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The stars are also fire by Poul Anderson. Part nine

“We will not accomplish that in a few hours.”

“Nor in years, if ever. But if you’re willing to keep on talking a spell, I am.”

“I’ve set this daycycle aside, madame. Er, can I offer you any refreshment?”

She laughed aloud. “Can you! A cold beer would put me in Heaven, and a shot of akvavit to go with it would admit you to join me there.”

The conversation did indeed become long. It didn’t stay entirely serious, nor had she intended that it do so. She asked him out about himself and his life, reminisced about hers, quipped, told jokes, introduced him to a bawdy ballad concerning a spaceman named MacCannon, and left him, at the end, thoroughly charmed.

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Since then they had come together a number of times, alone or in the presence of others, in business or sociability. He felt that the sociability was at least as important. It let him meet eminent Selenites personally, informally. It gave him her sanction—well-nigh her protection, he often thought—and thus his initiatives and efforts did not encounter automatic resistance. For Rita, above all, it lessened the loneliness a bit.

Maybe, too, it slowed the upward ratcheting of tension and increase of ugly incidents. It did not halt them. Supposedly the Lunar Petition was under consideration in Hiroshima. It had gone to several committees. None had yet reported. Wahl gathered that they had deadlocked on various points and tabled it pending further studies. They felt no need of haste. The Moon was distant, its population was small, there were huge and urgent problems everywhere around the home globe. Meanwhile Wahl’s own deadlock seemed to him in danger of breaking apart.

Today, when he called Dagny Beynac, her phone informed him that she was unavailable until hour noon. He guessed she was resting, old and frail as she was. He didn’t like wondering what would happen after she died.

While he waited—hm—should he try for Anson Guthrie? Fireball had an enormous stake in keeping the peace. Besides, apparently the download had not lost normal human sympathies. But Wahl might well be unable to raise him on short notice. He might be unable or unwilling to intervene. What could he do, actually? If he took a direct part, perhaps that would worsen things. Better get Beynac’s opinion first. If she approved the idea, she could certainly put him in touch with Guthrie and probably persuade the reve-nant; they were close.

Restless, Wahl left his office and stalked down the corridor. Never mind the countless other demands on him. It was too soon for a second icy swim, but he’d take a long walk through the city, maybe even fetch his spacesuit and go topside for a hike. That ought to clear his buzzing head.

He came by Pilar’s room. The door was open. She sat at her telephone. Her slight frame shivered. Blood came and went in her cheeks. “Oh, Erann,” she breathed.The face in the screen was youthful, with the exotic Lunarian handsomeness. Wahl recognized it. He had met the boy once or twice when the youngsters had a party in this mansion. It had seemed good to promote friendship between the races.

Erann. A grandson of Brandir.

He smiled, seductive as Lucifer, and murmured something. Pilar strained forward, hands outheld, as if she could seize the image to her.

Her father stood where he was for a thunderful minute. She didn’t notice. Almost, he broke in on her. £ut what to do then, what to cry out? He continued down the hall. His fists swung at his sides. Breath struggled in his throat.

He must speak with Rita. Today. Get this thing stopped before the damage was irretrievable. Tactfully if possible. Otherwise by whatever means proved necessary. Maybe create a reason to send the girl, the innocent child, to school on Earth, where she would be entirely among humans. The cybercosm woke Venator about midnight. “Attention,” called a speaker. “The Proserpina file is opened.”

Instantly alert, he sprang from his cot and ordered light. Bare and narrow, the room seemed to radiate chill. “Who has done it?” he snapped. Hope flickered. He was not the sole human who knew. Another might have found cause to review those data.

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Categories: Anderson, Poul
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