agenda before ‘whether an outsider should sit in the closed session?’ ”
“Do you wish him to sit here and listen while we debate those matters of precedence?” DeKarn asked.
“And no one has yet asked me to sit down,” Sgarthad added plaintively.
DeKarn ignored him. “All those in favor of allowing Captain Sgarthad to remain in this meeting, raise your hands.” As she expected, the lights above the heads of the Yolkovians went on immediately. To her surprise, however, so did those of Twenty, Thirteen and Twenty-Seven. “Those opposed?” Those eight lights went out, and the remaining thirty-two went on, including her own. She turned to Sgarthad and was met by that commanding, sea-blue stare. It was hard to get the words out, but she forced them. “I am sorry, Captain. Please leave the room.”
“I will wait in the antechamber,” he said, not seeming at all put out. “Thank you, my friends! I shall see you soon.”
The eyes of the Yolk contingent tracked him until the door sliding down separated him from their view. DeKarn found their behavior curious and unsettling.
“With your permission, may I enter the minutes now?” asked Rengin.
“Go ahead!” Zembke snapped. His gaze had also tracked the visitor, and his expression said he resented it.
Rengin spread out his hands. Small images that each depicted a subject on the previous schedule appeared hovering over the wide black table and fed themselves into an open folder. The folder immediately multiplied itself fortyfold. The copies flew to every councillor and sank into the receiver eye in front of each. DeKarn flipped a hand to bring up the table of contents and briefly perused it. She did not tap any of the files; to activate one was to listen to all of the carping and detail-splitting that had accompanied it. She preferred to think of the results that had come from those negotiations, a much more pleasant consideration. Once in a while they got something done. Sometimes it was even a worthwhile accomplishment.
“Any objections to the minutes as they have been entered?” she asked, scanning the group. “No? Any old business?” Twenty-Three’s top light went on briefly. Everyone turned to glare at him. DeKarn cringed. Was he going to protest translation of those minutes into the Cocomon language again? He glared back, but the light went out. “Very well. Let us move on to the items on the agenda. Many of them have already been discussed as to their merits and tentatively settled . . .”
“By you! You are several weeks ahead of us!” Pinckney protested, jabbing a finger at the tabletop.
“You were late!” Tross said. “We began our deliberations on the appointed day.”
“We could not be here! You know how difficult it is to time space-travel. The black hole has been emitting unusual quantities of quasars. We had to detour for safety. We have been monitoring your negotiations. Yolk does not necessarily stipulate that we consider any of them settled!”
“You are welcome, of course, to open matters to the floor for debate,” Marden said. “But as I see it, most of the items are old arguments brought around again. Only two matters stand out in importance.”
“Two?” demanded Thanndur, his mandibles clacking. “I have sixteen vital themes bookmarked!” Around his three-digited claw-hand, several small icons danced.
“Two need to be pushed up the list, or the others are largely moot,” Marden said. “With your permission, First Councillor?”
“Of course,” DeKarn said, and turned to the Carstairs contingent. “Twenty-Nine?”
Zembke made an impatient gesture. “Very well, go ahead!”
Marden nodded. “The two matters are interconnected. The first is the pending arrival of the Imperium’s envoy. How will we greet her? We need to discuss our response. Are we a part of the Imperium or not? It has gone undecided for two centuries, and that is long enough!” Muttering began, not all of it low-pitched. “I apologize
“Do you wish him to sit here and listen while we debate those matters of precedence?” DeKarn asked.
“And no one has yet asked me to sit down,” Sgarthad added plaintively.
DeKarn ignored him. “All those in favor of allowing Captain Sgarthad to remain in this meeting, raise your hands.” As she expected, the lights above the heads of the Yolkovians went on immediately. To her surprise, however, so did those of Twenty, Thirteen and Twenty-Seven. “Those opposed?” Those eight lights went out, and the remaining thirty-two went on, including her own. She turned to Sgarthad and was met by that commanding, sea-blue stare. It was hard to get the words out, but she forced them. “I am sorry, Captain. Please leave the room.”
“I will wait in the antechamber,” he said, not seeming at all put out. “Thank you, my friends! I shall see you soon.”
The eyes of the Yolk contingent tracked him until the door sliding down separated him from their view. DeKarn found their behavior curious and unsettling.
“With your permission, may I enter the minutes now?” asked Rengin.
“Go ahead!” Zembke snapped. His gaze had also tracked the visitor, and his expression said he resented it.
Rengin spread out his hands. Small images that each depicted a subject on the previous schedule appeared hovering over the wide black table and fed themselves into an open folder. The folder immediately multiplied itself fortyfold. The copies flew to every councillor and sank into the receiver eye in front of each. DeKarn flipped a hand to bring up the table of contents and briefly perused it. She did not tap any of the files; to activate one was to listen to all of the carping and detail-splitting that had accompanied it. She preferred to think of the results that had come from those negotiations, a much more pleasant consideration. Once in a while they got something done. Sometimes it was even a worthwhile accomplishment.
“Any objections to the minutes as they have been entered?” she asked, scanning the group. “No? Any old business?” Twenty-Three’s top light went on briefly. Everyone turned to glare at him. DeKarn cringed. Was he going to protest translation of those minutes into the Cocomon language again? He glared back, but the light went out. “Very well. Let us move on to the items on the agenda. Many of them have already been discussed as to their merits and tentatively settled . . .”
“By you! You are several weeks ahead of us!” Pinckney protested, jabbing a finger at the tabletop.
“You were late!” Tross said. “We began our deliberations on the appointed day.”
“We could not be here! You know how difficult it is to time space-travel. The black hole has been emitting unusual quantities of quasars. We had to detour for safety. We have been monitoring your negotiations. Yolk does not necessarily stipulate that we consider any of them settled!”
“You are welcome, of course, to open matters to the floor for debate,” Marden said. “But as I see it, most of the items are old arguments brought around again. Only two matters stand out in importance.”
“Two?” demanded Thanndur, his mandibles clacking. “I have sixteen vital themes bookmarked!” Around his three-digited claw-hand, several small icons danced.
“Two need to be pushed up the list, or the others are largely moot,” Marden said. “With your permission, First Councillor?”
“Of course,” DeKarn said, and turned to the Carstairs contingent. “Twenty-Nine?”
Zembke made an impatient gesture. “Very well, go ahead!”
Marden nodded. “The two matters are interconnected. The first is the pending arrival of the Imperium’s envoy. How will we greet her? We need to discuss our response. Are we a part of the Imperium or not? It has gone undecided for two centuries, and that is long enough!” Muttering began, not all of it low-pitched. “I apologize
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