The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  Human workers were few. They went about their duties informally. The assistor in the mayor's office scanned Rydberg, heard his name, and opened the inner door for him. He passed through. The chamber beyond was uncluttered. A large desk held a phone, a computer terminal, and some personal items—a picture, a chunk of deep-blue mineral, a notepad bescribbled and bedoodled. Background music lilted soft from a speaker, Rydberg recognized "Appalachian Spring."

  The woman behind the desk met his gaze steadily. He had seen her before on newscasts, her image in articles and books. The person had the force that he had awaited, but also a balance, a quiet alertness that somehow slowed his heartbeat for him.

  Dagny Beynac in her forties had put a little more flesh on the big bones, but only a little. The face, broad, curve-nosed, high in the cheeks, remained fair-skinned, slightly creased at the blue eyes and full mouth. White threads were like highlights in the red-bronze hair that fell to her shoulders. She wore a plain gray tunic and slacks, a silver-and-opal pin at her throat.

  "Pilot Rydberg?" Her voice was more low than when she spoke in public, the burr more evident. "Salud. What can I do for you?"

  Unconsciously, he came to attention. "I don't know," he said.

  The ruddy brows lifted. "What do you mean by that?"

  He was faintly astonished at how levelly he too spoke. "I am your son, madame."

  * * * *

  The elevator to the centrifuge was for the disabled or lazy. He and she used the staircase that wound around its shaft. Most of the numerous people they encountered knew and greeted her. She gave back a smile, a wave, perhaps a word, while moving onward. Rydberg didn't see how she managed it. He'd have used up his stock of affability in the first hundred meters.

  In form as well as in size, this machine was as unlike the devices in a spacecraft or on the surface of a low-g body as those two kinds were unlike one another. At the bottom of the shaft, you stepped onto a narrow band, then more in series, each rotating more rapidly than the last. Cuddlers were available to cushion acceleration shock, but an accustomed person of normal agility didn't need them. However, when you reached the primary disc, you must get onto a pathway as it went by, and then you did well to lay hold of its right or left rail.

  Silent on maglev, the great wheel endlessly turned, burnished, majestic, beneath a ceiling that was a single screen and simulated an Earth sky, clouds blowing white across blue, birds on the wing. Given such a mass, precise balancing was unnecessary. As you walked outward, centrifugal weight changed in force and direction. Spiraling, the path canted to stay under your feet, until at last you got to the flange and Earth weight. Almost perpendicular to the Lunar horizontal, it bore a wide circular roadway, paved with yielding duramoss. Folk crowded the walking lane, spaced themselves more carefully in the running lane, did stationary aerobics or weight lifting in the frequent bays. On the opposite side of the path, compartments ringed the disc. From the center you saw their continuous roof, here you saw their doors. Anybody could use the open circle at any time, but one of these you must reserve and pay for.

  "I often bring somebody to a whirly booth for a private conference," Beynac had said. "Might as well get in some g-time while making sure of no interruptions." She laughed. "If today they notice me sequester myself with a good-looking young man, why, envieuse soit qui mal y pense."

  Yet earlier, briefly, she had been more shaken than he was. He didn't think he could have mastered his emotions so fast, nor donned such a cheerful manner. Impassivity was his defense.

  The crowd moved spinwise, to gain a little extra drag. He and she wove their way along until they came to the Number Nineteen bespoken. They went in and shut the door behind them. The interior, ventilated, lighted, held a couch, a screened-off toilet and washbasin, and a scrap of carpeted floor space.

  Beynac cast herself against Rydberg and clung. He felt how she shuddered. "Oh, God, God," she stammered at his breast. "You. I never dared dream—" He embraced her. The realization came that this was why she had hurried him off, minutes after he arrived. It had bewildered him. Did she mean to question him, flay him open, learn whether he was an impostor and what he wanted from her? Instead, through his blouse he felt tears.

  "Mother," he said in awe.

  After a while: "Have I done wrong? Maybe this hurts you, a ghost that should stay in its grave. Then I beg you forgive me. I will leave here and never speak a word to anyone, ever."

  "No. Don't. Please. Lars—" She let go, stepped back a little, smiled up at him, still within his arms. The smile trembled, tears glimmered in lashes and on skin, but she cried no more and began to breathe evenly. "Lars," she whispered. "What a pretty name. Pretty, but masculine. I'm glad they gave you it."

  "My foster parents were always good to me," he said.

  "I knew they'd be. Anson Guthrie picked them. He never told me more, though, and I f-figured he knew best, he and his wife."

  "They did. You had your life to make. I asked myself over and over if it was right I track you down. I still know not."

  "It was. I am so happy. I thought, yes, over and over about trying to find you, but was afraid it might do harm somehow. You've settled it for me. Thank you, dearest."

  She disengaged, ran a hand across her face, and gusted a sigh. "Smash! What a mess I must be. 'Scuse a mo'." She disappeared into the wash section. He stood in his own enchantment.

  She emerged neatened, self-possessed, radiant. "Hoy, don't look that earnest," she chided with a grin. "Sit down and let's talk. We've got, what is it, twenty-six years* worth of talking to catch up on."

