Battle for the Stars

CHAPTER 21

Vinson came across the fields in the middle of the next morning. He looked as though he had waited as long as he could, but just could not wait any longer. He came up onto the sunny porch, where Birrel and Lyllin had lingered over late breakfast, and he stood looking at them awkwardly and grinning, “Hear you had quite a fight out there,” he said, in an elaborately offhand way.

Birrel shook his head. “A brawl in space is just radar and computers. It's not a real fight where you can see the men you're fighting, like the one we had back in those woods."

Vinson turned dull red with pride, but he said nothing to that as, at Lyllin's invitation, he sat down. He looked at the black cat that sat on a chair near Lyllin.

"Picked up a cat, I see,” he said. “Well, there's nothing like a good cat to keep down pests."

Birrel looked sourly at the small, black animal that sat there with such insolent self-assurance, as though he owned the whole place and they were merely his guests.

"I haven't seen this one doing anything useful,” he said.

Lyllin laughed, and reached and stroked the sleek back. Tom looked boredly away, as though he only permitted this as a mark of special favor.

Birrel thought how surprised he had been when he had arrived the night before and found Lyllin sitting on the porch waiting for him, with the cat in her lap. He had had, for a moment, a slightly eerie feeling of sudden recognition, as though he, who had never been here before the past few days, could remember other women in the past, sitting on the porch of this old house and waiting for their men to come home.

Lyllin's eyes had clung to his, but she had merely said, lightly, “I've been accepted."

"You've been bribing the beggar with food,” he had accused. “His sides are bulging."

She had only laughed and stroked Tom, as she was doing now, but when he had bent and kissed her, her lips had been trembling.

Vinson was saying, “I promised to go over the fields with you, remember? Wondered if you would like to do that now.” He added eagerly, “You know, I was thinking that, with my equipment, I could work these fields into pretty good shape for you. There's plenty of time for clearing before fall. And you need to bring these fields back as soon as you can."

Birrel had forgotten all about Vinson's promise, but he remembered now and he hastily tried to squirm out of this.

"Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot. But you see, I'm liable to be going back to Lyra any time now. I'm afraid I won't have time to do anything with this place."

"Don't worry, I can do it all for you,” Vinson said. “My machinery stands idle half the time, anyway. Then, when you come back, you'll have a lot better property here."

Birrel gave up. The man was obviously so anxious to do him a favor, that it would be churlish to object further.

"All right,” he said, getting up. “We'll look it over."

They went out into the bright, hot day and Vinson started to talk about the old barn and how it needed roofing, and how the orchard should be pruned, and other things so remote from Birrel's experience that he did not understand them at all. He pretended to listen and he nodded intelligently as they went along, but his thoughts were very far from Vinson's talk of auto-tractors and weather-control taxes and the like.

He kept wondering how soon Ferdias’ orders would come. He didn't see why they had just not been given him in that coded message. Yet codes had been broken before, and if Ferdias’ orders were a potentially explosive secret, he might not have wanted to risk that…

His mind was brought back to the immediate present by Vinson stopping. They had walked along the edge of one of the fields, an edge that was a tangle of encroaching saplings and briars.

"You have to keep fighting back stuff like this,” Vinson was saying. “First thing, I'll program an auto-dozer to clear off all this brush."

Some of the briars had dark berries on them, oddly faceted like the eye of an insect. Birrel asked what they were.

"Just wild blackberries. They're a pest — right now they're ripe, though.” And Vinson picked a handful and handed them to him.

The berries stained Birrel's band, but he found them sun warmed and pleasant-tasting, not sweet, but with a sharp tang.

"They're good,” he said. “Thanks."

Vinson stared. “For what? They're your blackberries."

His blackberries. His field, that Vinson led him across, talking of atomic-synthesized fertilizers and the necessities of draining. It made Birrel smile, a little. A star captain in the service of Lyra had a lot of use for an old farm on Earth.

But he continued to nod intelligently as Vinson led the way around the fields. The sun was hot now, swinging overhead in the blue sky. Great clouds sailed like majestic ships, and the warm air had a drowsy feeling to it and yet, at the same time, had a peculiar, tingling quality that seemed to touch something deep inside you with every breath you drew.

