Harvest of Stars

by Poul Anderson

  “A lot will depend on how he sees it.” Kyra pondered another half minute. She owed common sense that much. Impatience overwhelmed her. She flung her head back and laughed aloud. “You’re on! It’s go!”

  “Oh—oh, my dear—tomodachi—” Eiko struggled not to weep.

  Kyra took hold of her again, gently this time, shook her a little, and told her, “Save the sentiment for later, and give it to me over a bottle of premium Scotch. You’ll need a couple of hours at least, won’t you? Bueno, get started. Me, what I’ll get is a shower and clean clothes and food and tea, and when that’s done I’ll join you in Yukawa Square!”

  Eiko nodded, straightened, and went from the room. Kyra heard her bid the Wangs a brief, formal goodbye. Thereafter things went like a jetstream.

  The latest word was that the ships from Luna were in the common orbit at a distance of some quarter million klicks. Evidently they were waiting for new orders, and whoever was in the torch didn’t think it was worthwhile attacking them under these conditions. Kyra didn’t envy the men aboard.

  The news from North America was of demonstrations, riots, a militia regiment’s mutiny, growing incidence of pitched battles, across the country like a fever-rash. There was no way of making out what actually went on, what it meant, where it was going. Government pronouncements stated curtly that lawlessness was being suppressed wherever it manifested itself. Foreign journalists on the scene were as confused as their audiences, capturing hasty glimpses and phrases while shots cracked and buildings blazed. It did seem likely that most uprisings were local, spontaneous, with gunjins supplying leadership and arms—except for what came from the depots that people like the Farnums had long kept. Some of the professionals were doubtless in it for pay and plunder, and maybe power if the revolution came off; some might be idealists of one sort or another; no telling how many of which kind. Fighting was at the moment heavy in the mountains of Hawaii Island. Kyra wondered about Nero Valencia. And the Packers and … everybody, everything.

  The Homesteaders had declared themselves neutral and were marshalled to hold their territories against invaders of any faction. Three Islamic mullahs had proclaimed jihads to overthrow godless Avantism and promised Paradise to all men who fell in the cause; two prominent sheikhs disavowed them. No mention of Tahir. Had he maybe gone underground? Such other societies as had issued proclamations ranged between those extremes. None outright condemned the Army of Liberation.

  Images showed armor in streets, flyers dropping knock-out gas bombs into mobs, warheads slammed at rebel strongpoints, the threshing, screaming wounded and the twisted, gaping dead, on torn-up soil or among battered walls, while dust and smoke drifted by. The revolution wouldn’t go on long unless it got succor, Kyra thought. Crushing it might well leave the government stronger than before. The Avantists would certainly allow no more dissent, and would likely seek with new energy to control every part of life.

  Report from Hiroshima: The North American delegation denied any need for the assistance of the Peace Authority in their country’s domestic affairs. They demanded its protection from unwarranted and unwarrantable interference by outside interests. Fireball’s was nothing but piracy; it must be halted and punished. The recent news that the real Guthrie had asserted himself and, with the single spacecraft available to him, had repelled an obviously Lunarian-sponsored aggression against L-5—this news, if true, was very welcome. It was regrettable that the inhabitants of the colony were thereby endangered, but the North American Union recognized the necessity and supported the policy. Let Fireball remember how many people and how much property it had in North America.

  The spokesman for Siberia replied that his government would not condone threats of harm to innocent persons who merely happened to be associated with Fireball. Nevertheless, no private organization could be allowed to make war or otherwise conduct itself like a government, and Siberia called on the Assembly to institute sanctions.

  The spokeswoman for Australia asked whether the Lunarians had yet offered an explanation of their role in this. President Mukerji answered that, in spite of repeated attempts by her office to establish communication, the Selenarchs remained unresponsive. A commissioner of the African Protectorate urged that, once the present trouble was settled, Luna be brought into the Federation by whatever means were indicated.

  Her teacup jerked in Kyra’s hand. A pre-empt was taking over.

