"Landed. Powering down. We are on the planet Minerva," the pilot announced.
"It's been a long time," ZORAC said, presumably for the benefit of the three original Ganymeans aboard. They seemed a bit too overcome to respond.
The views from outside showed that they were in an open space surrounded by high gray buildings that looked imposing and solid, with a scattering of gray, scrubby plants sprouting in beds by the wall and along paths across patches of gray lawn. Hunt was already forming the impression that this whole world might be a composition of grays, like an old black-and-white movie. Vehicles were parked around the edges of the area: an assortment of ground cars and trucks, and some helicopter-type craft crammed to one side as if they had been moved out of the way. The cars, like the buildings, looked solid and indestructible, but utilitarian and boxy. Detroit stylists would have despaired. The predominant colors seemed to be black, a kind of khaki… and shades of gray.
No Lunarians had been visible when the shuttle touched down. But after the engine cut, figures began appearing through what seemed to be the rear entrance of one of the larger buildings flanking the square and moved out toward the craft. For the most part, their garb was of the monotonous, tuniclike patterns that the Shapieron's previous visits had shown to be characteristically Lunarian, along with variations of common themes that suggested uniforms. A number of topcoats and hats were in evidence. "I think it might be cold out there," Hunt said.
"Nine-point-three Celsius," ZORAC supplied.
Frenua Showm and Eesyan moved up to stand facing the inner door of the shuttle's lock, with Hunt, Danchekker, Monchar, and the two Shapieron officers behind them. An indicator showed the lock pressures to be balanced. The inner door opened. They moved forward. Then the outer door opened. A wave of cool, damp air met them. It carried a hint of the odor of tunnels that pervades subway stations and was slightly pungent.
In a typically Thurien touch, Eesyan and Showm did not pause at the top of the ramp, where they would have eclipsed the two smaller Terrans squeezed in the lock chamber behind them, but descended at once to where there was space for all to spread out and be presented equally. Although basic information had already been exchanged via the communications connection, it seemed that the occasion required a few formal words. Showm gave the customary Thurien head-bow of greeting, introduced herself, and proceeded to name the others with her. The link back to ZORAC, via a relay connection in the shuttle, made it available as a translator, but the distance of the Shapieron created a turnaround delay of three to four seconds. Interacting was not as sophisticated as the methods developed later with VISAR. The party wore headbands carrying audio and video pickups, with information from ZORAC delivered through clip-on ear pieces and wrist screens. Showm concluded, "We have come from a world known as Thurien, a planet of the star that you know as the Giants' Star."
The central figure of the group facing them wore a uniform with lots of braid and a peculiar three-cornered hat-the uniforms were noticeably more ornamented than those that would come into use later, when the war got serious. He was of stocky, rounded build, and light brown in countenance like the others, with a flattened nose and narrow eyes that lent a vaguely Asiatic appearance. He held himself upright and replied stiffly. "Gudaf Irastes, Commanding General of the Household Forces to Crown Prince Freskel-Gar of Lambia and its dominions." Iraste hesitated, his eyes flickering uncertainly in the direction of his retinue. Then, evidently deciding his wasn't about to go through the list of all of them, "Greetings on behalf of Minerva. Freskel-Gar is waiting inside to receive you. If you will follow this way…"
They proceeded in through the entrance that the Lunarians had emerged from. Hunt noticed several figures in the background following them with what looked like movie or TV cameras. Inside, a short hallway brought them to an open vestibule area of marbled floor, surrounded by square columns going up to overlooking galleries. Corridors led away left, right, and ahead, between clusters of alcove spaces and doors. They went past the main staircase leading up to the galleries, and behind it passed through an archway to stairs leading down. At the bottom were sturdy double doors attended by guards. Beyond the doors, they followed a stone-floored corridor through surroundings that seemed severe compared to the halls above. The thought was just forming in Hunt's mind that this seemed an odd kind of setting in which to receive the first diplomatic delegation from an alien race of another star, when they entered a room where a number of uniformed Lambians were working at desks and consoles. It turned out to be an anteroom to a spacious, brightly lit area filled with screens and communications gear. Armed Lambian soldiers were stationed along the walls. More entered behind the party and took up stations inside the door. Prince Freskel-Gar was waiting with members of his staff at the far end. His expression was not that of a host about to welcome guests, but stony and hard.
But the sight that caused the arrivals to stop dead in disbelief, Thurien and Terran alike, was the group of figures framed in a large screen facing the floor. They were human, but not Lunarian. The leader standing at their head leered, his teeth showing white in a huge chin behind a short black beard as if he had been relishing this moment. ZORAC wasn't needed to translate his words. Hunt, Danchekker, and every Ganymean present were conversant with Jevlenese.
"Most obliging of you. My compliments go out to Calazar. I couldn't have planned this better myself," Broghuilio said. "I'm so sorry that I could not be there to receive you personally, but it would not have been convenient. However, I'm sure we will not be deprived of that pleasure for very long. We are not far away."
He looked aside and nodded to a Jevlenese wearing what looked the uniform of a ship's captain, who signaled affirmatively to somewhere. "Fire the lasers," a voice off-screen instructed.
Wearing shorts and a house robe, Caldwell sat on the arm of one of the chairs in the summer room of his home outside the city in Maryland, watching as dutifully as any grandfather would while his ten-year-old grandson, Timmy, tongue-between-teeth, produced a commendable rendition of Mozart's Drawing Room theme on the baby grand. It was one of those balmy summer days that were made for forgetting that organizations like UNSA and places like Thurien existed. Outside, Caldwell's daughter, Sharon, was with her husband, Robin, by the pool. Maeve was in the kitchen with Elaine, the housekeeper and cook, discussing ideas for dinner-or whatever else women discussed in kitchens.
Timmy finished with a flourish and emitted the breath he had been holding in his concentration. "Bravo!" Caldwell said, patting his palms appreciatively. "New York next season? Or will we have to wait a little longer?"
"I know all the scales too. Pick one-any one you like."
"How do I do that?" Caldwell was about as musical as a tin wash tub.
"Just pick a key then."
"Umm, okay… That one." Caldwell pointed at a black one.
"That's A flat. Now say major or minor."
"Oh, with me, I guess it has to be the major."
Timmy proceeded to run up the octave and back down. It sounded right, anyway.
Robin came in through the patio door. Clinking sounds from outside told of Sharon picking up dishes and glasses. "What's this? Showing off to grandpa, is he?"
"Sounds pretty good to me," Caldwell said. "I still think a crotchet's some kind of knitting."
"Are we having dinner in or going out? Have we decided yet?"