CHAPTER FOUR
New America was tidelocked to Eithinoha as they revolved around their common center of mass at a surprisingly narrow separation. The result was a “day” of 98.67 standard hours, with the enormous globe of Eithinoha eternally fixed in the sky, eclipsing Tau Ceti for the “inner” hemisphere that faced it during most of that hemisphere’s daylight hours.
However, the planetary capital of New Philadelphia was in the “outer” hemisphere, though not far over the line. So Eithinoha was only partially visible from there, seemingly a low but supernaturally vast dome looming over the horizon. And the length of the day was actually convenient, being very close to a multiple of the twenty-four-hour rotation period to which the human race had spent its entire evolutionary history becoming accustomed. The New Americans still lived according to that twenty-four-hour pattern. They simply divided their planet’s rotation into four “days,” some of sunlight and some of night, each divided into twenty-four hours slightly longer than those of Earth. These days were fairly reliable in the outer hemisphere, where it was always night anyway when New America swung into Eithinoha’s cone of darkness.
When Rogers landed, New America was still on the sunward side of Eithinoha but was swinging into the “night” portion of its long rotation. So as he stepped out of the passenger shuttle at New Philadelphia’s Patrick Henry Spaceport, Tau Ceti—slightly smaller and a deeper yellow than Sol as seen from Earth—was near the end of its protracted sunset, even though it was morning by the planet’s arbitrary clock. The following day would be all-dark. Although New Philadelphia, like most New American cities, was in the equatorial zone, the air was brisk. It was also somewhat denser than Earth’s. Rogers had little difficulty adjusting to that, or to the higher gravity; as per standard procedure, Elizabeth IV had gradually increased its interior air pressure and artificial gravity in the course of the voyage until both simulated New American conditions. In two and a half standard days there had been little time for acclimatization, but Rogers was an old hand at such adjustments.
Behaving in character as a private citizen, Rogers hired a glide car and set out for New Philadelphia. The short drive, southward along the shore of the Columbian Ocean, gave him a chance to observe the scenery. To his right the low dome of Eithinoha rose above the ocean horizon, partially eclipsing the setting sun, seemingly too huge to be real, although viewed through the atmosphere it appeared almost ethereal, giving no hint of its massiveness. The ocean itself was effectively tideless; Eithinoha raised a permanent tidal bulge on the other hemisphere, which was why this one held most of the dry land. To Rogers’ left, beyond the sandy bluffs overlooking the ocean, the land rose in the low hills characteristic of much of New America’s terrain, a combined product of extensive tectonic activity and the smoothing-out erosion of a thick atmosphere. The vegetation was familiar, for in the course of a century Earth imports (sometimes genetically tweaked) had pretty much taken over—just as well, inasmuch as the local stuff, with its “right-handed” amino acids, had no proteins humans could use.
Presently the hills rose ahead, and New Philadelphia spread out at their foot, on an expanse of flat land that formed a harbor. It was a small city, its most notable structure being the capitol building that crowned one of the hills overlooking the generally low cityscape. But, as Rogers knew from his orientation, there were several hotels, of which the Travelers’ Rest was considered the best. There, he found that accommodations were available. (Except for the most exalted of personages, there was no such thing as hotel reservations across interstellar distances. Certainly there were none for nondescript private citizens such as Rogers was supposed to be.) Once settled into his room, he called a certain number, using a wrist communicator with special security features.
“Patrick Logan here,” said a voice holding the twang of the Dominion of Australia. Rogers knew of the man from his orientation. His official job was assistant secretary to the resident commissioner; his unofficial one was as a lieutenant commander in Naval Intelligence. The New Americans, it had been thought, didn’t need to know that.
“Rogers.” He confirmed his identity in a prearranged exchange of passwords. “I’m at the Travelers’ Rest. There’s no indication that anyone has taken any notice of my arrival.”
“Good. We were given advance notice of your coming via the courier service, of course.” Logan sounded relieved. He hesitated a moment. “We’ve also been informed of what happened to De Graeff in London—”
“Yes,” said Rogers shortly. “And you also know of the evidence he turned up.”
“We do…although it seems a bit far-fetched. But we’ve been expecting your arrival, as have the locals. As you are aware, our policy is to respect their…sensibilities as much as possible. We make it a point not to act on our own here—at least not openly—but to always coordinate with them.”
“Right. I understand a New American liaison officer has been assigned to work with me.”
“Correct. Grey Goldson, of NAISA—that’s the New American Internal Security Agency.”
“When do I get to meet this individual?”
