“Hm, I shouldn’t think so,” Wahl agreed. For courtesy’s sake, although he had heard that she knew Spanish well, he used English too, despite the fact that his was colorless. “Two genetic types, more unlike than any races on Earth.”
“We all live on the Moon,” Beynac replied sharply. “It is our country.”
She sat in this conference chamber as the spokeswoman of her fellowship, its representative to him. To what degree did she speak for her world? He had better explore carefully. But not timidly. Absolutely not.
“A Lunar nation? I am afraid, madame, that is impossible. At least within … my lifetime. May I speak frankly?”
“I’ve been hoping you will,” she said.
“From my studies and briefings, and from what I have observed at close range for myself, I suspect Lunarians and Terricolas will never be able to form a durable society.”
“I’ve seen unlikelier metals alloy.” Beynac shrugged. “And if in the end it’s the Lunarians alone who inherit Luna, what’s bad about that? They’re our blood.”
Daycycle by daycycle as he dealt with them, Wahl had begun to question it. In lineage, yes; but how much did that mean? How akin are mastiff and dachshund? Wrong comparison, he thought. Terricola and Lunarian were not the same species, perhaps not the same genus. They could never breed, not even a mule-child.
“Well,” he temporized, “conceivably someday in the far future—”
“The future has^ way of arriving sooner than we expect,” said Beynac. “But let’s get to business and save the philosophy for dessert. Of course we aren’t talking revolution or any such foolishness today, neither you and I nor they and I. What I’m here about, Governor, is how to keep from encouraging foolishness.”
Wahl inclined his head. “I appreciate your guidance, madame,” he told her, quite sincerely. “You have had a long experience.”
Beynac smiled. “I collect governors.”
“I the third, ay?” Japing faded. “You said you wish to talk honestly with me.”
“And you with me, right? We size each other up.”
“I see.” Wahl tugged his chin, looked beyond the human before him at an image of his garden at home where roses nodded to a breeze, and marshalled words. “Tell me, if you will, how do you—how did you—judge my predecessors?”
The reply came prompt and blunt. “Zhao had a fair amount of wisdom. I always respected him. We always did, whether or not we liked some particular action of his. Gambetta was a politician. Well-meaning, but to her this was one more step toward the presidency of the World Federation.”
“Would you like to see her win it?”
“We wouldn’t mind, on Luna,” said Beynac dryly.
“I should think not. She gave you everything you wanted.”“Correction, por favor. Half of what the assorted groups among us wanted.”
Piecemeal, reluctantly. Forced by connivance, tricked by semantics, and maybe to a degree psychologically intimidated—anything to avoid trouble. Not that Wahl believed Beynac had engineered that pressure. It came from the barons, the businessfolk, the multitudinous malcontents, unorganized but vocal, who were the atmosphere that rebellion breathed.
The intelligence Wahl had received declared that this woman sought ever to mediate, to work out compromises. After all, while most of her descendants were Lunarian, it had long ceased to be a secret that she had an Earthside son from whom stemmed also a family.
The trouble was, not every one of those compromises had proven viable, nor had every one of them been lawful.
Wahl chose his words. “Notwithstanding, madame, my impression is that for Gambetta you have little respect.”
“That’s as may be, and it doesn’t matter any more,” Beynac said. “You’re in charge now.”
“Exactly.” Appeal to her. “And, madame, I too mean well. With my entire heart, I do not want conflict. As for my wisdom, I hope you will lend me yours.”
The blue eyes looked straight into his. “But.”
He nodded. “But the situation is growing impossible. My duty is to get it corrected.”
“I have a notion,” she said quietly, “that what’s growing is that new society you don’t suppose can be.”
“Perhaps, In which case—I speak plainly, madame, because I respect you too much to, m-m, pussyfoot—“ She smiled at him. Suddenly he understood a part of why so many men heeded her. “Gracias,” she murmured. “I think I’m going to like you.”