Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War Read Free Page B

certain amount of anticipation tightening the curl of his fingers. "And you are a fool and an ass."
    The muscles knotted at the corners of Holtz's thin jaw. He drew back his hand to slap. Demaris lifted his cheek a fraction of an inch, his head tilting to present a willing target. The buzz of conversation was dying in the room, smothering under a wave of rapt silence.
    Oxford reached out hastily and pushed himself between Holtz and Demaris. "Eh . . . Colonel Holtz . . . I don't believe you've previously met Thaddeus Demaris. The introduction is my pleasure."
    The pallid urgency in Oxford's eyes was mimicked by Holtz's sudden slackness of mouth. His arm lowered limply. "Ah? Uh . . . oh, no, Oxford, my pleasure, I'm sure—"
    Demaris smashed the back of his hand across Holtz's face. The hunter stumbled back, one hand pressed to his nose. Oxford made a noise of protest. Demaris stood motionless, his face set.
    Holtz regained his balance. "Really, Mr. Demaris," he mumbled, waving Oxford back, "my sincere apologies—"
    Demaris looked at him with something much like disappointment. He spun on his heel and stalked off.
     
    Even the night was dishonest. Laden with perfume, the artificially circulated air stirred a sham breeze across the balconade. A sickle of moon drifted among the gray-silver clouds. Behind him, Demaris could hear the last notes of "Death and the Maiden" fading politely away.
    How far in the past was Oxford's and Holtz's war? Three hundred years. And after finishing that war, how far in the future did Man imagine his Empire of Earth lay, stretching out into the stars? One century? Two? With the interstellar drive and the Terrestrial Space Navy to ride it.
    And where, now, was Earth's frontier, a full hundred years beyond that well-planned future?
    Pluto. That's where it was. Just barely, Pluto.
    All right. You could understand that. An empire only goes as far as its enemies will let it. A hundred years ago, the Vilks had drawn the line.
    Demaris smashed his flat, horny palm down on the coping of the terrace. The slap of sound startled some of the strolling couples in the formal gardens, but it would have been ungentle for them to stare at him. He knew of their curiosity only by the fact that no face, among all those couples, turned toward him even at random.
    His lips twitched back from the points of his teeth.
    And with the Vilks fifty years gone in a pyrrhic war with Farla, you could expect the ships of Earth to be going out again. You could expect that.
    You could die of the eating hunger in your stomach, expecting it. You could grow old, with strings for muscles and pudding for a brain, expecting it.
    You could run up a string of successful, pointless duels. You could go to graceful, inbred gatherings in the elegant, bandbox mansions. You could listen to Schubert quartets and a lot of Delius. But there was damned little Beethoven, and no Stravinsky. There was yearning, and no fulfillment. Nor much of a desire for it. It was considered more gentle to simply yearn.
    A servant touched his arm. "Your pardon, Messire—a Mr. Brown is on the vid."
    Demaris fought to keep from spinning around violently. "Thank you," he said in a voice that, incredibly, was calm enough. He strolled back into the mansion. Brown! Thank God! He'd been going mad, waiting.
 
"We spill our all for the Agency—
(Our lives are excitingly gory.)
Pink or blue—any hue—
Save the red of our birth—
At the beck of crisp, green glory."
     

Chapter Two
    Brown was the code name. Kaempfert was the man. Blocky, with a square face and blunt fingertips, he was one of sixteen men who sat behind their crowded desks in the Agency's sparsely furnished Assignment Room.
    "How are you, Bill?" Demaris said, shaking his hand. "How're Leni and the kids?"
    "Fine, Thad. Getting healthier every day." He looked down at his stomach and chuckled. "All of us. Sit down. You got here fast. Champing at the bit, Thad?"
    Demaris nodded expressively. "I