The Palace at Midnight - 1980–82 - The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg Volume Five

by Robert Silverberg

  “Holy Jesus,” Christensen muttered.

  “Can you feed that many strangers? Can you find room for them? Will San Franciscans meet them with open arms? Do you think it’ll be a love festival?”

  “It’ll be a fucking massacre,” Christensen said tonelessly.

  “Yes. The witches may be nonviolent, but they know how to practice self-defense. Once they’re attacked, there’ll be rivers of blood, and it won’t all be Wiccan blood.”

  Christensen’s head was pounding again. She was absolutely right: chaos, strife, bloodshed. And a merry Christmas to all. He rubbed his aching forehead, turned away from her, and stared out at the deepening twilight and the sparkling lights of the city on the other side of the bay. A bleak, bitter depression was taking hold of his spirit. He signaled for another round of drinks. Then he said slowly, “They can’t be allowed to enter the city. We’ll need to close the imperial frontier and turn them back before they get as far as Santa Rosa. Let them build their goddamned Stonehenge in Sacramento if they like.” His eyes flickered. He started to assemble ideas. “The Empire might just have enough troops to contain the Wiccans by itself, but I think this is best handled as a regional problem. We’ll call in forces from our allies as far out as Petaluma and Napa and Palo Alto. I don’t imagine we can expect much help from the Free State or from San Jose. And of course Monterey isn’t much of a military power, but still—”

  “We are willing to help you,” Ms. Sawyer said.

  “To what extent?”

  “We aren’t set up for much actual warfare, but we have access to our own alliances from Salinas down to Paso Robles, and we could call up, say, five thousand troops all told. Would that help?”

  “That would help,” Christensen said.

  “It shouldn’t be necessary for there to be any combat. With the imperial border sealed and troops posted along the line from Guerneville to Sacramento, the Wiccans won’t force the issue. They’ll revise their revelation and celebrate the solstice somewhere else.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think you’re right.” He leaned toward her and said, “Why is Monterey willing to help us?”

  “We have problems of our own brewing—with San Jose. If we are seen making a conspicuous gesture of solidarity with the Empire, it might discourage San Jose from proceeding with its notion of annexing Santa Cruz. That amounts to an act of war against us. Surely San Jose isn’t interested in making any moves that will bring the Empire down on its back.”

  She wasn’t subtle, but she was effective. Quid pro quo, we help you keep the witches out, you help us keep San Jose in line, and all remains well without a shot being fired. These goddamned little nations, he thought, these absurd jerkwater sovereignties, with their wars and alliances and shifting confederations. It was like a game, like playground politics. Except that it was real. What had fallen apart was not going to be put back together, not for a long while, and this miniaturized Weltpolitik was the realest reality there was just now. At least things were saner in Northern California than they were down south where Los Angeles was gobbling everything and there were rumors that Pasadena had the Bomb. Nobody had to contend with that up here.

  Christensen said, “I’ll have to propose all this to the Defense Ministry, of course. And get the Emperor’s approval. But basically I’m in agreement with your thinking.”

  “I’m so pleased.”

  “And I’m very glad that you took the trouble to travel up from Monterey to make these matters clear to us.”

  “Merely a case of enlightened self-interest,” Ms. Sawyer said.

  “Mmm. Yes.” He found himself studying the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the delicate arch of her eyebrows. Not only was she cool and competent, Christensen thought, but now that the business part of their meeting was over, he was coming to notice that she was a very attractive woman and that he was not as tired as he had thought he was. Did international politics allow room for a little recreational hanky-panky? Metternich hadn’t jumped into bed with Talleyrand, nor Kissinger with Indira Gandhi, but times had changed, after all, and—no. No. He choked off that entire line of thought. In these shabby days they might all be children playing at being grown-ups, but nevertheless international politics still had its code, and this was a meeting of diplomats, not a blind date or a singles-bar pickup. You will sleep in your own bed tonight, he told himself, and you will sleep alone.

