Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Nathaniel hoped not. “Thank you. Professor Ferro-Maine is a specialist in applied infrastructures and policies. She has special expertise in large bureaucracies.”

  “It’s good to see you both.” Johannes Clerigg motioned to the two most comfortable-looking armchairs. “I can’t believe they actually let a trained economist onto Artos, let alone two. I mean ones who aren’t owned by the Commonwealth.”

  Nathaniel refrained from noting that the two economists in question weren’t ever supposed to leave Artos, merely saying, “We were fortunate.”

  “Very fortunate,” added Sylvia with enough irony that Clerigg paused momentarily, before he slumped into a straight-backed chair across from them. Swersa tucked herself into a corner chair, effectively guarding the door.

  “Is there any possibility that you might be able to share your findings with us?” asked Clerigg.

  “I’ll make you an even better offer,” said Nathaniel dryly. “You and your team help us write it, and you can be the ones to release it.”

  “You aren’t…you mean that?”

  “Absolutely. You get the best of both worlds. Our names are on it, with the Institute seal, and you get to tell the Galaxy about it.”

  “You sound as though this isn’t the greatest offer,” said Clerigg.

  “It isn’t,” admitted Nathaniel. “I’ll need almost every member of your staff full time for the next three to four days. In return, you can copy all the data and use the study—immediately.”

  Clerigg laughed once. “Since you could commandeer us all, or Swersa could on your behalf, you’re being more than fair. When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Sylvia. “Today’s been long enough, and we need to sort out some things.”

  Nathaniel turned cold inside. Had he been too domineering? Probably. Had it been necessary? Probably not. Was he going to stop digging holes for himself? He hoped so. He took a slow deep breath, then looked at Sylvia. She inclined her head.

  They both stood. So did Swersa.

  “Thank you,” offered Nathaniel.

  “Until tomorrow,” returned Clerigg.

  Once outside the economic chief’s office, Swersa gestured toward the stairs. “We need to get your packs from my office, and then I’ll get you settled in the suite, and you can do what you need to do.”

  The packs were where they had been left, behind the apparently sealed office doors, and looked and felt untouched to Nathaniel, not that there happened to be anything particularly unique in the packs, just the information in the datacase.

  “Now, back up two levels,” said the Legation Ecolitan.

  At the door to the main suite, Swersa extended two small datablocs. “These were just recoded. The Legation mess is on the lowest level. It’s open until nineteen thirty, and opens in the morning at zero six forty-five. If you want to go out, there are a number of decent restaurants in the blocks behind the Legation. I’ll have you coded into the entry system in the next few units.” Swersa paused. “If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

  “There will be, I’m certain,” Nathaniel confirmed, trying his databloc. The door opened, and he stood aside.

  With a quick smile, Swersa was gone.

  Once the packs were inside, he closed the door and studied the sitting room—two desk consoles, two sofas with matching upholstered armchairs, all arranged around a low wooden table with a large spray of fresh flowers.

  “Luxury accommodations.” Sylvia looked at Nathaniel. “Status for a former envoy?”

  “More like luck and a friendly Ecolitan,” he answered. “I doubt my status entitles us to this.”

  Nathaniel hugged Sylvia.

  “I’m not in the mood…”

  “I know,” he whispered. “Hug me back and listen. Your turn is coming. That’s why we have to finish the study here and now. Can you get it through the Imperial embassy and to the I.I.S. and the Defense Ministry?”

  Sylvia relaxed slightly and bent toward his ear, nibbling it slightly, but scarcely sensually, before answering. “Until I try, I won’t know, but I think so. Do you think the Legate will let the report go?”

  “He can’t overrule an Ecolitan, but he also has to know what’s in it. If he’s the typical political appointee, he’ll only want to see the executive summary, and that’s just about all he’s going to get, certainly not any of the appendices, not until it’s spread across the entire diplomatic community here, and to the New Avalonian Ministry of Commerce, which has to get the first copy. You and I are going to do one of the appendices. It will have a title something like, ‘The External Diseconomies of Artosan Spacio-Graphics.’”

