Battle for the Stars

CHAPTER 7

Far ahead, looking rather lonely in the midst of a great emptiness, shone a small yellow star. Birrel studied it. How should he feel about it now that they had reached it? Like a child seeing its father for the first time, or like a man returning to an ancient hearth? He could feet nothing of that. This was only another star.

He said, “Begin the deceleration schedule."

By the time the Fifth was cruising at normal approach velocity, the yellow sun was close enough so that they could study its planets. They were a barren lot mostly, only the third one was E-type. Venner said that and then he looked up startled from his instrument, as though he had only just remembered where the name “E-type” had originated. Messages now started crackling in, first formal greetings, then approval of landing-patterns. The Fifth smoothly shifted formation and went into the pattern.

Garstang touched Birrel's arm and pointed, to where far off a little gray-green planet with a stony satellite rushed to meet them.

"Earth."

The squadron sped toward it, the cruisers and supply ships and transports, the men and women and children, strangers from the far reaches of the galaxy. And yet not quite strangers either, for the names that had come from this world were still among them, and the traditions, and in many of them the blood.

A quiet had settled on the bridge. Birrel supposed it was the same with the whole squadron, everybody staring and thinking his or her own thoughts. He wondered what Lyllin was thinking, and wished that she were here with him instead of back there in one of the transports.

Earth came closer. He could see clouds, and the white splash of a polar cap. Closer still, and there were seas, and the outlines of continents. Colors began to show more clearly, and the land became ridged with mountain chains. Great lakes took form, and dark green areas of forest, and winding rivers. A nice world. A pretty world. Birrel eyed it sourly. Its other name was trouble.

"Why did Ferdias have to pick us for this job?"

Unconsciously he had spoken aloud, or loud enough for Garstang to hear. “It's only for a visit,” said Garstang. “Just a celebration. What's wrong with that?” His tone was mild, without mockery.

But Birrel looked at him sharply. He knew that Garstang and Brescnik and all his other officers and men must have been talking and wondering. Wondering why the Fifth had been pulled out of its needful place and sent so far for this rather meaningless celebration.

They came down past the shoreline of a blue-green ocean, past a big, odd-looking city that sprawled over islands and peninsulas and up an inland river valley, and then beneath them was a large spaceport. The squadron roared in to its appointed landing, bristling on its best behavior, every ship set down with masterly precision, and there was a great crowd assembled there to meet it. Flags whipped in the wind. A band blared out, playing not modem instruments, but old-style ones, a brassy music with a solemn throb of drums beneath it that was immensely stirring.

The men of the Fifth debarked and formed in order, every boot polished and every coverall immaculate, solid lines of blue and silver glittering in the soft blaze of this golden sun. Birrel felt the heat of it on his face. His heels struck solidly on the tarmac, and the wind touched him, balmily, laden with smells that were strange to him. And he thought, “This is Earth.” He looked around at it.

He could see only the spaceport, and despite its size that was old and worn and poor. The tarmac was cracked and blackened, the rows of ancient shops and hangars all weathered. Opposite the Fifth were drawn up two dozen cruisers with the old insignia of the UW fleet on their bows, and with their crews standing at attention in front of them. Those old, small ships — why, they were Class Fourteens, obsolete for years! He supposed they were all that the UW had.

Two men walked toward him. One was a middle-aged civilian, the other an arrow-straight, elderly man in a black coverall that also bore the UW insignia. He stiffly returned Birrel's salute.

"Nice landing, Commander,” he said. “I'm First Admiral Laney, and I welcome your squadron back."

Incredulously, Birrel realized that the old admiral was keeping up the pretense that the squadron from Lyra was still a part of the UW fleet.

It was so preposterous that it was funny. Not for a century had the UW fleet had any real authority in the outer galaxy. Its staff never sent any orders out to the squadrons of the five Sectors, and more than the UW council dared send orders to the five governors. Yet this old Earth officer was trying hard, in front of the crowd, to act as though he were really Birrel's superior officer. Then, seeing the faintly desperate look in Laney's eyes, Birrel softened. After all, what difference did it make — it was only a pretense and he felt sorry for the old chap trying to play this part.

He saluted again and said, “Fifth Lyra Squadron, Birrel commanding, reporting, sir!"

A look of grateful relief crossed Laney's face. He said uncertainly, “At ease, Commander. Let me present you to Mr. John Charteris, chairman of the council of the United Worlds."

Charteris was a gray, quiet, faintly anxious-looking man. He shook hands warmly, but his eyes were reserved, measuring. He began a little speech directed at the telecameras nearby. “We welcome back one of the gallant squadrons of the galactic fleet to take part in our commemoration of…"

When the speeches and handshaking and bandplaying were over, Birrel gave an order, and his men broke ranks.

Brescnik came up to him and asked, “Shall we debark our people now?"

The old admiral told Birrel, “Quarters are all ready for them near the port."

Charteris added, “But you and your wife, Commander, must be my guests.” And as another man joined them, “This is my secretary, Ross Mallinson."

Mallinson was a tall and elegant young man of a type that Birrel did not like, the smooth diplomat type who always made him feel uncouth. Despite his smiling manner, Birrel got the feeling that he was tough and unfriendly.

Charteris had a car and driver waiting, and they drove back between the lines of lofty, looming ships. The women and children and babies of the men of the Fifth started coming out of the transports, and Earth officers began deftly shuttling them into cars to take them to their quarters. From beyond a fence, the big crowd of Earth folk spectators watched interestedly. And of a sudden, for the first time his men's families seemed a little outlandish to Birrel. The women and children were of so many star-peoples, so many shades of skin, so many different ways of speech and dress. He thought he detected a supercilious amusement in Mallinson's conventional smile, and he resented it.

