“He has great pride,” Ponte answered, “the pride of a military man. And we have great pride in him. He is the man who can lead Acquatainia back to glory. Dulaq and Massan . . . they were good men, but civilians, too weak to deal with Kanus of Kerak.”
“They were political leaders,” Spencer rumbled. “They realized that war is an admission of failure. War is the last resort, when all else fails.”
“We are not afraid of war!” Ponte snapped.
“You should be,” Leoh said.
“Why? Do you doubt that we could defeat Kerak?”
“Why run the risk when you could avoid the war altogether?”
The little politician waved his arms agitatedly, a maneuver that caused him to bob up and down weightlessly. “We are not afraid of the Kerak Worlds! You assume that we are cowards who must run under the skirts of your Terran Commonwealth at the first sign of danger!”
“Lack of judgment is worse than cowardice,” said Leoh. “Why do you insist?”
“You accuse the Acquatainian government of stupidity?”
“No, I….”
His voice rising higher and higher, Ponte squeaked, “Then you accuse me of stupidity … or the Prime Minister, perhaps?”
“I am only questioning your judgment about. …”
“And I accuse you of cowardice!” Ponte screeched.
People were turning to watch them now. Ponte bobbed up and down, raging. “Because you are afraid of this bully, Kanus, you assume that we should be!”
“Now really . . .” Spencer began.
“You are a coward!” Ponte screamed at Leoh. “And I will prove it. I challenge you to meet me in your own dueling machine!”
For the first time in years, Leoh felt his own temper flaring. “This is the most asinine argument I’ve ever seen.”
“I challenge you!” Ponte insisted. “Do you accept the challenge, or will you slink away and prove your cowardice?”
“Accepted!” Leoh snapped.
The sun was a small bluish-white disk high in the sky of Meklin, one of Kerak’s forced agriculture planets. Up here on the ridge, the wind felt chill to Odal, despite the heat in the valley farmlands below. The sky was cloudless, but the wind-rippled trees rustled a mosaic of gold and red against the blue.
Odal saw Runstet sitting on the grass in a patch of sunlight with his wife and three small children. The oldest, a boy, could hardly have been more than ten. They were enjoying a picnic, laughing at something that had escaped Odal’s notice.
The Kerak major stepped forward. Runstet saw him and paled. He got up to face Odal.
“This is not what I want to see,” Odal said quietly. “You’ll have to do better.”
Runstet stood there, rooted to the spot, while everything around him began to flicker, dim. The children and their mother, still laughing, grew faint and their laughter faded. The woods seemed to go misty, then disappeared altogether. Nothing was visible except Runstet and the fearful look on his face.
“You are trying to hide your memories from me by substituting other memories,” Odal said. “We know that you met with certain other high-ranking army officers at your home three months ago. You claim it was a social occasion. I would like to see it.”
The older man, square-jawed, his hair an iron gray, was obviously fighting for self-control. Fear was in him, Odal knew, but he also sensed something else: anger, stubbornness, and pride.
“Inferior-grade officers were not invited to the … to the party. It was strictly for my old classmates, Major.” General Runstet accented the last word with as much venom as he could muster.
Odal felt a flash of anger, but replied calmly, “May I remind you that you are under arrest and therefore have no rank. And if you insist on refusing me access to your memories of this meeting, more stringent methods of interrogation will be used.” Fool! he thought. You’re a dead man and yet you refuse to admit it.
“You can do anything you want to,” Runstet said. “Drugs, torture . . . you’ll get nothing from me. Use this damnable dueling machine for a hundred years and I’ll still tell you nothing!”
Unmoving, Odal said, “Shall I recreate the scene for you? I have visited your home in Meklin, and I have a list of the officers who attended your meeting.”