“Ties of time. A good phrase. You are ecstatic about progress. I congratulate you. I wish you well. Sleep and sleep and sleep, may you profit from it.”

  “The prayer of the capitalist,” Treve added, smiling and putting more salad on Bergen’s plate.

  “But Bergen. While you fly, like stones skipping across the water, touching down here and there and barely getting wet, while you are busy doing that, I shall swim. I like to swim. It gets me wet. It wears me out. And when I die, which will happen before you turn thirty, I’m sure, I’ll have my paintings to leave behind me.”

  “Vicarious immortality is rather second rate, isn’t it?”

  “Is there anything second rate about my work?”

  “No,” Bergen answered.

  “Then eat my food, and look at my paintings again, and go back to building huge cities until there’s a roof over all the world and the planet shines in space like a star. There’s a kind of beauty in that, too, and your work will live after you. Live however you like. But tell me, Bergen, do you have time to swim naked in a lake?”

  Bergen laughed. “I haven’t done that in years.”

  “I did it this morning.”

  “At your age?” Bergen asked, and then regretted the words. Not because Dal resented them, he didn’t seem to notice them. Bergen regretted the words because they were the end of even the hope of a friendship. Dal, who had painted beautiful whiptrees into his painting, was an older man now, and would get even older in the next few years, and their lives would never cross meaningfully again. It was Treve who bantered with him like a friend.

  While I, Bergen realized, I build cities.

  When they parted at evening, still cheerful, still friends, Dal asked (and his voice was serious): “Bergen. Do you ever paint?”

  Bergen shook his head. “I haven’t the time. But I admit, if I had your talent, Dal, I’d find the time. I haven’t that talent, though. Never did.”

  “That’s not true, Bergen. You had more talent than I.”

  Bergen looked Dal in the eye and realized the man meant it. “Don’t say that,” Bergen said fervently. “If I believed that, Dal, do you think I could spend my life the way I have to spend it?”

  “Oh, my friend,” Dal said, smiling. “You have made me sad, sad, sad. Hug me for the boys we were together.”

  They embraced, and then Bergen left. They never met again.

  Bergen lived to see Capitol covered in steel from pole to pole, with even the oceans encroached upon until they were mere ponds. He once went out in a pleasure cruiser and saw the planet from space. It gleamed. It was beautiful.

  It was like a star.

  Bergen lived long enough to see something else: He visited a store one day that sold rare and old paintings. And there he saw a painting that he recognized immediately. The paint was chipping away; the colors had faded.

  But it was Dal Vouls’s work, and there were whiptrees in the painting, and Bergen demanded of the storekeeper, “Who’s let this painting get in such a condition?”

  “Such a condition? Sir, don’t you know how old this is? Seven hundred years old, sir! It’s remarkably well preserved. By a great artist, the greatest of our millennium, but nobody makes paint or canvas that stays unmarred for more than a few centuries. What do you want, miracles?”

  And Bergen realized that in his pursuit of immortality, he had got more than he hoped for. For not only did friends drop away and die behind him, but also their works, and all the works of men, had crumbled in his lifetime. Some had crumbled into dust; some were just showing the first cracks. But Bergen had lived long enough to see the one sight the universe usually hides from mankind: entropy.

  The universe is winding down, Bergen said as he looked at Dal’s painting.

  Was it worth the cost just to find that out?

  He bought the painting. It fell to pieces before he died.

  Burning

  With the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jawbone of an ass have I slain a thousand men.

  —Judges 15:16

  There were exactly twenty ships, and they were exactly alike-vast cylinders, kilometers long and kilometers wide, with slender needles sticking out of one end. The huge cylinders were propulsion; the entire payload was in the needle. It was ridiculously uneconomical; energy costs were phenomenal; the ship’s pilots spent most of their lives asleep, allowed by the drug somec to dreamlessly pass the thrice-lightspeed journeys between stars because otherwise they would grow old and die somewhere around the first tenth of the average trip. But the ships took them between the stars, and so they went.

  From the outside, of course, all starships looked the same, there had been no improvement on the fundamental design in centuries. But these ships were different.

  First Exchange From: Starfleet SWIP-e33

  To: System, Harper. Authority: Planets Harper, Harper Moon, Stoddard Request permission to take on supplies. Captain, Homer Worthing.

  From: System, Harper. Authority: Planets Harper, Harper Moon, Stoddard Permission denied. How the hell stupid do you think we are? Governor, Dallan Pock.

  “The bastards,” said Captain Worthing.

  “Agreed,” spattered back the radio. With typical precision the twenty ships of the fleet had already gone into orbit around the three planets of the Harper system.

  “Looks like radio has finally caught up with us.”

  “Or one of Mother’s little messenger ships.”

  “If it’s here, I don’t see it, and you don’t hide a starship.”

  “Maybe it went away again. We have burned several dozen of Mother’s best ships. Can we turn this off?”

  “Sure,” Worthing said, and the radio fell silent. Instead, Worthing leaned back on his chair and began the other kind of contact with all nineteen of the ship’s captains in his fleet.

  We’re in a precarious position, they told him.

