The Mote in God's Eye

Rod almost laughed but carefully controlled his voice. “No. This is the John Muir High School band—a youth group. Some of them may become warriors when they’re older, and some of ‘em will be farmers, or engineers, or—”

“Thank you.” The Moties twittered.

Not that we haven’t had warriors, Rod thought. With this reception sure to have the biggest tri-v audience in the history of the Empire, Merrill wasn’t going to neglect the opportunity to display a glimpse of the mailed fist. It might make prospective rebels think twice. But there hadn’t been much military equipment displayed, and there’d been more young girls with flowers than Marines and soldiers.

The parade was interminable. Every provincial baron had to show off; every guild, corporation, town, school, lodge—anything, they all wanted in the act and Fowler’d said let them all come.

The John Muir School band was followed by a half battalion of Covenanter Highlander troops with kilts, more drums, and squealing bagpipes. The wild music grated on Rod’s nerves but he was careful to control himself; although Covenant was on the other side of the Coal Sack the Highlanders were naturally popular on New Scotland, and all New Scots either loved or professed to love the pipes.

The Highlanders carried swords and pikes, and wore bearskin shakos nearly a meter high. Waves of bright plaids streamed from their shoulders. There was no threat visible, but the reputation of the Covenanters was threat enough; no army in the known worlds would relish tangling with them when they took off their ceremonial finery and put on body armor and battle dress; and Covenant was loyalist to the core.

“Those are warriors?” Charlie asked.

“Yes. They’re part of Viceroy Merrill’s ceremonial guard,” Rod shouted. He stood to attention as a color party marched past, and had to make a strong effort to keep his hand from rising to the salute. Instead he took off his hat.

The parade went on: a flower-covered float from some New Irish barony; artisans’ guilds displays; more troops, Friedlanders this time, marching awkwardly because they were artillerists and tankers and hadn’t their vehicles. Another reminder to the provinces of just what His Majesty could send against his enemies.

“What do the Moties make of all this?” Merrill asked out of the corner of his mouth. He acknowledged the colors of another baronial float.

“Hard to say,” Senator Fowler replied.

“More to the point is what the provinces will make of it,” Armstrong said. “This show will be worth a visit by a battle cruiser many places. And ‘tis far cheaper.”

“Cheaper for the government,” Merrill said. “Hate to think what was spent on all this. Luckily, I didn’t have to spend it.”

“Rod, you can make your exit now,” Senator Fowler said. “Hardy’ll make your excuses to the Moties.”

“Right. Thanks.” Rod slipped away. Behind him he heard the sounds of the parade and the muted conversation of his friends.

“I never heard so many drums in all my life,” Sally said.

“Bosh. Goes on every Birthday,” Senator Fowler reminded her.

“Well, I don’t have to watch all of it on Birthdays.”

“Birthday?” Jock asked.

Rod left as Sally was trying to explain patriotic holidays and a hundred pipers tramped past in Gaelic splendor.

50. The Art of Negotiation

The little group moved in angry silence. Horowitz’ hostility was just short of audible as he led the way deeper underground. I am the most competent xenologist in Trans-Coalsack, he was thinking. They’ll have to go to Sparta to find anyone better. And this goddamn lordling and his half-educated lady doubt my professional word.

And I have to put up with it.

There wasn’t much doubt about that, Horowitz reflected. The University President had personally made it clear. “For God’s sake, Ziggy, do what they want! This Commission is a big deal. Our whole budget, not to mention your department, is going to be affected by their reports. What if they say we don’t cooperate and ask for a team from Sparta?”

So. At least these young aristocrats knew his time was valuable. He’d told them half a dozen times on the way to the labs.

They were deep underground in the Old University, walking on worn rock floors carved an age before. Murcheson himself had paced these corridors before the terraforming of New Scotland was complete, and legend had it that his ghost could still be seen prowling through the rock-walled passageways: a hooded figure with one smoldering red eye.

And just why is this so damned important anyway? Balaam’s ass, why does the girl make such a big deal out of it?

The laboratory was another room quarried from living rock. Horowitz gestured imperiously and two graduate assistants opened a refrigerated container. A long table slid out.