He squared his shoulders, swallowed a stimpill, and left the vault.
His Admiralty worked around the clock. He heard its buzz, click, foot-shuffle, mutter through the shut anteroom door. Because he really had not time for exchanging salutes according to rank and clan with every officer, technician, and guard, he seldom passed that way. Another door opened directly on his main suite of offices. Opposite, a third door gave on a private corridor which ran blank and straight to the landing flange.
When he stepped out onto that, the air was cool and damp. The roof screened the beacon from him and he saw clearly over Ardaig.
It was not a Terran city and knew nothing of hectic many-colored blaze after dark. Ground vehicles were confined to a few avenues, otherwise tubeways; the streets were for pedestrians and gwydh riders. Recreation was largely at home or in ancient theaters and sports fields. Shops—as contrasted to mercantile centers with communicator and delivery systems—were small enterprises, closed at this hour, which had been in the same house and the same family for generations. Tridaig shouted. Ardaig murmured, beneath a low salt wind. Luminous pavements wove their web over the hills, trapping lit windows; aircraft made moving lanterns above; spotlights on Afon simply heightened its austerity. Two of the four moons were aloft, Neihevin and Seith. The bay glowed and sparkled under them.
Brechdan’s driver folded arms and bowed. Illogical, retaining that old gaffer when this aircar had a robopilot. But his family had always served the Ynvorys. Guards made their clashing salute and entered the vehicle too. It purred off.
The stimulant took hold. Brechdan felt renewed eagerness. What might he not uncover tonight? Relax, he told himself, keep patience, wait for the one gem to appear from a dung-heap of formalisms … If we must exterminate the Terrans, we will at least have rid the universe of much empty chatter.
His destination was another offense, a compound of residences and offices in the garish bubble style of the Imperium four hundred years ago. Then Merseia was an up-and-coming planet, worth a legation but in no position to dictate architecture or site. Qgoth Heights lay well outside Ardaig. Later the city grew around them and the legation became an embassy and Merseia could deny requests for expanded facilities. Brechdan walked the entranceway alone, between rosebushes. He did admire that forlorn defiance. A slave took his cloak, a butler tall as himself announced him to the company. The usual pack of civilians in fancy dress, service attachés in uniform—no, yonder stood the newcomers. Lord Oliveira of Ganymede, Imperial Ambassador to his Supremacy the Roidhun, scurried forth. He was a thin and fussy man whose abilities had on a memorable occasion given Brechdan a disconcerting surprise.
“Welcome, Councillor,” he said in Eriau, executing a Terran style bow. “We are delighted you could come.” He escorted his guest across the parquet floor. “May I present his Majesty’s envoy, Lord Markus Hauksberg, Viscount of Ny Kalmar?”
“I am honored, sir.” (Languid manner belied by physical condition, eyes that watched closely from beneath the lids, good grasp of language.)
“ … Commander Max Abrams.”
“The Hand of the Vach Ynvory is my shield.” (Dense accent, but fluent; words and gestures precisely right, dignified greeting of one near in rank to his master who is your equal. Stout frame, gray-shot hair, big nose, military carriage. So this was the fellow reported by courier to be coming along from Starkad. Handle with care.)
Introductions proceeded. Brechdan soon judged that none but Hauksberg and Abrams were worth more than routine attention. The latter’s aide, Flandry, looked alert; but he was young and very junior.
A trumpet blew the At Ease. Oliveira was being especially courteous in following local custom. But as this also meant females were excluded, most of his staff couldn’t think what to do next. They stood about in dismal little groups, trying to make talk with their Merseian counterparts.
Brechdan accepted a glass of arthberry wine and declined further refreshment. He circulated for what he believed was a decent minimum time—let the Terrans know that he could observe their rituals when he chose—before he zeroed in on Lord Hauksberg.
“I trust your journey here was enjoyable,” he began.
“A bit dull, sir,” the viscount replied, “until your naval escort joined us. Must say they put on a grand show; and the honor guard after we landed was better yet. Hope no one minded my taping the spectacle.”
“Certainly not, provided you stopped before entering Afon.”
“Haw! Your, ah, foreign minister is a bit stiff, isn’t he? But he was quite pleasant when I offered my credentials, and promised me an early presentation to his Supremacy.”
Brechdan took Hauksberg’s arm and strolled him toward a corner. Everyone got the hint; the party plodded on at a distance from where they two sat down below an abominable portrait of the Emperor.
“And how was Starkad?” Brechdan asked.
“Speaking for myself, sir, grim and fascinating,” Hauksberg said. “Were you ever there?”
“No.” Sometimes Brechdan was tempted to pay a visit. By the God, it was long since he had been on a planet unraped by civilization! Impossible, however, at any rate for the next few years when Starkad’s importance must be underplayed. Conceivably near the end—He decided that he hoped a visit would not be called for. Easier to make use of a world which was a set of reports than one whose people had been seen in their own lives.
“Well, scarcely in your sphere of interest, eh, sir?” Hauksberg said. “We are bemused by, ah, Merseia’s endeavors.”
“The Roidhunate has explained over and over.”
“Of course. Of course. But mean to say, sir, if you wish to practice charity, as you obviously do, well, aren’t there equal needs closer to home? The Grand Council’s first duty is to Merseia. I would be the last to accuse you of neglecting your duty.”
Brechdan shrugged. “Another mercantile base would be useful in the Betelgeuse region. Starkad is not ideal, either in location or characteristics, but it is acceptable. If at the same time we can gain the gratitude of a talented and deserving species, that tips the balance.” He sharpened his gaze. “Your government’s reaction was distressing.”
“Predictable, though.” Hauksberg sprawled deeper into his antique chromeplated chair. “To build confidence on both sides, until a true general agreement can be reached—” mercifully, he did not say “between our great races”—“the inter-imperial buffer space must remain inviolate. I might add, sir, that the landfolk are no less deserving than the seafolk. Meaningless quibble, who was the initial aggressor. His Majesty’s government feels morally bound to help the landfolk before their cultures go under.”
“Now who is ignoring needs close to home?” Brechdan asked dryly.
Hauksberg grew earnest. “Sir, the conflict can be ended. You must have received reports of our efforts to negotiate peace in the Zletovar area. If Merseia would join her good offices to ours, a planet-wide arrangement could be made. And as for bases there, why should we not establish one together? A long stride toward real friendship, wouldn’t you say?”
“Forgive possible rudeness,” Brechdan parried, “but I am curious why your pacific mission includes the chief of Intelligence operations on Starkad.”
“As an advisor, sir,” Hauksberg said with less enthusiasm. “Simply an advisor who knows more about the natives than anyone else who was available. Would you like to speak with him?” He raised an arm and called in Anglic, which Brechdan understood better than was publicly admitted: “Max! I say, Max, come over here for a bit, will you?”