They circled around the edge of the fields and then went along the fringe of the woods. Birrel asked the names of the trees that were unfamiliar to him, and Vinson told him.

"Just scrub stuff, not good for much of anything,” he said. “Can't clear it away and farm it, for the creek backs up through here at high water."

He added, a little farther along, “This is where the line goes through — woods on this side are yours. That old path leads to a pretty good fishing-place on the creek."

It grew hotter, and Birrel mopped his brow, as they went on along the rustling, green fringe of woods. Birds flashed away in front of them, and once Vinson pointed up at a slowly circling speck in the blue sky and said that it was a hawk. They passed a small stream, a delightful thing with a series of tiny waterfalls and little curves of pebbly beach under miniature rock ledges covered with a feathery green growth that he learned were ferns.

Walking back across the fields toward the house, Vinson swept his arm this way and that to emphasize his points.

"All this should be turned over this fall and the sod left to rot down. In the spring I can really start getting it into shape."

That's fine, Birrel thought. But where will I be when my fields are in good shape again? And what will you and the rest of Orville be thinking of me? You may be out here sowing my fields with salt instead of tenderly caring for them.

Aloud he said, “That sounds good. Of course, I don't know the first thing about it."

"You'll learn,” Vinson said.

Birrel suddenly stopped as they approached the house. A car was pulling up in front of it. Then he saw a woman getting out of it. She was a tall, bony woman of middle age, who proceeded to help a very old woman out of the car.

"Oh, Lord,” said Vinson. “That's old Mrs. Sawyer. Good old soul, but she'll talk your leg off.” He added, with a grin, “I'm deserting, I've heard her too many times. See you later."

He strode off hastily in the direction of his own home. Birrel went forward a bit uncertainly, as Lyllin came out of the house. The old woman was now, in a shrill voice, superintending the removal from the car of what appeared to be a bundle of big, thick and clumsy-looking books.

The bony woman took the books to the porch and then smiled at Birrel and Lyllin and held out her hand.

"I'm Netta Sawyer,” she said. “Mother simply had to come and see you. I hope it's not an inconvenient time."

Birrel, noting her anxious look, assured her that it was not. The old woman came toward them, making a great show of fussing and tottering. She said, “You look like one of the Birrels. You've got the same ugly chin.” She turned and peered at Lyllin. “And you're his wife? I hope he doesn't beat you like Nicholas did."

"Mother—” began the younger woman unhappily, but was completely ignored.

"Nicholas?” said Birrel.

"Nicholas Birrel,” said the old woman. “They always said he beat his wife. I was only a child then, but I remember the talk. Why don't we go inside where a person can sit down?"

Birrel started to lead the way to the door, but was stopped by a sharp command from the old woman.

"Pick up those albums and bring them. Why do you think I came here?"

Birrel was wondering that, but resignedly picked up the bulky, old books. When they were seated in the living room, the daughter explained anxiously, “Mother has all the old, family pictures — your family — and thought you would like to see them."

"Why… that's very nice,” said Birrel. “Then it was your family, too, I take it?"

"Not mine. Not a drop of Birrel blood in me,” said the old woman, as though triumphantly refuting an accusation. “But Sawyer's mother was a Birrel, and I've always saved his old, family pictures, though I don't know why I did it. They were all a cross-grained lot."

She turned and said to Lyllin, with a sort of deeply sympathetic understanding, “I expect you've had your troubles with this one. I know what they're like, Sawyer took after his mother."

"It hasn't really been so bad,” Lyllin murmured, without a trace of a smile, but was ignored as the bright, old eyes turned back on Birrel.

"Yes, you've got that sulky, Birrel look. They all had it. Here, I'll show you."

She had disposed herself in the center of the sofa and she now proceeded to hold a small court there, turning the leaves of the old albums and uttering her sharp comments while Birrel and Lyllin sat uncomfortably on either side of her and stretched their necks to see. From the absolute seriousness of Lyllin's face, Birrel knew that she was rather enjoying his entrapment, and he steamed.

"Here's Nicholas,” said the old woman. “I don't remember him too well myself, but I don't doubt that he did beat his wife, as people said. Here's his father. Let's see, that was John Birrel — no, James—"

The commentary continued, and the time-yellowed photographs flipped past, entirely meaningless to Birrel until one name drew him out of his polite inattention.

