It was overpowering and at the same time ridiculous.
Its starkly vertical towers were unbelievably lofty. No one built in this huddled perpendicular fashion on any world he had ever visited. But he knew this city was old and he supposed that the outmoded style of building of centuries before had just kept going by momentum. After all, they could not suddenly tear the whole place down and start again from scratch. Nevertheless, when they were actually in the streets Birrel found himself oppressed by the overhanging loom of these grotesque structures.
But Charteris’ big terrace apartment, high about the myriad lights that were coming out with twilight, was pleasant. The chairman, still talking polite formalities, showed him the great UW building that towered up a mile southward of them.
"It stands on the site once occupied by the United Nations,” said Chiarteris. “It was a great day when the United Worlds building replaced that, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. People had achieved a peaceful Earth, now they would achieve a peaceful universe."
Birrel glanced at the chairman sharply, but could detect no irony in his voice or in his quiet face.
There was a formal dinner that night presided over by Charteris’ wife, who looked like a slightly weary but game veteran of many such dinners. There were roasts, and speeches, and much talk about the commemoration. Sector politics were unobtrusively avoided although there were two officials from Cepheus Sector and one from Leo, looking warily at him, but talking courteous nothings.
Birrel fretted through it all. What was Solleremos doing while they sat babbling here? Were his two crack squadrons still poised out there? Ferdias had promised he would get warning if they moved, but would that warning come in time?
Later, when the guests had gone and Lyllin had retired, Birrel sat on the terrace with Charteris and Mallinson and had a final drink. He looked at the reticulations of lights hung loftily against the sky and thought that this was as strange a vista as he had ever seen. From away to the west there was a roll of thunder, ripping across the sky and suddenly ending, as a starship came into the port. He was thinking that it was a medium-class merchant by the sound, when he became aware that Charteris was asking him a question.
"Is Orion Sector going to send a squadron for the commemoration, too, or only a token delegation?"
Alarm rang a bell in Birrel's mind. What was behind the question? Had Charteris heard something that he had not heard, or was he just fishing for information?
He answered casually, “Why, I don't know. But surely they'd notify you of their plans."
Charteris continued to eye him, and now Birrel sensed the steely, determined man inside that quiet, gray exterior. But it was Mallinson who spoke up smoothly.
"We sent an invitation to Governor Solleremos for Orion to take part, of course,” he said. “It was accepted, but we haven't yet heard what sort of delegation is coming to represent them."
Birrel thought swiftly. They're lying, they have beard something-and they're trying to find out if I've heard it too. But what? Was Orion already moving, were Orionid forces coming to Earth on the excuse of the celebration, just as the Fifth Lyra had done?
He would get no information from Charteris or Mallinson. It was now apparent that they and probably other high officials of the UW, of Earth, were suspicions of both Lyra and Orion. And, in spite of bringing along the transports, the coming of the whole Lyra Fifth squadron had sharpened their suspicions. Birrel, desperately afraid of making a blunder, felt himself sweating. It was true what he had told Ferdias, he was no good at this kind of intrigue, and unless he made contact soon with Karsh and got a briefing, he could easily turn suspicion into open hostility.
CHAPTER 8
Birrel decided quickly that he had better not try to fence with Charteris and Mallinson. They were experienced in this sort of thing and he was not, and was likely to make some betraying slip. The thing to do was to set it up to see Karsh as soon as possible.
Rising from his chair, he stretched and said, “It's been a long day, at that."
Charteris, instantly the courteous host, smiled. “And a few more tedious ones ahead, I fear. We have many things planned to entertain you and your officers, Commander."
That was not good news, but he would have to make the best of it. Birrel bade them good night and turned away, then turned back again as though he had suddenly remembered something.
"By the way,” he said, “while I'm here on Earth I want to look up my ancestors’ old home. I understand it's in a village not too far away."
Charteris nodded understandingly. “Of course. Quite a few visitors have a sentiment about their ancestors’ old home world."
