Unwarned, the Aleriona had no reason to doubt this was one of their own vessels. The transport was headed toward the Mach limit; not directly for The Eith, but then, none of them did lest the raider from Earth be able to predict their courses. Something had gone wrong. Her communications must be out. Probably her radio officer had cobbled together a set barely able to cry, “SOS!” The trouble was clearly not with her engines, since she was under power. What, then? Breakdown of radiation screening? Air renewal? Thermostats? Interior gee field? There were so many possibilities. Life was so terribly frail, here where life was never meant to be.

  Or…since the probability of her passing near the warship by chance, in astronomical immensity, was vanishingly small…did she bear an urgent message? Something that, for some reason, could not be transmitted in the normal way? The shadow of Fox II lay long and cold across Alerion.

  “Close spacesuits,” Heim ordered. “Stand by.” He clashed his own faceplate shut and lost himself in the task of piloting. Two horrors nibbled at the edge of consciousness. The lesser one, because least likely, was that the other captain would grow suspicious and have him blasted. The worst was that Savaidh would continue her rush to Cynbe’s help. He could not match accelerations with a lancer.

  Needles wavered before his eyes. Radar—vectors—impulse—Savaidh swung about and maneuvered for rendezvous.

  Heim cut drive to a whisper. Now the ships were on nearly parallel tracks, the lancer decelerating heavily while the transport ran almost free. Now they were motionless with respect to each other, with a kilometer of vacuum between. Now the lancer moved with infinite delicacy toward the larger vessel.

  Now Heim rammed down an emergency lever. At full sidewise thrust, Meroeth hurtled to her destiny.

  There was no time to dodge, no time to shoot. The ships crashed together. That shock roared through plates and ribs, ripped metal apart, hurled unharnessed Aleriona to their decks or against their bulkheads with bone-cracking violence.

  A spaceship is not thickly armored, even for war. She can withstand the impact of micrometeorites; the larger stones, which are rare, she can detect and escape; nothing can protect from nuclear weapons, when once they have struck home. Meroeth’s impact speed was not great, but her mass was. Through and through Savaidh she sheared. Her own hull gave way. Air puffed out in a frosty cloud, quickly lost to the light-years. Torn frameworks wrapped about each other. Locked in a stag’s embrace, the ruined ships tumbled on a lunatic orbit. Aurore flared radiance across their guts; the stars looked on without pity.

  “Prepare to repel boarders!”

  Heim didn’t know if his cry had been transmitted through his helmet jack to the others. Likely not. Circuits were ripped asunder. The fusion reaction in the power generator had guttered out. Darkness, weightlessness, airlessness flowed through the ship. It didn’t matter. His men knew what to do. He undid his harness by feel and groped aft to the gun turret he had chosen for himself.

  Most of the Aleriona crew must be dead. Some might survive, in spacesuits or sealed compartments. If they could find a gun still workable and bring it to bear, they’d shoot. Otherwise they’d try for hand-to-hand combat. Untrained for space, the New Europeans couldn’t withstand that.

  The controls of Heim’s laser had their own built-in illumination. Wheels, levers, indicators glowed like watchfires. He peered along the barrel, out the cracked glasite, past wreckage where shadows slid weirdly as the system rotated; he suppressed the slight nausea due Coriolis force, forgot the frosty glory of constellations, and looked for his enemy.

  It came to him, a flicker across tautness, that he had brought yet another tactic to space warfare: ramming. But that wasn’t new. It went back ages, to when men first adventured past sight of land. Olaf Tryggvason, on the blood-reddened deck of the Long Serpent.

  No. To hell with that. His business was here and now: to stay alive till Fox picked him up. Which wouldn’t be for a long time.

  A weapon spat. He saw only the reflection of its beam off steel, and squinted till the dazzle passed. One for our side. I hope. A heavy vibration passed through the hull and his body. An explosion? He wasn’t sure. The Aleriona might be wild enough to annihilate him, along with themselves, by touching off a nuclear warhead. The chances were against it, since they’d need tools that would be hard to find in that mess out yonder. But—

  Well, war was mostly waiting.

