“Leave her with me for a few minutes,” he suggested. “I’ll call you when I’ve finished.”

  Mary went, her manner that of a woman enjoying something deep and personal. An unexpected satisfaction long overdue.

  Korman said with unaccustomed mildness, “Come here, Tatiana.”

  She moved toward him slowly, each step deliberate and careful, touched the desk, stopped.

  “Round this side, please, near to my chair.”

  With the same almost-robotic gait she did as instructed, her dark eyes looking expressionlessly to the front. Arriving at his chair, she waited in silence.

  He drew in a deep breath. It seemed to him that her manner was born of a tiny voice insisting, “I must be obedient. I must do as I am told. I can do only what I am told to do.”

  So she did it as one compelled to accept those things she had no means of resisting. It was surrender to all demands in order to keep one hidden and precious place intact. There was no other way.

  Rather appalled, he said, “You’re able to speak, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, slightly and only once.

  “But that isn’t speech,” he pointed out.

  There was no desire to contradict or provide proof of ability. She accepted his statement as obvious and left it at that. Silent and immensely grave, she clung to her bear and waited for Korman’s world to cease troubling her own.

  “Are you glad you’re here, or sorry?”

  No reaction. Only inward contemplation. Absentness.

  “Well, are you glad then?”

  A vague half-nod.

  “You are not sorry to be here?”

  An even vaguer shake.

  “Would you rather stay than go back?”

  She looked at him, not so much to see him as to insure that he could see her.

  He rang his bell, said to Mary, “Take her home.”

  “Home, David?”

  “That’s what I said.” He did not like the exaggerated sweetness of her tone. It meant something, but he couldn’t discern what.

  The door closed behind the pair of them. His fingers tapped restlessly on the desk as he pictured those eyes. Something small and bitterly cold was in his insides.

  During the next couple of weeks his mind seemed to be filled with more problems than ever before. Like most men of his caliber, he had the ability to ponder several subjects at once, but not the insight to detect when one was gaining predominance over the others.

  On the first two or three of these days he ignored the pale intruder in his household. Yet he could not deny her presence. She was always there, quiet, obedient, self-effacing, hollow-cheeked and huge-eyed. Often she sat around for long periods without stirring, like a discarded doll.

  When addressed by Mary or one of the maids she remained deaf to inconsequential remarks, responded to direct and imperative questions or orders. She would answer with minimum head movements or hand gestures when these sufficed, spoke monosyllabically in a thin little voice only when speech was unavoidable. During that time Korman did not speak to her at all— but he was compelled to notice her fatalistic acceptance of the fact that she was no part of his complicated life.

  After lunch on the fourth day he caught her alone, bent down to her height and demanded, “Tatiana, what is the matter with you? Are you unhappy here?”

  One brief shake of her head.

  “Then why don’t you laugh and play like other—?” He ceased abruptly as Mary entered the room.

  “You two having a private gossip?” she inquired.

  “As if we could,” he snapped.

  That same evening he saw the latest pictorial record from the fighting front. It gave him little satisfaction. Indeed, it almost irked him. The zip was missing. Much of the thrill of conquest had mysteriously evaporated from the pictures.

  By the end of the fortnight he’d had more than enough of listening for a voice that seldom spoke and meeting eyes that did not see. It was like living with a ghost— and it could not go on. A man is entitled to a modicum of relaxation in his own home.

  Certainly he could kick her back to Lani as he had threatened to do at the first. That, however, would be admission of defeat. Korman just could not accept defeat at anyone’s hands, much less those of a brooding child. She was not going to edge him out of his own home nor persuade him to throw her out. She was a challenge he had to overcome in a way thoroughly satisfactory to himself.

  Summoning his chief scientific adviser to his office, he declaimed with irritation, “Look, I’m saddled with a maladjusted child. My son took a fancy to her and shipped her from Lani. She’s getting in my hair. What can be done about it?”

  “Afraid I cannot help much, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a physicist.”

  “Well, can you suggest anyone else?”

  The other thought a bit, said, “There’s nobody in my department, sir. But science isn’t solely concerned with production of gadgets. You need a specialist in things less tangible.” A pause, then, “The hospital authorities might put you on to someone suitable.”

  He tried the nearest hospital, got the answer, “A child psychologist is your man.”

  “Who’s the best on this planet?”

  “Dr. Jager.”

  “Contact him for me. I want him at my house this evening, not later than seven o’clock.”

  Fat, middle-aged and jovial, Jager fell easily into the role of a casual friend who had just dropped in. He chatted a lot of foolishness, included Tatiana in the conversation by throwing odd remarks at her, even held a pretended conversation with her teddy-bear. Twice in an hour she came into his world just long enough to register a fleeting smile—then swiftly she was back in her own.

  At the end of this he hinted that he and Tatiana should be left by themselves. Korman went out, convinced that no progress was being or would be made. In the lounge Mary glanced up from her seat.

  “Who’s our visitor, David? Or is it no business of mine?”

  “Some kind of mental specialist. He’s examining Tatiana.”

  “Really?” Again the sweetness that was bitter.

