The Star Fox

“There are a lot of stars,” Heim agreed, “but not an awful lot of planets where men can live. We need ’em.”

“So does Alerion.”

“Ja? What use is a people-type world to them? And even on their own kind of planet, why didn’t they ever colonize on anything like our scale, till we came along?”

“Response to our challenge,” Twyman said. “What would you do if an alien culture started grabbing planetary systems as near to Sol as Aurore is to The Eith?” He leaned back. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. The Aleriona are no saints. They’ve sometimes been fiends, by our standards. But we have to inhabit the same cosmos with them. War is unthinkable.”

“Why?” drawled Heim.

“What? Gunnar, are you out of your brain? Haven’t you read any history? Looked at the craters? Understood how close a call the Nuclear Exchange was?”

“So close a call that ever since the human race has been irrational on the subject,” Heim said, “But I’ve seen some objective analyses. And even you must admit that the Exchange and its aftermath rid us of those ideological governments.”

“An interstellar war could rid us of Earth!”

“Twaddle. A planet with space defenses like ours can’t be attacked from space by any fleet now in existence. Every beam would be attenuated, every missile intercepted, every ship clobbered.”

“That didn’t work for New Europe,” Twyman said. He was getting angry.

“No, of course not. New Europe didn’t have any space fortresses or home fleet. Nothing but a few lancers and pursuers that happened to be in the vicinity—when Alerion’s armada came.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gunnar. The affair was simply another clash, one that got out of hand.”

“So the Aleriona say,” Heim murmured. “If that’s the truth, how come none, not one, of our vessels escaped?”

Twyman ignored him. “We’ll never be sure who fired the first shot. But we can be sure the Aleriona wouldn’t have missiled New Europe if our commander hadn’t tried to pull his ships down into atmosphere for a toadhole maneuver. What other conceivable reason was there?”

If New Europe really was missiled, Heim thought. But it wasn’t.

The senator checked indignation, sat silent for a bit, and went on almost mildly. “The whole episode illustrates how intolerable the situation has become, how matters are bound to escalate if we don’t halt while we still can. And what do we want to fight for? A few wretched planets? We need only let Alerion’s traditional sphere alone, and the rest of the galaxy is open to us. Fight for revenge? Well, you can’t laugh off half a million dead human beings, but the fact remains that they are dead. I don’t want to send any more lives after theirs.”

“Okay,” Heim said with equal quietness. “What do, you figure to do?”

Twyman studied him before answering: “You’re my friend as well as a political backstop. I can trust you to keep your mouth shut. And to support me, I think, once you know. Do I have your promise?”

“Of secrecy … well … yes. Support? That depends. Say on.”

“The details are still being threshed out. But in general, Alerion offers us an indemnity for New Europe. A very sizable one. They’ll also buy out our other interests in the Phoenix. The exact terms have yet to be settled—obviously they can’t pay in one lump—but the prospect looks good. With us out of their sphere, they’ll recognize a similar one for humans around Sol, and keep away. But we aren’t building any walls, you understand. We’ll exchange ambassadors and cultural missions. A trade treaty will be negotiated in due time.

“There. Does that satisfy you?”

Heim looked into the eyes of a man he had once believed honest with himself, and said: “No.”

“Why not?” Twyman asked most softly.

“From a long-range viewpoint, your scheme ignores the nature of Alerion. They aren’t going to respect our sphere any longer than it takes them to consolidate the one you want to make them a present of. And I do mean a present—because until a trade treaty is agreed on, which I predict will be never, how can we spend any of that valuta they so generously pay over?”

“Gunnar, I know friends of yours have died at Aleriona hands. But it’s given you a persecution complex.”

“Trouble is, Harry,” Heim stole from Vadász, “the persecution happens to be real. You’re the one living in a dream. You’re so obsessed with avoiding war that you’ve forgotten every other consideration. Including honor.”

“What do you mean by that?” Twyman demanded.

“New Europe was not missiled. The colonists are not dead. They’ve taken to the hills and are waiting for us to come help them.”

“That isn’t so!”

“I have the proof right here on my desk.”

“You mean the documents that—that tramp forged?”

“They aren’t forgeries. It can be proved. Signatures, fingerprints, photographs, the very isotope ratios in film made on New Europe. Harry, I never thought you’d sell out half a million human beings.”