“He thinks. He feels.”
“Thinks and feels what? I don’t know. I do know he isn’t even a fish. He’s homeothermic; his females give live birth and nurse their young. Under high atmospheric pressure, there’s enough oxygen dissolved in water to support an active metabolism and a good brain. That must be why intelligence evolved in the seas: biological competition like you hardly ever find in the seas of Terra-type planets. But the environment is almost as strange to us as Jupiter.”
“The Merseians get along with his kind.”
“Uh-huh. They took time to learn everything we haven’t. We’ve tried to xenologize ourselves, in regions the conflict hasn’t reached so far, but the Merseians have always found out and arranged trouble.”
“Found out how?” Hauksberg pounced. “By spies?”
“No, surveillance. ‘Bout all that either side has available. If we could somehow get access to their undersea information—” Abrams snapped his mouth shut and pulled out a cigar.
Hauksberg eased. He smiled. “Please don’t take me wrong, Commander. Assure you I’m not some weepin’ idealist. You can’t make an omelet, et cet’ra. I merely object to breakin’ every egg in sight. Rather messy, that.” He paused. “Won’t bother you more today. But I want a full report on this project to date, and regular bulletins. I don’t forbid hypnoprobin’ categorically, but I will not allow any form of torture. And I’ll be back.” He couldn’t quite suppress a moue of distaste. “No, no, thanks awf’lly but you needn’t escort me out. Good day, gentlemen.”
The door closed on his elegance. Abrams went into a conference with Leong. They talked low. The hum, click, buzz of machines filled the room, which was cold. Flandry stood staring at the captive he had taken. “A millo for ’em,” Abrams said.
Flandry started. The older man had joined him on cat feet. “Sir?”
“Your thoughts. What’re you turning over in your mind, besides the fair d’Io?”
Flandry blushed. “I was wondering, sir. Hau—milord was right. You are pushing ahead terribly fast, aren’t you?”
“Got to.”
“No,” said Flandry earnestly. “Pardon, sir, but we could use divers and subs and probes to scout the Zletovar. Charlie here has more value in the long run, for study. I’ve read what I could find about the Seatrolls. They are an unknown quantity. You need a lot more information before you can be sure that any given kind of questioning will show results.”
Beneath lowered bushy brows, behind a tobacco cloud, Abrams regarded him. “Telling me my business?” His tone was mild.
“No, sir. Certainly not. I—I’ve gotten plenty of respect for you.” The idea flamed. “Sir! You do have more information than you admit! A pipeline to—”
“Shut up.” The voice stayed quiet, but Flandry gulped and snapped to an automatic brace. “Keep shut up. Understand?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Abrams glanced at his team. None of them had noticed.
“Son,” he murmured, “you surprise me. You really do. You’re wasted among those flyboys. Ever considered transferring to the spyboys?”
Flandry bit his lip.
“All right,” Abrams said. “Tell uncle. Why don’t you like the idea?”
“It—I mean—No, sir, I’m not suited.”
“You look bundled to the ears to me. Give me a break. Talk honest. I don’t mind being called a son of a bitch. I’ve got my birth certificate.”
“Well—” Flandry rallied his courage. “This is a dirty business, sir.”
“Hm. You mean for instance right here? Charlie?”
“Yes, sir. I … well, I sort of got sent to the Academy. Everybody took for granted I’d go. So did I. I was pretty young.”
Abrams’ mouth twitched upward.
“I’ve … started to wonder, though,” Flandry stumbled. “Things I heard at the party … uh, Donna d’Io said—You know, sir, I wasn’t scared in that sea action, and afterward it seemed like a grand, glorious victory. But now I—I’ve begun remembering the dead. One Tigery took a whole day to die. And Charlie, he doesn’t so much as know what’s going to happen to him!”
Abrams smoked a while. “All beings are brothers, eh?” he said.
“No, sir, not exactly, but—”
“Not exactly? You know better’n that. They aren’t! Not even all men are. Never have been. Sure, war is degrading. But there are worse degradations. Sure, peace is wonderful. But you can’t always have peace, except in death, and you most definitely can’t have a peace that isn’t founded on hard common interest, that doesn’t pay off for everybody concerned. Sure, the Empire is sick. But she’s ours. She’s all we’ve got. Son, the height of irresponsibility is to spread your love and loyalty so thin that you haven’t got enough left for the few beings and the few institutions which rate it from you.”