The Palace at Midnight: The Collected Work of Robert Silverberg, Volume Five

by Robert Silverberg

  The crowd was screaming. It was all but impossible to make out the announcer’s words now.

  I said to Aguirre, “Do you know where the racers are at this minute?”

  He pointed past the finish line and vaguely up the dark highway. “Two kilometers from Pelpel.”

  Even on that dreadful road it wouldn’t take long to cover two kilometers. The race was almost over. The screaming was frantic. Along with everyone else I looked toward the finish line. I still was unable to understand how the race could possibly end in Pelpel; I imagined the leading drivers barreling down the narrow road, passing between the tin-roofed shacks, roaring across the finish line into the plaza, smashing willy-nilly into the church wall, piling up in a great flaming mound of wreckage, car upon car upon car—

  Sudden silence. The voice of the announcer, cracking with the strain:

  “Alejandro…Godoy…Norteamericano…Alejandro…Norteamericano…Norteamericano…Norteamericano primero…”

  Silence.

  Everyone frozen, peering out into the night.

  “Norteamericano wins! Alejandro second! Godoy third!”

  Wins? How? Where?

  At the far side of the plaza they were tearing down the finish line, pulling off the streamers, fluttering them like banners, and the two flag-bearers were capering about, waving the flags. A mad celebration was beginning, a wild crazy leaping and prancing. But where were the cars?

  The road was empty. The race was over and no one had arrived in Pelpel.

  I began to understand, but I could not believe that I understood what I thought I understood. I had to find Panagiotis. In the madness of the plaza, with everyone going berserk and hundred-peso notes flapping about like confetti, it was not easy to get to the far side, but I pushed and elbowed my way across and finally entered the cantina. The Greek sat wearily slouched behind the bar, face shiny with sweat, eyes glossy, a drink in one hand and a microphone in the other. He smiled and nodded when he saw me.

  “You drove well,” he said.

  “I?”

  “Very well. We are proud of you.”

  I sat down facing him. “The race was imaginary?” I asked.

  “No le entiendo.”

  “Imaginary. You made it up. You invented it. You sat here all evening with that microphone, pretending that a race was going on out in the desert, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Norteamericano who was racing—he was me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the people believe all this? They think there really was a race?”

  Panagiotis grinned. “In Pelpel life is very quiet. This is the most real race we have. This is how we pass the time in Pelpel. The people of Pelpel understand what is real and what is not real, better than you think.”

  “How—often do you have a race?”

  “Whenever we need it. Perhaps every two, three months. Sometimes more often. We did this now, in your honor.”

  “And let me win?”

  “Because you would be more popular in Pelpel,” said Panagiotis. “You did not have many friends here. Now everyone is your friend in Pelpel.”

  “Except Sotomayor,” I said.

  And just then, as if on cue, Sotomayor and his cronies entered the tavern. There was a black gleam in Sotomayor’s eyes that I hope never to see again anywhere. He looked at me with loathing and at his brother-in-law with absolute rage, and said something quick and curt in Spanish that I could not understand but which made a sound like the spitting out of teeth. He pointed to me, to Panagiotis, to the microphone. It was very quiet in the cantina. The pharmacist, Mendoza, laughed nervously, but it did not break the tension.

  “You have made me a fool,” said Sotomayor to Panagiotis.

  The Greek replied, “Only a fool can make a fool. But here, Ramon. Let us drink together and make amends.”

  He swung around and picked up the bottle of pisco. When he turned back to face the rest of us, a small shiny snub-nosed pistol had appeared in Sotomayor’s hand, and Panagiotis’ mouth made a silent little O of amazement, and Sotomayor shot him once, drilling a small startling hole in the center of the Greek’s broad, sloping freckled forehead.

  Aguirre put a thick wad of hundred-peso notes into my hand. I had won my bet with Sotomayor, after all. Then he and Mendoza and Nuñez de Prado and Ramon Sotomayor turned and walked out of the bar, leaving me alone with the dead Panagiotis.

