The destroyer applied backward thrust. Flandry followed, holding his beam to the same spot, driving inward and inward. From four other pieces of Sabik, death vomited.
"Man," Flandry chanted, "but you've got a Tigery by the tail!"
Remorselessly, spin took him out of sight. He waited fuming. When he could again aim, the destroyer was further away, and she had turned one battleship section into gas. But the rest fought on. He joined his beam to theirs. She was retreating under gravitics. Why didn't she go hyper and get the hell out of here? Maybe she couldn't. He himself had been shooting to disable her quantum-field generator. Maybe he'd succeeded.
"Kursoviki!" Dragoika shrieked at the wheel. "Archers all! Janjevar va-Radovik for aye!"
A gun swiveled toward them. He could see it, tiny at its distance, thin and deadly. He shifted aim. His fire melted the muzzle shut.
The destroyer scuttled away. And then, suddenly, there was New Brazil. Flandry darted from his seat, caught Dragoika to him, held her faceplate against his breast and closed his own eyes. When they looked again, the Merseian was white-hot meteorites. They hugged each other in their armor.
Umbriel, Antarctica, and New Brazil: torn, battered, lame, filled with the horribly wounded, haunted by their dead, but victorious, victorious—neared the planet. The scoutships had long since finished their work and departed Empire-ward. Yet Ranjit Singh would give his men a look at the prize they had won.
On the cruiser's bridge, Flandry and Dragoika stood with him. The planet filled the forward viewscreen. It was hardly larger than Luna. Like Terra's moon, it was bereft of air, water, life; such had bled away to space over billions of years. Mountains bared fangs at the stars, above ashen plains. Barren, empty, blind as a skull, the rogue rushed on to its destiny.
"One planet," the acting captain breathed. "One wretched sunless planet."
"It's enough, sir," Flandry said. Exhaustion pulsed through him in huge soft waves. To sleep . . . to sleep, perchance to dream . . . . "On a collision course with Saxo. It'll strike inside of five years. That much mass, simply falling from infinity, carries the energy of three years' stellar radiation. Which will have to be discharged somehow, in a matter of seconds. And Saxo is an F5, short lived, due to start expanding in less than a begayear. The instabilities must already be building up. The impact—Saxo will go nova. Explode."
"And our fleet—"
"Yes, sir. What else? The thing's wildly improbable. Interstellar distances are so big. But the universe is bigger still. No matter how unlikely, anything which is possible must happen sometime. This is one occasion when it does. Merseian explorers chanced on the datum. Brechdan saw what it meant. He could develop the conflict on Starkad, step by step, guiding it, nursing it, keeping it on schedule . . . till our main strength was marshaled there, just before the blowup came. We wouldn't be likely to see the invader. It's coming in 'way off the ecliptic, and has a very low albedo, and toward the end would be lost in Saxo's glare and traveling at more than 700 kilometers per second. Nor would we be looking in that direction. Our attention would be all on Brechdan's forces. They'd be prepared, after the captains opened their sealed orders. They'd know exactly when to dash away on hyperdrive. Ours—well, the initial radiation will move at the speed of light. It would kill the crews before they knew they were dead. An hour or so later, the first wave of gases would vaporize their ships. The Empire would be crippled and the Merseians could move in. That's why there's war on Starkad."
Ranjit Singh tugged his beard. The pain seemed to strengthen him. "Can we do anything? Plant bombs to blow this object apart, maybe?"
"I don't know, sir. Offhand, I doubt it. Too many fragments would stay on essentially the same path, I believe. Of course, we can evacuate Starkad. There are other planets."
"Yes. We can do that."
"Will you tell me now?" Dragoika asked.
Flandry did. He had not known she could weep.