  All the same he said, “It’s past six o’clock. Shall we have dinner together before I go back to the city?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “I don’t know much about Berkeley restaurants. We’re probably better off eating right here.”

  “I think that’s best,” she said.

  They were the only ones in the hotel’s enormous dining room. A staff of three waited on them as if they were the most important people who had ever dined there. And dinner turned out to be quite decent, he thought—calamari and abalone and sand dabs and grilled thresher shark, washed down with a dazzling bottle of Napa Chardonnay. Even though the world had ended, it remained possible to eat very well in the Bay Area, and the breakdown of society had not only reduced maritime pollution but also made local seafood much more readily available for local consumption. There wasn’t much of an export trade possible with eleven heavily guarded national boundaries and eleven sets of customs barriers between San Francisco and Los Angeles.

  Dinner conversation was light, relaxed—diplomatic chitchat, gossip about events in remote territories, reports about the Voodoo principality expanding out of New Orleans and the Sioux conquests in Wyoming and the Prohibition War now going on in what used to be Kentucky. There was a bison herd again on the Great Plains, she said, close to a million head. He told her what he had heard about the Suicide People, who ruled between San Diego and Tijuana, and about King Barnum & Bailey III, who governed in northern Florida with the aid of a court of circus freaks. She smiled and said, “How can they tell the freaks from the ordinary people? The whole world’s a circus now, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head and replied, “No, a zoo,” and he beckoned the waiter for more wine. He did not ask her about internal matters in Monterey, and she tactfully stayed away from the domestic problems of the Empire of San Francisco. He was feeling easy, buoyant, a little drunk, more than a little drunk; to have to answer questions now about the little rebellion that had been suppressed in Sausalito or the secessionist thing in Walnut Creek would only be a bringdown, and bad for the digestion.

  About half past eight he said, “You aren’t going back to Monterey tonight, are you?”

  “God, no! It’s a five-hour drive, assuming no more troubles with the San Jose Highway Patrol. And the road’s so bad below Watsonville that only a lunatic would drive it at night. I’ll stay at the Claremont.”

  “Good. Let me put it on the imperial account.”

  “That isn’t necessary. We—”

  “The hotel is always glad to oblige the government and its guests.”

  Ms. Sawyer shrugged. “Very well. We’ll reciprocate when you come to Monterey.”

  “Fine.”

  And then her manner suddenly changed. She shifted in her seat and fidgeted and played with her silverware, looking awkward and ill at ease. Some new and big topic was obviously about to be introduced, and Christensen guessed that she was going to ask him to spend the night with her. In a fraction of a second he ran through all the possible merits and demerits of that, and came out on the plus side, and had his answer ready when she said, “Tom, can I ask a big favor?”

  Which threw him completely off balance. Whatever was coming, it certainly wasn’t what he was expecting.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’d like an audience with the Emperor.”

  “What?”

  “Not on official business. I know the Emperor talks business only with his ministers and privy councillors. But I want to see him, that’s all.” Color came to her cheeks. “Doesn’t it sound silly? But it’s something I’ve alwa
ys dreamed of, a kind of adolescent fantasy. To be in San Francisco, to be shown into the imperial throne room, to kiss his ring, all that pomp and circumstance. I want it, Tom. Just to be there, to see him. Do you think you could manage that?”

  He was astounded. The facade of cool, tough competence had dropped away from her, revealing unanticipated absurdity. He did not know what to answer.

  She said, “Monterey’s such a poky little place. It’s just a town. We call ourselves a republic, but we aren’t much of anything. And I call myself a senator and a diplomat, but I’ve never really been anywhere. San Francisco two or three times when I was a girl, San Jose a few times. My mother was in Los Angeles once, but I haven’t been anywhere. And to go home saying that I had seen the Emperor—” Her eyes sparkled. “You’re really taken aback, aren’t you? You thought I was all ice and microprocessors, and instead I’m only a hick, right? But you’re being very nice. You aren’t even laughing at me. Will you get me an audience with the Emperor for tomorrow?”

