"And that's how you all feel?"
There was a murmur of agreement from around the table.
DeVore sighed heavily. "I thought as we'd come so far ..."
They were watching him now. Wondering what he would do.
DeVore tapped the file, suddenly more animated, his voice holding the slightest trace of anger. "I had plans. Schemes for new campaigns. Ways to finish what we had so successfully begun."
"Successfully?" Douglas laughed sharply. "I'm sorry, Howard, but in that you're wrong. We lost. And we lost heavily. Berdichev, Lehmann, and Wyatt. Duchek, Weis, and Barrow. They're all dead. Along with more than two thousand other, lesser members of our 'revolution.' One hundred and eighteen companies have ceased trading, their assets and holdings confiscated by the Seven. And the Seven are still there, stronger than ever, more dominant than ever."
"No. You're wrong. The Seven are weak now. Weaker than they've been in their entire history. The Council has lost four of its most experienced members in the last six years. The new T'ang are young and inexperienced. Not only that, but the older T'ang have lost the confidence, the certainty, they once possessed. Once it was considered inconceivable to challenge the Seven. But now ..."
"Now we understand why."
DeVore shook his head, then, resignedly, sat again. ;
Douglas watched him a moment, then looked down. "I'm sorry, Howard. I know how you must feel. You were closer to it all than we were. The fortresses. The campaigns. These were your projects—your children, if you like. It must be hard to give them up. But it's over. We would just be throwing good money after bad if we continued to support it all."
DeVore lifted his head, then smiled and shrugged. His voice was softer, more reconciled. "Well, as you say, old friend. But you're still wrong. We shook the tree. Can't you see that? It almost fell."
Douglas looked away, his disagreement implicit in that gesture. "What will you do?"
DeVore stared down at the two files, as if undecided. "I don't know. Wind it all down here, I guess."
"And after that?"
DeVore was still staring at the folders, his hunched shoulders and lowered head indicative of his disappointment. "Go to Mars, maybe."
"Mars?"
He looked up. "They say it's where the future lies. The Seven have a weaker hold out there."
"Ah . . ." Douglas hesitated a moment, then looked about him once more. "Well, Howard. I think we've said all we came to say. We'd best be getting back."
DeVore stood up. "Of course. It was good seeing you all a last time. I wish you luck in all your ventures. And thank you, gentlemen. For all you did. It was good of you."
He embraced each one as they left, then went to the window, staring out at the jagged landscape of rock and ice and snow. He was still there, watching, ten minutes later, as their craft lifted from the hangar and slowly banked away to the right. For a moment its shadow flitted across the escarpment opposite, then, with a sudden, shocking brightness, it exploded. The shock of the explosion struck a moment later, rattling the empty glasses on the table.
He saw the fireball climb the sky, rolling over and over upon itself; heard the roar of the explosion roll like a giant clap of thunder down the valley and return a moment later. A million tiny incandescent fragments showered the mountainside, melting the snow where they fell, hissing and bubbling against the glass only a hand's width from his face. Then there was silence.
DeVore turned. Lehmann was standing in the doorway.
"What is it, Stefan?"
Lehmann looked past him a moment, as if recollecting what he had just seen. Then he came forward, handing DeVore a note. It was from Douglas. Handwritten. DeVore unfolded it and read.
Dear Howard,
I'm sorry it didn't work out. We tried. We really did try, didn't we? But life goes on. This is just to say that if ever you need anything—anything at all—just say.
With deep regard,
John Douglas.
DeVore stared at it a moment longer, then screwed it into a ball and threw it down. Anything. . . The words were meaningless. The man had given up. He and all the rest like him. Well, it was time now to go deeper, lower, to cultivate a different class of rebel. To shake the tree of state again. And shake and shake and shake. Until it fell.
THE officers club at Bremen was a spacious, opulently decorated place. Dark-suited Han servants, their shaven heads constantly bowed, moved silently between the huge round-topped tables that lay like islands in an ocean of green-blue carpet. Tall pillars edged the great central hexagon, forming a walkway about the tables, like the cloisters of an ancient monastery, while fifty chi overhead the hexagonal paneling of the ceiling was a mosaic of famous battles, the Han victorious in all.
It was late afternoon and most of the tables were empty, but off to the right, halfway between the great double doorway and the bar, a group of eight officers was gathered about a table, talking loudly. Their speech, and the clutter of empty bottles on the table, betrayed that they were somewhat the worse for drink. However, as none of them was less than captain in rank, the duty officers smiled and turned away, allowing behavior they would not have tolerated from lesser-ranking officers.
The focus of this group was the young Major, Hans Ebert, the "Hero of Hammer-fest," who had been regaling them with stories about the reception he had attended that afternoon. Now, however, the conversation had moved on into other channels, and the low, appreciative laughter held a suggestion of dark enjoyments.
Auden, seeing how things were drifting, directed the conversation back to his superior. That was his role—to keep his master central at all times. Unlike the others, he had barely touched his drink all afternoon. It was not evident, for he seemed to lift his drink as often to his lips and refill his glass as often from the bottle, but his speech, unlike the others, was clear, precise.
"And you, Hans? How is that lady you were seeing?"
Ebert looked aside, smiling rakishly. "Which of my ladies would that be, Will?"
Auden leaned forward to tap the end of his cigar against the tray, then sat back again in his chair. "You know the one. The Minister's wife."
There was a gasp of surprise and admiration. A Minister's wife! That smelled of danger. And danger was an aphrodisiac they all understood.
"Yes, tell us, Hans," said Scott, his eyes bright with interest.
Ebert sipped at his glass relaxedly, then looked about the circle of eager, watching faces.
"She's my slave," he said calmly. "I can make her do anything I want. Anything at all. Take the other day, for instance. I had her two maids strip her and hold her down while I beat her with my cane. Then, while she watched, I had her maids. Afterward, she was begging for it. But I shook my head. 'You have to earn it,' I said. 'I want you to show me how much you love your maids.' "
"No!" said Panshin, a rather portly Colonel. "And did she?"
Ebert sipped again. "Didn't I say she was my slave?" He smiled. "Right in front of me she got down on the floor with her maids and rolled about for more than twenty minutes, until all three of them were delirious, begging me to join them."
Fest's eyes were bulging. "And then you gave her one?"
Ebert set his glass down and slowly shook his head. "Nothing so simple. You see, I have this ritual."
"Ritual?" Scott swigged down his brandy with a quick tilt of his head, then set his glass down hard on the table. "What kind of ritual?"
"I had all three of them kneel before me, naked, their heads bowed. Then I called them forward, one at a time, to kneel before the god and kiss the god's head. As each did so they had to repeat a few words. You know the sort of thing. 'I promise to be faithful and obedient to the god and do whatever the god wishes.' That sort of thing."