The Gripping Hand

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  The capital of an interstellar Empire was bound to be crowded.

  He steered wide of Serpens, circling the coast as he shed speed. The radio was quacking at him; he tried not to say anything amusing. He'd never found a Customs officer with a sense of humor, not on any world.

  He was low enough to see phosphorescent wakes behind some of the hundreds of ships. There were barges floating on the water, houses and bigger habitats. Population: 500 million, most of it gathered in this one spot. It struck Renner that if he flew a sonic boom straight across the mainland, Bury would be wiped out by the fines.

  "Horace? How are you doing?"

  "Fine, Kevin, fine. You're a good pilot."

  Bury had been affable with Customs, but when they hung up, Renner had heard esoteric cursing. Now he asked, "What did Customs do to get you so upset?"

  "Nothing. You know where to land?"

  "They're telling me yet again. Black water, just ahead of us. We'll come down outside the harbor and spiral in like a big boat. I wonder where they'd put me down on a rough day."

  Bury said nothing for a bit. Then, "On Sparta I am a second-class citizen. Only here, but forever. Department-store clerks will serve me, and I can bribe a headwaiter and hire my own car. But there are parts of Sparta I may never see, and on the slidewalks . . ."

  "You're getting mad before anyone's insulted you. Oh, well, why wait till the last minute?"

  "I've been to Sparta before. Why in Allah's Merciful Name couldn't Cunningham see me today?"

  "Maybe he thinks he's giving you a day's rest."

  "He's making me wait. Damn him. My superior. Bless you for not using that word, Ruth, but I knew what you were thinking."

  Ruth said, "It's a technical term."

  "Of course."

  On Serpens the flat land had been occupied long ago, as farmland or baronial estates. New buildings such as the Imperial Plaza Hotel tended to cling to the sides of cliffs. The Plaza stood eighty stories tall on the low side, sixty-six on the high.

  Bury's agent had rented the lowest of the suites, the seventy-first floor. It had been fully furnished, and servants were in residence; but only two were awake when they arrived.

  Through the picture wall they could see a vastness of sea and islands and a hundred shapes of boats and ships, and Sparta's gross red sun easing clear of the water. It was five in the morning of a twenty-hour day. By ship's time it was close to noon. "I feel like a serious breakfast," Renner said. "Coffee. Real cream, not protocarb milk. Restaurant probably isn't open, though."

  Bury smiled. "Nabil—"

  The kitchen staff had to be awakened. Breakfast took over an hour to appear, while they emptied their suitcases and settled in. Lots of luggage. No telling how long they would be on Sparta. How persuasive would Bury need to be?

  Maniac. But was he wrong? It might be vital that a Master Trader send himself to inspect the Crazy Eddie Fleet on patrol at Murcheson's Eye. But if the Secret Service wanted something else from him . . . well, they had something on Bury. Probably something political.

  They'd all learn tomorrow.

  "Every little boy and girl wants to see Sparta," Renner told Ruth. "What do we want to see first?"

  Bury said, "The Institute doesn't open until noon. We'll have four hours to play in, I think. I expect I'll drop in at the Traders Guild and make some waves. Ah, here's Nabil."

  Breakfast featured two species of eggs and four varieties of sausage and two liters of milk. The fruits all looked familiar. So did the eggs: chicken and quail. Life on Sparta (Renner now remembered reading) had never really conquered the land. There wasn't enough land to make it cost-effective. The planet had been seeded with a variety of Terran wildlife, and an ecology established itself with little native competition.

  "They eat two meals on Sparta, breakfast and dinner. We should eat our fill," Bury told them.

  "The milk's a little odd," Ruth said.

  "Different cows eating different grass. Mark of authenticity, Ruth. Protocarb milk always tastes the same, every ship in the universe."

  "Honestly, Kevin, I like protocarb milk."

  The coffeepot was tall and bulbous. Bury looked underneath it. "Wideawake Enterprise," he said.

  "You don't sound happy about it," Ruth Cohen said.

  "Motie technology," Renner said. "Probably common here."

  "Very common here," Bury said. "Nabil, do we have a computer?"

  "Yes, Excellency. The call name is Horvendile."