  “Yes,” he rasped. “Really.”

  “I didn’t think you were interested in her.”

  “I am not,” he asserted. “But Reed is. Now and again I like to remind myself that Reed is my son.”

  She let the subject drop. Korman got on with some official papers until Jager had finished. Then he went back to the room, leaving Mary immersed in her book. He looked around.

  “Where is she?”

  “The maid took her. Said it was her bedtime.”

  “Oh.” He found a seat, waited to hear more.

  Resting against the edge of a table, Jager explained, “I’ve a playful little gag for dealing with children who are reluctant to talk. Nine times out of ten it works.”

  “What is it?”

  “I persuade them to write. Strangely enough, they’ll often do that, especially if I make a game of it. I cajole them into writing a story or essay about anything that created a great impression upon them. The results can be very revealing.”

  “And did you—?”

  “A moment, please, Mr. Korman. Before I go further I’d like to impress upon you that children have an inherent ability many authors must envy. They can express themselves with remarkable vividness in simple language, with great economy of words. They create a telling effect with what they leave out as much as by what they put in.” He eyed Korman speculatively. “You know the circumstances in which your son found this child?”

  “Yes, he told us in a letter.”

  “Well, bearing those circumstances in mind I think you’ll find this something exceptional in the way of horror stories.” He held out a sheet of paper. “She wrote it unaided.” He reached for his hat and coat.

  “You’re going?” questioned Korman in surprise. “What about your diagnosis? What treatment do you suggest?”

  Dr. Jager paused, hand on door. “Mr. Korman, you are an intelligent person.” He indicated the sheet the other was holding. “I think that is all you require.”

  Then he departed. Korman eyed the sheet. It was not filled with words as he’d expected. For a story it was mighty short. He read it.

  I am nothing and nobody. My house went bang. My cat was stuck to a wall. I wanted to pull it off. They wouldn’t let me. They threw it away.

  The cold thing in the pit of his stomach swelled up. He read it again. And again. He went to the base of the stairs and looked up toward where she was sleeping.

  The enemy whom he had made nothing.

  Slumber came hard that night. Usually he could compose his mind and snatch a nap anytime, anywhere, at a moment’s notice. Now he was strangely restless, unsettled. His brain was stimulated by he knew not what and it insisted on following tortuous paths.

  The frequent waking periods were full of fantastic imaginings wherein he fumbled through a vast and cloying grayness in which was no sound, no voice, no other being. The dreams were worse, full of writhing landscapes spewing smoky columns, with things howling through the sky, with huge, toadlike monsters crawling on metal tracks, with long lines of dusty men singing an aeons-old and forgotten song.

  “You’ve left behind a broken doll.”

  He awakened early with weary eyes and a tired mind. All morning at the office a multitude of trifling things conspired against him. His ability to concentrate was not up to the mark and several times he had to catch himself on minor errors just made or about to be made. Once or twice he found himself gazing meditatively forward with eyes that did not see to the front but were looking where they had never looked before.

  At three in the afternoon his secretary called on the intercom, “Astroleader Warren would like to see you, sir.”

  “Astroleader?” he echoed, wondering whether he had heard aright. “There’s no such title.”

  “It is a Drakan space-rank.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I can tend to him now.”

  He waited with dull anticipation. The Drakans formed a powerful combine of ten planets at a great distance from Morcine. They were so far away that contact came seldom. A battleship of theirs had paid a courtesy call about twice in his lifetime. So this occasion was a rare one.

  The visitor entered, a big-built youngster in light-green uniform. Shaking hands with genuine pleasure and great cordiality, he accepted the indicated chair.

  “A surprise, eh, Mr. Korman?”

  “Very.”

  “We came in a deuce of a hurry but the trip can’t be done in a day. Distance takes time unfortunately.”

  “I know.”

  “The position is this,” explained Warren. “Long while back we received a call from Lani relayed by intervening minor planets. They said they were involved in a serious dispute and feared war. They appealed to us to negotiate as disinterested neutrals.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’ve come?”

  “Yes, Mr. Korman. We knew the chance was small of arriving in time. There was nothing for it but to come as fast as we could and hope for the best. The role of peacemaker appeals to those with any claim to be civilized.”

  “Does it?” questioned Korman, watching him.

  “It does to us.” Leaning forward, Warren met him eye to eye. “We’ve called at Lani on the way here. They still want peace. They’re losing the battle. Therefore we want to know only one thing: Are we too late?”

  That was the leading question: Are we too late? Yes or no? Korman stewed it without realizing that not so long ago his answer would have been prompt and automatic. Today, he thought it over.

  Yes or no? Yes meant military victory, power and fear. No meant—what? Well, no meant a display of reasonableness in lieu of stubbornness. No meant a considerable change of mind. It struck him suddenly that one must possess redoubtable force of character to throw away a long-nursed viewpoint and adopt a new one. It required moral courage. The weak and the faltering could never achieve it.

  “No,” he replied slowly. “It is not too late.”

