Vereshchagin bowed his head, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “The Afrikaners, descendants of refugees, have mythologized the gradual descent of Earth's Republic of South Africa into multisided civil war, and to a lesser extent they have also mythologized the brutal economic oppression they suffered under the dominion of United Steel-Standard. Ironically, the same 'intolerance, petty intellectual thuggery, and political dissembling' that wrecked nearly every political movement in the old Republic of South Africa has resurrected itself here. Steen skillfully played upon the resentments of many older Afrikaners to oust Christos Claassen as head of the Reformed Nationalist party, and he and his supporters now view the next few years as their only opportunity to radically alter Suid-Afrika's direction. Unfortunately, our contact with Neighbor could not have come at a more awkward moment”
Mutaro stroked his chin. “I am of the view that an effort could be made to persuade Heer Steen to reconsider the ill advised path he has chosen.”
Vereshchagin laughed softly. “To use one of Hans's metaphors, Steen is as white as the snow that Suid-Afrika doesn't have. He is a church elder with one wife and no mistresses, and as far as I know, he even pays his taxes honestly.”
“A dangerous man has no vices.”
“His vice is lust for power.”
“And here, as in many places, lust for power is only an offense if one is detected.” Mutaro pondered this. “Has President Steen placed you under surveillance?”
It began yesterday. Several Silvershirts-members of the Suiwerheidwagte, the 'Purity Watch,’ an ostensibly separate paramilitary organization that Steen formed a year ago—rented a house across the street from me to observe my movements.”
“Heavens, how did you slip away?”
Vereshchagin smiled again. “At election time when passions are inflamed, Hans has a soldier on guard outside my door. One soldier in battledress and a face shield looks very much like any other, and my uniform still fits, so I simply exchanged places with the young man Hans sent, guarded my door for a few hours, and left in the vehicle that came to pick him up.”
Mutaro laughed very gently. “What move is next in our game?”
“For my people to leave, Steen must lose the election.”
Mutaro sighed, and his lined face, usually animated, suddenly appeared aged and haggard. “I had not anticipated this. It would be most embarrassing if you did not go. My deputy, Dr. Seki, a distinguished scientist, is available to lead the expedition, but I confess that I do not have great confidence in him. Yet President Steen dislikes and perhaps fears you. I cannot understand why he is not agreeable to having you go.”
Vereshchagin tried to smile. “Unfortunately, the price he would demand for granting permission is one I cannot pay.”
Mutaro folded his hands. “Perhaps it is a price I can afford,” he suggested
Vereshchagin shook his head emphatically. “'The Uniates distrust your government, but the Nationalists view it as the very finger of Satan. Steen plays upon these fears. Economic concessions from your government would not tempt him. If anything he would restrict trade even more. What he desires is power.”
Mutaro sighed. “It appears that Heer Smith will be the Union party presidential candidate. I am not sanguine about his chances.”
Vereshchagin nodded. “I have an alternative candidate in mind”
“Indeed. Yet, Vereshchagin-san, permit me to suggest that it would be highly unfortunate for such a delicate matter as humanity's first contact with an alien civilization to hinge upon the vagaries of what is, after all, one more colonial world. Even if Steen were to deny Imperial ships permission to enter orbit, perhaps if you and personnel you deem essential were to quietly slip off planet, deficiencies in the expedition's equipment could be made at a later point in time.”
Vereshchagin shook his head regretfully. “I cannot. If I were to do so, Steen would declare a state of emergency and initiate proceedings against anyone suspected of being involved. With proper management of the crisis, he could even impose a single-party dictatorship on this planet. I cannot allow this. I owe too much to persons who are dead.”
Mutaro, who had already compromised himself far too much to draw back, said sadly, “I respect your reverence for the dead, Vereshchagin-san, but you must not forget the duty you owe to the living. I fear that I am tiring. Perhaps Heer de Kantzow could take me back now.”
He rose and left, leaving Vereshchagin lost in thought.
