Harvest of Stars

by Poul Anderson

  The console that would ordinarily have taken her report and admitted her onward into Port Bowen stood silent. Six men crowded the chamber, uniformed Sepo.

  She had more than half expected them. “What in MacCannon’s name is this about?” she blustered.

  “I think you know,” replied the leader. He was a big man, afro, his name badge reading Trask. In spite of discipline, his voice held strain. “You’re under arrest, Pilot Davis. The charges are public endangerment, hijacking, and conspiracy—among others. Come along.”

  “You can’t arrest me. You’re thirty Earth diameters out of your jurisdiction.”

  “We’re here at the request of your employers, and they have police powers in this enclave. Come. Reilly, with me. The rest of you, secure the ship and commence your search.” Kyra spied an instrument among them, yes, a circuit resonator, a Guthrie detector.

  Trask gestured raggedly. “Don’t make us use force,” he said. They were in a hurry, she knew, only half informed about their job, nerves drawn taut by these foreign surroundings. What that might lead them to do to her, once they reached whatever rooms they were based in, was not pleasant to think about.

  They were athletic and alert, but Earthsiders. She might get a chance to break free, escape, with the swiftness of low-g habituation. They’d take her through side passages which they’d made sure were clear of Fireball folk. However, if she could scream the truth aloud someplace along the way where somebody would hear—Her consortes wouldn’t stand for outsiders shockshooting their own—Kyra went between the two.

  Beyond the safety lock they entered a corridor that should have bustled. Its length was quite hollow. A pair waited. Trask slammed to a halt. Kyra heard him curse under his breath. She knew, with upsoaring joy, that the Lunarians had not been there before.

  They were both male, of tower-tall slenderness but wide in the shoulders. The features of one were like a Grecian sculpture for regularity and whiteness, within a frame of silvery tresses. He wore an incongruously ordinary unisuit. The other was hawk-nosed, amber-skinned, his hair blue-black, though on him the big, slanting eyes were also gray. His garb was more ethnic, if that meant anything, jerkin above wide-sleeved shirt, tight hose below puffed and slashed short trousers, curl-toed shoes, all in dark green and gold. On each one’s breast hung a medallion, a black circle ringed by irregular pearliness, the Eclipse of power.

  “Greeting,” said the first. His English flowed with the singing Lunarian accent. “We will take charge now, if you please.”

  Trask slapped hand to holstered weapon. “What do you mean?” he rasped. “Who are you?” His companion gripped Kyra’s arm painfully hard.

  “You may address me as Arren, and my associate as Isabu.” The reply was dispassionate. “We are ancillaries of the lord Rinndalir, who has bidden us escort this person.”

  “No! This is—is Fireball territory, and we’re deputized—”

  Arren lifted a hand. Trask sputtered into silence. “The contract delegates authority in Port Bowen to Fireball Enterprises but does not affect the sovereignty of the Selenarchy, which the lord Rinndalir hereby applies.”

  “I’ve got my orders.” Trask raised his gun a few centimeters in its sheath. “Don’t interfere. Stand aside.”

  Isabu smiled. “I advise you against drawing that,” he said levelly.

  The Lunarians appeared unarmed, but Trask let go the butt and signed his fellow to stay put. He breathed hard. “We’ll find out who’s got what rights.”

  “Yes, fine,” Kyra gibed. “Let’s go straight to the director’s office, hook into the net, and talk to as many people as possible.”

  “That would not be in your best interests, would it?” Arren challenged Trask—how softly!

  The Sepo looked right and left, as if praying for help to come out of the walls. He’d been commanded to utmost secrecy, Kyra knew. And enjoined to avoid trouble, scenes, anything that might bring on publicity. And doubtless raised on a diet of Earthside folklore about Lunarians, their cunning and ruthlessness and mysterious resources. She must admire how he mustered will and demanded, “Show me your warrant.”

  “Such is not required of a Selenarch’s messengers,” Isabu told him.

  “You have obstructed us long enough,” Arren added. He touched an informant on his wrist. “Shall I summon assistance? If so, you and yours will be brought to judgment.”

