"I suppose you've heard the speculations that the Kalif will ask for a fleet and army to invade the Confederation."
"Confederation?"
"The empire that Rashti's flotilla discovered. They call it a confederation."
"What are you getting at, Agros? Say it, for Kargh's sake!"
Agros's voice became even more bland. "My good Rothka," he said mildly, "your incivility has cost you support on various occasions. If you're really interested in advancing your programs, you'd be better off cultivating your fellow delegates than antagonizing them."
Rothka's jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked as if he might strike the smaller, older man, who ignored it.
"If in fact the Kalif asks us to fund an invasion," Agros went on, "and he gets it, there'll be new and higher taxes to pay. And no doubt other effects that neither of us will care for, like shortages of various kinds. I trust you'll be as steadfast and relentless in resisting any such proposal as you are in your personal dislike of the Kalif."
With that, Agros nodded cordially, then turned and walked away.
"Good evening, Your Reverence."
The man who spoke looked like no one else at the reception. Lord Roonoa Hamaalo was a mountain of a man, perhaps the tallest there, and massive-powerful-looking, even for a Maolaaro. His hands showed no hair, his shaven jaw was not blue with the usual suppressed beard, and his head was bald. His eyebrows weren't even bushy. The Maolaaru aristocracy had largely held aloof from intermarriage, maintaining not only their essentially unmixed gene pool, but much of their indigenous culture. They hadn't even adopted five-syllable names.
"Good evening, Lord Roonoa. Are you enjoying the reception?"
The Maolaaro grunted. "I'm enjoying the food and drink."
Yes, I've seen you at these affairs before, the Kalif thought. What you drink unaffected would have most men unconscious or puking out their guts. "But not the conversations?" he asked.
"The conversations are part of the job. That's why I'm talking to you."
The Kalif's grin was a brief flash of white. "Thank you, good Roonoa, for the compliment. What do you have in mind?"
"First and foremost an increase in what we're allowed to charge for our fish. Every world here has a worsening population problem-every world but us. Imperial populations have increased ten percent since we've had an increase in fish prices. That's a ten percent increase in demand, with no increase in price. And we are not a wealthy planet."
The Kalif shrugged. "Why not sell ten percent more fish then? Giving you ten percent more income at the present price."
"It wouldn't work that way. For most commercial species, our present catch approximates their sustained yields-their replacement capacities. If we catch more this decade, there'll be fewer and fewer to catch in decades to come."
"Umm. Logical. Your request makes sense, in the context of your own situation. Whether it would make sense to others in the context of their own problems…" He paused, inviting comment.
Again Roonoa grunted. "Their problems reflect their own short-sightedness and their lack of willingness to confront their true need. Thus their populations increase but their food production doesn't. Not substantially. Their domestic food prices have climbed steadily, and they discriminate against us. And each other."
He cocked a brown eye at the Kalif, then spoke with deliberate slowness. "There is one fish we could catch much more of, if we were allowed to export it. Loohio. That would alleviate both our problem and theirs. Yours."
The Kalif's expression stiffened. "Perhaps. On the other hand The Prophet said, 'Be fruitful.' "
"He did indeed. But-" The massive shoulders shrugged.
"But what?"
"The Prophet's wisdom was unusual, and his knowingness unique. But it seems now that he was not infallible."
The Maolaaro had prepared himself to receive the imperial anger, but the Kalif merely shook his head. "I think not, my friend. The fallibility was not The Prophet's. It has been ours, in refusing some of the knowledge he gave us. A failure I intend to correct."
He sighed, a sigh that might have been deliberate, for effect. "I will speak to the College about your request. About the prices allowed, not-the other. There is virtue in your argument-the virtue of fairness.
"But I do not perform miracles. Those belong to The Prophet, not to his successor."
Eighteen
Centrally the kalifal palace was a pentahedron, with attached, semi-disjunct cubes of different sizes, most with roof gardens. Just now the Kalif sat alone in his private roof garden, three stories above his apartment, with which it was connected by lift tube and stairs.
It was night. Ananporu was not a large city, as cities went in the empire; capitals never were. Its population was a little short of half a million, and large illuminated signs and lighting displays were not a part of the imperial culture. As a result, a considerable array of stars was visible.
Switching on a focused reading lamp, he'd turned his attention away from the view to the papers he held-including a report prepared for him several weeks earlier by Alb Tariil, on Tariil's objections to invading the Confederation. He'd studied it before, but hadn't discussed it yet in meeting; it hadn't been time. It still wasn't, but it felt like time to review it, to refresh his memory on what, exactly, Tariil had written, as distinct from what he himself had made of it.
The report was organized under two headings: (A) Arguments Against an Invasion; and (B) Arguments Against Proposing an Invasion to the Diet. Under (A), the exarch had written:
1. Such an invasion will be extremely expensive. The empire cannot afford it. I cannot think of a counter-argument.
2. Preparing such an invasion will cause severe currency inflation and material shortages. I cannot think of a counter-argument.
3. Preparing such an invasion will cause substantial shortages of skilled labor, and numerous peasants will end up being trained and put to non-peasant work. Then, when the preparations are completed, they will be required to return to peasant labor, which will probably result in civil disorders.
The Kalif skimmed over a lengthy write-up of the foreseen consequences of alternative three. Again Tariil had not given any counter-arguments. The Kalif did not doubt that the exarch would have written down any he'd recognized. Tariil had missed the obvious solution: shortages of skilled labor could be avoided by working skilled labor overtime as needed, and paying them premium wages for it. After decades of economic decline, the gentry would welcome it.
He read on.
4. The invasion might fail, with terrible costs in lives, money, and goods. There is no counterargument to this.
The Kalif grimaced. He had no real argument with that, beyond his feeling that defeat seemed unlikely, based on considerable, if admittedly incomplete information. He continued reading.
5. If you succeed in conquering the Confederation, you would then have to hold it or else give it up. To give it up after the great cost of conquering it would be unthinkable, while holding it would take a continuing and costly effort, at least until its people had embraced Karghanik. Counter-argument: Holding it would require extensive migration as well as many large garrisons. While this would require great shipbuilding costs, it would permit the transportation of those undesirables deemed suitable as colonists. (I suspect there would be large numbers of these.)