My uncle made a few smiling and cordial comments to a small scatter of LitVid journalists in the transfer area. There were fewer people and more arbeiters among them; the number of journalists attending our every move had dropped by two-thirds since our arrival. We were no longer either very interesting or very important.
A private charter cab took us from the transfer area through Richmond . As a courtesy, we were driven down a cobbled street between rows of houses dating back to the 1890s, past a war monument to a general named Stuart. Alice confirmed that J.E.B. Stuart had died in the Civil War.
As in Washington , the civic center was free of combs and skyscrapers. We might have returned to the late nineteenth century.
The Jefferson Hotel appeared old but well-maintained. Architectural nano busily replaced stone and concrete on the south side as we entered the main doors. The rain stopped and sun played gloriously through the windows of our suite as we hooked Alice into the ex nets and ate a quick lunch, served by an attentive human waiter.
I took an old-fashioned shower in the small antique bathroom, put on my suit, checked my medical kit for immunization updates — each city had new varieties of infectious learning to deal with — and joined Allen and Bithras in the hall outside the room.
An arbeiter sent by Wang and Mendoza guided us to a conference room in the basement. There, surrounded by window-less walls of molded plaster, seated at antique wood tables, we once again shook hands with the senators.
Wang graciously pulled out my chair. “Every time I come down here, I revert to being a southern gentleman,” he said.
“They wouldn’t have let you into the Confederacy,” Mendoza commented dryly.
“Nor you,” Wang said. Bithras showed no amusement, not even a polite smile.
“It’s getting harder and harder to even find a good accent in America now,” Mendoza said.
“Go down to the Old Capital,” Wang said, sitting at the opposite end of the thick dark wood table. “They have fine accents.”
“Language is as homogenized as beauty,” Mendoza said, with an air of disapproval. “That’s why we find Martian accents refreshing.”
I could not tell whether the condescension was deliberate or merely clumsy. I could hardly believe these two men did anything without calculation. If the smugness was deliberate, what were we being set up for?
“We apologize for the inconvenience,” Wang said. “Congress rarely cancels such important meetings. Never in my memory, in fact.”
“We are not impressed by firsts,” Bithras said, still cool.
“I’m sure you’ve guessed we’re not inviting you here in our capacity as representatives of die U.S. government. Not strictly speaking,” Mendoza said.
Bithras folded his hands on the table.
“What we have to say is neither polite, diplomatic, nor particularly subtle,” Mendoza continued, his own face hardening. “Such words should be reserved for private meetings, not meetings which eventually go into public record.”
“Are we constrained from discussing this meeting with our citizens?” Bithras asked.
“That’s up to you,” Mendoza said, leveling his gaze on Bithras. “You may decide not to. We are issuing what amounts to a threat.”
Bithras’s eyes grew large, seemed to protrude slightly, and his face turned a brownish-olive where his jaw jnuscles clenched tight. “I do not appreciate your attitude. You are speaking for GEWA?”
“Right,” Wang said. “But not strictly to you, Mr. Majumdar. You can’t be a viable representative of Mars’s interests, considering — ”
Bithras rose from his chair.
“Sit down, please,” Wang said, eyes cold, face angelically calm.
Bithras did not sit. Wang shrugged, then nodded to Mendoza . Mendoza removed a small pocket slate and motioned for me to hand him mine. I did, and he transferred documents.
“You’ll send these back to Mars as soon as possible. You’ll discuss them with your BM Council or any other responsible body that might exist at that time, and your appointed group will respond to the Seattle , Kyoto , Karachi , or Beijing offices of GEWA. We require a definitive answer within ninety days.”
“We won’t respond to pressure,” Bithras said, the effort at self-control obvious.
Mendoza and Wang were not impressed. I handed Bithras my slate. He quickly scrolled through the first documents. “What I can’t understand is how two Terrie politicians who pride themselves on civility and sophistication can act like petty thugs.”
Mendoza tilted his head to one side and drew up the corners of his mouth in a humored grimace. “The Solar System must be unified under a single authority within five years. The best and most balanced authority would be Earth’s. We must have agreement with the belts and Mars. GEWA, GSHA, and Eurocon are all agreed on this.”
“I have a solid proposal,” Bithras said, “if only it will be heard by the right people.”
“New arrangements must be made,” Mendoza said. “GEWA will negotiate with duly appointed and elected representatives of a united Mars. For several reasons, you are not acceptable.”
“I arrive to negotiate and testify before the Congress of the United States — I am treated badly there — ”
“You do not have the faith of the forces at odds with each other on Mars. Cailetet and other BMs have indicated through back-channels that they will not support your proposal.”
“Cailetet,” I said, glancing at Bithras. Bithras shook his head; he didn’t need my reminder.
“We can deal with them,” Bithras said. “Cailetet currently relies on Majumdar for financing of many of their Martian projects.”
Mendoza frowned with distaste at the implied threat. ‘That’s not all, and it’s probably not even the most important problem. In a few days, you’ll be defending yourself in a civil suit against a charge of improper sexual advances. The charges will be filed in the District of Columbia . I don’t think you’ll be effective as a negotiator once those charges are made public.”
Bithras’s expression froze. “I beg your pardon,” he said, voice flat.
“Please study the documents,” Mendoza said. “There are plans for unification acceptable to Earth, and suggestions for tactics to implement those plans. Your influence on Mars is not at issue… yet. There’s still much you can do there. Our time is up, Mr. Majumdar.”
Wang and Mendoza nodded to Allen and myself. We were too stunned to respond. When we were alone in the meeting room, Bithras lowered himself slowly, cautiously into his chair and stared at the wall.
Allen spoke first. “What is this?” he asked, facing Bithras across the table.
“I don’t know,” Bithras said. “A lie.”
“You must have a clue,” Allen pressed. “Obviously, it’s not just a sham.”
“There was an incident,” Bithras said, closing his eyes, cheeks drawing up, making deep crow’s feet in the corners of his face. “It was not serious. I approached a woman.”
I could not imagine anything Bithras could do that would bring a civil suit on the very open planet Earth.
“She is the daughter of a Memon family, very highly placed, a representative from GEWA in Pakistan . I felt a kinship. I felt very warmly toward her.”
“What happened?”
“I approached her. She turned me down.”
“That’s all?”
“Her family,” Bithras said. He coughed and shook his head. “She is Islam Fatima. Married. It may have been a special insult. I am not Muslim. That may be it.”
Allen turned to me. I didn’t know whether he was going to cry or burst into sudden laughter. He took a deep breath, bit his lower lip, and turned away.
A flush of extraordinary anger rose from my neck to my face. I stood, fists hanging at my sides.
I lay on the bed in my room, sleepless. Through the door I heard Allen and Bithras shouting. Allen demanded details, Bithras said they were of no importance. Allen insisted they bloody well were important. Bithras began to weep. The shouting subsided and I heard only a low murmur that seemed to go on for hours.