“Thank you, sir,” Don said. He snapped the other a salute.
“It is I who should be saluting you,” the older man said, returning the courtesy.
Don Mathers had never before been in Switzerland. The aircraft swooped into the landing field near Lake Leman on the outskirts of New Geneva with precision, the precision to be expected of the pilots of the Presidential Jet. There was only a small group, not all uniformed, to greet the new celebrity. Evidently, his movements were still being concealed.
Don Mathers went through the standard amenities, failing to remember the name of a single one of the committee. This was piling up so fast that his thinking was in a continuous state of turmoil.
Three limousines sped up and he was ushered into the middle one. There were two uniformed, stolid-faced chauffeurs in the front. Only one of the welcoming delegation got into the back with him, an elderly man in formal morning clothes and with a red ribbon across his chest. Don had forgotten his name but obviously he was some high ranking mucky-muck.
The caravan took off and the other told Don, “We have reserved a suite for you at the Intercontinental. It is conveniently located near the Palais des Nations.”
Don knew what the Palais des Nations was. It was the parliament building of the Solar System League. First begun in 1929 for the League of Nations, later it had been taken over as the European Office of the United Nations Organization, and, after the coming of the Kradens and the institution of system-wide government, by the Solar System League. It was here that the president presided over the parliament, consisting of representatives from formerly sovereign nations on Earth and from all of the colonies.
As they progressed, his companion gave Don Mathers a running commentary, and it sounded as though he had been through it before and much more than once. “This is the Rue de la Servette. If we continued along it we would pass through the Place des 22 Cantons, cross the Rhone river and be in the oldest part of the city. It is quite attractive. Geneva was originally settled by the Romans but most of its older buildings today are medieval.”
Don, a product of modern North America, couldn’t have cared less.
The city was a far cry from those he was used to in North America. There were no hi-rises, no modern buildings at all for all practical purposes. There was little in the way of advertising and traffic seemed strangely slow, and even sparse. The pedestrians strolled, rather than walking briskly. Some of the side streets were winding and, of all things, cobbled.
The caravan turned left and they drove up to a side entry of a large, ultra-deluxe hotel. Doors were flung open by chauffeurs and the whole party hustled inside.
“You are being kept incognito until tomorrow,” his formally clad guide told him.
“What happens tomorrow?” Don said.
They were heading for an elevator bank in a wing of the hotel, avoiding entering the lobby.
“You are to be presented to the Parliament of the Solar System League, or at least to those elements of it that have had the time to arrive.”
They zipped up to the eighteenth floor of the hotel and Don was ushered into his suite.
When his guide had told him that they had reserved a suite for him, he had meant a suite. Other than the quarters of Lawrence Demming in Center City, Don had never seen anything like this.
His guide told him, “And this is Pierre, your majordomo.”
Pierre bowed slightly from the hips. He looked and dressed like a head waiter, Don decided. “At your service, sir,” he said in impeccable English.
The whole delegation had entered the suite and now stood in a group. Don wondered what the hell they were supposed to be doing. Thus far, aside from the handshakes and murmured greetings at the airport, they had accomplished nothing. He had a sneaking suspicion that the same group met all arriving VIPs. And did exactly what they were doing now. Nothing.
His guide, or whatever the hell he was, said, “And now, Lieutenant Mathers, it is to be assumed that you are fatigued and certainly need rest for tomorrow. I would suggest that you take your meals here in your suite, rather than enter the public dining room, where you might be recognized. The chef will make every effort to excel himself in your behalf. He has been let in on the secret of your indentity. His specialty is pieds de pore au madere.”
“Well… thanks,” Don said.
The delegation bowed themselves out.
Don tossed his hat to a side table and said to the flunky, “How about a drink?”
“Certainly, Monsieur.” The majordomo clapped his hands and a waiter materialized.
Don sunk down into a chair and eased his shoes off. The Presidential Jet had been stocked with a supply of uniforms and other clothing in anticipation of his needs, but they had slipped up on the shoes, which were a bit too tight.
“What do you drink around here?” he said.
“Monsieur, since the vineyards have been turned over to producing cereals, new wine vintages are no longer with us. However, the former manager of the Intercontinental was farsighted enough to lay down an extensive stock in the cellars. I can recommend a bottle of Silvaner.”
“Whatever that is,” Don said. “All right, well give it a try.”
Pierre said to the waiter, “A bottle of well-chilled Silvaner, Hans.”
The waiter disappeared.
Don said, “These damn shoes are too tight.”
Pierre said quickly, “I shall have a representative from the hotel shop come up immediately to fit you, sir.”
Don, in his stockinged feet, went over to the terrace and looked out over Lake Leman. It was a superlative view and as an attractive body of water as he had ever seen.
He said, “That’s a beautiful castle over there.”
Pierre said, “That is Chillon, Monsieur Mathers.
Immortalized by Lord Byron in his Prisoner of Chillon.”
Don had never heard of Lord Byron but didn’t want to show himself up to the servant. Almighty Ultimate, this was living. He had eaten and drunk like a king on the Presidential Jet but he couldn’t wait to get into the fleshpots of Geneva. This was living!
In the morning, they came for him, two Space Service colonels. By their insignia, both were commanders of Space Monitors.
Don didn’t have his cap on, so he didn’t salute. Not sure what this day held for him, he had refrained from getting even moderately drenched the night before and was now in good shape.
The first colonel said, snap in his voice, “The President of the Solar System League sends his compliments and requires that you attend an extraordinary session of the Parliament of the Solar System League.”
“Yes, sir,” Don said.
Pierre brought his hat.
They left formally, not speaking, eyes straight ahead.
This time Don Mathers was not shielded from the lobby. They marched out the front entry. There were four infantrymen there, all captains, but armed with laser rifles. They snapped to attention. Hotel guests and pedestrians stared. Don was still incognito. Geneva was used to VIPs but they didn’t recognize this one in the uniform of a space sub-lieutenant.
They drove in silence to the Palais des Nations.
At the entry, there was an honor guard of spacemen. They presented arms, or snapped to salute, as Don and his two colonels entered.
He was marched up this corridor, down that, and finally wound up in an enormous auditorium. He was marched to the podium. There were six men there, five seated, one standing. The one standing was a Black. Don obviously knew who he was. He also knew three of the others. They were continuously on the news.
The two colonels saluted, wheeled and marched off.
The Tri-Di cameras were already fully operational.