Security Major Avrenti paced through the prison corridors. He growled at the prisoners, ignoring greetings and the obligatory shouts as the Imperials ordered themselves to attention as he entered each chamber.
He imagined himself a psychic octopus, each strand of his being wisping out, trying to get the feel of his charges.
Were they hostile—indications of a potential riot? Were they smug, hiding a secret joke—indications of an escape in the planning? Were they sullen—hope abandoned? Avrenti continued his tour.
Kilgour watched the Tahn stroll down a corridor and stepped back out of sight.
"What's he doing?" one of his cohorts whispered.
"Ah dinnae ken," Alex replied. "Hae y' aye rec'lect tha' any ae th' Tahn be psychic?"
"Clottin' hope not."
"We'll dinnae take th' chance," Alex decided.
Avrenti finished his inspection and exited the prisoners' quarters into their courtyard. He paused a moment, waiting for some kind of impression. Then he saw, in the courtyard's center, a medium-sized—each way—Imperial painting the courtyard. His paint had been made from wallplaster soaked in water. His brush was a knotted rag. He was painting what appeared to be a star.
Avrenti walked up to him.
The Imperial—Avrenti searched his mental fiche and remembered him as one Kalguard or Kilgour, a minor, unimportant being—seemed oblivious to the Tahn.
"What are you doing?"
The Imperial bolted to attention, whitewash splattering.
Avrenti frowned—some of the droplets had landed on his tunic.
"Ah 'polgize," Kilgour stammered. "Ah dinnae ken y' creep."
Avrenti barely understood what the Imperial was saying but took it as an apology. "What are you doing?"
"Keepin't th' Campbells off."
"The Campbells?"
"Aye."
"What, may I ask, are they? Or it?"
"Thae'll weird, dread six-leggit beasties whae live on treacheries an' soup."
"Nonsense," Avrenti snorted. "I've never seen anything like that."
"Aye," Kilgour agreed. "M' star's ae worker, ain' it?"
Avrenti looked closely at the Imperial. There was not a trace of a smile on the prisoner's face. "Yes. Carry on."
"Aye, sir."
Kilgour went back to painting his star, and Avrenti went out through the three gates, his mind intent on whether he should alert Commandant Derzhin to the possibility that some of the Imperials might need psychiatric care.
Alex finished his paint job, walked three times around it, then started back for his quarters. Very well, he thought. Tha' Avrenti's noo psychic. He's just most intent. He'll hae two watchers on him when'ever he com't through th' gates frae noo on.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tanz Sullamora was at his repose. He sat confidently in the anteroom to the Emperor's suite, waiting patiently and confidently to be summoned. Back straight, legs crossed, brow furrowed in thought, he was the definite portrait of a great industrial baron. A man to be reckoned with. A man who had the ear of the mighty.
The Eternal Emperor strode into the room and, without even glancing at Sullamora, walked over to the small service bar and pulled out a bottle and two glasses.
"Tanz, old friend," the Emperor said. "You need a drink."
Sullamora was startled. He felt his careful pose starting to collapse about him. He had sworn to himself that he would set the tone of the meeting. Sullamora had definite ideas about what constituted Imperial behavior. Unfortunately, the Emperor did not go along with him.
"Uh... no. I mean, no, thank you. It's a little early."
"Trust me, Tanz. When I say you need a drink, I mean it."
Numbly, Sullamora took the glass. "Is there some, ah, difficulty?"
" 'Difficulty' isn't the word I had in mind. 'Disaster' would be better. Ship production has gone all to hell."
Sullamora sat up even straighten That was a serious charge. He had been put in charge of all shipbuilding in the Empire for the duration of the war.
"But that isn't so," he sputtered. "I mean—uh, the latest figures, Your Majesty, uh..."
"Bull. I say ship production is dangerously off. And it's no wonder. All that labor unrest at the six plants in the Cairenes. Slowdowns. Wildcat strikes. I tell you they're endangering the progress of the war, and it has to stop!"
That really startled Sullamora. The factories of the Cairenes were his most efficient. He started to protest, but the Emperor waved him to silence.
"I'm not blaming you, Tanz. My lord, no one could expect one man—even a man as efficient as you—to keep abreast of all the developments. And I plan to say so at the livie news conference tomorrow."
"News conference? What news conference? I wasn't informed—that is to say..." Sullamora stumbled into muteness.
He choked down his drink, all his confidence gone. Maybe the Emperor was right. But how could he have missed something like that? The Cairenes. Labor unrest. Wildcat strikes. Slowdowns. Profits in peril. It was a capitalist's greatest nightmare.
Watching him closely, the Emperor refilled the man's glass. He let Sullamora torture himself just a little longer. There was absolutely nothing the Eternal Emperor did not know about the military-industrial establishment and how to keep it under his very heavy thumb. "You gotta keep them off balance," he had once told Mahoney. 'To them, cost overrun is just another word for paradise."
Finally he took pity on the man—but just a little bit. He started laughing. Sullamora looked up at him, totally bewildered and unmanned.
"Don't you get it, Tanz? This is just one of my little ploys."
"You mean it's a joke?" Sullamora sputtered.
"No joke. I've never been more serious. Look. I lay this out at the news conference. Announce that I've called for an investigation by the Imperial Labor Commission."
"What labor commission?"
"Clot, you're thick sometimes. There's no such animal. I'm just saying there is. Like the labor unrest and declining shipbuilding figure stuff. By the time the Tahn figure out that I'm lying through my teeth, you should be able to crank out minimum twelve more ships that they won't be aware of."
Sullamora lifted his eyebrows. "Ah, now I understand." It had something to do with the rumored buildup, he realized. Where, no one was sure. Although, now that he thought of it, maybe the rumors were also part of the Emperor's unroyallike and very slippery planning.
"There's something coming, isn't there, sir?" he asked. "Something big. Is it anything you can tell me about?"
"No offense, Tanz, but that's a negative. I've got to play these cards really close to my chest. If the Tahn get even a hint, we're in a world of drakh."
That was something Sullamora finally could understand. He was an old hand at playing shadow games with business rivals, although rarely did those games result in more than a little bloodshed.
"This much I can tell you," the Emperor continued. "If this works out, the war will be over in four years. Five tops. If I can smack them, and smack them good, they may never really recover.
"Oh, they can keep fighting for a while. But it'll be all over but final surrender. On my terms."
Even Sullamora's frigid soul had to shudder at that thought. He would hate to be on the receiving end of a contract dictated by the Emperor.
"Of course, I do expect a few immediate benefits. Such as the signal that will be sent to any of my wavering allies and the fence sitters."
After a moment he added in a near whisper, "I think it's the fence sitters that irritate me the most."