  "We can hardly do that today."

  She cocked her red head at him. "Okay, I’ll consider you as having finished your 'Goo-goo’ and 'Wa-a-ah!’ and we'll get straight to business. Mon Dieu, you are a sobersides, aren't you?"

  She settled at the right end of the couch. He thought she must understand how shy he felt, and took the left side, leaving a meter or more between them. She twisted about, shin under opposite knee, arm along the back, to face him. He kept both feet on the floor and leaned on his palm to regard her.

  "You have the advantage of me," she said. "I know your name and that you're a space pilot for Fireball. And my first-born. Period."

  "You do not know that, except for my word," he answered. "I had better prove it. I have not the evidence with me, but you can easily trace my path from what I tell."

  "Easier than that. I'll ask Uncle Anson." She gave Rydberg a close look. "M-m, but I see you're anxious to establish your bona fides. Methodical type. Okay, let's get it out of the way. How did you find me?"

  To relate it brought further calm. "My foster parents are Swedish. Far-Father-he was an engineer, his wife taught school, before they retired. They were childless and middle-aged when they adopted me. They made no secret of that, but said they had me from an agency that did not tell them anything about my, my biological parents, because this is wisest. They told the truth there, I have learned, except for not mentioning that Anson Guthrie was involved. Perhaps he bribed someone in the agency."

  Beynac chuckled. "Very likely. In the government too, I wouldn't be surprised. Go on."

  "I think, now, Far and Mor suspected this but were never sure and decided they had better not inquire. He was in a firm that had several times done Earthside work for Fireball, such as enlarging the Australian spaceport, and he had met Guthrie in the course of it. A few times afterward, over the years, Guthrie paid us short visits. That was when he simply happened to be in Sweden. Or so he said. At last I began to wonder. Why should he, a mighty man in the world, countless claims on his attention, why should he remember us? He was no snob, I knew; he had friends in every walk of life; but these far-apart social calls were not such a relationship. And . . . when I applied to Fireball, I was admitted for training, although hundreds of those who were turned away must have been at least as qualified.

  "Therefore, when I decided to try learning who my real parents were—I have not told Far and Mor, they would be
hurt—jo, it was natural to seek a clue in Guthrie. I gave the job to a detective agency, but it was not very difficult. Most of what trouble they had was due to the chaotic conditions in North America, which was where the trail led. A public figure like Guthrie, his whereabouts are always a news item, at least potentially. Afterward the information will lie forgotten in a journalistic database for decades, no reason to wipe it. I knew my year of birth, since I was adopted out immediately, and the birthday we celebrated for me must be approximately correct. Since I was almost certainly illegitimate—Forgive me, M-mother—"

  Beynac reached to pat Rydberg's hand. "Quite all right, you wonderful bastard."

  "Uh-hm! Where was Guthrie and what did he do in the nine months previous? It turned out that six months earlier than that, the local news in a small Pacific Northwest town called Aberdeen reported that once again the community was honored by the distinguished presence of Mr. and Mrs. Anson Guthrie, who were visiting their friends Mr. and Mrs. Sigurd Ebbesen. A detective on site jogged various people's memories, consulted the database further, and learned that Miss Dagny Ebbesen moved at that time to Quito, Ecuador, under the tutelage of the Guthries, where she was to receive a first-class education in the Fireball school before being offered employment in the company. There was no record in Ecuador of her giving birth, but it would have been easy for them to conceal, and investigation showed she did not enroll in the school until months after she left Aberdeen. The probability seemed high, and your career was a matter of public record. In fact, you are rather famous; I have long heard of you."

  The dry, rapid recital jerked to a halt. Rydberg's glance had turned from Beynac while he spoke. He sat staring at the wall.

  "Were you surprised?" she asked mildly.

  "Well," he said; "I thought. . . if my mother was a protégée of the Guthries . . . she would not live in poverty. Otherwise I had no idea about her."

  "Many children fantasize about real parents who are far more glamorous and important than those they know. I'm afraid I can't live up to that."

  His head swung back toward her. His right hand clenched on his thigh, the left grabbed at the edge of the couch. "I don't want anything from you!" he cried. "I don't need anything! I'm well off!"

  She lifted a palm. "Easy, dear," she said low. "I didn't mean what you suppose. If you're a space pilot, sure, you're highly paid, and your share in the company is appreciating like an avalanche. Nor did I imagine for one second you've come sucking after preferment or special privilege. Credit me with that much insight."

  "I am sorry," he said, contrite. "I am clumsy with words. Will you forgive me?"

  "Nothing to forgive, darling. You're pretty well ashiver. Think I'm not? What I meant was just that I'm nothing extraordinary. A wife and mother. Former engineer. They asked me to take over some administrative chores. That was faute de mieux, but gradually the administrating crowded out the engineering. It involved me in politics, because somebody had to speak up for the ordinary resident, buck the assorted governments, try to get taxes and regulations held in some relationship to reality. So now, for my sins, I'm serving a term as mayor here, and I'm afraid there'll be another term or two before I can locate a suitable successor who can't run fast enough. That's all."