Chapter Eighteen
Highport lay quiet. Men filled the ugly barracks, drifted along the dusty streets, waited for orders and longed for home. Clamor of construction work, grumble of traffic, whine of aircraft bound to battle, were ended. So likewise, after the first tumultuous celebrations, was most merrymaking. The war's conclusion had left people too dazed. First, the curt announcement that Admiral Enriques and Fodaich Runei were agreed on a cease-fire while they communicated with their respective governments. Then, day after day of not knowing. Then the arrival of ships; the proclamation that, Starkad being doomed, Empire and Roidhunate joined in hoping for a termination of the interracial conflict; the quick departure of the Merseians, save for a few observers; the imminent departure of most Imperial Navy personnel; the advent of civilian experts to make preliminary studies for a massive Terran project of another sort. And always the rumors, scuttlebutt, so-and-so knew somebody who knew for a fact that—How could you carry on as if this were ordinary? Nothing would ever again be quite ordinary. At night, you saw the stars and shivered.
Dominic Flandry walked in silence. His boots made a soft, rhythmic thud. The air was cool around him. Saxo spilled radiance from an enormous blue sky. The peaks beyond Mount Narpa thrust snowfields toward the ghost of a moon. Never had the planet looked so fair.
The door was ajar to the xenological office. He entered. Desks stood vacant. John Ridenour's staff was in the field. Their chief stayed behind, replacing sleep with stimulants as he tried to coordinate their efforts around an entire world. He was in conversation with a visitor. Flandry's heart climbed into his throat. Lord Hauksberg!
Everyone knew Dronning Margrete had arrived yesterday, in order that his Majesty's delegate might make a final inspection tour. Flandry had planned on keeping far out of sight. He snapped to a salute.
"Well, well." The viscount did not rise from his chair. Only the blond sharp face turned. The elegantly clad body stayed relaxed, the voice was amused. "What have we here?"
"Ensign Flandry, sir. I—I beg pardon. Didn't mean to interrupt. I'll go."
"No. Sit. Been meanin' to get hold of you. I do remember your name, strange as that may seem." Hauksberg nodded at Ridenour. "Go ahead. Just what is this difficulty you mention?"
The xenologist scarcely noticed the newcomer, miserable on a chair. Weariness harshened his tone. "Perhaps I can best illustrate with a typical scene, my lord, taken last week. Here's the Sisterhood HQ in Ujanka."
A screen showed a room whose murals related ancient glories. A Terran and several Tigery females in the plumes and striped cloaks of authority sat in front of a vidiphone. Flandry recognized some. He cursed the accident which brought him here at this minute. His farewells in the city had hurt so much.
Ostrova, the mistress, glared at the piscine face projected before her. "Never," she snapped. "Our rights and needs remain with us. Better death than surrender what our mothers died to gain."
The view shifted, went underwater, where also a human team observed and recorded. Again Flandry saw the Temple of Sky, from within. Light pervaded the water, turned it into one emerald where the lords of the Seafolk floated free. They had summoned Isinglass and Evenfall for expert knowledge. Those I never did get a chance to say good-bye to, Flandry thought, and now I never will. Through the colonnade he looked down on elfin Shellgleam.
"You would steal everything, then, through the whole cycle, as always you have done," said he who spoke for them. "It shall not be. We must have those resources, when great toil is coming upon us. Do not forget, we keep our guns."
The record included the back-and-forth interpretation of Ridenour's men at either end, so Flandry followed the bitter argument in Kursovikian. Hauksberg could not, and grew restless. After a few minutes, he said, "Most int'restin', but s'pose you tell me what's goin' on."
"A summary was prepared by our station in the Chain," Ridenour said. He flicked a switch. In the screen appeared a lagoon where sunlight glittered on wavelets and trees rustled behind a wide white beach: heartbreakingly beautiful. It was seen from the cabin of
a waterboat, where a man with dark-rimmed eyes sat. He gave date and topic, and stated:
"Both factions continue to assert exclusive rights to the archipelago fishing grounds. Largely by shading their translations, our teams have managed to prevent irrevocable loss of temper, but no compromise is yet in sight. We shall continue to press for an equitable arrangement. Success is anticipated, though not for a considerable time."
Ridenour switched off. "You see, my lord?" he said. "We can't simply load these people aboard spaceships. We have to determine which of several possible planets are most suitable for them; and we have to prepare them, both in organization and education. Under ideal conditions, the psychic and cultural shock will still be terrible. Groundlaying will take years. Meanwhile, both races have to maintain themselves."
"Squabblin' over somethin' that'll be a whiff of gas in half a decade? Are such idiots worth savin'?"
