Each man must for himself alone decide what is right and what is wrong, which course is patriotic and which isn't. You cannot shirk this and be a man.
—Mark Twain
The informal luncheon room of the Drakenberg Club was paneled in walnut, then decorated with a theme Renner didn't recognize: pictures of men in strange uniforms, carrying odd implements that included oversize gloves for one hand, and a small white ball.
The club steward ushered him to a table. Glenda Ruth Blaine was already there. The steward bowed formally. "My Lady, your guest."
"Thank you, William," she said. "William, this is my brother's godfather, Sir Kevin Renner."
"Ah. Pleased to meet you, Sir Kevin. Shall I send the waiter, my Lady?"
"Please." Glenda Ruth waited until the steward was gone, then flashed a hefty grin. "Made his day, we did. William does love rubbing elbows with the aristocracy."
Kevin Renner sat. He couldn't help thinking what a remarkably pretty girl Glenda Ruth was. Not beautiful in the fashion-magazine sense. Something else, something about her infectious smile. Of course she was only seventeen standard years old, but she seemed older. Influence of the Moties? Her mother hadn't been a lot older, no more than twenty-five, when she'd gone to the Mote world. Renner tried to remember what Sally Fowler had been like.
He indicated the half dozen forks at his place. "Bit fancy for lunch?"
Glenda Ruth winked at him. "Stuffy place, but it was the only one I could think of where you can't possibly grab the check."
"Is that important?"
Her smiled faded slightly. "It might be. Daddy doesn't want us accepting favors from Horace Bury. We're guessing you have an expense account."
"I do, but this isn't business. Or is it?"
She shrugged. "It might be. I took Admiral Cziller's call. After he talked to Daddy, I called him back."
"Yeah, I suppose you would know him."
"You could say that." She chuckled. "I called him Uncle Bruno until I was ten— Here's the waiter. Champagne cocktail for me. Kevin?"
"Bit early for drinking. Coffee, please."
"Yes, sir."
Glenda Ruth was grinning at him again. "You don't need to be so adult."
"Eh?"
"They know how old I am. My champagne cocktail won't have alcohol in it. Of course some kids just slip in vodka from a flask."
"Will you?"
"I don't even own a flask."
"Motie influence?"
"No, none of them ever mentioned it."
Hmm? But she didn't drink. But— "Yeah. They wouldn't see the point. They eat, drink, breathe industrial poison. If you aren't tough enough, you die. Why go looking for more?"
She nodded. "That sounds right."
Kevin looked around the room. Typical aristocratic luncheon place. Expensive women and very busy men. He didn't really notice them. He looked away from the table so he wouldn't look as if he were staring at the girl he was with, and the truth was that he very much wanted to stare at her. She was far and away the most attractive woman in the room. Probably the most expensive, too, Kevin thought. Her clothes were simple enough, a dark wool afternoon dress that fit perfectly, emphasizing her femininity without being overtly sexy. The skirt was just knee length, slightly conservative by current fashions, but that tended to emphasize the calves and ankles. Her jewelry was simple, but included a matched pair of earrings of Xanadu firestones worth enough to buy a house on Renner's home planet.
"Quite a long way from Maxroy's Purchase," Renner said.
"Or from New Caledonia."
"True. How long were you there?"
"I barely remember it," Glenda Ruth said. "Dad thought Kevin Christian and I ought to grow up on Sparta instead of in the provinces." She shrugged. "I suppose he was right, but—I worry about the Moties, now that Mother and Dad aren't on the Commission."
"They're not on the Commission, but they still have plenty of influence," Renner said. "As Bury and I found out."
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"So. What did you want to see me about?" Renner asked.
"Crazy Eddie."
"Uh?"
"You said back at the Institute that we don't understand Crazy Eddie. He's supposed to fail?"
"Yes, I guess I said that."
"I've only known three Moties," she said. "I think I understand Crazy Eddie, but I'm not sure. You knew a lot of Moties—"
"Not for long. Not very well."
"Well enough to understand Crazy Eddie."