"— Cleve Birrel, that went off to Sirius or somewhere. That would be your great-grandfather—"

Birrel was a little startled that the picture was of a young man, not an old one, though he realized that his surprise was quite illogical. In fact, the Cleve Birrel who had gone off to the stars had been a good bit younger than he himself was now. It was a good, young face. distinguished only by an eager quality in the eves.

"You look a good bit like him,” said Mrs. Sawyer, as though it was no compliment.

Birrel saw no resemblance, though he did not say so. But to his surprise, Lyllin agreed with the statement.

"Yes, there's something in the expression."

The old woman nodded satisfiedly. “Just what I said. The same ugly chin."

It was an hour later before she suddenly got to her feet and announced that she had no more time to give them and must go. Now all her tottering and fussing had disappeared and she went briskly out to the car, disdainfully refusing support from her daughter and Birrel.

"I'm leaving the albums with you, but only as a loan,” she said severely to Birrel. “I've saved those pictures a long time and I don't want them flying out to stars away off. Remember, now."

Birrel solemnly promised, and then shook his head as he and Lyllin watched the car go down the road.

"Fine,” he said. “Now we'll have all the people around here dropping in."

"I don't think so, Jay,” said Lyllin. “I got to know these people a little better while you were gone. I believe they'll respect your privacy, even though they're all tremendously grateful to you."

"They've nothing to be grateful to me for,” he said, almost roughly. “I was just obeying orders."

She looked at him, a little bit startled, but said nothing.

Her prediction was borne out, and that day passed without anyone else coming. Unreasonably, Birrel began to chafe at the sleepy silence of the place. In the afternoon he and Lyllin went for a walk, heading westward up the gentle slope of the wide, shallow valley.

They first went by the path Vinson had pointed out, through the woods to the creek. It was shallow in this summer season, a mere flat ribbon of water studded with big stones. Graceful drooping trees grew along it, their dependent branches trailing thin spear-shaped leaves almost to the water. Birrel remember what Vinson had called them.

"They're willow trees,” he said, and felt a touch of complacence in his knowledge. “Those bigger ones are elms — no, oaks."

They crossed the stream by jumping from stone to stone, and went on by another well-marked path, through more woods and then up a long, grassy slope. When they reached the ridge there was a breeze blowing, and they stood for a while looking out across the broad valley with its fat-looking fields and its old farmhouses half hidden in clumps of trees.

"That's the Bower farm,” said Lyllin, pointing. “I met them at the Vinsons’ while you were gone. And that white place north of it is the Hovik farm, and I think the Menzels live just beyond it."

Then she turned and laughed and said, “I think that pays you back for your willows and oaks."

Birrel laughed, too. They stood for a while longer, the wind ruffling Lyllin's hair. Then his restless impatience made Birrel move on again.

No one came the rest of that day, but that evening there was a call from Brescnik.

"We're getting the damage fixed pretty fast,” he reported, and gave details. He added, with a rasp in his voice, “But we're having plenty of personnel trouble. Over there, in New York, it's a night-long celebration every night."

"I expected that,” said Birrel. “Have Joe Garstang handle the problem."

Brescnik snorted. “Garstang? I had to dress him down myself this morning when he got back from the city."

Birrel grinned briefly. “Tell him to stop that sort of thing. Anything else?"

"Message from Vega that four S-Fifteen scouts from the Second squadron are on their way to help replace our losses,” Brescnik said. “The Second's scout and lightcruiser divisions were cruising well eastward, so those four should be here in a few days."

"Report as soon as they get in,” Birrel said, and switched off.

He stood, frowning and thinking. This would be it, these scouts Ferdias was sending. In one of those ships would be someone bearing the instructions that Ferdias did not want to risk in a communicator message. The scouts should arrive just before the commemoration, and then he would know where he stood and just what it was that he still had to do.

Birrel could not get to sleep that night. The dark house was silent, only the sound of a light breeze in the pines outside, and Lyllin's breathing was easy and relaxed, but he twitched and turned until he gave it up and quietly put on his clothes and went down the stairs. He bumped into the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, muttered a curse at it, and then put his shoes on. It seemed warm and stuffy in the lower rooms, so he went back through the kitchen and went out and sat down on the steps of the back porch.