Mallinson set his drink down and said, with an edge to his voice, “Less sentiment and more loyalty out there is what the UW needs."
There was a moment of awkward silence, but Charteris covered it by saying, “No politics tonight, Ross. Not with a guest. Good night, Commander."
Birrel went to his room, and found Lyllin sleeping or pretending to sleep. He suspected it was the latter, that she was still so resentful that she wanted to avoid conversation with him. He was rather relieved, for he did not care to talk too much here. It seemed vulgar to suspect listening-devices, and he felt sure that Charteris would not stoop to such stratagems. But of Mallinson he was not so sure—the bitter edge to his sudden remark had betrayed deep feeling. He supposed that a good many Earth folk felt that way. They had once had, or thought that they had, all the galaxy as their backyard, with Earth to be the center of things forever. Now that was all changed, and it would be too much to expect them to like it...
Lying unsleeping in the dark room, he tried to plan. He could understand now why it had been arranged for him to meet Karsh in that place away from New York. Ferdias’ agent could not possibly contact him here, where the brilliant spotlight of publicity played upon him, where he was Charteris’ guest. He fretted to think of going through meaningless functions at a time like this, but he would have to do it and get away as soon as possible. He braced himself for a wearing time of it next day.
The day proved wearing enough, but not quite in the way that Birrel expected. Mallinson, all smooth smiles again, appeared at ten to be his guide and sponsor. Charteris’ wife had taken a fancy to Lyllin and had plans, so Birrel went alone with the tall, young diplomat.
"The UW first, of course,” said Mallinson as they got into a waiting car. “You'll find it interesting."
Birrel looked with no liking at the crowded streets. The fact that the summer sunlight was golden instead of blue-white did not bother him, he was used to different kinds of sunlight. The air he breathed was the norm for an E-type world, with a pleasant snap in it from the salt ocean. But the towering cliffs of buildings, the huddle and clamor and bustle, were strange and repellent. He thought that a starman could easily get claustrophobia in this city.
The United Worlds building towered like a man-made metal mountain. The Council was in session, Mallinson told him, but inside the sweeping, pure-white lobby Birrel was introduced to a group of the secretariat. He listened to names, shook hands, smiled, and looked into politely smiling faces, and underneath the courtesy he felt the impact of their dislike.
"You'll want a look at the Council chamber,” Mallinson said, taking his arm. “We'll go up to the gallery."
Birrel got a shock when he entered the gallery. Its rows of seats were only thinly occupied by spectators, but what was really shocking was the floor of the chamber.
They had dreamed and built big when they had raised this structure a century and a half ago. Too big. The domed, white amphitheater was vast, its floor holding several thousand seats. And less than a fifth of the seats. those nearest the rostrum, were occupied. The graceful name-standard that identified each section told the story. Biggest section was that of Earth, including the little industrial colonies that were all that its barren, non-E-type sister planets of this system could support. There were smaller delegations from the few of the nearby star syst
ems that still clung loyally to the UW-Tau Ceti, Alpha Centauri, and others. And in the other sweeping sections of empty seats the standards were blank.
Birrel felt uncomfortable, looking down at those blank, empty sections. They had been designed to hold members from Lyra and Orion, Cepheus and Leo and Perseus, the five great sectors of galactic civilization, in the brave, young days when everyone was sure that this hall would be the permanent center of government of the galaxy. It was not his fault, he thought, that it had not happened that way. It had all been long before he was born, but, all the same, it was an uncomfortable thing to see.
Charteris sat in the chairman's place, at the back of the rostrum, gravely listening as an elderly delegate spoke on with droning monotony about some piece of legislation that Birrel did not in the least understand.
"Impressive, isn't it?” said Mallinson.
Birrel looked down at the empty sections on the floor, and at the half-empty spectator seats around them, and then he turned and looked squarely at Mallinson. He said, “You blame us—out there in the Sectors—for all this, don't you?"