At the transport he excused himself and went in to Lyllin's cabin. He stopped short when he saw her. He had never seen her like this. She wore an Earthstyle dress of impeccable lines, was perfect in a smart, sophisticated way. She still did not look like an Earthwoman, not with that skin and eyes and hair. But she looked stunning, and he said so.

"I'm glad I look civilized enough for your people,” Lyllin said sweetly.

"My people?” Birrel drew back stiffly. “So you're still brooding on that foolishness? That's fine. I'm not in a tough enough spot here, my wife has to get super-sensitive and make it tougher."

Lyllin's expression changed. “What kind of spot?” He was silent. She looked at him steadily, her eyes searching his face. “It's something dangerous, isn't it?"

"I'd have told you about it if it were something I could tell you,” he said. “You know that. Will you forget it? And forget about these people being my people!"

He went out with her and Lyllin went through the introductions, cool and proud. He saw admiration in Mallinson's eyes, but that did not make Birrel like the tall, young diplomat any better. Then he stepped aside from the group as Brescnik came up for orders.

"Two-day leaves for one-third of the personnel, in rotation,” Birrel said. “I want duty kept up."

Brescnik looked surprised, “If you say so. But there'll be some grumbling."

"Let them grumble. Check out any necessary refitting right away. Port facilities here can take care of that."

Brescnik grunted. “I've seen better facilities on fifth grade planets. Plenty old! But we'll make out."

Charteris’ car swept them along a broad highway toward the east, the chairman explaining to Birrel that in this congested region cars were favored over flitters. While Mallinson chatted brightly with Lyllin, Charteris kept up a pleasant and wholly perfunctory conversation that gave Birrel little chance to look closely at the passing landscape.

In these flying glimpses, Earth did not look too strange or different. It was a green world, but lots of E-type worlds were that, and many of them had blue skies and fleecy, white clouds like this one. The sun, setting now behind them, seemed changing its light from soft gold to reddish and the long rays struck across tracts of conventional plastic-and-metal houses such as one might see on any modern world. Then as they went on farther, Birrel sat up straight and stared ahead. In the blaze of sunset light there rose the most surprising city he had ever seen.

It was overpowering and at the same time ridiculous.

Its starkly vertical towers were unbelievably lofty. No one built in this huddled perpendicular fashion on any world he had ever visited. But he knew this city was old and he supposed that the outmoded style of building of centuries before had just kept going by momentum. After all, they could not suddenly tear the whole place down and start again from scratch. Nevertheless, when they were actually in the streets Birrel found himself oppressed by the overhanging loom of these grotesque structures.

But Charteris’ big terrace apartment, high about the myriad lights that were coming out with twilight, was pleasant. The chairman, still talking polite formalities, showed him the great UW building that towered up a mile southward of them.

"It stands on the site once occupied by the United Nations,” said Chiarteris. “It was a great day when the United Worlds building replaced that, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. People had achieved a peaceful Earth, now they would achieve a peaceful universe."

Birrel glanced at the chairman sharply, but could detect no irony in his voice or in his quiet face.

There was a formal dinner that night presided over by Charteris’ wife, who looked like a slightly weary but game veteran of many such dinners. There were roasts, and speeches, and much talk about the commemoration. Sector politics were unobtrusively avoided although there were two officials from Cepheus Sector and one from Leo, looking warily at him, but talking courteous nothings.

Birrel fretted through it all. What was Solleremos doing while they sat babbling here? Were his two crack squadrons still poised out there? Ferdias had promised he would get warning if they moved, but would that warning come in time?

Later, when the guests had gone and Lyllin had retired, Birrel sat on the terrace with Charteris and Mallinson and had a final drink. He looked at the reticulations of lights hung loftily against the sky and thought that this was as strange a vista as he had ever seen. From away to the west there was a roll of thunder, ripping across the sky and suddenly ending, as a starship came into the port. He was thinking that it was a medium-class merchant by the sound, when he became aware that Charteris was asking him a question.

"Is Orion Sector going to send a squadron for the commemoration, too, or only a token delegation?"

Alarm rang a bell in Birrel's mind. What was behind the question? Had Charteris heard something that he had not heard, or was he just fishing for information?

He answered casually, “Why, I don't know. But surely they'd notify you of their plans."

Charteris continued to eye him, and now Birrel sensed the steely, determined man inside that quiet, gray exterior. But it was Mallinson who spoke up smoothly.

"We sent an invitation to Governor Solleremos for Orion to take part, of course,” he said. “It was accepted, but we haven't yet heard what sort of delegation is coming to represent them."

Birrel thought swiftly. They're lying, they have beard something-and they're trying to find out if I've heard it too. But what? Was Orion already moving, were Orionid forces coming to Earth on the excuse of the celebration, just as the Fifth Lyra had done?

He would get no information from Charteris or Mallinson. It was now apparent that they and probably other high officials of the UW, of Earth, were suspicions of both Lyra and Orion. And, in spite of bringing along the transports, the coming of the whole Lyra Fifth squadron had sharpened their suspicions. Birrel, desperately afraid of making a blunder, felt himself sweating. It was true what he had told Ferdias, he was no good at this kind of intrigue, and unless he made contact soon with Karsh and got a briefing, he could easily turn suspicion into open hostility.