Battlefield Earth Part 109

Jonnie walked on toward his room. Just as he was about to duck into the pa.s.sage the humming of the wires, which had been going on underneath the music, made itself known by stopping. There was a s.p.a.ce of time and then a slight recoil.

The Hockner emissary was on the platform. Noseless, holding a monocle on a stick, he was dressed in shimmering robes. He had a gold-colored hamper beside him.

A bell on the screen pinged. The screen top edge lit with a purple glow all around. The Hockner picked up the hamper, looked about through his monocle and minced off the platform. The honor guard saluted and dipped pennons.

He halted well clear of the disease control fence. A messenger took the hamper from him. The Buddhist in Chinese clothes bowed.

In a supercilious tone of voice, the Hockner emissary said, in Psychlo, "I am Blan Jetso, extraordinary minister plenipotentiary of the Emperor of the Hockners, long may he reign! I am empowered to negotiate and arrange final and binding amendments to agreements or treaties in all things political or military. My person is inviolate and any molestation cancels any agreements. Any effort to hold me hostage shall be in vain for I shall not be redeemed by my government. At the threat of any torture or extortion, you are warned that I shall commit suicide instantly in ways unknown to you. I am not the carrier of any disease nor weapon. Long live the Hockner Empire! And how are you today?"

The communicator dressed as a Chinese bowed and made a brief, fast speech of welcome, very pat, told him the conference would begin in about three hours and led him off to a private apartment where he could rest or refresh himself.

Jonnie had an idea these arrivals would all be about the same, different only as to races, persons, and clothes.

He was trying to think of something to tell the emissaries. It was a bit of a shock for Sir Robert to infer that it was up to him him. When that grizzled old veteran didn't have any ideas- But then he must be terribly distressed over Edinburgh. So was Jonnie.

Chapter 5.

Jonnie ducked under the door beam to enter the pa.s.sage to his room and a wave of dizziness. .h.i.t him. So far, in trying to handle the dam, he had carried himself along on willpower and he had pushed the feeling aside. But now, with worry about Edinburgh and Chrissie, he felt he was not in very good condition to handle much of anything. He had taken quite a battering these last couple of days.

He was not prepared for what he found in the pa.s.sage just outside his room. There were four people there and they were working on things he couldn't quite make out. They had low benches, they were sitting on the floor, their heads were down, and their hands were flying.

Mr. Tsung sensed his presence and bobbed up from the floor. He bowed. "Lord Jonnie, meet my wife!"

The second person, a gray-haired Chinese woman with a kindly face, bobbed up, smiled, bowed. Jonnie bowed. It made his head feel bad. The woman popped down and went right back to work.

"Meet my daughter," said Mr. Tsung.

The third person bobbed up, bowed. The daughter was a very beautiful Chinese girl, very delicate. She wore a flower in her hair. Jonnie bowed. It made his head feel worse. The girl sat down and went frantically back to work.

"Meet my son-in-law," said Mr. Tsung.

A good-looking Chinese bobbed up from his bench with a clatter. He bowed. He was in the blue work uniform the mechanics wore. Jonnie bowed, very slightly so the room wouldn't spin. The young man popped down and sparks again flew from his tools.

Jonnie looked at them. They were working dedicatedly and with near ferocity on whatever they were doing. Jonnie felt a pang of sorrow. If this conference failed and if they lost, what suffering would await these decent people! These and the rest of the thirty-five thousand that were all that remained of the human race. He could not face the prospect of letting them down.

He went into his room. Somebody else had used those two hours. Angus, probably, and an electrician. A rack with three viewscreens now stood against the wall beyond the foot of his bed. A b.u.t.ton camera had been placed in the ops room for one screen and he could see the huddled groups there, faces strained as they handled microphones and drone pictures and the operations board. Another b.u.t.ton camera was trained on the conference room to broadcast to the second screen- the conference room was empty. The third b.u.t.ton camera was on the platform and console and served the third screen.

Even as he looked, the Tolnep emissary arrived. He was in shimmering green; even his cap was green. But he had on dirty blue boots. Huge gla.s.ses hid his eyes. He carried a sort of scepter with a large k.n.o.b at the top and a green hamper on green wheels for his food and supplies. A reptilian creature although he walked upright and had a face and arms and legs. A genetic line from dinosaurs that had become miniature and sentient?

