If Jonnie had not been so worried about other things he would have laughed.
The coordinator was relieved that this had not been received as criticism. He continued. “He says he knew there would be a diplomatic conference and that a lot of lords would be arriving and that they would be very uppish and snobbish and fancy. And it’s true enough. I’ve seen them coming in on the platform. Jeweled breathe-masks, glittering cloth, ornaments—one even had a jeweled monocle. Pretty fancy dudes!”
He then swallowed and said the rest in a rush, “And if you go out there and talk to them in hides, they’ll think you’re just a barbarian and won’t listen to you. He says if you look and act,” he swallowed again, “like an uncouth savage, they’ll hold you in contempt.” He stopped, relieved to have gotten through it. “And that’s what he was trying to tell you. Don’t be upset with him. I could add that quite in addition to a genuine affection for you, about thirty-five thousand lives—no, less than that now, but a lot—depend on this conference. Otherwise I wouldn’t have translated it for him because to me, MacTyler, ye’re no barbarian!”
Jonnie thought all he would have to do was reassure Mr. Tsung he would be polite and not slap anybody and that would be that. But not so!
Mr. Tsung made the coordinator stand right there and translate everything he said exactly with no changes. Mr. Tsung hunkered down close to the side of the bed and started talking. The coordinator translated at each pause.
“‘It is one thing,’” translated the Scot, “‘to be a mighty warrior . . . but although you have won every battle . . . and driven the enemy to rout . . . from a field of slaughter . . . the entire war . . . can be lost . . . at the conference table!’”
Jonnie digested that. They actually hadn’t won the war yet by a long ways, but even if they did, they could lose the whole thing in that conference room. He had known that, but he was impressed. Mr. Tsung had obviously sought this job, not as somebody who cleaned up a room, but as an advisor. Well, heavens knew he needed advice. He had come up with no ideas.
“‘Your attitude,’” the coordinator continued to translate as the little Mr. Tsung spoke on, “‘. . . must be calculated to impress. . . . A lord is used to handling inferiors. . . . He is impressed by being handled as an inferior. . . . Be haughty. . . . Do not be polite. . . . Be cold and disdainful. . . . Be distant and aloof.’
“Say, this old man is really wringing out my Mandarin. That’s real court Chinese he’s talking!”
Mr. Tsung motioned him not to add his own comments.
“‘Do not,’” the Scot obediently translated, “‘agree or seem to agree to anything. . . . Your words can be tricked into seeming to agree . . . so avoid the word yes. . . . They will make preposterous demands they know they cannot attain . . . just to gain bargaining points . . . so you in return should advance to them . . . impossible demands even if you feel they won’t agree, and who knows, you might win them! . . . All diplomacy is a matter of compromise. . . . There is a middle ground between the two opposite poles of impossible demands . . . which will become the eventual treaty or agreement. . . . Always work for the most advantageous position you can get.’”
The Scot paused. “He wants to know if you’ve got all that.”
“Yes, sir!” said Jonnie. “And welcome.”
He was feeling this was useful even though it didn’t give him the idea he needed.
“And now,” said the coordinator, “he wants to give you lessons in deportment. Watch him.”
Well, they were dealing with creatures from many another race, and their ideas of deportment and those from ancient imperial China might not agree at all. So Jonnie felt a bit tolerant as he watched the Chinese. But almost immediately he felt he was wrong. These manners fitted any race!
How to stand. Feet apart, tall, leaning slightly back. Firmly fixed to the earth. Position dominant. Got that? Then do it!
How to hold a scepter or wand. One hand on grip end, other end laid in the other palm. Grip both ends to show control. Tap one end into palm to hint the small possibility of punishment when one might wish to seem a bit offended. Wave idly in air to show that the other’s argument was of no consequence and was like the wind. Got that? Here is a wand. Do it! Not quite right. Be easy, lordly. Now do them all again.
Walk as though not caring what lies before you. Suggest power. Steady, unstoppable. Like this. Got it? Do it!
For half an hour Mr. Tsung worked on Jonnie. And Jonnie realized that his own walk was like that of a panther whereas for this conference it must be stately.
