"Well, Trujillo got here first."
"Eh?"
Ruth scrolled back to the beginning of the news squib. Mercer read over her shoulder.
Dateline Montenth 32, 3047. Derry, New Ireland. Mei-Ling Trujillo.
His Highness arrives tomorrow. Not only is this the first official visit of an Imperial Viceroy to New Ireland since the wars ended, but Arthur Calvin Mercer will be formally installed as Viceroy for His Majesty's Domains Beyond the Coal Sack in the New Ireland Parliament building.
The Government clearly expects this to be a big deal and has gone all out to bring in official guests to witness the event. There will be three days of official holiday. The New Cal branch oi the Imperial Traders Association has arranged for fireworks and is paying for an all-day banquet.
There's no question that among the best people of New Ireland the installation will be the biggest show since INSS Terrible bombarded Derry and ended New Ireland's secession eighty years ago.
At tomorrow's ceremony the Fleet will be represented by three ships, the largest a light cruiser. It seems none of the others in the New Scotland naval yards is spaceworthy. When His Highness has had enough pomp and ceremony and wants to get to work, he might start by looking into the Yardmaster's records.
Meanwhile, for most of New Ireland it's business as usual, and an unusual business it is.
For fifty-six years the province of Derry has been visited by the Navy on leave. They were not always welcome; but they have always been the source of money, and money heals many wounds. Today Derry is famous for its welcome.
The scars from Terrible's visit have long disappeared. Elsewhere on the planet, much of Murcheson's careful terraforming has also disappeared, leaving vast desert regions. But from the top of Romance Crag, Derry still looks like farmland, miles of it in all directions. The town is not one clump; it stretches arms along the crests of the hills, with farmland below.
In the streets it is quite different . . .
The whores have a wholesome look. I questioned several, and I always had the feeling that they were laughing at me. Uncorrupted. Part of the answer is that I was never able to find one twice. "We come for a little day trip, and maybe we make some money. Then it's back to work with the pigs and the corn," Deirdre told me.
She knows who her father is. Jaynisse doesn't. Both thought it an odd question.
If you walk the streets of Derry, you'll find there aren't any brothels, but there are whole blocks of hotels that will provide rooms by the night or by the hour. Most of them have splendid room service.
It is estimated that the average Able Spacer will leave three months' pay on Derry. If you count in the petty officers, the average Navy man spends nearly eighteen hundred crowns here. It is, by the way, very much an average. The Navy people save for their visit here, but they also gamble heavily.
Navy men—I haven't found any women spacers who'll admit being interested in Derry—tend to spend heavily, but it isn't all wine and women. "I always go to the Dream Palace," the midshipman I'll call Carlos Meredith told me. "You can bring your own game cassettes and interface them and play the locals. Anything new from Sparta, the locals love it. I usually win for the first day."
Then he finds a girl and goes off to sleep and comes back the next day and loses what he has left. "The locals are pretty quick with a new game."
Ruth glanced up at Mercer. "There's more, but here's the tag." She skipped to the end of the file.
They find a lot to worry about in Government House, but in the Fleet there's only one topic of conversation. Will the new Viceroy close down Derry?
"Humpf," Mercer said.
"Sir?" Ruth asked.
"She can't mean that. No columnist could be dumb enough to think my first act would be to close the one thing that makes blockade duty tolerable."
"Oh."
"Not much work for you here," Mercer said. "No Outies anywhere, and I can't see how the Secret Service could learn more about the Mote. Maybe you'll find a plot on New Ireland."
"It may not be that funny. There aren't many active anymore, but the Rebel Alliance still exists, you know."
"They threw a bomb at Governor Smelev. But that was twenty years ago. I think the worst we have to worry about on New Ireland would be getting too far behind on our shots."
The intercom saved Ruth from having to answer. "They finally called," said Renner's voice. "All personnel, strap in. Ruth, come forward. You don't know how to steal a spacecraft until you can land it."
* * *
The inauguration ceremonies had begun at noon and lasted six hours. The celebrities had gone their own ways.
