“Your family?”
“My mother was pleased, although she’s from the Eagles and would have preferred me to take a commission. My father, well, he just wanted me to do what I wanted. Nothing any different about me from any other aspiring assistant.
“You, on the other hand, embody romance, mystery, and a hint or so of danger.”
“Why? Because I’m from the nasty planet of Accord?”
Marcella was spared an answer by the arrival of a purple clad waiter.
Nathaniel nodded at Marcella.
“Two of the flaming spicetails, Imperial salads with Maccean nuts, and a carafe of Kremmling.” She looked at the Ecolitan. “Do you want anything else?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“The cheeses as a mid-course,” she added to the waiter.
“Honored guest…” she started, with an appealing lilt in her mocking tone.
“Damn it! I’m Nathaniel. Always was. Always will be. None of this ‘honored’ this or ‘honored’ that. Honors never did the work.”
“Nathaniel, then. You still haven’t answered the question you haven’t let me ask.”
“Which was?”
“Why you seem to personify the whole concept of mystery.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”
“Oh?”
“I’m thirty-eight standard years old, sandy haired, and I’ve been employed in some capacity by the benevolent Institute for the past fifteen years.”
“Ah, yes. Combat arm of the Institute, but a renowned economist. Highly rated scout pilot, but a teacher. You’re pulled out of the Institute and thrown to head a trade delegation at the last minute. That’s not mysterious?”
Nathaniel was impressed with Marcella’s ability to tap into the pipeline, particularly since the information existed in written form only on Accord.
He shrugged.
“What can I say?” He forced a grin. “I thought you weren’t going to mix business with socializing.”
She had the grace to smile back, and the coldness left her eyes for a moment.
“You win.”
Nathaniel opted for generosity.
“Not that it’s not a good observation, Marcella. But I could say the same about you. All I know is that you are extraordinarily talented and that you work for Lord Rotoller, and that…”
“And what else?”
“That I’m perilously close to mixing business and socializing. No sense in drawing a second reprimand.”
He took a sip of the Kremmling, a light white wine with a hint of a sparkle, and waited for Marcella to taste the salad which had just appeared.
Was she waiting for him to take the first bite? Style be damned. He picked up the fork.
After the first three bites, Nathaniel decided there was a solid reason why the salad was termed “Imperial.” It was too rich for anyone but an Imperial.
“What do you really think of New Augusta?”
An innocently loaded question, but Nathaniel decided to be as truthful as possible under the circumstances.
“I haven’t had a chance to see a great deal, but already I feel cramped by not being able to get outside. I suppose that’s one reason why you’ve made the effort toward high-ceilinged architecture.”
“You’d have to confirm that with the Imperial architect, but it’s as good a reason as any. We just accept it because that’s the way it is.”
“What happens if someone doesn’t accept things?”
Marcella shrugged. “Every society has some who don’t fit in.”
“I can’t say that I’ve noticed an overt police system, but I have the impression that things are definitely under control.”
“As well as could be expected.”
“Do the unhappy ones get mental treatment or what?”
“Not necessarily. That’s the beauty of having an Empire. If they don’t like it on New Augusta or elsewhere on Earth, they can outship to a good hundred planets.”
“And you encourage that migration?”
“Yes…since we’re being frank. The fewer bodies here, the less strain on the ecology and the lower the population dissatisfaction critical point.”
“Isn’t that merely a mythical assumption, that population densities and comfort levels really have a bearing on civic harmony?”
“The original Living Space Riots, the work of your own scholar Vonderjogt, and the experiments of Kliemersol all would indicate otherwise. Practically speaking, no government could ever let the situation deteriorate that far, not and retain any pretense of civil liberty.”
“Isn’t dealing with such theoretical matters ranging a bit out of your field?”
“Not really.”
He dropped the questioning to concentrate on the flamed spicetails.
“Very good.”
“You haven’t tasted them before?”
“No. Our fare is much simpler.”
“What’s Accord really like? I don’t mean to ask for a travelogue. We’ve seen the standard reference works, the tapes, and the footage from back to the Secession, but what is Accord today? What are your candid impressions of the differences between the Empire and Accord?”
“I’m not sure I can answer with any great accuracy.”
“I’ll take an inaccurate impression.” She laughed and her voice relaxed. “You know, you’re very careful. I can’t blame you, but let go a little.”
“First, then, I’ll say that you can see the sky. It’s a shade greener than yours and our sun is whiter…” Nathaniel turned up his hands. “…but all the comparisons are conjectures. I see your sun through permaglass, and I see mine in my gardens and in the woods. I know everyone in the town where I grew up, and here I don’t see how anyone knows anyone. On Accord, everyone produces something. Even our bureaucrats grow their own vegetables, or write, or compose, or sing…”
“You make it sound like utopia.”
“Far from it. We’re a young society. People have to work hard at two or three jobs. It’s only been in the last generation or so that we’ve been able to afford career politicians and bureaucrats. I’m not convinced that change has been good.”
