by Janet Morris
When he'd fumbled his dress coat from his closet, Croft said, "And what about the Leetles?"
"Leetles. Cummings isn't going to try to fight us on the Leetle Control Act. And he's accepted that the Brows' species is nonexportable."
"A pity. I rather think I'd have liked to own one."
"Mickey, you're dangerous enough as it is."
"All thanks to you, dear boy. All thanks to you."
And off they went, to the dinner held in honor of the conference attendees, in the selfsame hall where the pilgrims had completed their journey in a simulated Mecca.
Croft had been deeply worried that this dinner would turn into a fiasco. The presence of so many unbelievers in a place which had, only yesterday, been holy, combined with the hostility that the Medinans had whipped up, might have been disastrous.
But when they entered the videodrome module, it was as placid and festive as could be.
On the circular wall was projected a moving montage of scenes from the hundred worlds who'd sent representatives. The UNE emblem dominated the arched ceiling, and below the entry balcony, people were mixing and eating and chatting and drinking as if this were the most successful conference ever held on Threshold.
And well it might be, considering that, despite the difficulties, great strides had been made in human rights legislation, as well as subhuman and alien rights legislation.
Human rights were always the most difficult to agree upon, since people could hold such disparate views of right and wrong, good and bad, freedom and slavery, moral and immoral.
Their entrance was announced, and he and Remson walked down the long sweeping staircase into the middle of the crowd.
Normally, in a group as varied and thus as explosive as this, Croft entered with a stomach full of butterflies. Tonight, his stomach was settled, his lips were moist, and his heart was beating a quiet, calming rhythm.
Most of this, assuredly, was due to his faith in Remson. But some was an assessment of his own performance. He'd done a good job of keeping a lid on things. A fine job.
Beni Forat came over and told him so. And thus Croft knew that it was true, once he'd seen the capitulation on the mullah's hawk-nosed face.
"Everyone learns a thing or two, yes, Croft?" said Forat.
"We learn by listening to our own hearts," he told the leader of Medina. "Not by listening to anything else. And so what we learn can be trusted, because the source is true." Croft mentally asked forgiveness from all of mankind's philosophers for brandishing truisms in the name of diplomacy.
"Yes, that is exactly it," said Forat. "We are growing into adults, all of us. All the time."
"Generosity of spirit is never a mistake. We of Threshold applaud your decision to grant your women full and equal status with men under Medinan law."
Might as well go for the brass ring.
The hawk-faced man suddenly dropped his mask: "If you hear anything of my daughter, you will send word to me. And you will tell her that not only is all forgiven, but every woman on Medina—and every bodyguard—will bless her name as a liberator."
"I will certainly do that," Croft promised Forat. "I surely will." So that was how Forat was handling this mess, to save face. Rather neat.
Over the Medinan's shoulder, Remson wriggled his eyebrows: Did Croft want to be rescued?
Croft tugged on his earlobe, giving a sign that meant, Yes, please.
In between an Epsilonian female whose low-backed dress displayed the beads wound into the hair on her humped spine, and a Russian diplomat with a medal-spangled chest, came Remson to the rescue.
"Sir, I have someone who's been waiting to meet you, if Representative Forat will excuse us?"
Croft had thought that Vince was simply fabricating a likely excuse until he was shepherded over to Riva Lowe. She had a gaunt, youngish man with her who obviously felt a bit awkward. He had his hands in his pockets and his expression was dazed, as if he were a child wearing an itchy suit at a grown-up's party.
"Secretary General Croft, this is Captain Joseph South, the Relic test pilot who made the recording, which came in so handy, out at Spacedock Seven," Vince said, as if he had personally masterminded the entire escapade.
"I hope they've told you, these two—," Croft eyed Riva Lowe and cocked his head at Remson, "—how you saved their bacon—and mine—on this one, Captain South. It's a pleasure to have you in our service." He held out his hand and the Relic pilot pumped it briefly.
"Thank you, sir," Joseph South said in a husky voice.
Then something occurred to Croft. "He is, I hope, in some one of our services, people?"
Remson scratched behind one ear with his index finger and looked at Riva Lowe from under his brow.