"They're not idiots, my lord. But our news, that their world is under a death sentence, has been shattering. Most of them will need a long while to adapt, to heal the wound, before they can think about it rationally. Many never will. And . . . my lord, no matter how logical one believes he is, no matter how sophisticated he claims to be, he stays an animal. His forebrain is nothing but the handmaiden of instinct. Let's not look down on these Starkadians. If we and the Merseians, we big flashy space-conquering races, had any better sense, there'd be no war between us."
"There isn't," Hauksberg said.
"That remains to be seen, my lord."
Hauksberg flushed. "Thank you for your show," he said coldly. "I'll mention it in my report."
Ridenour pleaded. "If your Lordship would stress the need for more trained personnel here . . . . You've seen a little bit of what needs doing in this little bit of the planet. Ahead of us is the whole sphere, millions of individuals, thousands of societies. Many aren't even known to us, not so much as names, only blank spots on the map. But those blank spots are filled with living, thinking, feeling beings. We have to reach them, save them. We won't get them all, we can't, but each that we do rescue is one more justification for mankind's existence. Which God knows, my lord, needs every justification it can find."
"Eloquent," Hauksberg said. "His Majesty's government'll have to decide how big a bureaucratic empire it wants to create for the benefit of some primitives. Out o' my department." He got up. Ridenour did too. "Good day."
"Good day, my lord," the xenologist said. "Thank you for calling. Oh. Ensign Flandry. What'd you want?"
"I came to say good-bye, sir." Flandry stood at attention. "My transport leaves in a few hours."
"Well, good-bye, then. Good luck." Ridenour went so far as to come shake hands. But even before Hauksberg, with Flandry behind, was out of the door, Ridenour was back at his desk.
"Let's take a stroll beyond town," Hauksberg said. "Want to stretch my legs. No, beside me. We've things to discuss, boy."
"Yes, sir."
Nothing further was said until they halted in a meadow of long silvery quasigrass. A breeze slid from the glaciers where mountains dreamed. A pair of wings cruised overhead. Were every last sentient Starkadian rescued, Flandry thought, they would be no more than the tiniest fraction of the life which joyed on this world.
Hauksberg's cloak flapped. He drew it about him. "Well," he said, looking steadily at the other. "We meet again, eh?"
Flandry made himself give stare for stare. "Yes, sir. I trust the remainder of my lord's stay on Merseia was pleasant."
Hauksberg uttered a laugh. "You are shameless! Will go far indeed, if no one shoots you first. Yes, I may say Councillor Brechdan and I had some rather int'restin' talks after the word came from here."
"I . . . I understand you agreed to, uh, say the space battle was only due to both commanders mistaking their orders."
"Right. Merseia was astonished as us to learn about the rogue after our forces found it by accident." Hauksberg's geniality vanished. He seized Flandry's arm with unexpected force and said sternly: "Any information to the contrary is a secret of state. Revealin' it to anyone, even so much as hintin' at it, will be high treason. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my lord. I've been briefed."
"And's to your benefit, too." Hauksberg said in a milder voice. "Keepin' the secret necessarily involves quashin' the charges against you. The very fact that they were ever brought, that anything very special happened after we reached Merseia, goes in the ultrasecret file also. You're safe, my boy."
Flandry put his hands behind his back, to hide how they doubled into fists. He'd have given ten years, off this end of his life, to smash that smiling face. Instead he must say, "Is my lord so kind as to add his personal pardon?"
"Oh, my, yes!" Hauksberg beamed and clapped his shoulder. "You did absolutely right. For absolutely the wrong reasons, to be sure, but by pure luck you accomplished my purpose for me, peace with Merseia. Why should I carry a grudge?" He winked. "Regardin' a certain lady, nothin' between friends, eh? Forgotten."
Flandry could not play along. "But we have no peace!" he exploded.
"Hey? Now, now, realize you've been under strain and so forth, but—"
"My lord, they were planning to destroy us. How can we let them go without even a scolding?"
"Ease down. I'm sure they'd no such intention. It was a weapon to use against us if we forced 'em to. Nothin' else. If we'd shown a genuine desire to cooperate, they'd've warned us in ample time."
