“I knew they wouldn’t be,” Brent replied. “This whole business goes against their grain. Can’t be helped, and our three allies recognize that. But the sooner we deliver them to their planet, the better. Also our own prisoners.”
Cleland’s fork dropped to his plate. “Huh?”
“I haven’t quite decided yet,” Brent said. “But they’re a dangerous lot. Smart, tough, and outraged. I wouldn’t care to bet they can’t find some stunt to pull on us in the course of a year.”
Cleland swallowed twice before he could ask, “What… do you … intend to do?”
Brent shrugged. “What would you? Keep them penned, clear to Tahir and then to Earth? Fourteen months at least. Not humane, is it? And, as I said, certainly dangerous.”
“You promised — We can t-try to persuade —”
Brent nodded. “Between here and Tahir, I suppose we may as well, though we’d better plan our arguments first. But suppose they, or any of them, agree, how can we be sure they don’t mean to turn on us once they’re out, first chance they get?”
“One or two at a time, under guard. Cut a hole for them, reclose it when they’ve passed through?”
“Risky. And how can we tie ourselves down, guarding them every minute of the daycycle? No, right now my idea is, and I expect I’ll stay by it, is to have the Tahirians take them over when we arrive there. The Tahirians will, if we press our case. They can land the crew someplace isolated, an island or wherever, and leave them.”
Cleland gasped. “What?”
“They’ll be okay. The Tahirians aren’t cruel. They’ll synthesize Earth-type foods and such. Their scientists will be interested, after all. But I imagine otherwise they’ll leave the humans strictly alone — not to have any more of their disturbing influence — till everybody’s peacefully dead of old age.”
“No —”
“Don’t worry about children. We won’t reverse any sperm immunities.”
“But this is their ship, too!” Cleland shouted.
“No.” Brent’s voice rang. “It’s humanity’s, under my command. Taking them back with us would add a completely unnecessary complication. We’ll have plenty to do as is.”
Cleland shuddered. “Without witnesses against us.”
“Witnesses who at best misunderstand the truth. Or at worst will lie, perjure themselves, for revenge. We can’t have that. It’d be treason to everything we mean to the future.”
“Treason —”
“Eat, I say!” Brent exclaimed heartily. “Drink!”
“And be merry?”
“Why not? Listen, I’m open to argument. I’ll welcome any better ideas you may come on. Just not tonight, please. Tonight we celebrate. We’ve won, we’re free, we’re going home.”
To Cleland’s surprise, later to his faint pleasure, the next hour or so passed agreeably. Brent took the initiative. Liveliness sparkled in him. His conversation ranged from witty to serious, discussed diversions and occupations for the voyage, touched on his past rather tenderly, drew hitherto unshared memories from his tablemate, speculated with considerable imagination about what they might find on Earth and what they might accomplish but avoided loftiness, recited stirring passages from literature that most people had forgotten centuries before Envoy departed. It was as if he sought to evoke what had been best in his civilization and his species.
Meanwhile, though, he drank, goblet after goblet. That was not his custom. After dessert he ordered brandy and more champagne. Cleland, not wishing to fall asleep where he sat in his own exhaustion, held back, more or less.
With alcoholic suddenness, the mood mutated. Beethoven had left the room. Brent was with Shakespeare.
” — For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.”
The words jarred to a stop. He looked before him, past the other man. His grip tightened on his goblet. He threw what it held down his throat. “Justice,” he said. “Yes, Nansen, you’ll get justice.”
Whatever calm he had won drained out of Cleland. “What?”
“Simple justice, marooning Nansen. Give him his little kingdom. Let him rule over his little bootlickers.”
“Do you . . . really hate him that much?”
Brent shook his head. “No. Or maybe yes. I tell you, I want to give him justice. A tyrant, a murderer, a menace to the race. But mainly, he can’t see. He won’t. He is a strong man, like me. I respect that part of him. . . . Hate. Justice. Yes,” Brent said slowly, “that Dayan bitch, she deserves more than marooning.”