  A spacesuited figure crawled over a girder. The silhouette was black and unhuman against the stars, save where sunlight made a halo on the helmet. One survivor, at least, bravely striving to—Heim got him in the sights and fired. Vapor rushed from the pierced body. It drifted off into space. “I hated to do that,” Heim muttered to the dead one. “But you could have been carrying something nasty, you know.”

  His shot had given him away. A beam probed at his turret. He crouched behind the shield. Intolerable brightness gnawed centimeters away from him. Then more bolts struck. The enemy laser winked out. “Good man!” Heim gasped. “Whoever you are!”

  The fight did not last long. No doubt the Aleriona, if any were left, had decided to hole up and see what happened. But it was necessary to remain on guard.

  In the dreamlike state of free fall, muscles did not protest confinement. Heim let his thoughts drift where they would. Earth, Lisa, Jocelyn…New Europe, Danielle…there really wasn’t much in a man’s life that mattered. But those few things mattered terribly.

  Hours passed.

  It was anticlimax when Fox’s lean shape closed in. Not that Heim didn’t cheer—so she had won!—but rendezvous was tricky; and then he had to make his way through darkness and ruin until he found an exit; and then signal with his helmet radio to bring a tender into safe jumping distance; and then come aboard and get a shot to counteract the effects of the radiation he had taken while unscreened in space; and then transfer to the cruiser—

  The shouts and backslappings, bear hugs and bear dances, seemed unreal in his weariness. Not even his victory felt important. He was mainly pleased that a good dozen Aleriona were alive and had surrendered. “You took Inisant?” he asked Penoyer.

  “Oh, my, yes. Wizard cum spiff! One pass, and she was a cloud of isotopes. What next, sir?”

  “Well—” Heim rubbed sandy eyes. “Your barrage will have been detected from New Europe. Now, when Inisant is overdue, the enemy must realize who lost. He may have guessed you went after Savaidh next, and be attempting an interception. But it’s most likely that he’s stayed pretty close to base. Even if he hasn’t, he’ll surely come back there. Do you think we can beat Jubalcho?”

  Penoyer scowled. “That’s a pitchup, sir. According to available data, she has more teeth, though we’ve more acceleration. I’ve computed several tactical patterns which give us about an even chance. But should we risk it?”

  “I think so,” Heim said. “If we get smeared, well, let’s admit that our side won’t have lost much. On the other hand, if we win we’ve got New Europe.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sure. There are no other defenses worth mentioning. We can knock out their ground-based missiles from space. Then we give air support to the colonists, who’re already preparing a march on the seaboard. You know as well as I do, no atmospheric flyer ever made has a fish’s chance on Friday against a nuclear-armed spaceship. If the Aleriona don’t surrender, we’ll simply swat them out of the sky, and then go to work on their ground troops. But I expect they will give in. They’re not stupid. And…then we’ve got hostages.”

  “But—the rest of their fleet—”

  “Uh-huh. One by one, over a period of weeks or months, they’ll come in. Fox should be able to bushwhack them. Also, we’ll have the New Europeans hard at work, finishing the space defenses. Evidently there isn’t much left to do there. Once that job’s completed, the planet’s nearly impregnable, whatever happens to us.

  “Somewhere along the line, probably rather soon, another transport ship will come in, all unsuspecting. We’ll nobble her and send off a load of New Europeans as originally planned. When Earth hears they’re not only not dead, not only at the point of defeat, but standing space siege and doing a crackling hell of a job at it…why, if Earth doesn’t move then, I resign from the human race.”

  Heim straightened. “I’m no damned hero, Dave.” he finished. “Mainly I want to get home to the pipe and slippers. But don’t you think a chance like this is worth taking?”

  Penoyer’s nostrils flared. “By…by Jove,” he stammered, “Yes.”

  “Very good. Make course for New Europe and call me if anything happens.”

  Heim stumbled to his cabin and toppled into sleep.

  Vadasz’s hand shook him awake. “Gunnar! Contact’s made—with Jubalcho—we’ll rendezvous inside half an hour.”

