Fire Time

TWENTY-ONE

Massive-walled, the room in the Tower of the Books was almost cool. Twinned sunlight slanted through windows curtained by strings of glass beads, to break in multitudinous hues on the stone floor. The same colors brightened the air, butterfly-like entomoids around Jerassa’s mane. The scholar stood at a table whereon he had unrolled a parchment from the full shelves which lined this chamber. His English was precise to the verge of pedantry; but no Ishtarian could help turning language into music:

“Here are diagrams of various muscle-powered vessels in use when humans arrived. They may still be found in some areas. The problem is, you see, my kind may be individually stronger than yours, but we are considerably larger, too. Fewer rowers, or crew-folk of any sort, can fit into a given hull. How best to apply available force?” He pointed. “This shows a supporting framework and system of sockets which enable forefeet as well as hands to work on an oar. And this shows a treadmill to drive paddle wheels or, in later models, a screw. But such devices are inefficient, and apt to break down when good steel is not present to withstand torque. The Valenneners and Fiery Sea islanders therefore combine fore-and-aft sails with ordinary oars, making a craft highly maneuverable though of limited displacement. We South Beronneners, as you may have noticed, favor large square-riggers. They have the drawback of sluggish response—for, in spite of arrangements like bosun’s chairs and ankle hooks, the crews cannot get about aloft as readily as you.

“Since your emissaries have taught us improved metallurgy, designers have been experimenting with propellers turned by windmills. In due course, naturally, we hope to build engines, but as yet the industrial base for that is absent and now, given periastron, we will scarcely establish any for centuries.”

He did not add. We could, if Primavera were again five to help us survive. There was no hint of reproach in the rich, sober voice. But Dejerine, standing beside him, winced.

“Those are exquisite just as drawings,” the human managed to say, quite truthfully. “And the… the brains, the determination, to accomplish this much when Anu forever returns—”

All at once it must out. “Why have you received me?” he asked. “Why do your people keep on being friendly to my men, when their own breed in town won’t speak to them?”

Jerassa’s eyes, which were golden, met his in calmness. “What would we accomplish by a freezeout of lonely youngsters, save to fence ourselves off from the many interesting things they can tell? Most of us are aware they had no choice about their purpose here. The Primaveran community hopes to exert influence on your ultimate leaders, through you, by withholding the skills—and the kinship—you need. We possess neither.”

Dejerine swallowed. “You’ve certainly won our sympathy,” he admitted. “For your plight; for the marvels we’d lose if your civilization dies.” And I too am brought to wonder about the war in space. Is it worth the cost and agony? Is it winnable ever? Is… it… even… any proper business of Earth’s? “But we have our duty.”

“I belong to a legion,” Jerassa reminded him.

The Ishtarian was about to resume his discussion of Sehala’s prediscovery scientific and technological status, when Dejerine’s com buzzed. He hauled the flat case from his tunic pocket, pressed accept, and barked into it: “Yes? What now?”

“Lieutenant Majewski here, sir,” the Spanish came, tinny by contrast. “Police Intelligence. I’m sorry to disturb you on your day off, but this is urgent.”

“Ah, yes, you’re assigned to keeping track of our good local citizens. Proceed.” Unease went along Dejerine’s backbone.

“You’ll recall, sir, they had accumulated a large stock of explosives for their projects. We left it in the storehouse under seal. After friction got bad, I decided to install a radio alarm, unbeknownst to them, and did under guise of re-checking the inventory. Shortly before dawn today, it rang. Unfortunately, we had nobody near town—well, the burglars would have made sure of that. By the time I could Hit there with a squad from base, the job was done. Very professionally. The seal showed no visible sign of tampering. The interior looked so usual, too, that we had to count practically every object to find that ten cases of tordenite and fifty blasting cells were gone.”

Dejerine whistled.

“Yes, high-powered technicians were at work,” Majewski continued. “As for the reason why nobody was stationed in town—they’d have received the alarm signal as soon as my office did. But Mayor Hanshaw had asked them to help search for a flyer that had called to say a storm was forcing it down in the Stony Mountains. Well, sir, your orders are to grant any reasonable request. They all four went. A wild goose chase, I suspect but can’t prove.”

“This is crazy!” Dejerine protested. “Hanshaw wouldn’t get involved with saboteurs… Does he know you know about the burglary?”

“He asked why we were back in the storehouse. I thought I’d better consult you, and gave him a vague story about possibly unsafe conditions having been reported. He raised his eyebrows but made no comment.”

“Good man, Majewski. I’ll see this gets into your career file. Pro tempore, you and your group stay in quarters and answer no questions. I’m on my way.”

