Thus far the theory. Three or four generations showed that practice was something else again. The human species appeared to have lost its outward urge. Few individuals would leave a familiar, not too uncomfortable environment to start over in a place remote from government-guaranteed security and up-to-date entertainment. Those who did usually preferred city to rural life. Nor did many arrive from the older colonies nearby, like Aeneas. Such people had struck their own roots.
Catawrayannis did become a substantial town: two million, if you counted in the floating population. It became the seat of the civil authority. It became a brisk mart, though much of the enterprise was carried on by nonhumans, and a pleasure resort, and a regional listening post. But that was the end of the process. The hinterland, latifundia, mines, factories, soon gave way to forests, mountains, trafficless oceans, empty plains, a wilderness where lights gleamed rare and lonely after dark.
Of course, this has the advantage of not turning the planet as a whole into still another cesspool, Flandry thought. After reporting, he had donned mufti and spent a few days incognito. Besides sounding out various bourgeoisie and servants, he had passed through a particularly ripe Lowtown.
And now I feel so respectable I creak, his mind went on. Contrast? No, not when I’m about to meet Aaron Snelund. His pulse quickened. He must make an effort to keep his face and bearing expressionless. That skill he owed less to official training than to hundreds of poker games.
As a ramp lifted him toward an impressive portico, he glanced back. The gubernatorial palace crowned a high ill. It was a big pastel-tinted structure in the dome-and-colonnade style of the last century. Beneath its gardens, utilitarian office buildings for civil servants made terraces to the flatland. Homes of the wealthy ringed the hill. Beyond these, more modest residences blended gradually into cropground on the west side, city on the east. Commercial towers, none very tall, clustered near the Luana River, past which lay the slums. A haze blurred vision today and the breeze blew cool, tasting of spring. Vehicles moved insectlike through streets and sky. Their sound came as a whisper, almost hidden in the sough of trees. It was hard to grasp that Catawrayannis brawled with preparation for war, shrilled with hysteria, tensed with fear—
— until a slow thundering went from horizon to horizon, and a spatial warcraft crossed heaven on an unknown errand.
Two marines flanked the main entrance. “Please state your name and business, sir,” one demanded. He didn’t aim his slug-thrower, but his knuckles stood white on butt and barrel.
“Commander Dominic Flandry, captain, HMS Asieneuve, here for an appointment with His Excellency.”
“A moment, please.” The other marine checked. He didn’t merely call the secretarial office, he turned a scanner on the newcomer. “All right.”
“If you’ll leave your sidearm with me, sir,” the first man said. “And, uh, submit to a brief search.”
“Hey?” Flandry blinked.
“Governor’s orders, sir. Nobody who doesn’t have a special pass with full physical ID goes through armed or unchecked.” The marine, who was pathetically young, wet his lips. “You understand, sir. When Navy units commit treason, we … who dare we trust?”
Flandry looked into the demoralized countenance, surrendered his blaster, and allowed hands to feel across his whites.
A servant appeared, bowed, and escorted him down a corridor and up a gravshaft. The décor was luxurious, its bad taste more a question of subtly too much opulence than of garish colors or ugly proportions. The same applied to the chamber where Flandry was admitted. A live-fur carpet reached gold and black underfoot; iridescences swept over the walls; dynasculps moved in every corner; incense and low music tinged the air; instead of an exterior view, an animation of an Imperial court masquerade occupied one entire side; behind the governor’s chair of state hung a thrice lifesize, thrice flattering portrait of Emperor Josip, fulsomely inscribed.
Four mercenaries were on guard, not human but giant shaggy Gorzunians. They stirred scarcely more than their helmets, breastplates, or weapons.
Flandry saluted and stood at attention.
Snelund did not look diabolical. He had bought himself an almost girlish beauty: flame-red wavy hair, creamy skin, slightly slanted violet eyes, retroussé nose, bee-stung lips. Though not tall, and now growing paunchy, he retained some of his dancer’s gracefulness. His richly patterned tunic, flare-cut trousers, petal-shaped shoes, and gold necklace made Flandry envious.
Rings sparkled as he turned a knob on a memoscreen built into the chair arm. “Ah, yes. Good day, Commander.” His voice was pleasant. “I can give you fifteen minutes.” He smiled. “My apologies for such curtness, and for your having to wait this long to see me. You can guess how hectic things are. If Admiral Pickens had not informed me you come directly from Intelligence HQ, I’m afraid you’d never have gotten past my office staff.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I think they’re overzealous about protecting me. One does appreciate their fending off as many bores and triviators as possible — though you’d be surprised, Commander, how many I cannot escape seeing — but occasionally, no doubt, undue delay is caused a person with a valid problem.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. Not to waste your time—”
“Do sit down. It’s good to meet someone straight from the Mother of us all. We don’t even get frequent mail out here, you know. How fares old Terra?”
“Well, Your Excellency, I was only there a few days, and quite busy most of them.” Flandry seated himself and leaned forward. “About my assignment.”
“Of course, of course,” Snelund said. “But grant me a moment first.” His geniality was replaced by an appearance of concern. His tone sharpened. “Have you fresh news of the Merseian situation? We’re as worried about that as anyone in the Empire, despite our own current difficulties. Perhaps more worried than most. Transfer of units to that border has gravely weakened this. Let war break out with Merseia, and we could be depleted still further — an invitation to the barbarians. That’s why McCormac’s rebellion must be suppressed immediately, no matter the cost.”
Flandry realized: I’m being stalled. “I know nothing that isn’t public, sir,” he said at a leisured rate. “I’m sure Ifri HQ gets regular couriers from the Betelgeusean marches. The information gap is in the other direction, if I may use a metaphor which implies that gaps aren’t isotropic.”
Snelund laughed. “Well spoken, Commander. One grows starved for a little wit. Frontiers are traditionally energetic but unimaginative.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Flandry said. “I’d better state my business, though. Will the governor bear with me if I sound long-winded? Necessary background … especially since my assignment is indefinite, really just to prepare a report on whatever I can learn … ” Snelund lounged back. “Proceed.” “As a stranger to these parts,” Flandry said pompously, “I had to begin with studying references and questioning a broad spectrum of people. My application for an interview with you, sir, would have been cancelled had it turned out to be needless. For I do see how busy you are in this crisis. As matters developed, however, I found I’d have to make a request of you. A simple thing, fortunately. You need only issue an order.”