Man-Kzin Wars III

by Larry Niven

  Nordbo looked up. He was ghastly haggard. The words jerked forth: “I never did it for money. I got some, yes, but I did not want it, I always gave it to the Veterans’ Home. Markham was like a, a father to me, the father I had worshipped before he— Well, what could I believe except that my real father turned collaborator and died in the kzinti service? I thought Tyra was a wishful thinker. I could not make myself say that openly to her, but I thought my duty was to restore the family fortune and honor by my efforts. Markham was faithful in those first years after the trial, when many scorned. He helped me, counseled me, was like a new father, he, the war hero, then the brilliant administrator. When at last he asked me to do something a, a little irregular for him, I was glad. It was nothing harmful. He explained that if the kzinti knew better how our intelligence operations work, they would see we are defensive, not aggressive, and there would be a better chance for lasting peace. What should I trust, his keen and experienced judgment or a stupid, handcuffing regulation? That first information I gave him to pass on to the kzinti, it was not classified. They could have collected it for themselves with some time and trouble. But then there was more, and then more, and it grew into real secrets—” Again he covered his eyes and huddled.

  Saxtorph nodded. “You’d become subject to blackmail. Every step you took brought you further down a one-way road. Yah. That’s how a lot of spies get recruited.”

  “I love my nation. I would never harm it.” Nordbo dropped fists to knees and added in a voice less shrill, “Even though it did my father and my family a terrible injustice.”

  “You got around to agreeing with Tyra about that, eh? And what you were doing couldn’t possibly cause any serious damage. Such-like notions are also usual among spies.”

  Nordbo raised his head. “Do not insult me. I have my human dignity.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Now, I told you to listen and I told you I want to make this short so I can get the hell out of here and go have a hot shower and a change of clothes. Snap to it, and perhaps, I’ll see if I can do anything for you. Otherwise I report straight to your superiors. For openers, how many more are in your ring?”

  “N-no one else.”

  “I’d slap you around if I had a pair of gloves I could burn afterward. As is goodnight.”

  “No! Please!” Nordbo reeled to his feet. He held his arms out. “I tell you, nobody. Nobody I know of. One in my unit at headquarters, but she died two years ago. An accident. And Markham is dead. Nobody more!”

  Saxtorph deemed he was telling the truth as far as possible. “You’ll name her,” he said. “That, and what else you tell, should give leads to any others.” If they existed. Maybe they didn’t. Markham had been a lone wolf type. Well, investigation was a job for professionals. “You will write down what you know. Every last bit. The whole story, all you did, all you delivered personally and all you heard about or suspected, the works. You savvy? I’ll give you two-three days. Don’t leave this apartment meanwhile.”

  Nordbo’s hands fell to his sides. He straightened. A sudden, eerie calm was upon him. “What then?” he asked tonelessly.

  “If I judge you’ve made an honest statement, my wife and I will try to bargain with the authorities, privately, when we bring it to them. We can’t dictate what they do with you. But we are their darlings, and the darlings of the public and the media more than ever. Our recommendations should carry weight. The Markham affair has shaken and embarrassed a lot of the brass pretty badly. They’d like some peace and quiet while they put their house in order. A sensation involving the son of hero-martyr Peter Nordbo is no way to get that. Maybe we can talk them into accepting your resignation and burying the truth in the top secret file. Maybe. We’ll try. That’s all I can promise. And it’s conditional on your writing a full and accurate account.”

  “I see. You are kind.”

  “Because of your father and your sister. Nothing else.” Saxtorph turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Nordbo.

  “Why?” Saxtorph growled.

  “My memory is not perfect. But I need not write for you. I kept a journal of my, my participation. Everything that happened, recorded immediately afterward. I thought I might want it someday, somehow, if Markham or the kzinti should— Ach, let me fetch it.”

  Saxtorph’s heart banged. “Okay.” He hadn’t hoped for this much. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped for.

  Nordbo went into an adjacent room. He strode resolutely and erect. Saxtorph tautened. “If you’re going for a gun instead, don’t,” he called. “My wife knows where I am.”

  “Of course,” the soft voice drifted back. “No, you have convinced me. I shall do my best to set things right.”

  He returned carrying a small security box, which he placed at the computer terminal. He laid his palm on the lid and it opened. Had anyone else tried to force it, the contents would have been destroyed. Saxtorph moved closer. He saw a number of minidiscs. “Encoded,” Nordbo said. “Please make a note of the decoding command. A wrong one will cause the program to wipe the data. You want to inspect a sample, no?”

  He stooped, inserted a disc, and keyed the board. A date three years past sprang onto the screen, followed by words. They were Wunderlander, but Saxtorph’s reading knowledge sufficed to show that the entry did indeed relate an act of espionage. Copies of photographs came after.

  “You are satisfied?” Nordbo asked. “Want you more?”

  “No,” Saxtorph said. “This will do.”

  Nordbo returned the disc to the box, which he relocked and proffered. “I am afraid you must touch this,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Sudden pity welled forth. “That’s okay.” In several ways he resembled his sister: eyes, cheekbones, flaxen hair, something about the way he now stood and faced his visitor. “We’ll do whatever we can for you, Ib.”

  “Thank you.”

  Saxtorph took the box and left. “Gute nacht,” Nordbo said behind him.

  The door closed. Saxtorph went the short distance along the hall to the stairwell and started down. Whatever I can for you, Tyra, he thought.

  His mind went on, like himself speaking to her, explaining, though they were not things she would ever hear.

  I’m not mad at you, dear. Nor at Kam, as far as that goes. You weren’t deliberately playing games with me. You honestly believed you were serious—confusing horniness with love, which God knows is a common mistake—till the impulse itself overwhelmed you.

  Or so he supposed. Nothing had been uttered, except in the silent language. They simply understood that everything was over. Apart from friendship. Already he hurt less than at first. He knew that before long he’d stop altogether and be able to meet her, be with her, in comradely fashion. Dorcas would see to it.

  I do wish you’ll find a man you can settle down with. I’d like you to have what we have. But if not, well, it’s your life, and any style of living it that you choose will be brave.

  Saxtorph had reached the third-floor landing when he heard the single pistol shot.