The Star Fox

“Mother was so excited when she heard,” Danielle said. “I think Father got a little jealous. But now he likes you.”

“Your father is a good man.” It was infuriating to be confined to this first-grade vocabulary.

“May I ask you something, monsieur?” “Ask me anybody.” The one rebellious lock of hair had gotten free again.

“I have heard that we who go to Earth do so to appeal for help. Do you really think we will matter that much?”

“Well, uh, well, we had a necessity to come here. That is to say, we have now made establish communication from your people to mine in space. So we can also take people like you away.”

A crease of puzzlement flitted between her brows. “But they have spoken of how difficult it was to get so big a ship down without being seen. Could you not better have taken a little one?”

“You are very clever, mademoiselle, but—” Before he could construct a cover-up, she touched his arm (how lightly!) and said:

“You came as you did, risking your life, for Mother’s sake. Is that not so?”

“Uh, uh, well, naturally I thought over her. We are old friends.”

She smiled. “Old sweethearts, I have heard. Not all the knights are dead, Captain. I sat with you today, instead of joining in the music, because you were so beautiful to watch.”

His heart sprang until he realized she had been using the second person plural. He hoped the sunset light covered the hue his face must have. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “your mother and I are friends. Only friends.”

“Oh, but of course. I understand. Still, it was so good of you, everything you have done for us.” The evening star kindled above her head. “And now you will take us to Earth. I have dreamed about such a trip since I was a baby.”

There was an obvious opening to say that she was more likely to make Earth sit up and beg than vice versa, but he could only hulk over her, trying to find a graceful way of putting it She sighed and looked past him.

“Your men too, they are knights,” she said. “They have not even your reason to fight for New Europe. Except perhaps Monsieur Vadász?”

“No, Endre has no one here,” Heim said. “He is a troubadour.”

“He sings so wonderfully,” Danielle murmured. “I was listening all the time. He is a Hungarian?”

“By birth. Now he has no home.” Endre, you’re a right buck, but this is getting to be too much about you. “I have—have—When you arrive on Earth, you and your family use my home. I come when I can and take you in my ship.”

She clapped her hands. “Oh, wonderful!” she caroled. “Your daughter and I, we shall become such good friends. And afterward, a voyage on a warship—What songs of victory we will sing, homeward bound!”

“Well—um—We return to camp now? Soon is dark.” Under the circumstances, one had better be as elaborately gentlemanly as possible.

Danielle drew the cloak tight around her. “Yes, if you wish.” He wasn’t sure whether that showed reluctance or not. But as she started walking immediately, he made no comment, and they spoke little en route.

The party was indeed tapering off. Heim’s and Danielle’s return touched off a round of good-nights. When she gave him back his cloak, he dared squeeze her hand. Vadász kissed it, with a flourish.

On their way back through leafy blue twilight, the minstrel said, “Ah, you are the lucky one still.”

“What do you mean?” Heim snapped.

“Taking the fair maiden off that way. What else?”

“For God’s sake!” Heim growled. “We just wanted to stretch our legs. I don’t have to rob cradles yet.”

“Are you quite honest, Gunnar? … No, wait, please don’t tie me in a knot. At least, not in a granny knot. It is only that Mlle. Irribarne is attractive. Do you mind if I see her?”

“What the’ blaze have I got to say about that?” Heim retorted out of his anger. “But listen, she’s the daughter of a friend of mine, and these colonial French have a medieval notion of what’s proper. Follow me?”

“Indeed. No more need be said.” Vadász whistled merrily the rest of the way. Once in his sleeping bag, he drowsed off at once. Heim had a good deal more trouble doing so.

Perhaps for that reason, he woke late and found himself alone in the tent. Probably Diego was helping de Vigny’s sappers and Endre had wandered off—wherever. It was not practical for guerrillas to keep a regular mess, and the campstove, under a single dim light, showed that breakfast had been prepared. Heim fixed his own, coffee, wildfowl, and a defrosted chunk of the old and truly French bread which is not for tender gums. Afterward he washed, depilated the stubble on his face, shrugged into some clothes, and went outside.

No word for me, evidently. If any comes, it’ll keep. I feel restless. How about a swim? He grabbed a towel and started off.