  It might or might not be bluff. In the longer term, it absolutely was not. “You don’t claim the ship she came in, do you?” Trask yelled. “Bueno, go, then, go!”

  Arren beckoned to Kyra, turned, and departed with the bounding gait of his kind. She followed, exultant, Isabu at her side. Oh, they were both stunningly handsome. Giddily, she cast a glance back over her shoulder. Trask stood staring after her. As she watched, he swung on his heel and made for the entry. Dutiful dog; he’d ransack Maui while he could, for all the good that would do the cause which he himself was ignorant of. His man shambled after him in dazed fashion.

  “Mil gracias, señores,” Kyra caroled. “You’ve done more than save me from a bad time, do you know? Listen, what’s happened is—”

  Isabu’s palm chopped air in front of her mouth. “Pray do not speak of it to us,” he said. “We will bring you to the lord Rinndalir.”

  The glory chilled the least bit. She remembered Guthrie admitting he didn’t know what the Lunarian would do.

  Yet she was out of Avantist control. She was free to cry the words that would blow their whole damned house of cards down around their ears. It could wait till she got to Rinndalir, since he so desired, and that ought to be one almighty interesting visit.

  “Whatever you want,” she said. “Though we can make conversation, can’t we?”

  Arren gave her a look and a smile. She couldn’t tell whether it was friendly or wolfish or what. “We can attempt small talk later, if you wish,” he said. “First we must seek our vehicle. Pray do not speak to anyone we meet along the way.”

  She realized that wasn’t a request. They might very well have means to silence her. Bueno, they were still her deliverers, and there could be excellent reasons for not immediately shouting forth her story. “If somebody I know hails me, it’d seem odd if I don’t respond,” she pointed out.

  Isabu considered. Was such behavior foreign to him? “Correct,” he agreed. “You have an able mind, my lady.”

  The corridor opened on a central space of screens, panels, baggage carriers, benches, shops. It was less busy than it should have been. The Lunarians hastened Kyra along. Stares trailed them.

  “Hola, Davis! When did you get in?” The woman who drew alongside was an old acquaintance.

  “Buenas días, Navarro. I’m sorry, got to run, awful rush, see you later—” and again anonymous faces separated them. Kyra was glad she heard no more greetings. That single encounter made her feel briefly, freezingly alone.

  A fahrweg brought her trio to the ground transport terminal. Arren led the way on through it. “Don’t we want a train for Tychopolis?” Kyra asked. “Or, uh, Lunograd or Diana or—” whatever the Selenarchs used for a capital. Officially they didn’t have any. They neither sent nor received diplomats; ad hoc envoys from Earth went to sites they designated and spoke with such of them as chose to listen.

  “Nay,” Isabu replied. “This day we travel by car.”

  A thrill chased most of the foreboding out of her. She’d only been on the few tourist roads.

  The car was bus-size. Except for the windows, an outer shell of hyalon enclosed its metal body. Fluid in between would change its patterns of light and dark, chameleon-like, to help regulate temperature. On struts above the roof, a radiation shield doubled as a solar energy collector, auxiliary to the fuel cells inside. A lovely piece of engineering. Then Kyra traversed the airlock and found herself in another world. Carpeting, opulent red and black, was like the pelt of a live animal; it undulated ever so slightly, as if something breathed. Paneling sheened above it, relieved by intertwined patterns of en
amel and inlay. Where shadows from outside made dimness, she saw that draperies and upholsteries phosphoresced. Seats and a table were made for long-limbed folk who did not need to lean against backs. A partition separated off the rear half, which must hold sleeping quarters, tanks, tools, and whatever else was required. Abstract art played across it, akin to fire, smoke, clouds. The moving air bore changeable odors, sweet, sharp, spiced, sunny, icy. She could barely hear the background music, and did not understand it at all. If comets could sing—

  Arren took the controls, spoke with the dispatcher, and eased the car across the garage floor. It cycled through into void and ran up a ramp to the surface. Soon it left pavement and went over raw regolith, smoothly absorbing the irregularities. Dust whirled up from the wheels and settled again with the speed of airlessness.

  “Where are we bound?” Kyra asked.