  “Meaning that it will spell out everything?”

  He nodded.

  “That won’t stop this…war.”

  “No. But it will slow down the Empire, I hope, while we find a way to stop the war.”

  “Us? Just us?”

  “Us.”

  “That scares me,” she whispered.

  “If it’s any consolation…it scares the frig out of me. And I do love you, you know.” He gave her a last hug. “Now…let’s get freshened up and then get something to eat. Is that all right?”

  “I am hungry.” She lifted her field pack. “Let me put this in the bedroom. Which one do you want?”

  “Why?”

  “I want the same one.”

  “But…?”

  “That was to keep you in line.” She kept her face straight for a moment, before smiling wickedly.

  “I think you’re doing just fine.” He lifted his own pack. “You pick.”

  XXX

  “WHAT ABOUT THESE tables?” asked the young man with the goatee, easing up beside Nathaniel’s console, where the Ecolitan continued to struggle with the wording of the executive summary. “Do you want frequency distribution or a geometric mean?”

  “Both,” decided Nathaniel. “Label them ‘Thirty A’ and ‘Thirty B.’”

  “Stet, sir.”

  No sooner had the goateed staffer departed than Clerigg reappeared.

  “Fascinating figures here. Quite a story.”

  The Ecolitan nodded, waiting.

  “I don’t quite understand what you meant in this direction,” confessed the Legation economist, showing Whaler the table he held, and the note hastily scrawled earlier by the Ecolitan.

  “Wasn’t as clear as I could have been, probably,” said Nathaniel. “Take the energy production figures, both liquid fuels and fusactor output, converted to quads, and show total production and per annum rate of growth. Then I’ll need a separate chart that breaks out per capita liquid fuel production, with two subcharts, one showing per capita production, and one that takes per capita production of say, five years ago, and increases it by the percentage of economic growth for the whole Artosan economy. On the same chart, the second one, show the surplus. Now…these second charts go in a separate appendix we’re working on. You put the gross power charts in the infrastructure appendix.”

  “You’re saying that there’s a considerable increase in liquid fuels sources, far more than accounted for by population demand?”

  “Something like that, but we’ll let the figures speak for themselves.”

  Clerigg nodded. “Fascinating.”

  Nathaniel hoped so.

  “You’re generating some strange-looking figures, Ecolitan Whaler,” offered the third staffer, easing three hard-copy color graphs onto the flat area beside the console. “Are these what you wanted?”

  “Leave them. I’ll let you know in a moment.” He looked over at the second console, where Sylvia was inputting text for the appendix. “How’s it going?”

  “Slow.”

  “Me, too. The summary’s got to have just the right flavor.”

  She shook her head.

  They both looked up as the door to the long office opened.

  “This just arrived,” announced the fresh-faced receptionist, “by courier from the Frankan Legation.”

  “Fran
kan?” Nathaniel pondered.

  The parchment envelope with the Frankan Union seal in the upper left corner bore two names, scripted regally in black ink:

  The most honorable Nathaniel F. Whaler

  The honorable Sylvia V. Ferro-Maine

  The sandy-haired Ecolitan walked over to where Sylvia struggled, watched as she pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Here. You open it.” He watched as she studied the names. “What does the V stand for?”

  “Vittoria.”

  “You never told me.”

  “I don’t recall that you asked.” Then she smiled, reached out, and squeezed his fingers before she opened the envelope, only to find a second inside. Within the second envelope was a card, also neatly scripted.

  The honor of your presence is requested at The Salisbury Club, the eighth of November, at 12:30 P.M., for a luncheon.

  The signature beneath was that of Gerard De Vylerion.

  “Who’s De Vylerion?”

  “He was the Frankan Legate to New Augusta.”

  “Then we should go.” Sylvia looked at the screen and the lines of text. “That’s tomorrow, and I’ll need a break from this.”

