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you but I will anyway, because you know me. We really might be making a
breakthrough this time with the technical talks, I mean. The Lambians actually
seemed impressed, and just about ready to concede that this whole stupid
rivalry is costing us all more than it could ever be worth. And guess what.
Perasmon came here personally yesterday to hear it for himself. I even saw him
for a few minutes! Kind of big and round, with a red face and little white
beard. Quite cuddly. (Not really just to make you jealous.) But I don't think
he's really as bad underneath as all those things in the papers say. Like a
lot of things, maybe it just takes someone to make the first move. And that
could be what we've done. Isn't that an exciting thought! Then there was a
rumor going around this morning that President Harzin might be invited from
Cerios to meet with Perasmon formally. Wouldn't it be fantastic if they
managed to straighten everything out, and all these horrible things that have
been going on could be forgotten? Well, they wouldn't be forgotten by those
poor families and friends who have lost people already, of course. But if
something were learned for the future and not forgotten again, then perhaps
knowing that it was not entirely for nothing might be of some consolation to
them.
I'm so glad you haven't been dragged into any of it. The only thing that could
spoil it all, from what I hear, is Prince Freskel-Gar, who has been jealous
for his step-father's throne for years. He sounds nasty. I don't like him. It
was his faction who made such a big thing of this centralization-command dogma
and set Persamon on the road to a militarized confrontation in the first
place. But here I go getting serious and political again, and I know you can
only stand so much.
How is life at the base? It sounds as if you're making an interesting variety
of friends, even if they could be in a nicer line of business. Congratulations
on the promotion although, to be honest, I still picture you more easily in
furs and snow boots, laughing with Barkan and Quar, falling out of a rangat,
or stealing cookies from Opril's kitchen than wearing a uniform, shouting at
recruits, or carrying a gun.
When are you due for some leave back at home again? Say hello for me to your
mother and father, and your brother when you do. Oh, and that Giant electrical
gadget that your friend in Solnek sent did arrive just before I left to come
here. Tell him thanks so much. It's in remarkably good condition. I didn't get
a chance to look at it very closely, but will get around to it when we're
back. It looks interesting.
And so, that's it for now, Kles. I'm rushing this off during a break and will
have to go soon. Be careful. I do so much hope that these omens come true, and
that everything will change for the better before you do end up in real
danger.
All my love as always (but you already knew that),
Forever,
Laisha
Kles drained the last of the contents of his mug, returned the letter to his
pocket, and sat thinking for a few minutes about the things he had read. Then
he got up, dropped the mug on the tray provided for used dishes, and walked to
the door. Outside, he stopped to take in the scene of squads doubling this way
and that on the parade square, mechanics working on an engine inside the open
doors of the truck depot, a sergeant counting boxes stacked in front of the
quartermaster store. Cerian kids being trained to mindlessly kill and maim
Lambian kids they had never met, and who had done them no harm. How had it all
happened? The more he tried to read the histories and the political diatribes,
the more he was able to follow the inescapable logic of the details, but lost
sight of any underlying sense. How wonderful it would be if what Laisha was a
part of turned out to be the beginnings of the whole idiocy unraveling and
Minerva getting back onto the path that it should never have strayed from. But
no. . . . The thought was too momentous to get emotional about by hoping for
too much if she were wrong.
And besides, he had less than half an hour to get his kit ready for supervisor
shift at the main gate. He pulled his collar up around his chin and set off
briskly back toward his hut.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
General Gudaf Irastes, second-in-command of the Prince's Own Regiment of the
Lambian Royal Guard, didn't know who the foreigners were, where they had come
from, or how they had made contact with the prince. They wore strange,
outlandish garb that suggested some kind of air crew tunic, and their speech,
though seemingly derived from Lambian, was barely recognizable. But Irastes
took a simple, pragmatic view of life. When it was deemed his business to know
more, he would know. In the meantime, he just followed orders. And his orders
were to go with the leader of the deputation that had made the contact, who
was called Wylott, back to a base they had established somewhere, and escort
their chief back to meet with Freskel-Gar at Dorjon, his stronghold in Lambia.
Irastes had with him a detachment of two officers and eight troopers. Wylott
and four of the deputation that had appeared with him would accompany them,
while the other four remained at Dorjon with the samples of weapons that they
had brought. It was understood that they were being kept as as hostages to
ensure good behavior, although nobody had been so indelicate as to say so.
Irastes was intrigued by what seemed to be communications accessories that the
foreigners wore on their wrists and belts, and also their sidearms. They
appeared to be of extremely advanced types, completely unfamiliar. He hoped
this wasn't representative of Cerian work that had been going on, and which he
had never heard of. If it were, the implications were alarming. Small wonder
that Freskel-Gar had been very interested in the weapons. Irastes wondered if
he was working some kind of deal with a renegade Cerian group who had access
to developments that had been kept a secret.
Following directions from the foreigners, a Lambian personnel flyer carried
the mixed group over the hills to the south of Dorjon and then across the
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