The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  "No-o. . . . Wait. Some kind of cult or fellowship?"

  "Stranger than that. I hardly knew of the movement myself till the agent in San Francisco told me. Later, before going to meet you, I retrieved more details. It's worldwide, though it hasn't many members, and its name depends on the language—in Anglo, it's Soulquest. Prajnaloka is the center for North America, a settlement in the Ozark Mountains, not far east of here. For our purposes, it's got superb data facilities, and they often get used in such peculiar ways that we can hope the system won't look closely if we—"

  A knock crashed on the door, again and again. Aleka and Kenmuir jumped to their feet. For a terrible half second, she felt this must be their enemy, who had no face. Then she thought to see what the time was. She hadn't noticed how the hours slipped away, noise and flicker from the square died out, the night grew old.

  "Bruno," Kenmuir said. He walked stiffly over to unbolt the door and open it.

  The mayor's bulk filled the frame. Aleka glimpsed the guardsman Bolly behind him. "Good evening," Kenmuir greeted. "Or I could better say, 'Good morning.'"

  "Good, yah, good," Bruno replied slurrily. His face was flushed, he breathed hoarsely, but he advanced with iron steadiness. Kenmuir must step aside. Bruno's gaze sought Aleka and clung. "Ho, th' li'l lady," he boomed. "B'env'ida." He approached, stopped, laid hands on her shoulders. "Happy here?"

  She slipped from her chair and his touch. He came after her and loomed. Sweat and drink swamped her nostrils.

  "Not happy, huh? Yah, stuck in this room. No fun. Sorry. For y' own safety. Things got kin' o' wild. Quiet now. Come on out ‘n’ I'll show you our fair city. You'll like it."

  She would not let her voice tremble. "Gracias, but I'm afraid we must go. Urgent business."

  "Naw. Not that urgent. Later t'day. When I start off for th' game. First, fun." Again his hands were upon her, enclosing her hips, sliding up to her breasts. "Come on wi' me. You'll like it."

  She writhed free. He grabbed her wrist, bruisingly hard. Through nausea she heard Kenmuir: "I say, this won't do. Let her go."

  Bruno glared at him. "Huh? You gimme orders? You?" Bolly growled in the doorway and hefted his weapon.

  "Please let us go," Kenmuir clipped.

  "Why?"

  "You have no right to keep us. You're being abusive. Have a care, sir, or you'll be under criminal charges."

  Bruno tugged Aleka against his belly. She submitted. At least in this position he couldn't fondle her. "I'm not hurtin' nobody," he said, and farted. "Jus' gonna pleasure the li'l lady. Like she never been pleasured before."

  "You're drunk."

  Monumentally drunk, Aleka thought. Unless it was mostly the hysteria of the war dance still upon him. She could not stop a shudder.

  "Shaddup!" he bawled. "Shaddup 'fore I shut you up wi' y'r teeth!" Aleka felt him slacken a bit. The hair around the lips scratched her cheek. He laughed. "You were ready enough t' enjoy a woman o' mine yestiddy. My turn."

  "I warn you," Kenmuir stated, "if you don't release her this minute, you'll soon be under arrest. What then is your glory worth?"

  Was that the wrong thing to say? Did it egg the creature past every border of reason? Bruno spat on the floor. "That f’r you!" he roared. Chortling: "Naw, no force. She'll like it, I tell you. You'll beg me for more, li'l girl. You'll wanna stay here. C'mon." He forced her around, her arm still in his grasp and twisted behind her back. "Bolly," he commanded, "make sure this yort don't give no trouble. Got me?"

  "Yah, señorissimo," replied the guard happily.

  Kenmuir ignored him, strode to stand in the doorway, and said to Bruno, "Very well, sir, you leave me no choice. I challenge you."

  "What?" The mayor jarred to a halt.

  "We'll settle between us who has the authority," Kenmuir told him.

  Bolly raised his staff. "Hey, you can't talk t' him like that," he rasped.

