“We shall have to accept that,” he told them. “What we cannot accept is our present rate of losses. Laura is only a prologue. If the cost of its capture proves such that we have to wait for reinforcements, giving Ythri time to reorganize, there goes our entire strategy. The whole war will become long and expensive.”

He sighed. “Let us be frank, citizens,” he said. “Our intelligence about this system was very bad. We had no idea what fortifications had been created for Avalon—”

In orbit, automated stations by the hundreds, whose powerplants fed no engines but, exclusively, defensive screens and offensive projectors; thus mortally dangerous to come in range of. Shuttling between them and the planet, hence guarded by them, a host of supply craft, bringing whatever might be needed to keep the robots shooting.

On the surface, and on the moon, a global grid of detectors, launch tubes, energy weapons too immense for spaceships to carry; some buried deep in rock or on the ocean beds, some aboveground or afloat. The chance of a vessel or missile getting through from space, unintercepted, small indeed; and negafields shielding every vital spot.

In the air, a wasp swarm of pursuit craft on patrol, ready to streak by scores against any who was so rash as to intrude.

“—and the defenders used our ignorance brilliantly. They lured us into configurations that allowed those instrumentalities to inflict staggering damage. We’re mouse-trapped between the planet and their ships. Inferior though the enemy fleet is, under present circumstances it’s disproportionately effective.

“We have no choice. We must change the circumstances, fast. If we pull beyond reach of the defenses, their fleet will again be outmatched and, I’m sure, will withdraw to the outer parts of this system as Captain Kthak has said.”

“Then, sir?” asked a man. “What do we do then?”

“We make a reassessment,” Cajal told him.

“Can we saturate their capabilities with what we’ve got on hand?” wondered another.

“I do not know,” Cajal admitted.

“How could they do this?” cried a man from behind the bandages that masked him. His ship had been among those smashed. “A wretched colony — what’s the population, fourteen million, mostly ranchers? — how was it possible?”

“You should understand that,” Cajal reproved, though gently because he knew drugs were dulling brain as well as pain. “Given abundant nuclear energy, ample natural resources, sophisticated automatic technology, one needs nothing else except the will. Machines produce machines, exponentially. In a few years one has full production under way, limited only by available minerals; and an underpopulated, largely rural world like Avalon will have a good supply of those.

“I imagine,” he mused aloud — because any thought was better than thought of what the navy had suffered this day — “that same pastoral economy simplified the job of keeping secret how great an effort was being mounted. A more developed society would have called on its existing industry, which is out in the open. The Avalonian leadership, once granted carte blanche by the electorate, made most of its facilities from zero, in regions where no one lives.” He nodded. “Yes, citizens, let us confess we have been taken.” Straightening: “Now we salvage what we can.”

Discussion turned to ways and means. Battered, more than decimated, the Terran force was still gigantic. It was strewn through corresponding volumes of space, its units never motionless. Arranging for an orderly retreat was a major operation in itself. And there would be the uncertainties, imponderables, and inevitable unforeseen catastrophes of battle. And the Avalonian space captains must be presented with obvious chances to quit the fight — not mere tactical openings, but a clear demonstration that their withdrawal would not betray their folk — lest they carry on to the death and bring too many Imperials with them.

But at last the computers and underlings were at work on details, the first moves of disengagement were started. Cajal could be alone.

Or can I be? he thought Ever again? The ghosts are crowding around.

No. This debacle wasn’t his fault. He had acted on wrong information. Saracoglu — No, the governor was a civilian who was, at most, peripherally involved in fact-gathering and had worked conscientiously to help prepare. Naval Intelligence itself — but Saracoglu had spoken sooth. Real espionage against Ythri was impossible. Besides, Intelligence… the whole navy, the whole Empire… was spread too thin across a reach too vast, inhuman, hostile; in the end, perhaps all striving to keep the Peace of Man was barren.

You did what you could. Cajal realized he had not done badly. These events should not be called a debacle, simply a disappointment. Thanks to discipline and leadership, his fleet had taken far fewer losses than it might have; it remained overwhelmingly powerful; he had learned lessons that he would use later on in the war.

Nevertheless the ghosts would not go away.

Cajal knelt. Christ, who forgave the soldiers, help me forgive myself. Saints, stand by me till my work is done. His look went from crucifix to picture. Before everyone, you, Elena who in Heaven must love me yet, since none were ever too lowly for your love, Elena, watch over me. Hold my hand.

Beneath the flyers, the Middle Ocean rolled luminous black. Above them were stars and a Milky Way whose frostiness cut through the air’s warmth. Ahead rose the thundercloud mass of an island. Tabitha heard surf on its beaches, a drumfire in the murmur across her face.

“Are they sure the thing landed here?” asked one of the half-dozen Ythrians who followed her and Draun.

“Either here or in the sea,” growled her partner. “What’s the home guard for if not to check out detector findings? Now be quiet and wary. If that was an Imperial boat—”

“They’re marooned,” Tabitha finished for him. “Helpless.”

“Then why’ve they not called to be fetched?”

“Maybe their transmitter is ruined.”

“And maybe they have a little scheme. I’d like that. We’ve many new-made dead this night. The more Terrans for hell-wind to blow ahead of them, the better.”

“Follow your own orders and shut up,” Tabitha snapped.

Sometimes she seriously considered dissolving her association with Draun. She had come to see over the years that he didn’t really believe in the gods of the Old Faith, nor carry out their rites from traditionalism like most Highsky folk; no, he enjoyed those slaughterous sacrifices. And he had killed in duello more than once, on his own challenge, however much trouble he might have afterward in scraping together winner’s gild for the bereaved. And while he seldom abused his slaves, he kept some, which she felt was the fundamental abuse.

Still — he was loyal and, in his arrogant way, generous to friends; his seamanship combined superbly with her managerial talents; he could be good-company when he chose; his wife was sweet; his youngest cubs were irresistible, and loved their Kin-She Hrill who took them in her arms…

I’m perfect? Not by a fertilizing long shot, considering how I let my mind meander!

They winged, she thrust above the strand and high over the island. Photoamplifier goggles showed it silver-gray, here and there speckled with taller growth; on boulders, dew had begun to catch starlight. (How goes it yonder? The news said the enemy’s been thrown back, but — ) She wished she were flying nude in this stroking, giddily perfumed air. But her business demanded coveralls, cuirass, helmet boots. That which had been detected coming down might be a crippled Avalonian, but might equally well be — Hoy!

“Look.” She pointed. “A fresh track.” They swung about, crossed a ridge, and the wreck lay under them.

“Terran indeed,” Draun said. She saw his crest and tail-feathers quiver in eagerness. He wheeled, holding a magnifier to his eyes. “Two outside. Hya-a-a-a-ahl”