Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “ Mais oui, President Waa.. That I will do.”

  The lights flicked again, and we bowed again to Waa., before turning and heading toward the doors to the theatre.

  2

  Monday morning came too early, and with it came a cold mist, not quite rain, but heavier than fog. As I guided the Stanley down the drive and onto the narrow road, I could barely see the trees in Benjamin's orchard beyond the stone fence.

  “Another cold winter will we have, Johan.” Llysette shivered inside her coat.

  “You may be right.” I paused before asking, “Lunch at Delft's at quarter past?”

  “ Mais oui. That I will need.”

  “You have . . .” I couldn't remember the student she taught at eleven, only that she was the one who had no rhythm and probably wouldn't make it to her junior recital.

  “Sweet, she is, but she cannot count, even watching a metronome.” Llysette sighed.

  “You don't have so many like that anymore.”

  “ Non . . . but one, she is too many.”

  After dropping Llysette off at the music and theatre building, before putting the Stanley in the faculty car park closest to my office, I headed down to the not-quite-garish red and gold sign that marked the Shell service station. Why Columbian Dutch Petroleum had decided on the trade name of Shell, with its simplistically scalloped edges, rather than keeping the sedate and familiar Standard lamp logo after the merger between Royal Dutch and Standard had always baffled me, but I supposed it was a memorial of sorts. For a time, because of my objections to the merger, I'd gone to the AmeriSun station, but the prices were higher, and the service nonexistent.

  Almost before I turned off the burners and opened the window, Piet had the filler hose out. “Good morning, Doktor.”

  “Good morning, Piet. How is business?”

  “Not so good. Columbian Dutch raised their prices to me again, and so did Dauvaart. Bruno at AmeriSun said his prices went up more than mine. Shady types at AmeriSun, if you ask me.” The stocky station owner carefully squeezed the cleaner onto the windscreen, making sure that the liquid didn't touch the shimmering red surface of the Stanley's bonnet. “They're all shady. Guess you have to be.”

  “I thought they did that two weeks ago?”

  “They did. And they did last week, and again this morning.” Piet finished wiping the windscreen with the soft cloth that he always used, another reason why I went there to fuel the Stanley. “That will be thirty-seven fifty, Doktor.”

  The price of kerosene kept climbing, or so it seemed to me, but I handed Piet two twenties. “The best of luck.”

  “I'll be needing that, Doktor.”

  After Piet's came the stop at Samaha's Factorium and Emporium, for my copy of the Asten Post-Courier. I left my dime on the counter and walked back out into the mist that was threatening to turn into a colder rain.

  Although my environmental economics course didn't meet until eleven, there was little point in stopping by the post centre, since the mail was never ready until after ten, and I was supposed to be in my office for office hours no later than ten. So I put the Stanley in the upper car park and made my way to the remodeled three-story old Dutch Republican house that held the the Department of Political and Natural Resources Sciences.

  Gilda of the frizzy hair looked up as I walked in. “Don't forget the faculty meeting at four thirty, Doktor Eschbach.”

  “I wouldn't miss it for the world.” I grinned as I started up the stairs to the third floor—except I would have avoided it if I could have because there was going to be another fight over Natural Resources 3B.

  Once inside my office, I laid out the quiz papers and essays in their folders for each of my classes before opening the paper. I couldn't have missed the headline: “Speaker Hartpence Calls Up Guard.”

  Federal District (RPI). Defense Minister Holmbek firmly denied that the federalization and mobilization of four state guards was a response to Austro-Hungarian provocation. “The Austro-Hungarian decision to send the First Serbian Cavalry to the joint Austro-Arab base at Basra has nothing to do with the Speaker's decision. By temporarily federalizing several state Guard units, we can provide the intensive training necessary in new equipment and tactics far more quickly than otherwise possible.” Holmbek repeated the Speaker's assurance that the government did not intend to federalize any additional Guard units at this time.

  In an action that the defense minister declared entirely unrelated, the House unanimously passed an additional defense appropriations measure that would procure fifty more Curtiss turbojet heavy transports, ten more fast frigates, three additional nuclear-electrosubmersibles of the Hudson class, and two icebreakers of the Arctic class. . . . Holmbek also announced the that the new fifteenth and sixteenth Army divisions would be trained in cold weather and mountain operations to remedy “a shortfall in capability”. . . .

  I didn't care for the implications either way. A smaller story on page two caught my eye.

  Central Northlands (WNS). The fire that laid waste to Columbian Dutch Petro's natural gas processing facility under construction in Enuak has been traced to an improperly wired electrical conduit. . . . Stephanie Der-Raalte, speaking for Vander Waal, the construction firm, stated, “This will create some delays, but we've already moved in additional crews to make sure that we can make the contractual deadline. . . .”

  The plant is designed to turn northlands natural gas into commercial grade kerosene and turbofuel. . . . Miss Der Raalte also noted that steps have already been taken to remedy the deficiencies that led to the fire and explosion in the second and third conversion plants under construction.

  Maybe the story caught my eye because the plant was the first one being built from the plans I'd obtained from Deseret, or because of the rapidly escalating price of kerosene, or because building three plants of a design not implemented in Columbia seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Or, mostly, be cause I was too skeptical to believe in coincidences. The third story was just odd.

