The Stars Are Also Fire

by Poul Anderson

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot said. “May I introduce Aleka Kame?” He could never think of her by the Anglo version of her name.

  “Bienvenida, señorita.”

  “Gracias,” she replied uncertainly. “You are very kind to receive us like this, on no notice, señor.”

  “Kenmuir called troth when you arrived. Besides, I’m … curious.”

  “We have more to tell than a peculiar story, sir,” Kenmuir said.

  The Rydberg nodded. “That’s plain to see.”

  “We need to speak with you in privacy.”

  “Equally obvious. Sit.” Matthias gestured. Kenmuir and Aleka went to get chairs. Meanwhile Matthias addressed their escort: “Did you hear, Gould? Seal of secrecy. I want you to inform the staff, each individual person in the house and on the grounds.” He described their whereabouts.

  Aleka took the opportunity to whisper to Kenmuir, “Will that work?”

  “Yes. Troth,” he answered, not quite so shyly. “But for my part—I can’t lie to him, you know.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Nor expect him—nor ask him—to act against his judgment of what’s best for all the Fireball consortes.”

  “Or for all living things. I understand.”

  They brought their chairs back to face the lodgemaster’s carven seat. As he sat down, Kenmuir felt how weary he was. It was a physical tiredness, though, warm and loose-boned. This day’s tramp along upland greenwood trails to the sea had been as heartening as the half-sorrowful bliss last night. Aleka, beside him, took his hand.

  Gould departed. “Ease off,” Matthias said to Aleka. “Nothing that anybody here sees or hears will go past these bounds without my leave.” Her grip tightened before she let go.

  “Not that we’ll expose them to more than necessary,” Matthias continued. “But we do want service.” He touched a button on the arm of his chair. “You two must be exhausted, and hungry as black holes. Wouldn’t you like to eat first, rest, sleep?”

  “I don’t believe I could, señor,” Aleka replied.

  Kenmuir nodded agreement. “Maybe coffee and a bite of something, if the Rydberg pleases.”

  “I thought so,” Matthias said. A boy entered. “What’ll you have, Srta. Kame?”

  Aleka smiled. “Bueno, if I might ask for a protein cake and a beer, that’d be wonderful.” She was indeed a lusty sort, Kenmuir thought. Before him rose memory of their noontide pause at a spring. She splashed him, laughing, and when she kissed him the water dewed her lips, and she was firm and bouncy and her sweat smelled sweet. Matthias chuckled and gave the order. The attendant left.

  Matthias leaned back, bridged his fingers, and inquired in a matter-of-fact voice, “Where did you come from today? Sprucetop? … Yes, that seemed likely. Covering your tracks.”

  “It’s a long story, sir,” Kenmuir said.

  “And we ourselves don’t know the half of it,” Aleka added. “Not yet, anyhow.”

  “I suspect there are those who don’t want you to,” Matthias replied. “Go on, then, talk, at your own pace.”

  They began, haltingly at first, breaking when the boy returned. Aleka attacked her beer with unabashed enthusiasm, and thereafter spoke in lively wise of her background and part. Kenmuir did most of the relating. Matthias kept throwing questions at them, like missiles. Once he said:

  “An officer of theirs was here about a week ago. He wanted to know about you, Captain Kenmuir. I was not cooperative. Pragmatic Venator, he called himself.”

  “Pele!” Aleka gasped. She sat bolt upright. “The same who—”

  When he had heard, Matthias scowled into the fire and directed the scuttler robot to poke it up and throw on another log. The flames snapped loud now that the music was ended. “Ar-r-rh,” he growled. “This is a crisis matter.”

  “But why?” she protested. “We’ve tried and tried, Ian and I, and we can’t guess what’s wrong.”

  “Go on,” he ordered.

  They did.

  “—and so we came here,” Kenmuir finished.

  “Why?” Matthias asked.

  “Where else? A few friends, like Sam Packer, might help us hide for a little bit longer, but what use?”

  From beneath shaggy brows, eyes took aim and held steady. “Whereas you imagine Fireball, in my person, can arm you for this quixotry whose very meaning you don’t know? Whatever gave you such an idea?”

