The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [75]
And, frankly, I can’t imagine what she sees in him.
REFUGEE
Doubtless to the great confusion of anthologists, this story has been published under three other titles: “Royal Prerogative,” “This Earth of Majesty” and “?”. (Now, how do you index that?)
It was written in 1954, and I cannot pretend that no resemblance was intended to any living character. Indeed, I have since met the prototype of “Prince Henry” on three occasions, and on the last—here in Colombo, only a few months ago—we had a conversation uncannily appropriate to this story.
Our first meeting, I mentioned, had been at an exhibition circa 1958 optimistically called “Britain Enters The Space Age.” His Royal Highness laughed and answered wryly: “We never did, did we?”
Not quite true, of course, since there are many British satellites in orbit, and there will soon be a few Britons (courtesy the U.S. Space Shuttle) as well. But that isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
Well, Sir Isaac Newton invented gravity. Perhaps one day we British may be lucky enough to disinvent it.
“WHEN HE COMES ABOARD,” said Captain Saunders, as he waited for the landing ramp to extrude itself, “what the devil shall I call him?” There was a thoughtful silence while the navigation officer and the assistant pilot considered this problem in etiquette. Then Mitchell locked the main control panel, and the ship’s multitudinous mechanisms lapsed into unconsciousness as power was withdrawn from them.
“The correct address,” he drawled slowly, “is ‘Your Royal Highness.’”
“Huh!” snorted the captain. “I’ll be damned if I’ll call anyone that!”
“In these progressive days,” put in Chambers helpfully, “I believe that ‘Sir’ is quite sufficient. But there’s no need to worry if your forget: it’s been a long time since anyone went to the Tower. Besides, this Henry isn’t as tough a proposition as the one who had all the wives.”
“From all accounts,” added Mitchell, “he’s a very pleasant young man. Quite intelligent, too. He’s often been known to ask people technical questions that they couldn’t answer.”
Captain Saunders ignored the implications of this remark, beyond resolving that if Prince Henry wanted to know how a Field Compensation Drive Generator worked, then Mitchell could do the explaining. He got gingerly to his feet—they’d been operating on half a gravity during flight, and now they were on Earth, he felt like a ton of bricks—and started to make his way along the corridors that led to the lower air lock. With an oily purring, the great curving door side-stepped out of his way. Adjusting his smile, he walked out to meet the television cameras and the heir to the British throne.
The man who would, presumably, one day be Henry IX of England was still in his early twenties. He was slightly below average height, and had fine-drawn, regular features that really lived up to all the genealogical clichés. Captain Saunders, who came from Dallas and had no intention of being impressed by any prince, found himself unexpectedly moved by the wide, sad eyes. They were eyes that had seen too many receptions and parades, that had had to watch countless totally uninteresting things, that had never been allowed to stray far from the carefully planned official routes. Looking at that proud but weary face, Captain Saunders glimpsed for the first time the ultimate loneliness of royalty. All his dislike of that institution became suddenly trivial against its real defect: what was wrong with the Crown was the unfairness of inflicting such a burden on any human being . . .
The passageways of the Centaurus were too narrow to allow for general sight-seeing, and it was soon clear that it suited Prince Henry very well to leave his entourage behind. Once they had begun moving through the ship, Saunders lost all his stiffness and reserve, and within a few minutes was treating the prince exactly like any other visitor. He did not realize that one of the earliest lessons royalty has to learn is that of putting people at their ease.
“You know,