Mr. Tsung made him go through the whole lesson and then the postures and walks again before he was satisfied. Jonnie, who had always had a sinking feeling about being a diplomat, began to feel a bit more confident. There was an art to this thing. It was like hunting game but a different kind of game. It was like a battle but a different kind of battle.
He thought he was all through. He could see on the screen that more and more emissaries were arriving. But Mr. Tsung said they would all have to present their credentials at the first meeting in the conference room and that there was lots and lots of time. Had Jonnie thought of a strategy? A strategy was very necessary. How to approach the diplomatic battle, what one intended to use to maneuver. Well, Jonnie could think about it. It was like a battle but your infantry and cavalry were ideas and words. Maneuvered wrongly, it meant defeat!
Meanwhile, they had to handle this other matter, and leaving Jonnie a bit mystified, Mr. Tsung went out in the hall.
Seeing that for the moment Jonnie wasn’t busy, Chief Chong-won slid in the door. He was beaming and bobbing his head. “The dam!” And he made a tight grip with both fists and gestured with his hands. “The hole. The outflow is decreasing. The level of the lake is rising.” He bobbed his head vigorously, bowed deeply, and vanished.
Jonnie thought, well that was one thing that had gone right. The power wouldn’t go off and leave some diplomat parked in some wrong space! All he had to worry about now was a burning planet, the fate of its people and this conference.
That shot had worked. He wasn’t dizzy.
6
The “other matter” turned out to be a haircut. The daughter came in and sat him in a chair facing the viewscreens and got to work with a small pair of scissors and a comb. The idea was rather novel to Jonnie—he usually just hacked his hair off with a knife when it got too long.
She seemed to be very practiced and expert and no doubt took care of the tonsorial requirements of many, for she just sailed in with her scissors moving so fast they sounded like an ore belt running at high speed, clip, clip, clip.
So diplomacy was like a battle, Jonnie was thinking. Watching these lords arrive one could see that they practically oozed authority and power. The visitors attacking Earth were almost local small fry, controlling at the most a few dozen planets. Some of those arriving, he knew from earlier readings, were from other universes and controlled hundreds of planets in just one governmental sphere. And they were very arrogant, very sure of themselves. Whatever their physical form, there was no doubt that they were ministers plenipotentiary to powerful heads of state. What wealth and striking power they represented! Behind them were collective populations numbering trillions in just one state alone. They were the veterans and victors of hundreds of such conferences. Yes, a conference was a battle, and an even more important one than a war.
And what chance did he and Sir Robert have against these experienced diplomats? They were both warriors, not glib, smooth, cunning courtiers with a thousand parliamentary tricks up their sleeves. With no guns or battalions, but with only his wits and the tips Mr. Tsung had given him, he felt quite outnumbered. And so far, he had no strategy at all.
The girl had a small mirror she was holding up so he could see. She had cut his hair to collar height in back and combed and rolled it at the bottom. It looked kind of like a helmet he had seen with a back neck guard. And the hair was shiny. His beard and mustache looked very precise, much shorte
r. He hardly knew himself—had she seen some old paintings of men with beards and mustaches cut like this? Indeed she had—there was an ancient man-book, English, open on the bed to a picture of somebody named Sir Francis Drake that had defeated somebody called the Spaniards long, long ago.
His attention was attracted by something and he took the mirror from her. His neck! The scars had been quite faint for they were really callouses. And they were gone.
He had to look very hard to see the remains of the Brigante grenade scar on his cheek. That would probably vanish too.
Somehow he felt freed with the collar scars gone. He understood the irony of it and would have smiled but his attention was pulled to the ops room screen. The sound relay had been off and he gave the girl back the mirror and hit the button.
“. . . can’t think what they’re up to!” Stormalong was saying as he angrily finished pulling another picture out of the drone resolver. “I’ve lost count!”
“Fifteen,” said somebody else.
