What’s that?

  WHAT’S THAT?

  The sight was a lightning bolt. For a second he could not believe. A long V trailed across the moon—

  Staurni, in flight home to the Hurst!

  Heim soared erect. “Hey! Hallo-o-o! You up there, come down, help, help, help!”

  The bawling filled his helmet, shivered his eardrums, tore his larynx; and was lost within meters of noise-troubled air. He flapped his arms, knew starkly that the blurring vapors made him invisible from so high above, saw the winged ones pass the disc and vanish into darkness. A beast yell broke from him, he cursed every god in the cosmos, drew his automatic and fired again and again at heaven.

  That little bark was also nothing. And not even a glint from the muzzle. Heim lifted the useless thing, that could only kill Joss, to hurl it into the mud.

  His hand sank. The metal moonlight seemed to pierce his skull, he was instantly cold, utterly aware, tracing the road he must follow as if on a battle map.

  No time to lose. Those wings beat fast. He squatted, unbuckled his air system, hauled its packboard around in front of him. The valve on the hose into his suit closed readily, but the coupling beyond resisted. And he had no pliers. He threw all his bear strength into his hands. The screw threads turned. The apparatus came free.

  Now he was alone with whatever air his suit contained; the recycler depended on pressure from the reserve bottles. He cracked their valves. Terrestrial atmosphere, compressed more than Staurn’s own, streamed forth.

  The reaction must be kindled, and he had no laser. Heedless of ricochet or shrapnel, he laid the automatic’s mouth, against the cock and pulled the trigger. The bang and the belling came together. Alloy shattered, the bullet screamed free, the air tanks became a lamp.

  Its flame was wan blue under the moon. Heim held the packboard steady with one hand and fanned with the other. “Please,” he called, “please, look this way, she’ll die if yon don’t.” A far-off part of him observed that he wept.

  The fire flickered out. He bent near the pressure gauge, trying to read it in the unpitying moonlight. Zero. Finished.

  No, wait, that was zero net. There were still three atmospheres absolute. And hydrogen diffused inward faster than oxygen did outward. Explosive mixture? He scrambled to put the bottles behind a large rock. Leaning across, he shot straight into them and threw himself down.

  Flame blossomed anew, one fury and the crash toning away, whine of flying fragments, a grating among lesser stones as they sought new rest, nothingness. Heim got carefully up.

  An infinite calm descended upon him. He had done what he could. Now it was only to wait, and live or die as the chance befell. He returned to Jocelyn, listened to her breath, and lay down beside her.

  I ought to be in suspense, he thought vaguely. I’m not. Could my air be poisoned already?—No, I should last an hour or so if I don’t move. I’m just…fulfilled, somehow. His eyes went to the moon, his thoughts to Connie. He had no belief in survival after death, but it was as if she had drawn close to him.

  “Hi, there,” he whispered.

  And—“Hai-i-i-i!” winded down the reaches of heaven, the air sang, and bat wings eclipsed the moon. Weapons flashed clear, the flock whirled around in their search for an enemy, fangs glittered, and devil shapes came to earth.

  Only they didn’t act like devils, once they saw. A warrior bayed into the midget transceiver he carried. A vehicle from the Hurst descended within minutes. Her mother could not have raised Jocelyn more tenderly onto a stretcher and into the machine. Wolf-gray Wenilwain himself connected an oxygen bottle to Heim’s suit. The flyer lifted and lanced eastward for Orling.

  “But…listen…jangir ketleth—” Heim desisted. His few pidgin phrases couldn’t explain about Endre and C.E. No matter, really. He’d soon be at the yacht; Wong could interpret via radio; the last survivors would be found no later than sunrise. Heim fell asleep smiling.

  -8-

  Her cabin was quiet. Someone had hung a new picture on the bulkhead where she could see it: a beach, probably on Tahiti. Waves came over a sapphire ocean to foam against white sands; in the foreground, palm trees nodded at Earth’s mild winds.

  She laid down her book as the tall man entered. Color mounted in her face. “Gunnar,” she said very low. “You shouldn’t be up.”

  “Our medic wants me on my back till we leave,” he said, “but the hell with him. At least, I had to come see you before you go. How’re you feeling?”