  Kenmuir sighed. “Desperation.”

  “And I had nothing better to suggest,” Aleka said tonelessly.

  His weariness began to ache in Kenmuir. “We realize it’s all but hopeless. Still, Fireball is worldwide, even if our consortes aren’t many, and—”

  The Rydberg lifted a finger. “And you’d call on it to aid this Lunarian bitch who wants to keep our kind out of space?”

  “No, sir, no. She only wants to save her society.”

  “Her society. Precisely. She, among the handful who own it.”

  “That isn’t true, sir. Not that simple or, or anything—” Kenmuir’s words died away. He sagged back in his chair.

  Aleka stayed defiant. “It isn’t, señor. I don’t know much about Lunarians, but I do know what it means to see your whole life go under. There are my people.”

  The massive head nodded. “There are, lass,” Matthias said, gone gentle. “They’re strangers to me, but I’m not forgetting them.”

  “We’re not actually appealing to you, sir,” Kenmuir said. “I wouldn’t want the Trothdom to risk itself.”

  “That is a factor in the equation, aye.”

  “And what could Fireball do, anyhow? Nothing, probably. Maybe help us two out of the worst consequences of our folly. Aleka, at least. She’s innocent.”

  The woman stiffened. “Like fury I am!” she cried.

  Did Matthias smile, very faintly, or was it a trick of light weaving over the furrows of his face? “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “They’re apt to stand on slippery ground.” Kenmuir knew it for a Guthrie quotation, and opened his mouth. “Silence.”

  For a span, only the fire talked, while Matthias brooded and night gathered outside.

  The old man said at last, perhaps to himself, like remote thunder: “Proserpina, the lost—Kaino, son of Dagny Beynac—Yes, surely she—”

  He was still again, for a minute or three that grew long, before he turned his gaze on the visitors and spoke aloud:

  “One indisputable fact in all this fog. The Federation government has systematically, for lifetimes, concealed potentially important data. It’s bending every effort to maintain that concealment. No reason given, no justification. Clean against the Covenant.” He looked away, out the window into the darkness. “What else is hidden? My whole life, I’ve felt the walls closing in.”

  He fell silent anew. Kenmuir’s flagging pulse picked up till it hammered in his skull.

  Matthias hunched his heavy shoulders. “I have to think about this. Think hard. Not much sleep for me tonight. But you two, you need your rest.”

  “Oh, señor—” Aleka breathed.

  Matthias pressed the button. “You will take your rest,” he commanded. “Whatever I decide, I want you fit for action. Trouble me no further.” The attendant came in. “Berghall, see to this pair. Bath, clean clothes, good supper, quarters.”

  The boy stood erect. “Señor.” Pride shone from him.

  “Go,” Matthias said. “We’ll meet in the morning.”

  In a room upstairs where relics of ancient farings—a spaceship model, a glittery Moon rock, a view of the first human camp ever on Mars, a faded photograph of Anson Guthrie with his wife and children—rested like dreams come to harbor, two people could find their way to a renewed inner peace.

  Nevertheless, as he was dropping off to sleep, Kenmuir wondered what thought of Dagny Beynac had been in the Rydberg. It was as if, at just that instant, the deep voice had stumbled.

  40

  The Mother of the Moon

  While the hours become daycycles, ten
sion mounts. Sometimes Dagny can snatch an interlude of the low-level activity that is a download’s equivalent of sleep, but it is brief and always she is roused from it by the next upward ratcheting of the crisis.

  Nominally she is no more than a member of the Provisional Trust, which has a doubtful standing. It is not the home rule government that, legally, should speak for Luna. It is a group that the legislature in Tsukimachi has called into existence and charged with negotiations. She had much to do with maneuvering enough deputies into voting for it, and with persuading Governor General Haugen that his veto would bring the open breach he fears.

  In effect, the Trust has become the Lunar government, for it includes the Selenarchs who scornfully ignored a congress now impotent and irrelevant. True, representatives come also from the cities, the major industries and professions, the Terrans who want to stay on the Moon whatever happens. But all desire full independence. To that end, when they see fit they issue decrees which local magistrates put into action.

