The Far Shore of Time

“It isn’t much, Beert,” I told him. “First suspicious move either of them makes, the guards will destroy it.”

“Even so,” he said flatly, closing the discussion. So I told the deputy director:

“He can’t do it.”

He didn’t believe me. “So what was all that palaver about?” he demanded.

“He was telling me all the reasons he couldn’t do it. I didn’t understand most of it.”

He gave me one of those deputy director looks. “Do you know what I think, Dannerman?” he asked. “I think your pal isn’t being entirely frank with us. Maybe he needs a little encouragement.”

I didn’t like the way his mind was going. “If you’re talking about beating the piss out of him, that’s against Bureau policy, isn’t it?”

“Only against human beings, Dannerman. Nobody ever said anything about space freaks.”

It was impossible for me to tell how serious he was. So I reminded him that not only was Beert a good friend to whom we owed a debt, but we knew so little of his anatomy that torture might kill him. He sniffed, meaning I did not know what. “Time’s up,” he said. “You’re needed back at Camp Smolley.” And that was all he said.

On the way back we had to wait for the dolly to lift Hilda into the chopper. I took advantage of the moment of privacy to try to get back on the sort of fellowship I owed Beert. I tried to tell him I knew how he must be feeling, but he didn’t let me get very far.

“Do you indeed, Dan?” he asked angrily, but then collected himself. “I suppose you do. Do not concern yourself about it. This is my personal worry, not yours.”

“What worry do you mean?”

He waved both arms and neck unhappily. “It is simply that I feel I may have made a mistake. I think I will never see my Greatmother again ... and that may be as well, for I think she would not approve.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Between the 1730-1930 Debriefing, solo and the 2100-2200 Debriefing, submarine, with Docs there was an hour and a half marked for dinner. This time it was real. Hilda not only gave me all that time for a leisurely meal, she let me have it in the little apartment belonging to Pat and Dan M., and she left us alone for it.

It wasn’t exactly a home-cooked meal. It seemed they didn’t do much cooking, because both of them worked for a living. Dan-that Dan-was in charge of Camp Smolley’s resident aliens, their Dopey and Mrrranthoghrow; he told me that right now the job mostly amounted to monitoring all the Dopey’s contacts to keep him from learning anything about the captured sub and Beert. It wasn’t a demanding job. The Dopey’s contacts were few; he had been well and truly interrogated long since, and there weren’t many questions left to ask him.

Dan M. was waiting for me when I got to the apartment. He offered me a drink, and I took it gladly-it was the first I’d been allowed since I got back. “Pat’ll be along in a minute,” he told me, as he poured the Canadian and ginger ale-naturally he didn’t have to ask what I preferred. As I was holding the copper-mesh babushka out of the way with one hand in order to lift the glass to my lips, he gave me a disapproving look. “Why don’t you take that thing off?” he asked. “We aren’t going to be talking any military secrets here, are we?”

“Well, Hilda said-“ I began, and then reconsidered. Hilda, after all, wasn’t there, and the thing certainly was a damned nuisance. I slipped it off and set it down on the floor next to my chair.

“Better?” he asked. “Fine. Now you can look over the menu and see what you like.” He scrolled the screen for me, offering comments. The gazpacho was more or less all right, but they made it with canned tomatoes; the soup of the day, though generally canned, was better. He didn’t recommend any of the fish, but the steaks were pretty good. So I studied the menu with care, not so much because I was having trouble making up my mind as because I was feeling a little uneasy. It was the first time the other Dan and I had been alone together.

It didn’t seem to be bothering him much-well, he’d had the practice. He freshened my drink without being asked, and politely offered to show me around the apartment. I said no. I could see the workroom and bathroom from where I sat; the kitchen was only a little appendage off the main room, and I had no interest in visiting the bedroom he and Pat shared. I don’t mean that I was consumed with jealousy, exactly. I just didn’t choose to look at their bed.