She heard a click, and a faint scuffle behind her. She turned. "Paul?"
The moonlight made his body darker at the same time that it made hers seem lighter. He said: "The camera."
"What?"
"I took a picture of you. Do you mind? I wanted
The way he broke off told her what was in his mind. She felt at once very sad and tender. Moving across, the sand soft beneath her bare feet, she took his hand. "How many shots have you left?"
"Ten."
"Take ten, then. No, take some of me and then I'll take some of you." For the long, lonely nights, out there in the big dark, she thought. For the hard days, under alien suns, when there is no longer your love to comfort me, my darling. For the years ahead, to remind me that once I was a real woman.
"There's an automatic. We can have some of the two of us together."
A pine had fallen from its meagre anchorage and lay tilted into the water. She climbed upon it and sat down, her arms straight by her sides and a little to the rear, her head up toward the stars. "Like this?"
"That's beautiful." He took a picture. "And another. There."
"You don't want me to put any clothes on?"
"Come down." He caught her as she slid off the tree, and held her close.
"The camera!" she said.
"The sand is soft," he said, embracing her. "In any case, I don't want pictures, I want you." The male smell of his body mingled with the smell of pines, of summer flowers. "Not just for now, or tomorrow."
She closed his mouth with her own, half-ashamed of herself for using a loving action in this way, as a means of delaying the words that must be said. When the kiss was ended, she broke gently from his embrace and moved back to the beach. He picked up the camera and followed her.
She sat, hands clasped about her knees, looking up at him as he approached, and prayed for strength. He was very beautiful in the moonlight, a dark giant, standing straight and true, the lake silver and velvet behind him.
"We have to talk," he said gently. "About our sons »
"Paul, please." His very gentleness was an agony inside her.
"You've decided?" He knelt in the sand, his face about a meter from hers.
"I owe the Corps ..."
"Your womanhood?"
"Paul, after what you said in court today, how can I resign my commission? Everyone will be needed. It would be like desertion."
"Nothing has changed."
"How can you say that? Minos IV, those horrible ... things."
"It all happened ten years ago."
"And tomorrow, the next day, when we meet them face to face?"
"Then it will be time enough to make sacrifices. For now, perhaps even more, there must be time to live." He moved toward her.
"No! Don't come closer, please," she said. "I have to think."
"There are a thousand officers with your training and qualifications, but only one mother for our sons," he said.
"The honest lawyer . . . Damn you, Paul!" she said, choking back the tears that misted her eyes.
"Special pleading." He moved forward and took her in his arms, pulling her toward him.
Her chin lay for a moment on his shoulder, and she looked up at the sky. The stars were scattered like a glittering powder, beckoning, awesome. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her face down into the dark warmth of his chest, hearing the strong, regular beating of his heart
"I'll see Admiral Carter on Monday," she said.
*19*
. . . We know it's all absurd,
Bandied about over centuries, that word.
And yet, it's not all piss and smoke.
Watch 'em laugh, when they say, "Kilroy was here."
Hear that laugh, man.
Smell the sweat of fear.
(KILROY : I. Kavanin.)
The pert sub-Lieutenant in Rear Admiral Carter's office got a reply from her chief. "The Admiral will see you now, ma'am."
"Thank you." Helen went in and saluted.
"Good morning, Commander." Carter's leathery face seemed almost affable as he looked up at her. "I'm pleased you called in this morning. I've just received confirmation of the appointment of Venturer Twelve's Commander."
"Bruce?" Her heart was beating faster, but she maintained an outward calm.
Carter grinned. "After the way he came out of the Athena inquiry, who else?"
"I'm glad," she said sincerely. This was what Tom Bruce wanted, his reason for living. It was right for him.
"Makes things easier all round, doesn't it?" Carter said. "You've been a good team before, you will be again."
"No, sir," she said firmly.
He looked up at her, a new sharpness growing in his eyes, his mouth opening to speak.
She anticipated him. "Admiral," she said carefully. "I wish to sign out of the Corps."
Carter restrained himself. He rose to his feet, slowly, head sunk deep between his massive shoulders. "Sit down," he ordered.
He walked to the door and opened it. "Pringle, for the next ten minutes, hold everything. I'm busy."
He shut the door, then walked back to his desk and carefully resumed his seat. He took out a cigar and lit it. He blew out a cloud of smoke, and through it he said: "It sounded just as though you said you wanted to sign out."
"That's what I said, sir."
"Umph . . . Now, shall I just forget you said it and we'll get back to work?"
"I meant it, Admiral."
Carter did a miraculous thing again. He stopped himself swearing and he maintained his voice at a quiet conversational level. "You are an acting Lieutenant- Commander with a citation for bravery. You are twenty-six years old; you are fit, tough and on top of your job, Second in Command of the newest, finest ship the Corps possesses. Just what the hell are you talking about?"
