XVI.

THE LIEUTENANT WALKED quickly, as if he were trying to outdistance Gerswin.

"Just ahead, Commander. Just ahead."

Torn between a sigh of exasperation and a smile of amusement at the young supply officer's nervousness, Gerswin kept his face impassive.

"All the security systems in place, Hursen?"

"Yes, ser. Checked them this morning." The dark-haired man did not look back as he followed the walkway through a right angle turn and toward the massive open stone archway.

Through and over the archway, the wide sweep of the rejuvenated but antique commandant's quarters dominated the crest of the low hill.

The hill itself had been raised at the "suggestion" of Standora Base's first commanding officer, in order to allow him to view the entire base from his quarters.

The two men halted before the archway, an archway that concealed the low level personnel screen that ringed the entire grounds, gardens and all.

"You have to go through first, Commander. The screen is keyed to you."

"Just me?"

"For now. You could add anyone you wanted. Did you have anyone in mind?"

Even as the words escaped the lieutenant's mouth, Gerswin could see the young man swallow hard, as if he wished to take the words back.

Gerswin could not quite hide his grin, nor the smile in his voice.

"Don't worry, Hursen. There isn't anyone like that."

The smile left his face as he considered the import of the words. No one like that-no, there wasn't. Not now.

Caroljoy was dead. Dead, for all the memories, and so was their son, the one he had not even known. Three memories of her-once scarcely out of girlhood, for all her warmth and wanting. Once as a Duchess, aging, but still warm and vital. And once as a dying woman, not even in person, but captured in cold print and foundation incorporation charters.

He shook his head. Twice. Only twice had they been together in a century. And twice had not been enough.

He had spent more time with some casual lovers. And those casual affairs had sometimes been too much, far too much.

He shook his head and looked up at the all too imposing quarters he would occupy, quarters that were obviously left from the days of earlier Imperial expansion, days when the energy had been abundant and cheap, and when every base had been another attempt to recreate the glory of the Empire's rising sun.

Like the day itself, Gerswin reflected with a wry twist to his lips, the Empire had moved into its afternoon.

"Commander?"

"A moment, Lieutenant. A moment."

When he stepped through the archway, he did not immediately key the release to allow his supply officer through, but paused and surveyed the formal garden to his right, and the clipped green velvet of the lawn as it sloped down and away from the pathway that hugged the artificial ridgeline, as it led to the wide stone steps that waited to greet the commander.

On the other side of the quarters, he recalled, was the truly imposing main entrance, designed to accept groundcars of size and splendor. Even if none had been seen at Standora Base in more than half a century.

The formality recalled Triandna to him, clear as the single time he had been there, clear as that day he had seen Caroljoy the second time and learned he had lost the son he had never known.

"The Emperor's Cross . . . for this? For what it stands for?" The senior commander remained unmoving in the sunlight of the early afternoon.

"Commander?"

The plaintive sound in Hursen's voice jerked him back to the present, where he stood in a pleasant garden before a large, but not ducal, military home.

"Sorry, Hursen. Just . . . remembering..."

He took several steps back to the stone archway and coded the momentary release that dropped the screens for the younger officer.

"Come on in."

"Than you, ser." Hursen cleared his throat, once, twice, then finally spoke again. "You were here before, set?"

"No. Just reminded me of something that happened a long time ago. A long ways from here."

"I imagine you've seen a great deal, ser."

"Hardly, Hursen. Hardly. Sometimes it amazes me to find out how little I've seen."

He turned and began to walk slowly down the stone walkway toward the small but well-restored formal garden, with the dark green of its low hedges, and the intermittent splashes of small flowers.

Had Caroljoy known he might have rated such quarters, would she have considered contacting him after she discovered she would have his child?

He shook his head once more, slowly and with a faint smile.

The Lieutenant Gerswin he had been could not have competed in the same universe as the Duke of Triandna. In life, they had inhabited separate worlds, and not even death, whenever it might come, would change that.

Death? Hardly yet, he thought with another quirk to his lips.

His steps picked up as he marched toward the house. So much time for self-pity and reflection, and no more. Neither sadness or self-pity would help reclaim Old Earth . . . or Standora Base.

"Come on, Lieutenant. Let's get on with it."

He did not smile as he sensed the puzzled expression on the young supply officer's face. Instead he took the stone steps two at a time.

XVII.

"THE SMALL HANGAR at the end? Those are the museum pieces, ser."

The I.S.S. pilot laughed. "Museum pieces? You have to be joking."

"No, ser," answered the technician. "When the commander got here, he said that since we were only fit to work on museum pieces, we should at least make them the best there were. Was before I came. Each year, we restore another old one from the scrapyard. Make it fully operational. Off-duty time, but it gets to you."