The night was dark, no stars showing. The warm wind blew up from the west, from the direction of the woods and the creek, and it brought sounds and smells. The sounds were of far-off dogs gossiping, and the periodic hooting of some night bird, and the tiny, stridulating voices of insects. The smells were fragrant ones from the old flower bushes in the yard, mixed in with the heavier rankness of the bursting vegetation in the weedy fields and woods.

Birrel suddenly realized the highly seasonal nature of this planet. It was funny that he had not thought of it before — planets where the inclination of the axis from the ecliptic produced seasons, were not so common. He usually noticed and disliked seasonal planets, their sharp changes of climate being distasteful compared to the even weather of a normal world like Vega Four. He wondered why he hadn't thought about it here. Of course it was summer now, but the fantastic rapidity with which vegetation grew and matured was obvious. It must be strange, he thought, to live here in a place where presently all that bursting growth would wither and die and be covered by snows, and then, months later, he triumphantly reborn.

He turned suddenly as something brushed lightly against him. It was the cat. From somewhere Tom had appeared, stalking soundlessly across the porch and sitting down by Birrel's side, looking out into the whispering darkness with bright green eyes. He did not look up at the man, or paw him, or demand attention, Birrel noticed. He sat in a sort of cool, detached companionship, until one of the small sounds out in the night caught his interest. Then he rose and stalked down the steps and into the darkness, without a backward glance.

"Going hunting,” Birrel thought. “They stay wild, in a way, yet they live with people, too. Damned odd…"

He sat for a while, but he saw nothing more of the cat. After a time the endlessly-repeated, small noises against the quiet of the night soothed away his restlessness. He yawned, and then took off his shoes and went back up to bed.

For the next two days, nothing happened. Birrel and Lyllin rambled and explored the place, and sat nights on the porch, and all the time he was ticking off the interval required for a fast scout to get to Earth from an indeterminable point inside the frontiers of Lyra space.

The commemoration was near, and when he went back down to New York with Lyllin to check on how the damage-repair was coming, they found the city even more crowded now and blazing with decorations. People along the streets, who happened to glimpse his Lyran blue-and-silver uniform in the passing car, waved enthusiastically to him.

The wounded ships were almost repaired, Brescnik told him, and would be ready for the flyover.

"When will those four scouts from the Second get in?” asked Birrel.

"Should be in any time now,” said Brescnik. “We've had no word from them since the first report."

Then, Birrel thought, within a day or so at the most he would know what Ferdias intended.

It was late afternoon by the time they got back to the farmhouse, and, soon after they did so, there was a call from Vinson. He had plans for renovating Birrel's fields and buildings all drawn up — should he bring them over?

"I'll come over,” Birrel told him. “Right after dinner."

So later he left Lyllin tidying the kitchen and went out. He looked back at her for a moment, thinking how queer it was that somehow she did not seem at all strange or out of place in that old-fashioned room performing that ancient task.

He started across the ragged fields, but stopped after he had gone a little way and stood looking at the sky.

With the utter capriciousness that seemed to characterize all Earth's weather, the blue-and-gold day had suddenly changed into a garish, red sunset. The clouds, high in the eastern sky, still caught the dazzling sunlight. But, lower down, they shaded into pink and crimson and cinnabar, and, below these, there was a narrow band of clear sky which was pure lemon in color. Against that band of light the farther ridge of the shallow valley stood out, each distant tree or building-roof sharply silhouetted.

The light, washing across the fields in which he stood, changed by the minute. All the briars and weeds around him caught that glory, and put on a fantastic beauty. Far away, across the red western sky, two hawks quartered their way, planing and circling and effortlessly lifting. The soft, evening breeze murmured in his ear, as though trying to whisper secrets.

Birrel shook his head wonderingly. This place never seemed the same twice.

He started on toward Vinson's, and then he stopped. A voice was calling his name.

He turned around, and there was a man following him across the weedy field. The man did not come very fast, for there was a slight limp in his gait as he came across the uneven ground. Birrel stood stock-still for a moment. Then he went back to meet Ferdias.