Harvest of Stars (75 page)

“You understand me too. You made me see.”

“Naw. I simply remarked that considering how morons and collectivists breed, DNA like yours and Bill’s oughtn’t be flushed
down the toilet.” His tone, deliberately coarse, gentled. “That was no basis for decision. You were what counted, Dagny, and
Juliana was who eased the confusion out of you. Okay, now it’s my turn. We’ve settled the what and why, we need to settle
the how.”

Her stride faltered. She recovered, gulped, looked into the distances before her, and asked quietly, “You don’t think I should
keep the baby, do you?”

“No. You aren’t ready to be tied down. My guess is you never will be, unless it’s in the right place, a place where you can
really use your gifts. It’ll hurt, giving up the young’un as soon as you’ve borne it, but that will heal. You see, naturally
we’ll get the best foster parents we can; and I’ve got the money to mount a proper
search for them. Not in this country, under this wretched regime, but abroad, Europe maybe. Don’t worry, I’ll find my way
around any laws there are. You’ll know you did the right thing, and can put the whole matter behind you.”

Once more, briefly, she caught his hand. “I won’t ever—not quite—but … thank you.”

“Meanwhile and afterward, what about you?” he went on in methodical fashion. “Let’s do what I should’ve seen to before and
get you out of here, permanently.”

She stiffened. Her voice came thin. “No. I told you when you first suggested it. Dad needs me.”

“And is too proud to let me hire him the kind of labor you’ve provided for free. I know. That’s how come I never pushed the
idea of putting you in a school where they teach facts and how to think for yourself instead of the Renewal party line. But
the chips are down, honey. If you stay home and have the child, I doubt the community will be habitable for your family. And
the story will forever be in your file, available at a keystroke to any busybody. If you drop out of sight, though, more or
less immediately, the petty scandal won’t grow, it’ll die out in people’s minds. You’ll just be a black sheep that left the
flock, soon forgotten. As for your father’s business, why, your brother’s pushing fourteen. Quite able to take over from you,
and eager, if I judge aright.”

“I … I suppose so—”

They were mute for half a kilometer, alone between the sea and the driftwood.

Then she blurted, “Where? What?”

He chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She turned her head to stare at him. Hope went in tides, to and fro with her blood.

Guthrie shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t come right out and say it till we had a notion of where you’d take your stand. But you
know Fireball’s more and more arranging for the education of its people’s children, and
we’re starting up an academy for professional training. Me, I know you’ve always been space-struck. For openers, how’d you
like to come to Quito with us, and we’ll see what develops?”

She stopped. “Ecuador,” she gasped—to her, Camelot, Cíbola, Xanadu, the fabled country that Fireball had made its seat because
there the government was still friendly to enterprise, the gateway to the universe.

She cast herself into his arms and wept against his shoulder. He stroked the ruddy hair and shuddering back and made bearlike
noises.

Finally they could sit down in the lee of a log, side by side. The wind whistled past, driving a wrack of clouds beneath the
overcast, but the waters lulled,
hush-hush-hush
. The chill made them shiver a bit, now that they were at rest. She spoke in weary calm:

“Why are you so good to us, Uncans? Sure, you like Dad and Mother, same as you do Mother’s parents, but you’ve told us about
friends all over the world. What’ve we done to deserve this much kindness?”

“I expected I’d have to tell you,” he said slowly. “It’s got to stay a secret. Promise me you’ll never tell anybody without
my leave, not your folks, not Bill when you say goodbye to him—which ain’t going to be easy, even if the affair is over—not
anybody, ever.”

“I promise, honest to Dr. Dolittle,” she replied, as grave as the child who had learned it from him.

He nodded. “I trust you. The ones who make their own way through life, paying their freight as they go, they’re who you can
rely on.

“All right. I know your mother’s mentioned to you that she wasn’t born to the Stambaughs, she was adopted. What she’s never
known is that I am her father.”

Dagny’s eyes widened, her lips parted, she kept silence.

“So I can be simpático with you on your bind,” Guthrie continued. “Of course, things were quite different for me. This was
way back when Carla and I
were in high school in Port Angeles. Carla Rezek—Never mind. It was wild and beautiful and hopeless.”

“And it hurts yet, doesn’t it?” Dagny murmured.

