He launched his speech. It had been carefully prepared. It had better be. These six men, with Petroff, controlled enough votes to swing a decision his way. Were they prevailed on to call a privy meeting tomorrow, with a loaded quorum, Hauksberg would depart with the authority he needed.
Otherwise … No, he mustn’t take himself too seriously. Not at the present stage of his career. But men were dying on Starkad.
In the end, he won. Shaking, sweat running down his ribs, he leaned on the table and scarcely heard Petroff say, “Congratulations. Also, good luck. You’ll need plenty of that.”
2
Night on Starkad—
Tallest in the central spine of Kursoviki Island was Mount Narpa, peaking at almost twelve kilometers. So far above sea level, atmospheric pressure was near Terran standard; a man could safely breathe and men had erected Highport. It was a raw sprawl of spacefield and a few score prefabs, housing no more than five thousand; but it was growing. Through the walls of his office, Commander Max Abrams, Imperial Naval Intelligence Corps, heard metal clang and construction machines rumble.
His cigar had gone out again. He mouthed the stub until he finished reading the report on his desk, then leaned back and touched a lighter to it. Smoke puffed up toward a blue cloud which already hung under the ceiling of the bleak little room. The whole place stank. He didn’t notice.
“Damn!” he said. And deliberately, for he was a religious man in his fashion, “God damn!”
Seeking calmness, he looked at the picture of his wife and children. But they were home, on Dayan, in the Vega region of the Empire, more parsecs distant than he liked to think. And remote in time as well. He hadn’t been with them for over a year. Little Miriam was changing so he’d never recognize her, Marta wrote, and David become a lanky hobbledehoy and Yael seeing such a lot of Abba Perlmutter, though of course he was a nice boy … There was only the picture, separated from him by a clutter of papers and a barricade of desk machines. He didn’t dare animate it.
Nor feel sorry for yourself, you clotbrain. The chair creaked beneath his shifted weight. He was a stocky man, hair grizzled, face big and hooknosed. His uniform was rumpled, tunic collar open, twin planets of his rank tarnished on the wide shoulders, blaster at belt. He hauled his mind back to work.
Wasn’t just that a flitter was missing, nor even that the pilot was probably dead. Vehicles got shot down and men got killed more and more often. Too bad about this kid, who was he, yes, Ensign Dominic Flandry. Glad I never met him. Glad I don’t have to write his parents. But the area where he vanished, that was troubling. His assignment had been a routine reconnaissance over the Zletovar Sea, not a thousand kilometers hence. If the Merseians were getting that aggressive …
Were they responsible, though? Nobody knew, which was why the report had been bucked on to the Terran mission’s Chief of Intelligence. A burst of static had been picked up at Highport from that general direction. A search flight had revealed nothing except the usual Tigery merchant ships and fishing boats. Well, engines did conk out occasionally; matériel was in such short supply that the ground crews couldn’t detect every sign of mechanical overwork. (When in hell’s flaming name was GHQ going to get off its numb butt and realize this was no “assistance operation to a friendly people” but a war?) And given a brilliant sun like Saxo, currently at a peak of its energy cycle, no tricks of modulation could invariably get a message through from high altitudes. On the other hand, a scout flitter was supposed to be fail safe and contain several backup systems.
And the Merseians were expanding their effort. We don’t do a mucking thing but expand ours in response. How about making them respond to us for a change? The territory they commanded grew steadily bigger. It was still distant from Kursoviki by a quarter of the planet’s circumference. But might it be reaching a tentacle this way?