  St. Petersburg (WNS). Austrian tracking ships reported a dawn launch from the Ural research center, and identified the booster as the secret Perun rocket, rumored to have been in development for more than a decade. The Austrian Foreign Ministry decried the launch as a violation of the High Frontier Treaty forbidding military use of missiles or the development of military rocketry.

  According to the Russian Naval Ministry, the Perun's mission was to test the lower stage booster to determine its feasibility for launching a Russian satellite communications system. . . .

  How could the Russians even consider a satellite communications system when half of Russia still had minimal or nonexistent wirelink service?

  “Johan!” Regner Grimaldi peered in through my open door.

  I laughed. “Yes.”

  “Yes what?” He actually looked puzzled.

  “I will tell our beloved chair that he cannot zero out Natural Resources 3B. Then you and Wilhelm can argue over who will teach it next semester.”

  Regner arched his eyebrows in an exaggeratedly regal manner, which, for him, as the heir pretender to the princedom of Monaco, wasn't difficult. “Wilhelm has seen the light.”

  “You'll teach it this year?”

  “He will.”

  “Ah . . . there aren't enough junior majors, and the registrar will zero it out until next year.”

  “Johan . . . how could you think that?” His tone wasn't quite wounded enough.

  “I already checked. You got half the sophomores into it last year when you taught it.”

  “Only you, Johan . . .” he said mournfully. “Only a former spy—”

  “Only you, Regner . . .” I grinned, because Wilhelm had it coming, and because I wasn't sure I could take another pontification from Wilhelm on the greatness of The University—Virginia, that is, that great and wonderful creation of the illustrious Thomas Jefferson. “Only royalty learns tricks like that in the cradle.”

  “You would think I had been born in Vienna . . . or
St. Petersburg.”

  “You're not tall enough for a Romanov, nor autocratic enough,” I quipped back. “And you don't appreciate really good singing. You haven't been at either of Llysette's last recitals.”

  “As I said . . . only a former spy knows where everyone is all the time. And Tzar Alexander thinks the height of musical perfection is The 1812 Overture or perhaps Boris Godunov. I did see your lovely wife's production of Heinrich Verrûckt, you may recall.”

  “You're forgiven,” I answered, “but only if you're there the next time she sings.”

  “Would I miss such beauty?”

  “Yes—if I didn't twist your arm.” I only paused for a moment. “And don't say it.” The last thing I needed was to be reminded of my years with the Republic's Sedition Prevention and Security Service. I'd almost managed to bury those—until the events of the previous year. Now most of Vanderbraak Centre had heard something about my years as a Spazi agent, very little of it accurately reported, for which I was probably better off than if an accurate account had been available and circulated.

  Regner grinned, then shook his head, before vanishing.

  Not a single student showed up during office hours. I used the time to set up the next quiz for the honors course in Environmental Studies 4A. Then it was time to march over to Smythe 203 and Environmental Economics 2A. I didn't see the two groundskeeping zombies I knew best—Gertrude and Hector—but that might have been because they were working behind the science building and because the rain and fog were getting thicker.

  While the students were milling in the corridor and filing into the classroom, I went to the ancient blackboard and laboriously chalked a phrase on it: “In a technological society, the practice of completely private property cannot exist.”

  After the bell rang and most were seated, I pointed to the phrase on the board. “This is the issue for the day. Some of you may ask what private property has to do with environmental economics. I suggest you think about the issue some before asking a variant of that question. I'll give you all a minute or two to consider the implications.”

  Then I waited for the empty expressions to fade, glad that there were several faces on which puzzlement warred with interest.

  “Mister Spykstra . . . what are your thoughts about that concept?” I finally asked.

  “Sir?” Damien Spykstra was a tall korfball player, a great defender, I'd heard, but not much in the scoring department. He didn't appear able to score in the classroom, either. He just looked at me blankly.

  “Mister Ostfels?”

  “Ah . . . your question, sir . . . well . . . it seems to say that if we have technology we can't have private property, but we have technology and private property.”

  “I'll accept most of that,” I said mildly. “What about the term ‘completely private property'?”

  “But we do, Doktor Eschbach,” replied Hans Ostfels. “We're not like New France or Russia.”

  “Russia, I'll accept. We are very much like New France in the conceptual and legal fashion in which we handle property.” I turned and inclined my head. “Miss Vander Waal . . . why?”

  “We both place restrictions on the use and transfer of property?”

  “That's correct. Why might that be?” I kept looking at Miss Vander Waal.

  “You wouldn't want a prison next to a girls' school or . . . a petrol farm beside . . . much of anything.”

  “Miss Regius . . . what does all this have to do with economics, environmental economics?”

  Elinor Regius looked as helpless as the star korfball player.

  “Is it a good idea to put a dairy beside a sewage treatment facility?” I asked. “What does that do to the value of the dairy property? Or to the purity of the milk?”

  “But we have regulations to keep the milk clean,” pointed out Lucia van Emsden, a cousin of the dairy family, I thought.

