“Nielson!”
The lieutenant was looking at his fingers now, with the stare of a puzzled child.
“Nielson! Snap out of it!” General Branch loomed sternly over him. “Do you hear me, Lieutenant?”
Nielson shook his head dully. He started to look at his fingers again, then his gaze was caught by the glittering array of buttons on the gunfire panel.
“Pretty,” he said.
General Branch stepped inside the cubicle, grabbed Nielson by the shoulders and shook him.
“Pretty things,” Nielson said, gesturing at the panel. He smiled at Branch.
Margraves, second in command, stuck his head in the doorway. He still had sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, having been promoted to colonel only three days ago.
“Ed,” he said, “the President’s representative is here. Sneak visit.”
“Wait a minute,” Branch said, “I want to complete this inspection.” He grinned sourly. It was one hell of an inspection when you went around finding how many sane men you had left.
“Do you hear me, Lieutenant?”
“Ten thousand ships,” Nielson said. “Ten thousand ships—all gone!”
“I’m sorry,” Branch said. He leaned forward and slapped him smartly across the face.
Lieutenant Nielson started to cry.
“Hey, Ed—what about that representative?”
At close range, Colonel Margraves’ breath was a solid essence of whisky, but Branch didn’t reprimand him. If you had a good officer left you didn’t reprimand him, no matter what he did. Also, Branch approved of whisky. It was a good release, under the circumstances. Probably better than his own, he thought, glancing at his scarred knuckles.
“I’ll be right with you. Nielson, can you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said in a shaky voice. “I’m all right now, sir.”
“Good,” Branch said. “Can you stay on duty?”
“For a while,” Nielson said. “But, sir—I’m not well. I can feel it.”
“I know,” Branch said. “You deserve a rest. But you’re the only gun officer I’ve got left on this side of the ship. The rest are in the wards.”
“I’ll try, sir,” Nielson said, looking at the gunfire panel again. “But I hear voices sometimes. I can’t promise anything, sir.”
“Ed,” Margraves began again, “that representative—”
“Coming. Good boy, Nielson.” The lieutenant didn’t look up as Branch and Margraves left.
“I escorted him to the bridge,” Margraves said, listing slightly to starboard as he walked. “Offered him a drink, but he didn’t want one.”
“All right,” Branch said.
“He was bursting with questions,” Margraves continued, chuckling to himself. “One of those earnest, tanned State Department men, out to win the war in five minutes flat. Very friendly boy. Wanted to know why I, personally, thought the fleet had been maneuvering in space for a year with no action.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Said we were waiting for a consignment of zap guns,” Margraves said. “I think he almost believed me. Then he started talking about logistics.”
“Hm-m-m,” Branch said. There was no telling what Margraves, half drunk, had told the representative. Not that it mattered. An official inquiry into the prosecution of the war had been due for a long time.
“I’m going to leave you here,” Margraves said. “I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.”
“Right,” Branch said, since it was all he could say. He knew that Margraves’ unfinished business concerned a bottle.
He walked alone to the bridge.
The President’s representative was looking at the huge location screen. It covered one entire wall, glowing with a slowly shifting pattern of dots. The thousands of green dots on the left represented the Earth fleet, separated by a black void from the orange of the enemy. As he watched, the fluid, three-dimensional front slowly changed. The armies of dots clustered, shifted, retreated, advanced, moving with hypnotic slowness.
But the black void remained between them. General Branch had been watching that sight for almost a year. As far as he was concerned, the screen was a luxury. He couldn’t determine from it what was really happening. Only the CPC calculators could, and they didn’t need it.
“How do you do, General Branch?” the President’s representative said, coming forward and offering his hand. “My name’s Richard Ellsner.”
Branch shook hands, noticing that Margraves’ description had been pretty good. The representative was no more than thirty. His tan looked strange, after a year of pallid faces.
“My credentials,” Ellsner said, handing Branch a sheaf of papers. The general skimmed through them, noting Ellsner’s authorization as Presidential Voice in Space. A high honor for so young a man.
“How are things on Earth?” Branch asked, just to say something. He ushered Ellsner to a chair, and sat down himself.
“Tight,” Ellsner said. “We’ve been stripping the planet bare of radioactives to keep your fleet operating. To say nothing of the tremendous cost of shipping food, oxygen, spare parts, and all the other equipment you need to keep a fleet this size in the field.”
“I know,” Branch murmured, his broad face expressionless.
“I’d like to start right in with the President’s complaints,” Ellsner said with an apologetic little laugh. “Just to get them off my chest.”
“Go right ahead,” Branch said.
“Now then,” Ellsner began, consulting a pocket notebook, “you’ve had the fleet in space for eleven months and seven days. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“During that time there have been light engagements, but no actual hostilities. You—and the enemy commander—have been content, evidently, to sniff each other like discontented dogs.”
“I wouldn’t use that analogy,” Branch said, conceiving an instant dislike for the young man. “But go on.”
“I apologize. It was an unfortunate, though inevitable comparison. Anyhow, there has been no battle, even though you have a numerical superiority. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you know the maintenance of this fleet strains the resources of Earth. The President would like to know why battle has not been joined.”
“I’d like to hear the rest of the complaints first,” Branch said. He tightened his battered fists, but, with remarkable self-control, kept them at his sides.
“Very well. The morale factor. We keep getting reports from you on the incidence of combat fatigue—crack-up, in plain language. The figures are absurd! Thirty percent of your men seem to be under restraint. That’s way out of line, even for a tense situation.”
Branch didn’t answer.
“To cut this short,” Ellsner said, “I would like the answer to those questions. Then, I could like your assistance with negotiating a truce. This war was absurd to begin with. It was none of Earth’s choosing. It seems to the President that, in view of the static situation, the enemy commander will be amenable to the idea.”
Colonel Margraves staggered in, his face flushed. He had completed his unfinished business; adding another fourth to his half-drunk.
“What’s this I hear about a truce?” he shouted.
Ellsner stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Branch.
“I suppose you will take care of this yourself. If you will contact the enemy commander, I will try to come to terms with him.”
“They aren’t interested,” Branch said.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve tried. I’ve been trying to negotiate a truce for six months now. They want complete capitulation.”
“But that’s absurd,” Ellsner said, shaking his head. “They have no bargaining point. The fleets are of approximately the same size. There have been no major engagements yet. How can they—”
“Easily,” Margraves roared, walking up to the representative and peering truculently in his face.
“General. This man is drunk.” Ellsner got to his feet.