  "Horvendile, this is Bury."

  "Confirm," a contralto voice said from the ceiling.

  "Horvendile, this is His Excellency Bury," Nabil said.

  "Accepted. Welcome to the Imperial Plaza, Your Excellency."

  "Horvendile, phone Jacob Buckman, astronomer, associated with the University."

  A moment passed. Then a somewhat waspish voice said, "This is Jacob Buckman's auxiliary brain. Dr. Buckman is asleep. Your Excellency, he thanks you for the gifts. Is there sufficient urgency to wake him?"

  "No. I am at the Imperial Plaza and will be on Sparta for a week. I would like an appointment when convenient. Social hours."

  "Dr. Buckman has meetings Wednesday afternoon and evening, and nothing else."

  "I suggest Thursday afternoon and dinner Thursday night."

  "I will tell him. Do you wish to record a message?"

  "Yes. Jacob, I'd like to see you before one of us dies of old age and sloppy medical techniques. I told your machine Thursday, but any time will do. Message ends."

  "Is there anything else?" Buckman's voice asked.

  "Thank you, no."

  "I will inform Horvendile when the appointment is confirmed. Good day."

  "Horvendile."

  "Your Excellency."

  "Appointment with Dr. Jacob Buckman at his convenience, highest social priority."

  "Acknowledged."

  "Thank you, Horvendile. Now get me an appointment with the president of the Traders Guild."

  The contralto voice said, "That is His Excellency Benjamin Sergei Sachs, chairman of Union Express. When did you wish to see him?"

  "As soon as possible."

  There was a pause. "His computer reports this morning is free. Shall I ask for an immediate appointment?"

  "Yes, Horvendile." Bury sipped coffee."Where will you go?"

  Renner shrugged. "Doubtless we'll think of something.

  Are you sure you'll be able to see the president of the ITA on such short notice?"

  Bury's smile was thin. "Kevin, I control seven seats on

  the board. Not a majority, but more than enough to veto a candidate for president. Yes, I think Ben Sachs will see me."

  "His Excellency will be delighted to see you at any time, Your Excellency," the ceiling said. "If you wish, he will send a limousine."

  "Please ask him to do so. Thank you, Horvendile."

  * * *

  The exterior facade of the clubrooms of the Imperial Traders Association alternated phases of opulent ostentation and quiet elegance. It had recently been redecorated in plain white marble. The severe lines extended into the lobby, but beyond the Members' door were the familiar walnut-paneled walls and original oil paintings Bury remembered from the last time he was there.

  The President was waiting for him in a private conference room and stood when Bury drove his travel chair into the room. He was a large man, impeccably dressed in a dark tunic and matching trousers. A yellow sash broke the monotony of colors. "Excellency. Good to see you. All well, I take it?"

  "Yes, thank you, Your Excellency. And yourself? . . . Splendid." Bury indicated his travel chair. "Sparta gravity."

  "Of course. Some days I wouldn't mind getting around in a travel chair myself. What can I do for you, Excellency?"

  "Thank you, nothing. I have only come to see my colleagues and enjoy my club."

  "I'm glad you can find the time. But if there is anything at all we can do …”

  "Well, perhaps there is a small favor you could do for m
e."

  "Your Excellency has only to name it."

  "How well do we get along with the government this year?"

  Sachs shrugged. "Probably as well as we ever do. Of course they will never love us."

  "It may be that you could help me. I wish to visit the blockade fleet off Murcheson's Eye."

  Sachs's eyes widened. "The Navy has never been fond of us."

  Bury snorted. "They hate us."

  "Many do."

  "I hope to persuade the Navy," Bury said. "What I must be sure of is expeditious service from the bureaucracy when I need the formal documents."

  Sachs grinned broadly. Clearly he had been expecting a more difficult task. "Ah. That should be no problem. Your Excellency, I think you should meet the Honorable George Hoskins, our Vice President for Public Affairs."

  "George Hoskins. Of Wideawake Enterprises?"

  "Yes, Excellency." Sachs looked thoughtful. “His company does compete with yours, but then nearly everyone does! Have you met him?"

  "I never had the pleasure."

  "Then I must introduce you. I will send for him."

