"Enough," the minister said, silencing him, and stepped from the in-terworld soil of the port onto the floor of the Anethine ground transport, committing himself.
The major glowered, shook his head, and followed. After him came the attendant clutter of aides and secretaries, with recorders and sensors surprisingly permitted beyond the outer ring of the oracular enclave. Cosean, the minister, prime in the third rank of the Shantran technarchy; Segrane, the major, from the military fifth; the aides and secretaries had no rank at all save as appurtenances to the minister and the major. An Shant risked as little as possible in the venture, augmented its delegation with expendables in expensive garb. The Confederate enemy had consulted the oracle; the military grew nervous on the matter: An Shant had determined to investigate any potential leak or exchange of information. Therefore they were here inconveniencing themselves with this farce.
They were seated. The automated vehicle began to move.
"Irresponsible," Segrane muttered, affecting nonchalance, his eyes shifting to this side and that while he faced ahead, relaxed. "Something could go wrong with these machines. And then where should we be stranded? I find their notion of security less than adequate." The barren plains of Aneth rolled past the windows, grassland and purple forest. The windows suddenly sealed, viewless, black. The major set his jaw and continued his surreptitious scan. The velocity of the car increased. There was perceptible descent, and aides and secretaries clutched in panic at cases. The minister sat still, outwardly calm. The angle of descent eased; the speed remained constant for a time in which the aides found occasion to investigate the console at the rear of the car and to call up informational lectures from the screen . . . time in which novelty eventually yielded to utter tedium, and aides and secretaries, enjoined to strictest silence, sat primly half-asleep, hypnotized by the smoothness of their passage and the soft hiss of air. Then abrupt deceleration: windows unshielded themselves on darkness, which broke into glowing colored bars and triangles whisking past in a distorted neon flow, broke again into view of a white, sterile concourse. The car braked smoothly; doors hissed open. Signs blinked, in Shantran and two related dialects of the colonial sequence which had populated An Shant. ENCLAVE SECOND RANK, the signs proclaimed in Shantran idiom. The boarding station at the port had been ENCLAVE THIRD RANK. It all seemed impeccably Shantran, as it could doubtless seem Confederate, or Tyrang, or Inush, or Syncrat.
Slippered Servants arrived, alike in their white garments, silent as their guests chose to be silent. Doubtless they, like the signs, could change. They took the baggage and led the way. RESIDENCE AREA 110, the sign advised, giving directions. The entourage walked, following the Servants. It was not far from the concourse, down a corridor of right-triangle arches. Doors opened, sealed again; the baggage was deposited; the Servants took silent leave. Major Segrane looked about him at blank steel walls, at sterile white plastic benches, at the Minister Cosean An Homin, his personal charge. He remained amazed that they had not been searched, that they had not been forbidden the recording and scanning devices. "There is," he observed to Cosean, "no evidence of scanning. But that means nothing."
"No. It does not." Cosean settled into a chair and opened his notebook. Segrane excused himself into the adjoining set of rooms, discovered that one of the aides had transferred his baggage there, that a nervous group of secretaries waited for instruction. He pettishly dismissed them to the rooms which lay further within the apartments assigned them, advising them to stay close about and to refrain from needless chatter; they departed in dutiful silence. He paced, realized that finally as a manner of communication to any spies, and settled into a chair, arms folded. The Confederacy had consulted the Oracle, credulity utterly out of character for a polity blood and bone akin to An Shant itself. Last of the holdouts against the Pact, save the Shantran Technarchy itself, the Confederacy had come submitting to the Pact and asking its questions, as any private or representative individual might join and come, who had the fare to Aneth and the requisite fee. Had the Confederacy consulted once and ceased, the Technarchy of An Shant would have found it amusing, a desperate move by the Confederacy to allay the fears of its citizenry, a sinking of Confederate morale before the rumors of war.
Twice . . . brought forth a more ominous possibility. Three times . . . Three times at such expense, in such rapid succession . . . indicated some manner of success; and that suggested something more sinister here than superstition, the exchange of data more substantial than hundred-year predictions. The Confederacy adopted a more aggressive stance, broke relations on its own initiative, embargoed ores the Technarchy vitally needed. War was in preparation; the Confederacy was absolutely right in that. Shortages mandated it. The preparations were far advanced.
And there was no doubt that information changed hands in Aneth . . . tiny questions from lovelorn and wealthy suitors, larger matters from greedy corporations, perhaps even reckless bits of gossip passed in sleeping quarters by consulting ministers to their companions. Doubtless the whole Enclave was a surveillance net, and information was the merchandise on which Aneth and its amphictyony flourished.
In that light, it was absolutely essential to know the weight and shape of that merchandise which had been made available to the Confederate representative. One went through the forms, however humiliating; one probed; one listened.
And signing the meaningless Amphictyonic Pact was the first such embarrassment. A direct attack on Aneth—that would loose havoc among the gullible; but there was no need at all to contemplate such a move, even if Aneth were passing valuable information. The gullible would continue to contribute to the process and the clever would find a way to use it. They sought information . . . eavesdropping with the sensors they had brought in their luggage—had yet found nothing. There had to be a limit to Aneth's patience. Taking recorders into the Oracle itself they would hardly bear . . . but information was apparently free for the gathering here in second rank enclave. It was to be wondered—where the limit lay The silence persisted, absolute. The major sat . . . walked, finally, out into the corridor of their suite, found the minister Cosean retired to his sleeping quarters. He strolled restlessly out the door and down the hall into the concourse, testing the Enclave's reactions. A Servant began to dog his steps. When he stopped, the Servant stopped, pretended to look elsewhere, and walked on when he walked. Segrane stopped, waited, and when the Servant looked back again, Segrane summoned him with an impatient gesture. The Servant came, soft-footed; bowed, smiled . . . human-looking. All the Servants were reputed to be of the human stock of neighboring Corielle.
"You speak Shantran?" Segrane challenged him.
"Yes, sir." The answering voice was perfectly modulated, soft and without irritance.
"And all five hundred thousand other dialects known to man?"
The Servant smiled slightly. "No, sir, this is the Shantran staff. There are five hundred thousand possible combinations of personnel."
"So there's already a Shantran staff. You must have researched us far in advance of our application."
"We're pleased by your notice, sir."
"We."
"The staff, sir."
"Did you research us?"
"Of course, sir."
"On whose advice?"
Again a slight smile. "On the Oracle's, sir."
The answer caught him by surprise. He scowled, suspecting humor at his expense. "And has the Oracle decided when it will see the minister?"