"Not understand, exactly."
"You know what I mean. There were a dozen stories about Crazy Eddie. Most were recorded, and I have them. There was the story they told you, for instance." She took out her pocket computer and scribbled on it for a moment. An image rose out of the tablecloth.
Renner had taken this sequence straight from MacArthur's records as beamed to Lenin. A twisted shape in brown-and-white fur, a Motie Mediator, was speaking. "Renner, I must tell you of a creature of legend.
"We will call him Crazy Eddie, if you like. He is a . . . he is like me, sometimes, and he is a Brown, an idiot savant tinker, sometimes. Always he does the wrong things for excellent reasons. He does the same things over and over, and they always bring disaster, and he never learns."
The image jumped a bit. Renner had edited this for Summer Vacation. "When a city has grown so overlarge that it is in immediate danger of collapse . . . when food and clean water flow into the city at a rate just sufficient to feed every mouth, and every hand must work constantly to keep it that way . . . when all transportation is involved in moving vital supplies, and none is left over to move people out of the city should the need arise . . . then it is that Crazy Eddie leads the movers of garbage out on strike for better working conditions."
Glenda Ruth turned it off. Renner said, "I remember. My introduction to Crazy Eddie. Once we knew what to ask for, we got more. Jock Sinclair's Motie spoke of melting down your supply of screws to make a screwdriver. Father Hardy's Mediator talked about a religion that preached abstention from sex. We didn't know how bizarre that was, for Moties."
"Yes, but you know, we never did learn much more about it," Glenda Ruth said. "So why did you say that Crazy Eddie is supposed to fail? Don't the Moties admire Crazy Eddie? Jock certainly does."
"You'd know more than me. But yes, I think they all admire anyone mad enough to think all problems have solutions. Which doesn't mean that they expect the universe to cooperate."
"No, of course not. But I still wonder."
"The Cycles," Renner said. "It's all they have for history. Crazy Eddie thinks he can change all that. End the Cycles. Of course they admire him. They also know he's crazy, and it won't happen."
"But maybe we have the solution now. The parasite."
"Yeah, I've wondered about that," Renner said. The waiter brought coffee, and a tall champagne glass with something sparkling and pink for Glenda Ruth. Kevin ordered absently, his mind far from food.
"You knew two Mediators," Renner said. "Of course you didn't get to know Ivan."
"No. He was—more aloof. Masters are."
"And the Mediators speak for them," Renner said. "That's more obvious on the Mote than it would have been to you. But it's something you don't dare forget. Take your parasite. Jock can't make any deal that's binding on Masters back on the Mote."
"Yes—"
"There's also the question of how your parasite would get to the Mote. I doubt the Navy will let any ships go there."
"I talked to Uncle Bruno this morning," Glenda Ruth said.
"Eh?"
"The protostar. When it ignites, the Moties will come out. We have to do something before that happens. I'm sure Admiral Cziller is talking to all his classmates right now."
"Will something happen soon?"
"Of course not. Sparta isn't like that. It will have to be discussed in the Navy, then at the Palace, then the politicians will get in the act."
"Fortunately it may not collapse soon. Or does Jock know something?"
She shook her head. "He doesn't know, and he wouldn't have known. Ivan may have known things we weren't supposed to find out, but Jock and Charlie never did. And Ivan was no astronomer. He wouldn't be. Keepers aren't usually curious." The waiter brought lunch. Glenda Ruth talked all during lunch, drawing Renner out, until he realized he had told her nearly everything he'd ever thought about the Mote.
She's a damned good listener. Cares what you say. Of course she would — it's hard to tell what's an act and what isn't. Maybe none of it is.
She waited until dessert before she said, "Bruno said he wished he could go with you. To the Mote."
"We're not going to the Mote. Just to the Crazy Eddie Squadron — maybe not there, if your father doesn't lift his veto. You know he's blocking the trip. Can you talk to him?"
"I can talk. It won't help. They don't much listen to me. But I'll try — if I get Daddy to say yes, can I go with you?"
