Poul Anderson - Fire Time

The milder mood continued: “Providentially, you likewise bring positive news, of an entire intelligent species and relics of a powerful bygone race—from either of which we may quite conceivably learn what will open whole universes. But to do that, in living lifetimes, requires vastly enlarged assistance to the Gathering; furthermore, it requires help for the Valennen folk, that they in turn may help us. And this requires peace!”

“I think, in a year or so, Earth will realize where its true interests lie.”

His head drooped. Daniel Espina was mortal, too. Soon we said farewell, and the attendant woke the pilot who would take us back to our hidden quarters.

We waited outside for him. The air was quiet, thin, relentlessly cold, exultantly clear. The sun had now cleared the peaks, down whose granite its beams hunted shadows, and heaven reached sapphire.

“A year,” Ian breathed. Each work smoked white. “Or two at most. Then we go home.”

And if we’re fortunate, start over on our work. I thought.

“That many months—” Jill answered him. They had long stopped keeping secrets from me, or I from them. We are three. But this hour was theirs alone. “You’ll send for Rhoda.”

“How can she come?” he wondered against his own knowledge.

“The Judge can fix that. You wouldn’t be who you are, my darling, if you didn’t ask him to.” She squared her shoulders. “Meanwhile—” Presently: “Afterward—Well, we’ll see.” She did not trouble to speak of matters like the fact that loving and being loved bring duties. Her glance told me I was among her “we.”

The pilot came. Jill led us to the flyer. Following her, I dared hope.