  “I thought you were afraid to go into San Francisco.”

  She looked abashed. “That was just a ploy. To make you come over here, to get you to take me seriously and put yourself out a little. The diplomatic wiles. I’m sorry about that. The word was that you were snotty, that you had to be met with strength or you’d be impossible to deal with. But you aren’t like that at all. Tom, I want to see the Emperor. He does give audiences, doesn’t he?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I suppose it could be done.”

  “Oh, would you? Tomorrow?”

  “Why wait for tomorrow?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Not at all,” Christensen said. “This is San Francisco. The Emperor keeps weird hours just like the rest of us. I’ll phone over there and see if we can be received.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid it won’t be what you’re expecting.”

  “What do you mean? In what way?”

  “The pomp, the circumstance. You’re going to be disappointed. You may be better off not meeting him, actually. Stick to your fantasy of imperial majesty. Seriously, I’ll get you an audience if you insist, but I don’t think it’s a great idea.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “No.”

  “I still want to see him. Regardless.”

  He left the dining room and, with misgivings, began arranging things. The telephone system was working sluggishly that evening, and it took him fifteen minutes to set the whole thing up, but there were no serious obstacles. He returned to her and said, “The ferry will pick us up at the marina in about an hour. There’ll be a car waiting on the San Francisco side. The Emperor will be available for viewing around midnight. I tell you that you’re not going to enjoy this. The Emperor is old and he’s been sick; he isn’t a very interesting person to meet.”

  “All the same,” she said. “The one thing I wanted, when I volunteered to be the envoy, was an imperial audience. Please don’t discourage me.”

  “As you wish. Shall we have another drink?”

  “How about these instead?” She produced an enameled cigarette case. “Humboldt County’s finest. Gift of the Free State.”

  He smiled and nodded and took the joint from her. It was elegantly manufactured, fine cockleshell paper, gold monogram, igniter cap, even a filter. Everything else has come apart, he thought, but the technology of marijuana is at its highest point in history. He flicked the cap, took a deep drag, passed it to her. The effect was instantaneous, a new high cutting through the wooze of bourbon and wine and brandy already in his brain, clearing it, expanding his limp and sagging soul. When they were finished with it, they floated out of the hotel. His driver and hers were still waiting in the parking lot. Christensen dismissed his, and they took the Republic of Monterey car down the slopes of Berkeley to the marina. The boat from San Francisco was late. They stood around shivering at the ferry slip for twenty minutes, peering bleakly across at the glittering lights of the far-off city. Neither of them was dressed for the nighttime chill, and he was tempted to pull her close and hold her in his arms, but he did not. There was a boundary he was not yet willing to cross. Hell, he thought, I don’t even know her first name.

  It was nearly eleven by the time they reached San Francisco.

  An official car was parked at the pier. The driver hopped out, saluting, bustling about—one of those preposterous little civil-service types, doubtless keenly honored to be taxiing bigwigs around late at night. He wore the red-and-gold uniform of the imperial dragoons, a little frayed at one elbow. The car coughed and sputtered and reluctantly lurched into life, up Market Street to Van Ness and then north to the palace. Ms. Sawyer’s eyes were wide and she stared at the ancient high-rises along Van Ness as if they were cathedrals.

  When they came to the Civic Center area, she gasped, obviously overwhelmed by the majesty of everything, the shattered hulk of the Symphony Hall, the Museum of Modern Art, the great dome of City Hall, and the Imperial Palace itself, awesome, imposing, a splendid, many-columned building that long ago had been the War Memorial Opera House. With the envoy from the Republic of Monterey at his elbow, Christensen marched up the steps of the palace and through the center doors into the lobby, where a great many of the ranking ministers and plenipotentiaries of the Empire were assembled. “How absolutely marvelous,” Ms. Sawyer murmured. Smiling graciously, bowing, nodding, Christensen pointed out the notables, the defense minister, the minister of finance, the minister of suburban affairs, the chief justice, the minister of transportation.

