opportunity. He studied and he built. He invented an antenna that would draw in subspace radio messages from twice the distance formerly possible and eliminate the dis tortion caused by ion storms. He moved from student to teacher. Eventually, despite delays caused by politi cal maneuvering — or rather his refusal to participate in it — he became the youngest thought master on record.
But Korsal’s scientific career brought him little fame or glory, because he had no interest in designing weaponry. His colleagues found his attitudes incom prehensible.
He grew thoroughly tired of being asked, “Do you not believe in the Perpetual Game?”
“Only when I can get outside this universe to gain a perspective,” he would reply, “will I know whether there is a Perpetual Game. All one can know for certain is that in this world the only game is the Reflective Game.”
The Reflective form of klin zha was played with only one set of pieces, a man and his enemy as one. It was the great game of the greatest Klingon strategists, yet few allowed themselves to admit that it repre sented the futility of war. It was the game of entropy in which both sides lost — for at the end, the winner triumphed over an empty board.
In a society founded upon war, Korsal’s attitude did not win him many friends. Thus when the invita tion came for Klingon scientists to join Federation scientists in an exchange of knowledge on Nisus, Korsal was one of the first to apply. There was no reason not to let him go; he might not be an enthusias tic inventor of military technology, but he was cer tainly no traitor.
He was, to most Klingons’ way of thinking, nobody.
Korsal’s family was not of the Imperial Race, nor had any member distinguished himself greatly. By the time he left for Nisus, two of his brothers had died honorably in the Space Service and the third had achieved the position of squadron leader. Their father took pride in his soldier sons; he never quite under stood the scientist he had produced.
One of the first things Korsal had discovered on Nisus was that the Federation had a simple, painless, chemical treatment for eye problems like his. When it was offered to him, he accepted the risk, assuming the Federation would not invite a Klingon scientific mis sion to join them only to begin by blinding one of its members.
After interminable allergy testing, he was given the treatment in one eye—and in three days had gained perfect vision! They made him wait thirty days more before they treated the other eye—and for the first time in his life Korsal woke in the morning to a clear world, rather than a blur that would not focus until he had groped for his glasses.
That was the first time Korsal had served as a guinea pig for Nisus’ medical personnel. Now he was doing so again—would that the results turned out as sanguine as the first time! The eye treatment Korsal had undergone was now as routine in the Klingon Empire as in the Federation.
Unless the plague underwent an unusually long incubation period in Klingons, they were apparently immune to it. Before releasing him, the doctors had taken what felt like at least half Korsal’s blood to study. Now he was free to go home, for so far as they could tell he was not a carrier.
But what if the doctors were wrong? What if, despite all the precautions, despite being bathed in the same sterile rays that surgeons used, what if Korsal were even now carrying the deadly disease home to his family?
Were his sons immune? They were half Klingon, and neither had contracted any strain of the disease, although they had both attended school every day until it closed. He wanted them to be immune—to be safe.
But if they were, what about Berth’s plan to sell the disease to the Klingon Empire?
Korsal might defend Klingon honor to his last breath, but he knew as well as any Orion that even if no one in official channels would purchase such a dishonorable weapon, it would not take a wily
But Korsal’s scientific career brought him little fame or glory, because he had no interest in designing weaponry. His colleagues found his attitudes incom prehensible.
He grew thoroughly tired of being asked, “Do you not believe in the Perpetual Game?”
“Only when I can get outside this universe to gain a perspective,” he would reply, “will I know whether there is a Perpetual Game. All one can know for certain is that in this world the only game is the Reflective Game.”
The Reflective form of klin zha was played with only one set of pieces, a man and his enemy as one. It was the great game of the greatest Klingon strategists, yet few allowed themselves to admit that it repre sented the futility of war. It was the game of entropy in which both sides lost — for at the end, the winner triumphed over an empty board.
In a society founded upon war, Korsal’s attitude did not win him many friends. Thus when the invita tion came for Klingon scientists to join Federation scientists in an exchange of knowledge on Nisus, Korsal was one of the first to apply. There was no reason not to let him go; he might not be an enthusias tic inventor of military technology, but he was cer tainly no traitor.
He was, to most Klingons’ way of thinking, nobody.
Korsal’s family was not of the Imperial Race, nor had any member distinguished himself greatly. By the time he left for Nisus, two of his brothers had died honorably in the Space Service and the third had achieved the position of squadron leader. Their father took pride in his soldier sons; he never quite under stood the scientist he had produced.
One of the first things Korsal had discovered on Nisus was that the Federation had a simple, painless, chemical treatment for eye problems like his. When it was offered to him, he accepted the risk, assuming the Federation would not invite a Klingon scientific mis sion to join them only to begin by blinding one of its members.
After interminable allergy testing, he was given the treatment in one eye—and in three days had gained perfect vision! They made him wait thirty days more before they treated the other eye—and for the first time in his life Korsal woke in the morning to a clear world, rather than a blur that would not focus until he had groped for his glasses.
That was the first time Korsal had served as a guinea pig for Nisus’ medical personnel. Now he was doing so again—would that the results turned out as sanguine as the first time! The eye treatment Korsal had undergone was now as routine in the Klingon Empire as in the Federation.
Unless the plague underwent an unusually long incubation period in Klingons, they were apparently immune to it. Before releasing him, the doctors had taken what felt like at least half Korsal’s blood to study. Now he was free to go home, for so far as they could tell he was not a carrier.
But what if the doctors were wrong? What if, despite all the precautions, despite being bathed in the same sterile rays that surgeons used, what if Korsal were even now carrying the deadly disease home to his family?
Were his sons immune? They were half Klingon, and neither had contracted any strain of the disease, although they had both attended school every day until it closed. He wanted them to be immune—to be safe.
But if they were, what about Berth’s plan to sell the disease to the Klingon Empire?
Korsal might defend Klingon honor to his last breath, but he knew as well as any Orion that even if no one in official channels would purchase such a dishonorable weapon, it would not take a wily
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