thumb in Brox's direction. "My spies tell me his shop is in lockdown too. I need to know why. I was just up here trying to get the Grand Poobahs to tell me more. They've been real cooperative up to now--but they've clammed up too. What's going on?"
"No comment," said Hannah. "And let's just assume that's good until further notice."
"I've got a right to know what's going on!"
And I haven't the faintest idea myself what's going on, Hannah thought. "You show me a law, a regulation, a written order from my superior officers that tells me you've got that right--and after I double-check it, I'll comply with your request for information. I don't want to start any fights here, Dr. Zamprohna, but even if you've got a clean sheet right now, it wasn't more than six months ago that the Human Supremacy League came off the BSI list of terror-supporting organizations--and that was in spite of the protests of my direct superior."
"I wouldn't put too much stock in that," said Zamprohna. "Commander Kelly won't be in that job forever--and maybe not even all that much longer."
That was a nice, clear, indirect threat Hannah was going to have to report back as soon as possible. "I'll bear that in mind," said Hannah. And tender my resignation the split second a commandant sympathetic to your outfit takes over the Bullpen.
Zamprohna flashed an impossibly toothy smile and winked at her. "See that you do," he said. "Now I'm going to have to spend all of about ten minutes working my sources, and finding out what, exactly, you're doing here. My fellow humans, I bid you a fond farewell. And, Senior Inquirist Brox 231, I hereby inform you of my departure." He bowed to Hannah, nodded to Jamie, made no gesture at all toward Brox, and headed back to his escort.
"Real nice guy," said Jamie. "Hey, you think if his sources find out what we're doing here, then maybe we could get him to tell us?"
"Sure, for the right price," said Hannah. "By all accounts he's a very bribable fellow. Brox, what the hell is he doing here--on-planet, and paying calls on the powers that be?"
"You will learn the answer to the first part of your question soon, though you won't like it. As to the second part, I have no idea, beyond the motive he himself claimed."
They watched as his escort started moving again. Zamprohna moved off with them. His posture and attitude reminded her irresistibly of an old-time tycoon in top hat and tails, at his ease in the back of his limousine, puffing on a giant cartoon cigar. His escort group cleared theirs. Hannah was not in the least surprised when their own group started up again without warning.
It all had to be status, she reflected. The number of escorts a party received, the size and color and number of legs of the escorting group, the apparently intricate rules establishing who deferred to whom--all of it was, on the face of it, absurd posturing that accomplished nothing and used up labor and resources. It was of no more practical use than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, or the kilometer-long corridors of Hitler's Chancery, or the number of gold stars on an admiral's shoulder boards. But Vixan status display was different from what humans did. It was there to support the group, the clan, rather than to exalt an individual.
That played both ways, up and down the status scale. That little speech of welcome their escort leader had given them mentioned Subhouseholder Zeeraum, but also "the Preeminent Director, now and forever nameless." She remembered that part from the general briefing on the Vixa. When a Vixan ascended to the Preeminent Directorate, he or she gave up his or her name for all time, becoming as nameless as the sub-caste Vixa in their escort, and was thereafter to be referred to merely by the title. The office was all, the power was all, the individual was nothing.
None of it, none of it at all, was even remotely like the Vixa she had met on Earth, on Center, and in the course of her BSI duties. Obviously, the Vixa sent
"No comment," said Hannah. "And let's just assume that's good until further notice."
"I've got a right to know what's going on!"
And I haven't the faintest idea myself what's going on, Hannah thought. "You show me a law, a regulation, a written order from my superior officers that tells me you've got that right--and after I double-check it, I'll comply with your request for information. I don't want to start any fights here, Dr. Zamprohna, but even if you've got a clean sheet right now, it wasn't more than six months ago that the Human Supremacy League came off the BSI list of terror-supporting organizations--and that was in spite of the protests of my direct superior."
"I wouldn't put too much stock in that," said Zamprohna. "Commander Kelly won't be in that job forever--and maybe not even all that much longer."
That was a nice, clear, indirect threat Hannah was going to have to report back as soon as possible. "I'll bear that in mind," said Hannah. And tender my resignation the split second a commandant sympathetic to your outfit takes over the Bullpen.
Zamprohna flashed an impossibly toothy smile and winked at her. "See that you do," he said. "Now I'm going to have to spend all of about ten minutes working my sources, and finding out what, exactly, you're doing here. My fellow humans, I bid you a fond farewell. And, Senior Inquirist Brox 231, I hereby inform you of my departure." He bowed to Hannah, nodded to Jamie, made no gesture at all toward Brox, and headed back to his escort.
"Real nice guy," said Jamie. "Hey, you think if his sources find out what we're doing here, then maybe we could get him to tell us?"
"Sure, for the right price," said Hannah. "By all accounts he's a very bribable fellow. Brox, what the hell is he doing here--on-planet, and paying calls on the powers that be?"
"You will learn the answer to the first part of your question soon, though you won't like it. As to the second part, I have no idea, beyond the motive he himself claimed."
They watched as his escort started moving again. Zamprohna moved off with them. His posture and attitude reminded her irresistibly of an old-time tycoon in top hat and tails, at his ease in the back of his limousine, puffing on a giant cartoon cigar. His escort group cleared theirs. Hannah was not in the least surprised when their own group started up again without warning.
It all had to be status, she reflected. The number of escorts a party received, the size and color and number of legs of the escorting group, the apparently intricate rules establishing who deferred to whom--all of it was, on the face of it, absurd posturing that accomplished nothing and used up labor and resources. It was of no more practical use than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, or the kilometer-long corridors of Hitler's Chancery, or the number of gold stars on an admiral's shoulder boards. But Vixan status display was different from what humans did. It was there to support the group, the clan, rather than to exalt an individual.
That played both ways, up and down the status scale. That little speech of welcome their escort leader had given them mentioned Subhouseholder Zeeraum, but also "the Preeminent Director, now and forever nameless." She remembered that part from the general briefing on the Vixa. When a Vixan ascended to the Preeminent Directorate, he or she gave up his or her name for all time, becoming as nameless as the sub-caste Vixa in their escort, and was thereafter to be referred to merely by the title. The office was all, the power was all, the individual was nothing.
None of it, none of it at all, was even remotely like the Vixa she had met on Earth, on Center, and in the course of her BSI duties. Obviously, the Vixa sent
Similar Books
