Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (47 page)

The packs were where they had been left, behind the apparently sealed office doors, and looked and felt untouched to Nathaniel, not that there happened to be anything particularly unique in the packs, just the information in the datacase.

“Now, back up two levels,” said the Legation Ecolitan.

At the door to the main suite, Swersa extended two small datablocs. “These were just recoded. The Legation mess is on the lowest level. It’s open until nineteen thirty, and opens in the morning at zero six forty-five. If you want to go out, there are a number of decent restaurants in the blocks behind the Legation. I’ll have you coded into the entry system in the next few units.” Swersa paused. “If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

“There will be, I’m certain,” Nathaniel confirmed, trying his databloc. The door opened, and he stood aside.

With a quick smile, Swersa was gone.

Once the packs were inside, he closed the door and studied the sitting room—two desk consoles, two sofas with matching upholstered armchairs, all arranged around a low wooden table with a large spray of fresh flowers.

“Luxury accommodations.” Sylvia looked at Nathaniel. “Status for a former envoy?”

“More like luck and a friendly Ecolitan,” he answered. “I doubt my status entitles us to this.”

Nathaniel hugged Sylvia.

“I’m not in the mood…”

“I know,” he whispered. “Hug me back and listen. Your turn is coming. That’s why we have to finish the study here and now. Can you get it through the Imperial embassy and to the I.I.S. and the Defense Ministry?”

Sylvia relaxed slightly and bent toward his ear, nibbling it slightly, but scarcely sensually, before answering. “Until I try, I won’t know, but I think so. Do you think the Legate will let the report go?”

“He can’t overrule an Ecolitan, but he also has to know what’s in it. If he’s the typical political appointee, he’ll only want to see the executive summary, and that’s just about all he’s going to get, certainly not any of the appendices, not until it’s spread across the entire diplomatic community here, and to the New Avalonian Ministry of Commerce, which has to get the first copy. You and I are going to do one of the appendices. It will have a title something like, ‘The External Diseconomies of Artosan Spacio-Graphics.’”

“Meaning that it will spell out everything?”

He nodded.

“That won’t stop this…war.”

“No. But it will slow down the Empire, I hope, while we find a way to stop the war.”

“Us? Just us?”

“Us.”

“That scares me,” she whispered.

“If it’s any consolation…it scares the frig out of me. And I do love you, you know.” He gave her a last hug. “Now…let’s get freshened up and then get something to eat. Is that all right?”

“I am hungry.” She lifted her field pack. “Let me put this in the bedroom. Which one do you want?”

“Why?”

“I want the same one.”

“But…?”

“That was to keep you in line.” She kept her face straight for a moment, before smiling wickedly.

“I think you’re doing just fine.” He lifted his own pack. “You pick.”

“W
HAT ABOUT THESE
tables?” asked the young man with the goatee, easing up beside Nathaniel’s console, where the Ecolitan continued to struggle with the wording of the executive summary. “Do you want frequency distribution or a geometric mean?”

“Both,” decided Nathaniel. “Label them ‘Thirty A’ and ‘Thirty B.’”

“Stet, sir.”

No sooner had the goateed staffer departed than Clerigg reappeared.

“Fascinating figures here. Quite a story.”

The Ecolitan nodded, waiting.

“I don’t quite understand what you meant in this direction,” confessed the Legation economist, showing Whaler the table he held, and the note hastily scrawled earlier by the Ecolitan.

“Wasn’t as clear as I could have been, probably,” said Nathaniel. “Take the energy production figures, both liquid fuels and fusactor output, converted to quads, and show total production and per annum rate of growth. Then I’ll need a separate chart that breaks out per capita liquid fuel production, with two subcharts, one showing per capita production, and one that takes per capita production of say, five years ago, and increases it by the percentage of economic growth for the whole Artosan economy. On the same chart, the second one, show the surplus. Now…these second charts go in a separate appendix we’re working on. You put the gross power charts in the infrastructure appendix.”

“You’re saying that there’s a considerable increase in liquid fuels sources, far more than accounted for by population demand?”

“Something like that, but we’ll let the figures speak for themselves.”

Clerigg nodded. “Fascinating.”

Nathaniel hoped so.

“You’re generating some strange-looking figures, Ecolitan Whaler,” offered the third staffer, easing three hard-copy color graphs onto the flat area beside the console. “Are these what you wanted?”

“Leave them. I’ll let you know in a moment.” He looked over at the second console, where Sylvia was inputting text for the appendix. “How’s it going?”

“Slow.”

“Me, too. The summary’s got to have just the right flavor.”

She shook her head.

They both looked up as the door to the long office opened.