He made his speech much like the Hockner, accepted the reply with an evil smile, folded his shimmering green cloak about his steel hard body, and was led away to a private apartment.

He looked like trouble.

Jonnie was about to throw himself down on the bed when he was suddenly obstructed. Mr. Tsung had followed him in. "No, no!" said Mr. Tsung. "Bath!"

Two Chinese had followed Mr. Tsung in. They had a steaming bath sitting on a mine dolly which they pushed to an empty spot on the floor before vanishing.

"I happen to be just about exhausted," said Jonnie in protest. "I will just wash my face-'

Mr. Tsung slid around in front of him with a mirror. "Look!" demanded Mr. Tsung.

Jonnie looked. Mud. Explosive stains. The black silk sling he had been wearing was a tatter of light tan. Silt was all through his beard and hair. He looked down and saw that somewhere he must have walked up to his waist in ooze. He looked down at his hands and he could not even tell the color of his skin. He looked like something no dog would have dragged out of the village garbage dump.

"You win," said Jonnie and wearily began to get out of his clothes. Mr. Tsung had a big mine bucket and as each garment was removed he dropped it with some distaste in the bucket, even the helmet and boots and guns.

Jonnie climbed into the bath. It was not long enough to stretch out his legs but the water came up to his chest. He had never had a hot bath before, only rivers and cold mountain streams. He felt the exhaustion oozing out of him. Indeed, he found with some surprise, there was much you could say in favor of hot baths!

Avoiding the bandage on the arm, Mr.

Tsung scrubbed industriously with a lathering soap and a brush. Suddenly he stopped work and there was a whispered consultation back of Jonnie. Then a touch on the top of each of Jonnie's shoulders. Another consultation and one of Jonnie's arms was held out by Mr. Tsung and a piece of string was stretched down the length of it.

Jonnie was momentarily horrified to realize the daughter was behind him and he was naked in a tub! He turned his head but the daughter was gone. Mr. Tsung scrubbed on. He washed Jonnie's hair and beard.

Twice more the bath was stopped. Once to put a string around his chest. The second time to put a string down the side of his leg.

Eventually Mr. Tsung dried his hair and beard with a towel and then wrapped a bigger one around Jonnie as he stepped out of the tub. He dried Jonnie off, having to jump up a bit to really get the shoulders now that Jonnie was standing. He put Jonnie in a soft, blue robe and only then permitted him to lie down on the bed.

Thankful to stretch out at last, avoiding even looking at the screens, Jonnie was interrupted again.

It was Dr. MacKendrick and Dr. Allen. The robe was loose and they got his arm out. Dr. Allen cut off the bandage, cleaned the area with alcohol that stung the nose- probably whiskey of not too good a distillation- poured some white powder in the wound and then made him eat some of it. More sulfa! Mr. Tsung was there with a bowl of soup while Dr. Allen put on a fresh bandage.

Then the two doctors stood back. Jonnie, wise in such medical manners, began to suspect they were up to something. They had that false joviality doctors a.s.sume just before they take you by surprise and do something gruesome.

"I always thought," said Dr. Allen, "that Dunneldeen and Stormalong were wild. But I was out there when you blew that cliff in. You are the wild one, Jonnie Tyler. Do you always use a battle plane to light fuses?"

Jonnie was about to inform him somewhat austerely that there had been no time at all to rig fuses when Dr. MacKendrick moved closer.

"I suppose," said MacKendrick, "it just seemed more natural to him." A remark calculated to distract.

And he took the long needle he had been holding behind him and, seizing Jonnie's wrist, slid two inches of steel into a vein and pumped a full syringe of something into Jonnie's blood.

"Ow!" said Jonnie. "That wasn't fair! You know I don't like your needles." The stuff burned like fire in his vein.

"That's for your dizziness," said Dr. MacKendrick, smugly cleaning the needle. "It's some stuff we found called 'B Complex.' The venom and the relaxant and this sulfa all rob the system of it. You'll feel much better very shortly."

"I've got enough to do," said Jonnie, a bit cross, "without being shot full of holes."

Dr. Allen laid a hand on his shoulder. "That's just it," he said.

"You've got far, far too much to worry about and to do. You've got to learn to let others help you. Let them contribute as well. You do splendidly. Let others help too!" He gave Jonnie a pat on the shoulder and they left.

