Poul Anderson: The People of the Wind

“I have read this report on you, including the transcription of your statements, with care, Lieutenant Rochefort, Cajal said finally, “long though it be. That’s why I had you sent here by speedster.”

“What can I add, sir?” The newcomer’s voice was stiff as his body. However, when Cajal raised his look to meet those eyes again, he remembered a gentle beast he had once seen on Nuevo Mexico, in the Sierra de los Bosques Secos, caught at the end of a canyon and waiting for the hunters.

“First,” the admiral said, “I want to tender my personal apology for the hypnoprobing to which you were subjected when you rejoined our fleet. It was no way to treat a loyal officer.”

“I understand, sir,” Rochefort said. “I wasn’t surprised, and the interrogators were courteous. You had to be sure I wasn’t lying.” Briefly, something flickered behind the mask. “To you.”

“M-m, yes, the hypnoprobe evokes every last detail, doesn’t it? The story will go no further, son. You saw a higher duty and followed.”

“Why fetch me in person, sir? What little I had to tell must be in that report.”

Cajal leaned back. He constructed a friendly smile. “You’ll find out. First I need a bit of extra information. What do you drink?”

Rochefort started “Sir?”

“Scotch, bourbon, rye, gin, tequila, vodka, akvavit, et cetera, including miscellaneous extraterrestrial bottles. What mixes and chasers? I believe we’ve a reasonably well-stocked cabinet aboard.” When Rochefort sat dumb, Cajal finished: “I like a martini before dinner myself. We’re fining together, you realize.”

“I am? The, the admiral is most kind. Yes. A martini. Thanks.”

Cajal called in the order. Actually he took a small sherry, on the rare occasions when he chose anything; and he suspected Rochefort likewise had a different preference. But it was important to get the boy relaxed.

“Smoke?” he invited. “I don’t, but I don’t mind either, and the governor gave me those cigars. He’s a noted gourmet.”

“Uh… thank you… not till after eating, sir.”

“Evidently you’re another.” Cajal guided the chitchat till the cocktails arrived. They were large and cold. He lifted his. “ A vuestra salud, mi amigo.”

“Your health—” The embryo of a smile lived half a second in Rochefort’s countenance. “ Bonne santé, Monsieur l’Amiral.”

They sipped. “Go ahead, enjoy,” Cajal urged. “A man of your proven courage isn’t afraid of his supreme boss. Your immediate captain, yes, conceivably; but not me. Besides, I’m issuing you no orders. Rather, I asked for what help and advice you care to give.”

Rochefort had gotten over being surprised. “I can’t imagine what, sir.” Cajal set him an example by taking a fresh sip. Cajal’s, in a glass that bore his crest, had been watered.

Not that he wanted Rochefort drunk. He did want him loosened and hopeful.

“I suppose you know you’re the single prisoner to escape,” the admiral said. “Understandable. They probably hold no more than a dozen or two, from boats disabled like yours, and you were fabulously lucky. Still, you may not know that we’ve been getting other people from Avalon.”

“Defectors, sir? I heard about discontent.”

Cajal nodded. “And fear, and greed, and also more praiseworthy motives, a desire to make the best of a hopeless situation and avoid further havoc. They’ve been slipping off to us, one by one, a few score total. Naturally, all were quizzed, even more thoroughly than you. Your psychoprofile was on record; Intelligence need merely establish it hadn’t been tampered with.’”

“They wouldn’t do that, sir,” Rochefort said. Color returned to his speech. “About the worst immorality you can commit on Avalon is stripping someone else of his basic honor. That costs you yours.” He sank back and took a quick swallow. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize. You spoke in precisely the vein I wish. Let me go on, though. The first fugitives hadn’t much of interest to tell. Of late — Well, no need for lectures. One typical case will serve. A city merchant, grown rich on trade with nearby Imperial worlds. He won’t mind us taking over his planet, as long as the war doesn’t ruin his property and the aftermath cost him extra taxes. Despicable, or realistic? No matter. The point is, he possessed certain information, and had certain other information given him to pass on, by quite highly placed officials who’re secretly of the peace group.”

Rochefort watched Cajal over the rim of his glass. “You fear a trap, sir?”

Cajal spread his palms. “The fugitives’ sincerity is beyond doubt. But were they fed false data before they left? Your story is an important confirmation of theirs.”

“About the Equatorian continent?” Rochefort said. “No use insulting the admiral’s intelligence. I probably would not have tried to get away if I didn’t believe what I’d heard might be critical. However, I know very little.”

Cajal tugged his beard; “You know more than you think, son. For instance, our analysis of enemy fire patterns, as recorded at the first battle of Avalon, does indicate Equatoria is a weak spot. Now you were on the scene for months. You heard them talk. You watched their faces, faces of people you’d come to know. How concerned would you say they really were?”

“Um-m-m…” Rochefort drank anew. Cajal unobtrusively pressed a button which signaled the demand for a refill for him. “Well, sir, the, the lady I was with, Equatoria was out of her department.” He hastened onward: “Christopher Holm, oldest son of their top commander, yes, I’d say he worried about it a lot.”

“What’s the place like? Especially this, ah, Scorpeluna region. We’re collecting what information we can, but with so many worlds around, who that doesn’t live on them cares about their desert areas?”

Rochefort recommended a couple of books. Cajal didn’t remind him that Intelligence’s computers must have retrieved these from the libraries days or weeks ago. “Nothing too specific,” the lieutenant went on. I’ve gathered it’s a large, arid plateau, surrounded by mountains they call high on Avalon, near the middle of the continent, which the admiral knows isn’t big. Some wild game, perhaps, but no real hope of living off the country.” He stopped for emphasis. “Counterattackers couldn’t either.”

“And they, who have oceans to cross, would actually be further from home than our people from our ships,” Cajal murmured.

“A dangerous way down, sir.”

Not after we knocked out the local emplacements. And those lovely, sheltering mountains—”

“I thought along the same lines, sir. From what I know of, uh, available production and transportation facilities, and the generally sloppy Ythrian organization, they cant put strong reinforcements there fast. Whether or not my escape alarms them.”

Cajal leaned over his desk. “Suppose we did it,” he said. “Suppose we established a base, for aircraft and ground-to-ground missiles. What do you think the Avalonians would do?”

“They’d have to surrender, sir,” Rochefort answered promptly. “They… I don’t pretend to understand the Ythrians, but the human majority — well, my impression is that they’ll steer closer to a Gotterdammerung than we would, but they aren’t crazy. If we’re there, on land, if we can shoot at everything they have, not in an indiscriminate ruin of their beloved planet — that prospect is what keeps them at fighting pitch — but if we can do it selectively, laying our own bodies on the line—” He shook his head. “My apologies. That got tangled. Besides, I could be wrong.”

“Your impressions bear out every xenological study I’ve seen,” Cajal told him. “Furthermore, yours come from a unique experience.” The new drink arrived. Rochefort demurred. Cajal said: “Please do take it. I want your free-wheeling memories, your total awareness of that society and environment. This is no easy decision. What you can tell me certainly won’t make up my mind by itself. However, any fragment of fact I can get, I must.”