Renner managed to set the coffee cup down without spilling any.
Glenda Ruth looked defiantly at her mother. "Aaall right. You won't let Kevin and Horace Bury go. Fine. I won't go with them. I'll go with Freddy."
"Freddy!"
"Certainly. He has a ship."
"Pretty good one, too," Rod Blaine said. Sally's look silenced him before he could say anything else.
"You are not going halfway across the galaxy with that—"
Glenda Ruth cocked her head. "Freddy? You can hardly complain about his social standing. His family is as prominent as ours. About as rich, too. We went out beyond the moon for a week during Spring vacation. You didn't search wildly for an appropriate insult then."
"Did—" Sally caught herself. "It's a bit different, being in a small ship for months."
"If it's my reputation that worries you, we can take a chaperone. Or one of my friends from the Institute. Jennifer. And her mother."
"That's absurd. Jennifer can't afford that."
"I can, Mother. I'll be eighteen in two weeks, and I'll have my own money. Uncle Ben left me quite a lot, you know."
Rod and Sally exchanged looks.
"What does Freddy's father have to say about this?" Sally demanded.
"For that matter, have you asked Freddy?" Rod asked. "I know you haven't asked Bury."
"She doesn't think she has to ask anyone," Sally said.
Glenda Ruth laughed. "Freddy will be glad to take me anywhere, and you know it. And his father doesn't care what he does, if he won't join the Navy."
"Which he won't," Rod said.
"Because he knows he wouldn't be any good at it," Glenda Ruth said.
Sally shook her head. "I don't see what you see in Freddy Town-send—"
"You wouldn't, Mother. He's not a hero like you. Or Daddy. But I like him. He's funny. And Jock likes him."
"You must like him a lot if you're willing to be cooped up in that yacht of his for several months," Rod said. "And I don't think you would for a trip to Saint Ekaterina. Widget—"
"Please don't call me that."
"Sorry, Princess."
"Go ahead and wriggle, my Lord, but you'll have to think of me as an adult soon or sooner. Two weeks to practice, My Lord Blaine."
Blaine recovered fast, but for an instant he'd been jolted. Then, "Glenda Ruth, I know why Bury wants to go to New Caledonia. He wants to inspect the Blockade Fleet. But why you? Freddy's ship can't go to the blockade point! It's inside a star, and last time I looked there wasn't any Langston Field on that yacht."
"I want to see my brother. I don't have to visit the Blockade Fleet for that. He gets to New Gal twice a year."
Sally snorted. "Brother. What you want to do is go to the Mote."
"Chris would, too," Rod said. "But neither of you is going to do it."
"She's persuasive," Sally said. "And so is Chris. Together—"
"Separately or together our children aren't going to talk the Navy into that," Rod said. "Prin—Glenda Ruth, this is silly. You're upsetting your mother. You are not going to New Caledonia."
"I am, yes. I don't want to start a big fight, but really, how can you stop me? In two weeks I'll have my own money." She grinned. "Of course I could marry Freddy . . ."
Sally looked horrified, then laughed. "Serve you right if you did."
"Anyway, I don't have to."
"You've already been accepted at the University," Sally said.
"Yes, and I'll go, but not just now." Glenda Ruth shrugged. "Lots of kids take a wanderjahre before starting college. Why not me?"
"All right. Let's be serious," Rod said. "Why?"
Glenda Ruth said, "I'm worried about the Moties."
"Why should you be worried about the Moties?" Sally asked.
"Politics. Growing up in this house, I've seen a lot of politics go past my nose. When the Parliament starts debating the cost of the Blockade Fleet, anything can happen. Anything! Suppose they think it costs too much? They aren't going to just pull the fleet back to New Cal. You know they won't. They'll—" She caught herself.
"They'll what?" Sally asked.
Her voice was no more than a whisper. "They'll send for Kutuzov."
Sally frowned and looked to Rod.
He shrugged. "The Admiral retired long ago. He's pretty old. As old as Bury, I guess. Last I heard he was still active in Saint Ekaterina politics, but he doesn't come here."