  “All right. Still weak, of course, but Dr. Silva says I’m making a good recovery.”

  “I know. I asked him. Enzyme therapy is a wonder, eh?” Heim searched for a phrase. Nothing sufficed. “I’m glad.”

  “Sit down, you idiot!”

  He pulled the lounger close to her bed and lowered himself. Even in a flyer, the trip had left him lightheaded. Several days yet must pass before his vigor was restored. The gun at his hip caught on the adjuster console. He pulled it free with a muttered oath.

  Amusement touched her lips. “You needn’t have brought that. Nobody’s going to kidnap you.”

  “Well, hopefully not. Call it insurance.”

  Her smile faded. “Are you that angry?”

  “No. Two good men died, the rest of us went through a nasty time. I’m sorry it happened, but you can’t take an episode in a war to heart.”

  Her look reminded him of a trapped small animal. “You could press charges of murder.”

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What kind of swine do you take me for? We went out together on a field trip. Our engine failed, we made a crash landing where one man was killed, and hiked after help. If your people will stick by that story, mine will.”

  A thin hand stole toward him. He took it and did not let go. Her hazel eyes caught him in turn. Silence grew.

  When he could hold out no more, and still lacked meaningful words, he said, “You’re hauling mass at dawn, right?”

  “Yes. The scientists—those who thought this was a genuine trip—they want to stay. But Captain Gutierrez overruled them. We’ve lost our purpose.” Quickly: “How long will you remain?”

  “About another Earth week, till the new missile units are fitted. To be sure, we’ll lose time getting out of the planetary system. The Lodge has to escort us, and won’t let us arm our warheads till we’re beyond defensive limits. But still, I figure we’ll be on the move inside of ten days.”

  Again muteness, while they looked at each other, and away, and back. “What do you plan on doing at home?” he tried.

  “Wait for you,” she said. “Pray for you.”

  “But—no, look, your, uh, your political work—”

  “That’s no longer relevant. I haven’t changed my mind—or have I? It’s hard to tell.” Her free hand rubbed her forehead confusedly. The motion stirred her hair, awakening light in the chestnut tresses. “I don’t think I was wrong in principle,” she said after a bit. “Maybe I was in practice. But it doesn’t matter any more. You see, you’ve changed the universe. Earth is committed.”

  “Nonsense!” His face smoldered. “One ship?”

  “With you her captain, Gunnar.”

  “Thanks, but…but you flatter me and—Wait, Joss, you do have a job. Sentiment at home might swing too far in the other direction. The last thing any sane person wants is a jehad. You keep telling ’em the enemy is not too evil to live. Remind ’em there’ll be peace negotiations eventually, and the more reasonable we are then, the more likely the peace is to last. Okay?”

  He saw that she braced herself. “You’re right, and I’ll do my poor best,” she said. “But talking politics is only an evasion.”

  “What do you mean?” he stalled.

  Her mouth quirked afresh. “Why, Gunnar, I do believe you’re scared.”

  “No, no, nothing of the sort. You need rest. I’d better go.”

  “Sit,” she commanded. Her fingers closed about his palm. The touch was light, but it would have been easier to break free of a ship grapple.

  Red and white chased each other across her countenance. “I have to explain,” she said with, astounding steadiness. “About what happened earlier.”

  His skin prickled.

  “Yes, I hoped to persuade you not to fight,” she said. “But I learned more was involved. Infinitely more.”

  “Uh, uh—the past, sure—”

  “When you come back,” she asked, “what are you going to do?”

  “Live quietly.”

  “Ha! I’d like to make book on that. For a while, though, you will be home on Earth.” Her tone dropped. “Oh, God, you must.” She raised her head. “I’ll be there too.”

  He must summon so much will to speak that none was left for holding his eyes off the deck. “Joss,” he said, word by word, “you remember too many things. So do I. There was that chance once, which we did better to pass up. Now we met again, both free, both lonesome, and I admit I also thought the chance might have come again. Only it hadn’t. Time switched the dice on us.”