  Noboru Tamura appeared in the cylinder. He seemed physically unhurt, as Eiko had confirmed, but worn and weary. Kyra admired the firmness with which the little bald man spoke:

  “People of Ragaranji-Go, please, and for your own sakes, hear me.” He identified himself, though he was about as well-known as anyone here, and said a few words about his detention. “The Security Police claimed it was protective. I do not have sufficient data to judge that. It does not greatly matter. In the present crisis, Colonel Holden has ordered my release and requested my help. … We must indeed stay calm and peaceful. … Yes, that is difficult when we know virtually nothing except that we and those we most love may at any instant be plunged into mortal danger. … Solidarity, strength we give each other. … (A quick smile.) We bear the same genes as our ancestors in the Old Stone Age. We have the same need to be together in the hour of trouble, touch, gather around the bonfire, hear the shaman say that the spirits watch over us. … A rally in Yukawa Square. … Colonel Holden agrees. … This is short notice, but if you can come, please do. … Bring comfort home to your kindred and friends. …” It was not a lengthy or florid speech. Spacefolk didn’t care for such.

  The news came back on, again from North America.

  Militia stood guard outside Toronto Compound. A bus hove in view, and another. The journalist reminded his audience of President Escobedo’s new directive, that Fireball personnel were now under preventive arrest and would be taken to relocation centers.

  Man and wife exchanged a glance. “Should we go to the rally?” Zu asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Mei-ling replied. “Pray for us, Kyra, for all of us.”

  The pilot turned her head, as if to hide tears. What she tried to suppress was a grin. Her heart flew high. But she wouldn’t lay an extra hazard on this couple by telling them.

  She waited five minutes after they were gone before she entered the passage. Two score people or more were in sight, bound the same way. They walked fast, intent, seldom talking. She mingled easily, little noticed, quite unheeded. Their minds were elsewhere and she was just a woman in a blue coverall and soft boots. A scarf on her head should help keep her from being recognized. If a friend did, she’d try to hush him in time. If a foe did, that was doubtless that. He’d rake in the last chip she had to play with. On the other hand, the pot had grown pretty big.

  Bigger than Eiko had added up.

  The crowds thickened as they converged. Words might remain sparse, but their totality swelled to a buzzing with a breath of thunder, as from a hornets’ nest, while feet shuffled, slithered, rattled, thudded. Air became warm and rank. Kyra forced her way ahead. She drew some angry looks and an occasional curse, though mostly she was lithe enough to slip by without jostling. It raised her risk, she certainly didn’t want to make herself conspicuous, but she had to be where the Tamuras could see her.

  Sepo were posted at intervals around the square, shockers ready. The one she passed was very young, trying hard not to show how scared he was. Company police were in evidence too, unarmed save for their muscular bodies. They shared a great interest in keeping this restrained. Not that Holden expected incitement to uproar—the proclaimed purpose was the exact opposite—but you never knew, did you?

  No, you never did.

  Several husky Firebal I men cordoned off the step pedestal at the center of the park. Everywhere else, only trees and the largest meteoroid lifted above the multitude. Too bad about grass, shrubs, flowers, lovingly raked gravel. Eiko and her father stood on the second highest step. Above, the Buddha smiled his bronze smile and signed his blessing. Kyr
a worked her way to a position directly before them, three heads back from the front of the gathering. Taller than most, she identified among the guards at the base two men whom she knew as technicians in StaCon operations. In a pinch, they could send off a spaceship, and since Eiko had collected these, chances were she had others close by. Good girl!

  Man and woman up there were looking around, as if to estimate the progress of the assembling. Mainly, Kyra knew, they searched for her. She lifted an arm and waved. “Hurra, hurra!” she yelled. It wasn’t suspicious if somebody cheered, was it? Eiko’s gaze fell on her. She whispered to her father. Now more people were cheering, and more and more.

  Tamura raised his own arms for silence. It fell bit by bit, reluctantly, an ebb tide that wanted to flow. The sounds of breathing went on.

