Poul Anderson - Ensign Flandry

But we can have an hour for our own.

“I shall meet Heir Elwych and tell him where you are, Protector.” Chwioch hurried off.

Brechdan waited. The sun began to warm him through his robe. He wished Elwych’s mother were still alive. The wives remaining to him were good females, of course, thrifty, trustworthy, cultivated, as females should be. But Nodhia had been—well, yes, he might as well use a Terran concept—she had been fun. Elwych was Brechdan’s dearest child, not because he was the oldest now when two others lay dead on remote planets, but because he was Nodhia’s. May the earth lie light upon her.

The gardener’s shears clattered to the flagstones. “Heir! Welcome home!” It was not ceremonial for the old fellow to kneel and embrace the newcomer’s tail, but Brechdan didn’t feel that any reproof was called for.

Elwych the Swift strode toward his father in the black and silver of the Navy. A captain’s dragon was sewn to his sleeve, the banners of Dhangodhan flamed over his head. He stopped four paces off and gave a service salute. “Greeting, Protector.”

“Greeting, swordarm.” Brechdan wanted to hug that body to him. Their eyes met. The youngster winked and grinned. And that was nigh as good.

“Are the kindred well?” Elwych asked: superfluously, as he had called from the inner moon the moment his ship arrived for furlough.

“Indeed,” Brechdan said.

They might then have gone to the gynaeceum for family reunion. But the guard watched. Hand and Heir could set him an example by talking first of things which concerned the race. They need not be too solemn, however.

“Had you a good trip home?” Brechdan inquired.

“Not exactly,” Elwych replied. “Our main fire-control computer developed some kind of bellyache. I thought best we put in at Vorida for repairs. The interimperial situation, you know; it just might have exploded, and then a Terran unit just might have chanced near us.”

“Vorida? I don’t recall—”

“No reason why you should. Too hooting many planets in the universe. A rogue in the Betelguese sector. We keep a base—What’s wrong?”

Elwych alone noticed the signs of his father being taken aback. “Nothing,” Brechdan said. “I assume the Terrans don’t know about this orb.”

Elwych laughed. “How could they?”

How, in truth? There are so many rogues, they are so little and dark, space is so vast.

Consider: To an approximation, the size of bodies which condensed out of the primordial gas is inversely proportional to the frequency of their occurrence. At one end of the scale, hydrogen atoms fill the galaxy, about one per cubic centimeter. At the other end, you can count the monstrous O-type suns by yourself. (You may extend the scale in both directions, from quanta to quasars; but no matter.) There are about ten times as many M-type red dwarfs as there are G-type stars like Korych or Sol. Your spaceship is a thousand times more likely to be struck by a one-gram pebble than by a one-kilogram rock. And so, sunless planets are more common than suns. They usually travel in clusters; nevertheless they are for most practical purposes unobservable before you are nearly on top of them. They pose no special hazard—whatever their number, the odds against one of them passing through any particular point in space are literally astronomical—and those whose paths are known can make useful harbors.

Brechdan felt he must correct an incomplete answer. “The instantaneous vibrations of a ship under hyperdrive are detectable within a light-year,” he said. “A Terran or Betelgeusean could happen that close to your Vorida.”

Elwych flushed. “And supposing one of our ships happened to be in the vicinity, what would detection prove except that there was another ship?”

He had been given the wristslap of being told what any cub knew; he had responded with the slap of telling what any cub should be able to reason out for himself. Brechdan could not but smile. Elwych responded. A blow can also be an act of love.

“I capitulate,” Brechdan said. “Tell me somewhat of your tour of duty. We got far too few letters, especially in the last months.”

“Where I was then, writing was a little difficult,” Elwych said. “I can tell you now, though. Saxo V.”

“Starkad?” Brechdan exclaimed. “You, a line officer?”

“Was this way. My ship was making a courtesy call on the Betelgeuseans—or showing them the flag, whichever way they chose to take it—when a courier from Fodaich Runei arrived. Somehow the Terrans had learned about a submarine base he was having built off an archipelago. The whole thing was simple, primitive, so the seafolk could operate the units themselves, but it would have served to wreck landfolk commerce in that area. Nobody knows how the Terrans got the information, but Runei says they have a fiendishly good Intelligence chief. At any rate, they gave some landfolk chemical depth bombs and told them where to sail and drop them. And by evil luck, the explosions killed several key technicians of ours who were supervising construction. Which threw everything into chaos. Our mission there is scandalously short-handed. Runei sent to Betelgeuse as well as Merseia, in the hope of finding someone like us who could substitute until proper replacements arrived. So I put my engineers in a civilian boat. And since that immobilized our ship as a fighting unit, I must go too.”

Brechdan nodded. An Ynvory did not send personnel into danger and himself stay behind without higher duties.

He knew about the disaster already, of course. Best not tell Elwych that. Time was unripe for the galaxy to know how serious an interest Merseia had in Starkad. His son was discreet. But what he did not know, he could not tell if the Terrans caught and hypnoprobed him.

“You must have had an adventurous time,” Brechdan said.

“Well … yes. Occasional sport. And an interesting planet.” The anger still in Elwych flared: “I tell you, though, our people are being betrayed.”

“How?”

“Not enough of them. Not enough equipment. Not a single armed spaceship. Why don’t we support them properly?”

“Then the Terrans will support their mission properly,” Brechdan said.

Elwych gazed long at his father. The waterfall noise seemed to louder behind Dhangodhan’s ramparts. “Are we going to make a real fight for Starkad?” he murmured. “Or do we scuttle away?”

The scar throbbed on Brechdan’s forehead. “Who serve the Roidhun do not scuttle. But they may strike bargains, when such appears good for the race.”

“So.” Elwych stared past him, across the valley mists. Scorn freighted his voice. “I see. The whole operation is a bargaining counter, to win something from Terra. Runei told me they’ll send a negotiator here.”

“Yes, he is expected soon.” Because the matter was great, touching as it did on honor, Brechdan allowed himself to grasp the shoulders of his son. Their eyes met. “Elwych,” Brechdan said gently, “you are young and perhaps do not understand. But you must. Service to the race calls for more than courage, more even than intelligence. It calls for wisdom.

“Because we Merseians have such instincts that most of us actively enjoy combat, we tend to look on combat as an end in itself. And such is not true. That way lies destruction. Combat is a means to an end—the hegemony of our race. And that in turn is but a means to the highest end of all-absolute freedom for our race, to make of the galaxy what they will.

“But we cannot merely fight for our goal. We must work. We must have patience. You will not see us masters of the galaxy. It is too big. We may need a million years. On that time scale, individual pride is a small sacrifice to offer, when it happens that compromise or retreat serves us best.”