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Synopsis

The planet Nestrond had almost no resources, and after the great starships had ceased to come from Earth, the people reverted to earlier phases of civilization, splitting into kingdoms and empires, often at war with one another. There had been only bows and arrows for several generations. Then the Golandians had come, a race of humanoid star-roaming traders who abhorred war but who had been persuaded by trading concessions to supply the humans of Nestrond with gunpowder and weapons in which to employ it.

Thus it was that Prince Basil of Bradmore, rightful heir to the throne of the empire of Delmovia, stood on a small hill overlooking a grassy plain that streached down to the broad banks of the Black River, and awaited the approach of the Imperial army. Waiting with him, their chargers prancing and snorting, were his regiments of lancers and dragoons. Basil couldn't help thinking how strange it was that, a thousand years after man had conquered space and driven his way to the stars, he should still be fighting on horseback and foot and using manually loaded rifles and muskets. It seemed less strange that warfare should still be a part of life, because this was the culture in which he had been raised.

So, here he was, with a pick-up army lent him by a prince who was willing to take a chance in order to have a friend on the Delmovian throne, and remembering what he had studied in the many books of military strategy and tactics that were still available. It seemed to him that the commander, General Rudwin, did not greatly beleive in the chances of victory, and Basil knew that as many battles had been lost through over caution as through rashness. No matter how skillful the commander, there would always be the possiblity of an unexpected opening-and he would seize it if it did come. He, Basil, would not be like the Union generals in the early years of some civil war back on Earth.

He watched and an opening came. It didn't seem possible, but there it was; the maneuver the Imperial forces were making so magnificently had left an opening-which would close soon. Basil did not hesitate; he led his calvery into the gap, only to find it was a trap.

The battle was a disaster, and Prince Basil servived to find himself a hunted rebel, shielded by the Golandians, who would accept no payment. The merchant, Gar Padron, asked only for Basil's favor when he became emperor; he seemed sure that Prince Basil would reach the imperial throne.

Then the voices came. Basil remembered his mother, whose ambition for him-and bitterness at having been ousted from a rightful position-was the driving force in his life. Now it seemed as if he could hear her giving him explicit instruction; and his head ached when he tried to argue or ignore them.

He did not seem to see his mother, but there was no mistaking her voice-a voice he heard in his brain rather than his ears. Was he going mad? The driving, insistant voice made him leave the traders' caravan at the small kingdom of Victoria, where there would be an opportunity to make his start. But could he bear up under this constant pressure? How soon would it be before he started to see visions and show other traces of mental deterioration? Yet, the commands of the voice always seemed to be sound, so far as his single ambition was concerned. Here is a fascinating novel of tomorrow which might come someday.

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