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"Well, Kensing? What do you say?"
The conference table was, of course, not a single real solid
table at all, but a construct of artificial reality put together on
holostage by computers and communications systems for the convenience
of the local authorities, who were thus enabled to remain comfortably at
home or in their offices while sharing in the illusion of mutual
confrontation in a single room. At one point along the rim of this
composite board sat the youngest in attendance, a man named Sandro
Kensing. Kensing had so far remained silent. For one thing, he was
distracted by grief. For another, he was not a local authority at all, but
only the nephew of one of last year's councilmen-and the fiance of
Dr. Anyuta
Zador, who was now among the missing. But the real reason this young man had
been invited to the council was the fact that for two years he had been a
close personal friend of the only son of
Premier Dirac, and had even been a guest in one of the Premier's homes and
aboard his yacht. Therefore, or so the local authorities thought, he might
be expected to know something of that potentate's psychology.
"Well, Kensing?"
Sandro Kensing raised shaggy sandy eyebrows and looked back. His
heavy shoulders were hunched over the table, thick-fingered hands
clasped before him. His face was impassive, except for reddened eyes. "Sorry?"
He hadn't heard the question.
"I was asking," the speaker repeated considerately, "what you thought Premier
Dirac's reaction to this terrible news might be."
"Ah. Yes." None of the local leadership, even going back to include his
now-retired uncle, much impressed Kensing. "Well, the old man won't be
happy. But you don't need me to tell you that."
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table.
Respecting the upstart's grief at the loss of his fiance, no one
spoke sternly to him or even glowered at him for his near-insolent manner. All
the authorities realized that they had bigger things to worry about.
"We all have a lot of work to do," the chairman said presently.
"But before we adjourn this session, we had better settle the matter
of the delegation."
"Delegation?" someone asked.
"I should perhaps say deputation. A deputation to welcome the
Premier when he arrives." Looking around, he decided that
clarification was in order. "If none of us go up to meet him when he shows up
in orbit, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he summons us all to attend him on
his ship to report to him in person."
The atmosphere around the table had suddenly grown even more unhappy
than before.
"I move," said another speaker, "that we appoint a single delegate.
A representative to deliver our preliminary report.
Since, for the foreseeable future, we are all going to have our
hands full with our own jobs."
All around the holotable, heads were swiveling, looking in the same direction.
Their delegate had been chosen, unanimously and without debate. Kensing,
paying more attention to the meeting now and only mildly surprised,
managed a faintly cynical smile at the many faces turned his way.
FOUR
Several hours before he was really expected, the Premier entered the
Imatran system at an impressive velocity aboard his large armed yacht, the
Eidolon
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
. This formidable fighting vessel-some expert observers said it looked
more like a light cruiser-was escorted by two smaller craft, both armed but
rather nondescript. The three ships were evidently all that Premier Dirac had
been able to muster on short notice.
Instead of landing on the almost unscarred surface of the planetoid
Imatra, as he doubtless would have done in time of peace and as some
people still expected him to do now, Dirac hung his little squadron
in a low orbit. From that position of
readiness he immediately summoned-in terms conveying authority rather
than politeness-the local authorities aboard.
He also called for the full mobilization of local technical resources
to help get his squadron into total combat readiness.
Some of the equipment on his ships would require various forms of refitting,
rearming, or recharging before he was ready to risk a fight.
Under the circumstances, it was easy to understand the absence of any formal
ceremony of welcome. In fact the only individual who obeyed the Premier's
summons, boarding a shuttle to ride up and welcome him and his entourage,
was the chosen spokesperson Sandro Kensing. The young man, vaguely uneasy
though not really frightened about the kind of reception he could expect,
stepped from the docked shuttle into the main airlock of the yacht carrying in
his pocket a holostage recording created by the local council. The
recording was an earnest compilation of convincing reasons why the
members' currently overwhelming press of duties rendered their personal
attendance utterly impossible. It empowered Kensing to represent
them-all of them-in this meeting with the Premier.
Obviously the whole lot of them were really frightened of the old man, a
few on an actual physical level. Perhaps, thought
Kensing, some of them had good reason to be. He himself wasn't personally
afraid. Even had his feelings not still been dominated by grief, he would not
have been terrified of Mike's father, whom he had met half a dozen times when
he and Mike were attending school together, and in whose house he had
been a guest.
Actually the relationship had led to a job related to the
colonization project, and thus to Kensing's meeting Annie.
Just inside the
Eidolon's armored airlock, Kensing was met by a powerfully built, graying man
of indeterminate age, dressed in coveralls that offered no indication of
the wearer's status or function. Kensing recognized one of the Premier's
chief security
people, a familiar presence in the Sardou mansion Kensing had visited, and
on its grounds.
"Hello, Brabant."
The bodyguard, as usual informally polite to friends of his employer,
identified the young visitor on sight, though several years had passed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]