Poul Anderson - The Star Fox

Heim nodded and got out his pipe. “That’s the idea,” he said.

De Vigny’s nostrils dilated. “Tobacco? One had almost I forgotten.”

Heim chuckled and threw the pouch on the desk. De Vigny picked up a little bell and rang it.

And aide-de-camp materialized in the tent entrance, saluting. “Find me a pipe,” de Vigny said.

“And, if the captain does not object, you may find one for yourself too.”

“At once, my colonel!” The aide dematerialized.

“Well.” De Vigny unbent a trifle. “Thanks are a poor thing, I monsieur. What can New Europe do for you?” Heim grew conscious of Vadász’s half jocose, half sympathetic regard, blushed, and said roughly, “I have an old friend on this planet, who’s now Jean Irribarne’s sister-in-law. See to it that she and her family are among the evacuees.”

“Pierre will not go when other men stay,” the Basque said gently.

“But they shall most certainly come here if you wish,” de Vigny said. He rang for another aide. “Lieutenant, why do you not go with Major Legrand to my own flyer? It has a set which can call to anywhere in the Haute Garance. If you will tell the operator where they are, your kin—”

.When that was done, he said to Heim and Vadász, “I shall be most busy today, it is plain. But let us relax until after lunch. We have many stories to trade.”

And so they did.

When at last de Vigny must dismiss them, Heim and Vadász were somewhat at loose, ends.

There was little to see. Though quite a few men were camped around the lake, the shelters were scattered and hidden, the activity unobtrusive. Now and then a flyer came by, as often as not weaving between tree trunks under the concealing foliage. Small radars sat in camouflage, watching for the unlikely appearance of an Aleriona vessel. The engineers could not install their loading tube to the ship before night, unless one of the frequent fogs rose to cover their work.

Men sat about yarning, gambling, doing minor chores. All were eager to talk with the Earthlings, but the Earthlings soon wearied of repeating themselves. Toward noon a degree of physical tiredness set in as well. They had been up for a good eighteen hours.

Vadász yawned. “Let us go back to our tent,” he suggested. “This planet has such an inconvenient rotation. You must sleep away a third of the daylight and be awake two thirds of the night.”

“Oh, well,” Heim said. “It wouldn’t be colonizable otherwise.”

“What? How?”

“You don’t know? Well, look, it has only half Earth’s mass, and gets something over 85 percent of the irradiation. The air would’ve bled away long ago, most of it, except that air loss is due in large part to magnetic interaction with charged particles from the sun. Even a G5 star like Aurore spits out quite a bit of stuff. But slow spin means a weak magnetic field.”

“Another thanks due to Providence,” the Hungarian said thoughtfully.

“Huh!” Heim snorted. “Then we’ve got to blame Providence for Venus keeping too much atmosphere. It’s a simple matter of physics. The smaller a planet is, and the closer to its sun, the less difference of angular momentum between the inner and outer sections of the dust cloud that goes to form it. Therefore, the less rotation.”

Vadász clapped his shoulder. “I do not envy you your philosophy, my friend. God is good.

But we are in mortal danger of becoming serious. Let us, I say, return to the tent, where I have a flask of brandy, and—”

They were not far from it then, were crossing a meadow where flame-colored blossoms nodded in the golden grass. Jean Irribarne stepped from under the trees. “Ah,” he hailed, “ vous voilà. I have looked for you.”

“What about?” Heim asked.

The lieutenant beamed. “Your friends are here.” He turned and called, “ ’Allo-o-o!”

They came out into the open, six of them. The blood left Heim’s heart and flooded back. He stood in a sunlit darkness that whirled.

She approached him timidly. Camp clothes, faded and shapeless, had today been exchanged for a dress brought along to the woods and somehow preserved. It fluttered light and white around her long-legged slenderness. Aurore had bleached the primly braided brown hair until it was paler than her skin; but still it shone, and one lock blew free above the heart-shaped face. Her eyes were violet.

“Madelon,” he croaked.

“Gunnar.” The handsome woman took both his hands. “ C’est si ban te voir encore. Bienvenu.”

“A nej—” the breath rasped into him. He pulled back his shoulders. “I was surprised,” he said limpingly. “Your daughter looks so much like you.”

“Pardon?” the woman struggled with long unused English.

Her husband, an older and heavier version of Jean, interpreted while he shook Heim’s hand.

Madelon laughed. “ Oui, oui, tout le monde le dit. Quand j’etais jeune, peutêtre. Danielle, je voudrais que tu fasses la connaissance de mon vieil ami Gunnar Heim.”

“Je suis très honorée, monsieur.” She could scarcely be heard above the wind as it tossed the leaves and made light and shadow dance behind her. The fingers were small and cool in Heim’s, quickly withdrawn.

In some vague fashion he met teenage Jacques, Cecile, and Yves. Madelon talked a lot, without much but friendly banalities coming through the translations of the Irribarae brothers. All the while Danielle stood quiet. But at parting, with promises of a real get-together after sleep, she smiled at him.

Heim and Vadász watched them leave, before going on themselves. When the forest had closed upon her, the minstrel whistled. “Is that indeed the image of your one-time sweetheart, yonder girl?” he asked.

“More or less,” Heim said, hardly aware that he talked to anyone else. “There must be differences, I suppose. Memory plays tricks.”

“Still, one can see what you meant by—Forgive me, Gunnar, but may I advise that you be careful? There are so many years to stumble across.”

“Good Lord!” Heim exploded angrily. “What do you take me for? I was startled, nothing else.”

“Well, if you are certain… You see, I would not wish to—”

“Shut up. Let’s find that brandy.” Heim led the way with tremendous strides.

Day crept toward evening. But life kept its own pace, which can be a fast one in time of war.

At sunset Heim found himself on a ness jutting into the lake, alone with Danielle.

He was not sure how. There had been the reunion and a meal as festive as could be managed, in the lean-to erected near the Irribarne flyer. Champagne, which he had taken care to stow aboard Meroeth, flowed freely. Stiffness dissolved in it. Presently they sprawled on the grass, Vaduz’s guitar rang and most voices joined his. But Heim and Made-Ion kept somewhat apart, struggling to talk, and her oldest daughter sat quietly by.

They could not speak much of what had once been. Heim did not regret that, and doubted Madelon did. Meeting again like this, they saw how widely their ways had parted; now only a look, a smile, a bit of laughter could cross the distance between. She was an utterly good person, he thought, but she was not Connie or even Jocelyn. And, for that matter, he was not Pierre.

So they contented themselves with trading years. Hers had been mild until the Aleriona came. Pierre, the engineer, built dikes and power stations while she built their lives. Thus Heim found himself relating the most. It came natural to make the story colorful.

His eyes kept drifting toward Danielle.

Finally—this was where the real confusion began as to what had happened—the party showed signs of breaking up. He wasn’t sleepy himself, though the wine bubbled in his head, and his body demanded exercise. He said something about taking a stroll. Had he invited the girl along, or had she asked to come, or had Madelon, chuckling low in the way he remembered, sent them off together with a remark about his needing a guide? Everybody had spoken, but between his bad French and hammering pulse he wasn’t sure who had said what. He did recall that the mother had given them a little push toward the deeper forest, one hand to each.