  Agreed, he answered.

  We’re nearly out of supplies. We’ve been playing this game for two hundred years. These ships were meant to put into port.

  Then we must certainly get our supplies here, Worthing replied.

  They’re resisting. That must mean they’re expecting an imperial fleet soon.

  This much is obvious.

  Well, then, Captain Worthing, what the bloody hell are we going to do?

  We, my dear friends, are going to scare their little heads off.

  And if they don’t scare?

  Then we’re in trouble, yes?

  Second Exchange From: SWIP-e33

  To: Our unwise planetside friends

  We are a fully equipped fleet. We do not ask, we demand supplies within 24 hours, with unencumbered right to land, or we will be forced to use our armaments against you. There isn’t a weapon you have that can harm us. We can defeat any imperial fleet, in case you’re expecting rescue. You know who we are. You know what we can do. Our patience is not infinite.

  From: Authority To: The rebels

  We don’t want any trouble. We know that you can’t land anything if we don’t want it to land, and we know you don’t have any armaments that work against planets. It’s a stalemate. So why don’t you just go away?

  “They aren’t going,” said the colonel to Governor Pock.

  “I wish they would,” sighed Pock, genuinely distressed.

  “Maybe they aren’t going because they don’t have enough supplies to go on to anyplace else.”

  “I’m quite sure that’s precisely why they’re staying, Colonel. But that doesn’t change our situation one bit. Do you know what Mother has done to the other governors who’ve cooperated in any way, in any way, with the rebels?”

  “It’s practically a humanitarian decision. They need supplies. They need water for the engines. We have eighteen oceans, among the three planets.

  Why not let them down?”

  “Do you know what they’ve done to the chief military officer wherever the rebels have received cooperation?”

  The colonel shook his head.

  “Governors just lose their jobs and their somec. Soldiers get shot, Colonel.”

  “They aren’t really doing that, are they?”

  “On six planets. I’m just very grateful that radio has finally got ahead of them. At least we’re warned. And the message said that the imperial fleet would be getting here momentarily.”

  “Which could mean anytime this year.”

  “What else do you propose? The only weapon the rebels have that could hurt us is the fusion bomb, and that would burn over the entire planet, all the planets. They’d never use that. No one has ever systematically killed all the civilians. So we’re safe. We’ll just sit here and let the fleet come and take care of them and we’ll never have to get involved at all.”

  And, very pleased with himself, Governor Pock closed his eyes to rest. The colonel left.

  In the observatories, radioscopes began noting the arrival of a large group of starships. The fleet was already here.

  Third Exchange:

  From: INFL-c89

  To: Rebel fleet SWIP-e33

  Surrender. You are outnumbered, out of supplies, unable to maneuver, and we can outwait you. Why prolong matters? Captain, Fit Treece.

  From: Homer

  To: Fit You know us, Fit. Hell, I saved your life a few times. You know what the bastards tried to do to us. We’ve proved by now that we have no intention of joining the enemy, or of surrendering to Mother. So why not just let us go off on our own and forget this stupid war?

  From: INFL-c89

  To: Rebel fleet SWIP-e33

  Her Imperial Majesty cannot brook rebellion. But if you surrender, by jettisoning crews in landers, and blowing up the ships behind you, you will receive a fair and lenient trial, and perhaps the death penalty can be avoided.

  Certainly we can refrain from confiscating property. And we can wait forever.

  We are fully supplied.

  They’ve got us in a box, Worthing thought to the others.

  We’ve got to do something. You know the bastards’ll kill us if they catch us.

  We’re the only rebellion in history that’s lasted more than a day. We’ve lasted two centuries. They’ve got to make an example of us.

  But there’s nothing we can do, Worthing answered.

  We can threaten to burn the damn planets.

  But we’d never do it. Why make threats we’ll never carry out? Besides, they know as well as we do that if we burn the planets, we can’t get water from them, and then what have we accomplished?

  Then let’s threaten to burn one. The others’ll go along.

  Worthing refused, adamantly, shouting, if it were possible. Never. No. That is an atrocity and I won’t brook it. If we do that, we don’t deserve to survive.

  What about me? one captain asked. I’m going to be out of fuel in a couple of days. What about me?

  I don’t know, Worthing answered.

  Maybe they don’t mean it. Surely they wouldn’t shoot us down.

  Surely. Are you willing to risk your life to find out?

  Long pause in the thought conversation. A turmoil of emotions. Then: Yeah. I’m willing.

  And so the huge fueling craft broke away from the payload section of the ship, huge, in relation to the antlike man inside, who was the whole crew of the ship and the fueling craft. In relation to the starship itself, of course, the fueler was absurdly small.

  The fueler descended gracefully into the atmosphere of Harper Moon, the smallest of the three planets. It was instantly detected by the radar watch of the system military authority. “Well, Governor Pock, will you give the order?”

  “I don’t want to do it, dammit! Why should a peaceful little system like ours have to kill a man?”

  “Because the damned rebels will be out of the sky sometime soon anyway, and the imperial fleet will be here forever!”

