now?" General Nitz clapped his hands together before him atop the pile of memoranda, micro-docs, reports, abstracts ribbon-style that covered his share of the great table. "Well, Lars—"
He glanced up, the weary carrot-like face corrupted with utterly unforeseen, unimaginable, feckless amusement.
"As strange as it may sound, Lars, somebody in this room, somebody a bona fide participant of this meeting, actually suggested—you'll laugh—suggested we try to get you to go into one of your song-and-dance acts, you know, with the banjo and blackface, your—" the carrot-like features writhed—"trances. Can you obtain a weapon from hyper-dimensional space, Lars? Honestly, now. Can you get us something to take out BX-3? Now, Lars, please don't pull my leg. Just quietly say no and we won't vote you out of here; we'll just quietly go on and try to think of something else."
Lars said, "No, I can't."
For a moment General Nitz' eyes flickered; it was, possibly but not very probably, compassion.
Whatever it was, it lasted only an instant. Then the sardonic glaze reinstated itself. "Anyhow you're honest, which is what I asked for. Ask for a no answer, get a no answer." He laughed barkingly.
"He could try," a woman named Min Dosker said in an oddly high, lady-like voice.
"Yes," Lars agreed, taking the bit before General Nitz could seize it and run with it. "Let me clarify. I—"
"Don't clarify," General Nitz said slowly. "Please, as a favor to me personally. Mrs. Dosker, Lars, is from SeRKeb. I failed to tell you, but—" He shrugged. "So, in view of that fact, don't treat us to an interminable recitation of how you can operate and what you can and can't do. We're not being entirely candid because of Mrs. Dosker's presence here." To the SeRKeb rep, General Nitz said, "You understand, don't you, Min?"
"I still think," Mrs. Dosker said, "that your weapons medium could try." She rattled her micro-docs irritably.
"What about yours?" General Dowbrowsky demanded. "The Topchev girl?"
"I am informed," Mrs. Dosker said, "that she is—" She hesitated; obviously, she, too, was constrained to be to some extent reticent.
"Dead," General Nitz grated.
"Oh no!" Mrs. Dosker said, and looked horrified, like a Baptist Sunday school teacher shocked by an improper word.
"The strain probably killed her," Nitz said lazily.
"No, Miss Topchev is—in shock. She fully understands the situation, however. She is under sedation at the Pavlov Institute at New Moscow, and for the time being she can't work. But she's not dead."
"When?" one of the concomodies, a male nullity, asked her. "Will she be out of shock soon? Can you predict?"
"Within hours, we hope," Mrs. Dosker said emphatically.
"All right," General Nitz said, in a sudden brisk voice; he rubbed his hands together, grimaced, showing his yellow, irregular, natural teeth. Speaking to Lars he said, "Powderdry, Mr. Lars, Lars, whatever you are—I'm glad you came here. I truly am. I knew you would. People like you can't stand being hung-up on."
"What kind of person—" Lars began, but General Bronstein, seated on the far side of General Dowbrowsky, shot him a look that made him cease—and God forbid, flush. General Nitz said, "When were you last at Fairfax, Iceland?"
"Six years ago," Lars said.
"Before that?"
"Never."
"You want to go there?"
"I'd go anywhere. I'd go to God. Yes, I'll be glad to go."
"Fine." General Nitz nodded. "She ought to be out of shock by, say, midnight Washington time. Right, Mrs. Dosker?"
"I'm positive," the SeRKeb rep said, her head wobbling up and down like a vast, colorless pumpkin on its thick stalk.
"Ever tried working with another weapons medium?" an akprop—it would be an akprop—man asked Lars.
"No." Happily, he was able to keep his voice steady. "But I'll be pleased to pool my ability and years of experience with Miss Topchev's. As a matter of fact—" He hesitated until he could find a political way of finishing his utterance. "I've speculated for
He glanced up, the weary carrot-like face corrupted with utterly unforeseen, unimaginable, feckless amusement.
"As strange as it may sound, Lars, somebody in this room, somebody a bona fide participant of this meeting, actually suggested—you'll laugh—suggested we try to get you to go into one of your song-and-dance acts, you know, with the banjo and blackface, your—" the carrot-like features writhed—"trances. Can you obtain a weapon from hyper-dimensional space, Lars? Honestly, now. Can you get us something to take out BX-3? Now, Lars, please don't pull my leg. Just quietly say no and we won't vote you out of here; we'll just quietly go on and try to think of something else."
Lars said, "No, I can't."
For a moment General Nitz' eyes flickered; it was, possibly but not very probably, compassion.
Whatever it was, it lasted only an instant. Then the sardonic glaze reinstated itself. "Anyhow you're honest, which is what I asked for. Ask for a no answer, get a no answer." He laughed barkingly.
"He could try," a woman named Min Dosker said in an oddly high, lady-like voice.
"Yes," Lars agreed, taking the bit before General Nitz could seize it and run with it. "Let me clarify. I—"
"Don't clarify," General Nitz said slowly. "Please, as a favor to me personally. Mrs. Dosker, Lars, is from SeRKeb. I failed to tell you, but—" He shrugged. "So, in view of that fact, don't treat us to an interminable recitation of how you can operate and what you can and can't do. We're not being entirely candid because of Mrs. Dosker's presence here." To the SeRKeb rep, General Nitz said, "You understand, don't you, Min?"
"I still think," Mrs. Dosker said, "that your weapons medium could try." She rattled her micro-docs irritably.
"What about yours?" General Dowbrowsky demanded. "The Topchev girl?"
"I am informed," Mrs. Dosker said, "that she is—" She hesitated; obviously, she, too, was constrained to be to some extent reticent.
"Dead," General Nitz grated.
"Oh no!" Mrs. Dosker said, and looked horrified, like a Baptist Sunday school teacher shocked by an improper word.
"The strain probably killed her," Nitz said lazily.
"No, Miss Topchev is—in shock. She fully understands the situation, however. She is under sedation at the Pavlov Institute at New Moscow, and for the time being she can't work. But she's not dead."
"When?" one of the concomodies, a male nullity, asked her. "Will she be out of shock soon? Can you predict?"
"Within hours, we hope," Mrs. Dosker said emphatically.
"All right," General Nitz said, in a sudden brisk voice; he rubbed his hands together, grimaced, showing his yellow, irregular, natural teeth. Speaking to Lars he said, "Powderdry, Mr. Lars, Lars, whatever you are—I'm glad you came here. I truly am. I knew you would. People like you can't stand being hung-up on."
"What kind of person—" Lars began, but General Bronstein, seated on the far side of General Dowbrowsky, shot him a look that made him cease—and God forbid, flush. General Nitz said, "When were you last at Fairfax, Iceland?"
"Six years ago," Lars said.
"Before that?"
"Never."
"You want to go there?"
"I'd go anywhere. I'd go to God. Yes, I'll be glad to go."
"Fine." General Nitz nodded. "She ought to be out of shock by, say, midnight Washington time. Right, Mrs. Dosker?"
"I'm positive," the SeRKeb rep said, her head wobbling up and down like a vast, colorless pumpkin on its thick stalk.
"Ever tried working with another weapons medium?" an akprop—it would be an akprop—man asked Lars.
"No." Happily, he was able to keep his voice steady. "But I'll be pleased to pool my ability and years of experience with Miss Topchev's. As a matter of fact—" He hesitated until he could find a political way of finishing his utterance. "I've speculated for
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