“This just arrived,” announced the fresh-faced receptionist, “by courier from the Frankan Legation.”

“Frankan?” Nathaniel pondered.

The parchment envelope with the Frankan Union seal in the upper left corner bore two names, scripted regally in black ink:

The sandy-haired Ecolitan walked over to where Sylvia struggled, watched as she pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Here. You open it.” He watched as she studied the names. “What does the V stand for?”

“Vittoria.”

“You never told me.”

“I don’t recall that you asked.” Then she smiled, reached out, and squeezed his fingers before she opened the envelope, only to find a second inside. Within the second envelope was a card, also neatly scripted.

The signature beneath was that of Gerard De Vylerion.

“Who’s De Vylerion?”

“He was the Frankan Legate to New Augusta.”

“Then we should go.” Sylvia looked at the screen and the lines of text. “That’s tomorrow, and I’ll need a break from this.”

“We’ll be mostly done by then.”

“You will. I won’t.”

“We will.”

“Promise?” she asked.

“I promise.”

“Good. How anyone…could like being an economist.”

Nathaniel chose not to point out that his being an economist had brought them together. Instead, he murmured, “It’s a living.”

“So long as it keeps being a living,” she answered dryly.

They both laughed, ignoring the puzzled looks around them.

“E
COLITANS?” VENTURED THE
thin-faced woman at the Legation’s front console.

“Yes?” Nathaniel and Sylvia paused.

“Legate Spamgall suggests that if you are going out, today would be a good day to see Gerry Adams Park. It’s quite a spectacle, you know, with all the speakers and posters.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia.

The two hurried down the steps of the Legation toward the waiting groundcar and driver.

“It’ll have to be after lunch,” Nathaniel said. “We’re cutting it close. I know. It was my fault, but I wanted to get those last graphs right. As if anyone will read them.” He snorted. “The economics make it obvious, but if you say it in plain language, it’s suspect because it’s too simple, and if you use the proper terminology everyone’s eyes glaze over.”

“There’s another problem,” ventured Sylvia. “More wars have been caused by economics than by any other factor, and almost no one recognizes that even after five millennia of constant proof.” She opened the groundcar door and slid across the seat.

“The Salisbury Club,” Nathaniel added as he closed the door.

“Yes, sir.”

“While we’re being philosophical,” Nathaniel continued, “I’ll add another thought. Everyone thinks that conflicts are caused by politics or personalities, but they’re not. They’re caused by massive forces. That’s why personal diplomacy is generally only good for buying time while the forces are rearranged.”

“As you did in New Augusta?”

“I’m getting this feeling that the forces weren’t rearranged…the big problem is that individual diplomacy and economic studies usually aren’t sufficient to offset public opinion and basic economic forces.” He laughed harshly. “Dramas and trideos and books and their sappy happy messages to the contrary.”

Sylvia smiled wryly. “Whereas economic disruptions and war are sufficient?”

“Or their equivalent. And then everyone protests, saying, ‘You didn’t have to do that.’”

“You’ve been writing too many economic studies.”

“Absolutely.”

They reached the Salisbury Club at twenty-five minutes past noon.

“Might I be of service, sir and madame?” asked the figure in the antique black formal jacket and black bow tie, looking coolly at the green uniforms.

“Sylvia Ferro-Maine and Nathaniel Whaler. We were to meet Gerard De Vylerion…” said Nathaniel.

“He has arrived. If you would follow me.” The maître d’hôtel bowed and turned, leading them through the half-open dark oak doors and past a false leaded glass window showing the first landing at Camelot, framed by deep maroon velvet hangings.

“He knows where to dine,” murmured Sylvia.

“He knows a great deal more than that.”

A tall, almost ascetic, figure rose from the table in the paneled, velvet-framed corner of the room. “Gerard de Vylerion, Lady Ferro-Maine…a pleasure to see you again, Lord Whaler.”

At the terms “lady” and “lord,” Nathaniel caught the faintest stiffening in the posture of the black-coated maître d’hôtel, and the Ecolitan held in a smile, even while returning Gerard’s bow.

“You’re very kind,” answered Sylvia.

“I’m an economist, not an envoy,” protested Nathaniel.

“A most distinguished one. Did not the Emperor himself provide that collar pin?” An amused smile played across Gerard’s face momentarily.

“Ah…well…yes.”

Sylvia turned to Nathaniel. “I don’t believe you mentioned that.”

He flushed. “I had more important matters on my mind at the time. I was trying to get clearances…for a colleague.”

She flushed.

De Vylerion nodded past the Ecolitans, and the maître d’hôtel slipped away quietly.

“Please…please…be seated.” De Vylerion eased out the chair to his right for Sylvia.

