Flandry puffed. Smoke curled across the viewscreen, as if to veil off the abysses beyond. “Maybe it should have done so, in theory,” he said. “However, after all those centuries, the poor thing was more than a little bonkers. Actually, what it did—first establish that chess game, then modify it, then produce fighters that obeyed no rules, then extend the range and variety of their battles further and further across the moon—that was done to save most of its sanity.”
“What?” Djana said, surprised.
“Why, sure. A thinking capability like that, with nothing but routine to handle, no new input, decade after decade—” Flandry shivered. “Br-rr! You must know what sensory deprivation does to organic sophonts. Our computer rescued itself by creating something complicated and unpredictable to watch.” He paused before adding slyly: “I refrain from suggesting analogies to the Creator you believe in.”
And regretted it when she bridled and snapped, “I want a full report on how you influenced the situation.”
“Oh, for the best, for the best,” he said. “Not that that was hard. The moment I woke the White King up, the world he’d been dreaming of came to an end.” His metaphor went over her head, so he merely continued: “The computer’s pathetically impatient to convert back to the original style of operations. Brother Ammon will find a fortune in metals waiting for his first ship.
“I do think you are morally obliged to recommend me for a substantial bonus, which he is normally obliged to pay.”
“Morally!” The bitterness of a life which had never allowed her a chance to consider such questions whipped forth. But it seemed to him she exaggerated it, as if to provide herself an excuse for attacking. “Who are you to blat about morals, Dominic Flandry, who took an oath to serve the Empire and a bribe to serve Leon Ammon?”
Stung, he threw back: “What else could I do?”
“Refuse.” Her mood softened. She shook her amber-locked head, smiled a sad smile, and squeezed his hand. “No, never mind. That would be too much to expect of anyone nowadays, wouldn’t it? Let’s be corrupt together, Nicky darling, and kind to each other till we have to say goodbye.”
He looked long at her, and at the stars, where his gaze remained, before he said quietly, “I suppose I can tell you what I’ve had in mind. I’ll take the pay because I can use it; also the risk, for the rest of my life, of being found out and broken. It seems a reasonable price for holding a frontier.”
Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. “I don’t follow you.”
“Irumclaw was due to be abandoned,” he said. “Everybody knows—knew—it was. Which made the prophecy self-fulfilling: The garrison turned incompetent. The able civilians withdrew, taking their capital with them. Defensibility and economic value spiraled down toward the point where it really wouldn’t be worth our rational while to stay. In the end, the Empire would let Irumclaw go. And without this anchor, it’d have to pull the whole frontier parsecs back; and Merseia and the Long Night would draw closer.”
He sighed. “Leon Ammon is evil and contemptible,” he went on. “Under different circumstances, I’d propose we gut him with a butterknife. But he does have energy, determination, actual courage and foresight of sorts.
“I went to his office to learn his intentions. When he told me, I agreed to go along because—well—
“If the Imperial bureaucrats were offered Wayland, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Probably they’d stamp its existence Secret, to avoid making any decisions or laying out any extra effort. If nothing else, a prize like that would make ‘conciliation and consolidation’ a wee bit difficult, eh?
“Ammon, though, he’s got a personal profit to harvest. He’ll go in to stay. His enterprise will be a human one. He’ll make it pay off so well—he’ll get so much economic and thereby political leverage from it—that he can force the government to protect his interests. Which means standing fast on Irumclaw. Which means holding this border, and even extending control a ways outward.
“In short,” Flandry concluded, “as the proverb phrases it, he may be a son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch.”
He stubbed out the cigarette with a violent gesture and turned back to the girl, more in search of forgetfulness than anything else.
Strangely, in view of the fellow-feeling she had just shown him, she did not respond. Her hands fended him off. The blue glance was troubled upon his. “Please, Nicky. I want to think…about what you’ve told me.”
He respected her wish and relaxed in his seat, crossing shank over knee. “I daresay I can contain myself for a bit.” The sight of her mildened the harshness that had risen in him. He chuckled. “Be warned, it won’t be a long bit. You’re too delectable.”
Her mouth twitched, but not in any smile. “I never realized such things mattered to you,” she said uncertainly.
Having been raised to consider idealism gauche, he shrugged. “They’d better. I live in the Terran Empire.”
“But if—” She leaned forward. “Do you seriously believe, Nicky, Wayland can make that big a difference?”
“I like to believe it. Why do you ask? I can’t well imagine you giving a rusty horntoot about future generations.”
“That’s what I mean. Suppose…Nicky, suppose, oh, something happens so Leon doesn’t get to exploit Wayland. So nobody does. How’d that affect us—you and me?”
“Depends on our lifespans, I’d guess, among other items. Maybe we’d see no change. Or maybe, twenty-thirty years hence, we’d see the Empire retreat the way I was talking about.”
“But that wouldn’t mean its end!”
“No, no. Not at once. We could doubtless finish our lives in the style to which we want to become accustomed.” Flandry considered. “Or could we? Political repercussions at home…unrest leading to upheaval…well, I don’t know.”
“We could always find ourselves a safe place. A nice offside colony planet—not so offside it’s primitive, but—”
“Yes, probably.” Flandry scowled. “I don’t understand what’s gnawing you. We’ll report to Ammon and that will finish our part. Remember, he’s holding the rest of our pay.”
She nodded. For a space they were both silent. The stars in the viewscreen made an aureole behind her gold head.
Then craftiness came upon her, and she smiled and murmured: “It wouldn’t make any difference, would it, if somebody else on Irumclaw—somebody besides Leon—got Wayland. Would it?”
“I guess not, if you mean one of his brother entrepreneurs.” Flandry’s unease waxed. “What’re you thinking of, wench? Trying to rake in more for yourself, by passing the secret on to a competitor? I wouldn’t recommend that. Bloody dripping dangerous.”
“You—”
“Emphatically not! I’ll squirrel away my money, and for the rest of my Irumclaw tour, you won’t believe what a good boy I’ll be. No more Old Town junkets whatsoever; wholesome on-base recreation and study of naval manuals. Fortunately, my Irumclaw tour is nearly done.”
Flandry captured her hands in his. “I won’t even risk seeing you,” he declared. “Nor should you take any avoidable chances. The universe would be too poor without you.”
Her lips pinched together. “If that’s how you feel—”
“It is.” Flandry leered. “Fortunately, we’ve days and days before we arrive. Let’s use them, hm-m-m?”
Her eyes dropped, and rose, and she was on his lap embracing him, warm, soft, smiling, pupils wide between the long lashes, and “Hm-m-m indeed,” she crooned.
Thunder ended a dream. Nothingness.
He woke, and wished he hadn’t. Someone had scooped out his skull to make room for the boat’s nuclear generator.