"He's organized Mankind First," Glenda Ruth said.
Rod frowned. "I hadn't heard he was behind that group. How sure is this?"
"Freddy told me, but I had a chance to back it up. Sir Radford Bowles spoke for Mankind First at a University of Sparta symposium. Freddy took me. I got in an argument with him at the tea afterward. I watched him. He's picked up some of Admiral Kutuzov's mannerisms."
Rod shook his head, smiling. "I tore the first Motie probe apart, so the Humanity League wanted my hide. Now this Mankind First outfit wants to use Blaine Institute research to wipe out the Moties! I can't win."
"It's not you who can't win," Glenda Ruth said. "It's the Moties who'll lose. And there's no reason."
"There aren't any Moties," Rod said.
"Dad—"
"Not the way you say it. There are plenty of Moties, all right. A planet full of them. More in their Trojan Point clusters and the moons of the gas giant. But there's no single Motie civilization, Glenda Ruth. Never was, never will be. Every Master is independent."
"I know that."
"Sometimes I wonder if you do."
"Dad, I know more about Moties than you do! I've read everything, including your debriefings, and I grew up with Moties."
"Yes. You had the Motie Mediators as friends and companions. Sometimes I wonder if that was such a good idea," Rod said. "Your mother didn't like it much."
"I went along," Sally said. "Glenda Ruth, you think you know as much about Moties as we do. Maybe you're right. Maybe you aren't, though. You've only known three of them. Only two at all well. And you want to gamble with the lives of the whole human race—"
"Oh, Mother, stop that. How am I gambling with anything? I can't even get to Mote Prime. Dad knows that."
Rod nodded. "Pretty hard to do. The Blockade Fleet's there as much to keep the Imperial Traders out as to keep the Moties in. You sure won't get to the Mote in Freddy Townsend's yacht."
"Then I can go to New Caledonia?"
"I thought you weren't leaving us any choice."
"Dad, Mom, I'd rather have your blessing."
Rod Blaine asked, "Why?"
"If all else failed, I could come running to you for help. Something could go wrong. I'm not crazy enough to think it couldn't."
"Rod—Rod, is that ship safe?" Sally asked. Glenda Ruth grinned.
The limousine landed on the roof of the Blaine Institute. Three security guards politely helped Bury into his travel chair and escorted him to the elevators. There was no receptionist. As Bury entered the elevator, a guard took out badges and handed them to him and Renner.
So. Formally correct. Bury wished that Admiral Cziller had come to the meeting. Cziller understood. Bury wasn't sure why, but it was clear. And both Blaine and Renner respected him.
The elevator door opened. Two more uniformed guards ushered them down the hall to the Blaine office suite. There was no one else in the corridor.
The guards opened the doors without knocking.
Both Blaines were present. Bury felt relief. This is an impossible task, but it would be doubly so without her. Whatever 1 can say to him she can veto. Only Allah can persuade those who will not listen, and He doesn't do that.
Lady Blaine was pouring coffee. She had not spoken to Bury or Renner, and there was no shaking of hands.
The Blaines wore kimono-like garments in strong contrast to the formal tunics Bury and Renner were wearing. Bury had seen clothing similar to those kimonos in the streets of Sparta, and even in restaurants. They were acceptable for receiving guests, but they were neither friendly nor formal.
Bury had never seen Roderick Blaine in short sleeves. Smooth, hairless scar tissue ran from the knuckles up his left arm into the sleeve; and when Bury understood why, he knew he had lost.
He accepted coffee. It was excellent . . . it was Jamaica Blue Mountain. Bury held the cup before his face for an extra moment, to gather himself. "Very good. Sumatra, perhaps, mixed with local black?"
The Blue Mountain's entire coffee crop had been reserved for Sparta, the Palace and the nobles, for half a thousand years. Bury recognized it—but he wasn't supposed to.
The Earl said, "Kevin, I take it you're with him."