The soup had made his stomach feel better. After a bit he raised his head and bobbed it. He wasn't as dizzy as he had been.

Another couple of emissaries had arrived on the platform. The ops room looked frantic. He was worried about this coming conference. Jonnie thought he had lain around long enough.

"Tsung!" he called. "Please get out my best buckskin suit." Yes, he would let someone else contribute. Mr. Tsung could dig up his buckskins.

The result was totally unexpected. Mr. Tsung flashed in, drew himself up to his full five feet, and said, "No!"

Then he struggled to find more words from his meager store of English. "They lords!" He couldn't say what he wanted to say.

An amazed Jonnie saw Mr. Tsung tear out of the room and come back in a moment with a Coordinator for the Chinese, one who spoke Mandarin. Mr. Tsung was blazing away at the Coordinator with every shot in his magazine. Mr. Tsung died down. The Coordinator opened his mouth to speak. Mr. Tsung thought of something else, battered the Coordinator with it, and only then stood back with a "so there" expression and put his hands in his sleeves and bowed.

The Coordinator, a black-bearded Scot, took a deep breath. "You're maybe not going to like this, MacTyler, but you have gotten yourself a diplomatic manager. I know these Chinese, and when they get their minds set on something, they're worse than my old woman!"

Jonnie had lain back. He addressed the ceiling. "And what is wrong with my simply asking for my best buckskin suit to be laid out?"

"Everything," said the Coordinator. "Just everything." He sighed and began to explain: "Mr. Tsung is a descendant of a family that served as chamberlains to the Ch'ing Dynasty-those who ruled China from the mandate 1644 A.D. to about 1911. Maybe eleven hundred years ago. That was the last dynasty before China became a People's Republic. The court and emperors were not Chinese; they were a race called 'Manchus.' And they needed a lot of advice. Tsung says his family served them well but times changed and because they had served the Manchus his ancestors were exiled to Tibet. It was the western powers that overthrew the Manchus, Tsung says, not his family's advice. So Mr. Tsung here is really a 'Mandarin of the blue b.u.t.ton' according to ancestry, a lord of the court.

"He says all the family records and scrolls are with the Chinese university library you put in a vault someplace."

"Russia," said Jonnie. "They're in the Russian base, though lord knows how it's holding out right now!"

"Well, good," said the Scot. "He says he could read you some of it but he doesn't have it here. But his family always kept up on its background, expecting someday a dynasty they could serve would come back into power. They have long memories, these Chinese- imagine waiting eleven hundred years to get back a job!"

Mr. Tsung detected this was wandering off track and he nudged the Coordinator's arm and made gestures that clearly said, tell him, tell him!

The Coordinator sighed. He was not sure how Jonnie would take this. "He says you are 'Lord Jonnie' and"- he got it all out in a rush-'you can't go around looking like a barbarian!"

If Jonnie had not been so worried about other things he would have laughed.

The Coordinator was relieved that this had not been received as criticism. He continued. "He says he knew there would be a diplomatic conference and that a lot of lords would be arriving and that they would be very uppish and sn.o.bbish and fancy. And it's true enough. I've seen them coming in on the platform. Jeweled breathe-masks, glittering cloth, ornaments-one even had a jeweled monocle. Pretty fancy dudes!"

He then swallowed and said the rest in a rush, "And if you go out there and talk to them in hines, they'll think you're just a barbarian and won't listen to you. He says if you look and act," he swallowed again, "like an uncouth savage, they'll hold you in contempt." He stopped, relieved to have gotten through it. "And that's what he was trying to tell you. Don't be upset with him. I could add that quite in addition to a genuine affection for you, about thirty-five thousand lives- no, less than that now, but a lot- depend on this conference. Otherwise I wouldn't have translated it for him because to me, MacTyler, ye're no barbarian!"

Jonnie thought all he would have to do was rea.s.sure Mr. Tsung he would be polite and not slap anybody and that would be that. But not so!

Mr. Tsung made the Coordinator stand right there and translate everything he said exactly with no changes. Mr. Tsung hunkered down close to the side of the bed and started talking. The Coordinator translated at each pause.

