It was like a nova burst in Brodersen.
“Not with absolute certainty,” Joelle was saying. “They haven’t measured the local curvatures of the continuum that well. But the probability of success is high. Surely higher than for the schemes you’ve described.”
“And-and-” Brodersen groped through splendors. “We can go to the Sol machine – . – make like starting for Phoebus . then lie, bluff, threaten, or whatever, till we’re so far into the transport field that we’re nearly an impossible target. . . . We’ll come out at Centrum. Go to Beta. Come back leading a Betan armada.”
“Whose only offensive weapon need be the truth,” Rueda said. Whether or not he had heard about the physics earlier, the idea was new to him also. He too stood transfixed by revelation.
Brodersen snatched the beer glass which had stood by his chair and swung it in circles over his head. “By the honor of the house!” he roared out of his youth. “We’ll do it! We will!”
“The computation is difficult,” Joelle warned. “Fidelio and I will need to conduct research, and I’ll need to apply holothetics. You do have holothetic capabilities aboard, don’t you?”
The flame in her now was like nothing he had ever seen. I shall return to what I am, radiated forth. Heat and cold fled across her cheeks. I shall again be One with the All.
Rueda rested an intent look upon her. It was as if Brodersen could read the Peruvian’s mind. Will you become, for us, what the Others refuse to be?
They would give Sergei Nikolayevitch Zarubayev a spaceman’s funeral, launching his flag-shrouded body from an airlock, on a bier driven by a signal rocket, while his shipmates stood by and heard their captain read the service.
First Caitlin took the obligation as medical officer of washing him and laying him out in his cabin. From four bowls which she filled with oil, and wicks of string afloat upon bits of wine-bottle cork, she made lights to burn at his head and feet. The fluoros she turned off; and she called for a wake for him.
She met a little surprise, a little objection-barbarous custom; the civilized thing was to gather afterward, with coffee-but Brodersen, Dozsa, Granville, and von Moltke understood, though it was in none of their own traditions, and made the rest agree. (The skipper felt that he and his people needed to get drunk, in this pause between battles, and Sergei would have appreciated being the occasion of it.) They held the party in the common room.
Su and Stefan had decorated it somewhat, making paper flowers and the like. Hard liquor and pot appeared, besides the usual refreshments; viewscreens brought in the universe for a larger ornament; music Sergei had favored and ballet he had loved rollicked in playback. Folk stood around and remembered him.
After several hours, Martti Leino left. By then, a kind of liveliness had entered. Arms around shoulders, Brodersen, Weisenberg, and Dozsa were tunelessly belting out “Ford of Kabul River.” Von Moltke and Rueda snuggled in a Side 86
Anderson, Poul – Avatar, The
corner. Granville and Ky held a serious conversation. Fidelio observed the exotic race.
Leino walked down the circular hall to Zarubayev’s quarters.
The door stood open. He heard a few notes, hesitated, frowned, and went on in.
As bare as the rest, this room was draped in shadow and yellow lamplight. Zarubayev lay on his bed, attired in his uniform. Hair and beard glowed through dimness; otherwise his face had gone empty. The flames around him threw off a clean odor and the tiniest warmth. Caitlin sat beside him. She wore a blue kaftan, the best gown she had along. Her locks streamed unbound. In her left arms she cradled her sonador while her right fingers drew from it sounds like a muted woodwind.
She stopped when Leino entered, “Oh,” she breathed.
“What-” He tightened. “Never mind. I am sorry I interrupted.”
“No. Wait. Don’t go.” Caitlin made to rise, saw him embraced him a bit, and sank back down. “You came to say farewell. I’d not stand in the way of that.”
He bunched his fists and hastily released them. “You don’t, Miz Muiryan.”