Mallinson's face did not alter a line of its smile, but his voice had chilled steel in it. “Yes."
"My men and I are responsible for something that happened more than a century ago—something that was bound to happen?"
"Was it bound to happen?” Mallinson questioned softly. “Well, perhaps it was, perhaps there were too many stars and worlds to govern from any one place. But the way in which the Sectors’ governments have come to be dominated by ambitious governors—that was not bound to happen."
Birrel asked bluntly, “If you people feel that way, why did you ask any of us back here for your commemoration?"
"Believe me, it was not my idea,” Mallinson assured him.
They looked at each other, with frank and honest dislike. Then Birrel rose.
"Fine,” he said. “We understand each other, and you can quit being the polite guide. I have to go out and check the squadron, anyway."
"The driver will take you,” said Mallinson. “One more thing, Birrel. I speak for myself, not for Charteris. He still has a dream that someday the Sectors will come back to the UW."
Birrel nodded. “Thanks for setting me straight, at least.” He turned and left the gallery.
He felt relief when the car was out of the city, across the river and speeding out a thruway. At least there was more room out here. Looking at the neat, modern houses they passed, he wondered how many of the people here felt like Mallinson. A good many of them, he supposed.
The rolling thunder of a ship in take-off drew his gaze to the big spaceport ahead. Far away across it, the giant hulls of the Fifth were like a mountain range against the sky. Their majesty dwarfed everything else on the port—the older, smaller naval cruisers of the UW, the merchant star-ships, the tubby ore-freighters from the harsh sister-planets. He told the driver, who stared up at the looming giants in awe, how to reach his flagship.
When Birrel went up to the bridge of the Starsong, he found Joe Garstang sitting with his feet up reading a flamboyant magazine. He hauled to his feet and saluted, looking dourer than ever.
Birrel nodded in the direction of the communic room. “Any messages for me from Vega?"
Garstang shook his head. “Nothing."
Birrel had expected that, but all the same it was a small disappointment.
'Do you want to call Ferdias?” asked Garstang. “I'll have the operators set it up, if you do."
"Nothing to call about,” said Birrel casually.
He was lying in his teeth. There was plenty he would like to ask Ferdias about in the light of the situation he had found here. But while their code was secret, too many messages flying back and forth from the Fifth to Vega would be monitored and would surely arouse further suspicions here on Earth. That was, he knew, why Ferdias had chosen to contact him through Karsh.
He asked Garstang, “What about the refitting?"
"Didn't need much. Nearly all done already."
"How are our people getting along over in their quarters?"
"Fine,” said Garstang. “Just fine—except the six of the Starsong's men I have down in the brig."
"For what?"
"There was a welcome party over there last night,” said Garstang. “You know, crewmen of the UW fleet welcome crewmen of the Fifth Lyra. Drinks, fun, a good time."
"So?"
"So finally one of our men felt so good he mentioned that the Fifth could mop up the whole UW fleet without raising a sweat. That's what started it. It was quite a thing while it lasted. Never did see so many fists flying."
Birrel swore. “We come here on a good will mission and good will's the one thing lacking. I won't have any more of that."
"I don't think there'll be any more,” said Garstang, with a hint of steel in his voice, and Birrel was satisfied. Then Garstang asked in a more plaintive tone, “When am I going to get to see anything of this place? Been busy with discipline and refitting up till now."
Birrel nodded. “All right, Joe. Leave Venner in charge and come along with me. But first I have to see Brescnik."
Garstang obeyed with alacrity. Presently he and Birrel, in the car, were speeding along the row of cruisers. Each time they passed a ship it was like going into the shade of a thundercloud, and then they would pop out again into the golden blaze of the afternoon sun. Brescnik's was the fifth ship in line, but the Vice-Commander was not there. A junior officer pointed across the tarmac to a distant, small hangar that was tucked in between the UW maintenance shops and those of the merchant lines.