  Warren stood up, his face showing that this was not the answer he had expected. “You mean, Mr. Korman—”

  “Your journey has not been in vain. You may negotiate.”

  “On what terms?”

  “The fairest to both sides that you can contrive.” He switched his microphone, spoke into it. “Tell Rogers that I order our forces to cease hostilities forthwith. Troops will guard the perimeter of the Lani ground base pending peace negotiations. Citizens of the Drakan Confederation will be permitted unobstructed passage through our lines in either direction.”

  “Very well, Mr. Korman.”

  Putting the microphone aside, he continued with Warren, “Though far off in mere miles, Lani is near to us as cosmic distances go. It would please me if the Lanians agreed to a union between our planets, with common citizenship, common development of natural resources. But I don’t insist upon it. I merely express a wish—knowing that some wishes never come true.”

  “The notion will be given serious consideration all the same,” assured Warren. He shook hands with boyish enthusiasm. “You’re a big man, Mr. Korman.”

  “Am I?” He gave a wry smile. “I’m trying to do a bit of growing in another direction. The original one kind of got used up.”

  When the other had gone, he tossed a wad of documents into a drawer. Most of them were useless now. Strange how he seemed to be breathing better than ever before, his lungs drawing more fully.

  In the outer office he informed, “It’s early yet, but I’m going home. Phone me there if anything urgent comes along.”

  The chauffeur closed the car door at the sixth step. A weakling, thought Korman as he went into his home. A lamebrain lacking the strength to haul himself out of a self-created rut. One can stay in a rut too long.

  He asked the maid, “Where is my wife?”

  “Slipped out ten minutes ago, sir. She said she’d be back in half an hour.”

  “Did she take—”

  “No, sir.” The maid glanced toward the lounge.

  Cautiously he entered the lounge, found the child resting on the settee, head back, eyes closed. A radio played softly nearby. He doubted whether she had turned it on of her own accord or was listening to it. More likely someone else had left it running.

  Tiptoeing across the carpet, he cut off the faint music. She opened her eyes, sat upright. Going to the settee, he took the bear from her side and placed it on an arm, positioned himself next to her.

  “Tatiana,” he asked with rough gentleness, “why are you nothing?”

  No answer. No change.

  “Is it because you have nobody?”

  Silence.

  “Nobody of your own?” he persisted, feeling a queer kind of desperation. “Not even a kitten?”

  She looked down at her shoes, her big eyes partly shielded under pale lids. There was no other reaction.

  Defeat. Ah, the bitterness of defeat. It set his fingers fumbling with each other, like those of one in great and unbearable trouble. Phrases tumbled through his mind.

  “I am nothing.”

  “My cat… they threw it away.”

  His gaze wandered blindly over the room while his mind ran round and round her wall of silence seeking a door it could not find. Was there no way in, no way at all?

  There was.

  He discovered it quite unwittingly.

  To himself rather than to her he murmured in a hear-able undertone, “Since I was very small I have been surrounded by people. All my life there have been lots of people. But none were mine. Not one was really mine. Not one. I, too, am nothing.”

  She patted his hand.

  The shock was immense. Startled beyond measure, he glanced down at the first touch, watched her give three or four comforting little dabs and hastily withdraw. There was heavy pulsing in his veins. Something within him rapidly became too big to contain.

  Twisting sidewise, he snatched her onto his lap, put his arms around her, buried his nose in the soft part of her neck, nuzzled behind her ear, ran his big hand through her hair. And all the time he rocked to and fro with low crooning noises.

  She was weeping. She hadn’t been able to weep before. She was weeping, not as a woman does, softly and subdued, but like a child, with great racking sobs that she fought hard to suppress.

  Her arm was around his neck, tightening, clinging and tightening more while he rocked and stroked and called her “Honey” and uttered silly sounds and wildly extravagant reassurances.

  This was victory.

  Not empty.

  Full.

  Victory over self is completely full.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  CALL HIM LORD

  by Gordon R. Dickson

  I have known Gordon Dickson for over twenty years. We do not see each other often, but when we do meet our interactions are intense, and we have been close friends; this seems a common pattern within the science fiction community. On many nights—but not nearly often enough—we talk and sing until dawn, telling the old tales and singing the old songs of glory. Sometimes, on the best of these nights, Poul Anderson joins us.

  Gordie’s best known work is the Childe Cycle, sometimes called the “Dorsai series” after its best-known story. The Dorsai stories are deservedly among the most popular military science fiction ever written. The Childe Cycle envisions some 12 novels, and will take at least that many more years to complete.

  In 1980, when the Voyager spacecraft first approached Jupiter, I arranged that the science fiction writers be admitted to the Jet Propulsion Laboratories, where the spacecraft were controlled and their planetary data analyzed. Gordon came to Los Angeles to see the encounter close up. At that time Dickson was introduced to Ezekial, my friend who happens to be a Z-80 computer. Gordon was so impressed with the value of computers for writing—I do all my books on a computer—that he bought one of his own; the resulting increase in his output makes it possible that the Childe Cycle will indeed be finished. This is, I hasten to add, my only substantial contribution to Dickson’s work.