The Star Fox

“Sure. There are no other defenses worth mentioning. We can knock out their ground-based missiles from space. Then we give air support to the colonists, who’re already preparing a march on the seaboard. You know as well as I do, no atmospheric flyer ever made has a fish’s chance on Friday against a nuclear-armed spaceship. If the Aleriona don’t surrender, well simply swat them out of the sky, and then go to work on their ground troops. But I expect they will give in. They’re not stupid. And … then we’ve got hostages.”

“But—the rest of their fleet—”

“Uh-huh. One by one, over a period of weeks or months, they’ll come in. Fox should be able to bushwhack them. Also, well have the New Europeans hard at work, finishing the space defenses. Evidently there isn’t much left to do there. Once that job’s completed, the planet’s nearly impregnable, whatever happens to us.

“Somewhere along the line, probably rather soon, another transport ship will come in, all unsuspecting. We’ll nobble her and send off a load of New Europeans as originally planned. When Earth hears they’re not only not dead, not only not at the point of defeat, but standing space siege and doing a crackling hell of a job at it … why, if Earth doesn’t move then, I resign from the human race.”

Heim straightened. “I’m no damned hero, Dave,” he finished. “Mainly I want to get home to the pipe and slippers. But don’t you think a chance like this is worth taking?”

Penoyer’s nostrils flared. “By … by Jove,” he stammered.

“Very good. Make course for New Europe and call me if anything happens.”

Heim stumbled to his cabin and toppled into sleep.

Vadász’s hand shook him awake. “Gunnar! Contact’s made—with Jubalcho—we’ll rendezvous inside half an hour.” Nothing remained of tiredness, fear, doubt, or even anger. Heim went to the bridge with more life running through his veins than ever since Connie departed. Stars filled the viewports, so big and bright in the crystal dark that it seemed lie could reach out and touch them. The ship murmured and pulsed. His men stood by their weapons; he could almost sense their oneness with him and with her. He took his place of command, and it was utterly right that Cynbe’s voice should ring from the speaker.

“Star Fox captain, greet I you again? Mightily have we striven. You refuse not battle this now?”

“No,” said Heim. “We’re coming in. Try and stop us.”

The laughter of unfallen Lucifer replied. “Truth. And I thank you, my brother. Let come what that time-flow brings that you are terrible enough to live with … I thank you for this day.”

“Good-by,” Heim said, and thought, a little surprised, Why, that means “God be with you.”

“Captain of mine,” Cynbe sang, “fare you well.” The radio beams cut out. Dark and silent, the two ships moved toward their meeting place.

X

A man came to New Europe from Normandy in the early days and built himself a house on the sea cliffs. Steeply fell the land, with golden trees and ripples of wind _: through grasses and wildflowers, until it made its sudden downward plunge: a country of hills that shouldered into the sky, which was clangorous with birds, of glens, lakes, waterfalls, and eastward a salt blueness edged only by the curve of the world. In those times he had little to work with save native wood and stone; he chose them for beauty. The house he fashioned lifted gables like outlined mountains. Within there were spacious rooms, _carved wainscoting, great fireplaces, rafters so high that they were often lost in shadows. Broad windows opened upon the land, of which the house had become another part. And the man built well, as folk do who see themselves only one link in a chain of generations.

But Bonne Chance grew from hamlet to city a hundred kilometers south. Colonists sought more the valleys than the heights. Though this dwelling was not distant when one could fly, the man’s heirs moved where wealth and people were. The house stood long empty.

It did not suffer much. Strong and patient, it waited. The time came at last, and it was made a gift of honor.

Rear Admiral Moshe Peretz, commanding blastship Jupiter, Deepspace Fleet of Earth’s World Federation, set his borrowed flyer down on the landing strip and went out. A fresh breeze swayed the nearby garden, clouds ran white, sunlight speared between them to dance on a restless ocean. He walked slowly, a short man, very erect in his uniform, with combat ribbons on his breast that freed him to admire a view or a blossom.

Gunnar Heim came out to welcome him, also in uniform: but his was different, gray tunic, a red stripe down the trousers, a fleur-de-lis on the collar. He towered over his guest, bent down a face that had known much sun of late, grinned in delight, and engulfed the other man’s hand in one huge paw. “Hey, Moshe, it’s good to see you again! How many years?”

“Hello,” Peretz said.

Heim released him, stung and surprised. “Uh … anything wrong?”

“I am all right, thank you. This is a nice home you have.”