The Gha’s exhalation was extremely emphatic. “Of course. Best thing your insane species produces. Except Romans.”
X
After the first hour of the Special Joint Committee’s session, Ainsley could sense Fludenoc finally begin to relax. The Gha even managed to lean back into the huge chair which had been specially provided for him toward the back of the chamber.
“Feeling better?” he whispered.
The Gha exhaled vigorously. “Yes. This is much more—” He groped for words.
“United?” asked Ainsley, cocking a whimsical eyebrow. “Coherent? Rational? Organized?”
“Yes. All those.”
Ainsley turned in his seat, facing forward. Behind the long table which fronted the chamber sat the fifteen most powerful legislators of the human race. The Special Joint Committee had been formed with no regard for hallowed seniority or any of the other arcane rituals which the Confederation’s governing body seemed to have adopted, over the past century, from every quirk of every single legislative body ever created by the inventive human mind.
This committee was dealing with the fate of humanity—and a number of other species, for that matter. Those men and women with real power and influence had made sure they were sitting at that table. Hallowed rituals be damned.
Not that all rituals and ceremony have been discarded, thought Ainsley, smiling wryly.
He was particularly amused by the veil worn by the Muslim Federation’s representative—who had spent thirty years ramming the world’s stiffest sexual discrimination laws down her countrymen’s throats; and the splendiferous traditional ostrich-plume headdress worn by the South African representative—who was seven-eighths Boer in his actual descent, and looked every inch the blond-haired part; and the conservative grey suit worn by the representative from North America’s United States and Provinces, suitable for the soberest Church-going occasions—who was a vociferous atheist and the author of four scholarly books on the historical iniquities of mixing Church and State.
The Chairperson of the Special Joint Committee rose to announce the next speaker, and Ainsley’s smile turned into a veritable grin.
And here she is, my favorite. Speaking of preposterous rituals and ceremonies.
The representative from the Great Realm of the Chinese People, Chairperson of the Special Joint Committee—all four feet, nine inches of her—clasped her hands demurely and bobbed her head in modest recognition of her fellow legislators.
Everybody’s favorite humble little woman.
“If the representative from the European Union will finally shut his trap,” she said, in a voice like steel—
Mai the Merciless.
“—maybe we can get down to the serious business.”
Silence fell instantly over the chamber.
“We call her the Dragon Lady,” whispered Ainsley.
“She good,” hissed Fludenoc approvingly. “What is `dragon’?”
“Watch,” replied the historian.
* * *
Two hours later, Fludenoc was almost at ease. Watching Mai the Merciless hack her bloody way through every puffed-up dignitary who had managed to force himself or herself onto the Committee’s agenda had produced that effect.
“She very good,” the Gha whispered. “Could eat one of those stupid carnivores we ride in a single meal.”
“—and what other asinine proposition does the august Secretary wish us to consider?” the Chairperson was demanding.
The Secretary from the International Trade Commission hunched his shoulders. “I must protest your use of ridicule, Madame Chairperson,” he whined. “We in the Trade Commission do not feel that our concerns are either picayune or asinine! The project which is being proposed, even if it is successful—which, by the way, we believe to be very unlikely—will inevitably have the result, among others, of our planet being subjected to a wave of immigration by—by—”
The Chairperson finished his sentence. The tone of her voice was icy: “By coolies.”
The Trade Commission’s Secretary hunched lower. “I would not choose that particular—”
“That is precisely the term you would choose,” snapped Mai the Merciless, “if you had the balls.”
Ainsley had to fight not to laugh, watching the wincing faces of several of the legislators. From the ripple in her veil, he thought the Muslim Federation’s representative was undergoing the same struggle.
“What are `balls’?” asked Fludenoc.
“Later,” he whispered. “It is a term which is considered very politically incorrect.”
“What is `politically incorrect’?”
“Something which people who don’t have to deal with real oppression worry about,” replied the historian. Ainsley spent the next few minutes gleefully watching the world’s most powerful woman finish her political castration of the world’s most influential regulator of trade.