His grin flickered. “Mainly I cherish certain memories. Carla went on to marry and move elsewhere; I’ve lost track and she
hasn’t tried to get back in touch, being the good people she is. Her folks were less tolerant than yours; they got her well
and thoroughly away from me, but on religious grounds they didn’t countenance abortion. When the baby was born, it was adopted
out. Neither Carla nor I were told where. Back then, that sort of incident was no great rarity, no enormous deal. Besides,
I soon went off to college, and on to foreign parts.”

“Till at last—”

“Yeah. I came back, not to stay but to revisit the old scenes, well-heeled and … wondering.”

The girl flushed. “Auntie?”

“Oh, Juliana knew, and in fact urged me to try and find out. I might have a responsibility, she said. A detective followed
up some easy clues and located the Stambaughs in Aberdeen. It wasn’t hard to scrape up an acquaintance. I never meant to intrude,
you realize, just be a friend, so I kept mum and swear you to the same. Wouldn’t have told you, either, if I could’ve avoided
it. Among other things, the secret will be a burden on you, because I can’t very well show you any favoritism if you elect
a Fireball career. Space is too unforgiving. This day, however, well, you have a pretty clear need to know. For your heart’s
sake, anyhow.”

Dagny blinked hard. “Uncans—”

Guthrie cut back to years agone. “Helen was growing up a charming little lady. Shortly after, she married. We’re a headlong
breed in that regard, it seems. You—Me, in my fifties, you’re about to make a great-grandfather of me!” Brief laughter boomed.

“And—and you’ll make of me—”

“Nothing, sweetheart. All we offer is a chance for you to make of yourself whatever you will and can.”

They talked onward, until the cold drove them to walk farther. The sun had gone low. It was still no more than a brightening
behind the cloud deck, but a few rays struck through to kindle the waters.

He who sometimes called himself Venator was also known, to those who had a need to know, as an officer in the secret service
of the World Federation Peace Authority. In truth—for the ultimate truths about a human are in the spirit—he was a huntsman.

In late mornwatch of a certain day on the Moon, he finished his business with one Aiant and left the Lunarian’s dwelling.
After the twilight, birdsong, white blooms, and vaulted ceiling of the room where they had spoken, the passage outside glared
at him. Yet it too was a place of subtle curves along which colors flowed and intertwined, ocher, mauve, rose, amber, smoke.
At intervals stood planters where aloes, under this gravity, lifted their stalks out of spiky clusters as high as his head,
to flower like fireworks six meters aloft. The breeze had a smell as of fresh-cut grass, with a tinge of something sharper,
purely chemical. He could barely hear the music in it, fluting on a scale unknown to Earth, but his blood responded to a subsonic
drumbeat.

Few others were afoot. This being a wealthy section, some went sumptuous of tunic and hose or sweeping gown, while the rest
were retainers of this or that household, in livery not much less fine. One led a Siamese-marked cat on a leash—metamorphic,
its genes transformed through generations to make it of tiger size. All moved with the same grace and aloofness as the animal.
A pair who were talking in their melodious language did so very softly.

They were doubtless a little surprised by the huntsman.
Terrans seldom came here, and he was obviously not one who lived on their world but from Earth. Under the former Selenarchy
his kind had been debarred from entering the neighborhood at all except by special permission. However, nobody said or did
anything, though the big eyes might narrow a bit.

He could have given them back those looks, and not always upward. Many Lunarians were no taller than a tall Terran, which
he was. He refrained. A huntsman on the hunt draws no needless attention to himself. Let them glance, inwardly shrug, and
forget him.

What they saw was a man lithe and slender, in his mid-thirties, with light-brown skin, deep-brown eyes, and black hair a woolcap
on a head long and high. The features were sharp, nose broad and arched, lips thinner than usual for his ethnotype. Clad in
a plain gray coverall and soft boots, he carried at his hip a case that might have held a hand-size computer, a satellite-range
phone, or even a medic, but which in fact bore something much more potent. His gait was unhurried, efficient, well practiced
in low-weight.