  “We can tell you now,” Isabu said. “Zamok Vysoki.” At her blank look: “It is the lord Rinndalir’s private strong-hold, in the Cordillera.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “But that—why, that must be two or three thousand klicks from here.”

  “Nearer three than two. Will you not be seated? Would you care for refreshments? We can offer a variety.”

  “But how long will it take to get there?” she cried in dismay.

  “About twelve hours. Pray be patient, my lady. Everything is in proper orbit.”

  It whirled through her: Rinndalir received Guthrie’s message forty-odd hours ago, minus whatever time went in bucking it to him from the reception point. The encrypted part had been minimal: “Rescue nonsched Bowen 22.” He’d have had a chance to think about it and confer with others. (How many? His kind generally presented a single mask to the outside universe, but everybody who had studied and observed knew that theirs was a government of cats.) His technicians could have informed him that a radar scan was in progress, and picked Maui out for themselves. He probably had his watchers, undercover agents, computer worms in places on Earth as well as in Fireball here. The arrival of the Sepo would tell him much and hint at more. A rocket flyer was conspicuous. Was that why he had sent his men by ground to retrieve her? How many men? Just these two? How had he coordinated with his colleagues? Had he? Unilateral action seemed crazily reckless. And yet—

  Arren regarded his instrument board, entered an instruction, and joined the others. The car rolled on, self-operated, deftly weaving around the obstacles nature had strewn through the ages. Kyra wondered whether it followed navigation signals, perhaps from a satellite, or had a topographic map in its program and an inertial guidance system. Maybe both. She wondered how smart the most advanced Lunar robots were. Maybe more than any elsewhere. If you started with people selected for intelligence as well as physical fitness, and furnished them with the most sophisticated equipment of their era, technological development might later hit a steep curve even though the population was small and clannish.

  She sank onto a seat. Arren took another facing her. He sat straight, impassive, yet somehow relaxed. Isabu drifted noiselessly to the rear. “You may identify yourself if you desire,” Arren said.

  “I’m Kyra Davis, space pilot for Fireball,” she blurted, “and I—”

  “Nay, nothing further of your mission,” he interrupted. The tone was mild but decisive. “That is for the lord Rinndalir.”

  She gathered her wits, studied him a moment, and murmured, “Are you so firmly under his orders? I thought Lunarians were a free-wheeling breed.”

  His answer was free of resentment, almost philosophical: “In some respects that is true, granting countless individual variations and complexities. But we cannot afford anarchism. As a spacer, you know how survival depends on discipline, the maintenance and protection of life support systems, instant cooperation in emergencies.”

  “Oh, yes, obviously. Within those parameters, though—In Fireball we generally have our jobs to do.” Kyra paused. She hadn’t ever thought in quite these terms before. Had the chase jolted things she’d always taken for granted loose in her mind? “To a certain extent, I suppose you could say we are our careers. We’re free to change jobs, teams, whatever, any time there’s a demand for our services elsewhere and we want to go. But we seldom work entirely on our own. In the nature of things, we can’t. Pilots like me are among the few exceptions. It’s different for you. Apart from your survival obligations, isn’t the Lunarian ideal to do everything and, and be everything for yourself?”

  And thus the declaration of independence half a century ago. Much more brought it on than a tax revolt. A civilization had grown up here—bewilderingly fast, its evolution driven not only by unearthly conditions but unearthly genes—that was incompatible with any on the mother planet.

  “The attitude serves for much of creativity and many minor enterprises,” Arren replied. “For anything more ambitious, organization is required. Furthermore, questions of personal security, arbitration, justice, the rights of the community, are universal. Let me propose that different cultures find different instrumentalities to cope with them, and that these are viable no longer than they have the allegiance of the people. The typical Earthdweller gives his to his government; the World Federation derives its legitimacy indirectly. You give yours to Fireball Enterprises. I give mine to the lord Rinndalir. Should he perish, I would think who else of his rank pleases me best and would accept me.”

  Abruptly Kyra must laugh aloud. Arren regarded her. “Pardon,” she gasped. “It just exploded on me what a weird conversation this is.”

