Sergeant Parkinson’s gun wavered. “Fluh?” he said. Then, loudly. “I do’ know whatcher talking about!”
“Madame Cepheid’s Go board is twenty meters square,” said Flandry, “and the pieces are live girls. In the course of a game—Does that ring a bell, sergeant? I was there too, watching, and I’m sure your wife would be delighted to hear you are still capable of such truly epic—”
“Get on your way, you … blackmailer!” choked Parkinson. He gulped and added, “Sir.”
Captain Flandry grinned, patted him on his helmet, holstered his weapon for him, and went quickly inside.
Unlike most, Fenross had no beautiful receptionist in his outer office. A robovoice asked the newcomer’s business. “Hero,” he said blandly. The robot said Admiral Fenross was occupied with a most disturbing new development. Flandry said he was also, and got admission.
Hollow-cheeked and shaky, Fenross looked across his desk. His eyes were not too bloodshot to show a flick of hatred. “Oh,” he said. “You. Well, Captain, what interrupts your little tete-a-tete with your Merseian friends?”
Flandry sat down and took out a cigaret. He was not surprised that Fenross had set spies on him, but the fact was irritating nonetheless. Plow the devil did this feud ever get started? he wondered. Is it only that I took that girl … what was her name, anyway? Marjorie? Margaret? … was it only that I once took her from him when we were cadets together? Why, I did it for a joke. She wasn’t very good-looking in spite of everything biosculp could do.
“I’ve news too hot for any com circuit,” he said. “I just now—”
“You’re on furlough,” snapped Fenross. “You’ve got no business here.”
“What? Look, it was Aycharaych! Himself! At the Crystal Moon!”
A muscle twitched in Fenross’ cheek. “I can’t hear an unofficial report,” he said. “All ruin is exploding beyond Aldebaran. If you think you’ve done something brilliant, file an account in the regular channels.”
“But—for God’s sake!” Flandry sprang to his feet. “Admiral Fenross, sir, whatever the hell you want me to call you, he’s leaving the Solar System in a matter of hours. Courier boat. We can’t touch him in Ymirite space, but if we waylaid him on his way out—He’ll be tricky, the ambush might not work, but name of a little green pig, if we can get Aycharaych it’ll be better than destroying a Merseian fleet!”
Fenross reached out a hand which trembled ever so faintly, took a small pillbox and shook a tablet loose. “Haven’t slept in forty hours,” he muttered. “And you off on that yacht … I can’t take cognizance, Captain. Not under the circumstances.” He glanced up again. Slyness glistened in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, “if you want to cancel your own leave—”
Flandry stood a moment, rigid, staring at the desk-bound man who hated him. Memory trickled back: After I broke off with her, yes, the girl did go a bit wild. She was killed in an accident on Venus, wasn’t she … drunken party flying over the Saw … yes, I seem to’ve heard about it. And Fenross has never even looked at another woman.
He sighed. “Sir, I am reporting myself back on active duty.”
Fenross nodded. “File that with the robot as you leave. Now I’ve got work for you.”
“But Aycharaych—”
“We’ll handle him. I’ve got a more suitable assignment in mind.” Fenross grinned, tossed down his pill and followed it with a cup of water from the desk fountain. “After all, a dashing field agent ought to dash, don’t you think?”
Could it be just the fact that he’s gotten more rank but I’ve had more fun? wondered Flandry. Who knows? Does he himself? He sat down again, refusing to show expression.
Fenross drummed the desk top and stared at a blank wall. His uniform was as severe as regulations permitted—Flandry’s went in the opposite direction—but it still formed an unnecessarily gorgeous base for his tortured red head. “This is under the strictest secrecy,” he began in a rapid, toneless voice. “I have no idea how long we can suppress the news, though. One of our colonies is under siege. Deep within the Imperial sphere.”