Ram’s eyes were withdrawn. “What do the Northmen plan to do about the City?” he asked.
“I asked him about that. He said they won’t attack it in force or besiege it, but they’re rounding up the rest of the orc cattle. They also intend to burn the wheat fields when the grain is ripe; he believes they can starve the orcs out. And from a couple of things he said, some raid leaders will probably try to make names for themselves by raiding into the City at night, independently.”
“Do you still like the Northmen?”
She did not hesitate. “Yes I do, Ram. They’re friendly honest people, even if they are bloodthirsty and ruthless toward their enemies. I know you’re feeling a kind of sympathy for the orcs, but compare the way they treated their hostages with how the Northmen treated me. And consider what the orcs would have done if they’d broken the Northman army.”
Ram shook his head without irritation. “It’s not a matter of feeling sorry for the orcs,” he said quietly. “But each orc is a human being, with one life that’s his, and with feelings. And there’s the matter of feeling joy in killing, like the Northmen obviously do; that’s something I find depraved. From the skimpy picture I’ve got, partly from you and Charles but partly from Ilse too, an important part of their culture is a set of rules that allows them to enjoy killing their fellow Northmen without destroying their society or suffering from guilt.”
“Making a game out of war was an improvement,” Nikko answered mildly. “According to tradition, they used to fight each other really ferociously and ruthlessly, tribe against tribe and clan against clan, and really threatened to destroy themselves. Making it a game was progress, not degeneracy.”
“They didn’t go far enough,” Ram said dryly. “They should have written off war altogether. And that’s no game they’re playing with the orcs.” He stopped Nikko’s response with a gesture. “Okay, I admit that last wasn’t fair; it’d be suicide to play games with the orcs. Did they say when they’ll be done with Alpha?”
“Sten talked to the chiefs about that. They say we can have it back when they’ve taken the city.”
“Taken the city! Good Lord! That could be months from now!”
Nikko shrugged silently.
“And no assurance we’ll get it back then.”
“I think we have some assurance,” Willi put in. “They’ve been pretty honest with us so far. Slippery maybe, but they’ve kept their word. They gave us back all their hostages when you gave them most of our munitions.”
Ram grunted, then turning to Nikko he changed the subject. “Do you have all your tapes transferred to the computer?”
“All but today’s.”
“Good. Matt wants a full session sometime soon, and a full team review of everything that’s happened. I want you to start working with Monica tomorrow on a subject retrieval program.”
“If I’m doing that, then who’ll be in charge of the landing team?”
“I’m going down tomorrow,” Ram answered.
“You’re not qualified to be in charge,” Nikko said.
“I’m going alone.”
There was a moment’s lag. “Alone?”
He stood, nodding, and turned away from them, walking toward the door. “Alone,” he said.
Wordless, they watched him leave. He went to his little office and sat back to think about the day to come.
Sight of a pinnace no longer excited the children, for this was the village of Sten Vannaren, who often landed there. But when the hull went two-way transparent, they stopped to watch, for it held a star man instead of warriors. It settled to the ground, the hydraulic leg-cushions sighed, and the dominant boy of the group trotted off through the morning-wet grass to tell Nils Jarnhann.
The Yngling sat cross-legged in the sun outside his tent. It made the boy uncomfortable to have the blind sockets turn toward him as he trotted up, as if there still were eyes in them. All the orcs should die for that, he told himself.
“Nils,” he said, “a star man has come in a sky boat.”
Nils smiled and rose with easy strength, and the boy moved to take his arm.
“No, I can see.”
“Really?” He’d heard what the Yngling seemed to do, but it had not been real to him.
“Really. I wouldn’t tease about something like that.” He started toward the landing place, the boy hurrying beside him.
Ram sat in the pinnace door, his feet on a step, looking solemnly at the other children, who had come to the foot of the landing steps and were looking back at him. He had spoken to them in Anglic, and they to him in their language, a reflex of the desire to communicate. Neither expected to be understood. A long pause followed each exchange, then either the man or one of the children would speak again.
“This must be a good place to be a child,” Ram said. “For two cents I’d take my shoes off and join you.”
“Har Du vat a sjutit ijal orker?”
Pause.
“I’m sorry I can’t understand you. I’d like to be your friend though.”
The smallest child touched the ladder, then turned to the one who’d done the talking. “Tror Du a vi fa fuga pa sjybaten?”
To get a ride in the sky boat! The twelve-year-old eyes turned thoughtful; it hadn’t occurred to him. But how to ask?
A heavy shout crossed the meadow, and the children looked across toward a standing warrior figure, then abruptly toward the grove of aspens at which he pointed. A man sat on horseback there, wearing black mail and a plumed helmet. Suddenly the horseman spurred his mount toward the pinnace.
The shout had chilled Ram and he stood, peering toward its source, recognizing the pointing giant despite the hundred-meter separation. The children were scattering like quail.
The shout repeated. “ORC!”
He turned then, saw, and sprang toward the instrument panel to activate the shield, changing intention in mid-stride.
The children!.
He snatched a rifle from the rack without taking time to check the magazine, leaped from the door, stumbling as he landed, spun, thumbing the safety, and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked slightly as 5-millimeter H.V. slugs spurted. The horse plunged heavily and skidded, hurling the orc from the saddle less than twenty meters from the star man. Staggering to his feet, he drew his sword, and Ram squeezed his trigger again.
Then he turned away and vomited.
“Han spyr! Sjaanmannen spyr!” said one of the children [He is vomiting! The star man is vomiting!]
“Jaha,” said the twelve-year-old knowingly, “da san sjaanfaken visa haten mot orkena.” [That’s how the star people show their hatred of the orcs.]
Ram rinsed his mouth while waiting for Nils Jarnhann, spitting the water into the grass. His hands were shaking and he shoved them in his pockets. The children were examining the dead orc, one lifting the sword from the grass for a clumsy two-handed swing. Ram turned from them and walked to meet the eyeless warrior. Other adults were coming from the encampment now, drawn by the shouts and the shooting.
“Thank you,” Nils said, “for saving our children’s lives.” He paused. “What is it you came to ask?”
“I want to-I think I can get the orcs to leave the country-I hope I can-to leave on their ships and leave their slaves behind. At least I want to try. And I want you along.”
Ram sensed that if Nils had had eyes they would be examining him intently, as his mind must be. “Why?” asked the Northman. “Why do you want me along?”
Ram had already asked himself that; asked it in the pinnace as he’d approached the meadow to land. It seemed important to know, but there had been no answer.