"But Prescott is insane!" Wister shot back so stridently Waldeck winced. "The people may not realize it now, but they will! I'll make it my special task to see to it that the truth about his bungling of the so-called 'April's Fool' battle-and at the Battle of AP-5, as well-is made a part of the public record! 'War hero,' indeed! Why, he might as well be one of those horrid Orions himself!"
Waldeck opened his mouth . . . then closed it. Sometimes a man simply had to know when there was no longer any point trying to explain, and this was one of them. Mukerji had been a useful tool for decades, but the only thing to do with any tool was to discard it when it broke. And thanks to Sandra Delmore's reports, Mukerji was definitely a broken tool.
At this particular moment the Terran electorate-including Wister's mush-minded constituents-were convinced that Raymond Porter Prescott had single-handedly defeated the entire Bug omnivoracity . . . and probably killed the last Bug emperor in hand-to-hand combat. The fact that any halfway competent flag officer could have defeated the Bugs with the immense material superiority the Corporate Worlds had provided was completely lost upon the hero-worshipping proles, and they would have no mercy on anyone who dared to trifle with the object of their veneration.
It was a pity, really, but there it was. That blind adulation was the true explanation for the fury which had swept that electorate when Delmore's "exposé" of Mukerji's . . . confrontation with Prescott broke. If a few more years had passed, the Heart World sheep would have forgotten all about any sense of indebtedness to Prescott. But they hadn't, and as the public denunciation swelled, the rest of the media-sensing blood in the water, and not particularly caring whose blood it was-had picked the story up with glee. They could be counted upon to keep it alive for months, at the very least.
Unless, of course, the Naval Affairs Committee took action against the source of the public's discontent. Which would necessarily mean tossing Mukerji off the sled before the wolves caught it.
The real question in Waldeck's mind was what to do about Wister. He'd been able to sit on her during the war, but her present stridency wasn't a good sign. The idiot really believed the nonsense she spouted, and the last six or seven years of being forcibly restrained from airing her idiocy in public appeared to have pushed her over the edge. She seemed unable to understand that the mere fact that the war was over wasn't going to automatically and instantly restore the universe she'd inhabited before the Bugs came along. And like any petulant, spoiled adolescent who wanted back the world in which she had been the center of everything that mattered, she was perfectly prepared to pitch a public tantrum until she got her way. Which could have . . . unpleasant consequences for her political allies.
No, he decided. She'd been another useful tool, but, like Mukerji, she was scarcely irreplaceable. Of course, it would have to be done carefully. In fact, it might be that the Delmore story offered an opportunity to kill two birds with a single stone. If he handled it right, he could distance himself from the Mukerji fallout by making it appear that Wister had been the political admiral's patron. And if he gave her enough rope in the public hearings, let her babble away in public the way she was now, he could confidently count on her to destroy any credibility she might have retained if she or Mukerji tried to deny the relationship. And when Chairman Waldeck found himself "forced" by the mounting examples of Mukerji's incompetence and cowardice to turn against his political protector Wister-more in sorrow than in anger, of course . . .
It was always so convenient to have someone else one could use as the anchor to send one's own unfortunate political baggage straight to the bottom.
He considered the proposition for a few more seconds, then nodded mentally, and turned to Wister with an expression of thoughtful concern.
"Protecting Mukerji against these charges will be politically risky, Bettina," he told her in a carefully chosen tone.
"Protecting him against the vicious accusations of a violent, bloodsoaked butcher like Prescott," Wister shot back, completely ignoring the fact that Raymond Prescott had yet to make a single public statement in the case, "is the Right Thing to Do!"
"I didn't say it wasn't," Waldeck said in that same artfully anxious voice. "I only meant that it would require someone willing to put his-or her-political career on the line in defense of his political principles."
"I have never hesitated for an instant to stand up for the things in which I believe!" Wister declared, and Waldeck was careful to keep any sign of elation from crossing his face.
"Well, in that case," he told her with admirable resolution, "I'll have the Committee staff began assembling evidence in the matter immediately."
The Sanchez house, a rambling retirement villa, crowned a bluff looking eastward to Orphicon's Naiad Ocean. Ramon and Elena had occasionally considered selling the place. They weren't getting any younger, and their granddaughter-for their daughter had made clear to them that the blond toddler she'd brought through hell and adopted was precisely that-had always had a hair-raising love of playing along the edge of the cliff whose foot the waves lapped at high tide. Even now, just turned twelve, she often went there alone and looked out to sea as though waiting for someone.
This time, she really was.
Lydia Sanchez-born Lydia Sergeyevna Borisova on a world called Golan A II, about which the grownups always avoided speaking-stood on the bluff under a sky as blue as her eyes and as vast as all heaven, silent amid the screeching of the Terran-descended seabirds. The wind stirred her hair and sent her lightweight shift flapping against her slender no-longer-quite-child's form. She didn't notice the chill. Her mother was late.
Yes, her mother-the only mother she'd ever truly known. Oh, there'd been a woman once, whose face Lydia sometimes glimpsed fleetingly in her dreams. A woman who'd sung her to sleep with lullabies about the witch Baba Yaga, and the Firebird, and Vasilisa the Brave. A woman who'd called her Lydochka.
She never heard that diminutive here; Orphicon's ethnic stew contained few Russian ingredients. No, there was only one person who ever called her that. . . .
"Lydochka!"
She whirled around and saw a figure running up the pathway from the house-a figure whose TFN black-and-silver was already opened at the collar in its wearer's haste to get it off.
"Mom!" she squealed, and ran into an embrace that lasted and lasted, the black hair mingling with the blond.
When Irma Sanchez could finally force words past a constricted throat, all that came out was, "Oh God, honey, I'm so sorry I missed your birthday!"
Lydia giggled.
"Oh, that's all right, Mom." She tried to hug Irma even harder, but recoiled with an "Ouch!" She looked down at that which had jabbed her. A little golden lion gleamed against the midnight tunic.
Lydia looked up-not very far up, for she was already almost as tall as her mother. She'd known about it, of course-her grandparents were practically inarticulate with pride. But now she found she didn't know what to say.
"Uh . . . it's very pretty, Mom."
"Pretty? Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Irma, very softly. She lifted up the golden lion, hanging from its varicolored ribbon. It flashed in the sun.
Lydia was puzzled, for her mother's eyes were focused far away. She had no way of knowing how far-in time as well as in distance, and beyond the veil that sunders the living from the dead. The dead went by names like Eilonwwa, Meswami, Georghiu, Togliatti . . . and Armand. And then there was Armand's unborn child, to whom Irma could not even give a name, for they'd never chosen one. They'd had all the time in the world.