  Bury touched the keys of the shorthand ball built into his travel chair. After a moment a voice spoke quietly in his ear:

  "Wideawake Enterprises. Founded in 3021 by George Hoskins (now the Honorable George Hoskins, PC), formerly of New Winchester. The company's first product was a coffee-filtering system based on Motie technology. Imperial Autonetics asked for an injunction prohibiting sale of the Wideawake Coffeepot on the grounds that IA had exclusive license to exploit Motie technology, but this was rejected by the Imperial Court of Appeals on the grounds that all Motie technology had been obtained by the Navy, and any unclassified knowledge was therefore public domain.

  "IA investigation revealed that Hoskins had a brother-

  in-law aboard INSS Hadley at the time that the ship's coffee-making system disappeared, and that the redesign which made the coffeepot easier to reproduce was primarily the work of Harvey Lavrenty, married to Hoskins's daughter Miriam.

  "Aggressive marketing combined with a readiness of the civilian economy to accept the Wideawake Coffee System resulted in unprecedented sales and—"

  Bury switched off the voice. He remembered the rest. Two years and a million crowns to master the secrets of the magic coffeepot. Nearly 50 million to expand and reconvert factories. The Navy had bought coffeepots as fast as Imperial Autonetics could make them, and paid well; but the real money would have been in selling to civilians. Then Hoskins and Wideawake burst on the scene.

  Imperial Autonetics had done Hoskins's advertising for him. Civilians had been hearing about the Navy's magic coffeepots for two years. IA remained second in sales to this day.

  Bury said, "I look forward to meeting the Honorable Mister Hoskins with great pleasure."

  The Honorable George Hoskins was a round, cheerful man, expensively dressed. He had a wide smile and a handshake of great enthusiasm. After introductions, Sachs excused himself and left them in the conference room.

  Hoskins bubbled. "You're a legend, you know, throughout the Empire. Can I get you coffee?" A wide-open face that showed every thought, and guilt was not there. A man who never remembered a crime. Horace Bury at least knew when he had something to hide!

  "Thank you. I'll serve myself," Bury said. "Would you care for some waterwing liqueur?"

  "Here?"

  "I had a case sent over." Wherever Sinbad set down, Bury would buy several cases of something distinctive. They made easy gifts.

  There had been a time when Turkish coffee wasn't available at the ITA, but that was before Bury controlled seven seats on the board. Now there were three varieties. Bury chose a Mocha-Sumatra mix and sipped while Sachs perched at the edge of a massage chair.

  "I'd give half my fortune to visit Mote Prime," he said. "What's it really like?"

  Bury had heard that question too often. "Light gravity. Sunset all the time, from the red sun in daytime and Murcheson's Eye at night. The air is slow poison, but masks were all we needed. Architecture straight out of nightmares, and nightmare shapes moving through it. I was frightened all the time, and you know, they did murder three midshipmen who strayed out of open territory through no fault of their own."

  "I know. Still, we should go back. What they could teach us!"

  Hoskins was among the most enthusiastic supporters of that faction, the Traders who wanted open contact with the Mote. Small wonder. Still—could he be talked around?

  "You made your fortune in Motie technology, Mister Hoskins. You counted coup on me, in fact. Has it crossed your mind that someone might take new Motie technology and do the same to you? Some Motie entrepreneur?"

  Hoskins chuckled. "Oh, Excellency, how would they— Motie entrepreneurs?"

  "You have read of the Motie Mediators? They are assigned to study important visitors. Study is not strong enough. They learn everything they can, until they think like the subject of their attentions.

  "One was assigned to me."

  Hoskins had been listening with a puzzled expression. Now it changed to alarm. "There will be Moties who think the way you do?"

  "It seems likely. Worse, from your view. They will think the way I did in those times, when I was younger and more aggressive." He did not add that his Fyunch(click) was certainly dead by now.

  "It's tough enough competing with you," Hoskins said. "A Motie who thinks like you and has Motie technology would be—formidable."

  Bury smiled in satisfaction. "I hoped you might see it that way. Now there is another matter. What are the disturbing rumors I hear concerning the Blockade Fleet's budget?"

