf said sadly and nobly. “I have a duty to my people.”
“No, they don’t vote at all,” Lord Koreff was telling the Counselor on his left. “On Durendal, you have to pay taxes before you can vote.”
“On Aditya the crime of taxation does not exist,” the First Citizen told the Prime Minister.
“On Aditya,” the Counselor four places down said to his neighbor, “there’s nothing to tax. The state owns all the property, and if the Imperial Constitution and the Space Navy let them, the State would own all the people, too. Don’t tell me about Aditya. First big-ship command I had was the old Invictus, 374, and she was based on Aditya for four years, and I’d sooner have spent that time in orbit around Niffelheim.”
Now Paul remembered who he was; old Admiral—now Prince-Counselor—Gaklar. He and Prince-Counselor Dorflay would get along famously. The Lord Marshal of Durendal was replying to some objection somebody had made:
“No, nothing of the sort. We hold the view that every civil or political right implies a civil or political obligation. The citizen has a right to protection from the Realm, for instance; he therefore has the obligation to defend the Realm. And his right to participate in the government of the Realm includes his obligation to support the Realm financially. Well, we tax only property; if a nonworker acquires taxable property, he has to go to work to earn the taxes. I might add that our nonworkers are very careful to avoid acquiring taxable property.”
“But if they don’t have votes to sell, what do they live on?” a Counselor asked in bewilderment.
“The nobility supports them; the landowners, the trading barons, the industrial lords. The more nonworking adherents they have, the greater their prestige.” And the more rifles they could muster when they quarreled with their fellow nobles, of course. “Beside, if we didn’t do that, they’d turn brigand, and it costs less to support them than to have to hunt them out of the brush and hang them.”
“On Aditya, brigandage does not exist.”
“On Aditya, all the brigands belong to the Secret Police, only on Aditya they don’t call them Secret Police, they call them Servants of the People, Ninth Category.”
A shadow passed quickly over the pavilion, and then another. He glanced up quickly, to see two long black troop carriers, emblazoned with the Sun and Cogwheel and armored fist of Security, pass back of the Octagon Tower and let down on the north landing stage. A third followed. He rose quickly.
“Please remain seated, gentlemen, and continue with the luncheon. If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll be back directly.” I hope, he added mentally.
Captain-General Dorflay, surrounded by a dozen officers, Thoran and human, had arrived on the lower terrace at the base of the Octagon Tower. They had a full Thoran rifle company with them. As he went down to them, Dorflay hurried forward.
“It has come, Your Majesty!” he said, as soon as he could make himself heard without raising his voice. “We are all ready to die with Your Majesty!”
“Oh, I doubt it’ll come quite to that, Harv,” he said. “But just to be on the safe side, take that company and the gentlemen who are with you and get up to the mountains and join the Crown Prince and his party. Here.” He took a notepad from his belt pouch and wrote rapidly, sealing the note and giving it to Dorflay. “Give this to His Highness, and place yourself under his orders. I know; he’s just a boy, but he has a good head. Obey him exactly in everything, but under no circumstances return to the Palace or allow him to return until I call you.”
“Your Majesty is ordering me away?” The old soldier was aghast.
“An emperor who has a son can be spared. An emperor’s son who is too young to marry can’t. You know that.”
Harv Dorflay was only mad on one subject, and even within the frame of his madness he was intensely logical. He nodded. “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. We both serve the Empire as best we can. And I will guard the little Princess Olva, too.” He grasped Paul’s hand, said, “Farewell, Your Majesty!” and dashed away, gathering his staff and the company of Thorans as he went. In an instant, they had vanished down the nearest rampway.
The emperor watched their departure, and, at the same time, saw a big black aircar, bearing the three-mooned planet, argent on sable, of Travann, let down onto the south landing stage, and another troop carrier let down after it. Four men left the aircar—Yorn, Prince Travann, and three officers in the black of the Security Guard. Prince Ganzay had also left the table: he came from one direction as Prince Travann advanced from the other. They converged on the emperor.
“What’s happening here, Prince Travann?” Prince Ganzay demanded. “Why are you bringing all these troops to the Palace?”
“Your Majesty,” Prince Travann said smoothly, “I trust that you will pardon this disturbance. I’m sure nothing serious will happen, but I didn’t dare take chances. The students from the University are marching on the Palace—perfectly peaceful and loyal procession; they’re bringing a petition for Your Majesty—but on the way, while passing through a nonworkers’ district, they were attacked by a gang of hooligans connected with a voting-bloc boss called Nutchy the Knife. None of the students were hurt, and Colonel