"They brought something in a little while ago, sir. Commander Brescnik went over to see."
Birrel had the driver take them over there and they found Brescnik, standing out in the sunlight with a small group of officers, all of them staring curiously into the small open hangar.
Brescnik saw Birrel and Garstang, and saluted, and then pointed into the hangar. “Take a look at that. Damnest thing I ever saw."
Birrel looked. Inside the hangar was a ship so small and strange that at first he did not recognize it as a ship at all. It was no bigger than a duty-boat, it was knobby and horribly designed, and it looked as though it was made out of pewter instead of modern alloys. A whole crew of men who wore the black coverall of the UW fleet were swarming over the hideous, little craft, working on it and polishing it.
"What is it?” Birrel demanded.
"That,” said Brescnik, “is the pride of Earth. Trailblazer One, the first starship that ever flew. They've had it in a museum all this time—only brought it out once a century ago for a flight in the centenary celebration."
"You mean they're going to fly that thing?” said Birrel incredulously.
Brescnik nodded. “They say so. In the big flyover. Just a little hop, they say."
Garstang shook his head slowly. “I'd as soon run blind, through a cluster as ride that old hunk of iron. How did anyone ever do it?"
Birrel was wondering that, too. He had learned all about the history of starlight, in his training. But it had all been names and dates and methods of propulsion, just facts you had to know to pass your tests. He had never really visualized the impossibly dangerous nature of those early flights—not until now. And not until now had this bi-centenary seemed to him nothing but another bureaucratic-inspired function to give a chance for dull speeches. But there was more to it than that, after all. He could see why it was such a big thing, to Earth.
Brescnik asked hopefully. “You taking over again?"
Birrel shook his head. “No, you're still stuck with it. They can't spare me over in that place, I'm in such big demand socially. Sorry."
"Yes, sir,” said Brescnik, making it a dirty word.
Birrel grinned briefly. Then he asked, “You've been around here all day—tell me, have you noticed or heard of any big-scale docking preparations for expected ships?” Brescnik frowned. “A lot of docks over on the other side of the port are being cleared."
; "Enough to dock a squadron?"
"I don't know, I was only by there,” Brescnik said. He looked keenly at Birrel. “Whose squadron?"
Birrel hesitated. “Well, we're not the only Sector that will be represented at this affair, you know. Could be that contingents will come in from Leo or Cepheus."
"Or Orion?” said Brescnik. And as Birrel was silent, he said grimly, “Look, Jay, if Solleremos sends a squadron here and sets it down beside the Fifth, there's going to be trouble."
"Absolutely,” affirmed Garstang. “I don't think we could hold our men back—and it wouldn't be just a fistfight, this time."
No, Birrel thought somberly. It wouldn't be a fistfight. It would be a lot more than that. It might very well be a full-scale collision here between Orion and Lyra, and that could tear it right across the galaxy—that could really tear it.
He hesitated. He had a decision to make and he did not yet have facts enough on which to make it, but he had to make it. This was the price you paid for Commander's rank, for all the salutes and brass and deference.
He said to Brescnik, “I want you to put the Fifth quietly on Ready. I repeat, quietly."
Brescnik did not quite change expression, but something came into his face that had not been there before. He said, “You're sure you don't want full alert?"
Birrel shook his head. “You couldn't do that without cancelling all leaves and tipping off everyone. Ready is enough.” And then, turning to Garstang, he said, “Come on, Joe, if you want to see the bright lights of Earth. You may not have much time."
CHAPTER 9
And the lights were bright. With the coming of night the narrow metal-and-stone canyons of the old city became rivers of luminosity, so that the crowds in them seemed to swim in shifting radiance. Centuries before, this congested metropolis had used electric filaments, arcs, neon tubes, to challenge darkness. Now, when localized effects akin to sodium-vapor glows could make the air itself radiant, the ancient tradition of New York persisted and its central streets glowed with displays of light such as Birrel had seen on no other world.
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