  Britton paused and poured the last of the chenin blanc into my glass and his. Night had fallen over Santa Barbara and the lights of boats sparkled in the marina and I heard distant foghorns. After a moment Britton said, “The next morning I packed up my Copiapoas and left town. The Plaza was absolutely deserted, and the only traces of the events of the night before were the shreds and tatters of the colored streamers. I never found out what happened to Sotomayor. And now, I suppose, they have some other way of passing the time in Pelpel.”

  The Palace at Midnight

  I live just across the bay from San Francisco, which is probably the most beautiful city in the United States, and which also has a well-deserved reputation for eccentricity going back to its earliest Gold Rush days. Much of what goes on in San Francisco strikes me as amusing, though some of it seems downright silly, and a lot of it (the endless political demonstrations, for example) causes real inconvenience for its residents. But since I don’t actually live in the city, just nearby, and can enjoy its beauty, its restaurants, and its cultural advantages without having to get entangled very often in its politics, the wilder antics of the San Franciscans rarely have much direct impact on my life and I can afford to look upon the place with some degree of affection and tolerance, however exasperating the behavior of its citizens may be. I think that attitude shows through in “The Palace at Midnight,” which was yet another of the stories I wrote during my productive autumn of 1980 and sold to Robert Sheckley in the final months of his tenure as fiction editor of Omni, where it was published in the issue of July, 1981.

  ——————

  The foreign minister of the Empire of San Francisco was trying to sleep late. Last night had been a long one, a wild if not particularly gratifying party at the baths, too much to drink, too much to smoke, and he had seen the dawn come up like thunder out of Oakland ’crost the bay. Now the telephone was ringing. He integrated the first couple of rings nicely into his dream, but the next one began to undermine his slumber, and the one after that woke him up. He groped for the receiver and, eyes still closed, managed to croak, “Christensen here.”

  “Tom, are you awake? You don’t sound awake. It’s Morty.”

  The undersecretary for external affairs. Christensen sat up, rubbed his eyes, ran his tongue around his lips. Daylight was streaming into the room. His cats were glaring at him from the doorway. The little Siamese pawed daintily at her empty bowl and looked up expectantly.

  “Tom?”

  “I’m up, I’m up! What is it, Morty?”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you. How was I supposed to know, one in the afternoon—”

  “What is it, Morty?”

  “We got a call from Monterey. There’s an ambassador on the way up and you’ve got to meet with her.”

  The foreign minister worked hard at clearing the fog from his brain. He was thirty-nine years old and all-night parties took more out of him than they once had.

  “You do it, Morty.”

  “You know I would, Tom. But I can’t. You’ve got to handle this one yourself. It’s prime.”

  “Prime? What kind of prime? Like a great dope deal? Or are they declaring war on us?”

  “How would I know the details? The call came in and they said it was prime, Ms. Sawyer must confer with Mr. Christensen. It wouldn’t involve dope, Tom. And it can’t be war, either. Shit, why would Monterey want to make war on us? They’ve only got but ten soldiers, I bet, unless they’re drafting the Chicanos out of the Salinas calabozo, and—”

  “All right.” Christensen’s head was buzzing. “Go
easy on the chatter, okay? Where am I supposed to meet her?”

  “Berkeley.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She won’t come into the city. She thinks it’s too dangerous over here.”

  “What do we do, kill ambassadors and barbecue them? She’ll be safe here and she knows it.”

  “I talked to her. She thinks the city’s too crazy. She’ll go as far as Berkeley, but that’s it.”

  “Tell her to go to hell.”

  “Tom, Tom—”

  Christensen sighed. “Where in Berkeley will she be?”

  “The Claremont, at half past four.”

  “Jesus,” Christensen said. “How did you get me into this? All the way across to the East Bay to meet a lousy ambassador from Monterey! Let her come to San Francisco. This is the Empire, isn’t it? They’re only a stinking republic. Am I supposed to swim over to Oakland every time an envoy shows up and wiggles a finger? Some bozo from Fresno says boo and I have to haul my ass out to the valley, eh? Where does it stop? What kind of clout do I have, anyway?”