  “No, that isn’t true. Sure, at first I believed otherwise. Our casual meetings after I returned from Ourania, and the political barrier between us—damn all politics! I thought you were simply attractive, and half that must be because of a friendship we’d never revive. I dreamed a little on the way here, but they seemed like just ordinary woman-type daydreams. How could you hurt me?” She paused. “It turned out you could.”

  “I’m trying not to,” he said desperately. “You’re too good for soothing with lies.”

  She let his hand go. Her own fell open upon the blanket. “So you don’t care.”

  “I do, I do. But can’t you see, I didn’t break with Connie the way you did with Edgar. When she, well, helped me about you, we pulled still closer together. Then she died. It cut me off at the roots. I guess without thinking about it I’ve looked ever since for a root that strong. I’m a coward, afraid to settle for anything less, because afterward someone else might happen by who—It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  She rallied. “You’ve outgrown believing in permanent infatuation, haven’t you? We understand what really matters between two people. If you’re trying to warn me you might be restless—I wouldn’t be jealous at your wandering a little. As long as you always came back.”

  “I don’t want to wander. Physically isn’t important. I wouldn’t want to mentally. That one time was bad enough. And when I heard about New Europe, I remembered a girl there. I was young and stupid, skittish about being tied down, which is especially bad for a Navy man. So I left when my leave was up without committing myself. Next time I arrived, she’d moved; I dithered whether to track her down, finally didn’t, and soon after got posted too far away to visit that planet. Now—”

  “I see. You want to make sure about her.”

  “I have to.”

  “But that was twenty years or more ago, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got to find out what happened to her, see her safe if she’s still alive. Beyond that, yes, I’m doubtless being foolish.”

  She smiled then. “Go ahead. I’m not too worried.”

  He rose. “I must leave now. Neither of us is in any shape for emotional scenes.”

  “Yes. I’ll wait, darling.”

  “Better not. Not seriously, anyhow. Hell alone knows what’ll happen to me. I might not return at all.”

  “Gunnar!” she cried, as if he had struck her. “Never say that!”

  He jollied her as best he could, and kissed her farewell, and departed. While his pilot flitted him the short way back to the yacht, he looked out. A flock of Staurni hunters was taking off. Sunlight flared across their weapons. The turmoil in him changed toward eagerness—to be away, to sail his ship again—as he watched those dragon shapes mount into the sky.

  UNTITLED LIMERICK

  There was a young man of Calais

  who considered himself a gourmet,

  eating crocodile roast

  and flies’ eggs upon toast.

  His sex life was more recherché.

  HIDING PLACE

  Captain Bahadur Torrance received the news as befitted a Lodgemaster in the Federated Brotherhood of Spacemen. He heard it out, interrupting only with a few knowledgeable questions. At the end, he said calmly, “Well done, Freeman Yamamura. Please keep this to yourself till further notice. I’ll think about what’s to be done. Carry on.” But when the engineer officer had left the cabin—the news had not been the sort you tell on the intercom—he poured himself a triple whisky, sat down, and stared emptily at the viewscreen.

  He had traveled far, seen much, and been well rewarded. However, promotion being swift in his difficult line of work, he was still too young not to feel cold at hearing his death sentence.

  The screen showed such a multitude of stars, hard and winter-brilliant, that only an astronaut could recognize individuals. Torrance sought past the Milky Way until he identified Polaris. Then Valhalla would lie so-and-so-many degrees away, in that direction. Not that he could see a type-G sun at this distance, without optical instruments more powerful than any aboard the Hebe G.B. But he found a certain comfort in knowing his eyes were sighted toward the nearest League base (houses, ships, humans, nestled in a green valley on Freya) in this almost-uncharted section of our galactic arm. Especially when he didn’t expect to land there, ever again.

  The ship hummed around him, pulsing in and out of four-space with a quasi-speed that left light far behind and yet was still too slow to save him.

  Well…it became the captain to think first of the others. Torrance sighed and stood up. He spent a moment checking his appearance; morale was important, never more so than now. Rather than the usual gray coverall of shipboard, he preferred full uniform: blue tunic, white cape and culottes, gold braid. As a citizen of Ramanujan planet, he kept a turban on his dark aquiline head, pinned with the Ship-and-Sunburst of the Polesotechnic League.