"How can you say that?" Flandry choked. "Haven't you read any history? Haven't you listened to Merseian speeches, looked at Merseian books, seen our dead and wounded come back from meeting Merseians in space? They want us out of the universe!"
Hauksberg's nostrils dilated. "That will do, Ensign. Don't get above yourself. And spare me the spewed-back propaganda. The full story of this incident is bein' suppressed precisely because it'd be subject to your kind of misinterpretation and so embarrass future relations between the governments. Brechdan's already shown his desire for peace, by withdrawin' his forces in toto from Starkad."
"Throwing the whole expensive job of rescue onto us. Sure."
"I told you to control yourself, Ensign. You're not quite old enough to set Imperial policy."
Flandry swallowed a foul taste. "Apologies, my lord."
Hauksberg regarded him for a minute. Abruptly the viscount smiled. "No. Now I was gloatin'. Apologies to you. Really, I'm not a bad sort. And you mean well too. One day you'll be wiser. Let's shake on that."
Flandry saw no choice. Hauksberg winked again. "B'lieve I'll continue my stroll alone. If you'd like to say good-bye to Donna d'Io, she's in the guest suite."
Flandry departed with long strides.
By the time he had reached HQ and gone through the rigamarole of gaining admittance, fury had faded. In its place lay emptiness. He walked into the living room and stopped. Why go further? Why do anything?
Persis ran to him. She wore a golden gown and diamonds in her hair. "Oh, Nicky, Nicky!" She laid her head on his breast and sobbed.
He consoled her in a mechanical fashion. They hadn't had many times together since he came back from the rogue. There had been too much work for him, in Ujanka on Ridenour's behalf. And that had occupied him so greatly that he almost resented the occasions when he must return to Highport. She was brave and intelligent and fun, and twice she had stepped between him and catastrophe, but she did not face the end of her world. Nor was her own world the same as his: could never be.
They sat down on a divan. He had an arm around her waist, a cigarette in his free hand. She looked at the floor. "Will I see you on Terra?" she asked dully.
"I don't know," he said. "Not for some time anyway, I'm afraid. My orders have come through officially, I'm posted to the Intelligence academy for training, and Commander Abrams warns me they work the candidates hard."
"You couldn't transfer out again? I'm sure I could arrange an assignment—"
"A nice, cushy office job with regular hours? No, thanks, I'm not about to become
anyone's kept man."
She stiffened as if he had struck her. "I'm sorry," he floundered. "Didn't mean that. It's only, well, here's a job I am fitted for, that serves a purpose. If I don't take it, what meaning has life got?"
"I could answer that," she said low, "but I guess you wouldn't understand."
He wondered what the devil to say.
Her lips brushed his cheek. "Go ahead, then," she said. "Fly."
"Uh . . . you're not in trouble, Persis?"
"No, no. Mark's a most civilized man. We might even stay together a while longer, on Terra. Not that that makes any big difference. No matter how censored, some account of my adventures is bound to circulate. I'll be quite a novelty, quite in demand. Don't worry about me. Dancers know how to land on their feet."
A slight gladness stirred in him, largely because he was relieved of any obligation to fret about her. He kissed her farewell with a good imitation of warmth.
It was so good, in fact, that his loneliness returned redoubled once he was in the street again. He fled to Max Abrams.
The commander was in his office, straightening out details before leaving on the same transport that would bear Flandry home. From Terra, though, he would go on furlough to Dayan. His stocky frame leaned back as Flandry burst through the doorway. "Well, hello, hero," he said. "What ails you?"
The ensign flung himself into a chair. "Why do we keep trying?" he cried. "What's the use?"
"Hey-hey. You need a drink." Abrams took a bottle from a drawer and poured into two glasses. "Wouldn't mind one myself. Hardly set foot on Starkad before they tell me I'm shipping out again." He lifted his tumbler. "Shalom."
Flandry's hand shook. He drained his whisky at a gulp. It burned on the way down.
Abrams made a production of lighting a cigar. "All right, son," he said. "Talk."
"I've seen Hauksberg," jerked from Flandry.
"Nu? Is he that hideous?"
"He . . . he . . . the bastard gets home free. Not a stain on his bloody damned escutcheon. He'll probably pull a medal. And still he quacks about peace!"
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