Sunday (1168)
HANNES VAN DER MERWE HANDED THE DUTY ROSTER TO KLAES DE LE REY, dazzling to the eye in his silver uniform. De la Rey glanced at it. “Oscar is going to moan about having to watch Vereshchagin's house on a Saturday. He is having trouble again with his wife.”
“Change it if you like, but whoever gets stuck with a Saturday is going to moan about it.”
De la Rey's adjutant, Van der Merwe, was one of the few Suiwerheidwagte members with military experience, and De la Rey attached great weight to his opinion on technical matters. “All right” He initialed off. “I will speak to Oscar. Being head of this organization is less fun than I thought it would be.”
Van der Merwe, a pleasant man nearing his fortieth birthday, took it back. “You can have my job instead.”
“Then there would not be anyone to do mine,” De la Rey said frankly. “Are those signs ready?”
“I have one here to show you.” Van der Merwe held it up.
The Movement claims and expects total allegiance without reservation. The Movement’s strength lies in its discipline and political convictions, which bond the organization into one force. Volunteers must realize and understand the danger involved in drinking alcohol. A large body of information can be gathered by enemy forces from volunteers who drink. Volunteers are warned that drink-induced loose talk is the GREATEST POTENTIAL DANGER facing the organization, and in a military organization is SUICIDE!
“Yes, this is exactly what I want. Too many people think that the purpose of our Movement is to drink and shoot guns. Have every cell put two of them up.” De la Rey looked at Van der Merwe. “What is wrong? You look as though you don't approve.”
“You want me to speak candidly?”
“Yes, yes. Go ahead. I don't see anyone else here.”
“I am not sure that the signs will do a lot of good.”
“What do you suggest?” De la Rey trimmed a ragged fingernail. “We need to do something.”
“I don't know, Klaes. Let me think about it for a few days.”
“All right, I will wait to run it by the party heads.” De la Rey cocked his head “Is that the telephone in my office?”
He walked the length of the hall, shut the door behind him and switched on the phone. President Steen's image filled the screen. De Ia Rey saluted stiffly. “Yes, Heer President”
“I need you to watch Coldewe's officers, Klaes.” Steen looked at him sternly. “Can you do it?”
“I will need to increase the stipend. We are stretched thin watching the Uniate leaders and Vereshchagin, and we are having trouble finding new volunteers,” De Ia Rey admitted.
“The money you need will be forthcoming.”
De Ia Rey saluted again. “Yes, Heer President”
Monday (1168)
SIMON BEETJE HEARD THE TELEPHONE RING IN HIS OFFICE. He let it ring a few times with mounting apprehension. Fmally, he picked it up. “Hallo?”
“Hello, Simon. This is Hans.”
“Oh, hello, Hans, bow are you doing?”
“I'm fine. When are you going to get your phone hooked up to your computer?”
“Hans, this is a university.”
“Yes, I know-you people like being back in the Dark Ages, and if an extra twenty rand for fripperies ever showed up on one of your budget submissions, there would be the devil to pay.”
“Ah, what may I do for you, Hans?”
“Remember the list of names Anton asked you for?”
“Ye
s, scientists for the expedition.”
“Make sure the pedants on your list speak good English.”
“Hans, English has been the universal language of scientific inquiry for more tban two hundred years,” Beetje said with wounded dignity.
“A lot of people who can puzzle through technical articles can't necessarily speak it When you have the list, don't give it to Anton. His phone is being tapped. Give it to me instead”
“His phone is being tapped?” Simon felt his chest beginning to constrict. “Hans, what is going on?” He heard Coldewe chuckle.
“Politics, as usual. Steen is about to portray the expedition as an Imperial plot, so any preparations we make have to be made quietly. Things are getting interesting.”
“Hans, I- “
“I might mention that there's a rally starting up in about an hour beside the founder's statue,” Coldewe continued. “It seems that word got out that one of the university's newly appointed trustees is pressuring the library to cut back on off-planet purchases--the word censorship comes to mind-and your students and a few of their teachers are more than a little riled”
“Couldn't you have left the university aside?” Beetje asked, surprising himself with his own bitterness.