“Come to the Residency at two o’clock local time. Don’t bother with any special precautions. It’s natural for a visiting Imperial subject to come here, for any number of legitimate reasons. Mention your name, and mine; you’ll be sent up to the resident commissioner’s office. He wants to meet you too.”
* * *
The restaurant of the Travelers’ Rest specialized in seafood, with which New America’s seas had been well stocked. After a satisfactory lunch, Rogers drove through the slowly gathering dusk to the Residency, a low-walled compound not far from the waterfront, over which the Union Jack flapped in the ocean breeze. As he approached the gate, he noted that a work crew was whitewashing a portion of the wall that had been spray-painted. They had already covered up most of it, so Rogers couldn’t read the spray-painter’s message, although he would have been willing to hazard a guess as to its general trend. He left his glide car in the underground car park and ascended to the lobby.
“Robert Rogers, to see Assistant Secretary Logan,” he told the (human) receptionist.
“Yes, sir, you’re expected.” She gave Rogers what seemed to him to be a faintly knowing look. “Take the lift to the top floor. I’ll notify Mr. Logan that you’re here.”
“Thank you.” He went to the lift and floated upward until the effect ceased and he need only step out of the tube. A man stepped forward. He did not salute, as they were both in civilian clothes and he wasn’t supposed to be military at all. But he observed military courtesy by not offering his hand to a superior officer.
“Commander Rogers? Logan.”
Rogers extended his hand. Logan had a stereotypical “Black Irish” look, which was hardly surprising. The reforms that had resolved the First North American Rebellion had included a proviso that no more convicts would be transported to America except by consent of the dominion governments—a consent which had turned out to be very seldom forthcoming. So Australia had taken America’s place as a dumping ground for undesirables. A disproportionate number of those undesirables had been Irish, many of them convicted on frankly political charges. This, of course, had been long before Ireland had been granted dominion status, ending the troubles there.
Logan shook the proffered hand. “The resident commissioner is waiting for us, sir. This way.” He led the way along a corridor and through outer offices, to an inner sanctum.
Sir Ranjit Tewari was from the Viceroyalty of India. That viceroyalty was something of an anomaly in the Empire, inasmuch as it was not constituted as one or more dominions but was nevertheless internally self-governing—and allotted representation on the Imperial Grand Council—in accordance with a complicated arrangement, which, whatever it lacked in strict logical consistency, was something almost everyone could live with. Tewari was seated at a wide desk, silhouetted against windows overlooking the city. Seated beside the desk was a woman who made a striking contrast to the small dark resident commissioner.
“Commander Rogers,” said Tewari, rising courteously, “welcome to New America. Allow me to present Special Agent Grey Goldson of NAISA.”
The woman also got to her feet, and offered her hand. “Commander,” she said coolly.
“Agent Goldson,” said Rogers with a nod. The liaison officer looked to be in her early thirties. (Rogers wondered if she thought of it as her late teens, in terms of this planet’s years.) She was tall, slender and very fit-looking. Her straight ash-blond hair was worn in a style whose severity was reflected in her suit. Rogers found himself taking in details of her face, for it was a striking face—strong without being in the least unfeminine, with high cheekbones, a nose with character, and eyes of the sort of light color that can seem green or gray or blue depending on the lighting. Her mouth was wide, and looked like it could be mobile, but at the moment was held in a rather severe line as Rogers shook her hand and felt a not-unexpectedly firm grip. She exuded not hostility but a very controlled reserve.
He wondered what impression she was forming as she gazed back at him. She saw a medium-tall man, spare of build but in very good condition, in his late thirties but looking somewhat older because his thick dark hair was starting to shade into iron-gray around the temples. Aside from a slight network of crow’s-feet at the corners of his hazel eyes, his skin was still unlined. His complexion was dark, but he had lost almost all trace of a tan, having spent most of his time lately either in spacecraft or in England (which helped him to blend in on New America, one and a third AU from a relatively UV-poor sun). His features were unremarkable, and his expression gave little away.
With scientific detachment, he evaluated his own reaction to her. He could not honestly deny a tug of sexual attraction. His latest affair, in which he knew perfectly well he should never have allowed himself to become involved—it had been a London socialite he had belatedly recognized as a neurotic twit—had ended in a predictably but disagreeably emotional fashion just before his last off-Earth assignment, and afterwards the Zeta Tucanae system had offered no opportunities for erotic interludes. So, he coldly told himself, he was undoubtedly somewhat vulnerable at the moment, and needed to be on his guard. He could permit himself no fantasizing about Grey Goldson, much less any attempts to turn fantasy into reality. At any rate, he concluded glumly, any such attempts would almost surely be unavailing.
