"Busy place, ain't it?" Drummond commented as he swerved into a faster traffic cable.
"Glad you're driving instead of me," Moulding answered with a grin.
Presently, he recognized the templelike Royal Cultural Center, built for feebleminded Emperor Renzo the Magnificent in the 48000's. It now served as home of the State Enrichment Directorship, whatever that was. Small by other galactic standards, the overblown-rococo structure made up for in glitter what it lacked in size. Beside it stood a building Brim recognized from his Arnholtt Guidebook as Schlegel University: a restored palace originally built for Prince Gonlow'e, Renzo's half brother. Walkways and small parks around the building were filled with students, as purposeful and uniformly clothed as if they were marching in a parade. The Carescrian shuddered. What kind of peace could the future bring if whole generations were being raised as warriors? His answer seemed all too clear. Farther along the great avenue, he recognized five clustered, interlocking domes of gleaming gold, surmounted by a great KA'PPA antenna. It was there Neuffman Van Zeicht had perfected the Raddiman-Gebritz generators that once powered nearly a thousand years of starships. After five millennia, the complex structures showed no sign of age and were still in constant, active use. "Factory zone, Toby," he joked.
"Right ho," Moulding commented wryly. "Couldn't miss the local Gorn-Hoff branch office."
Brim laughed. Nearly everyone knew for a fact that Valentin's speedy Gorn-Hoff TA 153-V32 had been modified for racing in those very labs. And the League's powerful new racer for this year's contest, the Gantheisser GA 209V-1, had also been developed there—although the Leaguers were attempting to convince the galaxy that the unique starship was little more than a "normal" Gantheisser production machine.
Not far past the laboratory domes was a huge and totally new statue honoring Leaguers who had fallen in the "War of Heroes," as the just-ended conflict was known throughout the League. The massive statue of a Controller was erected on a plot of land that once boasted a royal palace which in its day dominated the whole center of the city. A few blocks beyond on the left, an immense brick-shaped structure with black glass sides disrupted the whole skyline. The League Chancellery. Everyone on both sides of the war knew its grim, unrelieved lines. It contained the Congress of the League, a number of reception halls for state occasions, and an auditorium that seated five thousand people. In addition, the guidebook made reference to "several highly rated gastronomic establishments." Brim snorted to himself. The Chancellery might rate highly in a Leaguer gastronomic guide, but it was doubtful to even his untrained eye that it would ever win a prize for architectural merit. It stood, pompous and contemporary, in contradiction to the other neoclassical (albeit haughty) buildings that populated the avenue. He settled back and considered that his first views of the great stone and metal city had done nothing to soften his feelings about these once-mortal enemies. He nevertheless resolved to keep an open mind as long as he could.
At last, Drummond slowed for a great intersection, eased into a curb cable, and swung their big skimmer onto a tree-lined avenue of the diplomatic quarter. "Next stop, th' Imperial Embassy," he announced.
Here were block after block of embassies from every domain wealthy enough to maintain intragalactic trade. Some of the largest were those of the League's wartime partners: pompous mansions built in the prevailing Leaguer style with colonnades and balconies from which visiting dignitaries could greet Leaguer crowds. One of the newest and most garish was decorated with the Torond's coat of arms. Frowning, Brim wondered if Margot might be in the city for the races. The mere thought of such a possibility was enough to start his heart pounding, and he shook his head in negation. He took a deep breath and forced the thought from his mind. Business first.
Moments later, they braked onto a wide driveway that skirted a triad of shimmering flame fountains, then stopped beneath a tasteful metal portico at the entrance to the Imperial Embassy. "Won't keep you gentlemen 'ere more 'an a couple of metacycles at the most," he explained. "But we've found it's good to understand a little about 'ow the Leaguers operate on their 'ome turf. Those bully boys paradin' all over can get a little rough if you don't know about their rules."
Brim nodded as painful memories flashed past his mind's eye. "I've noticed," he growled under his breath.
Then he frowned. The embassy faced a small park across the avenue that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of containing a large and uncanny likeness of Nergol Triannic, the League's exiled emperor. But no nameplate had been affixed to the heroic statue's base.
"What d'you think of the statue?" Drummond asked while he hoisted their traveling cases from the luggage compartment and activated their ground repulsion units. "It 'asn't got an official name, but everybody around 'ere calls it 'Cousin Nergol.'" He laughed. " Almost ugly enough, ain't it?"
"It'll do by half," Moulding declared, staring at the menacing shape as if it were some sort of monstrous viper poised for an attack.
Brim kept his silence. In spite of the CIGA's vehement protestations to the contrary, no governing body with peaceful intentions could have purposely erected anything like that across the street from an old adversary. Chilling waves of apprehension passed over him. As he suspected, the war— his war—had merely evolved into another stage. And before it was over, this one promised to be a great deal more sinister and dangerous than the period of open conflict that had preceded it.
Taking momentary leave of Drummond, the two Helmsmen stepped inside the embassy's elegant, marble foyer, then followed signs to a small auditorium where they joined three other civilians for a short, informal briefing in which Imperials were urged to conduct themselves, at least publicly, in the most conservative manner possible. No surprises expected, nor received. The briefer, a middle-aged Public Relations Analyst with a bald head, a large paunch, and the air of one who was quite accustomed to teaching, described "normal" Leaguers as talkative, full of abrasive good humor, and even reasonably friendly, despite their penchant for uniforms. Except for some peculiar beliefs, they posed no particular threat to anyone going about his normal, daily routines. It was the Controllers one had to watch at all times. And they were everywhere, enforcing every law to the very letter, with no room for interpretation.
It seemed that the Time Weed they smoked destroyed their reasoning process and made them bullies.
They were the ones to watch. But Brim already knew that. Far too well.
Afterward, Drummond stopped them on their way from the auditorium. "Before we continue on to your room, Mr. Brim," he said quietly, "they tell me there's somebody 'ere who would like to spend a few moments talking wiv you."
Brim raised an eyebrow. "I don't know anybody in Tarrott," he protested, "at least anybody who might want to talk to me."
Drummond shrugged. " 'Is 'Ighness Prince Onrad's the one who sent me," he said in a confiding tone.
"An' it probably won't take too much time. You know 'ow these diplomatic things go." He smiled. "I'll show Lieutenant Moulding an excellent bar we 'ave for special guests. Prince Onrad's waitin' for 'im there right now."
Brim shook his head in mock defeat. "Anything for the Prince," he said. "He's about the embassy, I take it then."
" 'E is," Drummond said. " 'E said to tell you that 'e'd probably see you in the evenin'—when you 'ad more time to spend with 'im."