Nordbo’s hands fell to his sides. He straightened. A sudden, eerie calm was upon him. “What then?” he asked tonelessly.
“If I judge you’ve made an honest statement, my wife and I will try to bargain with the authorities, privately, when we bring it to them. We can’t dictate what they do with you. But we are their darlings, and the darlings of the public and the media more than ever. Our recommendations should carry weight. The Markham affair has shaken and embarrassed a lot of the brass pretty badly. They’d like some peace and quiet while they put their house in order. A sensation involving the son of hero-martyr Peter Nordbo is no way to get that. Maybe we can talk them into accepting your resignation and burying the truth in the top secret file. Maybe. We’ll try. That’s all I can promise. And it’s conditional on your writing a full and accurate account.”
“I see. You are kind.”
“Because of your father and your sister. Nothing else.” Saxtorph turned to go.
“Wait,” said Nordbo.
“Why?” Saxtorph growled.
“My memory is not perfect. But I need not write for you. I kept a journal of my, my participation. Everything that happened, recorded immediately afterward. I thought I might want it someday, somehow, if Markham or the kzinti should—Ach, let me fetch it.”
Saxtorph’s heart banged. “Okay.” He hadn’t hoped for this much. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped for.
Nordbo went into an adjacent room. He strode resolutely and erect. Saxtorph tautened. “If you’re going for a gun instead, don’t,” he called. “My wife knows where I am.”
“Of course,” the soft voice drifted back. “No, you have convinced me. I shall do my best to set things right.”
He returned carrying a small security box, which he placed at the computer terminal. He laid his palm on the lid and it opened. Had anyone else tried to force it, the contents would have been destroyed. Saxtorph moved closer. He saw a number of minidiscs. “Encoded,” Nordbo said. “Please make a note of the decoding command. A wrong one will cause the program to wipe the data. You want to inspect a sample, no?”
He stooped, inserted a disc, and keyed the board. A date three years past sprang onto the screen, followed by words. They were Wunderlander, but Saxtorph’s reading knowledge sufficed to show that the entry did indeed relate an act of espionage. Copies of photographs came after.
“You are satisfied?” Nordbo asked. “Want you more?”
“No,” Saxtorph said. “This will do.”
Nordbo returned the disc to the box, which he relocked and proffered. “I am afraid you must touch this,” he said matter-of-factly.
Sudden pity welled forth. “That’s okay.” In several ways he resembled his sister: eyes, cheekbones, flaxen hair, something about the way he now stood and faced his visitor. “We’ll do whatever we can for you, Ib.”
“Thank you.”
Saxtorph took the box and left. “Gute nacht,” Nordbo said behind him.
The door closed. Saxtorph went the short distance along the hall to the stairwell and started down. Whatever I can for you, Tyra, he thought.
His mind went on, like himself speaking to her, explaining, though they were not things she would ever hear.
I’m not mad at you, dear. Nor at Kam, as far as that goes. You weren’t deliberately playing games with me. You honestly believed you were serious—confusing horniness with love, which God knows is a common mistake—till the impulse itself overwhelmed you.
Or so he supposed. Nothing had been uttered, except in the silent language. They simply understood that everything was over. Apart from friendship. Already he hurt less than at first. He knew that before long he’d stop altogether and be able to meet her, be with her, in comradely fashion. Dorcas would see to it.
I do wish you’ll find a man you can settle down with. I’d like you to have what we have. But if not, well, it’s your life, and any style of living it that you choose will be brave.
Saxtorph had reached the third-floor landing when he heard the single pistol shot.
Larry Niven, Larry Niven’s Man-Kzin Wars - III
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