"The captain's in Customs, sir," she said determinedly.
"Is that so? Well, Captain South, if there's ever anything I can do . . ."
"Yes, sir. I'd kinda like—"
The test pilot's accent was old American. It was like listening to a historical vid show. "Yes, Captain?"
"Well, my original mission was to—"
Vince Remson nearly stepped between Croft and the pilot, saying, "In case you think we dropped a stitch, Captain South, we went over that ship of yours with a fine-tooth comb when it first came in. We took a transcript. We've analyzed that transcript and filed it with other, similar data. And we're aware that the globe out at spacedock has some characteristics in common with other classified, related phenomena—"
"Globe?" South said.
"He means the ball, Joe," said Riva Lowe. And: "Classified, Vince?"
Then Croft realized what must be said: "We're putting together a study team to look at the . . . artifact in light of all previously gathered information. From what you're not saying, Vince, perhaps the captain should be on that team."
This was no place to discuss the matter further.
Riva Lowe knew that. There was a look of quiet desperation on her face that lingered until Remson said, "Mickey, I think that's a fine idea. If Riva concurs?"
"I certainly do, gentlemen. Now if you'll excuse us, I'm trying to take this opportunity to show Captain South as much as I can, while there are so many visitors on hand to give him a taste of what the UNE's really about."
The Customs director nearly dragged the Relic pilot away.
"Vince?" Croft wasn't completely sure that he'd done the right thing; anomalies were Remson's department.
"It'll be fine, Mickey. I was going to suggest it to Riva at some point anyway. South is wasted in Customs, where what he knows is useless."
"And what does he know?"
"That's what I'm going to find out. Come see how Ali-7's doing as a free citizen on his first big night out."
Croft let Remson cut yet another path through the crowd. Vince was proud of what he'd done for the Alis. And so was Croft.
Remson had a penchant for strays.
Ali-7 was proud to attest to that, when they found him.
When the ex-Medinan bodyguard said, "Lord Secretary Croft, I am calling myself Michael Ali, if you will allow this," Croft was truly touched.
"That's very flattering," he told the bodyguard. "I'm honored."
And he was. Their batting average tonight was impressive. Croft turned away from the Ali and looked above the crowd to the UNE emblem overhead.
For the first night in too many nights, Mickey Croft was beginning once more to enjoy his job. Around the UNE emblem was a starfield. He fancied he could identify uncharted reaches, places where man hadn't yet ventured.
They had it all, did the diverse races of humanity, if they could just refrain from fighting among themselves. And since it was Croft's task to keep the peace that made everything else possible, he took that task very seriously.
Too seriously, he chided himself when Richard Cummings, without a glint of rancor in his eyes, came up to tell him a joke about an Epsilonian lady and a whirlpool bath.
When he'd told the joke, Cummings said, "I want to bury the hatchet, Mickey.
Permanently. Let's try working more closely from now on."
If Cummings's declaration hadn't been prompted by the loss of his son, Mickey's triumph at that moment would have been without blemish.
But everything costs. Cooperation costs dearly. If someone had asked him, at that moment, Mickey Croft would have said the future was worth any price.
"Drink? To our future," Richard Cummings, Jr., said, as if reading Croft's mind, as a waiter came by with a tray of blue champagne.
"I'd be delighted to drink to that," Mickey Croft said, and he was.
CHAPTER 31
Aftermarket Rendezvous
Sometime after South had lost track of Riva Lowe, Lieutenant Reice came to the party and dragged him out.
"I want to talk to you, but not here," Reice said.
South was sure that the lieutenant was drunk. South was drunk. It was that blue stuff. You had to stay away from the blue stuff, South reminded himself blearily.
"Reice, where are we going?"
None of the streets they'd crossed, or this tubeway they were entering, looked familiar.
"Shortcut," Reice said. He was in civilian clothes.
"You find the freighter?" South asked when a single car whined up a levitation track and stopped before them. It opened. There was nobody else inside the little four-place car.
"Get in and don't ask questions."
South got in and Reice followed, closing the door and stabbing at the destination keypad as if he had a personal grudge against this piece of equipment.
