CELIA KALENS STRAIGHTENED the kimono-styled black-silk top over her gold lame evening dress, then sat back while a white-jacketed steward cleared the dinner dishes from the table. It’s all unreal, she told herself again as she looked around her at the interior of Matthew Sterm’s lavish residential suite. Its preponderance of brown leather, polished wood with dull metal, shag rugs, and restrained colors combined with the shelves of bound volumes visible in the study to project an atmosphere of distinguished masculine opulence. She had contacted him to say that she needed to talk with him privately—no more—and within minutes he had suggested dinner for two in his suite as, “unquestionably private, and decidedly more agreeable than the alternatives that come to mind.” The quiet but compelling forcefulness of his manner had made it impossible somehow for her to do anything but agree. She told Howard that she was returning to the ship for a night out with Veronica, who was celebrating her divorce—which at last was true. Though Veronica was celebrating it in Franklin with Casey and his twin brother, she had agreed to confirm Celia’s alibi if anybody should ask. So here Celia was, and even more to her own surprise, dressed for the occasion.
Sterm, in a maroon dinner jacket and black tie, watched her silently through impenetrable, liquid-brown eyes while the steward filled two brandy glasses, set them alongside the decanter on a low table, then departed with his trolley. Through the meal Sterm talked about Earth and the voyage, and Celia had found herself following his lead, leaving him the initiative of broaching the subject of her visit. Finally, he stood, came around the table, and moved her chair back for her to rise. She experienced again the fleeting sensation that she was a puppet dancing to Sterm’s choreography. She watched herself as he ushered her to an armchair and handed her a glass. Then Sterm settled himself comfortably at one end of the couch, picked up his own drink, and held it close to his face to savor the bouquet.
“To your approval, I trust,” he said. Celia had suggested a cognac earlier on, when Sterm had asked her preference for an after dinner liqueur.
She took a sip. It was smooth, warm, and mellowing. “It’s excellent,” she replied.
“I keep a small stock reserved,” Sterm informed her. “It is from Earth—the Grande Champagne region of the Charante. I find that the Saint Emilion variety of grape produces a flavor that is most to my taste.” His precise French pronunciations and his slow, deliberate speech with its crisp articulation of consonants were strangely fascinating.
“The white makes the best brandies, I believe,” Celia said. “And isn’t the amount of limestone in the soil very important?”
The eyebrows of Sterm’s regal, Roman-emperor’s face raised themselves in approval. “I see the subject is not unfamiliar to you. My compliments. Regrettably, rareness of quality is not confined to grapes.”
Celia smiled over her glass. “Thank you. It’s rare to find such appreciation.”
Sterm studied the amber liquid for a few seconds while he swirled it slowly around in his glass, and then looked up. “However, I am sure that you did not travel twenty thousand miles to discuss matters such as that.”
Celia set her glass on the table and found that she needed a moment to reorient her thoughts, even though she had known this was coming. “I’m concerned over this latest threat to evict Chironians from Phoenix. It’s not the bluff that many people think. Howard is serious.”
Sterm did not appear surprised. “They have merely to comply with the law to avoid such consequences,”
“Everyone knows they won’t. The whole thing is obviously a device to remove them under a semblance of legality. It’s a thinly disguised deportation order.”
Sterm shrugged. “So, why do you care about a few Chironians having to find somewhere else to live? They have an entire planet, most of which is empty. They will hardly starve.”
It wasn’t quite the answer that Celia had been prepared for. She frowned for a second, then reached for her glass. “The reaction that it might provoke worries me. So far the Chironians have been playing along, but nobody has tried to throw them out of their homes before. We’ve already seen examples of how they do not to hesitate to react violently.”
“That frightens you?”
“Shouldn’t it?”
“Hardly. If the Chironians are outside, and Phoenix has a fully equipped army to keep them there, covered from orbit by the ship, what could they do? Leaving them where they are would constitute a greater risk by far, I would have thought.”
“True, once they’re separated,” Celia agreed. “But how many more killings would we have to see before that was achieved?”
“And that bothers you?”
“Well—of course.”
“Really?” Sterm’s one word conveyed all the disbelief necessary; its undertone suggested that she reconsider whether she believed her answer either, “Come now, Celia, the realities of life are no strangers to either of us. We can be frank without fear of risking offense. The people live their lives and serve their purpose, and a few more or less will make no difference that matters. Now tell me again, who are you really worried about?”
Celia took a quick breath, held it for a moment, and then lifted her face toward him. “Very well. I’ve seen what happened to the corporal and to Padawski. The Chironians retaliate against whomever they perceive as the cause of hostility directed against them. If the evictions are enforced—Well, it’s not difficult to see who the next target would be, is it?”
“You want me to prevail upon Howard to prevent his destroying himself.”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“What makes you imagine that I could?”
“You could talk to him. I know he listens to what you say. We’ve talked about things.”
“I see.” Sterm studied her face for what seemed like a long time. At last he asked in a strangely curious voice, “And if I did, what then, Celia?”
