No, hold on. He was being fantastical. Ignore Valanndray’s last words. No revolt was brewing. War was a horror of the far past, like disease. “That’s right loyal of you,” Kenmuir replied.
“I hold my special vision of the future,” Valanndray told him. “Come the time, I want potency in council. Here I gain a part of it.” The admission was thoroughly Lunarian. “I regret losing your help, in this final phase of our tour, but go, Captain, go.”
“Uh, whatever the reason the lady’s recalling me, it must be good. For the good of—of Luna—”
Valanndray laughed. Kenmuir flushed. The good of Luna? Hardly a Lunarian concept. At most, the good of the phyle. Still, that could entail benefit for the entire race.
“As for me,” Valanndray said, “I will think on this. We can finish our game later. Until evenwatch, Captain.” He laid right palm on left breast, courtesy salute, and strolled out the door.
Kenmuir stood a while alone. Lilisaire, Lilisaire!
But why did she want unimportant him at her side?
Because of the Habitat? Remote and preoccupied as he had been, he had caught only fugitive mentions of that project. It seemed the Federation government was definitely going to go through with it. That would rouse fury on Luna—a feat of engineering that would make mass immigration from Earth possible—but what in the manifold cosmos could he do?
What should he do? He was no rebel, no ideologue, nothing but a plain and peaceful man who worked in the Venture of Luna because it had some berths for
Terrans who would rather be out among the stars than anywhere else.
Let him shoot a beam to Ceres and ask for an update on Solar System news, with special reference to the Habitat.
No. A chill traversed him. That call, hard upon what had just passed, might draw notice. Or it might not. But if the cybercosm, ceaselessly scanning its databases in search of significant correlations, turned this one up—
Then what? He did not, repeat not, intend anything illegal.
Still, best if he didn’t get that update. Wait till he reached Luna, maybe till he and Lilisaire were secluded.
Kenmuir realized that he was bound for his stateroom.
To reach it felt almost like a homecoming. This space was his, was him. Most of his recreations he pursued elsewhere, handball in the gym, figurine sculpture in the workshop, whatever. Here he went to be himself. From the snip’s database he retrieved any books and dramas, music and visual art, that he wished. He thought his thoughts and relived his memories, uninterrupted, unseen if maybe he breathed a name or beat a fist into an open hand. A few flat pictures clung to the bulkheads. They showed the Highland moor of his childhood; the Grand Canyon of the Colorado as photographed by him; his parents, years dead; Dagny Beynac, centuries dead …
From a cabinet he took a bottle and poured a short brandy. He wasn’t given to solitary drinking, or indulgence in glee or brainstir or other intoxicants. He severely rationed both his time in the quivira and the adventures he dreamed there. He had learned the hard way that he must. Now, though, he wanted to uncoil.
He took his chair, leaned back, put feet on desk. The position was more relaxing under full Earth weight. Yes, bound for Luna, he would most certainly go at that acceleration or better. Lilisaire’s words implied he was free to squander the energy. So he wouldn’t need the centrifuge to maintain muscle tone. Of course, he would keep up his martial arts and related exercises. As for the rest of his hours, he could read, play some favorite classic shows, and—and, right now, call up Bach’s Second Brandenburg Concerto. His tastes ran to the antique.
As the notes marched forth, as the liquor smoldered across tongue and into bloodstream, his eyes sought the portrait of Dagny Beynac and lingered. Always her figure had stood heroic before him. He wasn’t sure why. Oh, he knew what she did, he had read three biographies and found remembrances everywhere on Luna; but others had also been great. Was it her association with Anson Guthrie? Or was it, in part, that she resembled his mother a little?