  "That, is plenty,. . . I would say."

  "Your life is bound to have been much more interesting."

  "I doubt that."

  "Tell me about it."

  "And I am not a very interesting person," he said doggedly,

  "I'll be the judge of that, if you please." Beynac shitted position, leaned back, crossed her legs, an attitude that invited easiness.

  He found his tongue moving more readily as he talked. "Well, you have heard the basic facts. I was raised as a Swede. We traveled, I saw a good deal of Earth, but I was always . . . starstruck. I wanted out, as the North Americans say, and at age eighteen I was admitted to Fireball's academy. My talent and wish were for piloting, and it has become my work. I have flown both regular and exploratory missions, and am newly back from Jupiter."

  "And you call yourself dull. Huh! How about your Earthside life? Married? I lust to start having grandkids."

  "No," he replied harshly. "I was, for three years. It ended."

  Her tone went like a hand that stroked his hair.

  "Didn't intend to pry. I won't discuss anything you'd rather not, nor investigate it. A promise." After a moment: "Pilots are dreadful marriage risks. Everybody knows it. She must have been a brave and loving girl."

  "She deserved better. I hope she will find it."

  "Drop that remorsefulness, will you? Switching back-again, not to pry, but—you said you were starstruck, but you must have been too smart not to know the hazards and sacrifices and miseries of space, as well as the glamour; and you've described a pleasant life on Earth, by no means boring. You could have gone into a career that would soon provide you the money to taste space as a tourist. I mean the kind of tourist who trains for it till he can have real experiences. Nevertheless, you say you wanted out. Why? What was wrong?"

  "I-I felt, well, cramped, restricted."

  "Really? I remember Anson Guthrie remarking once that when he was young, Sweden was what he called a nanny state, but it got rid of that and nowadays people there are more free than in most countries, including North America. Which is obviously one reason why he placed you where he did."

  "True. Still, everywhere on Earth—everywhere fit to live in—you have a feeling that everything is settled, everything important has been done, anything truly new can only make us uncomfortable. And that, what is the word, that smarmy Necromantic movement, claiming to bring back traditions that for hundreds of years have existed only in books, if they ever existed at all—it made me gag. In space they are not afraid of newness and greatness. They have their customs, their genuine traditions, and those are growing, they serve a purpose, they live."

  Beynac nodded. "I realize it wasn't anywhere near as simple as that, and probably your motives never were clear to you and never will be, but I see your drift." With a smile: "I also see you are not a bore. I'll bet in your teens your age mates found you an intolerable, stiff-necked nonconformist."

  After a silence she went on, carefully, "I do need to ask what made you search me out. It was not idle curiosity."

  "No," he said. "It was that same feeling of rootlessness, of belonging to nothing and nobody. Yes, I am fond of my foster parents, but in every other way I have grown apart from them."

  "I know how they feel," she said half under her breath.

  He decided not to pursue that. "Fireball is my real family now, as for so many of us. And yet, maybe it is that I have not quite matured out of a lonely adolescence, yet there was this emptiness in me. It made no sense, but I could not fill it. At last I thought that if I could learn who my true parents were, where and what I came from, it might make healing. But I did not want to disturb them. Simply knowing who you are, meeting you this once, that is a miracle."

  "You don't have to go away, Lars," Beynac told him. "You won't, if I can help it."

  After another moment she went on: "You don't seem to have identified your biological father. His name was William Thurshaw. It was a summer's love affair, wild and beautiful and of course impossible. I resisted having an abortion, and the Guthries saved me and you as you know. That was because—no. Maybe someday I can tell you.

  "Bill was a gifted boy. That was maybe the main thing that drew me to him. He was also gallant and caring, and he went on to become the same sort of man. We never heard from each other again, but Guthrie told me this much. Now that I can tell what to look for, yes, I see a lot of Bill in you. And I think in your spirit, too."

  Her tone hardened. "He could have gotten into Fireball like me and later you, no doubt, but chose differently. Two years ago, Guthrie told me he was dead. You must know how the Renewal is getting more frantic, more ruthless, as the country goes to pieces beneath it. Bill spoke too freely in defense of freedom. He was killed 'resisti
ng arrest,' the police reported."

  "I am sorry," was all Rydberg could find to say.

  Beynac's voice gentled. "For me, he wasn't much more than a dream I'd had. I cried a little. My husband held me close and made the world good again. I am very happily married, Lars. But you can be proud of your father."

  She took Rydberg's hand. They sat thus for a space.

  "I am glad you are happy," he said at last. "I must not threaten it. I will go. Today has been more than enough."

  "No!" she exclaimed. "Bloody hell, no! You stay!"

  "But your husband, your children—"

  She regained control. "Please. I can't just let you orbit back into the swarm and think no more about it. Not that I'll lay any claims on you, either. Can't we get to know each other, though?"

  "At your home? I would feel like an invader."

  "Don't." Her laugh wavered a bit. "Oh, Edmond will be taken aback at first, but not badly, and he'll recover fast. He's so absolutely a man, you see. The children will just be interested, not deeply nor for long, I'm sure; about like a cat when a visitor arrives. That's all.