As the two sat, a server in white carrying a silver pitcher filled their crystal water goblets, then retreated.

De Vylerion reseated himself. “I have been enjoying a glass of Lexin—very similar to Imperial Sperlin—but slightly drier. Would you like some? Or could I order something else?”

“The Lexin is fine.” Sylvia smiled.

Nathaniel nodded.

“And you will pardon my emphasis on titles, but it is so amusing to see the Avalonian reaction. Accomplishments, and you both boast considerable accomplishments, mean little in Camelot. Only the titles matter, and that, my friends, is why New Avalon’s days are numbered. I should not be so philosophical, but I am so glad you two could spare a moment for a luncheon with a broken-down old diplomat.”

“I would have to dispute that description,” said Nathaniel with a smile.

“Please…I know what I am.”

Another server arrived with a pair of wineglasses, and De Vylerion leaned forward and filled both.

“To your continued health,” offered the diplomat.

Both Ecolitans raised their glasses.

“And to yours.”

Continued health was definitely a good toast, reflected Nathaniel, as he glanced around the half-filled dining area.

The leather-bound menus arrived, silently, and the blackcoated waiter vanished momentarily.

“What might be good?” asked Sylvia.

“It is all good.” De Vylerion smiled. “Perhaps not so good as I could offer you in Wryere, and I hope that in the future you will be able to visit me there. Caroline would enjoy meeting you both. This was to be a short trip; so she was unable to accompany me.” After a sip of the Lexin, the diplomat added, looking at Sylvia, “You might have been her sister, years ago.”

“She must be beautiful,” offered Nathaniel.

Sylvia flushed again.

“He does you and her justice,” suggested the diplomat with a gentle smile. “I do admit I am prejudiced after all these years.” He looked at the menu as the waiter bowed. “Have you decided?”

“I think I’ll try the scampig,” said Nathaniel.

“How are the spicetails?” Sylvia glanced at the waiter, offering a dazzling smile.

“They are good, madame. So is the deep crab.”

“I’ll try the deep crab.”

“Just the Shienmez salad for me,” added De Vylerion.

The waiter nodded and collected the menus.

“Once I had heard you were in fact in Camelot, I hastened to send an invitation, although one must not appear too hasty, especially in these times. That is why it was so formal.”

“Formal or not,” answered Sylvia, lifting the crystal glass, “it was appreciated.”

“You were most helpful on New Augusta.” Nathaniel smiled and turned to Sylvia. “Gerard is the one who told me that hard proof arrives only just before the warheads, or words to that effect.”

“You have a good memory, an outstanding memory. I only quoted an ancient writer. Very cynical, but accurate. How do you find the Lexin?”

“This is excellent, if not quite in the class of Remoc.” Sylvia inclined her head as the silent waiter set a green salad before her, then before Nathaniel, and finally De Vylerion.

“It is not, but it is close,” affirmed De Vylerion.

Nathaniel knew that was something he didn’t know. He could taste bad wine, but the subtleties between very good and great wines were far beyond him. “I wish I had your taste, both of you.”

“You have other expertise.” Sylvia’s eyes were warm as she glanced at him.

“Indeed he does, as do you, lady.”

“So do you,” suggested Nathaniel. “Such as being in the right place at the right time. I somehow doubt that your presence here is a happy coincidence. You were headed back to Wryere, as I recall?”

“I was.” De Vylerion set his fork on the side of the pale green porcelain plate.

“So why are you in Camelot?”

“There was a temporary vacancy here for a Legate, and I was asked to fill the position for a few months. I had thought to retire…and that made me above politics, as if anyone ever is.” The Frankan laughed self-deprecatingly. “For reasons of my own, I accepted.”

“Reasons of your own?” pressed Sylvia.

“I could say that I have taken an interest in your careers, and that would certainly be accurate. Accurate, but not wholly truthful.”

“My career? An infrastructure economist?”

“A low-level Imperial political staffer?”

“An infrastructure economist with a tendency toward, shall we say, accomplishment? Accompanied by a lovely and talented lady whose looks belie considerable experience in understanding convoluted machinations and who possibly retains contacts with the only organization within the Empire capable of understanding the situation in which she and her companion find themselves?” De Vylerion smiled. “Surely, you are aware that practically the entire Galaxy knows about your study.”

“We had that feeling.” The Ecolitan took a last bite of the salad, then sipped the Lexin.

“A pity that the New Avalonian Arch Tory government fell. You know, I assume, that the commission of your study was about its last official act?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” Nathaniel could sense Sylvia stiffen and swallow hard.