“Look at this! A spray of fire bombs going down into this deserted . . .” He looked at a map. “Detroit! Why set Detroit on fire? There’s been nobody in Detroit for over a thousand years! Are they trying to pull defenses over to that continent? They’re insane.” He threw the picture down. “I’m not providing any air cover for a bunch of ruins! What’s the latest from Edinburgh?”
“Antiaircraft still replying,” said someone at the ops board. “Smoke interfering with visual firing. Dunneldeen just shot down his sixteenth Hawvin strafing plane.”
Jonnie touched the button to “sound off.” He felt an impatience taking hold of him. These diplomats coming in one by one . . . it was too slow!
The coordinator had come in with Mr. Tsung, who was holding a lot of things in his arms. It was obvious that Jonnie was under strain. Mr. Tsung said something in his singsong voice. The coordinator said, “Mr. Tsung reminds you that even a lost battle can be redeemed at a conference table, to be patient and use skill.”
Mr. Tsung had other things now. He took the haircut cloth off Jonnie and showed him a tunic.
It was a very plain garment at first glance. It was cut from shimmering black silk; it had a stand-up collar. It was supposed to be a tight form fit. But it was the silver-colored buttons that attracted Jonnie’s attention.
He knew what they were. He had once remarked to Ker that it was surprising to see such pretty metal on a Psychlo emergency switch. It looked like silver at first glance, but the least amount of light striking it made it glow in rainbow colors. Ker had said, no, it wasn’t used for emergency switches because it was pretty. It was used because it was hard. It was a one-molecule-thick metal spray of an iridium alloy, and no matter how many claw points hit it, it wouldn’t wear off. And when you were in a dark mine with little light, the emergency button was visible because it looked like it flashed in colors. He knew what the son-in-law had been doing—plating buttons. Enough to blind you!
Mr. Tsung had him put it and the black silk pants on and buttoned the tunic all up—iridium buttons every couple of inches down the front.
Then Mr. Tsung made him put on a pair of boots. They were Chinko boots, but they had plated them with iridium alloy.
A belt was fastened around him, a wide one, and it was also plated. All except the buckle. And that was his old gold-colored U.S. Air Force buckle, shined until it gleamed. He remembered thinking once in the cage he might be the last surviving member of a long-gone force. A strange thing to think. But right now it sort of cheered him up.
He had thought he was getting dressed and was a bit dismayed to find that Mr. Tsung did not like a pucker on the shoulder and a certain gather in the tunic back and took it all off him and sent them back.
Mr. Tsung had something else now. It was his twisted knobkerrie with the carved figures. But they had plated it with iridium. It flashed like a length of flame. He knew he couldn’t use it that way, but he was glad not to be going into that conference totally without a weapon.
Then the son-in-law came in. He was carrying a helmet. Basically it was just a Russian helmet they had smoothed down. But what had they done to it? The chin strap was plated with iridium alloy. So was the whole helmet. But what was this? The son-in-law turned it, a bit proudly, so Jonnie could see what was on the front.
How had they done this? Then he saw that the son-in-law was holding the paper patterns he had laid down on the helmet front and sides, one after the other, and sprayed through the open holes with different metal sprays.
It was a dragon.
And what a dragon!
Gold wings on the side of the helmet, clawed paws that seemed to grip the lower helmet edge, scales and spikes from the spine edged in blue, a ferocious face with what appeared to be real rubies for flaming eyes, white fangs in a scarlet mouth. Ferocious. And a round, whitish ball in its scarlet, otherwise gaping, mouth.
It looked three-dimensional. It was similar to the dragon at the console and the clay dragons lying on the building pile except for this big white ball in its mouth.
At first Jonnie felt it was far too fancy. And just then another emissary arrived on the platform wearing a towering gold crown. This was far less fancy than that. But still . . .
Jonnie looked at it. It was a bit different from the other dragons. “Very beautiful,” said Jonnie, so the coordinator could tell the son-in-law.
They were fixing his clothes. It wasn’t time yet by a long way. Jonnie looked at the helmet. Via the coordinator he said to Mr. Tsung, “Tell me about this dragon.”
