“This would be piracy,” Coquelin sighed.
“No… wait, wait, wait.” The thought flamed into being. Heim sprang to his feet. “Privateers.
Once upon a time there were privately owned warships.”
“Eh, you have read a little history, I see.” Some life came back to Coquelin. He sat straighter and watched the huge, restless figure with eyes again alert. “But I have read more. Privateering was outlawed in the nineteenth century. Even countries not signatory to that pact observed the prohibition, until it came to be regarded as a part of international law. Admitted, the Federal Constitution does not mention so archaic a matter. Still—”
“Exactly!” Heim roared; or was it the demon that had come to birth in his skull?
“No, no, flout the law and the Peace Control forces arrive. I am too old and tired, me, to stand trial before the World Court. To say nothing of the practical difficulties. France cannot declare war by herself. France cannot produce nuclear weapons.” Coquelin uttered a small sad chuckle. “I am a lawyer by past profession. It there were a, you say loophole? I could perhaps squirm through. But here—”
Word by word, Heim said: “I can get hold of the weapons.”
Coquelin leaped in his seat. “Qu’est-ce que vous dites?”
“Off Earth. I know a place. Don’t you see—Alerion has to put space defenses in orbit around New Europe, or she can’t hold it against any determined attack.” Heim was leaning on the desk now, nose to nose with the other, talking like a machine gun. “New Europe has only a limited industry. So the Aleriona will have to bring most of the stuff from home. A long supply line. One commerce raider—what’d that do to their bargaining position? What’d it do for our own poor buffaloed people? One ship!”
“But I have told you—”
“You told me it was physically and legally impossible. I can prove the physical possibility.
And you said you were a lawyer.”
Coquelin rose too, went to the window, and stared long out across the Seine. Heim’s pace quivered the floor. His brain whirled with plans, data, angers, hopes; he had not been so seized by a power since he bestrode his bridge at Alpha Eridani.
And then Coquelin turned about. His whisper filled the silence: “Peut-etre—” and he went to the desk and began punching keys on an infotrieve.
“What are you after?” Heim demanded.
“Details of the time before quite every country had joined the Federation. The Moslem League did not recognize that it had any right as a whole to deal with them. So during the troubles, the Authority was charged with protecting Federation interests in Africa.” Coquelin gave himself entirely to his work. Once, though, he met Heim’s eyes. His own danced in his head.
“Mille remercîments, mon frère,” he said. “It may be for no more than this night, but you have given me back my youth.”
V
Endre Vadász took the lid off the kettle, inhaled a sumptuous odor, gave the contents a stir, and recovered them. “Almost done, this,” he said. “I had better make the salad. Have you the materials ready?”
Lisa Heim blushed. “I… I’m afraid I’m not so good at slicing cucumbers and stuff,” she said.
“Poof to that.” Vadász scooped the disorderly pile of greens into a bowl. “For a cadet, you do very well… Find me the seasonings, will you? One must needs be an engineer to operate this damned machine shop you call a kitchen… As I was saying, small one, when I so rudely interrupted myself, we shall yet win you to your cook and bottle washer (j.g.) rating. Charge, a boar’s head erased with an apple gules in its mouth, field barry of six vert and or. That’s for cabbage and clotted cream.”
Lisa giggled and hopped onto the table, where she swung her legs and watched Vadász with embarrassing warmth. He had only tried to be good company to his host’s daughter while her father was away. He gave the herbs and spices more attention than was really necessary.
“My mother taught me a Spanish saying,” he remarked, “that it takes four men to make a salad: a spendthrift for the oil, a philosopher for the seasonings, a miser for the vinegar, and a madman for the tossing.”
Lisa giggled again. “You’re cute.”
“Er—here we go.” Vadász got to work, singing.
“Is that a real old song too?” Lisa asked when he paused for breath. He nodded. “I just love your songs,” she said.
Vadász continued hastily.
Lisa grabbed a skillet and spoon to beat out time as, she joined him in the chorus.
“Hi-ro-de-rungl Hi-ro-de-rung!” chimed in a bull basso. Gunnar Heim stormed through the door.
“Skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, skinna-ma-rinky doodle doo, (“Daddy!” “Gunnar!”).
“Glory, hallelujah, hi-ro-de-rung!” He snatched Lisa off the table, tossed her nearly to the ceiling, caught her, and began to whirl her around the floor. Vadász went merrily on. Helm took the chorus while he stamped out a measure with the girl, who squealed.
“Oh, Daddy!” Lisa collapsed in a laughing fit.
“Welcome home,” Vadász said. “You timed yourself well.”
“What’s going on here, anyway?” Heim inquired. “Where are the servants? Why put a camp stove in a perfectly good kitchen?”
“Because machines are competent enough cooks but will never be chefs,” Vadász said. “I promised your daughter a goulash, not one of those lyophilized glue-stews but a genuine handmade Gulyás and sneeze-with-joy in the spices.”
“Oh. Fine. Only I’d better get me—”
“Nothing. A Hungarian never sets the table with less than twice as much. You may, if you wish, contribute some red wine. So, once more, welcome home, and it is good to see you in this humor.”
“With reason.” Heim rubbed his great hands and smiled like a happy tiger. “Yes, indeedy.”
“What have you done, Daddy?” Lisa asked.
“’Fraid I can’t tell you, jente min. Not for a while.” He saw the first symptoms of mutiny, chucked her under the chin, and said, “It’s for your own protection.”