"Did you find the freighter?" South asked again.
"Are you drunk, South?"
"Yep."
"Well, so am I," Reice said. "No, I didn't find the freighter, but I got orders to jack my butt back here, posthaste. You have anything to do with that?"
"I dunno." South was trying to blink away the extra image of Reice he was seeing. "I delivered your message, and the log. The way you said."
"That's probably what did it," said Reice morosely.
They rode along in silence.
Eventually South asked, "Where are we going?"
"Down to Blue South, the priority way."
When they got there, Reice wanted to go aboard STARBIRD and see the log again.
South said okay and they ran the log three times, until South couldn't watch it anymore. At least his vision was clearing.
"What's this?" Reice wanted to know, pointing under the console.
"Black box."
"I can see that, Captain. What kind?"
"Aftermarket, Lieutenant."
"I can see that too. What's going on here?"
"Don't get all police-like with me. That was the scavenger's box. He left it. Rernember the mission I had?"
Reice didn't.
South told Reice what he thought he should about taking the scavenger out to see the ball.
"You mean those funny colors—you saw them, too?" Reice asked.
"Yeah. It's not the first time, either." Then he remembered what Remson had said at the party about the ball being classified. Maybe he shouldn't be talking about this with Reice.
Maybe he was too drunk to talk about it.
So he told Reice about Sling instead.
Then Reice wanted to go see Sling.
"It's awful late, isn't it?"
"Depends on your sleep cycle," Reice said. "Come on. Let's take this with us."
So off they went, black box in hand. "That's Keebler's black box," South protested weakly as Reice strode toward the ConSec docking bay's kiosk. "What if he wants it back?"
"I'm not confiscating it. I just want to know how it's put together, and why it was put together that way."
South told Reice that Sling had sworn the box wouldn't work. Reice wanted to go anyway.
It wasn't until they were almost to Sling's shop in the Loader Zone that South remembered how Sling felt about "... government officials. So don't tell him you're from ConSec if you want to get anything out of him."
Reice chuckled nastily.
Reice was just a mean drunk, South decided.
And he thanked his lucky stars that Sling wasn't home. Or wouldn't open up if he was.
Reice said, "I need another drink."
South couldn't argue with that. They ended up in the bar where South had first met Sling, and Sling was sitting there, pulling on his braid.
He saw them in the mirror and turned on his bar stool: "Hey, South. Who's your friend?"
Sling never seemed to get really drunk. His eyes were on the black box that Reice held.
"Ah—Reice, meet Sling."
The two looked each other over.
"Reice wants to know what the specs are on this box," South said, easing onto the stool beside Sling's. The bartender came over, and South remembered that he'd wanted to buy Sling a blue beer. So he ended up getting three, one for each of them.
"Why do you want the specs?" Sling asked Reice point-blank. Then, to South: "Did it work?"
"Hell, no."
"Then why do you want the specs?"
"Curious."
"You've got the box," Sling observed. "Take it apart, Reice."
They drank their beers and then Sling said, "I knew it wouldn't work all along."
Reice said, "But you built it for the salvage guy anyhow?"
"He paid me good money." Sling started twirling his braid'in his fingers, as if Reice was beginning to make him nervous.
Reice could make anybody nervous.
South said, "Well, Sling, you did fine, so far as I'm concerned. And what you did on my ship—that was primo. The best. I want you to do some more . . ."
So they started talking about what could be done to STARBIRD to bring her up to date, like dropping a zero-point power plant into her.
Somewhere about the fifth blue beer, Sling promised Reice that, if he wanted to come along to the shop while South and Sling worked up a price for STARBIRD's retrofit, then Reice could open up the box on Sling's worktable.
"If that'll make you happy," Sling said to Reice.
It would, and they did.
South was feeling pretty happy himself, what with all the new goodies Sling was promising to give STARBIRD.
Well, not give, exactly. And South had to use his Customs card to pay Sling for the work, if Sling was going to get started right away.
As soon as he sobered up, South promised himself, he'd call Riva Lowe and clear it with her.
After all, STARBIRD needed to reacclimate to Threshold society as much as he did. They were going to be here a long, long time.