So much, he thought, for Flere-Imsaho; so much for Contact's supposedly flawless planning and stupendous cunning. Their juvenile representative didn't even bother to hang around and do its job properly; it preferred to hide, nursing its pathetic self-esteem. Gurgeh knew enough about the way the Empire worked to realise that it wouldn't let such things happen; its people knew what duties and orders meant, and they took their responsibilities seriously, or, if they didn't, they suffered for it.
They did as they were told; they had discipline.
Eventually, after the three officers had talked amongst themselves for a while, and then to their ship again, they left him and went to inspect the module hangar. When they'd gone, Gurgeh used his terminal to ask the ship what they'd been arguing about.
"They wanted to bring some more personnel and equipment over," the Limiting Factor told him. "I told them they couldn't. Nothing to worry about. You'd better get your stuff together and go to the module hangar; I'll be heading out of imperial space within the hour."
Gurgeh turned to head towards his cabin. "Wouldn't it be terrible," he said, "if you forgot to tell Flere-Imsaho you were going, and I had to visit Eä all by myself." He was only half joking.
"It would be unthinkable," the ship said.
Gurgeh passed the remote-drone in the corridor, spinning slowly in mid-air and bobbing erratically up and down. "And is this really necessary?" he asked it.
"Just doing what I'm told," the drone replied testily.
"Just overdoing it," Gurgeh muttered, and went to pack his things.
As he packed, a small parcel fell out of a cloak he hadn't worn since he'd left Ikroh; it bounced on the soft floor of the cabin. He picked it up and opened the ribbon-tied packet, wondering who it might be from; anyone of several ladies on the Little Rascal, he imagined.
It was a thin bracelet, a model of a very broad, fully completed Orbital, its inner surface half light and half dark. Bringing it up to his eyes, he could see tiny, barely discernible pinpricks of light on the night-time half; the daylight side showed bright blue sea and scraps of land under minute cloud systems. The whole interior scene shone with its own light, powered by some source inside the narrow band.
Gurgeh slipped it over his hand; it glowed against his wrist. A strange present for somebody on a GSV to give, he thought.
Then he saw the note in the package, picked it out and read, "Just to remind you, when you're on that planet. Chamlis."
He frowned at the name, then — distantly at first, but with a growing and annoying sense of shame — remembered the night before he'd left Gevant, two years earlier.
Of course.
Chamlis had given him a present.
He'd forgotten.
"What's that?" Gurgeh said. He sat in the front section of the converted module the Limiting Factor had picked up from the GSV. He and Flere-Imsaho had boarded the little craft and said their au revoirs to the old warship, which was to stand off the Empire, waiting to be recalled. The hangar blister had rotated and the module, escorted by a couple of frigates, had fallen towards the planet while the Limiting Factor made a show of moving very slowly and hesitantly away from the gravity well with the two battlecruisers.
"What's what?" Flere-Imsaho said, floating beside him, disguise discarded and lying on the floor.
"That," Gurgeh said, pointing at the screen, which displayed the view looking straight down. The module was flying overland towards Groasnachek, Eä's capital city; the Empire didn't like vessels entering the atmosphere directly above its cities, so they'd come in over the ocean.
"Oh," Flere-Imsaho said. "That. That's the Labyrinth Prison."
"A prison?" Gurgeh said. The complex of walls and long, geometrically contorted buildings slid away beneath them as the outskirts of the sprawling capital invaded the screen.
"Yes. The idea is that people who've broken laws are put into the labyrinth, the precise place being determined by the nature of the offence. As well as being a physical maze, it is constructed to be what one might call a moral and behaviouristic labyrinth as well (its external appearance offers no clues to the internal lay-out, by the way; that's just for show); the prisoner must make correct responses, act in certain approved ways, or he will get no further, and may even be put further back. In theory a perfectly good person can walk free of the labyrinth in a matter of days, while a totally bad person will never get out. To prevent overcrowding, there's a time-limit which, if exceeded, results in the prisoner being transferred for life to a penal colony."
