The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [6]
“Killed Mr. Haruna?” Rod was stunned. He remembered the wrinkled old gentleman; well over a hundred when he came to Rod’s home— “He’s an old friend of my father’s.”
“He wasn’t the only one they killed. They had the heads strung up on pikes outside Government House. Somebody thought that’d make the people fight on longer. Make ‘em afraid to surrender to us. Well, they have reason to be afraid now. Your deal with Stone. Any other conditions?”
“Yes, sir. It’s off if he refuses to cooperate with Intelligence. He has to name all the conspirators.”
Plekhanov looked significantly at Cziller. “Get your men on that, Bruno. It’s a start. All right, Blaine, get your ship fixed up and scoot.” The Admiral stood; the interview was over. “You’ll have a lot to do, Captain. Get to it.”
2 The Passengers
Horace Hussein Chamoun al Shamlan Bury pointed out the last of the articles he would take with him and dismissed the servants. He knew they would wait just outside his suite, ready to divide the wealth he was leaving behind, but it amused him to make them wait. They would be all the happier for the thrill of stealing.
When the room was empty he poured a large glass of wine. It was poor quality stuff brought in after the blockade, but he hardly noticed. Wine was officially forbidden on Levant, which meant that the hordes of wine sellers foisted off anything alcoholic on their customers, even wealthy ones like the Bury family. Horace Bury had never developed any real appreciation for expensive liquors. He bought them to show his wealth, and for entertaining; but for himself anything would do. Coffees were a different matter.
He was a small man, as were most of the people of Levant, with dark features and a prominent nose, dark, burning eyes and sharp features, quick gestures, and a violent temper that only his intimate associates suspected. Alone now, he permitted himself a scowl. There was a printout from Admiral Plekhanov’s writers on the desk, and he easily translated the formally polite phrases inviting him to leave New Chicago and regretting that no civilian passage would be available. The Navy was suspicious, and he felt a cold knot of rage threaten to engulf him despite the wine. He was outwardly calm, though, as he sat at the desk and ticked off points on his fingers.
What had the Navy on him? There were the suspicions of Naval Intelligence, but no evidence. There was the usual hatred of the Navy for Imperial Traders, compounded, he thought, because some of the Navy staff were Jews, and all Jews hated Levantines. But the Navy could have no real evidence or he wouldn’t be going aboard MacArthur as a guest. He’d be in irons. That meant Jonas Stone still kept his silence.
He ought to keep silence. Bury had paid him a hundred thousand crowns with a promise of more. But he had no confidence in Stone: two nights before, Bury had seen certain men on lower Kosciusko Street and paid them fifty thousand crowns, and it shouldn’t be long until Stone was silent forever. Let him whisper secrets in his grave.
Was there anything else undone? he wondered. No. What would come would come, glory be to Allah... He grimaced. That kind of thinking came naturally, and he despised himself for a superstitious fool. Let his father praise Allah for his accomplishments; fortune came to the man who left nothing to chance; as he had left few things undone in his ninety standard years.
The Empire had come to Levant ten years after Horace was born, and at first its influence was small. In those days Imperial policies were different and the planet came into the Empire with a standing nearly equal to more advanced worlds. Horace Bury’s father soon realized Imperialism could be made to pay. By becoming one of those the Imperials used to govern the planet, he had amassed immense wealth: he’d sold audiences with the governor, and hawked justice like cabbages in the market place, but always