The Sleeper Sword Read Online Free PDF Page B

foods - and everything had
to be entirely recyclable. There were no landfills and nothing was
dumped into the oceans. The latter carried a hefty penalty.
    There was some
technology, but it was limited to the early kind others elsewhere
had abandoned. Television, telephone and basic electrical
appliances. Electricity was solar and communication via satellite,
a single orbiter bought from Xen. No unsightly wires marred the
landscape.
    Weapons were
not manufactured or permitted. A visitor carrying one was bound to
declare and hand it in at the spaceport or he or she faced
permanent expulsion. No visitor or Valarian was allowed to carry a
knife on his or her person. Crime cannot be wholly eradicated, but
it was minimal, another reason the tourism industry grew fast.
    Dignitaries
from offworld were astounded progress was deliberately slow and
were informed to make a visit to Xen III. Xen, once the planet of
domes and a deadly poisonous atmosphere, now as backward as
Valaris. By choice.
    Valaris had
civilised in universal terms over the past two thousand years, but
also managed to laud and maintain traditional ways.
    And it
possessed a legendary past that drew visitors like a magnet.
     
     
    Marcus Campian
was the Electan of Valaris, a title equivalent to President and
Peacekeeper.
    He was a small
man, wiry, tanned and healthy. His brown eyes were shrewd and he
possessed a sharply intelligent wit and a sharper tongue. His hair
was dark brown, dyed against grey, curly, and he wore its shoulder
length caught in a clasp at his neck to tame the wilful wildness.
His hands were slender and manicured, with a deceptive strength
many an adversary underestimated.
    Unmarried, he
resided in east Galilan where the wealthy made their homes. The
lower section of his grand house was given over to offices and
conference rooms - and a venue for functions - while the upper
level was his personal abode. Marcus Campian refused to
commute.
    A
well-appointed guesthouse in the landscaped grounds hosted frequent
visitors from varied walks of life.
    He ever wore
comfortable pants and a knee-length robe, both the same colour.
Silk in summer, wool in winter - boots for winter, sandals for
summer. His dress never varied, except in hue.
    Today, as he
made his way whistling downstairs to his office, he was clad in
dark blue. It was spring, thus he wore sandals, but it was also
chilly and he donned a pair of blue socks as well and cared not who
thought what about it.
    Each city had
an elected mayor and the mayors together chose the Electan. Marcus
Campian was sixty years old and had been Electan for twenty-five
years. He was an excellent diplomat, a stirring orator, a worthy
administrator as well as a sympathetic listener. He was a
trouble-shooter, impatient with bad ideas, and would not be swayed
from a decision he regarded as sound. He never made a decision
lightly.
    Marcus was
good for Valaris.
    His secretary,
a middle-aged man with him his entire political career, halted him
at the foot of the dramatic sweep of the magnificent stairway -
royal blue carpeting, plush plum walls and rich wood banisters.
    “Mr Campian,
there’s a young woman on the line who insists on speaking with you.
She says her father was attacked in his bedroom last night.”
    “Tell her to
inform her local lawmen, Mr Jackson,” Marcus frowned, straightening
his robe, flicking an imaginary piece of fluff from his
shoulder.
    “I tried, but
she remains insistent. She’ll speak only to you, sir.”
    The Electan’s
good humour fled. This early in the day and already dealing with
time wasters. “I’ll take it in my office. Do we know her, or her
father?” he asked as he strode towards his luxurious place of
work.
    “I believe
not.” Mr Jackson - MJ for short, for he despised his given name -
headed to his smaller, but no less luxurious office to transfer the
call. Mr Campian would expect it ready when he reached for the
handset.
    Marcus sank
into his leather chair and lifted the