Mr. Tsung tossed it off and via the coordinator told Jonnie that the throne of China had been called the “Dragon Throne.” “Lung p’ao” or “Chi-fu” patterns or robes were court dress. It was an imperial . . .
Jonnie knew all that. “Tell him to tell me about this dragon. It’s different.”
Mr. Tsung sighed. There were a lot of other things, far more important, that he should be telling Lord Jonnie, and he didn’t think it was very applicable just now to embark on myths and fairy tales. But, well, yes. This dragon was different. The whole story? Oh, my. Well, it went this way. Once upon a time . . .
Jonnie lay back on the bed with the helmet on his stomach and listened. Unfortunately he did have time. So he listened as Mr. Tsung went on telling him the long and involved fairy tale.
Suddenly about halfway through it, Jonnie abruptly sat up and said to the coordinator, “I thought so! Please send for Sir Robert.”
It startled Mr. Tsung and Jonnie said, “Thank you. Very good story. Thank you more than you know!”
As Lord Jonnie seemed pleased and things were a bit rushed, Mr. Tsung happily went out to make sure the silk suit was altered correctly.
Jonnie looked around to see whether there were any button cameras in the place. He couldn’t really tell. He didn’t think so, but he would be very brief and cryptic to play it on the safe side.
A couple minutes later Sir Robert came in. He too had been grooming himself. He was wearing a cloak with the Royal Stewart colors, a matching kilt, and Scottish white spats. The wool was made of shining hairs. He was the complete Scottish soldier and lord, excepting only weapons. Jonnie had never seen him dressed in full regimentals before. Quite impressive. But the old man looked a bit hollow-eyed and worried.
“This is going to be a tough one,” said Jonnie.
“Aye, lad. Did ye ken thet Tolnep? I be no diplomat, laddie, and there’s nae chonce of bringing Fearghus oot. The danger lies in antagonizing them lords and states thet isna involved as yet. A false step and we’ll be adding them tae the enemy!”
He was upset. Even talking in dialect.
Jonnie never thought he’d have to soothe Sir Robert. “We have a chance. A good one. Now here’s what I propose we do: you go in there by yourself and do all you can.” Sir Robert didn’t much care for that, but he listened. “And then when you have finished or think you have gone as far as possible, you call me in. Introduce me however you please, but not too specifically.”
“The communicator they’ve been using as host will do a’ the introductions,” said Sir Robert.
“Well, tell him what I said. All right?”
“Verra good, laddie. I’ll do whativer I can. An if I havna a cease-fire, I’ll ca’ you.”
The old war chief turned to leave. “Good luck!” said Jonnie.
“Aye, lad, that’s exactly what I’ll be a needin’! We’re nae a doin’ weel at a’ in the field!”
Jonnie looked at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now.
Chief Chong-won popped in, grinning. “The hole in the dam has stopped all but a trickle! My men are replacing the armor cable, patching and replacing it. The lake will be armored again before nightfall.” He threw his arms up simulating the earlier explosion Jonnie had made. “Boom!” he said and vanished.
Jonnie thought, boom indeed. We’ll all go boom if this conference fails.
7
Sir Robert had not been in the conference room three minutes before he realized that he was fighting the most difficult duel of his life.
And he was in no shape for it. He had hardly slept at all since their return and he recognized now that this was a huge error. For all his nickname, “the Fox,” he felt sluggish mentally. That nickname had been earned in physical combat and not in a conference room. Had this been a matter of troop dispositions and tactics, he could have coped with it. He would have laid an ambush for this Tolnep and transfixed him with arrows and hacked him to pieces with Lochaber axes.
But there stood the Tolnep, elegant, poised, and deadly, already pressing Sir Robert back toward defeat.
Sir Robert’s morale was very bad. Half the antiaircraft cover of Edinburgh had been wiped out by a desperate charge of Tolnep marines. Russia was not answering at all. And his own wife was unreported after a cave-in of passages to the bunkers. It was desperate that he get a cease-fire!
Yet this Tolnep was dithering around, posing, fiddling with his scepter, flattering the emissaries, and acting like he had all the time in the world!
Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 Page 96