“They wouldn’t do that, sir,” Rochefort said. Color returned to his speech. “About the worst immorality you can commit on Avalon is stripping someone else of his basic honor. That costs you yours.” He sank back and took a quick swallow. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize. You spoke in precisely the vein I wish. Let me go on, though. The first fugitives hadn’t much of interest to tell. Of late — Well, no need for lectures. One typical case will serve. A city merchant, grown rich on trade with nearby Imperial worlds. He won’t mind us taking over his planet, as long as the war doesn’t ruin his property and the aftermath cost him extra taxes. Despicable, or realistic? No matter. The point is, he possessed certain information, and had certain other information given him to pass on, by quite highly placed officials who’re secretly of the peace group.”

Rochefort watched Cajal over the rim of his glass. “You fear a trap, sir?”

Cajal spread his palms. “The fugitives’ sincerity is beyond doubt. But were they fed false data before they left? Your story is an important confirmation of theirs.”

“About the Equatorian continent?” Rochefort said. “No use insulting the admiral’s intelligence. I probably would not have tried to get away if I didn’t believe what I’d heard might be critical. However, I know very little.”

Cajal tugged his beard; “You know more than you think, son. For instance, our analysis of enemy fire patterns, as recorded at the first battle of Avalon, does indicate Equatoria is a weak spot. Now you were on the scene for months. You heard them talk. You watched their faces, faces of people you’d come to know. How concerned would you say they really were?”

“Um-m-m…” Rochefort drank anew. Cajal unobtrusively pressed a button which signaled the demand for a refill for him. “Well, sir, the, the lady I was with, Equatoria was out of her department.” He hastened onward: “Christopher Holm, oldest son of their top commander, yes, I’d say he worried about it a lot.”

“What’s the place like? Especially this, ah, Scorpeluna region. We’re collecting what information we can, but with so many worlds around, who that doesn’t live on them cares about their desert areas?”

Rochefort recommended a couple of books. Cajal didn’t remind him that Intelligence’s computers must have retrieved these from the libraries days or weeks ago. “Nothing too specific,” the lieutenant went on. I’ve gathered it’s a large, arid plateau, surrounded by mountains they call high on Avalon, near the middle of the continent, which the admiral knows isn’t big. Some wild game, perhaps, but no real hope of living off the country.” He stopped for emphasis. “Counterattackers couldn’t either.”

“And they, who have oceans to cross, would actually be further from home than our people from our ships,” Cajal murmured.

“A dangerous way down, sir.”

Not after we knocked out the local emplacements. And those lovely, sheltering mountains—”

“I thought along the same lines, sir. From what I know of, uh, available production and transportation facilities, and the generally sloppy Ythrian organization, they cant put strong reinforcements there fast. Whether or not my escape alarms them.”

Cajal leaned over his desk. “Suppose we did it,” he said. “Suppose we established a base, for aircraft and ground-to-ground missiles. What do you think the Avalonians would do?”

“They’d have to surrender, sir,” Rochefort answered promptly. “They… I don’t pretend to understand the Ythrians, but the human majority — well, my impression is that they’ll steer closer to a Gotterdammerung than we would, but they aren’t crazy. If we’re there, on land, if we can shoot at everything they have, not in an indiscriminate ruin of their beloved planet — that prospect is what keeps them at fighting pitch — but if we can do it selectively, laying our own bodies on the line—” He shook his head. “My apologies. That got tangled. Besides, I could be wrong.”

“Your impressions bear out every xenological study I’ve seen,” Cajal told him. “Furthermore, yours come from a unique experience.” The new drink arrived. Rochefort demurred. Cajal said: “Please do take it. I want your free-wheeling memories, your total awareness of that society and environment. This is no easy decision. What you can tell me certainly won’t make up my mind by itself. However, any fragment of fact I can get, I must.”

Rochefort regarded him closely. “You want to invade, don’t you, sir?” he asked.

“Of course. I’m not a murder machine. Neither are my superiors.”

“I want us to. Body of Christ” — Rochefort signed himself before the crucifix — “how I want it.” He let his glass stand while he added: “One request, sir. I’ll pass on everything I can. But if you do elect this operation, may I be in the first assault group? You’ll need some Meteors.”

“That’s the most dangerous, Lieutenant,” Cajal warned. “We won’t be sure they have no hidden reserves. Therefore we can’t commit much at the start. You’ve earned better.”

Rochefort took the glass, and had it been literally that instead of vitryl, his clasp would have broken it. “I request precisely what I’ve earned, sir.”

The Imperial armada englobed Avalon and the onslaught commenced.

Once more ships and missiles hurtled, energy arrows flew, fireballs raged and died, across multiple thousands of kilometers. This time watchers on the ground saw those sparks brighten, hour by hour, until at last they hurt the eyes, turned the world momentarily livid and cast stark shadows. The fight was moving inward.

Nonetheless it went at a measured pace. Cajal had hastened his decision and brought in his power as fast as militarily possible — within days — lest the enemy get time to strengthen that vulnerable country of theirs. But now that he was here, he took no needless risks. Few were called for. This situation was altogether different from the last. He had well-nigh thrice his former might at hand, and no worries about what relics of the Avalonian navy might still skulk through the dark reaches of the Lauran System. Patrols reported instrumental indications that these were gathering at distances of one or two astronomical units. Since they showed no obvious intention of casting themselves into the furnace, he saw no reason to send weapons after them.

He did not even order the final demolition of Ferune’s flagship, when the robots within knew their foe and opened fire. She was floating too distantly, she had too little ammunition or range left her, to be worth the trouble. It was easier to bypass the poor old hulk and the bones which manned her.

Instead he concentrated on methodically reducing the planetary defense. Its outer shell was the fortresses, some great, most small, on sentry-go in hundreds of orbits canted at as many angles to the ecliptic. They had their advantages vis-a-vis spaceships. They could be continually resupplied from below. Nearly all of them wholly automated, they were less versatile but likewise less fragile than flesh and nerve. A number of the ferst had gone undetected until their chance came to lash out at a passing Terran.

That, though, had been at the first battle. Subsequently the besieging sub-fleet had charted each, destroyed no few and forestalled attempts at replacement. Nor could the launching of salvos from the ground be again a surprise. And ships in space had their own advantages, e.g., mobility.

Cajal’s general technique was to send squadrons by at high velocity and acceleration. As they entered range of a target they unleashed what they had and immediately applied unpredictable vectors to escape return fire. If the first pass failed, a second quickly followed, a third, a fourth… until defense was saturated and the station exploded in vapor and shards. Having no cause now to protect his rear or his supply lines, Cajal could be lavish with munitions, and was.