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Admiral Cranston growled deep in his throat.
"And all the rest of it, even if they're all that and more, they are still problems. For one thing, their technology's going to shake up the whole Empire. We can't just turn all that loose without some plans for readjustment."
"Labor people are on to that," Merrill said dryly. "President of IF of L was in here not an hour ago demanding that we bottle up the Moties until his staff can study unemployment problems. Not against new technology, but wants us to be cautious. Can't say I blame him."
"The ITA isn't solid any more either," Rod added. "At Lady Malcolm's last night a couple of Traders told me they've got second thoughts about Moties." Rod fingered the lapels of his brightly colored knit tunic. Civilian clothes fit better and should have been more comfortable than Navy uniform, but they didn't seem more comfortable. "Damn it, I don't know what to say! I've been so busy with meaningless speeches and conferences and these goddamn parties I haven't had a chance to do any constructive thinking."
"Course, of course," Merrill soothed. "Still and all, my lord, my orders from HM are clear. I have to take the advice of your Commission. And I am still waiting for that advice. Lady Sandra-"
"Sally. Please." She'd never liked her given name, for no reason she could have told anyone.
"Lady Sally has at least offered us something. Senator, you and Blaine have to do more than protest that you don't know enough I"
"There is the small matter of my fleet," Armstrong put in. "I must know if Cranston's battleships can go back to chasing outies, or must they stand by in this corner of the sector? We'll have more revolts if we do no show the flag in the distant provinces..."
"Same demands?' Rod asked.
"Aye. They want ships o' their own. More say in Imperial policy too, but mostly the ships. ‘Tis enough to drive me mad! They hae control o' their internal affairs. They do no pay more taxes than we. When the outies stir about they shout for the Navy and we come. But these are no your problems, my lord. If we need ships to defend mankind from alien monsters I'll find them for you if I hae to work in MacPherson's yards myself."
"Would almost be worthwhile if the Moties were hostile," Merrill said thoughtfully. "A real threat to the Empire would consolidate the provinces-Wonder if we could sell that story to the barons?"
"Your Highness!" Sally protested.
"Just a thought, just a thought."
"Dazzle ‘em with footwork," Fowler growled. They all turned to stare at him. "It's obvious. Let the press corps have a field day. When Lenin gets in, we'll put on a show like New Scotland's never seen. Big reception for the Moties. Full honors. Lots of formalities, parades, reviews, tours. Conferences with the Foreign Office people. Nobody can object if the Motie public appearances are ceremonial and the Foreign Office monopolizes the rest of their time. Meanwhile, we get to work. Your Highness, we'll have advice for you as soon as possible, but Leoni-His Majesty did not send me out here to make snap judgments. Until I know more, we'll just have to make do."
49 Parades
The landing boat settled on the roof of the Palace with a high-pitched whine of jets dying to a low rumble, then silence. A long roll of drums began outside. The martial sound filtered into the cabin, then blared as the entryway was opened.
David Hardy blinked into morning sunlight bright on the varicolored stones of the Palace. He sniffed fresh air with no smell of ships and men and filters, and felt the warmth of New Cal. His feet sensed solid rock below. Home!
"HONOR GUARD, ATTENTION!"
Oh, Lord, they're going all out, David thought. He squared his shoulders and moved down the ramp as cameramen focused their zoom lenses. Other naval officers and civilians followed. Dr. Horvath was the last, and when he appeared David nodded to the officer in charge.
"PRESENT ARMS!" - Snap! Crack! Fifty pairs of white gloves made identical motions and slapped their weapons at identical times. Fifty scarlet sleeves heavy with gold braid poised in geometrical precision. The drum roll swelled louder and faster.
The Moties came down the ramp. They blinked at New Cal sunlight. Trumpets blared a salute, them halted with the drum roll. The silence was broken only by faint traffic sounds from streets half a kilometer away. Even the newsmen on their high platform were still. The Modes swiveled their bodies rapidly about.
Curiosity! A human world at last, and humans who governed; yet what were they doing? Ahead were two lines of twenty-five Marines in rigid pose, their weapons held in what could not be a comfortable position, all identical and obviously not threatening anyone; but Ivan automatically swiveled to look behind for his Warriors.
To their tight were more of these Marines but they carried noisemakers, not weapons, and several carried ba
Directly ahead, past the clump of people from Lenin and MacArthur, were more humans in a wild array of clothing. They were obviously waiting to speak to the Moties, but they did not speak.
"Captain Blaine and Miss Fowler," Jock twittered. "Their posture indicates that the two in front of them receive deference."
David Hardy led the Moties forward. The aliens were still wrinkling their noses, and they chattered among themselves in musical tones. "If the air is distasteful," David said, "we can build filters. I hadn't noticed that ship's air distressed you." He took another lungful of the clean precious stuff.
"No, no, it's only a bit flat and tasteless," said a Mediator. It was impossible to tell the two apart. "Then there's the extra oxygen. I think we'll need that."
"Gravity?"
"Right." The Motie squinted toward the sun. "We'll also need dark glasses."
"Certainly." They reached the end of the lines of honor guards. Hardy bowed to Merrill. Both Mediators did likewise in perfect imitation. The White stood erect for a moment, then bowed, but not so deeply as the others.
Dr Horvath was waiting. "Prince Stefan Merrill, Viceroy to His Imperial Majesty for Trans-Coalsack Sector," Horvath a
Merrill bowed formally, then indicated Benjamin Fowler. "Senator Benjamin Bright Fowler, Lord President of the Imperial Commission Extraordinary. Senator Fowler is empowered to speak with you in the name of the Emperor, and he has a message for you from His Majesty."
The Moties bowed again.
Senator Fowler had allowed his valet to dress him properly; all the billions of humanity would eventually see recordings of this meeting. He wore a dark tunic with no decoration but a small golden sunburst on the left breast, his sash was new, his trousers fit perfectly and vanished into the tops of glove-soft, gleaming boots. He thrust a black Malacca cane with carved gold head wider his left arm as Rod Blaine held out a parchment.
Fowler read in his "official speeches" voice; in debates he was a firebrand, but his formal speeches were stilted. This one was no exception. -
"Leonidas TX by Grace of God Emperor of Humanity to the representatives of -the Mote Civilization, Greetings and Welcome. For a thousand years mankind has searched for brothers in the universe. We have dreamed of them for all our history..." The message was long and formal, and the Moties listened in silence. To their left a knot of men hustled and whispered together, and there were some pointed instruments the Moties recognized as badly designed tri-v cameras. There was a forest of cameras and far too many men; why did the humans need so many to do a simple task?