  “Tom—”

  “I’m sorry, Morty. I don’t feel like a goddamned diplomat this morning.”

  “It isn’t morning any more, Tom. But I’d do it for you if I could.”

  “All right. All right. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You make the ferry arrangements?”

  “Ferry leaves at three-thirty. Chauffeur will pick you up at your place at three, okay?”

  “Okay.” Christensen said. “See if you can find out any more about all this and have somebody call me back in an hour with a briefing, will you?”

  He fed the cats, showered, shaved, took a couple of pills, brewed some coffee. At half past two the ministry called. Nobody had any idea what the ambassador might want. Relations between San Francisco and the Republic of Monterey were cordial just now. Ms. Sawyer lived in Pacific Grove and was a member of the Monterey Senate and that was all that was known about her. Some briefing, Christensen thought. He went downstairs to wait for his chauffeur. It was a late autumn day, bright and clear and cool. The rains hadn’t begun yet and the streets looked dusty. The foreign minister lived on Frederick Street just off Cole, in an old white Victorian with a small front porch. He settled in on the steps, feeling wide awake but surly, and a few minutes before three his car came putt-putting up, a venerable gray Chevrolet with the arms of imperial San Francisco on its doors. The driver was Vietnamese or maybe Thai. Christensen got in without a word, and off they went at an imperial velocity through the practically empty streets, down to Haight, eastward for a while, then onto Oak, up Van Ness past the palace, where at this moment the Emperor Norton VII was probably taking his imperial nap, and along Geary through downtown to the ferry slip. The stump of the Bay Bridge glittered magically against the sharp blue sky. A small power cruiser was waiting for him. Christensen was silent during the slow dull voyage. A chill wind cut through the Golden Gate and made him huddle into himself. He stared broodingly at the low rounded East Bay hills, dry and brown from a long summer of drought, and thought about the permutations of fate that had transformed an adequate architect into the barely competent foreign minister of this barely competent little nation. The Empire of San Francisco, one of the early emperors had said, is the only country in history that was decadent from the day it was founded.

  At the Berkeley marina Christensen told the ferry skipper, “I don’t know what time I’ll be coming back, so no sense waiting. I’ll phone in when I’m ready to go.”

  Another imperial car took him up the hillside to the sprawling nineteenth-century splendor of the Hotel Claremont, that vast antiquated survivor of all the cataclysms. It was seedy now, the grounds a jungle, ivy almost to the tops of the palm trees, and yet it still looked fit to be a palace, hundreds of rooms, magnificent banquet halls. Christensen wondered how often it had guests. There wasn’t much tourism these days.

  In the parking plaza outside the entrance was a single car, a black-and-white California Highway Patrol job, that had been decorated with the insignia of the Republic of Monterey, a contorted cypress tree and a sea otter. A uniformed driver lounged against it. “I’m Christensen,” he told the man.

  “You the foreign minister?”

  “I’m not the Emperor Norton.”

  “Come on. She’s waiting in the bar.”

  Ms. Sawyer stood up as he entered—a slender dark-haired woman of about thirty, with cool green eyes—and he flashed her a quick, professionally cordial smile, which she returned just as professionally. He did not feel at all cordial.

  “Senator Sawyer,” he said. “I’m Tom Christensen.”

  “Glad to know you.” She pivoted and gestured toward the huge picture window that ran the length of the bar. “I just got here. I’ve been admiring the view. It’s been years since I’ve been in the Bay Area.”

  He nodded. From the cocktail lounge one could see the slopes of Berkeley, the bay, the ruined bridges, the still imposing San Francisco skyline. Very nice. They took seats by the window and he beckoned to a waiter, who brought them drinks.

  “How was your drive up?” Christensen asked.

  “No problems. We got stopped for speeding in San Jose, but I got out of it. They could see it was an official car and they stopped us anyway.”

  “The bastards. They love to look important.”

