He throttled the impulsive thought that it might, against all logic and reason, be his promotion to admiralty. He had not achieved his present status by acting against logic. It followed, then, that he was either being court martialed for some unknown offense, or was being entrusted with a special mission. Of the two possibilities, the latter seemed the more likely. His last intelligences from the capital had indicated only growing strength among his contacts.
Still, he hated uncertainty. He called for his personal vehicle with a rasp in his voice, and stalked up the companionway at a pace that forced the messenger to bound.
Ten minutes later he sprang from his vehicle, the messenger having peeled off to go it afoot, and marched into the Port Director’s office, whence, shortly, he emerged by way of the rooftop platform. There he stepped into an official flyer, and was blasted across the sky at a screaming pace which almost, but not quite, matched the janglings galloping through his nerves. By the time he arrived at the capital he was still outwardly cool, as befitted his position, but he would have attacked mountain sajaks barehanded.
From its very beginning, the conference strained his nerves even more intolerably. It soon became evident that he was to be interviewed by the complete cabinet, and, when he finally entered the presence of the twelve men, he found himself confronted by a long table behind which they stood and stared at him silently.
He sat down and waited, his eyes slowly traveling up and down the table, his mental catalogues spinning as he tried to determine what course of conduct to pursue from his information about each man individually.
Finally, the Minister for Preparedness picked up a file— Henlo’s own Fleet dossier—opened it, studied it for a moment, and put it down. With that formal signal that the hearing had begun, the Minister for the Fleet began to speak.
“You are Captain D’ Henlo,” he stated.
Henlo nodded. “I am.”
“In command of Torener, City-Class sub-battleship, Fleet, currently fitting out at Port Terag.”
“Yes.”
The Minister for the Fleet nodded, and turned D’ Henlo over to the Minister for Preparedness.
“Captain Henlo,” the minister said, “we’ll begin by assuming that only the passage of time lies between you and important commands. Your record indicates as much, and your decorations bear it out.”
Henlo could see no advantage to himself in permitting the Minister to continue to believe that flattery could in any way alter his ingrained habits of caution and reserve.
“That is correct,” he said coldly and matter-of-factly. The Minister for Preparedness grinned with one corner of his mouth, and nodded a brief acknowledgment of the situation.
“Let us, then, proceed in accordance with that appraisal,” he said, this time sounding far more sincere.
“Captain Henlo,” he continued, “I am sure you realize that the Fleet is totally incapable of prosecuting a successful defense of the Farlan Union against the Vilkai hordes. I believe, too, that you are perfectly aware of the factors which create that incapability. But I shall not compromise you—or ourselves—by asking you to confirm this belief. Let it suffice for me to tell you that we are about to appoint a new Admiral-in-Chief.”
Inasmuch as Henlo had been keeping his features and bodily posture carefully inexpressive, he did not betray himself. But the tension of his nerves very nearly touched the danger point.
And still, something—some firmly-rooted, stubborn belief in his own thought processes—did not permit him to hope that the impossible gift was about to be given.
“Moreover,” the Minister for Preparedness went on, “we are about to appoint to this high position a man who is a completely unknown and obscure officer in the Reserve.”
Henlo’s tail jumped once, quivered, and lashed out again in a vicious blow at the unheeding air. Then he had control of himself once more.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your composure,” the minister said. “I hope it is indicative of the attitude with which other officers will greet the news.”
Inwardly, Henlo was a riot of triggered emotions and flashing thought. He, too, congratulated himself on having lost control where it would not be noticed. But that was the only crumb of comfort he could offer himself.
A Reserve officer! Well, perhaps—just perhaps—that might not be the mortal insult a line officer’s jump would have been. Paradoxically, Reserve officers were so far beyond the pale that most line men considered them incapable of affecting a regular fleet man enough to insult him. It remained to be seen how they’d react to following a pariah’s orders.
But to have that as yet unnamed man do the very thing that Henlo had decided was impossible for himself! Henlo could not, honestly, decide whether to chuckle at such audacity or be overwhelmed with resentment. In either case, his emotional attitude would have no effect on the plan which he was already beginning to formulate for the man’s eventual removal.
He returned his full attention to the Minister of Preparedness.
“The officer,” the minister resumed, “is L’ Miranid, and I assure you that he is a military genius. We are fully confident that, under his command, the Fleet will be able to defeat the Vilkai hordes.”
Ah? And where had they found this paragon? But that was relatively unimportant. Probably he’d been instructing in tactics at some insignificant school. Offhand, Henlo could recall no one named Miranid, but it was a likely-enough name. He pried at its etymology and decided that it probably derived from the occupational cognomen “ranis,” or metalworker. Which, of course, meant smith, and was at least of some use as an insight on the man’s hereditary character. Most descendants of smiths called themselves by the plain ‘Kalvit.’
There was the faint possibility that Miranid might suffer from the fatal weakness of pretentiousness. With that theory as a tentative start, Henlo was able to give part of his mind something with which to occupy itself while he outwardly devoted all his attention to the minister.
“Therefore,” the minister was saying, “we have assigned your ship, Torener, to his flag. You will make the requisite preparations to quarter him in accordance with his station.”
Henlo nodded.
“And, you will serve not only as ship commander under his direction, but will be his aide for the duration of hostilities.”
Henlo nodded again, inwardly glowing with satisfaction. He’d have the man where he could observe his character— and learn from him.
The Minister for Preparedness picked up Henlo’s dossier again, leafed to the very last page, and extracted the flimsy.
“I will now read the following officer’s dossier copy of orders as issued by the Minister for the Fleet and endorsed by the Minister for Preparedness:
“Subject: Elevation in rank.
“A vacancy for the position of Admiral-in-Chief of the Grand Farlan Starfleet exists due to the death in battle of Admiral L’ Miranid.
“Vice-Admiral D’ Henlo is therefore directed to assume command of the Grand Farlan Starfleet with the title and permanent rank of Admiral-in-Chief.
“As signed, endorsed and executed this day …”
The Minister for Preparedness stopped reading at that point, and returned the flimsy to its place in the file.
“The date, unfortunately, is yet to be determined,” he said, staring fixedly at Henlo. “It will coincide with the date of that battle which, in your judgment, determines the issue beyond doubt in Farla’s favor. Have I made myself clear?”
Henlo nodded. “Yes, sir, very clear.” As Henlo spoke he sent a quick look up and down the ministerial ranks. The thought struck him that the ministers might be incapable of educating good line officers, but that they were certainly nonpareils at picking assassins.