The pilot-young, female, blonde, square jawed-stared at the technician. "You're serious?"

"Ser . . . why don't you take a look? The hangar's open to the public, too. Got headquarters to classify it as a public exhibition. Must get a couple hundred visitors a day."

"All right. Nothing else to do."

As the young officer strolled down the plastarmac, she could feel the technician grinning behind her back. She wondered if the man told the same tall tale to all the transients at Standora.

Still . . . the hangar was less than half a kilo, and she had little enough to do until the emergency repairs on the Dybyykk were completed.

"Standora . . . for Hades' sake." She shook her head. The place should have been closed down years ago.

That was what the Operations officer had said.

She glanced at the arrayed hangars, all clean, and the clear tarmac that stretched to the "museum" ahead. While the base appeared less busy than many, it did not appear deserted or run-down, nor did its personnel conduct themselves as if they had been consigned to a dying installation.

She glanced inside the hangar to her right, then glanced again. The grids positively glittered, and the hull inside seemed the focus of a full crew.

This is the junkyard of the fleet, supposedly? What other ships had been sent here recently? From the Fleet Dispatch log, she couldn't remember any.

Her steps brought her to the hangar at the end closest to the main gate toward the local community.

A sign a meter square caught her eye.

IMPERIAL SMALLCRAFT-HISTORICAL DISPLAY.

None of the craft displayed here are currently in Imperial Service. For historical and academic research purposes, all displays are fully functional and in complete working order.

She read the caption twice before entering the hangar.

Once inside she had to blink, for she had been expecting the hushed, dimly lit recesses of a museum. Instead, the lights were those of a first class repair installation, clear illumination from both direct and indirect sources.

The plastone underfoot was the clear blue of a newly constructed hangar, and outside of the faint hint of metal and ozone, the air was fresh.

From where she stood inside the hangar entryway, she could see eight smallcraft, the largest of which was an ancient corvette.

Another look around the hangar revealed details she had missed. Both entrances, the one from the base and the one from the other side, open to the locals, were guarded by I.S.S. techs. Not by Imperial Marines, but by armed technicians who wore regulation side arms and whose uniforms matched almost any marine's for sharpness.

Beside each craft was a small stand with a vidcube display to explain the background of the particular boat or ship. And at the far north end of the hangar, suspended from the overhead, were the crossed banners of the Empire and the I.S.S.

Each of the displays appeared as ready for liftoff as the outside caption had claimed.

The pilot headed for the one she recognized from the tapes, a Delta class flitter, which had been retired less than a decade earlier, and which seemed to be the most modern of the craft displayed.

She grimaced as she approached, realizing that the canopy was seal-locked, as it should be if the flitter was indeed operational. She climbed the steps to the platform to view the controls. At least she could get some idea whether the flitter was indeed functional.

"Lieutenant?" A voice intruded upon her observations.

She turned to see a senior technician at her elbow.

"Would you like to try the controls?" He did not wait for her answer, but turned to the seal and made some adjustments. The canopy recessed, and the climbsteps extended from the hull.

"Why-"

"Commander likes to have pilots see what ships used to be like. Can't open them to everyone because they're all hot. He does most of the test flights. Makes sense. Only one checked out in most of them."

"Checked out . . . all of them hot? Even-"

"Even the old black scout, even the Federation Epsilon corvette. If it doesn't work, then it's not on display. We've got some in the work area below. May take years to get in shape. Big project is the Ryttel."

The lieutenant dropped suddenly into the padded accel/decel control shell.

"The Ryttel?"

"No one could bear to scrap her. Been out in the 'serveshells for two cees."

Her hands touched the controls, controls that felt new, as recent as the shuttles and flitters of the Dybyykk.

"These don't feel old."

"They're not. They work. Commander insists they all work. Every one is absolutely stet with the original specs, except in cases where the original specs were changed in Service to improve operations."

She touched the power readout plates. Ninety-eight percent power. Again she shook her head for what she felt was the hundredth time.

"I don't believe it."

"Not many do. Commander says it shows what we can do." The tech paused. "Just close the seal when you're done. Set to relock."

The pilot shifted her weight to get the feel of the shell, and of the flitter, letting her fingers run over the controls, trying to set up a scan pattern with the different positions of the board instruments.

Even without the power assists on, without the full panel lit, or the heads-up display projected, the flitter felt new, felt ready to lift clear of the hangar.

At last she took her hands from the stick and thruster controls, unfastened the webbing, and eased out of the cockpit. With a final look at the interior, she touched the closure panel and stepped back onto the platform as the canopy slid into place with a muffled clank.

Straightening her tunic, she turned and took the steps back down to the hangar floor.