  He went down a passageway to the owner’s suite. The steward was just leaving, a tray in his hand. Torrance signaled the door to remain open, clicked his heels and bowed. “I pray pardon for the interruption, sir,” he said. “May I speak privately with you? Urgent!”

  Nicholas van Rijn hoisted the two-liter tankard which had been brought him. His several chins quivered under the stiff goatee; the noise of his gulping filled the room, from the desk littered with papers to the Huy Brasealian jewel-tapes-try hung on the opposite bulkhead. Something by Mozart lilted out of a taper. Blond, big-eyed, and thoroughly three-dimensional, Jeri Kofoed curled on a couch, within easy reach of him where he sprawled in his lounger. Torrance, who was married but had been away from home for some time, forced his gaze back to the merchant.

  “Ahhh!” Van Rijn banged the empty mug down on a table and wiped foam from his mustaches. “Pox and pestilence, but the first beer of the day is good! Something with it is so quite cool and—um—by damn, what word do I want?” He thumped his sloping forehead with one hairy fist. “I get more absent in the mind every week. Ah, Torrance, when you are too a poor old lonely fat man with all powers failing him, you will look back and remember me and wish you was more good to me. But then is too late.” He sighed like a minor tornado and scratched the pelt on his chest. In the near tropic temperature at which he insisted on maintaining his quarters, he need wrap only a sarong about his huge body. “Well, what begobbled stupiding is it I must be dragged from my all-too-much work to fix up for you, ha?”

  His tone was genial. He had, in fact, been in a good mood ever since they escaped the Adderkops. (Who wouldn’t be? For a mere space yacht, even an armed one with ultrapowered engines, to get away from three cruisers was more than an accomplishment; it was nearly a miracle. Van Rijn still kept four grateful candles burning before his Martian sandroot statuette of St. Dismas.) True, he sometimes threw crockery at the steward when a drink arrived later than he wished, and he fired everybody aboard ship at least once a day. But that was normal.

  Jeri Kofoed arched her brows. “Your first beer, Nicky?” she murmured. “Now really! Two hours ago—”

  “Ja, but that was before midnight time. If not Greenwich midnight, then surely on some planet somewhere, nie? So is a new day.” Van Rijn took his churchwarden off the table and began stuffing it. “Well, sit down, Captain Torrance, make yourself to be comfortable and lend me your lighter. You look like a dynamited custard, boy. All you youngsters got no stamina. When I was a working spaceman, by Judas, we made solve our own problems. These days, death and damnation, you come ask me how to wipe your noses! Nobody has any guts but me.” He slapped his barrel belly. “So what is be-jingle-bang gone wrong now?”

  Torrance wet his lips. “I’d rather speak to you alone, sir.”

  He saw the color leave Jeri’s face. She was no coward. Frontier planets, even the pleasant ones like Freya, didn’t breed that sort. She had come along on what she knew would be a hazardous trip because a chance like this—to get an in with the merchant prince of the Solar Spice & Liquors Company, which was one of the major forces within the whole Polesotechnic League—was too good for an opportunistic girl to refuse. She had kept her nerve during the fight and the subsequent escape, though death came very close. But they were still far from her planet, among unknown stars, with the enemy hunting them.

  “So go in the bedroom,” van Rijn ordered her.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I’d be happier hearing the truth.”

  The small black eyes, set close to van Rijn’s hook nose flared. “Foulness and fulminate!” he bellowed. “What is this poppies with cocking? When I say frog, by billy damn, you jump!”

  She sprang to her feet, mutinous. Without rising, he slapped her on the appropriate spot. It sounded like a pistol going off. She gasped, choked back an indignant screech, and stamped into the inner suite. Van Rijn rang for the steward.

  “More beer this calls for,” he said to Torrance. “Well, don’t stand there making bug’s eyes! I got no time for fumblydiddles, even if you overpaid loafers do. I got to make revises of all price schedules on pepper and nutmeg for Freya before we get there. Satan and stenches! At least ten percent more that idiot of a factor could charge them, and not reduce volume of sales. I swear it! All good saints, hear me and help a poor old man saddled with oatmeal-brained squatpots for workers!”