Renner nodded. "Yes, Captain. I came with him. I want to see the blockade fleet in action. I want to know if they're ready for something totally off the wall. Captain, we did some talking last night, and things came out. Have you spent any amount of time talking to Jacob Buckman, the astronomer?"
"No, of course not. Who would?"
"I would," Bury murmured.
"Forgive me, your Excellency."
Renner laughed. "Two green monkeys. What kind of company could either of them find aboard a working battleship?"
Bury glared. Renner continued, "None of us knew why Bury was aboard. I suppose Jack Cargill did, but all you said to us was that His Excellency was a guest, and he was not to leave the ship. I never quite knew—"
Blaine said, "All right. Did Buckman say anything worthy of note?"
"We thought so," Renner said. "Some old data on Buckman's Protostar surfaced from Lenin. Do you remember the curdle in the Coal Sack, twenty light-years in and a light-year across?"
Sally Blaine looked puzzled. Lord Blaine nodded without enthusiasm.
Get to the point, Bury wanted to shout, but he sat tight-lipped. He had agreed to let Renner begin the conversation.
"It's a protostar, an unborn star," Renner said. "Buckman's Motie said it'd ignite around a thousand years from now. Buckman confirmed that. Now there's a young guy who thinks he can prove that it'll happen much sooner, and he's using observations from MacArthur."
"So? It'll still be Buckman's Protostar."
"It'll be a T Tauri star, Captain. Very bright. The second question is when. The gripping hand is, is the blockade fleet ready to deal with several new Jump points?"
Blaine's lips moved silently. New Jump points— "God's teeth."
The coffee trembled in Sally Blaine's hand. "Kevin Christian—"
"Yeah," Blaine said. "All right, I owe Cziller an apology. How valid is this?"
Bury said, "My Lord, it was a very late night. I summoned up this Arnoff's work and went over it with Jacob at my shoulder. He pointed out equations and compared them to his own. I understood nothing, but I know this. They use the same observational data, but Jacob used additional data, older data, which he took from Motie astronomers."
"That could have been faked." Blaine sat at his desk. "Which would mean they were ready for us from the first moments they saw us. They saw how the protostar could be used. Before we did."
"They knew about the Alderson Drive," Renner said. "They call it the Crazy Eddie Drive. It makes ships vanish. But they already knew how to build it, and they won't have forgotten."
"Cycles," Sally Blaine said. "They play on them. Use them. We can ask Jock—"
"We will," Blaine said, "but we know what answer we'll get. Buckman was given doctored data."
Bury shrugged. "Moties lie to their Fyunch(click)s. Who should know that better than we?"
Sally nodded grimly. "They don't like it—" and she saw Bury's flicker of a smile.
Rod Blaine finished his coffee before he spoke again. "All right, Kevin. You've made your point. A good one. The government has to do something about this. I'll call the Palace as soon as we're done here. That still doesn't tell me why you. Why Bury. Why Sinbad."
"A piece at a time," Renner said. "Okay? First, you have to send Buckman. We need new observations, and someone to interpret them."
No interruption came. He said, "Second, New Cal system has to be ready. However the Moties get out—and this includes anything they might try, Captain, protostar or no protostar—they'll have to come through New Caledonia. That's where the crucial Jump point leads, as far as I can tell from a first cut.
"We met Mercer, the new Governor General. Had him aboard Sinbad last night. He's a politico, Captain. Sharp, but still a politico. Not a Navy man. He's got the sense to listen, but you still have to talk slow and repeat yourself and use simple words. He has to have things explained to him."
"So?"
"We'd have time to work on him if he rides with us to New Cal. Once we get there, there's a certain large-mouthed reporter named Mei-Ling Trujillo who's doing her best to cut the funding for the Crazy Eddie Fleet. The noise she's stirred up, Cunningham already wants to send her to the Fleet. She's got the clout, she might find something she likes, and at least it would shut her up for a while.
"Fourth, there's Bury. If you haven't seen the record, I can tell you. He's been one hell of an effective agent for the Empire. More than me. Now one of your best agents sees a threat to the Empire and wants to investigate. So do I."