  Precisely at midnight there was a grand flourish of trumpets and the door to the throne room opened. Christensen offered Ms. Sawyer his arm; together they made the long journey down the center aisle and up the ramp to the stage, where the imperial throne, a resplendent thing of rhinestones and foil, glittered brilliantly under the spotlights. Ms. Sawyer was wonderstruck. She pointed toward the six gigantic portraits suspended high over the stage and whispered a question, and Christensen replied, “The first six emperors. And here comes the seventh one.”

  “Oh,” she gasped. But was it awe, surprise, or disgust?

  He was in his full regalia, the scarlet robe, the bright green tunic with ermine trim, the gold chains. But he was wobbly and tottering, a clumsy, staggering figure, gray-faced and feeble, supported on one side by Mike Schiff, the Imperial Chamberlain, and on the other by the Grand Sergeant-at-Arms, Terry Coleman. He was not so much leaning on them as being dragged by them. Bringing up the rear of the procession were two sleek, pretty boys, one black and one Chinese, carrying the orb, the scepter and the massive crown. Ms. Sawyer’s fingers tightened on Christensen’s forearm, and he heard her catch her breath as the Emperor, in the process of being lowered into his throne, went boneless and nearly spilled to the floor. Somehow the Imperial Chamberlain and the Grand Sergeant-at-Arms settled him properly in place, balanced the crown on his head, and stuffed the orb and scepter into his trembling hands. “His Imperial Majesty, Norton the Seventh of San Francisco!” cried Mike Schiff in a magnificent voice that went booming up into the highest balcony. The Emperor giggled.

  “Come on,” Christensen whispered, and led her forward.

  The old man was really in terrible shape. It was weeks since Christensen last had seen him, and by now he looked like something dragged from the crypt, slack-jawed, drooling, vacant-eyed, utterly burned out. The envoy from Monterey seemed to draw back, tense and rigid, repelled, unable or unwilling to go closer, but Christensen persisted, urging her onward until she was no more than a dozen feet from the throne. A sickly-sweet, vaguely familiar odor emanated from the old man.

  “What do I do?” she asked, panicking.

  “When I introduce you, go forward, curtsy if you know how, touch the orb. Then step back. That’s all.”

  She nodded.

  Christensen said, “Your Majesty, the ambassador from the Republic of Monterey, Senator Sawyer, to pay her respects.”

  Trembling, she went to him, curtseyed, touched the o
rb. As she backed away she nearly fell, but Christensen came smoothly forward and steadied her. The Emperor giggled again, a shrill, horrific cackle. Slowly, carefully, Christensen guided the shaken Ms. Sawyer from the stage.

  “How long has he been like that?” she asked.

  “Two years, three, maybe more. Completely senile. Not even housebroken anymore. You could probably tell. I’m sorry. I told you you’d be better off skipping this. I’m enormously sorry, Ms.—Ms.—what’s your first name, anyway?”

  “Elaine.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Elaine. Yes?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  She was shivering. He walked her up the side aisle. A few of the courtiers were clambering up onto the stage now, one with a guitar, one with juggler’s clubs. The imperial giggle pierced the air again and again, becoming rasping and wild. The imperial levee would go on half the night. Emperor Norton VII was one of San Francisco’s most popular amusements.

  “Now you know,” Christensen said.

  “How does the Empire function, if the Emperor is crazy?”

  “We manage. We do our best without him. The Romans managed it with Caligula. Norton’s not half as bad as Caligula. Not a tenth. Will you tell everyone in Monterey?”

  “I think not. We believe in the power of the Empire and in the grandeur of the Emperor. Best not to disturb that faith.”

  “Quite right,” said Christensen.

  They emerged into the dark clear, cold night.

  Christensen said, “I’ll ride back to the ferry slip with you before I go home.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In the other direction. Out near Golden Gate Park.”

  She looked up at him and moistened her lips. “I don’t want to ride across the bay in the dark, alone, at this hour of the night. Is it all right if I come home with you?”

  “Sure,” he said.