Coldewe laughed aloud. “We haven't even started playing rough yet In case you haven't been paying attention, in places like Boksburg, the Silvershirts are holding their rallies in front of businesses that don't ante up contributions. Some places call that extortion. This isn't shaping up as just another election.”
“Ah, Hans. I need to think. About things.”
“Simon,” Coldewe said quietly, “when I was a lieutenant and you were a weedy young thing, I remember Raul talked you out of enlisting in one of the reserve platoons because be figured you'd do Suid-Afrika more good as a professor than as a rifleman. I hope he didn't screw up. Give me the list. Or don't, but don't expect me to understand. In wartime, people look down on neutrals.”
Beetje heard the phone click on the other end
Tuesday (1168)
VERESHCHAGIN SETILED INTO AN OVERSTUFFED CHAIR. “THANK YOU for meeting with me, Adriaan. I greatly appreciate it”
“You should.” Prinsloo Adriaan Smith, Lord Mayor of Johannesburg and de facto Union party bead, puffed placidly on his pipe, his unruly hair standing straight up in patches. “I have already had two of my colleagues ask me not to. You have become ‘controversial.’ Idiots! Are you under Silvershirt
surveillance?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Steen is too shrewd to raise a question in the Assembly about my meeting with you because then he would have to explain how he knew.” Smith puffed away. “Thirty-five days until elections--Commissioner Mutaro's timing is terrible. Well, what would you like to have from me, a promise to back the expedition if we win? You have that. for what it is worth, which is little.”
“Who will your presidential candidate be, Adriaan?”
“Me, I suppose.” The former journalist turned politician shrugged. “A party caucus Thursday night will formalize it. We had to run McClausland last time around or risk having the cowboys bolt the party, which makes it my tum, but the truth is, it has been too many years in coming. I am an old man, and my party is fast becoming an old man's party. The man we should be running is Denoon.”
“Who is dead,” Vereshchagin pointed out.
“Yes, and you always thought there was something suspicious about the accident.”
“They covered their tracks well.”
“None of the other youngsters is nearly as promising.” Smith absently tried to brush down a stray lock of hair. “We need Albert back, God help us. Albert as a dead hero is considerably less valuable than Albert alive.”
“This election frightens me, Adriaan.”
“Perhaps it should frighten all of us,” Smith said indifferently.
Vereshchagin scrutinized Prinsloo Smith's face for its usual enthusiasm and found it lacking. “What do the polls say?” he asked quietly.
“Steen looks and acts like a president, and with the economy doing well, many people will vote for him for no better reason. Former Senior Censor Ssu tells me that my candidacy has serious problems, and that any controversy is likely to make it worse. So yes, I will run. Can I win?” Smith shrugged. “We can't run a cowboy, and there isn't an Afrikaner in the party worthy of the effort Would you like to run? We could not do worse.”
“I have another solution. Run Rikki Sanmartin for president” Smith's pipe went out “Dear God, what a gamble!” he said in a hoarse voice.
Vereshchagin waited.
“What was that toast you quoted me once?” Prinsloo Adriaan Smith, the Lord Mayor of Johannesburg, asked in a sad voice.
“Montrose's toast. 'He either fears his fate too much/Or his desserts are small/Who fears to put it to the touch/To win or lose it all.' “
“Yes, that was it,” Smith said in a soft, sad, satisfied voice. “It would pay all of our debts, wouldn't it? What does Rikki think about this?”
“I hoped that you would ask her,” Vereshchagin confessed.
“I should, shouldn't I? No, stay there.” Smith reached for the phone. “She will know whose idea this was, and she might as well get both of us at once.” He chuckled. “Seeing how much Steen has already paid for commercials attacking me, be will be annoyed!”
He waited for the phone to ring. “Hallo, Betje. Yes, I'm doing fine. Put Rikki on, I want her to run for president . . . . Hallo, Rikki? Congratulations. You are running for president. Put on something dowdy so that I can take you around to talk to the party leaders who will be dragooned into voting for you. Think of it as studying a different class of invertebrate.” He paused to listen. He looked up at Vereshchagin. “She wants to talk to you.”