It is one thing, translated the Scot, " 'to be a mighty warrior...but although you have won every battle...and driven the enemy to rout...from a field of slaughter...the entire war...can be lost...at the conference table!' "

Jonnie digested that. They actually hadn't won the war yet by a long ways, but even if they did, they could lose the whole thing in that conference room. He had known that, but he was impressed. Mr. Tsung had obviously sought this job, not as somebody who cleaned up a room, but as an advisor. Well, heavens knew he needed advice. He had come up with no ideas.

"Your att.i.tude, the Coordinator continued to translate as the little Mr. Tsung spoke on, " '...must be calculated to impress.... A lord is used to handling inferiors.... He is impressed by being handled as an inferior.... Be haughty.... Do not be polite.... Be cold and disdainful.... Be distant and aloof.'

"Say, this old man is really wringing out my Mandarin. That's real court Chinese he's talking!"

Mr. Tsung motioned him not to add his own comments.

Do not, the Scot obediently translated, " 'agree or seem to agree to anything.... Your words can be tricked into seeming to agree...so avoid the word: yes.... They will make preposterous demands they know they cannot attain...just to gain bargaining points...so you in return should advance to them...impossible demands even if you feel they won't agree, and who knows, you might win them...! All diplomacy is a matter of compromise.... There is a middle ground between the two opposite poles of impossible demands...which will become the eventual treaty or agreement.... Always work for the most advantageous position you can get.'

The Scot paused. "He wants to know if you've got all that."

"Yes, sir!" said Jonnie. "And welcome."

He was feeling this was useful even though it didn't give him the idea he needed.

"And now," said the Coordinator, "he wants to give you lessons in deportment. Watch him."

Well, they were dealing with creatures from many another race, and their ideas of deportment and those from ancient imperial China might not agree at all. So Jonnie felt a bit tolerant as he watched the Chinese. But almost immediately he felt he was wrong. These manners fitted any race!

How to stand. Feet apart, tall, leaning slightly back. Firmly fixed to the earth. Position eminent. Got that?

Then do it!

How to hold a scepter or wand. One hand on grip end, other end laid in the other palm. Grip both ends to show control. Tap one end into palm to hint the small possibility of punishment when one might wish to seem a bit offended. Wave idly in air to show that the other's argument was of no consequence and was like the wind. Got that? Here is a wand. Do it! Not quite right. Be easy, lordly. Now do them all again.

Walk as though not caring what lies before you. Suggest power. Steady, unstoppable. Like this. Got it? Do it!

For half an hour Mr. Tsung worked on Jonnie. And Jonnie realized that his own walk was like that of a panther whereas for this conference it must be stately.

Mr. Tsung made him go through the whole lesson and then the postures and walks again before he was satisfied. Jonnie, who had always had a sinking feeling about being a diplomat, began to feel a bit more confident. There was an art to this thing. It was like hunting game but a different kind of game. It was like a battle but a different kind of battle.

He thought he was all through. He could see on the screen that more and more emissaries were arriving. But Mr. Tsung said they would all have to present their credentials at the first meeting in the conference room and that there was lots and lots of time. Had Jonnie thought of a strategy? A strategy was very necessary. How to approach the diplomatic battle, what one intended to use to maneuver. Well, Jonnie could think about it. It was like a battle but your infantry and cavalry were ideas and words. Maneuvered wrongly, it meant defeat!

Meanwhile, they had to handle this other matter, and leaving Jonnie a bit mystified, Mr. Tsung went out in the hall.

Seeing that for the moment Jonnie wasn't busy, Chief Chong-won slid in the door. He was beaming and bobbing his head. "The dam!" And he made a tight grip with both fists and gestured with his hands. "The hole. The outflow is decreasing. The level of the lake is rising." He bobbed his head vigorously, bowed deeply, and vanished.

Jonnie thought, well that was one thing that had gone right. The power wouldn't go off and leave some diplomat parked in some wrong s.p.a.ce! All he had to worry about now was a burning planet, the fate of its people, and this conference.

That shot had worked. He wasn't dizzy.

Chapter 6.

The "other matter" turned out to be a haircut. The daughter came in and sat him in a chair facing the viewscreens and got to work with a small pair of scissors and a comb. The idea was rather novel to Jonnie-he usually just hacked his hair off with a knife when it got too long.

She seemed to be very practiced and expert and no doubt took care of the tonsorial requirements of many, for she just sailed in with her scissors moving so fast they sounded like an ore belt running at high speed, clip, clip, clip.