Brachis shook his head. “1 don’t know — and if I did, I’m not sure I’d tell you. Not unless you’ve decided you want to work for me, instead of him. Come on.” When they reached Mondrian he was already sitting quietly on the bench, staring thoughtfully around him at the surrounding group of Madworlders. Once King Bester had been picked out by Mondrian, the rest of them had given up their importuning. Now they stood a few yards away, watching the three visitors with frank curiosity. They were nudging each other, grinning, and whispering comments in the old Earth languages.
Flammarion sat down on the bench next to Mondrian. He stared suspiciously at the wooden seat, and at the flat surface beneath his feet. It was old, weathered brick, with half-inch spaces between the worn blocks. Tiny ants were hurrying out of the open cracks to explore the sides of the men’s boots. They showed most interest in Kubo Flammarion, drawn by the interesting smell of unwashed flesh. He shuffled his feet from side to side, keeping a wary eye on the energetic insects.
Luther Brachis remained standing, his attention on the crowd. “This is all quite futile, Esro,” he said after another half-minute. “Just look at them. Can you really see any one of those cretins being accepted into a Stellar Group pursuit team? I mean, would you even consider one for your own security staff? We’re wasting our time.”
Mondrian recognized the beginning of another skirmish. So far as the ambassadors were concerned it was all decided, with Luther Brachis reporting to Mondrian for everything that concerned the Anabasis. But the two men had not yet settled into their new relationship. Brachis was still responsible for Solar Security, and he had retained full control of that department. His power was undiminished.
The two men had been equals and rivals for years. There had been a mutual understanding that one day there would be a final piece of infighting, in which one or the other would gain overall authority. Both Brachis and Mondrian had accepted that. What Mondrian knew Brachis would not accept, any more than he would have accepted it himself, was victory by arbitrary fiat — victory unrelated to (or inversely related to) performance.
He listened quietly as Brachis continued: “Just look at them. Earthlings. No wonder Captain Flammarion is worried. Would you take responsibility for making something out of one of those idiots? I wouldn’t. They’re dirty, and ignorant, and inferior.”
“Why don’t you come out and say it, Luther? That you think my decision to bring us to Earth was crazy.”
“Those are your words, not mine.”
“But you think them. You underestimate the potentials of Earth. You forget that this was the stock of your own ancestors.”
“Sure it was — half a millennium ago. And half a billion years before that, it was fishes. I’m talking about now. This is the dregs. That’s what you have left when the top quarter of each generation is skimmed off for seven hundred years and goes into space. It’s a flawed gene pool here. Look back over the past century. You won’t find any worthwhile talent that came from Earth.”
“Have you attempted that exercise?”
“I don’t need to. Brachis nodded at the crowd, who were watching open-mouthed. “Look at them. They don’t even know they’re being insulted. We’re wasting our time. I think we ought to get out of here right now.”
He was needling hard — and finally he could see signs that it was working. Mondrian was staring away from him, over the heads of the crowd.
“You underestimate the potential of the people of Earth, Luther. And you overestimate what’s needed for the Pursuit Teams. Not to mention the training programs that I’ve developed for Perimeter work over the past decade. If I didn’t think I could find what we need here, do you think I’d have brought you?” Mondrian turned at last to face Luther Brachis. “You could pick one of those — any one of those.” He pointed to the crowd. “And I could train your choice to be a successful Pursuit Team candidate.”
“Would you wager on it?”
“Certainly. Name the stakes.”
“Nah.” Brachis snorted. “You’re stringing me along. You know you’re not risking anything, because not one of that lot would be eligible for training. They’re too old, or they’re bonded in some sort of contract, or they’d never pass the physical. See their hair and teeth. Show me somebody in the right age group, and healthy, and then tell me you’ll make the same wager.”
“Here we are, squire!” The argument was interrupted by the sudden return of King Bester. The thin man called out from the edge of the crowd and began to push his way rapidly towards them. He was followed by a tall woman, easily visible above the other people. As they arrived at the bench Bester gave a grinning nod and held out his hand.
Mondrian ignored him. He stood up. “Hello, Tatty.” He had switched again to Earth argot. “How’s the hustling?”
“Hello, Essy. It’s good. Or it was, until he interrupted me. I was working a deal up in Delmarva. I told the King to go to hell.’
“She sure did, squire. But I told her I wouldn’t hear no for an answer.”
Mondrian took the hint. Another packet of trade crystals went quietly into Bester’s open hand, then Mondrian patted the bench to indicate that Tatty should sit down next to him.
She remained standing, examining the other two Security men. After a few moments she nodded to them. “Hello, I don’t think that we’ve met,” she said in excellent standard Solar. “I’m Tatiana Sinai-Peres.”
She held out a hand to Luther Brachis. Tatty was tall, slim, and spectacular. She stood eye to eye with Brachis, who openly gawked at her. She stared right back at him. Her gaze was direct and bold, with bright brown eyes. But there were tired smudges of darkness underneath them, and the grey tone of Paradox addiction marred her complexion. The skin of her face and neck was clear and unblemished, but it was the skin of one who never saw sunlight. Her dark green dress was loose sleeved, revealing an array of tiny purple-black dots along her thin arms. In contrast to King Bester and the rest of the crowd Tatty was spotlessly clean, with neat attire, carefully groomed dark hair, and well-kept fingernails.
“I assume that it’s a first-time visit,” she went on to Brachis. “What can I do for you?”
Mondrian squinted at her in the strong light of the Sun-simulator. It’s not what you think.” He reached up to touch her bare arm. “Sit down, Princess, and let me tell you what’s going on.”
“I’ll sit down, Essy. But not here. There’s too much light — it would fry me. Let’s Link back north to my place, and I’ll introduce your friends to some genuine Earth food.” She smiled at the uncertain look on Kubo Flammarion’s face. “Don’t worry, Soldier. I’ll make sure it’s not too rich for Commoners.”
Rank Has Its Privileges. That had never been more true than during the first decades of space development. One odd and predictable — yet unexpected — consequence of automation and excess productive capacity had been the re-emergence of the class system. The old aristocracy, diminished (but never quite destroyed) during the days of world-wide poverty and experimental social programs, had returned; and there were some curious additions to their ranks.
It had been surprising, but inevitable. When all of Earth’s manufacturing moved to the computer-controlled assembly lines, employment needs went down as efficiency went up. Soon it was learned that in the fuzzy areas of “management” and “government,” most business and development decisions could also be routinely (and more effectively) handled by computer. At the same time, lack of results and impatience with academic studies had squeezed education to a few years of mandatory schooling.