Now trucks were moving between the barricades that lined Skid Street. The sun was still well up.
Kevin and Ruth strolled along the main drag. Here was the Falling Ship, a hotel made up of two-story buildings laid in squares, flowerbeds between, aerial ramps linking the roofs. Kevin wondered what they were charging for rooms with a view of Skid Street. A taller hotel could have made considerably better profits on a day like this . . . but nothing stood tall on New Ireland, not even the Palace.
The trucks were opening like flowers. Ruth and Kevin stopped to watch one unfold. In minutes it had become a bakery, and merrymakers were swarming to buy fresh bread. Kevin bought a loaf, tore off two pieces, and handed one to Ruth.
They ate. "All right. You don't get this on shipboard," Ruth said. "Let's find some fruit."
"Crudites?" Renner dropped what remained of the loaf and guided her to a vegetable stand. The trucks had all looked alike; now all the suddenly blooming stands were different, and the trucks within had vanished. They munched carrots and a head-sized radish as they walked.
"I smell meat," Kevin said. "That way."
"It's not all sex here," Ruth said.
The sudden market already swarmed with women, young and middle-aged, varying between comely and beautiful, but generally good-looking. Men in Navy uniforms stopped to talk and found ready companionship. "I never did get shore leave on New Ireland," Kevin said. "We all knew it was what we wanted. Family cooking, fresh food, and wholesome sex. Hard to say which a Navy man wants more, after a year eating bioplast and yeast steaks. And marijuana. Even a little borloi. They told me you can get drunk, too, but you have to go looking for liquor, and it isn't in the rituals, if you follow me. No bars."
"And you're finally in Derry, but there's a woman hanging on your arm."
"I'll tough it out somehow. And there's dinner. What the blazes is it? Or was it?"
A carcass roughly the size of an ox was roasting over a fire. Right here in the street? Yes, but the fire was sitting on ribbed metal, the fold-down side of another truck. New Irish kept things neat. The burly proprietor cut them two slices and sealed them in plastic. They walked on.
"Speaking of sex," Kevin said, "what did you think of Trujillo?"
"I guess that look never goes out of style."
"Eh?"
"No makeup. You probably thought she was careless. Look like a mouse, but wear a thin dress and no underwear. It turns men on. Worked on you, didn't it?"
"Point taken."
Ruth sighed. "It only works when you're young. Maybe I will take Bury up on his offer. Look, jugglers."
"Did you like her?"
"Trujillo? I'm not supposed to like her. She's no friend to the Navy. But the real answer is I didn't get much chance to talk to her."
"You will."
"Kevin?"
"Weeks ago she requested passage to the Crazy Eddie Squadron. We all decided she could ride aboard Sinbad."
"Oh."
"Bury's idea. He wants to convert her into a Motie hater." Renner chuckled. "Fresh blood for His Excellency. Mercer heard Horace's spiel so often he was ready to scream if anyone mentioned the Moties. He already sent a letter of invitation."
"Hmm. And you won't say whether she turns you on. I think I'd better do some shopping. Or should I bother?"
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we bot
h know this doesn't last forever. Getting tired of me?"
"Not yet. Want out?"
"Not yet." She nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. "We'll leave it that way, then."
Renner took out his pocket computer. "According to Ms. Trujillo's article, the Brick Moon serves artichokes eighteen different ways. Room service in the hotel next door. Interested?"
"Mmm. Dammit, you've got me thinking like you."
"How so?"
"I want to see how the clerk acts when he sees you walk in with off-planet competition."
2
The High Commission
The art of putting the right man in the right places is first in the science of government; but that of finding places for the discontented is the most difficult.
—Talleyrand
NEW SCOTLAND: Third planet of the New Caledonia system. Originally lifeless with extensive atmosphere of methane and water vapor. New Scotland was terraformed by massive infusions of genetically engineered microbes.
The original colonists lived under domes . . .
New Scotland's major city was dominated by the Viceregal Palace. It stood in the center of a series of concentric rings; much like medieval cities on Earth, New Scotland's growth was controlled by the city's defense technologies.