Dejerine clicked off, mumbled an apology to Jerassa, and hastened out. Unseasonably, the day sweltered. Thunderheads towered black in the west. Light elsewhere seemed a still angrier red than before. He was glad to enter his vehicle and lift it.

On the short hop to Primavera, he called Hanshaw. It was a relief to find the mayor at home. No matter how unlikely, apocalyptic visions had jittered in the Earthman’s brain. “Dejerine here. I must see you at once.”

“Ye-es, Captain, I was sort of expecting you. Best we keep talk between the two of us, huh?”

Dejerine parked outside the house. Two passersby stared through him. He clattered into its shaded shelter. Stiff-faced, Olga Hanshaw brought him into the living room and closed that door as she departed. Her husband’s big-bellied form occupied an armchair near a recorder. He didn’t rise, but he lifted a hand and smiled slightly around a cigar. “Hello,” he said. “Squat yourself.”

Dejerine gave him a soft salute and tensed down into a seat opposite. In English: “I’ve just gotten terrible news.”

“Well?”

“Sir, please allow me to be blunt. This is too serious for pussyfooting. Stolen high explosives, and reason to believe you may have connived at the theft.”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing. The stuff belongs to us.”

“Then you admit guilt?”

“Wouldn’t call it guilt either.”

“That material was sequestered for Navy use. Sir, in spite of our disagreements, I never imagined you might get involved in treason.”

“Aw, come on.” Hanshaw let out a blue reek of smoke. “I do admit I’d hoped we could operate on the QT. You had the place gimmicked, hey? But relax. We’re not giving aid and comfort to enemies of Earth. And you’ll never miss that smidgin we, uh, re-appropriated.”

“Where is it?”

“Off in the boondocks, along with a few technics and their apparatus. I can’t tell you where; didn’t want to know, in case you interrogated me. You’ve no way of arresting them till they’ve completed their mission. And—Yuri, I foresee your grabbing any excuse you can, to let them off the hook.”

“Tell me.” Dejerine clamped fists together on knees.

“I think we should play back a conversation of mine a couple of days ago.” Beneath Hanshaw’s easy drawl dwelt bleakness. “I always record such things. You recall the situation in Valennen? Jill Conway and Ian Sparling-prisoners in the outback, and Port Rua under near-as-damn continuous storm by what looks like every brave in the continent.”

A twisting went through Dejerine. Jill—“Yes,” he said.

“When Ian went there, he smuggled in a microcom, and brought relays for the soldiers to distribute which’d connect him to Port Rua. And therefore to us, if occasion demanded.”

“You never told me!” Dejerine exclaimed. He felt sick with hurt.

“Well, you’re a busy man,” Hanshaw grunted.

Dejerine thought of streets where he walked like a ghost, and work in the desert slowed to a crawl, and the hours he spent composing reports euphemistic enough to stay the Federation’s hand from Primavera for at least a while. “Didn’t you think I’d be interested? Why, those two—they may have turned from me, but I am still their friend—”

Again Jill rode over the valley, the long hair aflow in her speed; again she jested and discoursed and showed him wonders which her eagerness about them turned into miracles; again she fed him in the amiable clutter of her home, and played and sang to him under the high stars of her planet. Again she came back when he lay sleepless, alone at night. Again he swore wearily at himself for being an adolescent inside, then claimed he wasn’t really infatuated—attracted, as any normal man would be, but no more than a brief acquaintance would cause—besides, one should allow for a loneliness that other encounters, in bed and out, had never filled since Eleanor left.

Dejerine stiffened in a lift of anger. “If you are quite through punishing me,” he said, “you can turn on that recording.”

“Touche,” Hanshaw conceded. His expression turned warmer. “Understand, because of limited battery they hadn’t contacted us directly before. Through Port Rua we heard they were in good health and spirits, well treated, on a sort of estate in the western uplands. I did pass on word about the strike, since that might conceivably affect their plans or actions. Then day before yesterday I got a call straight from them.”

His finger poised near the on switch. “In case you’d like to visualize,” he said, “we know that general area from air and orbit pictures, plus Ishtarian accounts. The hills and the mountains behind them are rather beautiful in an austere fashion. The woods are mostly low and gnarly, not much underbrush, red and yellow leaves partly shading off a cloudless sky. But in places you get T-vegetation, blue foliage; a couple kinds like the phoenix are impressive. It’s hot there, kiln-hot and dry. With less wildlife than hereabouts and little running water, it’s pretty silent. Jill and Ian hiked well beyond sight and earshot of their keepers, two of them alone in that singed and dying forest.”

“Thank you,” Dejerine nodded. “I do visualize” her withy-slim among crooked dwarf trees, sunlight flaring off her silver fillet and sheening copper along her hair, brilliant eyes and gallant smile… beside her a man who has long been her single companion… Assez.’ Arretons, imbecile!

