The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“What time would you like dinner, sir?” Hapwood asked. “And Miss Sharon is here with a guest.”

“A guest?”

“Yes, sir. A young man, Mr. Allan Torrey, sir.”

“Have they eaten?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Ackridge called to say that you would be late for dinner.”

“All right, Hapwood. I’ll eat now and see Miss Grant and her guest afterwards.”

“Very good, sir. I will inform the cook.” Hapwood left the room invisibly.

Grant smiled again. Hapwood was another figure from Welfare and had grown up speaking a dialect Grant would never recognize. For some reason he had been impressed by English butlers he’d seen on Tri-V and cultivated their manner—and now he was known all over the county as the perfect household manager.

Hapwood didn’t know it, but Grant had a record of every cent his butler took in: kickbacks from grocers and caterers, contributions from the gardeners, and the surprisingly well-managed investment portfolio. Hapwood could easily retire to his own house and live the life of a taxpayer investor.

Why? Grant wondered idly. Why does he stay on? It makes life easier for me, but why? It had intrigued Grant enough to have his agents look into Hapwood, but the man had no politics other than staunch support for Unity. The only suspicious thing about his contacts was the refinement with which he extracted money from every transaction involving Grant’s house. Hapwood had no children, and his sexual needs were satisfied by infrequent visits to the fringe areas around Welfare.

Grant ate mechanically, hurrying to be through and see his daughter, yet he was afraid to meet the boy she had brought home. For a moment he thought of using the Security phone to find out more about him, but he shook his head angrily. Too much security thinking wasn’t good. For once he was going to be a parent, meeting his daughter’s intended and nothing more.

He left his dinner unfinished without thinking how much the remnants of steak would have cost, or that Hapwood would probably sell them somewhere, and went to the library. He sat behind the massive Oriental fruitwood desk and had a brandy.

Behind him and to both sides the walls were lined with book shelves, immaculate dust-free accounts of the people of dead empires. It had been years since he had read one. Now all his reading was confined to reports with bright red covers. The reports told live stories about living people, but sometimes, late at night, Grant wondered if his country was not as dead as the empires in his books.

Grant loved his country but hated her people, all of them: Karins and the new breed, the tranquilized Citizens in their Welfare Islands, the smug taxpayers grimly holding onto their privileges. What, then, do I love? he wondered. Only our history, and the greatness that once was the United States, and that’s found only in those books and in old buildings, never in the security reports.

Where are the patriots? All of them have become Patriots, stupid men and women following a leader toward nothing. Not even glory.

Then Sharon came in. She was a lovely girl, far prettier than her mother had ever been, but she lacked her mother’s poise. She ushered in a tall boy in his early twenties.

Grant studied the newcomer as they came toward him. Nice-looking boy. Long hair, neatly trimmed, conservative mustache for these times. Blue and violet tunic, red scarf . . . a little flashy, but even John Jr. went in for flashy clothes when he got out of CD uniform.

The boy walked hesitantly, almost timidly, and Grant wondered if it were fear of him and his position in the government, or only the natural nervousness of a young man about to meet his fiancée’s wealthy father. The tiny diamond on Sharon’s hand sparkled in the yellow light from the fireplace, and she held the hand in an unnatural position.

“Daddy, I . . . I’ve talked so much about him, this is Allan. He’s just asked me to marry him!” She sparkled, Grant saw; and she spoke trustingly, sure of his approval, never thinking he might object. Grant wondered if Sharon weren’t the only person in the country who didn’t fear him. Except for John Jr., who didn’t have to be afraid. John was out of the reach of Grant’s Security phone. The CD Fleet takes care of its own.

At least he’s asked her to marry him. He might have simply moved in with her. Or has he already? Grant stood and extended his hand. “Hello, Allan.”

Torrey’s grip was firm, but his eyes avoided Grant’s. “So you want to marry my daughter.” Grant glanced pointedly at her left hand. “It appears that she approves the idea.”

“Yes, sir. Uh, sir, she wanted to wait and ask you, but I insisted. It’s my fault, sir.” Torrey looked up at him this time, almost in defiance.

“Yes.” Grant sat again. “Well, Sharon, as long as you’re home for the evening, I wish you’d speak to Hapwood about Prince Bismark. I do not think the animal is properly fed.”

“You mean right now?” she asked. She tightened her small mouth into a pout. “Really, Daddy, this is Victorian! Sending me out of the room while you talk to my fiancé!”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Grant said nothing else, and finally she turned away.

Then: “Don’t let him frighten you, Allan. He’s about as dangerous as that—as that moosehead in the trophy room!” She fled before there could be any reply.

IV

They sat awkwardly. Grant left his desk to sit near the fire with Torrey. Drinks, offer of a smoke, all the usual amenities—he did them all; but finally Hapwood had brought their refreshments and the door was closed.

“All right, Allan,” John Grant began. “Let us be trite and get it over with. How do you intend to support her?”

Torrey looked straight at him this time. His eyes danced with what Grant was certain was concealed amusement. “I expect to be appointed to a good post in the Department of the Interior. I’m a trained engineer.”

“Interior?” Grant thought for a second. The answer surprised him—he hadn’t thought the boy was another office seeker. “I suppose it can be arranged.”

Torrey grinned. It was an infectious grin, and Grant liked it. “Well, sir, it’s already arranged. I wasn’t asking for a job.”

“Oh?” Grant shrugged. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Deputy Assistant Secretary for Natural Resources. I took a master’s in ecology.”

“That’s interesting, but I would have thought I’d have heard of your coming appointment.”

“It won’t be official yet, sir. Not until Mr. Bertram is elected President. For the moment I’m on his staff.” The grin was still there, and it was friendly, not hostile. The boy thought politics was a game. He wanted to win, but it was only a game.

And he’s seen real polls, Grant thought. “Just what do you do for Mr. Bertram, then?”

Allan shrugged. “Write speeches, carry the mail, run the Xerox—you’ve been in campaign headquarters. I’m the guy who gets the jobs no one else wants.”

Grant laughed. “I did start as a gopher, but I soon hired my own out of what I once contributed to the Party. They did not try that trick again with me. I don’t suppose that course is open to you.”

“No, sir. My father’s a taxpayer, but paying taxes is pretty tough just now—

“Yes.” Well, at least he wasn’t from a Citizen family. Grant would learn the details from Ackridge tomorrow, for now the important thing was to get to know the boy.

It was difficult. Allan was frank and relaxed, and Grant was pleased to see that he refused a third drink, but there was little to talk about. Torrey had no conception of the realities of politics. He was one of Bertram’s child crusaders, and he was out to save the United States from people like John Grant, although he was too polite to say so.

And I was once that young, Grant thought. I wanted to save the world, but it was so different then. No one wanted to end the CoDominium when I was young. We were too happy to have the Second Cold War over with. What happened to the great sense of relief when we could stop worrying about atomic wars? When I was young that was all we thought of, that we would be the last generation. Now they take it for granted that we’ll have peace forever. Is peace such a little thing?

“There’s so much to do,” Torrey was saying. “The Baja Project, thermal pollution of the Sea of Cortez! They’re killing off a whole ecology just to create estates for the taxpayers.

“I know it isn’t your department, sir, you probably don’t even know what they’re doing. But Lipscomb has been in office too long! Corruption, special interests, it’s time we had a genuine two-party system again instead of things going back and forth between the wings of Unity. It’s time for a change, and Mr. Bertram’s the right man, I know he is.”