Renner sent the small landing craft in a wide circle to dissipate its speed. "There are some changes." He pointed to smaller built-up complexes out beyond the final ring. "All that's new since I was here. They must think the war's finally over, to build outside the Field protection."
"The Moties have done that much good," Ruth Cohen
said. "They've got New Scotland and New Ireland thinking 'us' about each other. Except at football games."
"They do get a bit rough, don't they? Better than throwing bombs at each other . . . well, some better anyway." But Moties wouldn't build like that, he thought. Wouldn't build what they couldn't defend.
The flier completed its circuit of the city. Renner brought it to the landing area outside the black granite complex of Government House. Bored Marine guards noted Ruth Cohen's Navy uniform and Renner's expensive business clothes, perfunctorily took their identity cards and inserted them into computer readers, glanced at the screen, and waved them through into the courtyard. They got inside through an unlocked French door leading into a maze of corridors. Renner tried to lead the way to the Commission meeting rooms, but soon became lost. Finally he stopped looking. "Ah. Here's a guard."
They were directed to a different part of the building. Ruth Cohen giggled.
"The last time I was here it was for a meeting in the Council Chamber," Kevin said. "The big hall with a dome. Anybody could find that. How was I to know they'd put the Commission off here in the Annex?"
In contrast to the Grand Council Chamber, the Commission's meeting room was strictly functional. There was no throne. The Viceroy's place was merely an armchair at the center of the big table. The council table was massive. It might have been wood, but Kevin didn't think so. Chairs for advisers stood behind the table. In front there were seats for an audience of fifty or so. Large viewscreens, now blank, dominated both side walls.
They had barely got into the room when a tall, balding man dressed in dark, conservative business clothes thrust forward and held out his hand. "Kevin. By God, you look good." He paused to look at Renner. "Colorful, too."
Renner frowned for a moment, then grinned. "Jack Cargill. Good to see you." He turned to Ruth. "Commander— I guess it's 'Admiral,' now, isn't it?"
Cargill nodded.
"Ruth Cohen, meet Admiral Cargill. Jack was Exec in
MacArthur," Kevin explained. "Are you still with the Crazy Eddie Squadron?"
"No, I'm on the High Commission."
"Gosh. You're important. And to think we shared a cabin once."
"Here's another Commissioner you know," Cargill said. "David." He indicated a heavyset, balding man in clerical attire.
"Father Hardy," Renner said. "Hey, it's good to see you again. What have they done, loaded the Commission down with MacArthur crew?"
"No, we're the only ones," David Hardy said. "And I'm not sure in what capacity I'm here."
Renner noted the large pectoral cross on Hardy's cassock. "Everybody's been promoted. Bishop, eh? Do I kiss your ring, my Lord?"
Hardy grinned. "Well, you're welcome to, but you're certainly not part of my flock."
"Sir?"
"I'm missionary bishop to Mote Prime. Of course we don't have any converts."
"Sure of that?" Renner asked.
"As a matter of fact, no," Hardy said. "I never did learn what happened to my Fyunch(click). Not that he was a convert, exactly. Anyway, I might be here as the Church's representative, or as the only semanticist ever to visit Mote Prime—ah." He turned toward the door as it opened. "Here's someone you need to meet again. I'm sure you recognize him."
A tall naval officer in uniform. He looked young to be a full lieutenant, but then Kevin Christian Blaine's father had been a lieutenant commander when only a couple of years older, and captain of MacArthur a year after that. The aristocracy got promotions, but they were also weeded out of the service if they couldn't keep up. Or used to be, Renner thought.
"Your godson, I believe," Hardy was saying.
"Well, not that I exercised many of the duties of the office," Renner said. Blaine's handshake was firm. "And this is Ruth Cohen. How are you, Kevin?"
"Very good, sir. And I really appreciated the things you sent for my birthdays. Some of the oddest stuff—holos, too. You sure got around, Sir Kevin."
"Kevin Renner, galactic tourist." Renner reached into a sleeve pocket and took out a message cube. "On that score, your sister sent this. She's on her way, in case you didn't know."
