His propaganda machine always claimed that his victims were killers and rebels who wanted to destabilize Korrim Mas. Or the Faith. That they were the worst kind of miscreants. That they were extremely dangerous, and that they thought nothing, if given the opportunity, of shedding innocent blood. The Mazha had no choice but to send them, however reluctantly, to the Almighty. It might have been less cruel to use mind-wipe technology, but there was a religious prohibition against that.
After a while, he advanced on us, turned to me, mentally licked his lips, and took my hand. I could see that he knew precisely what I was thinking and that he didn’t care. He had the gaze of a sixty-volt laser. “Ms. Kolpath,” he said, bowing slightly.
“It is always a pleasure to meet one so beautiful. And talented. I understand you are a pilot.” He actually sounded sincere. And damned if the son of a bitch couldn’t make himself likable.
Already he knew more about me than Dr. Ponzio did. “Yes,” I said, trying not to wilt under the attention, trying not to say it was really nothing, anybody could pilot a superluminal. There was something about this guy that made you want to abase yourself. “I’m responsible for the Belle-Marie, Rainbow’s corporate vessel.”
He nodded. His next comment was directed at Alex, but he kept me squarely in his sights. “Lost in the sky with one so lovely,” he said. “It takes the breath away.” He considered the sheer rapture of it all. “And I must say,” he continued, “that it is an honor to meet the man who wrung the truth from the stars.” So help me, that’s exactly what he said. “… Wrung the truth from the stars.” And if you’re thinking none of this sounds much like Dracula, I’d agree. He wasn’t tall. Wasn’t overbearing. Wasn’t quietly sinister. None of the stuff you normally associate with intimidation. And he wasn’t intimidating. I kept thinking he seemed like the sort of guy you’d want to have over for dinner. “I understand,” he said, with a bare trace of an accent, “that you have recently scored still another coup.” Someone put a glass of wine in his hand.
“The Shenji outstation,” Alex said. “You are quite well informed.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Would that it were so.” He raised the glass. “To the outstation. And to the man who engineered its recovery.” He barely sipped the wine, held it out without taking his eyes from Alex, and let go of it. An aide was on the spot, made the save, and handed it off to someone else. “We are indebted to you, Mr.
Benedict.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
My pulse was up, and I was thinking that being lost in the sky with this guy would not be the way I wanted to spend a weekend. And yet“I would have preferred,” said the Mazha, still looking at Alex, but speaking to me, “that we might have the opportunity to spend some time together. Unfortunately, at the moment I have obligations.”
“Of course,” said Alex, who saw exactly what was going on and made points with me by not volunteering anything.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit flustered by all the attention. I found myself imagining how it would feel to be in his arms, on a moonlit balcony overlooking the sea. To make the situation complete, Windy looked annoyed. I had the feeling she was staring straight into my head.
“Perhaps, Alex, you might find your way clear to visit me in the Kaballahs.” The chain of mountains that was home to Korrim Mas. “And when you do I hope you will bring your beautiful associate with you.” His eyes found me again.
“Yes,” Alex was saying. I suspected he was having a hard time suppressing a smile. But he looked absolutely correct. “I’d like very much to do that when occasion permits.” And, to me: “Wouldn’t we, Chase?”
I was standing there like a dummy, wondering why I’d been running around with Harry Lattimore. But that’s another story. “Yes,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I’d intended.
“Good.” The Mazha turned to an aide. “That’s settled then. Moka, get contact information.”
And he was gone, headed toward a group of politicians, which opened to receive him. Moka, who was a giant, collected Alex’s code, smiled politely, and rejoined the dictator.
I should mention that, although I can hold my own with other women, nobody’s going to mistake me for a former beauty queen. Nevertheless, during the next few minutes, those eyes rotated back to me several times. Reflexively, despite everything, I returned a smile. Couldn’t help it. Alex watched the byplay and made no effort to conceal his amusement. “Caught your heart, has he?” he asked.
The Mazha seemed right at home. Whatever else he might have been, he was a consummate politician. He had a broad, warm smile for everyone. If I’d met this guy on the street, my first impression would have been that he was a thoroughgoing charmer, in the best sense of the word. Since that night, I’ve never entirely trusted my judgment.
Meantime we circulated. There was much shaking of hands and a flood of introductions. Let me present the commissioner of the waterworks. And this is Secretary Hoffmann. And Professor Escalario, who did the dark matter work last year. Jean Warburton, who’s special aide to the chief councillor. Dr. Hoffmann, the official record holder as the person who has traveled farthest from the Confederate worlds.
Windy took us aside before we went into the exhibition room. “Alex,” she said, “the Mazha will probably be buying some of the artifacts, too.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding? All this political clout walking around, and you’re not letting them in the door?”
“The media will be at the auction tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think anybody here, other than you and probably the Mazha, really cares about the artifacts themselves. What they want is to get their pictures taken during the bidding, contributing money to a popular cause, then probably giving the item itself to a museum back home. We told them there’ll be lots of press coverage tomorrow. That’s what they want.”
“That surprises me.”
“They’re all political critters, Alex. One way or another.”
The Mazha had an appetite for liquor, and he loved a good laugh. You could hear him throughout the hour or so that we wandered around the reception room and the lobby, chuckling, unrestrained, his eyes illuminated. I began to suspect I’d get an invitation before the evening was over. His security detail strolled about with glasses in their hands, but I don’t think they were drinking anything hard.
Then, with a bit of fanfare, Windy’s people got everyone’s attention and opened the doors to the exhibition hall. We looked in at a series of long tables supporting hundreds of Polaris items, articles of clothing, pressure suits, cups, glasses, spoons, boots, and an array of electronic devices. There were a chess set, game pieces, playing cards (with the ship’s insignia embossed on their backs), and even a crystal containing musical recordings made by Tom Dunninger. (A data card stated that Dunninger had been an accomplished musician.) Most of the items were sealed inside display cases, each accompanied by an inventory number.
The walls were hung with banners portraying Maddy English and her passengers. There was Nancy White tromping through a jungle somewhere, and Warren Mendoza bent over a sick child. Martin Klassner sat beside a sketch of a galaxy. Garth Urquhart talked with journalists on the steps of the capitol. Chek Boland was done in silhouette, apparently deep in contemplation. Maddy was in full uniform, gazing serenely out across the room. Finally, Tom Dunninger, in a print of the famous painting by Ormond, standing in a graveyard at night.
The Mazha, leading the way, paused to take it all in. Then he glanced back at Alex. Obviously, he’d been briefed about who else was enjoying the benefits of the preauction special.
Once in the room, he turned his attention exclusively to the items on display.
Other people, for the most part, laughed and talked in his wake, paying little attention as they filed past the tables. But he walked slowly, absorbing everything that lay around him. Occasionally he spoke to an elderly aide, who nodded and, I thought, recorded his comment. Or perhaps the catalog number.