  Nothing remained of tiredness, fear, doubt, nor even anger. Heim went to the bridge with more life running through his veins than ever since Connie departed. Stars filled the viewports, so big and bright in the crystal dark that it seemed he could reach out and touch them. The ship murmured and pulsed. His men stood by their weapons; he could almost sense their oneness with him and with her. He took his place of command, and it was utterly right that Cynbe’s voice should ring from the speaker.

  “Star Fox captain, greet I you again? Mightily have we striven. You refuse not battle this now?”

  “No,” said Heim. “We’re coming in. Try and stop us.”

  The laughter of unfallen Lucifer replied. “Truth. And I thank you, my brother. Let come what that time-flow brings that you are terrible enough to live with…I thank you for this day.”

  “Goodbye,” Heim said, and thought, a little surprised, Why, that means “God be with you.”

  “Captain of mine,” Cynbe sang, “fare you well.”

  The radio beams cut out. Dark and silent, the two ships moved toward their meeting place.

  -9-

  A hundred kilometers north of Bonne Chance, on a high and lovely headland where meadows and woods ran wind-rippled down to the sea, was a house which had been made a gift of honor.

  Rear Admiral Moshe Peretz, commanding blastship Jupiter, Deepspace Fleet of Earth’s World Federation, set his borrowed flyer down on the landing strip and went out. A fresh breeze swayed the nearby garden, clouds scudded white, sunlight speared between them to dance on a restless ocean. He walked slowly, a short man, very erect in his uniform, with combat ribbons on his breast that freed him to admire a view or a blossom.

  Gunnar Heim came out to welcome him, also in uniform: but his was different, gray tunic, a red stripe down the trousers, a fleur-de-lys on the collar. He towered over his guest, bent down a face that had known much sun of late, grinned in delight and engulfed the other man’s hand in one huge paw. “Hey, Moshe, it’s good to see you again! How many years?”

  “Hello,” Peretz said.

  Heim released him, stung and surprised. “Uh…anything wrong?

  “I am all right, thank you. This is a nice home you have.”

  “Well, I like it. Want to see the grounds before we go in?”

  “If you wish.”

  Heim stood for a moment before he sighed and said, “Okay, Moshe. Obviously you accepted my dinner invitation for more reasons than to jaw with your old Academy classmate. Want to discuss ’em now? There’ll be some others coming pretty soon.”

  Peretz regarded him closely, out of brown eyes that were also pained, and said, “Yes, let us get it over with.”

  They started walking across the lawn. “Look at the matter from my side,” Peretz said. “Thanks to you, Earth went into action. We beat the Aleriona decisively in the Marches, and now they have sued for peace. Wonderful. I was proud to know you. I pulled every wire in sight so that I could command the ship that went officially to see how New Europe is doing, how Earth can help reconstruct, what sort of memorial we should raise for the dead of both planets—because victory was not cheap.”

  “Haven’t your men been well treated?” Heim asked.

  “Yes, certainly.” Peretz sliced the air with his hand, as if chopping at a neck. “Every liberty party has been wined and dined till it could hardly stagger back to the tender. But…I issued those passes most reluctantly, only because I did not want to make a bad situation worse. After all—when we find this planet ringed with defense machines—machines which are not going to be decommissioned—when a ship of the World Federation is told how near she may come—what do you expect a Navy man to think?”

  Heim bit his lip. “Ja. That was a mistake, ordering you around. I argued against it in council, but they outvoted me. I give you my oath no insult was intended, not by anyone. The majority feeling was simply that we’d better express our sovereignty at the outset. Once the precedent has been accepted, we’ll relax.”

  “But why?” His rage flickered to death, leaving Peretz no more than hurt and bewildered. “This fantastic declaration of independence…what kind of armed forces have you? Your fleet can’t amount to more than your own old privateer and perhaps a few Aleriona prizes. Otherwise there is just the constabulary. What strength can half a million people muster?”

  “Are you threatening us, Moshe?” Heim asked gently.

  “What?” Peretz jarred to a stop and gaped. “What do you mean?”

  “Is Earth going to reconquer us? You could, of course. It’d be bloody and expensive, but you could.”

  “No—no—did the occupation drive everyone here paranoid?”