  Snatched from captivity, bowling across the Moon, here she sat talking sociology! It wasn’t even new to her. She’d read, seen, heard enough stories, commentaries, analyses, travelogues, you name it. Maybe he’d given her a slightly different slant on things, she’d have to think about that, but she’d sure taken herself by surprise.

  To him the exchange might be perfectly natural.

  That idea of alienness shocked sobriety into her. She saw him smile and heard him say, “Yes, doubtless you would like to be more specific. Inquire as you will, Pilot Davis. Isabu and I will answer within the bounds of confidentiality.”

  She rallied her wits. “You were pretty brash when you rescued me. Did you really have reinforcements?”

  “In being, nay.” His candor set her equally aback. “It would have been inconvenient to assemble any on such short notice.” Why? Because the movement would have alerted other Selenarchs to the fact that something special was afoot? “The lord Rinndalir deemed the threat would suffice. Had it not, he would have set punitive measures in train.” To assert his authority, and never mind about Anson Guthrie’s appeal? Or was it merely that he felt his judgment was reliable? It had in fact paid off.

  Let her be bold. “Bueno, you don’t want to hear what’s brought me to the Moon. But you’re bound to’ve seen it involves the current hooraw with Fireball and the North American Union. For my information, would you tell me what you know about that?”

  He was willing. Sometimes he veered from a topic, but in general she could lead him on. In his turn, he was interested in whatever observations she made, provided they didn’t bear too closely on her mission. She found that he had a good grasp of the situation, despised the Avantists, and like most Lunarians—he said; she believed—was rather skeptical of the alleged terrorist ring. As for what the truth might be, he reserved opinion pending further data. At more than a third of a million kilometers’ remove, Kyra thought, coolness came easy. Of course, Fireball was involved, and Luna depended on Fireball still more than Earth did; but there was also the cultural gap, the gulf between souls. He had said it himself, his loyalty was to the seigneur in the mountains—and after that, maybe, to his own not quite human race.

  Meanwhile Isabu brought coffee, a tart brandy, and cakes of an intriguing vinegary flavor. Later he made dinner. It was a stir-fry of fish, vegetables, and fruits, crisp herbal-seasoned bread on the side, a subtly sweet-sour white wine. Kyra enjoyed it in spite of recognizing little, though she’d explor
ed her share of Lunarian restaurants. How much did the masters reserve for themselves?

  The car got onto a road and picked up speed. For most of its length the road was simply graded regolith. Here and there a way had been blasted out of uplands, a viaduct overleaped crevasse or crater. Nothing better was needed where the sole weather was blazing day, bitter night, millennial infall of dust and stones. Moonscape fled by, ashen plains and time-blurred heights, intricately pocked, now and then a radome or a beamcasting mast or the upper works of a buried habitation. Eventually Kyra’s eyelids drooped. Isabu showed her to a bath cubicle with a recycling shower and, adjoining, a curtained bunk in which she could take off her clothes. She slept better than expected, though lightly, tumbling about in dreams.

  Momentarily loudened music quavered her awake. Isabu said from outside the curtains, “We approach Zamok Vysoki, my lady.” She wriggled herself clad, hastily used the bath, and joined the men forward. Excitement pulsed. She did not know of any outsider who had betrod a Selenarch’s palace. If ever it happened, it was in secret. Earthside journalists were chronically indignant about that.

  Rearing ahead of her, the place seemed more castle than mansion. The tiered walls were like upthrusts of the mountain that they topped, the steep roofs their slopes, the lean towers crags. Westering to north, the sun set windows and metal cupolas ablaze against black heaven. Their brightness drowned out most stars. From the eastern horizon Earth’s thick crescent cast a glimmer across south-facing masonry, surrounding peaks, the higher jumbles of the valley out of which road and car climbed.

  Signals piped from speakers. Kyra thought of bugles blown by warders at the parapets. Banners should have flown above them. But here went never a wind save for the thin breaths of sun and cosmos. Arren spoke. He received an acknowledgment. As he drove near, a valve opened in the wall ahead. It was machined alloy, Kyra saw. The masonry was dark native rock. She didn’t know what kind, but recalled accounts of robots mining the Lunar depths.