  "Is the mayor afraid to fight me?" Kenmuir retorted.

  "No!" Aleka screamed out of nightmare. "Don't! You can't—" The giant would pluck the slender middle-aged man apart. And then what recourse would be left? Both she and Kenmuir could disappear, permanently, and nobody else ever know what had become of them. "I'll go along. I will." And maybe later she could call on the law. Or maybe Bruno would wake up dead.

  "You're loco," he was coughing.

  "No," Kenmuir answered. "I simply challenge you to meet me, bare-handed. If you aren't man enough, let your follower here so inform the people."

  Bruno bellowed.

  And somehow, in a rush and clatter, they all got downstairs, out into the street. Bruno sprang backward and took stance, a monster blot on the pavement luminance. A breeze had arisen, sighing between darkened walls. Lightning had begun to flicker above roofs to the west. Bolly stood aside. He held Aleka by the wrist, not too tightly, and she saw a dull bemusement on him. Kenmuir patted her hand, a moth-wing touch, before he chose a position for himself. O Pele, how slight were his bones!

  Maybe Bruno would be content to disable him, rape her, and release them. Not likely. Sober, he'd think of the aftermath. Aleka glanced skyward. Maybe Lilisaire would track down what had happened and avenge them.

  Bruno charged. Kenmuir waited. Bruno reached him, twirled, launched a karate kick.

  Kenmuir's forearm slashed. The leg went aside. Bruno tottered, off balance. Kenmuir's foot took him behind the knee. He howled and crashed.

  Kenmuir sprang after him and gave him a heel in the torso. He gasped, but rolled clear and bounded up again. Incredible strength, Aleka realized. Let him close in, and he would smash his opponent as a maul breaks a cup.

  He must have been a little dazed, though. Fists doubled, he struck for the stomach. Instantly Aleka saw the mistake. Kenmuir's hand darted like a knife to block the arm, which punched air. His shin made a sweep, and the mayor went back down.

  Or so it seemed. Aleka had never studied combat. Her sports were gentle. She saw mostly a savage confusion.

  Bruno tried once more, failed once more, groaned and shook. Blood smeared his face, matted his beard, dripped onto the street to shine luridly red. With an animal noise, he drew his knife. "No, can't!" wailed Bolly. Bruno lurched to attack. Kenmuir captured the wrist with his right hand, stepped in sideways, and as he moved smashed an elbow to the neck. The knife clattered free. Bruno became a bag of flesh that lay on the pavement and fought for air.

  Kenmuir walked over to Bolly. Sweat sheened on his visage. He breathed deeply and his smell was— powerful, male, Aleka thought as dizziness rushed through her head. Yet his movements were easy and his words calm. "I believe that takes care of the matter. Release the woman."

  Bolly did. He stared and stared.

  "I'll take that stick of yours, if you please," Kenmuir said. He plucked it from unresisting fingers. "I'm not interested in anything else hereabouts, of course. Why don't you help your master?" To Aleka: "Can you fetch our luggage?"

  She could. She did. Not until she returned did she understand, clear-minded once more, that they were free.

  Kenmuir had been talking further to the guard, who crouched over the fallen and pawed unskillfully. Aleka arrived in time to see the staff twirl. Kenmuir must have demonstrated he could use it, too, if need be. He nodded at her and took his suitcase. "Let's be on our way," he said.

  His pace was brisk but not hasty. Not to show fear, Aleka realized. Their escape depended on an emotional equilibrium that could break at any instant.

  The walk to the airfield went on and on. Wind moaned, lightning blinked, thunder muttered.

  —They were in her volant and airborne.

  Uncontrollable shivering seized her. He held her close, stroked her hair, murmured. At last she could sit beside him and whisper, “I’m sorry. That was ch-childish."

  "Not at all," he replied. "A very natural reaction. You were in trouble more foul than I was, and stayed in charge of yourself. That always carries a price."

  She glanced at him. By now they were above the clouds. Hi
s profile was etched against a sky going pale and the last few stars. "You don't seem shook up," she said low.