"I see." Blaine looked at Bury. His expression was anything but friendly. "It seems we made a good decision about you, all those years ago."
"As it happens, my Lord."
"I still don't trust you."
"Do you trust me, Captain?" Renner demanded.
"Eh—"
"And while we're on the subject, trust who to do what?"
"Sure I trust you," Blaine said. "You think the whole Spartan nobility is working for you. Okay, I don't mind being supervised. Maybe it makes the Empire stronger. But—Excellency, I'm not sure you want the Empire stronger."
Bury said, "If twenty-eight years of service—" and ran out of words. If twenty-eight years of holding back the darkness wasn't sufficient, then . . . there was nothing to be said.
"You see?" Blaine was trying to be reasonable. "We don't have to send Buckman, Kevin, in case you've arranged things so he'll only go with Bury."
"No, Captain, it's just that way. He's—"
"We can send Arnoff. Or a host of others. Kevin, I have good reason not to trust Bury, and damned little reason why I should."
Renner's voice rose. "Captain, for twenty-eight damn years we've been out working for the Empire—"
"Kevin, you can't possibly convince me you haven't enjoyed it," Sally said.
"Well, all right, so I did." Renner sipped his coffee. "Captain, let's talk about your arm for a minute."
Blaine took a count of three. Then, "Why in blazes would you want to talk about my arm?"
"Well, you're wearing short sleeves, for one thing. And I now recall that when you came back aboard MacArthur at New Chicago, you were wearing a big padded cast. How'd you get those scars? Did it have anything to do with the revolt?"
Blaine said, "Why don't you stick to the subject, Renner?"
Bury was wishing the same thing with all his heart. It was hopeless. Bury hadn't tried to shut Renner up in a very long time.
Renner said, "Nobody wears short sleeves to meet someone he doesn't like. I think your scars may have something to do with your attitude here. Was it a burn-through? You don't get those anymore."
"Yeah. New Chicago. The Langston Field took a torpedo, got a hot spot, burned right through the hull. The flame fused my arm to the sleeve of my pressure suit."
"And now they're plating all the Navy ships with Motie superconductor."
"Ye-ess. You understand, it doesn't mean we don't get killed anymore. We don't get hurt. Burn-through in the Langston Field, the whole hull warms up. Till it gets too hot. Then it isn't a superconductor anymore, and everyone fries."
"And the sleeves?"
The Earl was rubbing the bridge of his nose. It hid his expression, a bit. "I . . . suppose I was being belligerent. I wasn't going to mention it myself, but I was damned if I'd let His Excellency forget. Petty of me. Kevin, I wouldn't let an old grudge get in the way of Imperial goals. I thought you knew. Bury was a prisoner on MacArthur. He was suspected of instigating the New Chicago revolt."
"And you were in one of the prison camps," Renner said to Sally Blaine.
"And a friend came with me, and she never went home," she said. Her eyes narrowed. "And he's guilty as hell. He pushed a whole world into revolt just to bloat his already bloated fortune!"
"Um," said Renner, "no."
"We had the proof," the Earl said. "We showed it to him. We used it to make him work for us— What?"
Lady Blaine had put her hand on her husband's scarred wrist. She said, "Kevin. What do you mean, no?"
"I've known him more than twenty-five years. Bury breaks rules for enough money, but there wasn't enough money. There couldn't have been. New Chicago isn't rich. Never was, was it?"
"Well, it was once . . . come to think of it—"
"Captain, we've stopped revolts. You know what causes revolts? Bury knows. Crop failure! It's an old tradition: when the crops fail, the people depose the king. Trust me, if New Chicago was ready for a revolt, then it probably wasn't worth robbing, not to the likes of Horace Bury."
Blaine said, "All right, Bury. Why? We never asked."
"I wouldn't have answered. Why should I testify against myself?"
Blaine shrugged.
"You will listen?" Bury demanded.
Blaine looked at him quickly. "Yes, Excellency."