The prison had disappeared from beneath them by the time the drone finished; the city swamped the screen instead, its swirling patterns of streets, buildings and domes like another sort of maze.
"Sounds ingenious," Gurgeh said. "Does it work?"
"So they'd have us believe. In fact it's used as an excuse for not giving people a proper trial, and anyway the rich just bribe their way out. So yes, as far as the rulers are concerned, it works."
The module and the two frigates touched down at a huge shuttleport on the banks of a broad, muddy, much bridged river, still some distance from the centre of the city but surrounded by medium-rise buildings and low geodesic domes. Gurgeh walked out of the craft with Flere-Imsaho — in its fake antique guise, humming loudly and crackling with static — at his side; he found himself standing on a huge square of synthetic grass which had been unrolled up to the rear of the module. Standing on the grass were perhaps forty or fifty Azadians in various styles of uniform and clothing. Gurgeh, who'd been trying hard to work out how to recognise the various sexes, reckoned they were mostly of the intermediate or apex sex, with only a smattering of males and females; beyond them stood several lines of identically uniformed males, carrying weapons. Behind them, another group played rather strident and brash-sounding music.
"The guys with the guns are just the honour guard," Flere-Imsaho said through its disguise. "Don't be alarmed."
"I'm not," Gurgeh said. He knew this was how things were done in the Empire; formally, with official welcoming parties composed of imperial bureaucrats, security guards, officials from the games organisations, associated wives and concubines, and people representing news-agencies. One of the apices strode forward towards him. "This one is addressed as «sir» in Eächic," Flere-Imsaho whispered. "What?" Gurgeh said. He could hardly hear the machine's voice over the humming noise it was making. It was buzzing and crackling loud enough to all but drown the sound of the ceremonial band, and the static the drone was producing made Gurgeh's hair stick out on one side.
"I said, he's called sir, in Eächic," Flere-Imsaho hissed over the hum. "Don't touch him, but when he holds up one hand, you hold up two and say your bit. Remember; don't touch him."
The apex stopped just in front of Gurgeh, held up one hand and said, "Welcome to Groasnachek, Eä, in the Empire of Azad, Murat Gurgee."
Gurgeh controlled a grimace, held up both hands (to show they were empty of weapons, the old books explained) and said, "I am honoured to set foot upon the holy ground of Eä," in careful Eächic. ('Great start," muttered the drone.)
The rest of the welcoming passed in something of a daze. Gurgeh's head swam; he sweated under the heat of the bright binary overhead while he was outside (he was expected to inspect the honour guard, he knew, though quite what he was supposed to be looking for had never been explained), and the alien smells of the shuttleport buildings once they passed inside to the reception made him feel more strongly than he'd expected that he really was somewhere quite foreign. He was introduced to lots of people, again mostly apices, and sensed they were delighted to be addressed in what was apparently quite passable Eächic. Flere-Imsaho told him to do and say certain things, and he heard himself mouth the correct words and felt himself perform the acceptable gestures, but his overall impression was of chaotic movement and noisy, unlistening people — rather smelly people, too, though he was sure they thought the same of him. He also had an odd feeling that they were laughing at him, somewhere behind their fa
ces.
Apart from the obvious physical differences, the Azadians all seemed very compact and hard and determined compared to Culture people; more energetic and even — if he was going to be critical — neurotic. The apices were, anyway. From the little he saw of the males, they seemed somehow duller, less fraught and more stolid as well as being physically bulkier, while the females appeared to be quieter — somehow deeper — and more delicate-looking.
He wondered how he looked to them. He was aware he stared a little, at the oddly alien architecture and confusing interiors, as well as at the people… but on the other hand he found a lot of people — mostly apices, again — staring at him. On a couple of occasions Flere-Imsaho had to repeat what it said to him, before he realised it was talking to him. Its monotonous hum and crackling static, never far away from him that afternoon, seemed only to add to the air of dazed, dreamlike unreality.