  He turned to smile at her. "Oh, I am. Exhausted. Let's stop over somewhere and sleep the sun down."

  Her body ached, but the clarity within had come back, sharper still. "No, better not. Every place we could be noticed is an extra danger. Have the flyer cruise around a few hours while we rest, then make straight for Prajnaloka."

  He slapped his forehead. "Q! You're right. The Overburg service sophotect will hear of the set-to, investigate, report; and it's met me, we talked." That brain could project the moving, speaking image of him into the database.

  At least it had not seen her. By lucky chance—some luck was about due, Aleka thought—she had given her name to nobody in the town. True, it would come to light that a second outsider had been there. After that, a check with Traffic Control could reveal that the vehicle had been hers, and its present whereabouts.

  But why should the authorities take that kind of trouble over an incident with no particular consequences, in a society that as a matter of policy was pretty much left to itself? They didn't know that a few among them were covertly hunting Kenmuir. They'd have no reason of their own to track him down. If he wanted to file charges, he'd call them; otherwise, it was logical just to leave what the sophotect related in the file. Maybe in due course that file would hold enough entries of this kind to make them take a closer look at Bramland. Aleka hoped so. But it wouldn't likely happen soon.

  Her companion was smiling again, with what she guessed was an effort, and adding, "You see, you are in full command of your wits."

  "You—" she marveled, "when you challenged him, I thought you were—pupule—crazy, suicidal."

  He shrugged. "Spacers have to spend a great deal of time exercising, if they're to stay fit. Martial arts are a favorite program of mine. When I'm alone, I work against a generated image, which does wonders for developing the reflexes. Not that I ever expected to use them violently, but I've done fairly well in competitions. Bruno's knowledge is rudimentary. I'd ascertained that in conversation." Just in case he might find need for the knowledge, Aleka decided. A forethoughtful man. "Besides, he was drunk. I had no serious worry.

  "He was stupid from the beginning, when he tried to kick. That's powerful but slow, and by itself it leaves you open to several different counterattacks. My problem was simply to keep him at a distance, unable to grapple or land a real blow, while I demolished him. And, yes, I had to try not to kill him, especially when under the circumstances that could well have been irreversible."

  Kenmuir grimaced. "Hateful. The arts had never been anything to me but exercise and recreation. I never wanted them to be anything else." He sighed. "Well, I don't imagine Bruno has suffered permanent damage, other than to his ego and perhaps his social position."

  She laid her hand over his. "Just the same, you were wonderful," she said.

  "I couldn't have stood by. Could I? The more so when I was—not responsible for the mess, but a, a factor in it."

  "You did accept his hospitality pretty, uh, thoroughly, didn't you?"

  At once she knew the remark was illogical, unfair, something that slipped free before she in her exhaustion saw it coming. He looked away. "I didn't know how I could well refuse," he mumbled.

  "I'm sorry!" she blurted. "None of my damn business."

  Although . . . had he enjoyed it?

  "Shall we try to sleep?" he proposed.

  Still calm, still judicious, still the captain. Why should she vaguely resent that? Better be glad she had such a man at her side. Were there many spacers like him? (No, spacers were few, few, and most of them Lunarians.) How much of him was not inborn but was Fireball, ideals, rites, trothdom, a tradition as old as its Guthrie House?

  * * * *

  24

  The Mother in the Moon

  I

  n summer the little Rydberg fleet lay at its dock when not in use, a ketch, a ten-seater hydrofoil, a dinghy for knocking about in the sheltering cove. Winter's boathouse stood to one side. Behind it were an airstrip and a hangar that could accommodate three flitters. Lawn and flowerbeds led up to the dwelling. Stone-built, slate-roofed, it did not dominate the grounds with its size: for at its back the land rose beneath old fir forest, while westward the ocean swept across a fifth of the planet.