Her tone shocked him, not the clear huskiness he knew but rough and uneven. “Hello, that you, God? Jill Conway and Ian Sparling here, calling from Valennen.”

“Huh?” gusted Hanshaw’s reply. “Yes, yes. it’s me. Is anything wrong, girl?”

JILL: Everything is—

SPARLING: We’re in no present danger personally.

HANSHAW: Where are you? What’s happened?

SPARLING: Oh, the same place under the same conditions. We figured the chances were you’d be home at this hour. But are you private?

HANSHAW: No, I’m public. However, if you mean am I alone and can I keep it that way, the answer is yes.

JILL (not chuckling at his feeble joke): How about monitors? We won’t want this conversation overheard.

HANSHAW: Safe, if you refer to the Navy. It doesn’t listen in on transplanet sendings, probably not local ones either, so much talk being in Sehalan. I have Joe Seligman bring his kit around irregularly and check my house for taps or bugs, but he never finds any. Captain Dejerine’s a gentleman at heart. And he must know I’m not conspiring,

JILL: You will be.

HANSHAW: What?

JILL; If I know you. After you’ve heard.

HANSHAW: Okay, let’s get to the point. What’s happened?

JILL: Larreka… is… dead. Killed. He—

HANSHAW; Oh, no-o. When? How?

SPARLING: (and a few fought-against sobs in the background): You’d have heard when the legion made its next report to the Mother Base. But we, being anxious because of the combat there, checked with Port Rua this morning. He fell last night, leading a sally. The maneuver worked, but he took an arrow between his helmet bars and—Well. the garrison’s hanging on; but I doubt they can last as long as they would have with him in charge.

HANSHAW: Poor Meroa…

JILL. Let her get the news f-f-trom the Zera’s post in Sehala when it learns… as a soldier’s wife deserves.

HANSHAW: Sure.

JILL: This tears it. We’d already sworn we’d find a way to get help to him. Now—he is not going to have died for nothing!

HANSHAW: What can be done?

SPARLING: We’ve given that a lot of thought. But suppose you describe matters where you are.

HANSHAW: Not promising. I’m afraid. The Navy sits tight on everything useful. I scarcely think a few civilian passenger flyers buzzing the barbarians will stampede them, do you? They’ll have seen occasional overflights before, and heard about us. Firearms haven’t fazed them, have they?

SPARLING: You can’t persuade Dejerine to release real weapons, or look the other way while you do? After all, it involves rescuing us. I’ve got our location pinpointed on the map, and a grid to identify landmarks. A pilot couldn’t miss who came to get us. You said our captivity, Jill’s in particular, was a cause of the general strike. Well, won’t Dejerine hope, maybe with reason, if we’re freed, the strike will end?

HANSHAW: I, uh, I don’t believe it would. Emotions here are mighty powerful under the quiet surface. Sure, we’ll send a flyer after you. But as for Dejerine letting us use equipment or even risk Primavera men to save a part of civilization that wouldn’t be in those dire straits if it weren’t for his mission, his war— Children, I can foresee that kind of affair leading to secession, like Eleutheria’s and New Europe’s except that Primavera would join the Gathering. And next I can see Earth either losing us or having to send occupation troops it can ill afford, and Dejerine ruined for his “mismanagement.” And I can foresee him forseeing exactly the same.

No, speaking as our resident politician, I can tell you that things are superficially tranquil because we don’t have such an involvement, such a commitment to the Zera Victrix. We’re distressed at the pass it’s in, maybe more distressed than we know; but it was the Gathering, not us, that chose to abandon it when it declined to come home. Let us join it in battle—Well, I said feelings are frighteningly strong, however tight-held. It’ll be very hard for you, Jill, not to stay a flaming symbol when you return—twice bereaved now by this accursed war. since everybody knows how close you were to Larreka— Yeah, I beg you to resist the temptation. The last thing we need is a blowup.

JILL: Twice bereaved?

HANSHAW: What’d I say? Slip of the tongue. Let’s not waste breath, let’s discuss the wherefores of recovering you. Why didn’t you get in touch immediately after you completed your survey, Ian?

JILL: Wait a minute.

HANSHAW: Uh—

JILL: Wait a bloody minute. You said, when you called before, my capture helped bring on the strike. But I’d been captured many days earlier. You were glossing something over, God. What happened next?

SPARLING; Jill, you wait. We’ll get briefed when we get back.

JILL: God, what are you hiding?

HANSHAW: Ian’s right, girl. Wait.

Silence.

JILL (a dead voice): It was Don, wasn’t it? News about my brother.

Silence.