"Thought she might be. I wondered if she might be coming with you."
"It would have been a bit crowded, and she had a lift. The Honorable Frederick Townsend decided to visit New Caledonia."
"Ah."
"He probably thinks it was his idea," Renner guessed.
"You've met Glenda Ruth, but not Freddy," Kevin Blaine observed. It took Renner a moment to realize that he wasn't asking.
The room began to fill. A half dozen Navy officers in uniform, led by a commander who wore a ship's miniature badge indicating he was master of a medium cruiser. They waved to Blaine, but stayed to themselves on the other side of the room. A group of civilians sat in adviser chairs and put their pocket computers on the arm-desks. Another knot of Navy officers came in. They had white shoulder boards indicating administrative branch and sat near but not with the combat officers.
"The accountants," Cargill said. "Here to convince the world that not one cent has ever been wasted."
"Can they do that, sir?" Ruth asked.
"No." She seemed to expect more, so Cargill said, "No matter how you slice it, blockade duty is long stretches of utter boredom. Spiced up with random moments of sheer terror, of course, but that doesn't make up for the boredom. Of course the men are going to misbehave. Officers, too. We're just damned lucky to have troops who'll do it at all."
The large double doors at the end of the room opened wide to admit Bury in his travel chair. Renner clucked in disapproval: Bury's doctors wanted him to spend more time exercising. Bury was accompanied by Jacob Buckman and Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo.
"She's wearing underwear today," Renner said. Ruth
made a face at him. If Blaine and Hardy heard the remark, they didn't comment.
Joyce Mei-Ling Trujillo was in fact quite well dressed, in a thin silk afternoon dress that would have been fashionable on Sparta. She carried a pocket computer large enough that she needed a bag for it. Ruth Cohen sniffed. "Doesn't trust the central computer system to keep records for her."
"I've found journalists are often like that," Kevin Christian Blaine said.
"Experience?" Renner asked.
"Quite a lot. The Navy likes me to do their talking."
Bury, Buckman, and Trujillo took places in the fir
st row of the audience seats. Blaine glanced at his watch. "I'd best be getting to my post."
"Me, too," Cargill said. "Dinner tonight, Kevin?"
"Yes, please. Anyplace special, or shall I ask Bury to invite you up to Sinbad?"
"Sinbad, if you can swing it."
The double doors were thrown open again, and a palace functionary came in. "My lords, ladies, and gentlefolk, His Highness the Viceroy."
Everyone stood. There was no other ceremony, but Mercer looked a bit self-conscious as he took his place at the center of the big table. He was joined at the table by Cargill and Hardy, and two others Renner hadn't met. Their place cards named them as Dr. Arthur MacDonald and Sir Richard Geary, Bart. Renner took a seat near Bury and scribbled on his pocket computer.
Arthur MacDonald. Ph.D. Proiessor of cultural biology. University of New Scotland. Holds Blaine Institute Chair of Xenobiology.
Richard Geary, baronet. Investor. Member of Board of Regents. University of New Scotland.
There was more, but Mercer was tapping on the table with his gavel. "I call this meeting of the Imperial Commission to order. Let the record state that this is a public meeting. If there is no objection, we will record the names of attendees . . ."
There were various chirps like a hundred crickets as the palace central computer queried everyone's pocket computer to get the meeting attendance list. Renner's computer beeped twice and then rattled. Heads turned. Renner grinned.
Mercer turned to the Commission secretary. "Mr. Armstrong."
"Thank you, Your Highness," Armstrong said. His voice was thick with the accent of New Caledonia. "In deference to our guests, His Highness has changed the meeting agenda to omit the opening formalities and routine business. We therefore proceed directly to Item Four, the report from the blockade squadron. His Highness has requested that the fleet prepare a summary report covering the principal activities of the squadron through the years, as well as a more detailed report of current actions. The report will be presented by Lieutenant the Honorable Kevin Christian Blaine, executive officer of INSS Agamemnon."
The Gripping Hand Page 16