They all sat down and Tewari cleared his throat. “Agent Goldson has been assigned as a liaison officer by the local planetary government.” (He carefully didn’t say “the colonial government.”) “She will work with you on your investigation.”
“Even though I must say we find it hard to take the idea of Caliphate activity here very seriously,” Goldson put in. Her English held a slightly modified North American accent, with even more vowel mergers than the original. “It frankly seems far-fetched.”
“Assistant Secretary Logan used exactly the same term,” Rogers acknowledged—although, he noted, she compounded it almost into one word, another exaggeration of an American English tendency. “But someone evidently takes it very seriously, considering what happened to Adrian de Graeff—and very nearly happened to me—in London.”
“Yes, we know about that. But it may have been unrelated to De Graeff’s current investigation. As I understand, there’s no evidence of any linkage.”
“The rather extreme suiciding device implanted in the shooter’s head seems to argue against the idea that it was a random act.”
“I suppose so,” Goldson conceded with no particular good grace. “But the fact remains, we have no Muslim community here for Caliphate subversionists to work within.”
Tewari cleared his throat again, as appeared to be an unconscious habit of his. “I should mention that at the moment there is quite a large Caliphate trade mission on this planet. Here in New Philadelphia, in fact. The New American government invited them.” He was carefully expressionless.
“Yes, we did.” Goldson’s voice held just a hint of defensiveness. “Well, after all, the Empire isn’t at war with the Caliphate—and New America isn’t necessarily involved in the sources of the tense relationship that exists between them and the Empire.”
“Of course, of course,” Tewari murmured.
And you people just couldn’t pass up an opportunity to assert your independence by this little gesture, Rogers thought. Typical. “Still,” he said out loud, “We ought to look into any possible connection.”
“Yes,” said Logan. “It’s certainly one of the possibilities we’ll explore.” He seemed to hesitate. “Ah…I’m thinking we might also want to consider the possibility of involvement by the Sons of Arnold.”
Goldson grew absolutely expressionless. Tewari frowned, as though distressed that his de facto intelligence officer had raised a sore point. Rogers thought he should speak up, in his capacity as an outsider.
“Yes, I recall reading about them. An extremist organization here on New America that advocates the severing of all ties to the Empire and, eventually, returning to Earth and liberating North America itself—supposing that modern North Americans like myself can be persuaded to want to be ‘liberated’ from the Federal Empire.”
“They’ve never been connected with any criminal activities,” Goldson protested. “They’re just a debating society.”
Why do people always use that term—a “debating society”—for organizations where absolutely no debate about the ideological assumptions is permitted? Rogers decided to keep the rhetorical question to himself.
“Nevertheless,” Logan persisted, “We have reason to think there’s a faction among them that thinks the leadership is too ineffectual, and favors direct, violent action.”
“That’s just a figment of the imagination of Imperial security people,” said Goldson with what seemed to Rogers to be more heat…and possibly more sincerity. “Oh, maybe there are individuals among them who talk big, but that’s all it is: talk.” She gave Logan a look that made Rogers wonder if she knew of the assistant secretary’s clandestine Naval Intelligence role but had to keep up the official pretense that it had been successfully concealed from her government. “Unless, of course, they’re provocateurs.”
Tewari went huffily indignant. “I assure you, Agent Goldson, that we would never dream of—”
“Of course not, sir,” said Goldson in a tone that neither convinced nor was intended to convince. “I merely suggested a possibility.”
“A possibility,” said Logan smoothly, “is precisely what it is not.” His eyes and Goldson’s met. Yes, Rogers decided, they understand each other.
“Well, Agent Goldson,” he said briskly, “since my presence here is being kept out of the public eye, I suggest that we meet somewhere other than your offices at the NAISA. How about my hotel, tomorrow, to discuss our next move?”
“Yes, that would be satisfactory. Tomorrow at midmorning?”
Rogers agreed, and the conference broke up. As they entered the corridor, Logan murmured in Rogers’ ear. “I’ve dealt with her before. She’s really not bad to work with…except at first.”
“No doubt.” Rogers saw her up ahead, approaching the lift. “Excuse me.” He hastened forward to catch her.
“Excuse me, Agent Goldson. It occurs to me, why wait till tomorrow? And besides, I somehow get the impression that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Can I buy you drinks and dinner tonight?”
She gave him an appraising look. “Did you have a place in mind?”
“I’m very new here. You’ll have to make suggestions.”
She seemed to hesitate a moment, then smiled for the first time in their brief acquaintance. It was, he decided, a rather attractive smile. “All right. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Travelers’ at six.”