HANSHAW: Yes. He was killed in action.

Silence.

SPARLING: Jill, darling, laren—

JILL: Odd. I feel just numb-

SPARLING: You’ve been hurt to the heart already.

JILL: How’s the family bearing up?

HANSHAW: Strongly. All you Conways are that sort. But me and my big flapping mouth—Jill, I’m, I’m sorry—

JILL: No, you did right. I’d want to know… Ian, can I sit down on this log and hold your hand, and you discuss the rest?

SPARLING: Of course. I love you.

Silence.

SPARLING: Hello, God? Excuse, please. A shock to me, too.

HANSHAW: Everybody liked Don, and nobody liked the war. His death triggered the resistance.

SPARLING: (with slight difficulty): This doubles the reason for relieving Port Rua. A memorial— But see here. We’ve another reason yet. One that changes everything, Our way, we think, our way to force help out of somebody. In these parts and northward is intelligent T-life.

HANSHAW: Huh?

SPARLING: Yes. The weirdest tittle beings. Judas! I’d guess the study of their psychology alone could bring on a revolution in that field.

HANSHAW: Are you sure they’re sophonts?

SPARLING: We’ve met a few. Seen them handle artifacts. Exchanged signs, if not words. Arnanak, the barbarian king, had contacted them, traveled way into their country and—He’s using them to reinforce his power; the Valenneners think they’re supernatural. In reality, he’s made a deal. They’ll share in the booty of better lands when he’s finished his conquests. But here’s the peak of it all. They’re few and primitive, these dauri, as he calls them… but they know where an ancient Tammuzian ruin is. What it was like originally, what it’s like after a billion years, I have no idea. However, Arnanak brought home an object, a portable star display is my guess, that time hasn’t touched. Mull that over a while!

HANSHAW: Whe-ew-w-w…

SPARLING: Obviously we humans can offer the dauri a lot more than he can, and learn about them and—(Oh, Jill, Jill)—but only if we can function effectively here on Ishtar. Which requires we have the Gathering to help us—which requires we save it—and with the dauri living in Valennen, Port Rua is the place to start.

Silence.

HANSHAW: M-m-m, yes, I agree. At a bare minimum, if we knack the barbarian organization, keep the outpost, yes, then the Gathering should be able to mount guard on the north; and there won’t be that awful pressure on the south… Yes. But how, Ian?

SPARLING: Would it be possible for the flyer, no, the flyers that fetch us to carry homemade bombs? Apparently the enemy makes massed charges, trying to reach the walls and break through by sheer weight of numbers. Bombs dropped into the brown of them—I hate the idea, but consider the alternative.

HANSHAW: Are you sure it’d work?

SPARLING: No. But we haven’t thought of anything better to try.

HANSHAW; Uh-huh. Well, let me see. Our explosives are locked away these days, but—m-m-m— Well, I’ll have to ponder as you suggest, and consult a few reliable men, and— You can wait some days, can’t you?

SPARLING: Yes, we assumed we’d have to-

HANSHAW: We’ll keep in touch. How about I call you daily at—shall we say noon?

SPARLING: That sounds reasonable.

HANSHAW: Starting tomorrow, then.

SPARLING: Now we’d better sign off.

HANSHAW: Until tomorrow. Jill, I’m so unspeakably sorry.

JILL: That’s all right, God. Let’s… go on… and salvage what they both lived for.

Click.

Half a minute passed before Hanshaw added slowly to Dejerine: “What all Primavera lives for. You try to suppress aid in the teeth of this news, and you probably will touch off a revolt.”

Dejerine nodded. He felt stunned and drained.

“The single thing you need do,” Hanshaw said, “is not react vigorously to the storehouse incident. Explain in your report that you’re holding off action while you investigate. GHQ will agree that’s a sound policy, I’m sure. We figure we can send off all our expedition in maybe five days. Afterward we’ll face the music.”

The resolution did not burst upon Dejerine. It appeared to his awareness like something which had been there for a time, in embryo for a much longer time, and its strength lent a great calm.

“No,” he said. “Delay is not necessary.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will go, in a naval aircraft. Far more effective, not to mention safer for—for her, in case of sudden bad weather. Tomorrow at noon when you call, I will be here to make arrangements.”

“But ‘effective’? You say you can’t get into this fight.”

“I can carry out a rescue, with part of my aim the improvement of the Navy’s public relations. There is no need for Miss Conway or Mr. Sparling to be present when your bombers strike, is there?”

Hanshaw regarded Dejerine closely before he asked, “You’ll go yourself, solo?”

“Yes. To preserve discretion.”

“I see.” The mayor rolled to his feet and thrust out his hand. “Okay, Yuri! How about a beer?”