Bury spared a glance for his diagnostics. He'd set them high; he didn't want to be too calm. Nothing had triggered. Good . . .
"Thirty-five years, my Lord. You would have been twelve when I entered New Chicago politics. Of course I was not acting for myself."
"For whom, then?" Sally demanded.
"For Levant, my Lady. And all the other Arabs that Levant represents."
"You were ALO?" Blaine asked.
"My Lord, I was the Deputy Chairman of the Arabic Liberation Organization."
"I see," Blaine said carefully.
"So my life was forfeit in any event," Bury said. "If you had found out." He shrugged. "ALO membership was covered under the amnesty, in case you're wondering."
"I'm sure," Blaine said. "But what in the devil was the ALO doing on New Chicago? It wasn't an Arab planet."
"No," Bury said. "But it had once been a source of ships. I take it you know little of New Chicago's history."
"Almost none," Blaine admitted. "I was only there to fight, and Lady Blaine has painful memories."
Bury nodded. "So, let me tell you a tale, my Lord. New Chicago was settled late, well after the formation of the First Empire. It was far away beyond the Coal Sack, an insignificant world, settled by North American transportees but administratively part of the Russian sphere of influence. That is significant because the Russians favored a planned economy and what they planned for New Chicago was that it would be a source of ships for the future expansion of the Empire."
"Figures," Renner said. "Edge of the frontier."
"What's your point?" Sally Blaine demanded.
"A source of ships," Bury continued carefully. "The people of the First Empire were largely transportees. Not trained astronauts. Spacesuit and habitat technology had not moved as fast as spacecraft technology using Alderson Drive and Langston Field. Metals on New Chicago are easily available. Foundries could be built. The settlers had decent gravity and reasonably Earthlike conditions. The regions of exposed ores are east of the good farming land, and there's a dependable east wind to carry away the industrial stenches. My Lord, nobody knows more than I do about New Chicago."
"Local asteroid belts."
"Yes, exactly. Spacesuits and habitats were improved. The sons of transportees were trained as astronauts. Of course the next generations began mining their own local asteroid belts. New Chicago had built their foundries and shipyards and taught their people the skills, but meanwhile all the settled solar systems were building their spacecraft in the asteroids. New Chicago was geared for a boom that would never come.
"Then the First Empire came apart. New Chicago did very well out of the Secession Wars."
"Oh," Lord Blaine said.
"Do you see it? New Chicago's boom period came during the first crisis. That was when my grandfather made his first contact with the place. He was one of the founders of the ALO."
"I still don't get it," Sally said. "What did the ALO want from New Chicago?"
"Ships."
"Why?"
"Everyone needs ships. Certainly Levant and the other Arab worlds did. Then, later, when the Second Empire was proclaimed, there was another reason. New Chicago was new to the Empire. Here was a source of ships that were never in any Imperial registry."
Lord Blaine looked puzzled.
"Untraceable?" Sally asked.
Bury nodded. "An Outie world geared to make spacecraft, desperate for custom."
Sally looked up at the ceiling. "Fyunch(click)."
"Ready."
"In what class was Levant admitted to the Empire?"
"First. Full self-governing, with interstellar capability."
"With New Chicago ships?" Blaine asked.
Bury shrugged. "Any planet when the life support fails."
"But that was long before the revolt," Blaine said.
"Certainly, my Lord. That was in my father's time. Now think back thirty-five years. Today you see the Empire as successful. I invite you to see it as we did then."
"Which was how?" Rod Blaine said. He saw that Sally was nodding to herself.
Lady Sally was trained in anthropology. Can that be useful? "My Lord. Your Second Empire was only beginning. It had proclaimed itself Christian, and if you do not recall the history of the Crusades, I assure you that we Arabs remember! You had already incorporated Dyan into the Empire, and promoted Jews to high positions in your military and navy. Why in the Name of Allah the Merciful should any of us have trusted you?"
"Calm down," Renner said.
