by Glen Cook
“I know.”
“It’s important to have somebody who needs you.”
“I know. I’ll be back Saturday.”
After the women left, Beckhart sat in silence for several minutes. McClennon finally asked, “Aren’t they going to miss you at the office?”
“I’m not as indispensable as I thought, Thomas. I come back after six months in the field and find them caught up and not a problem in sight.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I really said it before, about as well as I can. That I’m sorry I had to do what I did.”
“Sorry, but you’d do it again.”
“If something comes up. I don’t think it will. Things are damned quiet now. The war has everybody’s attention.”
“Will we be able to do anything with Stars’ End? Or what I learned from the starfish?”
“About the fish info I don’t know. It does prove there’s a hope. Stars’ End… Our Seiner friends have gotten it straightened out. The place is almost a high-technology weapons museum. Some of the simpler systems will be available when next we engage.”
“The gods are dead. Long live the gods,” McClennon murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“A long time ago, in another life, I promised you a vacation. I sent you to Payne’s Fleet instead. This time I’m sending you home. I’ve already sent word to Refuge to get your house ready. Take Mouse along.”
“Mouse?”
“Mouse took care of you when it got tough. It’s your turn. He’s slipping. The Sangaree are gone. That hate kept him glued together since he was a kid.”
“All right. I understand.”
A mountain of paperwork was needed to close out the mission and put the Board of Inquiry into motion. The latter would be handled entirely by deposition. Thomas rolled through it. Nothing daunted him. The Psychs seemed to have rebuilt him better than original issue. He worked like a slave, and had energy left to flit from friend to friend evenings and weekends. He reminded himself of Mouse in days gone by, when Storm had been everywhere at once, pursuing a hundred interests and projects.
Mouse was the opposite. He could not finish anything.
Then it was all done. Marathon took them aboard and spaced for the quiet Cygnian world called Refuge, which was home for millions of retired civil servants and senior Service personnel.
But for Tanni Lowenthal the journey might have been depressing.
Going home. His showing for the mission some money, some stamps and coins for his collections, some new and old memories, and an armistice with himself. Somehow, it did not seem enough.
But he had found his friends, the people he had thought missing so long. So why was he disappointed?
There had been one soul-scar the Psychs had not been able to heal completely.
He could not forget Amy.
They had never really finished. They had not said the end. They had just gone separate ways.
He liked things wrapped up neatly.
Time passed. Cygnian summer faded into autumn. Fall segued into winter. Mouse and McClennon played chess, and waited, growing closer, till Mouse revealed the whole story of his past, of the origins of his hatred for the Sangaree. Gently, McClennon kept his friend’s spirit from sliding away completely. Gently, he began to bring Mouse back.
The report of the Board of Inquiry, delayed repeatedly, drew no closer.
From Cygnus it did not seem there was a war. Luna Command had expanded its forces six-fold, and had begun building new weapons and ships, but otherwise Confederation seemed to be going on as before.
Tanni visited occasionally. Max and Greta kept in touch.
And yet…
Some nights, when the dark winter skies were terribly clear, McClennon would put aside his stamp collection, coins, or the novel he had begun writing, and would go out on the terrace. Shivering, he would stare up at stars burning palely in unearthly constellations and picture huge ships like flying iron jungles. He would think of swarms of gold dragons, and a million-year-old beast he had taught to tell a joke.
He never loved her more than he did now that she was lost forever. Mouse had told him… She might use his name to frighten his own child. She would not hate him now. She would understand. But there would be appearances to be maintained, and social winds with which to sail…
Life never worked out the way you wanted. Everyone was victimized by social equivalents of the theories of that dirty old man, Heisenberg.
The comm buzzed. McClennon answered. A moment later, he called, “Mouse, Jupp’s coming in to spend a few days.” He returned to the terrace. The ship burned down the sky, toward where the city’s lighted towers made fairy spires that soared above distant woods. McClennon pretended it was a shooting star. He made a wish. “Want to play a game while we’re waiting?”
Mouse grinned. “You’re on.”
“Stop smirking. I’m going to whip you this time, old buddy.”
And he did. He finally did.
About the Author
Glen Cook is the author of dozens of novels of fantasy and science fiction, including The Black Company, The Garret Files, Instrumentalities of the Night, and the Dread Empire series. Cook was born in 1944 in New York City. He attended the Clarion Writers’ Workshop in 1970, where he met his wife, Carol. “Unlike most writers, I have not had strange jobs like chicken plucking and swamping out health bars. Only full-time employer I’ve ever had is General Motors.” He currently makes his home in St. Louis, Missouri.