"You heard me, sir."
"With first liftoff only three weeks away, you want to sign out?"
"Yes, sir."
"And leave the Corps completely?"
"Completely."
"Bloody, bastarding hell!" growled the Rear Admiral. "And you really think you mean it?"
"I do mean it."
"Why?"
"Paul Sharva has asked me to marry him."
"Sharva ... And ... ?"
"I have accepted."
Carter stuck out his chin like an angry turtle. "You pregnant?"
"No."
He nodded, tight lipped, his eyes glinting. "Well. .. The oldest trick, and you missed out on it."
"I think I can choose when ..."
"Nuts!" Carter said. "And if you still want to sign out, the answer is no!"
"Admiral, I am entitled ..
"To get on with the job you've been trained for," Carter said. "You can't sign out. Under the Conservation of Senior Personnel Order, which came into force on the first of this month, it can't be done. You have to give one year's notice, unless pregnant in the case of female officers, in which event duty terminates four months before the birth of the child. And in any case, you don't love Paul Sharva!"
"That's not for you to say..."
"Bloody hell, girl!" Carter slapped his hands on his desk and shouted, "This is my patch of the Corps you're on! Don't you go telling me what I can't do! I have just quoted the regulation to you, and if you're going to get past it in the only way that's left, you'll have to make medical history. Furthermore, I repeat, you just think Sharva is a nice guy. So he is. He'll be Lieutenant Commander in the JAG's branch by the end of the year; unless as I strongly suspect, he's seconded to duty at the Presidential house. He's gentle, he's kind, he's a thoroughly good man; and he'll make a good husband, and a loving father. He's like a great big tame bull; he just needs loving by some affectionate cow of a woman, and that, Helen Lindstrom, is not you! You'd be throwing your life away, and more important, you'd be buggering me about in a way I won't have. Get that? I won't have it! You are going to lift off on Venturer Twelve, and you'll like it! There'll be speeches, and bits on television about far-flung fro
ntiers, and all the folks will cheer like fuck as you go, away for two, three, four years. And, oh boy, I shall be glad to see you all go!"
"You'll be glad to ... ?"
"Of course I shall! I want to get on with Venturer Thirteen and you're all in the way! Do you think I'm going to hold up liftoff because of your love life? Get up in the big dark, girl, in a heavy duty suit, smelling your own sweat as you walk on the outside skin, watching the crew—your crew—do a repair. That's for you; that's what you signed in for, so don't cheat yourself and think of signing out!" He snorted, looked down at his desk and busied himself with some papers. Half a minute later he looked up fiercely. "Was there something else, Lieutenant Commander Lindstrom?"
Her voice was just audible. "No, sir."
He returned the salute as she left. His hand came down and pressed the dialling buttons on his vid. Response was prompt.
"CPO Sun, Records. Good morning, Admiral Carter, sir."
"I want you to take a note of the following amendment to Corps General Orders."
"Sir?"
"Don't gape, man! Get it down!" snapped Carter. "You will give this amendment an appropriate number and back-date it to the first of this month. Heading: 'Conservation of Senior Personnel. Officers of the acting rank of Lieutenant Commander and above, who are on the active list, are required to give one year's notice when wishing to sign out. The only exceptions to this ruling to be Extreme Compassionate Grounds, and in the case of female officers, presentation of Form 447/P through a medical officer. In such cases, signing out date will be four months before the ETA of child.' Got that?"
"But, sir, you can't—I mean, back-dating—?"
"Sun," said the admiral gently, "I believe you are up for promotion to warrant officer?"
"Yes, sir."
"And who put you up for that promotion, as a reward for zealous and devoted service?"
"You, sir."
"You'd make a fine warrant officer, Sun," said the admiral. "Think of the pride of your honourable ancestors, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not to mention your dear wife, Kam Lan, and your nine—is it?—children."
"Ten, shortly, sir."
"Well then, think of that pay, CPO Sun."
"Yes, sir."
"And the allowances."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't forget that the number assigned to the amendment must tally with the numberings on the first of the month."
"It will be difficult, sir." Sun's plump, southern Chinese face looked worried.
"Not for a warrant officer," the admiral assured him, and terminated the conversation.
He walked over to the wall and looked up at the personnel board for Venturer Twelve. There were no empty places now. Each position had its name tag, from Commander down to Crewmen G/D i/c San Duty. He moved across to a rack on his right and picked up a big tube of paper. Unrolling the tube on the surface of a worktable, it revealed itself as a preliminary drawing of Venturer Thirteen. Only another few weeks, and he could really get to work on her...