  Hoskins shrugged. "Certainly many of the stories we have heard about waste and inefficiency were not rumors. Have you seen the series by Alysia Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo in the Capital Update?"

  "Summaries."

  "Ms. Trujillo has found corruption, inefficiency, waste— more than enough to justify an investigation."

  "You want to cut the Blockade Fleet budget?" Bury asked.

  "Certainly. When did we ever support larger appropriations for the Navy?"

  When we run into Outies. When our trade ships are threatened by pirates. "I see. This is serious, then."

  "Serious enough that they're sending a new Viceroy to New Caledonia," Hoskins said. "Baron Sir Andrew Calvin Mercer. Do you know him?"

  "No."

  "Sorry, of course you wouldn't. He spent most of his time in the Old Earth sector. Would you like to meet him? He's introducing our guest speaker at the dinner tonight. I can arrange to have you at the head table if you like."

  Tonight? And the University this afternoon. A busy day, but this was urgent. "I would be honored," Bury said.

  Bury settled into the limousine.

  "Imperial Plaza to collect Sir Kevin Renner," he told the driver. "Then to the Blaine Institute."

  "Yes, sir."

  The limousine's bar held local liquors, rum, and vodka, and a Mote-technology thermos of coffee made by Nabil before Bury left, but he selected a bulb of fruit juices. A bottle of evil-tasting tonic rested beside the thermos. Bury poured a shot glass full and drank with a grimace, then killed the taste with fruit juice.

  A small price to pay for a clear head and good memory at my age. He reached for his shorthand ball and let his fingers play over the keys. He had mastered the modern practice of conversing with computers, but he often preferred keyboards. They made the machines seem less human. He liked that.

  "Sir Andrew Mercer, Baron Calvin," the computer said into his ear. "Distantly related to the Imperial family on his mother's side. Widower. Two children. Lieutenant Commander the Honorable Andrew Calvin Mercer, Jr., serves aboard INSS Terrible. Dr. Jeana Calvin Ramirez is Associate Professor of History at Undine University on Tanith.

  "Appointed a junior officer in the Department of Commonwealth Affairs upon graduation from New Harvard University in 3014 and has remained continuously in the civil service from then to present. Inducted as a Commander of the
Imperial Order, 3028; Knight of St. Michael and St. George, 3033. Succeeded to status of civil baron on the death of his father in 3038.

  "Series of staff offices until appointed Lieutenant Governor of Franklin in 3026. When the Governor was killed in an Outie attack, Mercer became Acting Governor and was confirmed in post of Governor in 3027. Rapid promotions thereafter. Was Chief of Mission with rank of Ambassador in the negotiations leading to the reincorporation of New Washington in 3037. Privy Counselor after 3038. Secretary of State for Trans-Coal Sack Affairs, 3039 to present. Member of board of directors, Blaine Institute, 3040 to present.

  "Appointment as Viceroy, Trans-Coal Sack Sector, to take effect upon his arrival at New Caledonia."

  "More," Bury muttered. "Motivations and ambitions?"

  "Moderate personal wealth. Prefers honors to increase in fortune. Has written two articles purporting to prove that his family held title of marquis during the First Empire. He hopes to regain the title."

  "Evidence?"

  "Calvin has become a client of Haladay Genealogical Services, and a member of the Augustan Society. He has made no secret of his ambition. Haladay is a subsidiary of Confidential Services, Inc."

  "Enough," Bury said. Moderate personal wealth, and he wouldn't become Viceroy until he reached New Caledonia. He wouldn't be traveling in any lavish style. Bury smiled thinly.

  2

  Tourists

  We have explained in various ways all things to men in this Qur'an; but of all things man is most contentious.

  - al-Qur'an

  The bus was supposed to land on the hotel roof at 0830. Kevin and Ruth got there five minutes early. A dozen others waited for the tour to start.

  The rooftop was still shadowed by the mountains to the east, but south and west the harbor was in bright sunshine. Even this early the vast harbor bay was lined with the wakes of both big ships and sailing craft. A warren of small boats, power and sail, many of them multihulled, jammed much of the docking area nearest the hotel. Most appeared to be yachts, but there were also square-hulled junks covered with laundry and children.