“Let us hope your envoy manages to settle the dispute,” Runei said, relaxing. “I do not precisely enjoy myself on this hellball either.”
“What envoy?”
“You have not heard? Our latest courier informed us that a … khraich … yes, a Lord Hauksberg is hitherbound.”
“I know.” Abrams winced. “Another big red wheel to roll around the base.”
“But he is to proceed to Merseia. The Grand Council has agreed to receive him.”
“Huh?” Abrams shook his head. “Damn, I wish our mails were as good as yours … Well. How about this downed flitter? Why won’t you help us look for the pieces?”
“In essence, informally,” Runei said, “because we hold it had no right, as a foreign naval vessel, to fly over the waters. Any consequences must be on the pilot’s own head.”
Ho-ho! Abrams tautened. That was something new. Implied, of course, by the Merseian position; but this was the first time he had heard the claim in plain language. So could the green-skins be preparing a major push? Very possible, especially if Terra had offered to negotiate. Military operations exert pressure at bargaining tables, too.
Runei sat like a crocodile, smiling the least amount. Had he guessed what was in Abrams’ mind? Maybe not. In spite of what the brotherhood-of-beings sentimentalists kept bleating, Merseians did not really think in human style. Abrams made an elaborate stretch and yawn. ” ‘Bout time I knocked off,” he said. “Nice talking to you, old bastard.” He did not entirely lie. Runei was a pretty decent carnivore. Abrams would have loved to hear him reminisce about the planets where he had ranged.
“Your move,” the Merseian reminded him.
“Why … yes. Clean forgot. Knight to king’s bishop four.”
Runei got out his own board and shifted the piece. He sat quiet a while, studying. “Curious,” he murmured.
“It’ll get curiouser. Call me back when you’re ready.” Abrams switched off.
His cigar was dead again. He dropped the stub down the disposal, lit a fresh one, and rose. Weariness dragged at him. Gravity on Starkad wasn’t high enough that man needed drugs or a counterfield. But one point three gees meant twenty-five extra kilos loaded on middle-aged bones … No, he was thinking in standard terms. Dayan pulled ten per cent harder than Terra … Dayan, dear gaunt hills and wind-scoured plains, homes nestled in warm orange sunlight, low trees and salt marshes and the pride of a people who had bent desolation to their needs … Where had young Flandry been from, and what memories did he carry to darkness?
On a sudden impulse Abrams put down his cigar, bent his head, and inwardly recited the Kaddish.
Get to bed, old man. Maybe you’ve stumbled on a clue, maybe not, but it’ll keep. Go to your rest.
He put on cap and cloak, thrust the cigar back between his jaws, and walked out.
Cold smote him. A breeze blew thinly under strange constellations and auroral flimmer. The nearer moon, Egrima, was up, almost full, twice the apparent size of Luna seen from Terra. It flooded distant snowpeaks with icy bluish light. Buruz was a Luna-sized crescent barely above the rooftops.
Walls bulked black on either side of the unpaved street, which scrunched with frost as his boots struck. Here and there glowed a lighted window, but they and the scattered lamps did little to relieve the murk. On his left, unrestful radiance from smelters picked out the two spaceships now in port, steel cenotaphs rearing athwart the Milky Way. Thence, too, came the clangor of night-shift work. The field was being enlarged, new sheds and barracks were going up, for Terra’s commitment was growing. On his right the sky was tinted by feverish glowsigns, and he caught snatches of drumbeat, trumpets, perhaps laughter. Madame Cepheid had patriotically dispatched a shipful of girls and croupiers to Starkad. And why not? They were so young and lonely, those boys.
Maria, I miss you.
Abrams was almost at his quarters when he remembered he hadn’t stashed the papers on his desk. He stopped dead. Great Emperor’s elegant epiglottis! He was indeed due for an overhaul.
Briefly he was tempted to say, “Urinate on regulations.” The office was built of ferroconcrete, with an armorplate door and an automatic recognition lock. But no. Lieutenant Novak might report for duty before his chief, may his pink cheeks fry in hell. Wouldn’t do to set a bad security example. Not that espionage was any problem here, but what a man didn’t see, he couldn’t tell if the Merseians caught and hypnoprobed him.