  “We’ll be mostly done by then.”

  “You will. I won’t.”

  “We will.”

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “I promise.”

  “Good. How anyone…could like being an economist.”

  Nathaniel chose not to point out that his being an economist had brought them together. Instead, he murmured, “It’s a living.”

  “So long as it keeps being a living,” she answered dryly.

  They both laughed, ignoring the puzzled looks around them.

  XXXI

  “ECOLITANS?” VENTURED THE thin-faced woman at the Legation’s front console.

  “Yes?” Nathaniel and Sylvia paused.

  “Legate Spamgall suggests that if you are going out, today would be a good day to see Gerry Adams Park. It’s quite a spectacle, you know, with all the speakers and posters.”

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia.

  The two hurried down the steps of the Legation toward the waiting groundcar and driver.

  “It’ll have to be after lunch,” Nathaniel said. “We’re cutting it close. I know. It was my fault, but I wanted to get those last graphs right. As if anyone will read them.” He snorted. “The economics make it obvious, but if you say it in plain language, it’s suspect because it’s too simple, and if you use the proper terminology everyone’s eyes glaze over.”

  “There’s another problem,” ventured Sylvia. “More wars have been caused by economics than by any other factor, and almost no one recognizes that even after five millennia of constant proof.” She opened the groundcar door and slid across the seat.

  “The Salisbury Club,” Nathaniel added as he closed the door.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “While we’re being philosophical,” Nathaniel continued, “I’ll add another thought. Everyone thinks that conflicts are caused by politics or personalities, but they’re not. They’re caused by massive forces. That’s why personal diplomacy is generally only good for buying time while the forces are rearranged.”

  “As you did in New Augusta?”

  “I’m getting this feeling that the forces weren’t rearranged…the big problem is that individual diplomacy and economic studies usually aren’t sufficient to offset public opinion and basic economic forces.” He laughed harshly. “Dramas and trideos and books and their sappy happy messages to the contrary.”

  Sylvia smiled wryly. “Whereas economic disruptions and war are sufficient?”

  “Or their equivalent. And then everyone protests, saying, ‘You didn’t have to do that.’”

  “You’ve been writing too many economic studies.”

  “Absolutely.”

  They reached the Salisbury Club at twenty-five minutes past noon.

  “Might I be of service, sir and madame?” asked the figure in the antique black formal jacket and black bow tie, looking coolly at the green uniforms.

  “Sylvia Ferro-Maine and Nathaniel Whaler. We were to meet Gerard De Vylerion…” said Nathaniel.

  “He has arrived. If you would follow me.” The maître d’hôtel bowed and turned, leading them through the half-open dark oak doors and past a false leaded glass window showing the first landing at Camelot, framed by deep maroon velvet hangings.

  “He knows where to dine,” murmured Sylvia.

  “He knows a great deal more than that.”

  A tall, almost ascetic, figure rose from the table in the paneled, velvet-framed corner of the room. “Gerard de Vylerion, Lady Ferro-Maine…a pleasure to see you again, Lord Whaler.”

  At the terms “lady” and “lord,” Nathaniel caught the faintest stiffening in the posture of the black-coated maître d’hôtel, and the Ecolitan held in a smile, even while returning Gerard’s bow.

  “You’re very kind,” answered Sylvia.

  “I’m an economist, not an envoy,” protested Nathaniel.

  “A most distinguished one. Did not the Emperor himself provide that collar pin?” An amused smile played across Gerard’s face momentarily.

  “Ah…well…yes.”

  Sylvia turned to Nathaniel. “I don’t believe you mentioned that.”

  He flushed. “I had more important matters on my mind at the time. I was trying to get clearances…for a colleague.”

  She flushed.

  De Vylerion nodded past the Ecolitans, and the maître d’hôtel slipped away quietly.

  “Please…please…be seated.” De Vylerion eased out the chair to his right for Sylvia.

