Poul Anderson - Fire Time

Again Jill nodded. “I forgot. Silly of me. I’m too used to instant communications, simply add hot air and stir.”

She was in a different boat from him, Larreka reflected indulgently. A standard-size portable transceiver would reach to one of the relays the humans had planted throughout the southern half of this continent, and it would buck the voice on. But greater distances required a big transmitter and those relays the newcomers had put on the moons. Thus far they hadn’t built more than four such stations—being, after all, at the end of a mighty long and thin supply line from Earth—Primavera, in Sehala, in Light Place on the Haelen coast, and, barely ten years ago, in Port Rua. It was ironic that, posted away off to Darkness-and-gone in the northern hemisphere, he’d been able to talk from end to end of the Gathering, a meridian arc ten thousand kilometers in length; and then, as he approached the center of civilization, his walkie-talkie had gone deaf and dumb.

Jill took his arm. “They don’t expect you, hey?” she said. “C’mon, let me make the arrangements. I want to listen in.”

“Why not?” he answered. “Though you won’t like what you hear.”

An hour passed. Jill whirled off to collect the men she had mentioned, who were carrying out jobs in the neighborhood. Meanwhile Larreka led his troopers to the single inn Primavera boasted. Mainly it dealt in beer, wine, pool games, darts, the occasional dinner out; but it had accommodations for humans, whether these be transients or new chums who’d soon get permanent digs, and for visiting Ishtarians. Larreka saw his squad settled in and told the proprietor to bill the city for them as per long-standing agreement. He didn’t warn them not to run it riotously high. They were good lads who’d keep the honor of the legion in mind.

Nor did he make arrangements for himself. Jill had written two years ago that she’d moved from her parents’ home to a rented cottage which had an Ishtarian-outfitted chamber—it dated back several of her generations, to when scholars of both races were working constantly and intimately in an effort at mutual understanding— and if he didn’t stay with her anytime he was in town, she’d be cut to the squick. (“That’s ‘squick.’ It bleeds more.”)

He proceeded to the mayor’s home-cum-office. A community like Primavera needed little steering. Most of Hanshaw’s duties involved Earth; shipping companies, individual scientists and technics considering a job here, bureaucrats of the World Federation when they got the urge to meddle, national politicians who could be a bigger nuisance.

The house was typical, built for a climate the humans called “Mediterranean.” Thick walls, pastel-painted, gave insulation as well as strength; to the rear, a patio opened on a flower garden. Sturdy construction, steel shutters for the windows, an aerodynamically designed heraklite roof, were needful against tornados. Larreka had been told that Ishtar’s rotation made storms more frequent and violent than on Earth.

Hanshaw’s wife admitted him but didn’t join the conference in their living room. Besides the mayor and Jill, Ian Sparling was present. Those were ample. Get more than a few Terrestrials together, and it was incredible what time they’d dribble away in laborious jabber. Sparling was chief engineer of the rescue project, therefore a key man. Moreover, he too was a good friend of Larreka’s.

“Howdy, stranger,” boomed Hanshaw. He’d changed almost shockingly, the commandant saw, turned gray and portly. He still seemed vigorous, however, and still insisted on shaking hands rather than clasping shoulders.

“Flop yourself.” He gestured at a mattress spread on the floor to face three armchairs. Nearby, a wheeled table held an executive-desk console. “What’ll you have? Beer, if I know you.”

“Beer indeed,” Larreka replied. “In many large mugs,” He meant brew of breadroot flavored with domebud; to him, the stuff gotten from Earth grains tasted vile. That wasn’t true of all such plants. After a hearty shoulderclasp with Sparling, he drew a pipe from his pouch and drawled, “Furthermore, I haven’t blown tobacco for seven years.”

The engineer grinned, ordered his supply, and on getting it back stuffed a briar of his own. He was a tall man—two full meters, which put him brow to brow with Larreka—in his mid-forties, wide-shouldered but otherwise gaunt and rawboned, hands and feet large and knobbly, movements looking awkward though they did everything he wanted them to. High cheekbones, curved nose, deep creases around thin lips, weatherbeaten skin, unruly black hair tinged with gray, tuneless voice, eyes big and brilliantly gray-green, had little changed since last time. Unlike Hanshaw, Sparling was as careless a dresser as Jill, but lacked her flair.

“How’re the wife and youngster?” Larreka asked him.

“Oh, Rhoda’s about as usual,” he replied. “Becky’s a student on Earth—you didn’t know? Sorry. I always was a rotten correspondent. Yes, she’s back there. I saw her last year on a trip. She’s doing fine.” Larreka recalled that humans were entitled to home leaves every four of their native years. Some, like Jill, had never taken any; this was home to them, and they were in no hurry to make an expensive tour. But Sparling returned oftener than that. to present his latest plans and argue for support of them.

“I’ve kept better track of your work than of your family.” Larreka meant no offense. Whatever would ease the disasters ahead was top-rank in every civilized mind. “Your flood control dams—” Seeing the engineer scowl, he stopped.

“That’s become part of our whole problem,” Sparling said stiffly. “Let’s settle down and get at it.”

Olga Hanshaw brought the refreshments her husband had ordered by intercom, and announced lunch in an hour. “I’m afraid it’ll be nothing fancy,” she apologized to Larreka. “The storms this past summer hurt the crops, your people’s as well as ours.”

“Well, we realize in your position, you’ve got to set an example of austerity,” Jill said to her. “I know a hog from a Hanshaw.”

Sparling alone chuckled. Maybe, Larreka thought, her English-language remark referred to something on Earth, where the engineer had been born and spent his earlier youth. Did she notice how his gaze, having gone to her, kept drifting back?

“Let’s save the jokes for later.” the mayor urged. “Maybe this evening we can have a poker game.” Larreka hoped so. Over the octads he’d become ferociously good at it, and kept in practice by introducing it to his officers. Then he saw Jill gleefully rub her hands and remembered how she’d played slapdash chess but precocious poker. How tough had she become since?

They sobered when Hanshaw continued, “Commandant, you’re here on unpleasant business. And I’m afraid we’ve got worse news for you.”

Larreka tensed on the mattress where he couched, took a long gulp of beer, and said: “Unleash.”

“Port Rua sent word the other day. Tarhanna has fallen.”

Larreka had kept too much Haelener in him to yelp or swear. He sought what—comfort he could find in the smoke-bite of tobacco before saying flatly, “Details?”

“Not a hell of a tot. Apparently the natives—the barbarians, I mean, not the few civilized Valenneners you’ve got—apparently they made a surprise attack, took the town, threw everybody out, and told the legionary chief as he was leaving that they weren’t there for loot, they intended to garrison it.”

“Bad,” Larreka said after a while. “Bad, bad, and bad.”

Jill leaned forward to touch his mane. Disturbed, a few of the seleks therein leaped out from among the leaves, then scurried back down to the proper business of such small entomoids, keeping it free of vermin and dead matter. “A shock, huh?” she asked softly.