  “All right, then. Kill him.” And Pock left the room, furious at having been compelled to make such a decision. He was trained to administer a vast network of bureaucracy. He was not trained to cope with an interstellar rebellion by Mother’s most brilliant ship captains.

  The radars locked in. The missiles were launched. They intercepted the relatively slower fueler long before it reached the ocean. It erupted in a ball of flame. No particles large enough to notice survived to reach the ocean.

  He’s dead, Homer pointed out unnecessarily to the others.

  I didn’t think they’d do it, the bastards, someone else commented.

  I say tell ’em we’ll burn ’em. If they plan to take part in the war, then let’s bring it right to home.

  We won’t burn anybody.

  But we can sure as hell say we’ll burn ’em, can’t we?

  Fourth Exchange From: SWIP-e33

  To: The assassins on Harper system You’re not the only ones who can kill. We now have fusion devices ready to launch at Harper Moon. You have four hours to grant permission for fuelers to land or we will burn the planet.

  From: Authority To: The rebels

  Look, we warned you. Please go away. Surrender or something. How can we put it any plainer? You can’t get onto the planet. Burning the planets, even if you would really do it, would accomplish nothing, how could you get any water then? And you’d be hunted to the ends of the universe. No one will ever forgive planet burners. Right now, you might very well be forgiven.

  “That communique was pathetic,” the colonel told the governor.

  “What, I should have been formal?” Pock retorted. “Official language doesn’t communicate. I just want this whole thing to go away.”

  “It won’t,” said the colonel.

  “But you will,” answered Pock. “Until you can put a weapon in my hand that allows me to stop them from burning any planet in the system, I have no intention of following your insane advice and writing insane patriotic messages. Why antagonize them?”

  “The only thing that will stop them from getting I antagonized is giving them water, which we won’t do,” the colonel answered.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  The imperial fleet was now close enough to entirely encircle the system, and the rebels. In previous attempts at encirclement, of course, the rebels, being telepaths, that was the point of the war, wasn’t it, were able to anticipate every move and broke such circles like child’s play. But now they were nearly out of fuel, they had no maneuvering room; they could not get to another system; they had to either get water from Harper system or surrender.

  And in the meantime, the imperial fleet began making feints and false attacks and swift diving runs. The rebels had to react, had to move their ships, for the telepaths could clearly see that the fleet commander would instantly follow up any momentary advantage. And when the rebels stopped responding, he would know that they were out of fuel and would attack.

  Without fuel to maneuver the ship, telepathy was no longer an advantage.

  We’re doomed, they told Homer Worthing.

  We knew that was a possibility from the start. And if we’d stayed with them, we would have been doomed anyway, after all, didn’t the enemy kill all their telepaths? They didn’t trust us, with good reason, and now we’re stuck.

  Brilliant, somebody said. We know we’re stuck. But we don’t have to be.

  And Homer Worthing felt his authority slipping away from him. What do you mean, we don’t have to be? he asked.

  I mean that this planet system isn’t neutral. Our lack of supplies is the empire’s most potent weapon against us. That makes the planets hostile adversaries. Attacking them is legitimate. They are no longer civilians.

  Just try explaining that to all the innocent people you’d be killing.

  Then let them explain to us why they’re so eager to kill us? If we had a weapon that would only kill generals, we’d use it. But we don’t. But we do have a weapon that will definitely kill the generals, and everybody else. So let’s be ready to use that.

  Not while I lead this fleet.

  All those in favor?

  For the moment, the majority voted to keep Worthing as fleet commander.

  But only a majority, and not an overwhelming one.

  And as time passed and they maneuvered more and more, all but four ships ran out of fuel.

  Fifth Exchange

  From: SWIP-e33

  To: The planetside enemy By refusing to supply us and by attacking a ship attempting to refuel and destroying it, you have removed yourselves from civilian immunity. Perhaps it will convince you that we are serious if we tell you that Homer Worthing is no longer captain of the fleet. The new captain is determined to burn you within four hours unless we have a positive response.

  “That means,” the colonel gloated, “that they’re nearly out of fuel! We’ve got them where we want them!”

  “That means,” Governor Pock said, “that they’re cornered and desperate and may very well do anything, including burning us to a cinder.”

  “Nonsense. That wouldn’t help them and they know it. They’ve lost, they’ll simply have to admit it and surrender.”

  “They’ve lost, and we made them lose,” the governor said. “What animal doesn’t take one last swipe at the hunter, even though he’s already dying?”

  “You’ve shot down too many skeeters, Governor,” said the colonel.

  “We’ll be destroyed. I don’t want to get these planets involved.”

  “A bit too late, isn’t it? What do you want to do, send them water?”

  “I’ve been considering it.”

  “Well, stop considering it, Pock. I have authority to remove you from office and impose military law the moment you attempt to in any way aid the rebels.” The presence of the fleet had stiffened his spine.

  “I wish you’d told me before, colonel. I could have had you in charge of this whole mess from the start.”

  “I am also instructed to shoot you.”

  “In that case I’m grateful that I never tried anything. The people are getting a bit restless about this.” And so am I. What’s the fleet doing?

  “Rebels are always popular. A focus of resentments. We can cope.”