Celia was unable to reply. The answer lay behind a trapdoor in her mind that she had refused to open. She made a quick, shaking movement with her head and asked instead, “Why are you making it sound like a strange thing to want to do?”
“Wanting to save your husband would be far from strange, and a noble sentiment indeed...if it were true. But is it true?”
Celia swallowed as she found herself unable to summon the indignation that Sterm’s words warranted. “What makes you think it isn’t?” She avoided his eyes. “Why else would I be here?
Sterm stared at her unblinkingly. “To save yourself,”
“I find that insulting, and also unbecoming.”
“Do you? Or is it that you are unable, yet, to accept it?” Celia forced as much coldness into her voice as she could muster. “I don’t like being told that I’m interested in protecting my own skin.”
Sterm was unperturbed, as if he had been expecting such an answer. “I made no mention of your wanting to save yourself physically. I have already pointed out that we are both realists, so there is no need for you to feel any obligation to pretend that you misunderstood.” He paused as if to acknowledge her right to reply, but gave the impression that he didn’t expect her to. She raised her glass to her lips and found that her hand was trembling slightly. Sterm resumed. “The dream has crumbled away, hasn’t it, Celia. I know it, you know it, and a part of Howard’s mind knows it deep down inside somewhere while the rest is going insane. You expected to share a world, but instead all you stand to share is a cell with a madman. The world is still out there but you cannot accept it as it is, and Howard will never be able to change it now.” Sterm extended a hand expressively. “And the future awaits you.” He paused again, watched as Celia lowered her eyes, and nodded. “Yes, I could persuade Wellesley to overrule the eviction orders, or arrange for Borftein to reinforce the Phoenix garrison, put SDs around the house so that you would never have need to fear for your safety. But is that what you want me to do?”
Celia looked down at the glass in her hand and bit nervously at her lip. “I don’t know,” was all she could whisper. Sterm watched her impassively. In the end she shook her head. “No.”
Sterm allowed a few seconds for her admission to settle. “Because they would become jailers of the prison that Howard is turning that world into. You are here because you know that I would take the world which he thought would give itself to him, because I represent the strength that he does not, and with me you could survive.” Celia looked up again, but Sterm’s eyes had taken on a faraway light. “Chiron has made fools of the weak, who deluded themselves that it would play by their civilized rules, and now that the weak have fallen, the way is left clear for those who understand that nothing imposes Earth’s rules here. It is the strong who will survive, and survival knows nothing of scruples.”
Celia’s eyes widened as many things suddenly became clearer. “You...” Her voice caught somewhere at the back of her throat. “You knew this was going to happen—Howard, Phoenix, everything. You were manipulating all of them from the beginning, even Wellesley. You knew what would happen after the landing but you endorsed it.”
Sterm looked back at her and smiled humorlessly. “Hardly what I would call manipulating. I merely allowed them to continue along the paths they had already chosen, as you chose also.”
“But you saw where the paths led.”
“They would never have listened if I had told them. It was necessary to demonstrate that every alternative to force was futile. Now they will understand, just as you have come to understand.”
“How—how could you justify it?”
“To whom do I have to justify anything? Those rules belong to Earth. I make my own.”
“To Congress, the people.”
Sterm snorted. “I need neither. The same forces that will subdue Chiron will subdue the people also.” His eyes flickered over Celia’s body momentarily. “And they will submit because they, like you, have an instinct to survive.”
Celia found herself staring into eyes that mirrored for a split second the calm, calculated, ruthlessness that lay within, devoid of disguise or apology, or any hint that there should be any. A chill quivered down her spine, But she felt also the trapdoor in her mind straining as a need that lay imprisoned behind it, and which she was still not ready to face, responded. Sterm’s eyes were challenging her to deny anything that he had said. She was unable to make even that gesture.
Howard had sought to possess, and she had refused to become a possession. Sterm sought. Not to possess but to dominate Chiron. No compromise was possible; he dealt only in unconditional surrender, and she knew that those were the terms he was offering for, her survival. Perhaps she had known it even before she arrived.
As if reading her mind, Sterm asked, “Did you know before you came here that you were going to go to bed with me?” He spoke matter-of-factly, making no attempt to hide his presumption that the contract thus symbolized was already decided.
“I...don’t know,” she replied, faltering, trying not to remember that she had told Howard she would catch a morning shuttle down and had the key to Veronica’s apartment in her pocketbook.
“Does he expect you tonight?” Sterm inquired curiously, although Celia couldn’t avoid a feeling that he already knew the answer. She shook her head. “Where are you supposed to be?”
“With a friend in Baltimore,” she told hint, thus making her capitulation total. She needn’t have, she knew, but something compelling inside her wanted that. She knew also that it was Sterm’s way of forcing her to admit it to herself. The terms were now understood.
“Then there is no reason for us to allow unseemly haste to lower the quality of the evening,” Sterm said, sitting forward and reaching with a leisurely movement of his hand for the decanter. “A little time ripens more than just fine cognac. Will you join me in a refill?”
“Of course,” Celia whispered and passed him her glass.