They served food and drink in his honour; Culture and Azadian biology was close enough for a few foods and several drinks to be mutually digestible, including alcohol. He drank all they gave him, but bypassed it. They sat in a long, low shuttleport building, simply styled outside but ostentatiously furnished inside, around a long table loaded with food and drink. Uniformed males served them; he remembered not to speak to them. He found that most of the people he spoke to either talked too fast or painstakingly slowly, but struggled through several conversations nevertheless. Many people asked why he had come alone, and after several misunderstandings he stopped trying to explain he was accompanied by the drone and simply said he liked travelling by himself.
Some asked him how good he was at Azad. He replied truthfully he had no idea; the ship had never told him. He said he hoped he would be able to play well enough not to make his hosts regret they had invited him to take part. A few seemed impressed by this, but, Gurgeh thought, only in the way that adults are impressed by a respectful child.
One apex, sitting on his right and dressed in a tight, uncomfortable-looking uniform similar to those worn by the three officers who'd boarded the Limiting Factor, kept asking him about his journey, and the ship he'd made it on. Gurgeh stuck to the agreed story. The apex continually refilled Gurgeh's ornate crystal goblet with wine; Gurgeh was obliged to drink on each occasion a toast was proposed. Bypassing the liquor to avoid getting drunk meant he had to go to the toilet rather often (for a drink of water, as much as to urinate). He knew this was a subject of some delicacy with the Azadians, but he seemed to be using the correct form of words each time; nobody looked shocked, and Flere-Imsaho seemed calm.
Eventually, the apex on Gurgeh's left, whose name was Lo Pequil Monenine senior, and who was a liaison official with the Alien Affairs Bureau, asked Gurgeh if he was ready to leave for his hotel. Gurgeh said he thought that he was supposed to be staying on board the module. Pequil began to talk rather fast, and seemed surprised when Flere-Imsaho cut in, talking equally quickly. The resulting conversation went a little too rapidly for Gurgeh to follow perfectly, but the drone eventually explained that a compromise had been reached; Gurgeh would stay in the module, but the module would be parked on the roof of the hotel. Guards and security would be provided for his protection, and the catering services of the hotel, which was one of the very best, would be at his disposal.
Gurgeh thought this all sounded reasonable. He invited Pequil to come along in the module to the hotel, and the apex accepted gladly.
"Before you ask our friend what we're passing over now," Flere-Imsaho said, hovering and buzzing at Gurgeh's elbow, "that's called a shantytown, and it's where the city draws its surplus unskilled labour from."
Gurgeh frowned at the bulkily disguised drone. Lo Pequil was standing beside Gurgeh on the rear ramp of the module, which had opened to make a sort of balcony. The city unrolled beneath them. "I thought we weren't to use Marain in front of these people," Gurgeh said to the machine.
"Oh, we're safe enough here; this guy's bugged, but the module can neutralise that."
Gurgeh pointed at the shantytown. "What's that?" he asked Pequil.
"That is where people who have left the countryside for the bright lights of the big city often end up. Unfortunately, many of them are just loafers."
"Driven off the land," Flere-Imsaho added in Marain, "by an ingeniously unfair property-tax system and the opportunistic top-down reorganisation of the agricultural production apparatus."
Gurgeh wondered if the drone's last phrase meant "farms', but he turned to Pequil and said, "I see."
"What does your machine say?" Pequil inquired.
"It was quoting some… poetry," Gurgeh told the apex. "About a great and beautiful city."
"Ah." Pequil nodded; a series of upward jerks of the head. "Your people like poetry, do they?"
Gurgeh paused, then said, "Well, some do and some don't, you know?"
Pequil nodded wisely.
The wind above the city drifted in over the restraining field around the balcony, and brought with it a vague smell of burning. Gurgeh leant on the haze of field and looked down at the huge city slipping by underneath. Pequil seemed reluctant to come too near the edge of the balcony.
"Oh; I have some good news for you," Pequil said, with a smile (rolling both lips back).
"What's that?"
"My office," Pequil said, seriously and slowly, "has succeeded in obtaining permission for you to follow the progress of the Main Series games all the way to Echronedal."
"Ah; where the last few games are played."
"Why yes. It is the culmination of the full six-year Grand Cycle, on the Fire Planet itself. I assure you, you are most privileged to be allowed to attend. Guest players are rarely granted such an honour."