“The Arch Tories succeeded in being voted out because they suggested, and attempted to carry out, a program which reduced social benefits in order to fund greater infrastructure development on the out-planets. They argued that greater development would eventually reduce the drain on New Avalon.” De Vylerion paused and sipped his Lexin. “Any economist or even broken-down functionary could understand that. The voters did not.”

The salad plates vanished into the hands of the silent server, and were replaced with the entrees. The aroma of apple-roasted scampig drifted up to Nathaniel’s nostrils, and he could feel his mouth water—a definite improvement over ship fare and the mess at the Legation.

“And?” prompted Nathaniel.

“Your study was commissioned, and funded, as a means to embarrass the new government.”

“Will the people care?” asked Sylvia.

“No,” said Nathaniel, “not until the next elections. Then someone will drag out the study to show the new government’s failings.”

“If there remains a government,” added De Vylerion, “or a problem with Artos.”

Still listening to De Vylerion, Sylvia took a small bite of the crab. “This is very good.”

“I am glad.” De Vylerion glanced at his salad. “I doubt that Minister Smeaton-Adams will be quite so enthused about your findings, although Harding-Eames will be. He’s the shadow minister, now.”

“How did this change of government affect overall New Avalonian policies?” asked Nathaniel.

“Let us offer an analogy. New Avalon resembles a stately spaceliner whose drives have failed and which circles a black hole in a decaying orbit. I have some doubts that changing the captain alone will effect any significant difference in the eventual outcome.”

Sylvia took the smallest of sips of Lexin, then reached for the pepper.

“You have doubtless observed the decline of New Avalon.” De Vylerion gestured around the oak-paneled and velvet-hung room. “Although that decline is far from obvious in present surroundings. Camelot has much to offer, even in its present slow decline. Some might suggest you wander through the Gerry Adams Park today. That offers a view of Camelot unlike any other. Myself, I would think you would find the park inhospitable today. It might be chilly…unwelcoming. Perhaps on a warmer day,” De Vylerion suggested.

“Aaachew.”
While Sylvia’s sneeze was muted, both men paused for an instant.

“Sorry.” Sylvia rubbed her nose. “I overdid it on the pepper.”

“That is easy to do. I have done so often.” De Vylerion nodded politely. “As for the park, no one quite knows where the name came from, but I would surmise that she was an early politician, somewhere. It’s quite amusing really, and sometimes informative. Perhaps the only place on New Avalon where one can speak in public and be totally ignored.”

“Or in New Augusta,” suggested Nathaniel.

De Vylerion laughed politely.

“Only visibly ignored,” added Sylvia.

“True,” admitted Nathaniel. He set down his fork, not believing how quickly he’d demolished the scampig. “How do you see the situation on Artos?”

De Vylerion lifted his wineglass, sipped, then offered an almost imperceptible shrug. “There will be a struggle for control of Artos. That has been obvious to those near the Three System Bulge for some time. Yet, except for the Empire, and for New Avalon itself, those likely to be affected are locked in a delicate balance of force. We of the Union have an alliance of mutual survival with the Hegemony against the larger forces of the Conglomerate and the Empire…although we share little else.” He raised his eyebrows. “Very little else.”

“You think that New Avalon has any awareness of the situation?”

“Awareness…most certainly. The will and ability to commit resources? Most certainly not. So we shall see.” De Vylerion paused. “Oh, by the way, I understand that you prevented some considerable unpleasantness on the
Omnia Gallia
.” De Vylerion laughed gently. “Captain Muerotte did not see it that way initially. But he does now.”

“Thank you.”

“No, most honored Ecolitan envoy, the Frankan Union owes you. At this time, to have a ship disappear on jumps through Hegemony territory…” He shrugged. “That would be destabilizing, to say the least.”

“It would seem that everything points toward destabilization,” began Sylvia, lowering her wineglass.

“Yes, Lady Ferro-Maine, and the name suits you, much points toward such destabilization. Much indeed.”

Sylvia waited expectantly.

“And of that, there is the Empire. Alas, I fear that the Imperial eagles would employ any excuse to begin a conflict on the Rift. That could, unhappily, divert Imperial forces from our sector here.” De Vylerion shrugged. “I mentioned that to my Imperial counterpart, Legate Wu-Reginald, but he was less concerned than I. Could you speak to the feelings of the Accord Legate?”

Sylvia nodded at Nathaniel, who stalled by sipping the wine. Good…but was it excellent? How would he know? Or ever know?

“Legate Spamgall has expressed some concerns about the economics of the situation.” That much was true, and it was about all Spamgall had said in three days. “He has avoided commenting beyond that.”

“That would seem politically wise…for anyone but a representative of Accord.”

“Legate Spamgall is a politician appointed by politicians,” Nathaniel pointed out.