Marcella frowned.
“You picture Accord as a young society. Nearly four hundred years ago, which is a long time for a small political and social system like Accord, Accord was advanced enough to foment, direct, and successfully coordinate a multisystem revolution which cost the Empire all chance of immediate expansion into the Rift area. In addition,” she added drily, “roughly fifty systems discovered they would rather not pay levies to the Empire. I’m not sure how you can describe any society that effective as young.”
Nathaniel shrugged. “What can I say? You asked for my impressions. Compared to the Empire, we’re mere babes.”
“You still haven’t written much on those blank pages, Nathaniel.”
“What blank pages?”
“The ones that compose the open book of your life.”
The Ecolitan finished off the last spicetail rather than attempt an answer. The lady knew far more than any mere assistant to the Deputy Minister should. The question was why.
“Is everyone from Accord so reserved?”
“No.”
“What’s an Ecolitan?”
That was one question he definitely didn’t want to answer. It sounded so simple, but trying to give any real answer would create more problems.
“I really don’t know how to answer that one.”
“You can’t be serious.” A touch of sharpness crept into her voice.
“We Ecolitans keep pretty much to ourselves. So it’s hard to make comparisons. Originally, we were a totally separate and unified force which represented the bulk of Accord’s military capability. That is no longer true, although we do keep a number of ships. We are still totally independent of the Coordinate government and don’t have all that much to do with them. Call us scholars with the power to remain independent of any government.”
&
nbsp; “Scholars are usually considered peaceful, and somehow I don’t see the Institute as a peaceful force or the selection of an Ecolitan as a peaceful move.”
“Scholars shouldn’t necessarily be regarded as pacifists. You also have to remember that I was a compromise selection, since neither the Normists nor the Orthodox opposition could agree on one of their own candidates for the position. Besides, any compromise reached by an Ecolitan could not possibly be questioned by even the most fanatical Orthodoxist.”
Marcella nodded slightly.
“Put in that light, your position becomes clearer. Only slightly clearer, I might add.”
“Whereas yours is still totally unclear.”
“What kind of art is most popular on Accord?”
Nathaniel accepted the abrupt changes in subject matter as an indication that Marcella had found out what she wanted to know…at least for the moment.
The only other awkward moment came after dinner.
“Excellent dinner, Marcella. May I see you to your quarters?”
“Perhaps it would be better if I did the escorting.”
“Is that the Terran custom?”
“Usually,” she noted, “but with diplomats, one can adjust to almost anything.”
“How about a compromise?”
“Leave as we came?”
“Just this time.”
“All right. But I promise I’ll hold you to your word.”
“In the meantime,” Nathaniel concluded, as he turned to go, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
XIX
NATHANIEL TOOK ANOTHER tunnel cab back to the Diplomatic Tower, alert for another possible attack. Both the trip and the walk back to his private entrance were uneventful.
The stunner he had taken from the Imperial ready, he touched the lockplate and let the door dilate.
The silence was an alarm in itself. He had left the music on. Instinctively, he dropped to his knees and fired the stunner around the edge of the door into the blind space he couldn’t see, following the shot with a quick dash from the corridor into the quarters.
The anteway was empty, as was the living area. So were the cramped kitchen area, the dining area, and the second sleeping quarters. But someone was still in the quarters. An almost imperceptible rustle from beyond the bedroom confirmed his unease.
He surveyed the dimly lit main sleeping quarters again. If anyone were still in the quarters, he or she was probably in the hygienarium or behind the bed.
No sense in being any more of a damned fool.
The Ecolitan sat down noiselessly on the plush flooring, shielded completely by the bedroom door edge, stunner resting on his knee and leveled at the half-open door to the hygienarium. He set it at half charge and went through the drill to sharpen his vision.
After ten minutes, he heard a shuffle. He didn’t move.
Close to an hour later, a face peered around the doorway across the room.
Nathaniel got him with a single shot.
Something about the falling figure struck him as familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Another stifled gasp announced a second intruder.
The waiting trick wouldn’t work a second time, and, besides, who knew what the other snooper might try?
Slowly, he eased the flat pressure foil tube from his belt, nicked the seal, and tossed it gently onto the far side of the bed.
“Hssssss…”
A stunner pointed over the top of the bed. The Ecolitan stayed behind the wall as the useless charges struck.
A few minutes later, he stood and slowly edged around the wall.
Now two figures were sprawled on the bedroom floor.
The closer, the one he’d gotten with the stunner, was Sergel Weintre.
The second was a younger man, black haired, olive skinned and clean shaven, perhaps 160 centimeters from head to toe.
A quick but thorough search of both revealed nothing. Sergel had carried only the stunner and a few personal items. The stranger had no identification whatsoever, but the standardized singlesuit and new stunner announced all too clearly his military connections.
In turn, the Ecolitan dragged each to the private exit and dumped them outside.
