The shouting chaos of laughing and singing ceased in an instant.
“They’re loyal,” Horatio explained over his shoulder. Then, to the multitude: “The Baronet of Ruddigore and I have decided to take ship, and ride out to the stars, to discover a world never before seen by Terrans, there to found the Central Kingdom in reality, and live as men ought, by faith and sweat and steel. We shall need villeins and yeomen, gentlemen and knights! We shall leave in two days time; any who are not with us then, will never be! Who wishes to ride? Sign here!”
He threw the tablet down into the multitude. With a roar, they pounced on it, and the whole crowd instantly re-formed into a line, each one fairly panting in his eagerness to emigrate. Food-sellers and jugglers began to work up and down the queue.
Horatio turned back to Dar with a grin. “That is the mettle of my people!”
“They’ll change their minds by the time they get to the front of the line,” Dar predicted.
Horatio nodded. “Some of them, no doubt—but most will sign. They’ve wished for nothing half so much as to live in a world where folk are true, and the rulers worthy of trust. How say you, brave ones? Will you join us?”
“Instantly.” Sam beamed up at him.
Horatio looked down at her, surprised. Then, slowly, he began to smile, almost shyly.
“I admit I’m tempted,” Father Marco mused. “For a priest, the Middle Ages had definite advantages.”
“For gleemen, too.” Whitey grinned from ear to ear. “I think it’s a great idea, Horatio, and I’ll cheer you on every A.U. of the way—but I never was much of a joiner.”
“Nor I.” Lona shook her head firmly. “Stuck in a society that’s never even heard of electrons? Horrible!”
Dar opened his mouth to answer, and a burring sound came out. He swallowed and blinked, then realized that the sound had come from the phone. A footman in tights and tabard stepped out to announce, “There is a Mr. Stroganoff calling, sir, for Mr. Tambourin.”
Whitey looked up in surprise. “Already? There shouldn’t have been any progress yet.” He went back inside, with Dar trailing after.
Stroganoff was on the screen, dazed. “What’s the matter, David?” Whitey asked as he came into range.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all! Everything’s just fine—in fact, too fine. That’s what’s the matter!”
“Glad to hear it—I hope. Want to tell me why it’s gotten so hot that it’s turned cold?”
“The Executive Secretary.” Stroganoff swallowed. “I sent a fax to his office, right after you left. I figured the way the government bureaucracy works, I’d better start right away if we were going to have any chance of shooting him within the year.”
“Wise.” Whitey was poised like a hawk about to stoop. “And?”
“And his office just called. He’s—he’s willing to do the piece. But only if we can do it tomorrow!”
Whitey and Dar both stared.
“The primary citizen never says ‘yes’ that quickly!” Stroganoff bawled. “And even after you’ve talked him into it, you have to make an appointment months away!”
“And have it canceled at the last minute, at least twice.” Whitey nodded, with a faraway look in his eyes. “On the other hand, I do have a certain reputation…”
“Well, you’re at least as famous as he is, if that’s what you mean. But …”
“But my fame is apt to last a bit longer,” Whitey mused, “and from the current political news, I’d guess the Exec isn’t too sure he’s going to still be Exec in a few months—or even next month, for that matter.”
“Next week,” Stroganoff growled.
Whitey nodded. “So he’s making his bid for immortality. Do the piece for us, and he’s guaranteed a featured place in Tod Tambourin’s one and only 3DT masterpiece. Even if history forgets him, literature won’t.”
Stroganoff nodded slowly. “Y’know, that almost makes sense, Tod.”
“Yeah, but the schedule doesn’t.” Whitey grimaced. “Oh, the crew can make it easily enough—all we have to do is hop into a cab, and charge it to your company.”
Stroganoff shuddered. “How about first class on a public shuttle?”
Whitey shrugged. “Whatever you like. But how about equipment?”
“May have it, or may not. There’s no point in dropping it down from Luna, of course; what we do is to rent it out from a dirt side company. I know a few. I’ll have to make some calls, and get back to you.”
Whitey grinned. “I always wanted to use a 3DT camera.”
“Uh, hold on, now. Whoa!” Stroganoff held up his palm. “No can do, Tod. Cameras come with a union crew, or they don’t come at all!”
“Why?” Whitey frowned. “I’ve got two electronics techs right here!”
“I know, but if the union finds out you’ve shot a sequence without them, they won’t give you any tech crew for the studio segments up here. Like it or not, we’ve got to use them.”
“Okay, I’ll try to like it,” Whitey sighed. “When do we meet them?”
“I’ll let you know, if I manage to get them. Where’ll you be?”
“Where should I be?”
Stroganoff grinned. “Thank you, Meistersinger. Be on your way to the Gamelon, will you? Call me back when you’re over Lake Champlain.”
11
You’re sure this’s the Gamelon?” Dar muttered. “For all I can see, it could be the inside of Moby Dick.”
“Moby Dick was a whale, not a snake,” Whitey muttered back, “or haven’t you noticed how many turns we’ve made?”
“Didn’t look this big from outside,” Dar grumped.
Father Marco had become enmeshed in a long theological discussion with two young clerks who were devout atheists masquerading as medieval monks. Lona had become enmeshed in partying, and Sam was trying to become enmeshed with Horatio. So they had come alone to the long, striplike building that had replaced New York’s eastside docks, and were following a lighted bar that slid along the hallway floor in front of them, making some very unpredictable turns as it led them farther and farther into the building that housed the Central Executive Staff of the Interstellar Dominion Electorates.
Finally, it stopped next to an open doorway. Dar looked up, and met the gaze of a wide, very muscular individual dressed in a laborer’s coverall. “Help you?” he rumbled.
“Somebody’s got to,” Dar answered. Then Whitey arrived at his elbow. “Tod Tambourin,” he said, pointing to the ID tag the door-guards had hung around his neck.
“Oh yeah, the writer.” The muscular one looked bored. “This your P.A.?”
“No, he’s my assistant.”
“Right. Well, come on in. Not much for you to do, though; we’re just about ready, here.”
They were, indeed. As Dar came in, he saw a huge desk sitting in front of a photomural of a starfield, with the I.D.E. spiderweb superimposed over it in lines of light. On either side of the desk, between it and the backdrop, were two slender pillars. In front were two cameras. All around were at least a dozen technicians.
Dar turned back to Muscles. “Mind if I show my ignorance?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” the beefy one sighed.
“What do you need so many people for?”
“Easy.” Muscles pointed. “Two camera ops, one electrician, one engineer for each set of camera controls, one engineer for audio, one for the holo-mole recorder, and a staging director.”
“That’s only eight.”
“You’re good at arithmetic.”
“But there’re at least sixteen here!”
“Well, every position’s gotta have a backup. You know, somebody might have a heart attack.”
“Yeah, like the accountant who has to keep track of the budget for this show. What do you do?”
“I’m the shop steward.”