  The power is sharply limited. Luna is still subject to the World Federation. Peace Authority forces have been redoubled. If any significant international statute is violated, the governor is to order the Trust dissolved and proclaim martial law.

  Dagny is a delegate at large, chosen by the others and taking her seat at their urgent request. It has become she whose word is most heeded by them, who composes their differences for them, and who oftenest speaks on behalf of them. More than once, this has been directly to Federation President Daniel Janvier in Hiroshima. Such mana does the Beynac name have. It may be even stronger in the download than it was in the living woman. A robotic presence can seem impersonal, impartial. And underneath, does there go a dark mythic shiver … at the voice from beyond the grave, the oracular hero?

  Politics on Earth gropes and fumbles. The Lunar question can no longer wait. Unrest, agitation, riots and boycotts and subtler seditions, rumors of forbidden weapons secretly manufactured, hitches in production and trade, warnings from Fireball that worse will probably befall, have thrust aside matters that hitherto seemed closer to home. In the night sky the full Moon hangs like a bomb. Janvier summons a special session of the High Council and Assembly.

  Debate drags and lurches. The North Americans and Russians, especially, abhor the precedent; if common heritage is ended on Luna, when then of the whole Solar System? The Chinese and Australians deem the principle obsolete. The Indonesians recall forebears who freed themselves from colonial masters. The Siberians feel that their own example is more apposite. Oratory burgeons like fungus. The president and some of the parliamentarians strive to keep proceedings on course.

  For humanity in general, everyday life goes on. The download has none, nor time for it.

  The measures take form. They reach the floor. Autonomy passes. Luna shall be recognized as a Federation member after a democratic constitution with proper safeguards has been drafted, approved, and ratified. Across Earth, banners fly and crowds cheer.

  The Provisional Trust rejects the program.

  It insists on total independence, absolute sovereignty. It will honor the pledges made in a statement of position issued last year: property settlements, emigration assistance, trade and arms control treaties. But this shall be voluntary. Luna shall have complete freedom to make its future as it will.

  Dagny knew this would be the response. She forewarned Janvier. He replied that he must do what he could with what he had. Now he denounces the refusal. However, he does not declare the Trust disbanded. He promises to try persuasion. He and Dagny understand that this is a token. “I wish it weren’t,” she says to him on the encrypted laser. “I’d infinitely prefer a republic. But that is not suited for Lunarians, and they are my people.”

  Indignation seethes on Earth. Terrans riot on the Moon. Constabulary and Peace Authority have their hands full, restoring and enforcing order.

  The High Council of the World Federation directs the president to call up the Authority reserves. Several governments offer to reinforce these, if necessary, with men and matériel from their national militias.

  Communications fly across space. Astromonitors observe and report a score of ships returning sunward from the asteroid belt. Upon inquiry, they identify themselves as the law requires: Lunarian-owned freighters for the mining and extraction operations that a few magnates conduct yonder. These enterprises are petty compared to, say, Fireball’s or Maharashtra’s; but the vessels are big and nuclear-engined.

  “They cannot be coming back simultaneously by coincidence!” exclaims Janvier.

  Transmission lag.

  “No,” agrees download Dagny Beynac, “but as long as they follow safe traffic patterns, they are not obliged to give reasons. I’ve asked, and received no answer except that this is private business. It may be a precautionary move of some kind. I suggest you underplay, or you could have mass hysteria on top of your other problems.”

  Transmission lag.

  “That may not be avoidable,” he says grimly.

  The ships do not take Lunar orbit, as they would if shuttles were to bring their cargoes down. They ease into paths around the Earth-Moon system. Such orbits are unstable, and from time to time thrust corrects them.

  “They must vacate,” Janvier states. His image in the screen is haggard, sweat beading cheeks and brow. “From where they are, they could accelerate inward, open their hatches, and shovel rocks at meteor speed down on our cities.”

  Transmission lag.

