The Star Fox

Heim’s own eyes shifted back and forth as he walked. Not many other soldiers were in evidence. Some must be off duty, performing one of those enigmatic rites that were communion, conversation, sport, and prayer to an Aleriona below the fifth level of mastery. Others would be at the missile sites or on air patrol. Workers and supervisors swarmed about, unloading cargo, fetching metal from a smelter or circuit parts from a factory to another place where it would enter some orbital weapon. Their machines whirred, clanked, rumbled. Nonetheless, to a man the silence was terrifying. No shouts, no talk, no jokes or curses were heard: only an occasional melodic command, a thin weaving of taped orchestral music, the pad-pad of a thousand soft feet. Vadász showed his teeth in a grin of sorts. “Ils considérent la vie très sérieusement,” he murmured to Navarre. “Je parierais qu’ils ne font jamais de plaisanteries douteuses.”

Did the enemy officer cast him a look of—incomprehension? “Taisez vous!” Navarre said.

But Vadász was probably right, Heim reflected. Humor springs from a certain inward distortion. To that great oneness which was the Aleriona soul, it seemed impossible: literally unthinkable.

Except … yes, the delegates to Earth, most especially Admiral Cynbe, had shown flashes of a bleak wit. But they belonged to the ultimate master class. It suggested a difference from the rest of their species which—He dismissed speculation and went back to observing as much detail as he could.

The walk ended at a building some hundred meters from the edge of the field. Its exterior was no different from the other multiply curved structures surrounding it. Inside, though, the rooms had clearly been stripped, the walls were raw plastic and floors were stained where the soil of flowerbeds had been removed. Furniture, a bath cubicle, Terrestrial-type lights, plundered from houses, were arranged with a geometric precision which the Aleriona doubtless believed was pleasing to men. “Hither shall food and drink be brought you,” the officer sang. “Have you wish to go elsewhere, those guards that stand outside will accompany.”

“I see no communicator,” Navarre said.

“None there is. With the wilderness dwellers make you no secret discourse. Within camp, your guards bear messages. Now must we open your holders-of-things and make search upon your persons.”

Navarre reddened. “What? Monsieur, that violates every rule of parley.”

“Here the rule is of the Final Society. Wish you not thus, yourselves you may backtake to the mountains.” It was hard to tell whether or not that lilting voice held insult, but Heim didn’t think so. The officer was stating a fact.

“Very well,” Navarre spat. “We submit under protest, and this shall be held to your account when Earth has defeated you.”

The Aleriona didn’t bother to reply. Yet the frisking was oddly like a series of caresses.

No contraband was found, there not being any. Most of the colonists were surprised when the officer told them, “Wish you thus, go we this now to seek the Intellect Masters.” Heim, recalling past encounters, was not. The Aleriona overlords had always been more flexible than their human counterparts. With so rigid a civilization at their beck, they could afford it.

“Ah … just who are they?” Navarre temporized.

“The imbiac of planetary and space defense are they, with below them the prime engineering operator. And then have they repositories of information and advice,” the officer replied. “Is not for you a similarity?”

“I speak for the constabulary government of New Europe,” Navarre said. “These gentlemen are my own experts, advisers, and assistants. But whatever I agree to must be ratified by my superiors.”

Again the girlish face, incongruous on that animal body, showed a brief loosening that might betoken perplexity. “Come you?” the song wavered.

“Why not?” Navarre said. “Please gather your papers, messieurs.” His heels clacked on the way out.

Heim and Vadász got to the door simultaneously. The minstrel bowed. “After you, my dear Alphonse,” he said. The other man hesitated, unwilling. But no, you had to maintain morale. He bowed back: “After you, my dear Gaston.” They kept it up for several seconds.

“Make you some ritual?” the officer asked.

“A most ancient one.” Vadász sauntered off side by side with him.

“Never knew I such grew in your race,” the officer admitted.

“Well, now, let me tell you—” Vadász started an energetic argument. He’s doing his job right well, Heim conceded grudgingly.