mess. The right wing would call it poetic justice, I suppose. But I’ve never seen anything poetic in justice: it’s too close to reality. And the realities went on, and on, long after that war was over. Starvation and poverty—the outside world never heard the half of it. But what else do you expect from so much destruction? The food source was gone: cattle, fields, ranches, farms. And jails and executions for men who had jailed and executed others.” Again he shook his head. “The innocent suffered too—on both sides. They always do. Whether you won or lost in that war, there was plenty of misery for everyone.”
Civil war... “A lesson for all of us,” Ferrier said. “Don’t take anarchists or communists as your political bedfellows unless you want to wake up castrated.” The twentieth-century experience, he thought. “But the radicals never learn, do they?”
“Nor do some nationalists,” Reid said bitterly. “If trouble breaks out here again—” He didn’t finish that thought. “The hell with all extremists,” he said shortly. “Their price is too high.”
* * *
Ferrier’s thoughts came back to the courtyard. Around him, the tables were buzzing with talk; expectations were rising—you could hear it in the gradually increasing volume of sound. Everyone was out to enjoy himself. Ferrier looked at Reid. “Sorry. My mind drifted. You were saying the Phoenicians—?”
“Not important. Just a footnote.” Only a brief remark to keep Ian from noticing this delay too much. It was ten minutes past one now. Four minutes to go. If this was an alert. “You know, Ian, you’re a lucky man. You have a job that’s worth doing, a job you like. You can keep your eyes fixed on the stars and not worry about politics.” Because that’s all I do now, Reid thought. I, too, have a job that’s worth doing, but before I entered it I hadn’t one idea of how much worry was needed over politics. The things that never get known, that can’t be published unless you want to throw people into a panic; the things that stand in the shadows, waiting, threatening; the things that have to be faced by some of us, be neutralised or eliminated, to let others go on concentrating on their own lives.
“Not worry?” That had caught Ferrier’s attention. “I wish I could keep my eyes on the stars instead of all that junk that’s floating through space.”
Reid studied his friend thoughtfully. “It’s more than junk that’s bothering you, isn’t it?”
Ferrier nodded. “What about a nice big space station up there? Not ours. What if a politically oriented country got it there first? One that doesn’t hesitate using an advantage to back up its demands?”
“Another blackmail attempt, as in Cuba?”
“1962 all over again. Except, this time, the rocket installations would be complete with armed missiles or whatever improvements the scientists can dream up,” Ferrier said bitterly. “And the whole, damned package would be right above ourheads, way out there.” He looked up at the sky. “Not to mention various satellites that now have their orbits changed quite easily to remote control. God only knows what they contain.” He tried to lighten his voice. “Well—one thing is certain. There is no future in being ignorant. Or in being depressed. You know what’s at stake and you keep your cool. If you don’t, you’ve had it.” He finished his drink, didn’t taste it any more.
Reid looked around for the waiter. “Where’s Jaime? Oh, there he is—transfixed by our fellow-Americans.” He clapped his hands to signal to the boy, small and thin, who had been standing against the rear wall.
Ferrier glanced briefly in Jaime’s direction, caught a passing glimpse of the back-corner table. Four pairs of eyes had been levelled at him—or at Reid. Four pairs of eyes automatically veered away as he noticed them. It was a very brief encounter, and if there hadn’t been that unified evasive action, Ferrier would