SIX LONG HOURS LATER, HENDRICKA SANMARTIN SHUT THE door behind her, flung her handbag at the wall, and plopped her self down in a chair.
Her foster mother, Betje Beyers, looked at her sympathetically. “It went well?”
“McClausland was the worst!” Rildd announced. “He offered me a candy bar.”
“I hope that you did not hurt your hand when you hit him,”Beyers said in her strongly accented English.
“I was polite. Adriaan was standing on my foot at the time. Am I too young?”
Betje Beyers laughed, very softly. “Not at all. You have not been young for a very long time. Remember when you were five and you told me that you were too old to play with dolls? Of course, it surprised us when you burned them in the yard, and you frightened the neighbors. Have you started thinking about your campaign yet?”
“I will need a campaign manager.”
Betje Beyers laughed. “Not me! I am going to be your treasurer.” She looked at her foster daughter shrewdly and picked up the phone. “Hallo, Matti? This is Betje Beyers. You are taking
my daughter to dinner tonight”
“Dinner theater,” Rikki said promptly.
“Dinner theater,” Betje corrected herself, “so be here at 6:30.” She looked up at the clock. “'That will give you two hours to find out what is up.”
THE THEATER WAS BEGINNING TO FILL WHEN SANMARTIN AND Harjalo arrived. Harjalo, Anton Vereshchagin 's executive officer and successor as battalion commander, was a gray-eyed Finn with a wiry frame and a moon face. He told the woman at the box office, “Colonel Harjalo and guest.”
The woman giggled and passed the tickets across. “I recognized the dent in your nose from seeing you on the news. You have table eleven. Please enjoy our show.”
Harjalo walked Rikki to their table. “I'm glad she didn't say she read about me in school.”
Rikki nudged him with her elbow. “How did you break your nose? Hand-to-hand combat?”
“In a manner of speaking. It was during a football match. What’s the show?”
“I think it is Cry of the Phalarope. Does it matter?”
Harjalo pondered this. “I suppose n
ot.”
“Thank you for taking me on such short notice,” she said demurely.
Harjalo held her chair for her. “In twenty-three years of service I learned to duck when people shoot. and not to argue with Vroew Beyers. These are good seats. Did you tell them you were Albert’s daughter?”
Rikki patted him on the arm. “I told them you were a little deaf. They were very understanding.”
Harjalo was still sputtering as she led him over to the dwindling line at the buffet table.
The buffet was braaivleis style, which meant that the meat was roasted. “Pretty awful food.” Harjalo said as he finished what he had taken.
“I squeezed in a course on theater, and Iwas told that bad food was traditional.” She held her wineglass up to the light and stared at it
“So. What is the business we need to discuss? Politics?”
She nodded. “Politics.”
“I talked to Ssu, who is still the only political analyst on this planet worth the price of damnation, and he thinks your Uniates are going to get massacred.”
She gazed into her glass with no expression on her face. “Steen and his Nationals rode the lustrance law to power. And they are still riding it. Nobody wants to admit this, but it is true.”
“I always had trouble understanding the lustrance law. Admiral Horii's intelligence people coerced lots of people into providing information, but only a handful were real traitors. Most of the information Horii got was worthless.”
“People still resent it,” Rikki said tonelessly. “They saved the lives of their loved ones. Other people died as a result.”
“Like your mother.”
“Like my mother. Albert fought the lustrance law tooth and nail and lost. He believed that stripping citizenship rights from persons who were coerced into collaborating--in the name of purity--would open wounds in our people that would take generations to heal, and he was right. Every election, the Nationals wave a bloody shirt and chant, 'No Softness on Traitors,' and people who feel strongly, people who lost relatives, vote for them as a result. But what is humorous is that people proscribed under the law give money to the Nationalist party and urge their families to vote the Nationalist ticket The Union party preaches forgiveness for them, and they elect the other party.”
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