  On this day a north wind blew strong. The treetops tossed and rustled with it, waves ran upward and inland through their murkiness, a hawk rode above the high horizon they made. Clouds flew in tatters, brilliant against the sun, gray when they passed over it and their shadows scythed below them. The sea ran steely in the distance, white and green where it roared into surf. Chop on the cove threw sunlight back and forth, blink-blink-blink, while boats rocked and their mooring lines creaked. Warmth still lay in the earth, but a chill went through the air, harbinger of autumn.

  The flitter landed neatly. Lars and Ulla Rydberg waited nearby. They were clad much alike, in tunic and trousers over which they hugged cloaks. The wind fluttered stray locks of hair, his whitening blond, hers wheat-gold. The flitter door opened. A robot climbed out. It was a small multipurpose model, four legs under a cylinder which supported a control turret; two arms ended in hands, two in attachments for various tools. The optics in the turret gleamed about 130 centimeters above the ground. Ordinarily the computer inside would have been a neural net adequate for manual tasks that were not too demanding. This unit had been modified to hold a download.

  The voice that rolled from it was Anson Guthrie's: "Hola! Good seeing you again."

  "Welcome—" Ulla hesitated for an instant "— jefe." The honorific did not yet come quite naturally to her. She had only been Fireball for seven years, mainly by virtue of her marriage, and resident in North America for three; the English she learned in Europe was not Hispanicized; her direct contacts with him had thus far been comparatively few and brief. "You honor us." That was meant for courtesy. She was a big, bluff, handsome woman, no sycophant.

  "Gracias." Guthrie must have been scanning the scene. "Uh, aren't your kids here? I'd've thought they'd come on the gallop, except the baby, and she'd crank up her buggy to full speed."

  "We sent them off on an outing, together with Señora Turner," Rydberg explained. He referred to the single assistant he and his wife needed, aside from machines, to run house and household comfortably. "When you called, you gave me to understand you wanted a confidential meeting."

  "Oh, not that hush-hush," Guthrie said, shaking hands. "We could go for a sail or a walk in the woods—I'd enjoy that—or just close the door to a room for a couple of hours. The reason I came in person, instead of squirting my image through the usual code, was that I'd like to be with you for a short spell."

  His tone was matter-of-fact. It generally had been too when Ulla saw the simulation of living Guthrie in her phone screen. Sometimes, though, it had gone soft, and the face had crinkled into a big grin, as when she showed him her children. "Stay as long as you want," she told him. "Oh, please!"

  "'Fraid that can only be overnight, querida. Too flinkin' much to do. Also, if I was absent any length of time without carefully arranging it beforehand, the news pests would go into a feeding frenzy. I'm in this dinky body just so's I could sneak off without them noticing. Give me a rain check for a proper visit sometime, okay?"

  Lars smiled, a little stiffly. "Do you need one, for your own house?" he said. "We can take that walk now if you wish."

  "Aw, we might as well go inside. I've looked forward to poking around the old place on my personal feet."

  The house where mortal Guthrie spent his last years, and where he died.

  * * * *

  Until then he had kept in touch with his great-grandson, especially after Lars was told of the kinship. It was never made public, and Guthrie never showed favoritism to him. In fact, they spoke less often than either did with Dagny Beynac. Yet theirs was a genuine bond.

  The download continued it, and it strengthened after Lars
perforce retired from piloting. Groundside, his experience soon joined with administrative talents he had not known he possessed, to make him more important—above all, to Fireball's exploratory ventures—than ever when he ranged the Solar System.

  Their images, the real and the synthetic, had chatted one evening in Stockholm, afternoon in Quito. "I gather you and your wife want to move," Guthrie said. "May I ask how come?"

  "We grow restless," Lars answered. "I have found Europe is as I remembered. Too . . . too tame, everything too controlled. And if space, for me, will be no more than visits to Luna or L-5, well, then I would rather have the true Earth around me, Old Earth, as nearly as possible. Ulla agrees. She grew up in Lapland, a forest girl." He paused. "Besides, we want a big family. That is frowned on here, you know, and heavily taxed. Already we have social problems. We think of North America."