  “Ah . . .” I pounced. “So . . . if you have a dairy, Miss van Emsden, you cannot run it however you want?” I could see a few faces beginning to get a glimmer.

  “Doktor Eschbach . . .” Then she stopped. “That's what you meant by completely private property . . . that everything anyone does affects everyone else, and the more technology there is, the more dangers, and the more restrictions. . . .”

  At that point, everyone wanted to get into the discussion, and that was fine with me.

  “I'm paying for technology I'm not using because . . .”

  “An excuse for taking away personal freedoms and rights . . .”

  “Governments always do that . . . why we have a Spazi . . .”

  There was a momentary silence after that, but I just nodded to another student, and it wasn't long before they were at it again.

  In time, I called a halt to the discussion. “The next assignment deals with external diseconomies . . . Excuse me, I just read in the journal that the preferred term is now ‘negative externalities.' In any case, you need to know both labels for the problem and why society needs to understand and deal with it.” I surveyed the class, the young faces conveying expressions of worry and boredom. “And yes, external diseconomies will be on tests, in essays, and your mastery of the concept will determine a significant fraction of your grade.” I just smiled.

  After most had left the classroom, I hurried from Smythe down to the post centre, ignoring the fine, almost ice-like needles that bounced off my head and my black trenchcoat.

  Maurice must have seen me coming because he peered out from the window. “Got some more posts for the lady, Herr Doktor, and some bills for you.” Maurice grinned at me from behind the window. “And a fancy one for the both of you.”

  “It's about time we got something more than bills. You should do better for us, Maurice.” I couldn't quite keep the smile out of my voice.

  “We just deliver, Doktor.”

  I took a quick look at the stack, riffling through the envelopes. The first one was addressed merely to Mme. Llysette duBoise, Vanderbraak Centre, New Bruges. No address, no box, no street, no postal code . . . but there it was. Somehow, I doubted that one addressed that way to me would ever arrive. The only people who knew my name that well were the type from whom I'd rather not receive anything.

  The “fancy” one was from the Presidential Palace, and it was addressed to us both.

  The Honorable Johan Eschbach

  The Most Honored Mme. Llysette duBoise

  An invitation, it looked like, but the sight of the gold-foiled stationery bothered me. I snorted. Every invitation we'd received from the Presidential Palace had led to troubles. Rewards, also, but the price for those rewards had been high.

  From the post centre, I climbed the lower hill to the north of the square, up to Delft's, and found myself in the foyer. Llysette wasn't there, and two couples were standing in front of me.

  Victor appeared almost immediately and beckoned. “ Doktor? Will the lady—?”

  “I'm expecting her.”

  He smiled. “I have the table by the woodstove for you.” Then he offered an even broader smile.

  I turned to see Llysette stepping into the foyer and shaking out her umbrella before slipping it into the rack by the left side of the doorway.

  “Could it snow? Non, ice must fall.” She patted her hair, but I couldn't see that it had been disarranged at all.

  “You look wonderful.”

  “You would say such, Johan . . .” She shook her head.

  We followed Victor to the table nearest the woodstove.

  “The stove . . . this table, it is the best, Victor, and you are so kind.” Llysette's smile would have melted solid ice.

  “It is for my special customers.” The proprietor extended two menus. “The special today is the wienerschnitzel in lemon caper sauce with an Alfredo pasta,” Victor beamed. “It is very good, mademoiselle.”

  “That, I will have, with tea.” Llysette smiled and handed back the menu she had barely scanned, but then, we knew the bill of fare by heart.

  “I'd like the
special also, Victor, with chocolate.”

  He bowed, mostly to Llysette, and slipped away.

  Only then did I lift the envelope. “We got this.”

  “And it is what?”

  “An invitation, but I didn't wish to open it because it's addressed to us both.”

  “I am here.” She lifted her eyebrows. “You may open it.” She spoiled the serious tone with a touch of a giggle in her last words.

  I eased open the outer envelope, and then the inner one, before reading the engraved script.

  The President and Mrs. Armstrong

  request the honor of your presence

  at the Thirty-fourth

  Annual Dinner for the Arts

  Thursday, November 2, 1995,

  at seven o'clock.

  Répondez, s'il vous plaît

  I tried not to frown as I extended the invitation across the table.

  Llysette took it and read, then looked at me. “I do not have to sing for my food this time, no?” A twinkle glimmered in her deep green eyes.

  “No one has mentioned it this time,” I replied with a smile.

  Victor reappeared with my chocolate and Llysette's tea. “Mademoiselle . . . Doktor . . .”

  “Thank you,” I offered.

  “It is always a pleasure.” He inclined his head to Llysette. “Especially for one who has preserved la gloire that was France.”

  “Thank you, Victor,” Llysette replied quietly.

  Victor took two small green salads from the tray held by a waiter and slipped them onto the white linen. “Your dinner will be soon ready.” With a bow and a smile, he turned.

  “You have to be Victor's favorite.”

  “One of them, peut-être,” she acknowledged.

  “More than one of them,” I joked. “But we do get wonderful tables and service, and I owe it all to you.” My eyes dropped to the foil-stamped envelope on the table.

  “The invitation, it worries you?”