He returned to his quarters and faxed the tower’s emergency number.
“Envoy Nathaniel Whaler am I, and a disturbance has occurred. Outside my door. My composure has gone.”
“Lord Whaler, I’ll send the Domestic Protective Service up immediately. You say, outside your private suite?”
“Outside. That is correct. A fight, I think. Or several.”
“Is it still going on?”
“No. But loudly it ended. A large noise. Someone falls, but check I wish not to do in person.”
“Don’t worry, Lord Whaler. We’ll take care of it.”
“I thank you.”
So much for that. He made sure both doors were locked with the handbolts and stretched out on the rumpled bed, slipping the stunner under the pillows.
Going back to the disciplines of the Institute, he concentrated on the sleep-time exercises, telling himself to wake at the slightest sound or in five hours.
Five hours and ten minutes later, he woke abruptly. Instantly alert, he listened. No sounds. Apparently, the Diplomatic Police had come and carted Sergel off without much noise, although he wouldn’t have heard if they’d brought an entire blasthorn section. The soundproof nature of the walls and doors was a flaw in his story, but he doubted anyone would call an Envoy on such a minor discrepancy.
Nathaniel took his time about freshening up, showering, and dressing for the day ahead.
The last item before entering his official office was a quick fax to one Sylvia Ferro-Maine.
“Lord Whaler…and what can I do for you this early in the morning?”
“I had wondered if perhaps your friends had received the package I had left…or if you knew.”
“My understanding is that the pickup went smoothly, but that they have not had the chance to evaluate the value of the shipment.” Sylvia’s face was without emotion. “Is that all?”
“I would hope that we could get together again before too long…”
“You honor me, Lord Whaler, and I will certainly await your call. And I must be going, but thank you.”
Nathaniel was left staring at the blank gray of the faxscreen.
He shook his head. Now what had he done wrong?
Why did he imagine the scent of orange trees?
“Ridiculous…” he muttered. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
Maybe Sylvia was worried about the leaky nature of the communications at the Accord Legation. He’d have to check back later…from somewhere else.
In the meantime, he had the rest of his job to do.
He marched from his quarters into the official office, sat down behind the console, and tried to review the incoming messages that awaited him.
Within ten minutes the intercom chimed, and Mydra’s face appeared on the faxscreen. He punched the Accept stud.
“A call from the Diplomatic Police.”
“I’ll take it.”
The young officer who waited on the screen was stern faced and female.
“Envoy Whaler? You complained about a disturbance last night?”
“Yes. There was a fight in the corridor, I believed.”
“Lord Whaler, as you mentioned, there was a disturbance. Some of our normal public monitors were apparently damaged. We also found one man lying in front of your private entrance, stunned out. He claims he works for the Legation. His name is Sergel Weintre. The documentation matches, but we thought you as the Envoy should know.”
Interesting, thought Nathaniel. I dump two men, and they only find one. Or find two and only let me know about one.
He frowned at the officer.
“Well…we do have a Sergel Weintre who works here as an information Specialist. Let me see if he has shown up.”
He put the black-haired and square-jawed officer on hold and rang Mydra.
&nbs
p; “Has Sergel Weintre come in this morning?”
“No, and that’s very unusual. He’s usually the first one here. If he’s ever late, we all are notified. The main desk says he doesn’t answer his quarters’ number either.”
How interesting, reflected the Ecolitan. Everyone knows everything about everyone.
He went back to the Diplomatic Police officer.
“Mr. Weintre has not shown up this morning and cannot be reached at his quarters. So quite possible it is that Sergel Weintre you do have. Do you have a visual?”
She split the screen, and Weintre’s image filled the right half. He was scowling, and his right eyelid twitched above a clinched and unshaven jaw.
“I would say that is Mr. Weintre. Is any way there that he could be released to the Legation?”
“That would not be proper procedure.”
“I understand. On the other hand, the Legation is most short staffed at the moment, and I would certainly appreciate any suggestions you might have about how to accomplish Mr. Weintre’s speedy return.”
“Once a complaint is made, sir…”
“Since the complaint was made by the Legation, so to speak, could not I have that complaint withdrawn?”
“That would be most unusual.”
“But not impossible?”
“I’ll have to check on that, Lord Whaler.”
“I’ll be happy to wait.”
Nathaniel flipped through one of the trade folders while the faxscreen displayed the emblem of the Diplomatic Police.
“Lord Whaler?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you made a complaint about Mr. Weintre’s creating a disturbance?”
“Concerned was I about the noise and merely reported it and did not charge anyone with anything.”
“Under those circumstances, I believe we can release your employee directly to you, but we will still have to continue our investigation into the broken monitors.”
“I understand, but I appreciate your consideration of our shorthanded state.”
After signing off with the Diplomatic Police, Nathaniel caught Mydra on the faxscreen.
“As soon as Sergel gets back, I would like to see him.”
Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) Page 9
