Kara noticed that her hands were clenched. She opened them, and shook her fingers out.
"But -- why?" she asked. "Why was he trying to. . .harm the station?"
Bringo, the Chief Tugwhomper, looked grave.
"Had a drink wit' the boy not so long ago," he said slowly. "Shortenin' it considerable, he told me he figured out how to get his paper, Eylot-side."
Kara shivered, suddenly cold.
"By killing the station?"
"Now, missy. Coulda just drunk too much coil fluid and talkin' big. Cheer 'imself up, like."
"There will be an investigation," said the Station Master. "Might be something in his quarters will be helpful. In the meanwhile, Pilot ven'Arith, the lesson you're to take away from you is that you acted in self-defense – properly acted in self defense. If Fortch hadn't had the main power bus to the arm open he'd be alive. I'd say the fatal mistake was his, not yours."
Orn Ald's voice then, quick, comforting Liaden preceding a gentle bow between comrades.
"The station is in your debt, Kara."
"That's right, and we don't aim to stay that way," said Guild Master Peltzer. "There's a reward for preserving environmental integrity. Understand, it's not what any of us can call exact Balance -- more like a symbolic Balance. Be as may, I reckon that reward's gonna show up in your account." He gave the Station Master a hard look, and that individual smiled.
"Without a doubt, Guild Master. Without a doubt."
"That's all set now," said Master Thelly, firmly. "Kara -- go get some rest."
"Yes," she said, numb, but with a dawning sense of relief. She bowed a simple bow of respect to the group of them, and turned toward the door.
As she stepped into the hall, she found Orn Ald yos'Senchul next to her.
"Will you share a meal with me, comrade, and allow me escort you to your conapt?"
"Yes," she said again, and considered him. "And you will tell me everything that the others didn't want to tell me, won't you Orn Ald?"
"Oh, yes," he said serenely. "I'll do that."
--end--
Kinderspiel
by Charles E. Gannon
(the author wishes to express his profound gratitude to that tireless and peerless researcher, Virginia DeMarce, to whom this story owes the largest measure of its authenticity)
April, 1635, south of Ulm, Swabia
“Colonel, riders coming.”
Thomas North, one of the two colonels of the Hibernian Mercenary Battalion, turned in his saddle and squinted.
Sure enough, just as his batman Finan had reported, two mounted figures were catching up with them, following along the same route: south on the Swabian Jakobsweg—arguably the most reliable way south from Ulm to Biberach, even though it wasn’t a road. Or more accurately, because it was now mid-April, the Jakobsweg was the most reliable path because it wasn’t a road. Leaving Ulm yesterday, North and his rump platoon had witnessed three wagons hopelessly mired in the spring mud, the struggling teamsters up to their hips in the brown ooze.
North’s senior lieutenant, Hastings, leaned closer. “Orders, sir?”
“Take a fire team into the brush on the left. And don’t get bloody eager, Lieutenant: these two aren’t trouble.”
“Too few of them?”
“Too obvious. But you never know when wolves might be shadowing unsuspecting sheep. Off with you, now.”
Hastings tossed his reins to Finan, dismounted, and gathered his fire team from the front of the formation, ensuring that his actions were unobservable by the oncoming riders. The hastily assembled group disappeared into the sparse undergrowth.
Several of the other Hibernians saw Hastings’ small screening force vanishing and hefted their .40-.72 black-powder Winchesters higher into a ready cradle posture.
“Easy, men,” said Thomas in a gruff but even tone that was, for him, a soothing croon.
That was the same moment that the taller and wider-shouldered of the two riders stopped and put up a hand, whether in greeting or invitation to parley, North couldn’t be sure.
But the larger of the two resumed his approach without waiting for Thomas’ gesture to do so, making the rider clearly suicidal. Or insane.
Shortly thereafter, North discovered that insanity was indeed the cause of the unbeckoned approach and that the oncoming rider had no hope of ever recovering his wits. By dint of his origins, his madness was endemic and permanent.
In short, he was an American.
And not just any American. As soon as the rider called a greeting, “Hello, Colonel North,” Thomas knew who it was: Larry Quinn. Now Major Larry Quinn, if recent scuttlebutt was to be believed.
North waved at the bushes to his right; Lieutenant Hastings and his men emerged.