70
Space Opera
“Easy, sir. You know what Dr. Galeth said about your blood pressure, particularly in a low-grav environment.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, yes, yes. It’s just that I cannot, I purely cannot, permit this man to interfere in any way with the negotiations. The Murrin are an utterly unfamiliar quantity. They could react in an infinitude of ways to anything we say, do, bint at, or even the way we walk. I cannot risk jeopardizing man’s first meeting with an intelligent alien race for the sake of … of ratings.” The last word was given the accent usually reserved for ultimate loathsomeness—most often senators who voted against ISA funding and apricots, to which the commander was violently allergic.
Bronislaw Hinkel chose that moment to present himself.
Vandermeer intercepted the diminutive telecaster at the door, blocking him from the commander’s view.
“Ah, good morning, Peter! Is the commander busy?”
“Actually, sir, regulation four-two-six-el-ay governing watches between oh-nine-hundred and—”
“Oh, let him in, Lieutenant! Could anyone mistake that dulcet warbling, the pride of post-quickies, the cereal packed in total vacuum, and Channel Three?”
“Thank you, Emmett.” Hinkel skipped adroitly past the lieutenant, who closed the door and wished for an attack of partial deafness.
Cleve, however, appeared determined to remain civil. Perhaps, the lieutenant thought hopefully, the commander was rationing his daily quota of bile.
Bronislaw Hinkel was a familiar figure to nearly a billion telecast addicts. An impressive figure who represented votes. Even now, off the air, every strand of his famous wavy gray hair knew its proper place. The short, brush mustache was trimmed and protruded just the correct distance above the strong lips. The dark brown eyes under the heavy salt-and-pepper brows imparted at once sincerity, knowledge, and comfort.