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Paulsen blinked slowly and nodded to Callan, a signal that he was ready for the film to begin.
Before them, the screen shifted spectra from neutral blue to a star-field dappled black, onto which came the bulk of a sleek CoDominium cruiser. The narration began just as the main thrusters of the CoDo ship came into view, and the camera angle swiveled around the gleaming ship.
"The new frontier."
Callan leaned over and whispered to Paulsen: "The narrating voice is performed by a computer-generated combination of three actors of the late nineteen-nineties; each voice was chosen for its qualities of recognition, sincerity and strength."
Paulsen nodded slightly and answered, as if speaking to himself: "It's like listening to the cloned child of Mister Rogers, James Bond and Darth Vader." Without knowing it, he was two-thirds correct.
"This is the challenge that awaits humanity here, today, at the dawn of this new age," the inhuman voice assured its audience. The sincerity aspect was important for the public, but it was wasted on the BuReloc and Saintz-Raddison people; they knew what was being sold here.
"Centuries of strife have ended, to bring us to this golden era of peace on earth."
"Hasn't seen the tapes of the food riots in Tokyo this morning, has he?" another dark figure in the darker room asked. His companion chuckled.
On the screen, the camera's point of view had pierced the hull of the cruiser, and how moved down spacious corridors where people in coveralls moved purposely about undefined tasks, passing one another on opposite sides with crisp waves and cheerfully determined smiles.
A BuReloc woman in the audience snorted. "If this was shot on a CoDo ship, they used dwarfs for actors."
"It was." The Saintz-Raddison woman beside her finished lighting two ganjarettes and handed her one. "And they did." Their laughter sparkled, their smiles in the darkness reflecting tiny red pinpoints of light from the smoldering tips held carelessly before them.
"And these are the people who will shape this golden era, the people who will make this age-old dream a reality."
"If they can ever learn to wake up without screaming," a Saintz-Raddison man said, and the viewing room erupted into laughter.
Drowned out by the mirth, the narration continued: "These are the men and women of the new frontier, whose bold spirit of adventure and dedication to the future will literally win worlds for them and their children."
The camera's point of view had moved onto the cruiser's bridge now, and looked out a viewscreen that would make the one on which it was projected look like a postage stamp, had it ever existed. But it was pure fiction; the bridges of CoDominium cruisers were not built for the view. In the mythical viewscreen, a blue-green sphere loomed, graphic enhancements (and probably subliminal encoding) making it a hundred times more appealing than any tiresomely familiar snapshots of the blue-white old maid that was Earth.
"For this frontier is a place where all the old freedoms are alive and well." The voice paused, which was a mistake.
"Freedom to bleed, freedom to starve, freedom to die in childbirth, freedom to sell your daughters for scotch." The BuReloc woman was giggling as she counted off the points on perfectly manicured nails. Eventually she lost her composure, and her friend hugged her to stifle gales of laughter.
The camera pulled back to show a farmwork-hardened colonist straighten up over his hoe to stretch luxuriantly, and regard with pride the open fields, evidently his, that stretched on for miles.
"And where a man can have all the land he will ever need."
The entire audience, pushed to the brink by the past few minutes' comments, erupted into guffaws and howls of amusement.
"Yeah, a six-foot plot!" Callan couldn't help himself; the film was a huge success, and the party had apparently started early.
The camera pa
"The CoDominium's Bureaus of Colonization. Renewing the dreams of our forefathers, every day."
The lights came up as the laughter died down, the audience composing itself as its constituent members tapped out notes on datapads, chuckling to the person next to them.
"Oh, boy, that's great stuff." Callan pushed his glasses up on his nose as he entered figures for minimum police strengths required for the next days' round-up in London's Trafalgar Square. A rally to protest Britain's acceptance of Bureau of Relocation aid in various social programs would allow a vast number of English-speaking colonists to be gathered and send a clear signal to the rest of the United Kingdom. The police would be CoDo, of course; had to keep it non-partisan. And best to draw them from the Russian half. It would do everybody good 'to remind the world that the old bear still had teeth.
He looked across Paulsen to see Scott Saintz wearing a pained smile as he listened to Paulsen.
"But, Mr. Paulsen," Saintz was explaining, "you must understand; our people spent a long time on those CoDo ships and colonies. They're just blowing off steam."
Paulsen was shaking his head. "I still don't see what's so fu
Saintz's gaze flickered to Callan in a clear plea for help.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Paulsen?" Callan asked neutrally; he liked Saintz, but surviving unexpected disapproval by superiors was the hallmark of the successful bureaucrat.
Paulsen shook his head again. "There's nothing wrong with the film; it's an excellent piece of work. I'm just puzzled by the reaction of Mr. Saintz's people. And yours too, for that matter, Mr. Callan."
Callan had to choke back a laugh of his own. "Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Paulsen, in any public relations venture, a certain amount of embellishment is always necessary, to-"
Paulsen cut him off. "Embellishment?"
Callan's mouth was open; he shut it with an audible pop. What was Paulsen saying? That he believed conditions on all CoDo ships were like that? That all CoDo colonies were like that? Had Paulsen somehow missed the open secret-that those ships were, in fact, claustrophobic steel coffins bulk-freighting human refuse to backwater wastelands, pausing only long enough to jettison their miserable cargo, leaving them to scrabble for survival or die, and heading back to pick up another load of forced deportees?
Paulsen began closing up his own datapads and-an incredible anachronism-paper notebook. "It's a very good advertisement, gentlemen," Paulsen said. "Very good indeed. I see no reason to withhold Bureau of Information approval for its distribution."
Paulsen stood, looking down at them as he rebuttoned his jacket. "We've a lot of work ahead of us in the years to come. These riots and roundup measures are effective, from a bulk point of view. But the best colony worlds are getting the best citizens. BuReloc's getting the dregs of humanity, and that simply won't do if we're to build real worlds out there." Paulsen looked back at the blank screen, his smile almost wistful. "Something like this will encourage the brighter ones who can't afford citizenship on the better colonies to take a chance on the more marginal ones."
Callan was frowning, puzzled. "Excuse me, Mr. Paulsen; but what kind of person even remotely worthy of the the term 'bright' would willingly go to a place like Tanith, or Folsom's World, or Haven?"
Paulsen shrugged. "Oh, someone who saw your ad and thought it a transparent lie. Someone who thought they could go to those worlds and organize a union, or form a political party." Paulsen smiled down at him, and the dithering bureaucrat's tone was so i
"You know the sort, Mr. Callan," Paulsen concluded. "Troublemakers. Smart troublemakers have always been the most difficult to deal with productively. But Professor Alderson's contribution to society has changed all that. My sincere congratulations, gentlemen," Paulsen shook their hands as he prepared to leave. "This film is going to be a big help."