  As the two sat, a server in white carrying a silver pitcher filled their crystal water goblets, then retreated.

  De Vylerion reseated himself. “I have been enjoying a glass of Lexin—very similar to Imperial Sperlin—but slightly drier. Would you like some? Or could I order something else?”

  “The Lexin is fine.” Sylvia smiled.

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “And you will pardon my emphasis on titles, but it is so amusing to see the Avalonian reaction. Accomplishments, and you both boast considerable accomplishments, mean little in Camelot. Only the titles matter, and that, my friends, is why New Avalon’s days are numbered. I should not be so philosophical, but I am so glad you two could spare a moment for a luncheon with a broken-down old diplomat.”

  “I would have to dispute that description,” said Nathaniel with a smile.

  “Please…I know what I am.”

  Another server arrived with a pair of wineglasses, and De Vylerion leaned forward and filled both.

  “To your continued health,” offered the diplomat.

  Both Ecolitans raised their glasses.

  “And to yours.”

  Continued health was definitely a good toast, reflected Nathaniel, as he glanced around the half-filled dining area.

  The leather-bound menus arrived, silently, and the blackcoated waiter vanished momentarily.

  “What might be good?” asked Sylvia.

  “It is all good.” De Vylerion smiled. “Perhaps not so good as I could offer you in Wryere, and I hope that in the future you will be able to visit me there. Caroline would enjoy meeting you both. This was to be a short trip; so she was unable to accompany me.” After a sip of the Lexin, the diplomat added, looking at Sylvia, “You might have been her sister, years ago.”

  “She must be beautiful,” offered Nathaniel.

  Sylvia flushed again.

  “He does you and her justice,” suggested the diplomat with a gentle smile. “I do admit I am prejudiced after all these years.” He looked at the menu as the waiter bowed. “Have you decided?”

  “I think I’ll try the scampig,” said Nathaniel.

  “How are the spicetails?” Sylvia glanced at the waiter, offering a dazzling smile.

  “They are good, madame. So is the deep crab.”

  “I’ll try the deep crab.”

 
; “Just the Shienmez salad for me,” added De Vylerion.

  The waiter nodded and collected the menus.

  “Once I had heard you were in fact in Camelot, I hastened to send an invitation, although one must not appear too hasty, especially in these times. That is why it was so formal.”

  “Formal or not,” answered Sylvia, lifting the crystal glass, “it was appreciated.”

  “You were most helpful on New Augusta.” Nathaniel smiled and turned to Sylvia. “Gerard is the one who told me that hard proof arrives only just before the warheads, or words to that effect.”

  “You have a good memory, an outstanding memory. I only quoted an ancient writer. Very cynical, but accurate. How do you find the Lexin?”

  “This is excellent, if not quite in the class of Remoc.” Sylvia inclined her head as the silent waiter set a green salad before her, then before Nathaniel, and finally De Vylerion.

  “It is not, but it is close,” affirmed De Vylerion.

  Nathaniel knew that was something he didn’t know. He could taste bad wine, but the subtleties between very good and great wines were far beyond him. “I wish I had your taste, both of you.”

  “You have other expertise.” Sylvia’s eyes were warm as she glanced at him.

  “Indeed he does, as do you, lady.”

  “So do you,” suggested Nathaniel. “Such as being in the right place at the right time. I somehow doubt that your presence here is a happy coincidence. You were headed back to Wryere, as I recall?”

  “I was.” De Vylerion set his fork on the side of the pale green porcelain plate.

  “So why are you in Camelot?”

  “There was a temporary vacancy here for a Legate, and I was asked to fill the position for a few months. I had thought to retire…and that made me above politics, as if anyone ever is.” The Frankan laughed self-deprecatingly. “For reasons of my own, I accepted.”

  “Reasons of your own?” pressed Sylvia.

  “I could say that I have taken an interest in your careers, and that would certainly be accurate. Accurate, but not wholly truthful.”