  “Things haven’t been good between Monterey and San Jose all year. They’re spoiling for trouble.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” Christensen said.

  “We think they want to annex Santa Cruz. Naturally we can’t put up with that. Santa Cruz is our buffer.”

  He said sharply, “Is that what you came here for, to ask our help against San Jose?”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Are you in a hurry, Mr. Christensen?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You sound awfully impatient. We’re still making preliminary conversation, having a drink, two diplomats playing the diplomatic game. Isn’t that so?”

  “Well?”

  “I was telling you what happened to me on the way north. In response to your question. Then I was filling you in on current political developments. I didn’t expect you to snap at me like that.”

  “Did I snap?”

  “It sounded like snapping to me,” she said.

  Christensen took a deep pull of his bourbon and water and gave her a long steady look. She met his gaze imperturbably. She looked annoyed, amused and very very tough. After a time, when some of the red haze of irrational anger and fatigue had cleared from his mind, he said quietly, “I had about four hours sleep last night and I wasn’t expecting an envoy from Monterey today. I’m tired and edgy, and if I sounded impatient or harsh or snappish, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I understand.”

  “Another bourbon or two and I’ll be properly unwound.” He held his empty glass toward the hovering waiter. “A refill for you, too?” he asked her.

  “Yes. Please.” In a formal tone she said, “Is the Emperor in good health?”

  “Not bad. He hasn’t really been well for a couple of years, but he’s holding his own. And President Morgan?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Hunting wild boar in Big Sur this week.”

  “A nice life it must be, President of Monterey. I’ve always liked Monterey. So much quieter and cleaner and more sensible down there than in San Francisco.”

  “Too quiet sometimes. I envy you the excitement here.”

  “Yes. The rapes, the muggings, the arson, the mass meetings, the race wars, the—”

  “Please,” she said gently.

  He realized he had begun to rant. There was a throbbing behind his eyes. He worked to gain control of himself.

  “Did my voice get too loud?”

  “You must be terribly tired. Look, we can confer in the morning if you’d prefer. It isn’t that urgent. Suppose we have dinner and not talk politics at all and get rooms here, and tomorrow after breakfast we can—”

 
“No,” Christensen said. “My nerves are a little ragged, that’s all. But I’ll try to be more civil. And I’d rather not wait until tomorrow to find out what this is all about. Suppose you give me a précis of it now, and if it sounds too complicated, I’ll sleep on it and we can discuss it in detail tomorrow. Yes?”

  “All right.” She put her drink down and sat quite still, as if arranging her thoughts. At length she said, “The Republic of Monterey maintains close ties with the Free State of Mendocino. I understand that Mendocino and the Empire broke off relations a little while back.”

  “A fishing dispute; nothing major.”

  “But you have no direct contact with them right now. Therefore this should come as news to you. The Mendocino people have learned, and have communicated to our representative there, that an invasion of San Francisco is imminent.”

  Christensen blinked twice. “By whom?”

  “The Realm of Wicca,” she said.

  “Flying down from Oregon on their broomsticks?”

  “Please. I’m being serious.”

  “Unless things have changed up there,” Christensen said, “the Realm of Wicca is nonviolent, like all the neopagan states. As I understand it, they tend their farms and practice their little pagan rituals and do a lot of dancing around the maypole and chanting and screwing, and that’s it. You expect me to believe that a bunch of gentle goofy witches is going to make war on the Empire?”

  She said, “Not war. But definitely an invasion.”

  “Explain.”

  “One of their high priests has proclaimed San Francisco a holy place and has instructed them to come down here and build a Stonehenge in Golden Gate Park in time for proper celebration of the winter solstice. There are at least a quarter of a million neopagans in the Willamette Valley and more than half of them are expected to take part. According to our Mendocino man, the migration has already begun, and thousands of Wiccans are spread out between Mount Shasta and Ukiah right now. The solstice is only seven weeks away. The Wiccans may be gentle, but you’re going to have a hundred fifty thousand of them in San Francisco by the end of the month, pitching tents all over town.”