Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera by Robert Sheckley Page A

which, ever lowly,
    Doth yet made a sound of crowly
    As in a tinkling glass.
    “ And jocund daffodil, in wind so blowly
    Causes chill in those who knowly
    Play the deadly love-game sowely
    With one so crass.
    “ And em’rald raven, not untoely –”
    “Enough,” said Dramocles. “These old ballads have a sinister sound to one who understands them not. Fah! Old shoes! I am unamused.”
    “Would Your Majesty prefer that I perform delicious obscenities on your regal body?” the girl inquired.
    “Your last obscenities left me with an aching prostate,” said Dramocles. “Better leave that sort of thing to the experts. Now go away, for I would cerebrate.”
    As soon as the minstrel girl was gone, Dramocles regretted having sent her away. He didn’t like being alone. But perhaps, in solitude, a sign would be vouchsafed him concerning his next move in pursuit of his glorious but still unknown destiny.
    It had been three days since the conquest of Aard-vark, two days since his robot army had invaded Lekk. Count John, Snint, and Adalbert were demanding explanations. Their behavior toward him had become sarcastic in the extreme. Adalbert, in particular, seemed to be losing his grip. He spent his nights in the gambling halls of Thula Island, losing vast sums and impressing the local ladies with tales of how he had been a king before Dramocles had taken away his patrimony. Worst of all, he was charging his gambling debts to the Exchequer of Glorm, and Dramocles really didn’t have the heart to stop him. The pretense that he was intefering in the affairs of their planets out of purely altruistic motives was wearing increasingly thin. Even the loyal Rufus was upset–still loyal, but his mouth now a grim line as he contemplated the vistas of dishonor that lay before him no matter what he did.
    And Dramocles still didn’t know what to tell anyone. It had all seemed so right at the time. Wasn’t destiny supposed to work itself out? Why, after such sure indications, was he still in such a state of confusion? If only a new sign or portent would be given to him. Surely he must have arranged for something like that, thirty years ago, when he had set all this up.
    His computer swore it had no more envelopes, no clues of any sort, nor was it expecting to find any. Perhaps something had gone wrong. The next link in the chain of revelations–perhaps another old woman–might have met with some sort of misadventure, might be lying dead in a ditch, as often happened to old ladies who meddled in the affairs of royalty, especially when invited to do so by royalty itself. Or one of his enemies might have learned of his plans through an unlucky inadvertence on Dramocles’ part, like bragging in some low tavern while drunk, or talking in his sleep while lying with some wench, and taken steps to prevent their completion. Or he might simply have forgotten to prepare the proper sequence thirty years ago before having Dr. Fish expunge his memory of the matter.
    Now he had conquered Aardvark, a place he didn’t have the slightest interest in, and soon he would have Lekk, a place he cared for even less. And he also had the hostility of his son, Chuch, who felt left out, as usual; and his wife Lyrae was irritated with him; and all, so far, for nothing. What was most annoying was the fact that he didn’t know what to do next.
    Dramocles gnawed his hairy knuckles, trying to think of something good to do, or, if not good, at least something. He couldn’t think of a damned thing. Furiously he called for his computer. It came in quickly, having been lurking in the corridor in anticipation of such a call.
    “You still don’t know where the next piece of information is?” Dramocles demanded.
    “Alas, Sire.”
    “Then can’t you at least make me some sort of contingency plan?”
    “I can suggest certain probability-ranked courses of action based on von Neumann’s recently discredited Theory of Games.”
    “That’ll have to do. What do you