The Star Fox

“Um-m-m.” Heim considered. His gaze went past Ro, to Galveth, who waited impassively for something to be said that might concern the Lodge. But the blast gun remained idly cradled in the observer’s arms. If Galveth had any expression, it was of sleepiness, his yellow eyes drooping. A human could never be sure, though, what went on in the narrow Staurni skulls.

It was even hard to tell individuals apart. A common alienness outweighed variable details. Ro and Galveth were each about three meters long; but half of that was in the thick, rudder-tipped tail, on whose double coil the legless torso sat. The keelbone jutted like a prow. The face was sharp-muzzled, with wolfishly fanged mouth and small round ears. Its mask appearance came less from the dark band across the eyes than from the nostrils being hidden under the chin. A gray growth, neither hair nor feathers but something in between, covered the entire hide. No clothes were worn except two pouched belts crossing from shoulder to waist. All was overshadowed by the immense chiropteran wings, seven meters in span.

When you looked closely, you saw differences, mainly that Galveth had grown lean and frosty-tinged while Ro was still in the fierceness of youth. And Galveth wore the gold-ornamented harness reserved for Lodge members, Ro the red-and-black geometry of Trebogir’s pattern.

Heim turned to Koumanoudes. “What do you think?” he asked.

The stocky man shrugged. “I’m no engineer.”

“But damnation, you and Wong have spent a couple of months here. You must have some notion who’s honest and competent, who isn’t.”

“Oh, that. Sure. Trebogir isn’t one of the robber barons. He has a good name. You can deal with him.”

“Okay.” Heim reached a decision. “Tell this messenger, then, that I am interested. I’ll call C.E. down from Fox as soon as possible—right now he’s got to help the contractor from the Hurst of Wenilwain install our fire-control computers—and we’ll come to the Aerie and talk further about the proposal.”

“You can’t be that blunt,” Koumanoudes said. “Lodge members are, but they’re different. A Nester is worse than an Arab or a Japanese for wanting flowery language.” He turned and began to form syllables.

Through the wind that rustled the low red-leaved forest surrounding the spaceport, through the beat of surf a kilometer distant, a sudden whine smote. It grew, became thunderous, the heavy air was split and a shadow fell across concrete field and lava-block buildings. Every head swung up.

A rounded cylinder was descending. The blue-white radiance was savage off its metal; spots danced before Heim’s eyes when he turned them away. But he recognized the make. The heart jumped in his breast. “A spaceship! Human built—What’s going on?”

“I … don’t … know.” Behind the dark faceplate, Koumanoudes’ big-nosed countenance harshened. “Nobody said a word. Galveth!” He rattled off a question.

The Lodge agent made a bland reply. “He says he didn’t think it mattered,” Koumanoudes translated.

“Blaze,” Heim said in anger, “he knows about the Aleriona crisis! He must have at least some inkling of our trouble with our own government. The Lodge must’ve stopped that ship for inspection no later than yesterday. Why haven’t we been warned?”

“I’m not sure how much the Staurni ever understood,” Koumanoudes said. “To them it’s ridiculous that we couldn’t arm ourselves at home and take off whenever we wanted. Besides, those people can’t have any real weapons along, or they wouldn’t’ve been allowed to land.”

“They can have small arms,” Heim snapped. “We do. Get rid of these bucks as fast as you can, Greg, and come inboard. I’ve got to alert the boys.”

He strode rapidly across the platform to the landing ramp and up to the airlock. There he must fume while pumps replaced the atmosphere of Staurn with something he could breathe, and while he himself was decompressed. The baffled rage that he had thought was left behind on Earth came back to possess him. So much could have happened in the couple of weeks that Fox II had needed to cross the hundred-odd light-years to this star, or in the three weeks that followed while she was being refitted. If the appeasement party had won out, if his privateering venture had been declared illegal—

Of course, he told himself, over and over, that’s not a Federation Navy ship. She’s a small civilian ranger. But then, the Staurni don’t let any warcraft but their own near this planet. If she’s simply bringing an official order for me to come home—Well, all right, face the question: what then? Do I go on anyway—as a pirate?