Or, he corrected himself with a worse pang of alarm than any the sight of Veran’s sentries could have evoked in him, has always healed itself... so far!
He, this person Corson, felt himself to be the heir of millions and billions of men born and dead in the past, who with their bodies and their lives had woven the grand tapestry of history. He felt answerable to billions upon billions of men yet to come. He was going to give them a chance and offer a solution to those who were dead.
This potential fight wasn’t even an important war, yet no war anywhere—anywhen—had ever been more important. A battle in which spaceships by the millions clashed against each other, like those of six thousand years before, was no more important than the first squabble between cavemen throwing undressed stones. It was a matter of your point of view.
The curtain of the trees grew thinner. Crazy lights appeared. A fine purple trace, which Corson knew to be deadly, cut across the night in a dotted line broken where tree trunks obscured it. At a sign from him the Urians stopped dead, in perfect silence. He could barely make out their quick shallow breathing.
They had agreed that Corson would go forward by himself and talk alone to Veran until a preliminary agreement was reached, but they had attached a sound pickup to his neck. He did not doubt that Ngal R’nda would be listening.
The dotted line vanished. Corson hesitated.
A calm voice hailed them from the camp: “Corson, I know you’re there!”
It was Veran. Corson strode forward toward the harsh disc of a searchlight, pretending not to notice the weapons trained on his back and now on his chest as well.
“So you’ve come back. And found time to change your clothes, I see!” The voice was tinged with sarcasm rather than anger; Veran knew how to control himself. “And you’ve tucked the woman away in a safe place!”
“But I’m here,” Corson said simply.
“I knew you’d come back. A short reconnaissance into the future told me that. Just as I knew where to find you the first time. After all, it was you who picked this spot for me. I presume you had a good reason for offering me a base to refit after our setback at Aergistal, and it follows that you must have something to tell me.”
“I have a proposition to put to you,” Corson said.
“Come a little closer. I can’t leave a gap in my perimeter indefinitely, you know.”
Corson walked forward. The purple line reappeared behind him. He felt in his bones its characteristic vibration.
“So, Corson, what have you to offer?”
“An alliance. And don’t you need one!”
Veran did not even blink. His gray eyes shone in the glare of the searchlights. He looked like a crude statue, barely outlined. His men were a match for him. Two stood at his back, one on either side, motionless, frozen, but fingers no doubt ready on the triggers of the little guns they held, like tiny cannon with points instead of muzzles; one might have taken them for toys. Six more men formed a rough semicircle at whose center stood Corson. They were just far enough away for him to be unable to reach any of them with a desperate bound, even though it cost him his life, before they had time to fire. These were professionals all right, and in a way that was a comfort. They would not risk shooting on impulse before receiving the order or before being genuinely threatened.
Only Veran held no gun. His hands were out of sight behind his back, right fingers no doubt clutching left wrist; it was a customary stance for colonels. In another life, another age, Corson had often had to deal with colonels.
Veran would not be an easy man to persuade.
“I could kill you,” he said. “I haven’t done so because of that message you sent me. It bailed me out of a nasty jam. I’m waiting for an explanation, though.”
“Naturally,” Corson said.
“It was you who sent the message, was it? Or could it have been someone else?”
“Such as who?” Corson answered in a level voice.
A message signed by him that he didn’t remember sending! Which he would not even have known how to address to Veran. And which, beyond doubt, arranged a meeting place, identified this world, this spot, and this moment, and suggested a means of getting away from Aergistal at a point when the situation grew too hot for comfort. A message which he would send later on. That message might form part of the plan he was beginning to construct. Which suggested that in the future there would be another version of the scheme, more solid, more detailed. A version which he would perhaps evolve himself when he knew—and was able to tackle—a lot more. Already, though, he was uncovering snippets of it.
But if something went wrong, if Veran did not consent to the alliance, would he still be able to send that message? Since he knew of its existence, and without it Veran would not have come to Uria, he would be obliged to send it. But when would that happen? When would he think of it—now, later, when? Would he send it if he was unaware that Veran had received it?
It was no good. Trying to work out a strategy, or even a theory of war, in time was too difficult. First he must make a practical experiment.
“You’re taking a long time to think before you talk,” Veran said. “I don’t like that.”
“I have a great deal to discuss. Out here is not the ideal place.” Veran made a sign. One of his men said, “He’s not carrying a gun. Nor a bomb. He does have a transmitter on his neck, but it’s sound only, no pictures.”
“Fair enough,” Veran said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 27
“Every man has an objective in life,” Veran mused. “Even if he doesn’t realize it. What I don’t understand, Corson, is what you’re after. Some people are driven by ambition, like me, some by fear, others still—in certain epochs—by a lust for money. And whether they make out well or badly, their actions are like arrows all pointing toward their target. But I can’t see your target, Corson, and I don’t like that. I don’t enjoy dealing with someone whose objective I can’t comprehend.”
“Say that I’m motivated by both ambition and fear, then,” Corson answered. “I want to become important, with the help of the Urians. And I’m scared because I’m a war criminal, a hunted man. Like you, Veran.”
“Colonel Veran, if you please!”
“Like yon—Colonel. I have no special wish to go back to Aergistal, to live out an endless stupid war. Does that make sense?”
“You do know, then,” Veran said slowly, “that at Aergistal wars never have any point? That there’s nothing to conquer up there?”
“I did get that impression.”
“Your attitude is overlogical. When an enemy wants to make you believe he’s going to execute a certain maneuver, he provides good solid reasons for doing it. He hides behind them, and does something else. And there you are walking into a trap.”
“You want me to break down and cry? Because I’m a poor devil lost in space and time, dragged off Aergistal by a slave dealer and sold to a bunch of fanatical birds? Sorry!”
“That message!” Veran snapped.
Corson laid his hands flat on the table and with an effort compelled his muscles to relax.
“You said you sent it to me with the help of the Urians. I’ve mislaid it. Can you remind me of what it said?”
“I made a date with you here, Colonel. I told you how to get away from Aergistal. I—”