The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [210]
The Palace loomed up ahead of them. Kilted guards stood outside in ceremonial uniforms, but the officer who checked their credentials against his appointment list before waving them through the gates was a Marine.
“Got to hurry,” Senator Fowler said as they drove around the circular way to the bright red-and-yellow-rock steps. “Rod, if those Moties are a threat, could you order Kutuzov in there with a battle fleet?”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. What are you smiling about?”
“I had this conversation with one of my officers back at Mote Prime. Only I was in your seat. Yes, sir. I wouldn’t want to, but I could. And I can answer so fast because I decided the question on the way home, otherwise I’d have had to tell you to stuff your Commission.” He paused a moment. “Sally couldn’t, though.”
“Wouldn’t expect her to. She wouldn’t fight it, either. Any evidence that would make you or me order something like that would make her resign. Look, I’ve been over those reports until I’m deaf and blind, and I don’t find much wrong—there are a few things, though. Like your middies. I’m having trouble swallowing that frog.”
“So am I—”
The cab pulled up at the Palace steps and the driver opened the doors for them. Rod fished for bills to pay the fare, and he gave too large a tip because he wasn’t used to riding in cabs.
“Will that be all, my lord?” the waiter asked.
Rod glanced at his pocket computer. “Yes, thank you. We’re going to be late, Sally.” He made no attempt to stand. “Angus—we’ll have coffee. With brandy.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Rod, we really will be late.” Sally didn’t get up either. They looked at each other and laughed. “When was the last time we had lunch together?” she asked.
“A week? Two? I don’t remember. Sally, I’ve never been so busy in my life. Right now a main fleet action would be a relief.” He grimaced. “Another party tonight. Lady Riordan. Do we have to go?”
“Uncle Ben says Baron Riordan is very influential on New Ireland, and we may need some support there.”
“Then I suppose we have to.” Angus arrived with coffee. Rod tasted it and sighed in satisfaction. “Angus, that is the best coffee and brandy I’ve ever had. Your quality has improved in the last week.”
“Yes, my lord. It is reserved for you.”
“For me? Sally, is this your—?”
“No.” She was as puzzled as he. “Where did you get it, Angus?”
“A merchant captain personally brought it to Government House, my lady. He said it was for Lord Blaine. The chef tried it and said it was fit to serve.”
“And that it is,” Rod agreed enthusiastically. “Who was the captain?”
“I’ll find out, my lord.”
“Some officer seeker,” Rod said thoughtfully after the waiter left. “Although you’d think he’d have let me know—” He glanced at his computer again. “I suppose we haven’t long. We can’t keep the Viceroy waiting all afternoon.”
“We might as well. You and Uncle Ben won’t agree to my suggestion, and—”
“Let’s leave that until the conference, sweetheart.” The Viceroy was demanding an immediate Commission decision on what to do about the Moties. He was only one of many. War Minister Armstrong wanted to know how large a battle fleet it would take to disarm the Moties—just in case, he said, so that Admiral Cranston’s War Plans Division could go to work.
The Imperial Traders’ Association insisted that everything Bury knew about trade possibilities be made available to all members. The Grand Deacon of the Church of Him wanted proof that the Moties were angels. Another Himmist faction was sure they were devils and the Empire was suppressing the information. Cardinal Randolph of the Imperial Church wanted tapes of Motie life broadcast on tri-v to finish the Himmists once and for all.
And everyone in two hundred parsecs wanted a seat on the Commission.
“At least we’ll be in the same meeting,” Sally said.
“Yeah.” Their Palace quarters were in the same corridor but they never saw each other except at parties.