  Heim shook his head. “On the contrary, we rely on Earth’s good will and sense. We expect you to protest, but we know you won’t use force. Not when your planet and ours have shed blood together.”

  “But…see here. If you want national status, well, that concerns mainly yourselves and the French government. But you say you are leaving the whole Federation!”

  “We are,” Heim answered. “Juridically, at least. We hope to make mutually beneficial treaties with Earth as a whole, and we’ll always stand in a special relationship to France. In fact, President de Vigny thinks France won’t object at all, will let us go with her blessings.”

  “M-m-m…I am afraid he is right,” said Peretz grimly. He began walking again, stiff-gaited. “France is still rather cool toward the. Federation. She won’t leave it herself, but she will be glad to have you do so for her, as long as French interests are not damaged.”

  “She’ll get over her grudge,” Heim predicted.

  “Yes, in time. Did you break loose for the same cause?”

  Heim shrugged. “To a certain extent, no doubt. The Conference of Chateau de St. Jacques was one monstrous emotional scene, believe me. The plebiscite was overwhelmingly in favor of independence. But there were better reasons than a feeling of having been let down in an hour of need. Those are the ones that’ll last.”

  “De Vigny tried to convince me,” Peretz snorted.

  “Well, let me try in less elegant language. What is the Federation? Something holy, or an instrument for a purpose? We think it’s a plain old instrument, and that it can’t serve its purpose out here.”

  “Gunnar, Gunnar, have you forgotten all history? Do you know what a breakup would mean?”

  “War,” Heim nodded. “But the Federation isn’t going to die. With all its faults, it’s proved itself too good for Earth to scrap. Earth’s a single planet, though. You can orbit it in ninety minutes. The nations have got to unify, or they’ll kill each other.” His gaze swept the horizon. “Here we have more room.”

  “But—”

  “The universe is too big for any one pattern. No man can understand or control it, let alone a government. The proof is right at hand. We had to trick and tease and browbeat the Federation into doing what we could see, with our own eyes, was necessary—because it didn’t see. It wasn’t able to see. If a man is going to live throughout the galaxy, he’s got to be free to take his own roads, the ones his direct experience shows him are best for his circumstances. And that way, won’t the race realize all its potential? Is there any other way we can, than by trying everything out, everywhere?” Heim clapped Peretz’s back. “I know. You’re afraid of interstellar wars in the future, if planets are sovereign. Don’t worry. It’s ridiculous. What do entire, self-sufficient, isolated worlds have to fight about?”

  “We just finished an interstellar war,” Peretz said.

  “Uh-huh. What brought it on? Somebody who wasn’t willing to let the human race develop as it should. Moshe, instead of trying to freeze ourselves into one shape, instead of staying small because we’re scared of losing control, let’s work out something different. Let’s find how many kinds of society, human and nonhuman, can get along without a policeman’s gun pointed at them. I don’t think there is any limit.”

  “Well—” Peretz shook his head. “Maybe. I hope you are right. Because you have committed us, blast you.” He spoke without animosity.

  After a minute: “I must confess I felt better when President de Vigny apologized officially for keeping our ship at arm’s length.”

  “You have my personal apologies,” Heim said low.

  “All right!” Peretz thrust out his hand, features crinkled with abrupt laughter. “Accepted and forgotten, you damned old squarehead.”

  His trouble lifted from Heim, too. “Great!” he exclaimed. “Come on inside and we’ll buckle down to getting drunk. Lord, how much yarning we’ve got to catch up on!”

  They entered the living room and settled themselves. A maid curtsied. “What’ll you have?” Heim asked. “Some items of food are still in short supply, and of course machinery’s scarce, which is why I employ so many live servants. But these Frenchmen built big wine cellars.”

  “Brandy and soda, thanks,” Peretz said.

  “Me too. We are out of Scotch on New Europe. Uh…will there be cargoes from Earth soon?”

  Peretz nodded. “Some are already on the way. Parliament will scream when I report what you have done, and there will be talk of an embargo, but you know that won’t come to anything. If we aren’t going to fight, to hold you against your will, it is senseless to antagonize you with annoyances.”