  “Don’t force the issue yet,” Dagny advises. “It would be a crazy thing for them to do, you know. Most of the stuff would burn up in the atmosphere. What little reached the surface would be gravel size, and trajectory control impossible. Everything would likeliest fall in the ocean or onto empty fields.”

  —“That is if it is ordinary stuff, ore, ingots, dust, ice. How do we know they haven’t forged massive, aerodynamic missiles out there?”

  —“It would still be insane. Whenever Earth wants to make an all-out effort, it can crush Luna utterly. Killing millions of people would reliably provoke that. I assure you, the Selenarchs are not loco.”

  —“I suppose so, although sometimes I wonder. But I have to deal with the public reaction. When the news is released, and that is inevitable soon, any ’cast will show you what it is like. I beg you, convince those arrogant barons and tycoons they have miscalculated.”

  —“I am not certain they have, señor. I am certain that the politicians of Earth miscalculated gravely. Let us try together, from our different sides, for emotional damage control.”

  Janvier invokes emergency powers granted under the Covenant and commands the Lunarian ships to go. They make no reply. The Trust declares that the order has no legal force, because simply adopting an unusual orbit poses no threat, nor has one been spoken.

  Lunarians in the cities occasionally set aside their dignity and leer at passing Earthfolk. The air wellnigh smells of oncoming lightning.

  The Federation and its member governments keep no spacecraft capable of attack. Indeed, they have scant space transport of any sort. Normally they have contracted with Fireball, thereby sparing themselves both the capital cost and the expensive, cumbersome bureaucracies they would have been sure to establish.

  Fireball declines to move against the Lunarian vessels. What, a private company undertaking paramilitary operations? It would be a violation of the Covenant. For that matter, Anson Guthrie announces, Fireball will not provide the extra bottom needed for lifting more troops to the Moon. He holds that the move would be disastrously unwise, and his organization cannot in conscience support it.

  In Hiroshima the speaker for Ecuador, where Fireball is incorporated, explains that her government concurs with Sr. Guthrie and will not compel him. She strongly urges giving the Lunarians their selfdetermination, and introduces a motion to that effect.

  However, Fireball and Ecuador will not tolerate bombardment of Earth. Should such happen, every resource will be made available for pacification of th
e Moon and punishment of the criminals. Meanwhile, they offer their good offices toward mediating the dispute.

  Lars Rydberg goes to Luna as Fireball’s plenipotentiary.

  His public statements are few and curt. For the most part he is alone with the download. This is natural and somewhat reassuring. Day by day, the terror on Earth ebbs.

  The Assembly reopens the independence question. Speeches are shorter and more to the point than before. Divisions are becoming clear-cut. On the one side, the advocates of releasing Luna have gained recruits among their colleagues and in their constituencies. If the alternative amounts to war, it is unacceptable. The Lunarians have the right to be what they are, and as their unique civilization flowers, ours will share in its achievements. On the other side, the heritage persuasion has hardened and has also made converts. Furthermore, it is argued, nationalism wrought multimillions of deaths, over and over, with devastation from which the world has never quite recovered. Here we see the monster hatching anew. We must crush its head while we still can.

  The news explodes: Selenarchs have dispatched units of their retainers to occupy powerbeam stations “and protect them for the duration of the present exigency.” The squadrons are well-organized and formidably equipped—with small arms, as the Covenant allows if you strain an interpretation, but equal to anything that the Peace Authority force on the Moon can bring against them. Besides, although the Selenarchs are noncommittal about it, rumors fly of heavier weapons. A catapult, easily and cheaply made, can throw a missile halfway around the Moon.

  Be that as it may, a transmission unit would scarcely survive a battle for possession of it.

  —Janvier: “This is rebellion. Fireball promised help in case of outright violence.”

  —Rydberg: “Sir, I am not a lawyer. I cannot judge the legality of the action. According to the Provisional Trust, it is justified under the law of dire necessity. Think how dependent Earth is on the solar energy from Luna.”

  —Janvier: “Oh, yes. They suppose they have us by the throat. I say this is as suicidal a threat as those ships pose, but a great many human beings would die, and I call on Fireball to do its duty.”