Flandry departed with long strides.
By the time he had reached HQ and gone through the rigamarole of gaining admittance, fury had faded. In its place lay emptiness. He walked into the living room and stopped. Why go further? Why do anything?
Persis ran to him. She wore a golden gown and diamonds in her hair. “Oh, Nicky, Nicky!” She laid her head on his breast and sobbed.
He consoled her in a mechanical fashion. They hadn’t had many times together since he came back from the rogue. There had been too much work for him, in Ujanka on Ridenour’s behalf. And that had occupied him so greatly that he almost resented the occasions when he must return to Highport. She was brave and intelligent and fun, and twice she had stepped between him and catastrophe, but she did not face the end of her world. Nor was her own world the same as his: could never be.
They sat down on a divan. He had an arm around her waist, a cigaret in his free hand. She looked at the floor. “Will I see you on Terra?” she asked dully.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Not for some time anyway, I’m afraid. My orders have come through officially, I’m posted to the Intelligence academy for training, and Commander Abrams warns me they work the candidates hard.”
“You couldn’t transfer out again? I’m sure I could arrange an assignment—”
“A nice, cushy office job with regular hours? No, thanks, I’m not about to become anyone’s kept man.”
She stiffened as if he had struck her. “I’m sorry,” he floundered. “Didn’t mean that. It’s only, well, here’s a job I am fitted for, that serves a purpose. If I don’t take it, what meaning has life got?”
“I could answer that,” she said low, “but I guess you wouldn’t understand.”
He wondered what the devil to say.
Her lips brushed his cheek. “Go ahead, then,” she said. “Fly.”
“Uh … you’re not in trouble, Persis?”
“No, no. Mark’s a most civilized man. We might even stay together a while longer, on Terra. Not that that makes any big difference. No matter how censored, some account of my adventures is bound to circulate. I’ll be quite a novelty, quite in demand. Don’t worry about me. Dancers know how to land on their feet.”
A slight gladness stirred in him, largely because he was relieved of any obligation to fret about her. He kissed her farewell with a good imitation of warmth.
It was so good, in fact, that his loneliness returned redoubled once he was in the street again. He fled to Max Abrams.
The commander was in his office, straightening out details before leaving on the same transport that would bear Flandry home. From Terra, though, he would go on furlough to Dayan. His stocky frame leaned back as Flandry burst through the doorway. “Well, hello, hero,” he said. “What ails you?”
The ensign flung himself into a chair. “Why do we keep trying?” he cried. “What’s the use?”
“Hey-hey. You need a drink.” Abrarns took a bottle from a drawer and poured into two glasses. “Wouldn’t mind one myself. Hardly set foot on Starkad before they tell me I’m shipping out again.” He lifted his tumbler. “Shalom.”
Flandry’s hand shook. He drained his whisky at a gulp. It burned on the way down.
Abrams made a production of lighting a cigar. “All right, son,” he said. “Talk.”
“I’ve seen Hauksberg,” jerked from Flandry.
“Nu? Is he that hideous?”
“He … he … the bastard gets home free. Not a stain on his bloody damned escutcheon. He’ll probably pull a medal. And still he quacks about peace!”
“Whoa. He’s no villain. He merely suffers from a strong will to believe. Of course, his political career is bound up with the position he’s taken. He can’t afford to admit he was wrong. Not even to himself, I imagine. Wouldn’t be fair to destroy him, supposing we could. Nor expedient. Our side needs him.”
“Sir?”
“Think. Never mind what the public hears. Consider what they’ll hear on the Board. How they’ll regard him. How neatly he can be pressured if he should get a seat on it, which I hope he does. No blackmail, nothing so crude, especially when the truth can’t be told. But an eyebrow lifted at a strategic moment. A recollection, each time he opens his mouth, of what he nearly got us into last time around. Sure, he’ll be popular with the masses. He’ll have influence. So, fine. Better him than somebody else, with the same views, that hasn’t yet bungled. If you had any charity in you, young man—which no one does at your age—you’d feel sorry for Lord Hauksberg.”
“But … I … well—”
Abrams frowned into a cloud of smoke. “Also,” he said, “in the longer view, we need the pacifists as a counterweight to the armchair missileers. We can’t make peace, but we can’t make real war either. All we can do is hold the line. And man is not an especially patient animal by nature.”
“So the entire thing is for zero?” Flandry nigh screamed. “Only to keep what little we have?”
The grizzled head bent. “If the Lord God grants us that much,” Abrams said, “He is more merciful than He is just.”
“Starkad, though—Death, pain, ruin, and at last, the rotten status quo! What were we doing here?”
Abrams caught Flandry’s gaze and would not let go. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “We had to come. The fact that we did, however futile it looked, however distant and alien and no-business-of-ours these poor people seemed, gives me a little hope for my grandchildren. We were resisting the enemy, refusing to let any aggression whatsoever go unpunished, taking the chance he presented us to wear him down. And we were proving once more to him, to ourselves, to the universe, that we will not give up to him even the least of these. Oh, yes, we belonged here.”
Flandry swallowed and had no words.
“In this particular case,” Abrams went on, “because we came, we can save two whole thinking races and everything they might mean to the future. We’d no way of knowing that beforehand; but there we were when the time arrived. Suppose we hadn’t been? Suppose we’d said it didn’t matter what the enemy did in these marches. Would he have rescued the natives? I doubt it. Not unless there happened to be a political profit in it. He’s that kind of people.”
Abrams puffed harder. “You know,” he said, “ever since Akhnaton ruled in Egypt, probably since before then, a school of thought has held we ought to lay down our weapons and rely on love. That, if love doesn’t work, at least we’ll die guiltless. Usually even its opponents have said this is a noble idea. I say it stinks. I say it’s not just unrealistic, not just infantile, it’s evil. It denies we have any duty to act in this life. Because how can we, if we let go of our capability?
“No, son, we’re mortal—which is to say, we’re ignorant, stupid, and sinful—but those are only handicaps. Our pride is that nevertheless, now and then, we do our best. A few times we succeed. What more dare we ask for?”
Flandry remained silent.
Abrams chuckled and poured two fresh drinks. “End of lecture,” he said. “Let’s examine what’s waiting for you. I wouldn’t ordinarily say this to a fellow at your arrogant age, but since you need cheering up … well, I will say, once you hit your stride, Lord help the opposition!”
He talked for an hour longer. And Flandry left the office whistling.