Poul Anderson - Fire Time

The door chimed. “ Entre, ” called Yuri Dejerine. Rising, he waved the phonoplay to silence. Had it been drawing something classical from the data bank—a piece of Mozart, say, or a raga concert—he would have reduced the sound level to a gentle background. But most humans dislike Gean music, all of it, never mind that that planet has as old and wide a variety of traditions as ever did Earth. To understand, one needs the interest from which springs patience, plus a good ear.

The door admitted a young man whose uniform bore air corps pursuit squadron insignia. They shone very new, and his salute was a bit awkward. He handled himself well in Lunar gravity, though; he wouldn’t have qualified for his service if he weren’t more quickly weight adaptable than most. His frame was tall and powerful, his face handsome in a blond Caucasoid mode. Dejerine wondered whether he really bore subtle indications of having been born and reared beyond the Solar System. Knowing he was, an observer could too easily read clues into a look, a stance, or a gait.

Accents were more reliable. Dejerine spared his visitor wrestling with Spanish by taking the word in English:

“Ensign Conway? At ease. In fact, relax. It was good of you to come.”

“The captain sent for me.” Yes, Conway did speak an odd brand of the language, markedly different from Dejerine’s pan-European version. It was the dialect of a people whose mother tongue this had been for a long time, but carrying a softness and a lilt that were partly nonhuman?

“I requested you visit me, only requested.” The door having closed, Dejerine astounded the other by extending a hand. After an instant, the clasp took place. “You can do me a large personal favor, and conceivably Earth too. Perhaps I can make a return, but that isn’t certain. What is certain is that we both ship out quite shortly, and I am taking time you could spend with the girls or enjoying several unique sports. The least I can do is give you a drink.” He took Conway’s elbow and guided him to a lounger opposite his own, while he chatted on. “That’s why I suggested we meet in my quarters. A dormitory or clubroom is too unprivate, an office too austere. What would you like?”

Donald Conway sat down under the arm-pressure. “I… whatever the captain wishes, thank you, sir,” he gulped.

Dejerine stood over him and smiled. “Do fall free. Forget rank. We’re strictly alone, and I’m not a lot older than you. What is your age—?”

“Nineteen—I mean twenty-one, sir.”

“Still used to Ishtarian years, are you? Well, last month I had my thirtieth birthday, terrestrial. No yawning gap, true?”

Conway eased a trifle. His nervousness had not taken away candor from a gaze which now grew thoughtful, regarding his host. Dejerine was medium-sized, slender, his hands and feet small, his movements catlike; he had been a championship tumbler in Academy days. His features were regular and fine-boned, complexion olive, nose short, lips full, eyes as brawn as the sleek hair and neat mustache. He was in mufti, blouse, sash, flared slacks of iridescent cloth, tabi and zori. His class ring was standard, but the tiny gold circlet in his right earlobe bespoke a measure of brashness.

“Mainly,” he continued, “I became a cadet at sixteen and have stayed in the service. You reached Earth two years ago, enlisted when war began, and have barely hatched out of hurry-up training.” He shrugged. “What of it? Later you will finish your studies, and go on to become a distinguished professor of fine arts, and be president of a major university when I am beached at half pay. So, what is your pleasure?” He moved to the minibar. “I am for cognac and a timid hint of soda.”

“The same, then, thank you, sir,” Conway said. “I haven’t had much chance to learn, uh, the science of drinking.”

“You have no large choice on Ishtar?”

“No, mostly homebrew beer and local wine.” Conway forced loquacity on himself. “They taste different enough from Earth’s that many lifetimers don’t care for what little import we get. We’re self-sufficient, our agriculture flourishes, but, well, everywhere else is a whole other ecology to affect the soil, plus weather and radiation and—Anyhow, a few people operate stills, but they admit what they produce is nothing to brag about.”

“You see, already you’ve helped me,” Dejerine laughed. “I’ve been warned to stock up before departure.”

While he prepared the refreshments, Conway glanced around. Though not an admiral’s suite, the chamber was large and well furnished for Tsiolkovsky Base. However commodious in peacetime, facilities here grew overloaded when men were shunted in by the thousands for ready transport to scenes of action. They must be doubled into barracks; power shortages developed till interior Earthweight generators must be shut down; that meant everybody must suffer tedious extra hours of exercise; on liberty they must stand in line for a chance at sightseeing crawlers, climbing outfits, slide-ski slopes, or catch a train to Apollo and hope not to get very badly rooked… A half-wall transparency, dimmed against glare, showed majestic desolation. A cargo ship crossed the view, backing down on gravs toward an auxiliary field hastily scraped from the basalt.

This room held few personal traces of its occupant. You travel light through space, barebones in wartime. Some printouts lay on a table: a book about Anubelea, a girlie periodical, a mystery novel, the collected poems of Garcia Lorca. Beside them stood a humidor.

“Here you are.” Dejerine handed Conway his drink. “And would you care for a cigar?… No? I suppose tobacco also turns peculiar on Ishtar? Well, I’ll ignite if you don’t mind.” He settled into the facing seat and lifted his own glass. “Salud.”

“Uh, cheers,” Conway responded.

Dejerine chuckled. “That’s right. You are becoming your true self-I expected you would.”

“You checked me out, sir?”

“Nothing more than your open file-I don’t pry. What I did was ask the bank for data on personnel from Ishtar whom I might contact. Your name appeared. According to the entries, you were born there and never got off the planet until lately. I doubt if a coward or incompetent would have been tolerated that long, assuming he survived. Then in spite of growing up among—what is the figure?—about five thousand scientists, technics, and their children, more than three hundred parsecs from Sol and seldom visited—you showed such promise in visual art that you were offered a scholarship here. And then, when the war broke out, you didn’t continue safe in your studies, you enlisted, in one of the toughest branches at that. I need no more information to know you fairly well.”

Conway flushed, took a considerable sip, and ventured:

“Obviously you’ve been assigned there, sir, and you’d like to hear what I can tell you. Isn’t that surprising, for a man with your record? The assignment, that is.”

Dejerine frowned a bit. “Such things happen.”

“I mean, well, after your message I used the bank too.” The brandy had no doubt gone fast to Conway’s unpracticed head, for his words came rapid and heedless—not flattery, Dejerine judged, but a gauche attempt at responding to the senior’s amicable overtures. “You were my age when you got the Diamond Star for a rescue off Caliban. You went on to be exec of a blastship, captain of a ranger, operations chief for constructing a base on Gea. Quite a variety, even if the Navy does like to rotate jobs; and you’re quite young for your rank.” He checked himself. His cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be forward.”

“That’s all right.” Dejerine waved his cigar in dismissal. Discontent remained on his mouth.