Of course, Molitor’s people couldn’t refuse, because this is the first overt sign that Merseia will recognize him rather than some rival as our lord, and deal with his agents later on, about matters more real than this farce.
The intention is no surprise, when he’s obviously winning. The surprise was the form the feeler took—and Tachwyr’s note to me. Neither action felt quite Merseian.
Therefore I had to come.
“Let me guess,” Flandry said. “You know I’m close to his Majesty and act as an odd-job man of his. You and your team hope to sound out me and mine about him.”
Tachwyr nodded. “If he’s to be your new leader, stronger than the past several, we want to know what to expect.”
“You must have collected more bits of information on him than there are stars in the galaxy. And he’s not a complex man. And no individual can do more than throw a small extra vector or two in among the millions that whipsaw such a big and awkward thing as the Empire toward whatever destiny it’s got.”
“He can order actions which have a multiplier effect, for war or peace between our folk.”
“Oh, come off it, chum! No Merseian has a talent for pious wormwords. He only sounds silly when he tries. As far as you are concerned vis-a-vis us, diplomacy is a continuation of war by other means.” Flandry tossed off his drink and poured a refill.
“Many Terrans disagree,” Tachwyr said slowly.
“My species also has more talent than yours for wishful thinking,” Flandry admitted. He waved at the cold landscape. “Take this base itself. For two decades, through every clash and crisis, a beacon example of cooperation. Right?” He leered. “You know better. Oh, doubtless most of the scientists who come here are sincere enough in just wanting to study a remarkable xenological development. Doubtless they’re generally on good personal terms. But they’re subsidized—they have their nice safe demilitarization—for no reason except that both sides find it convenient to keep a place for secret rendezvous. Neutral domains like Betelgeuse are so public, and their owners tend to be so nosy.”
He patted the Merseian’s back. “Now let’s sit down to eat, and afterward serious drinking, like the cordial enemies we’ve always been,” he urged. “I don’t mind giving you anecdotes to pad out your report. Some of them may even be true.”
The heavy features flushed olive-green. “Do you imply our attempt—not at final disengagement, granted, but at practical measures of mutual benefit—do you imply it is either idiotic or else false?”
Flandry sighed. “You disappoint me, Tachwyr. I do believe you’ve grown stuffy in your middle age. Instead of continuing the charade, why not ring up your Chereionite and invite him to join us? I’ll bet he and I are acquainted too.”}
{The sun went down and night leaped forth in stars almost space-bright, crowding the dark, making the winter world glow as if it had a moon. “May I turn off the interior lights?” Aycharaych asked. “The outside is too glorious for them.”
Flandry agreed. The hawk profile across the table from him grew indistinct, save for great starlight-catching eyes. The voice sang and purred onward, soft as the cognac they shared, in Anglic whose accent sounded less foreign than archaic.
“I could wish your turban did not cover a mindscreen and powerpack, my friend. Not merely does the field make an ugliness through my nerves amidst this frozen serenity; I would fain be in true communion with you.” Aycharaych’s chuckle sounded wistful. “That can scarcely be, I realize, unless you join my cause.”
“Or you mine,” Flandry said.
“And each of your men who might know something I would like to learn is likewise screened against me. Does not that apparatus on their heads make sleep difficult? I warn you in any case, wear the things not overmany days at a stretch. Even for a race like yours, it is ill to keep the brain walled off from those energies which inspirit the universe, behind a screen of forces that themselves must roil your dreams.”
“I see no reason for us to stay.”
Aycharaych inhaled from his glass. He had not touched the liquor yet. “I would be happy for your company,” he said. “But I understand. The consciousness that dreary death will in a few more decades fold this brightly checkered game board whereon you leap and capture—that keeps you ever in haste.”
He leaned back, gazed out at a tree turned into a jewel by icicles, and was quiet awhile. Flandry reached for a cigarette, remembered the Chereionite disliked tobacco smoke, and soothed himself with a swallow.
“It may be the root of your greatness as a race,” Aycharaych mused. “Could a St. Matthew Passion have welled from an immortal Bach? Could a Rembrandt who knew naught of sorrow and had no need for steadfastness in it have brought those things alive by a few daubs of paint? Could a Tu Fu free of loss have been the poet of dead leaves flying amidst snow, cranes departing, or an old parrot shabby in its cage? What depth does the foreknowledge of doom give to your loves?”
He turned his head to face the man. His tone lightened: “Well. Now that poor mortified Tachwyr is gone—most mightily had he looked forward to the sauce which gloating would put on his dinner!—we can talk freely. How did you deduce the truth?”
“Part hunch,” Flandry confessed. “The more I thought about that message, the more suggestions of your style I found. Then logic took over. Plain to see, the Merseians had some ulterior motive in asking for a conference as nugatory per se as this. It could be just a signal to us, and an attempt at sounding out Molitor’s prospective regime a bit. But for those purposes it was clumsy and inadequate. And why go to such trouble to bring me here?
“Well, I’m not privy to high strategic secrets, but I’m close enough to him that I must have a fair amount of critical information—the kind which’ll be obsolete inside a year, but if used promptly could help Merseia keep our kettle longer on the boil, with that much more harm to us. And I have a freer hand than anybody else who’s so well briefed; I could certainly come if I chose. And an invitation from Tachwyr could be counted on to pique my curiosity, if nothing else.
“The whole idea was yours, wasn’t it?”
Aycharaych nodded, his crest a scimitar across the Milky Way. “Yes,” he said. “I already had business in these parts—negotiant perambulantem in tenebris, if you like—and saw nothing to lose in this attempt. At least I have won the pleasure of a few hours with you.”
“Thanks. Although—” Flandry sought words. “You know I put modesty in a class with virginity, both charming characteristics which should be gotten rid of as fast as puberty allows. However … why me, Aycharaych? Do you relish the fact I’ll kill you, regretfully but firmly, the instant a chance appears? In that respect, there are hundreds like me. True, I may be unusual in having come close, a time or two. And I can make more cultured noises than the average Navy man. But I’m no scholar, no esthete—a dilettante; you can do better than me.”
“Let us say I appreciate your total personality.” The smile, barely visible, resembled that upon the oldest stone gods of Greece. “I admire your exploits. And since we have interacted again and again, a bond has formed between us. Deny not that you sense it.”
“I don’t deny. You’re the only Chereionite I’ve ever met—” Flandry stopped.