“Why are you here?” Magnusson asked.
Flandry grinned. “Why, because his Majesty cherishes a statesmanlike wish for peace, reconciliation, and the return of his erring children to righteous ways and his forgiveness.”
Magnusson glared. “Are you trying to make fun of me?”
They sat alone in what had been a room of the Imperial resident’s house. It was small and plainly furnished, as befitted a person who had had little to do. A full-wall one-way transparency gave a view of surrounding native structures. They were like gigantic three-dimensional spiderwebs. Now that the orange sun was down, lights twinkled throughout them, changing color at every blink. Magnusson had dimmed interior illumination so his visitor might better see the spectacle. Unfiltered, the air was a bit cold, with a faint ferrous odor. Sometimes a deep hum penetrated the walls. And sometimes a cluster of sparks drifted across the sky, an atmospheric patrol or a space unit in high orbit, sign of power over foreignness.
Flandry reached in his tunic for a cigarette case. “No, I am quoting news commentaries I heard as I was preparing for departure. Unless the government buried all reports of your offer, which would have been hard to do, it must needs explain its response, whether positive or negative. I daresay your flacks use similar language.”
Magnusson’s big frame eased back into his chair. “Ah, yes. I was forgetting how sardonically superior you like to make yourself out to be. It’s been years since we last met, and that was just in passing.”
Flandry drew a cigarette from the silver box, tapped it on his thumbnail, ignited it and trickled smoke across his lean features. “You ask why I am here. I might ask you the same.”
“Don’t play your games with me,” Magnusson snapped, “or I’ll send you packing tomorrow. I invited you to talk privately because I had hopes the conversation would be meaningful.”
“You don’t expect that of the official discussions between my group and whatever staff members you appoint?”
“Certainly not. This was a charade from the beginning.”
Flandry raised the glass of neat whisky at his elbow and sipped. “You initiated it,” he said mildly.
“Yes. As a token of good will. You’d call it propaganda. But you must know I have to demonstrate the truth over and over—that I have no other aim than the safety and wellbeing of the Empire, which the corruption and incompetence of its rulers have been undermining for dangerously long.” Magnusson, who had had no refreshment set out for himself, growled forth a laugh. “You’re thinking I’ve started believing my own speeches. Well, I do. I always did. But I’ll grant you, maybe I’ve been giving so many that I’ve gotten in the habit of orating.”
He leaned forward. “I did expect that, at this stage, my proposal would be rebuffed,” he said. “Apparently Gerhart decided to try sounding me out. Or, rather, his chief councillors did; he hasn’t that much wit. Now it’s hardly a secret that he—or, at any rate, the Policy Board—listens closely to whatever Dominic Flandry has to say. I suspect this mission was your idea. And you are leading it in person.” His forefinger stabbed toward the man opposite. “Therefore my question really was, ‘Why are you here?’ Answer it!”
“That is,” Flandry drawled, “on the basis of my presence you assume I have more in mind than a jejune debate?”
“You wouldn’t waste your time on any such thing, you fox.”
“Ah, you’ve found me out. Yes, I did urge that we accept your invitation, and believe me, I had to argue hard before I got agreement to such an exercise in futility. Not that the people with me unanimously know it is. Apart from a couple of leathery old combat commanders and one tough-minded old scholar, to keep the rest from going completely off into Cloud Cuckoo Land, they’re career civil officials with excellent academic backgrounds. They believe in the power of sweet reason and moral suasion. I suggest that to meet with them you assign whatever officers of yours are in need of amusement.”
“If I bother. You admit this has been an excuse to get you into play—which I’d already guessed. What do you intend?” “Exactly what is happening.” Magnusson’s heavy countenance stiffened. He clenched a fist on the arm of his chair. Behind him, the star-points in the spiderwebs blinked, changed, blinked, changed.