  Tamura lowered his arms. “Consortes of Fireball, and every other soul in our midst, thank you,” he began. An amplifier on his breast boomed the mild voice forth. “Thank you for setting aside your work and your worry to join us. Thank you for this response of yours. Thanks also to the directors and to Colonel Holden of the Security Police, who wisely agreed that a meeting to bind us together would be a step toward our common survival. Finally let me thank my daughter here at my side, Eiko Tamura, who mediated between officers and made it possible.”

  Mediated, hell, Kyra thought. Holden believed this was his idea, but it sprang from Eiko and she’d worked it into shape, explained it to the key individuals, won them over, and gotten the arrangements completed, in a span of a few hours. Bueno, it wasn’t advisable to say that right out. Keep it for the histories.

  “Your reaction might suggest that, undaunted as you are, we have no need to rally,” Tamura said. “Well, the conquerors of space never could afford fear, could they? And we of later generations, we are still Fireball. Yet the gallantry that shouts defiance of peril is not enough. We must summon up the kind of courage that realistically assesses a situation, does what it can, and waits to learn whether it will live.”

  He was no politician or orator, his delivery was quiet, though perhaps that made it the more effective on these hearers. The words that followed were what counted, spare, strong, evocative of everything for which Fireball existed. They weren’t his style either. Kyra guessed that Eiko had composed the speech in her head and run him through it a time or two.

  It reached the point and rammed home. “—take action. It is not Anson Guthrie who threatens us and those who would liberate us. It is an impostor, a deception. We have a torchcraft in our own harbor. We have a pilot who can take her to Earth, bearing the truth and the proof of it, to raise for us the aid of the whole world. I have not time now to go into detail. I ask for your trust. I ask that you join with me as we stake our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. Will you, at this moment, march?”

  They roared.

  “—occupy the dock—hold it while the ship that is our salvation goes free—” As Tamura spoke, it began to happen. The crowd surged inward, then outward. Kyra saw a Sepo knocked over. Another took stance above him, shock gun gripped tight but not fired, for he couldn’t disable more than two or three before the rest overran him. His mouth worked, he screamed into his throat phone, headquarters, help, tell me what to do, a voice drowned in the rumble and breakers of flowing tide.

  “Order, order!” Tamura’s amplifier bellowed. “We go peacefully!”

  He descended. A couple of his guards lifted him to their shoulders and carried him. Kyra held her ground, a struggle in the turbulence till Eiko and the men escorting her got there. After that they moved along together, ahead of most though well behind the forefront. The bodies around them were their shield.

  The yelling and shoving damped out. The procession straightened itself. That might have surprised an Earthling, but not Kyra or the Tamuras. They knew their folk. Selected by heredity and occupation for intelligence and emotional stability, accustomed both to discipline and to thinking for themselves, they would not run amok. No single glittering shop window suffered as the mass of them streamed down the passages. Footfalls thousandfold—not in unison, this was no military, it was ordinary people going in aid of their homes—made the noise of a river bound for the sea. Tamura’s diminutive form rode at their van like a legionary eagle.

  Sepo ran from a cross-passage twenty meters ahead. They deployed to bar the way, a thin tan line, faces strained beneath helmets, shock guns and bullet guns poised.

  “Walk slowly,” Tamura called back. “I will deal with them. Walk slowly. But walk, do not stop, walk.”

  The pair who carried him jogged forward. The host behind became turbulent while the command passed along, but then fell into a funeral pace. Peering above heads, Kyra croaked through a throat gone dry, “I think that’s Holden himself in charge.” His image had been on a local ’cast yesterday.

  Too short to see from the midst, Eiko answered, “I am sure it is. He would not delegate this.”

  Perched aloft, Tamura spoke downward to the colonel. He had switched off his amplifier and his followers could not hear what those two said. Still their march advanced, step, step, step. Someone started singing. Others joined in, and others. The song was almost a random choice, traditional in Fireball, something Anson Guthrie had come upon in the early days of astronautics, had liked and tunelessly shared with friends; thus everybody here today had grown up with it. Kyra waited for the last chorus, when her hoarsened notes would be lost in the swell.

  “Sing a song of spacefolk, a pocketful of stars.