It soon took him from the district of old and palatial apartments, through another and humbler inhabited mainly by his species,
on into the commercial core of the city. Three-story arcades on plume-like pillars lined Tsiolkovsky Prospect, duramoss yielded
underfoot, illusions drifted through the ceiling far overhead. Here there were more folk. Most of the Lunarians wore ordinary
garments, although their styles of it—upward-flared collars, short cloaks, dagged skirts, pectoral sunbursts, insignia of
phyle or family, colors, iridescences, inset glitterlights, details more fanciful still—would have been florid were it not
as natural on them as brilliance on a coral snake. Three men came by together; their walk and posture, black kilts and silver-filigree
breastplates, comparatively brusque manner and loud speech, said they were from Mars. Asterites were scarce and less readily
identifiable.

Terrans numbered perhaps three out of ten. Some
declared themselves Lunar citizens by some version of Lunarian garb, often the livery of a seigneurial house. Others stayed
with Earthside fashions, but one could see by their carriage and by tokens more slight that they were citizens too, or at
least long-term residents. Among themselves both kinds used ancestral tongues, unless Lunarian was all that they had in common.

About a third of the Terrans were here from Earth on assorted errands. Tourists were conspicuous by their rarity as well as
their awkwardness and stares. Why trouble to come for pleasure when you could have the experience more easily and cheaply
in a quivira? Your brain would register and remember the same sensations.

These people were too sparse to be a crowd. Half the shops, restaurants, bistros, bagnios, amusement specialties, and cultural
enterprises in the arcades stood closed and vacant. Background noise was a susurrus through which a gust of music would twang
startlingly strong or a drift of perfume entice the nostrils. A conversation ahead of him resounded clearly as the huntsman
drew near.

“—sick of being second-class, all my life second-class. So far can I go, so much can I achieve, then I strike the invisible
wall and everything begins to happen in such ways that nothing further is possible for me.”

The language, Neudeutsch, was among those the net had implanted in the huntsman. He slowed his pace. Familiar though the complaint
was, he might possibly get a little useful input.

Two sat at a street-level table outside an otherwise empty café tended by a robot. The speaker was plainly a Terran Moondweller,
though he wore a Han Revival robe in a forlorn sort of defiance. He was as well-muscled as if he lived on Earth; perhaps he
worked off rage with extra exercise. The skin stood taut on his knuckles where he gripped a tumbler. His companion, in a unisuit,
was just as plainly a visiting European.

She sipped her own drink and murmured, “Not quite all your life.”

“No, of course not. But we’ve lived here for two hundred years, my family.” The man tossed off a gulp. His words tumbled forth.
“My parents went back to Earth only to have us, my siblings and me.” Evidently it had been a multiple conception, three or
four zygotes induced, to spare having to repeat the whole expensive timespan. Probably, the huntsman thought, gestation had
been uterine, to save the cost of exogenesis. “As soon as we were developed enough, they returned with us. Nine months plus
three years they were gone. Should that have lost them what miserable employment they had? Should the need make us aliens,
inferiors? The law says no. But what does the law count for? What is this damned Republic but the same old Selenarchy, in
a disguise so thin it’s an insult?”

“Calm, please be calm. Once the Habitat is ready, things will soon become very different.”

“Will they? Can they? The Selenarchs—”

“The magnates will be overwhelmed, obsolete, irrelevant, within a decade, I promise you. Meanwhile, the opportunities—”

The huntsman went past. He had heard nothing new after all. The woman was involved in one or another of the consortiums already
searching out potentials for the Moon of the future. Perhaps she had some use for the man, perhaps he was merely a chance-met
talkmate. It didn’t matter.

What did matter was that that future lay in danger of abortion.

Despite the service centers at Hydra Square, the fountain in the middle of the plaza splashed through its silvery twinings
and fractals alone. The door of the constabulary retracted to let a uniformed officer in and a couple of civilians out, otherwise
the fish below the clear paving swam about nobody’s feet but the huntsman’s. No paradox, though Tychopolis be the largest
of the Lunar cities. Here, too, automatons,
robots, and sophotects increasingly took over such tasks as medical care, maintenance, and rescue, while the population requiring
those attentions declined. He expected the area would again be thronged once the settlers from Earth had established themselves
(for however long that would last, a few centuries, a few millennia, a blink in time for the Teramind but long enough in human
reckoning). Unless their hopes died beneath the claws of the Selenarchs.