Bury glanced at the glowing graphs. "I'm fine. So, my Lord, at last you know. Yes, I helped instigate the New Chicago revolt, and to you it must have been from the blackest of motives. That would have been an Outie world, with an economy based on building spacecraft and a thirst for customers. Unregistered ships, in case Levant should need them. In case the negotiations with the Empire failed, or in case the Empire collapsed under its own vaulting ambitions. Empire of Man, indeed! We might well have been forced once again to proclaim jihad with no armies and no navies and nothing but the courage of our young men for weapons."
"And now?" Blaine asked.
Bury shrugged. "The Empire has been successful. You do not like us. Socially we are second class, but legally we have the rights you promised. Our planets are self-governing, under people of our own religion. The threat is now from the Mote, not from Sparta. There is no more need for the Arab Liberation Organization, and for the past dozen years I have presided over its liquidation."
"You're the Chairman, Horace?" Renner demanded.
"Not in name."
"Sure. You're not the formal president of the Imperial Traders Association, either. Holy catfish."
"Kevin, we presided over the liquidation of Nassari's group. He would not give up his ambition. I caused—"
"You made me dig up data on him and turn him in to the Imperials. Sure. You couldn't hardly tell them, 'Nassari isn't taking my orders anymore,' now could you?"
"I did what I had to do, Kevin." Bury turned to Blaine. "You see? We had a way to get unknown spacecraft for ourselves. New Chicago no longer has a place for such schemes, but another world might, or an asteroid belt, or an Oort cloud near an old supernova. If men want spacecraft, or if Moties want spacecraft of human manufacture, then — then you must have Horace Bury, the spy."
Into an uncomfortable silence Earl Blaine asked, "Your Excellency, just what are your plans, specifically?"
"Plans or ambitions?" Bury demanded.
"Eh?"
"I don't know enough to have specific plans. But already I have found out more about the Motie threat than Mercer knew. Or you, my Lord. I have abilities, I have money, and among Allah and my doctors and this chair I have energy. I propose to employ them all in the Imperial service."
And he waited.
"I'll withdraw my objections," Blaine said, ignoring a small sound of protest from Lady Blaine. "That's all I'll do, but I expect it will get you to the blockade fleet. God knows what you expect to accomplish there. Don't waste any more time than you have to."
"Thank you, my Lord," Bury said.
Sally waited for the door to close. Then she demanded, "Why?"
"You heard it all."
"But Rod, what's changed? The revolt on New Chicago, the bloodbath, the prison camps, he caused it all! He raped a world and he killed Dorothy!"
"I might have done the same in the service of the Empire. I might have been in Lenin's crew when Kutuzov burned Istvan down to bedrock. Bury's not just an opportunistic bandit anymore. He was defending his homeland."
"Levant."
"Mmm? But it's his world. The key is loyalty. He was an enemy; now he's an ally. He's protecting the Empire to protect Levant. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. He sees the Empire as friends, the only hope against the Moties."
"He could be turned again."
"Hah! Yes. We set Renner to watch him, and Renner's been doing that for a quarter century. Maybe there's something that could turn Bury's loyalty. But not at the blockade. He won't accomplish anything there, barring a pep talk and some politics, but he won't do any damage. The blockade stands between Levant and the Moties."
"If Bury could see Moties as we do . . . Rod? How do you see Moties?"
Rod didn't answer.
"They destroyed your ship, and you'll never forget. I think you loved MacArthur more than you have ever loved me. But we've found the solution!"
"Have we? It works on Mediators. We don't know about Masters. We don't know if Masters would accept it even if it does work. They'd call it a Crazy Eddie answer."
"It will. It has to."
"Sally, we depended on the blockade. A few years from now we might not have a blockade . . . or a hundred years, maybe, or one. And you know how long it will take Sparta to decide to do something. Renner and Bury—"
She nodded slowly. "Action, not talk." She looked at the ceiling. "Fyunch(click)."
"Ready."
"General instructions, all department heads. List essential equipment and personnel for transfer of the Institute to New Caledonia."
"Acknowledged."