The vid beeped. Holding the drawing open, he walked across to his desk.
The caller was his wife. "Junius, I was wondering if there was any chance of..
He let the springy paper roll itself up with a snap. He beamed.
"Honey," said Junius F. Carter, "I’m going to take the rest of the day off. I'll be home for lunch. Tell me then, huh?" He switched off, leaving his wife staring in astonishment at a blank screen.
"Another bourbon on the rocks, Minsky."
"Yes, ma'am." The dapper little steward of the officers' mess moved across and filled the glass. "Too bad about the President. He was a great man."
"One of the greatest," Helen said.
"They say he asked to be buried in space."
"Yes, so I understand."
"Quite an honour for the Corps."
"I guess so."
Finally coming to the conclusion that the Lieutenant Commander was not in a talkative mood, the steward faded toward the other end of the bar.
Helen sat, looking down into the amber depths of her drink, reflecting on the self-torturing mechanism of the human mind that always seemed to insist that what you couldn't have, you wanted all the more.
It was nearly an hour now since she had called Lake Cities and talked to Paul; but her body was still remembering those days and nights at the lakeside, still longing for his gentle, animal strength, for his loving. He had been understanding, as she had expected he would be. All the trite phrases that had been milling around in her head throughout the long day in the shipyard—"a clean break," "duty to the Corps," "best for both of us"—had been mercifully unnecessary. He had sensed her answer from the first moment of seeing her face on his screen and, like the gentle person he was, he had done everything he could to make things easier for her. They had both been very adult and sensible, agreeing that, although she would not be leaving Earth for at least another three weeks, it would be best not to see each other again. A silence, in which she looked deep into his dark eyes and saw the hurt there, two brief good-bys, and the dream was over.
Carter had been right, the wise old bastard. Paul Sharva was a good man, a gentle man; but she was not the placid, affectionate cow of a woman he needed. It wouldn't have lasted; sooner or later she would have looked up at the stars and felt the call and then she would have made life miserable for both of them.
"Good evening, Commander. May I join you?"
She turned her head and faced the angelic smile of Radar Lieutenant Yvonne Maranne. She was twenty- two years old, dark haired and coffee skinned, with bedroom eyes and a curvy-curvy body that would send crewmen mad on a long trip and set them dreaming unattainable dreams.
"Of course. What will you have?"
Helen caught a whiff of strictly off-duty perfume, as Maranne wriggled herself onto the stool.
"A sweet sherry, please."
Of course, it would be a sweet sherry. Helen called the steward and ordered.
"How are things going in your department?" Helen asked.
"All systems go," Maranne said, twinkling over the glass, which she held in both hands like a child. This, apparently, was her cultivated off-duty persona.
Helen sipped her bourbon.
"I understand that the new Commander is arriving day after tomorrow," Maranne said. "You've worked with him before, haven't you?"
"Yes," Helen said.
"I've only seen pictures of him, of course," Maranne said. "But he looks kind of handsome."
"He is," Helen said. If you like robots, added the voice inside her head.
"They say he was married once."
"Not anymore," Helen said.
"How is he with the women officers, I mean... ?"
I know precisely what you mean, you curvy little cow, thought Helen. But Tom Bruce wouldn't give you a second look, with your little girl smile and your sugar and spice ways. I know what Tom Bruce likes, and I'll be the one to give it to him, not you.
She downed the rest of her drink quickly, conscious that Maranne was still looking up at her, waiting for the answer to her question.
"The same as he is with the men officers. He expects them to get on with the job," she said as she got off the stool.
Lieutenant Maranne's eyes widened at the harshness of her superior officer's tone.
"And one thing, Lieutenant," Helen said.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Don't ever try to use what you've got between your thighs as an excuse for inefficiency or Tom Bruce will kick you out of "the Corps, right on your sweet little arse! Goodnight, Lieutenant."
Outside the officers' mess she slowed her pace, strolling along the tarmac, feeling the cool breeze fingering her hair. Then she stopped walking and stood looking across the shipyard to where the great spheroid of Venturer Twelve stood, proud in the light of a hundred
arcs. She could see the flashes of welding torches and hear the sound of men and machines working.
She stood there, wat
ching for a long time, and then, as though in response to some soundless thunder, her gaze moved. The night sky was crystal clear. If she reached out her hand, she could plunge it deep into the Milky Way and pluck out a handful of stars. Six stars, one for each of Paul Sharva's sons.
She realized with a surge of anger that tears were streaming hotly down her cheeks. And yet, it was not she who was crying, but someone else, buried deep down inside, a woman who might have been weeping for her unborn children.
End
Table of Contents
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A Thunder Of Stars Page 17