  Play it on the trumpets, harmonicas, guitars.

  When the sky was opened, mankind began to sing:

  ‘Now’s the time to leave the nest, the wind is on the wing!”’

  They neared the barrier.

  Holden rapped an order. An officer protested, astounded. Holden’s arm chopped down, an ax motion—obey. The line split. Right and left, the Sepo retreated into the cross-passage. The marchers went by. Their footpaces were again strides.

  Cheers broke loose, wild laughter, exultant thanksgiving and triumphant profanity. Men pounded the backs of their fellows, women embraced, hand shook hand, mouth sought mouth. The stream swirled and milled. “Keep moving!” called Tamura’s amplifier. “We are not finished! Keep moving!” Piece by piece, the roil died away and the tide flowed onward.

  “Yes, they could bushwhack us yet,” Kyra said. “We can’t dawdle.”

  “I am not so afraid of that any more,” Eiko replied. Her fingers fluttered across the other woman’s wrist. “You are the one going into danger.”

  “No, I’ll scoot past.” Kestrel was a Falcon-class torch, larger than yonder Katana, with a lower top acceleration but more total delta v. She ought to emerge at such a distance that, if the enemy pursued, he couldn’t overtake before she reached Earth; and that deep in a gravity well, the advantage was hers.

  That was if she ran from him.

  The marchers were still exuberant. Another song spread among them till it rang off the imitation heavens.

  “MacCannon was a Fireball man—”

  To use the fahrwegs would have broken their mass apart, and its union was their strength. Tamura guided them along the spiral ramps of the tunnels for machines and emergencies. Weight fell, and echoes rolled hollow from bare metal. You needed something lively to step to, minute by minute for an hour or worse.

  If Holden’s men had taken a fast route and occupied StaCon—there were desperate expedients. Kyra considered ways to make tools into weapons.

  But the harbor deck lay nearly vacant, installations like tombs in a cemetery that curved huge around the spin axis and, parallel to it, receded into reaches where the lighting became haze. “We have won,” Eiko said weakly. She began to shake. “Oh, a tiny victory, but ours.”

  “Yours,” Kyra told her.

  “No, yours that is to be.”

  Tamura led them to StaCon. There the operators went in while he asked that about half the crowd stay, guardians, until the launch was complete. These were human
beings; a full two-thirds trailed along to the ship’s berth. Kyra and Eiko advanced through their loosening herd to join Tamura. He had jumped off the shoulders and was only a small man, very tired, whose low-g gait managed to give an impression of trudging.

  “Por Díos, sir, you were splendid!” Kyra blurted. “How did you do it? How’d you talk him over? And in just a couple minutes!”

  Tamura smiled lopsidedly, as if he lacked energy to lift both corners of his mouth. “I had little doubt of the outcome, once Eiko assured me Holden is neither a fanatic nor a fool,” he said. “He threatened to open fire, but all the while, our flock showed they were determined. It was plain that if his men did shoot, they might scatter us, but thereafter they would live with murderous revengefulness until it gnawed away the last of them. I pointed out that we wanted nothing but to dispatch an emissary who can lead the world toward the truth in this tangle and make it put an end to our plight. It is also the plight of his men, I said; and was not anything worth trying that might bring peace to his poor torn country? The march was almost upon us. The police must fight or yield. Colonel Holden admitted he would not massacre, and commanded retreat.”

  That was among the countless things wrong with war, Kyra thought. Most of your opponents were decent people, and some of your allies were bastards. Supposedly the Federation had done away with it, but—

  They reached the dock, and there above her was the crew airlock of dear Kestrel, snugged and gasketed against the axial tunnelside. Her servicing had been finished daycycles ago—they felt like months, years—and she waited like her namesake to take the skies again.

  Tamura and his daughter bowed deeply. Several persons in the front of the crowd did too. “Fortune ride with you, brave woman,” Tamura said, “as do our blessings and prayers.”

  How could Kyra respond other than by bowing in return and saying, “Mil gracias, señor and señorita,” while she ached to hug Eiko to her for what might well be the last time?