You couldn’t blame Fenross much. But would the whole long climb of man, from jungle to stars, fall back in destruction—and no single person even deserve to have his knuckles rapped for it?
“What about the reinforcements that were being sent to Vixen?” asked Flandry.
“They’re still on their way.” Fenross gulped his pill and relaxed a trifle. “What information we have, about enemy strength and so on, suggests that another standoff will develop. The aliens won’t be strong enough to kick our force out of the system—”
“Not with Tom Walton in command. I hear he is.” A very small warmth trickled into Flandry’s soul.
“Yes. At the same time, now the enemy is established on Vixen, there’s no obvious way to get them off without total blasting—which would sterilize the planet. Of course, Walton can try to cut their supply lines and starve them out; but once they get their occupation organized, Vixen itself will supply them. Or he can try to find out where they come from, and counter-attack their home. Or perhaps he can negotiate something. I don’t know. The Emperor himself gave Admiral Walton what amounts to carte blanche.”
It must have been one of His Majesty’s off days, decided Flandry. Actually doing the sensible thing.
“Our great handicap is that our opponents know all about us and we know almost nothing about them,” went on Fenross. “I’m afraid the primary effort of our Intelligence must be diverted toward Jupiter for the time being. But someone has to gather information at Vixen too, about the aliens.” His voice jerked to a halt.
Flandry filled his lungs with smoke, held it a moment, and let it out in a slow flood. “Eek,” he said tonelessly.
“Yes. That’s your next assignment.”
“But … me, alone, to Vixen? Surely Walton’s force carries a bunch of our people.”
“Of course. They’ll do what they can. But parallel operations are standard espionage procedure, as even you must know. Furthermore, the Vixenites made the dramatic rather than the logical gesture. After their planet had capitulated, they got one boat out, with one person aboard. The boat didn’t try to reach any Terrestrial ship within the system. That was wise, because the tiny force Aldebaran had sent was already broken in battle and reduced to sneak raids. But neither did the Vixenite boat go to Aldebaran itself. No, it came straight here, and the pilot expected a personal audience with the Emperor.”
“And didn’t get it,” foretold Flandry. “His Majesty is much too busy gardening to waste time on a mere commoner representing a mere planet.”
“Gardening?” Fenross blinked.
“I’m told His Majesty cultivates beautiful pansies,” murmured Flandry.
Fenross gulped and said in great haste: “Well, no, of course not. I mean, I myself interviewed the pilot, and read the report carried along. Not too much information, though helpful. However, while Walton has a few Vixenite refugees along as guides and advisors, this pilot is the only one who’s seen the aliens close up, on the ground, digging in and trading rifle shots with humans; has experienced several days of occupation before getting away. Copies of the report can be sent after Walton. But that first-hand knowledge of enemy behavior, regulations, all the little unpredictable details … that may also prove essential.”
“Yes,” said Flandry. “If a spy is to be smuggled back onto Vixen’s surface. Namely me.”
Fenross allowed himself a prim little smile. “That’s what I had in mind.”
Flandry nodded, unsurprised. Fenross would never give up trying to get him killed. Though in all truth, Dominic Flandry doubtless had more chance of pulling such a stunt and getting back unpunctured than anyone else.
He said idly: “The decision to head straight for Sol wasn’t illogical. If the pilot had gone to Aldebaran, then Aldebaran would have sent us a courier reporting the matter and asking for orders. A roundabout route. This way, we got the news days quicker. No, that Vixenite has a level head on his shoulders.”
“Hers,” corrected Fenross.
“Huh?” Flandry sat bolt upright.
“She’ll explain any details,” said Fenross. “I’ll arrange an open requisition for you: draw what equipment you think you’ll need. And if you survive, remember, I’ll want every millo’s worth accounted for. Now get out and get busy! I’ve got work to do.”