"I see. I am indeed honoured. I offer my sincere thanks to you and your office. When I return to my home I shall tell my people that the Azadians are a most generous folk. You have made me feel very welcome. Thank you. I am in your debt."
Pequil seemed satisfied with this. He nodded, smiled. Gurgeh nodded too, though he thought the better of attempting the smile.
"Well?"
"Well what, Jernau Gurgeh?" Flere-Imsaho said, its yellow-green fields extending from its tiny casing like the wings of some exotic insect. It laid a ceremonial robe on Gurgeh's bed. They were in the module, which now rested on the roof-garden of Groasnachek's Grand Hotel.
"How did I do?"
"You did very well. You didn't call the minister «Sir» when I told you to, and you were a bit vague at times, but on the whole you did all right. You haven't caused any catastrophic diplomatic incidents or grievously insulted anybody… I'd say that's not too bad for the first day. Would you turn round and face the reverser? I want to make sure this thing fits properly."
Gurgeh turned round and held out his arms as the drone smoothed the robe against his back. He looked at himself in the reverser field.
"It's too long and it doesn't suit me," he said.
"You're right, but it's what you have to wear for the grand ball in the palace tonight. It'll do. I might take the hem up. The module tells me it's bugged, incidentally, so watch what you say once you're outside the module's fields."
"Bugged?" Gurgeh looked at the image of the drone in the reverser.
"Position monitor and mike. Don't worry; they do this to everybody. Stand still. Yes, I think that hem needs to come up. Turn round."
Gurgeh turned round. "You like ordering me around, don't you, machine?" he said to the tiny drone.
"Don't be silly. Right. Try it on."
Gurgeh put the robe on, looked at his image in the reverser. "What's this blank patch on the shoulder for?"
"That's where your insignia would go, if you had one."
Gurgeh fingered the bare area on the heavily embroidered robe. "Couldn't we have made one up? It looks a bit bare."
"I suppose we could," Flere-Imsaho said, tugging at the robe to adjust it. "You have to be careful doing that sort of thing though. Our Azadian friends are always rather nonplussed by our lack of a flag or
a symbol, and the Culture rep here — you'll meet him tonight if he remembers to turn up — thought it was a pity there was no Culture anthem for bands to play when our people come here, so he whistled them the first song that came into his head, and they've been playing that at receptions and ceremonies for the last eight years."
"I thought I recognised one of the tunes they played," Gurgeh admitted.
The drone pushed his arms up and made some more adjustments. "Yes, but the first song that came into the guy's head was "Lick Me Out"; have you heard the lyrics?"
"Ah." Gurgeh grinned. "That song. Yes, that could be awkward."
"Damn right. If they find out they'll probably declare war. Usual Contact snafu."
Gurgeh laughed. "And I used to think Contact was so organised and efficient." He shook his head.
"Nice to know something works," the drone muttered.
"Well, you've kept this whole Empire secret seven decades; that's worked too."
"More luck than skill," Flere-Imsaho said. It floated round in front of him, inspecting the robe. "Do you really want an insignia? We could rustle some up if it'd make you feel happier."
"Don't bother."
"Right. We'll use your full name when they announce you at the ball tonight; sounds reasonably impressive. They can't grasp we don't have any real ranks, either, so you may find they use «Morat» as a kind of title." The little drone dipped to fix a stray gold-thread near the hem. "It's all to the good in the end; they're a bit blind to the Culture, just because they can't comprehend it in their own hierarchical terms. Can't take us seriously."
"What a surprise."
"Hmm. I've got a feeling it's all part of a plan; even this delinquent rep — ambassador, sorry — is part of it. You too, I think."
"You think?" Gurgeh said.
"They've built you up, Gurgeh," the drone told him, rising to head height and brushing his hair back a little. Gurgeh in turn brushed the meddlesome field away from his brow. "Contact's told the Empire you're one hot-shot game-player; they've said they reckon you can get to colonel/bishop/junior ministerial level."
The Player of Games c-2 Page 14