“And if Ymir suddenly turns on us?” snapped Fenross.
“Then we roll with the punch. Or we die.” Flandry shrugged and winced; his muscles were still sore from the pounding they had taken. “But haven’t you thought, sir, this whole business may well be a Merseian stunt — to divert our attention from them, right at this crisis? It’s exactly the sort of bear trap Aycharaych loves to set.”
“That may be,” admitted Fenross. “But Merseia lies beyond Syrax; Jupiter is next door. I’ve been given to understand that His Imperial Majesty is alarmed enough to desire—” He shrugged too, making it the immemorial gesture of a baffled underling.
“Who dropped that hint?” drawled Flandry. “Surely not the Earl of Sidrath, whom you were showing the sights yesterday while the news came in that Vixen had fallen?”
“Shut up!” Almost, it was a scream. A jag of pain went over Fenross’ hollowed countenance. He reached for a pill. “If I didn’t oblige the peerage,” he said thickly, “I’d be begging my bread in Underground and someone would be in this office who’d never tell them no.”
Flandry paused. He started a fresh cigaret with unnecessary concentration. I suppose I am being unjust to him, he thought. Poor devil. It can’t be much fun being Fenross.
Still, he reflected, Aycharaych had left the Solar System so smoothly that the space ambush had never even detected his boat. Twenty-odd hours ago, a battered scoutship had limped in to tell the Imperium that Vixen had perforce surrendered to its nameless besiegers, who had landed en masse after reducing the defenses. The last dispatch from Syrax described clashes which had cost the Terrans more ships than the Merseians. Jupiter blazed a mystery in the evening sky. Rumor said that after his human guests had left, Ruethen and his staff had rolled out huge barrels of bitter ale and caroused like trolls for many hours; they must have known some reason to be merry.
You couldn’t blame Fenross much. But would the whole long climb of man, from jungle to stars, fall back in destruction — and no single person even deserve to have his knuckles rapped for it?
“What about the reinforcements that were being sent to Vixen?” asked Flandry.
“They’re still on their way.” Fenross gulped his pill and relaxed a trifle. “What information we have, about enemy strength and so on, suggests that another standoff will develop. The aliens won’t be strong enough to kick our force out of the system—”
“Not with Tom Walton in command. I hear he is.” A very small warmth trickled into Flandry’s soul.
“Yes. At the same time, now the enemy is established on Vixen, there’s no obvious way to get them off without total blasting — which would sterilize the planet. Of course, Walton can try to cut their supply lines and starve them out; but once they get their occupation organized, Vixen itself will supply them. Or he can try to find out where they come from, and counter-attack their home. Or perhaps he can negotiate something. I don’t know. The Emperor himself gave Admiral Walton what amounts to carte blanche.”
It must have been one of His Majesty’s off days, decided Flandry. Actually doing the sensible thing.
“Our great handicap is that our opponents know all about us and we know almost nothing about them,” went on Fenross. “I’m afraid the primary effort of our Intelligence must be diverted toward Jupiter for the time being. But someone has to gather information at Vixen too, about the aliens.” His voice jerked to a halt.
Flandry filled his lungs with smoke, held it a moment, and let it out in a slow flood. “Eek,” he said tonelessly.
“Yes. That’s your next assignment.”
“But … me, alone, to Vixen? Surely Walton’s force carries a bunch of our people.”
“Of course. They’ll do what they can. But parallel operations are standard espionage procedure, as even you must know. Furthermore, the Vixenites made the dramatic rather than the logical gesture. After their planet had capitulated, they got one boat out, with one person aboard. The boat didn’t try to reach any Terrestrial ship within the system. That was wise, because the tiny force Aldebaran had sent was already broken in battle and reduced to sneak raids. But neither did the Vixenite boat go to Aldebaran itself. No, it came straight here, and the pilot expected a personal audience with the Emperor.”
“And didn’t get it,” foretold Flandry. “His Majesty is much too busy gardening to waste time on a mere commoner representing a mere planet.”
“Gardening?” Fenross blinked.
“I’m told His Majesty cultivates beautiful pansies,” murmured Flandry.
Fenross gulped and said in great haste: “Well, no, of course not. I mean, I myself interviewed the pilot, and read the report carried along. Not too much information, though helpful. However, while Walton has a few Vixenite refugees along as guides and advisors, this pilot is the only one who’s seen the aliens close up, on the ground, digging in and trading rifle shots with humans; has experienced several days of occupation before getting away. Copies of the report can be sent after Walton. But that first-hand knowledge of enemy behavior, regulations, all the little unpredictable details … that may also prove essential.”
“Yes,” said Flandry. “If a spy is to be smuggled back onto Vixen’s surface. Namely me.”
Fenross allowed himself a prim little smile. “That’s what I had in mind.”
Flandry nodded, unsurprised. Fenross would never give up trying to get him killed. Though in all truth, Dominic Flandry doubtless had more chance of pulling such a stunt and getting back unpunctured than anyone else.
He said idly: “The decision to head straight for Sol wasn’t illogical. If the pilot had gone to Aldebaran, then Aldebaran would have sent us a courier reporting the matter and asking for orders. A roundabout route. This way, we got the news days quicker. No, that Vixenite has a level head on his shoulders.”
“Hers,” corrected Fenross.
“Huh?” Flandry sat bolt upright.
“She’ll explain any details,” said Fenross. “I’ll arrange an open requisition for you: draw what equipment you think you’ll need. And if you survive, remember, I’ll want every millo’s worth accounted for. Now get out and get busy! I’ve got work to do.”
VII
The Hooligan snaked out of Terran sky, ran for a time on primary drive at an acceleration which it strained the internal grav-field to compensate for, and, having reached a safe distance from Sol, sprang over into secondary. Briefly the view-screens went wild with Doppler effect and aberration. Then their circuits adapted to the rate at which the vessel pulsed in and out of normal space-time-energy levels; they annulled the optics of pseudo-speed, and Flandry looked again upon cold many-starred night as if he were at rest.
He left Chives in the turret to make final course adjustments and strolled down to the saloon. “All clear,” he smiled. “Estimated time to Vixen, thirteen standard days.”
“What?” The girl, Catherine Kittredge, half rose from the luxuriously cushioned bench. “But it took me a month the other way, an’ I had the fastest racer on our planet.”
“I’ve tinkered with this one,” said Flandry, “Or, rather, found experts to do so.” He sat. down near her, crossing long legs and leaning an elbow on the mahogany table which the bench half-circled. “Give me a screwdriver and I’ll make any firearm in the cosmos sit up and speak. But space drives have an anatomy I can only call whimsical.”
He was trying to put her at ease. Poor kid, she had seen her home assailed, halfway in from the Imperial marches that were supposed to bear all the wars; she had seen friends and kinfolk slain in battle with unhuman unknowns, and heard the boots of an occupying enemy racket in once-familiar streets; she had fled to Terra like a child to its mother, and been coldly interviewed in an office and straightway bundled back onto a spaceship, with one tailed alien and one suave stranger. Doubtless an official had told her she was a brave little girl and now it was her duty to return as a spy and quite likely be killed. And meanwhile rhododendrons bloomed like cool fire in Terra’s parks, and the laughing youth of Terra’s aristocracy flew past on their way to some newly opened pleasure house.