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wiped all the way back to age eighteen, poor fellow. He's the one who visited
the Envoy's office just before the fireworks exploded. Rumor has it that he
was on three separate payrolls, and only one was Accord's.
Nathaniel knew itwas weak, but it would keep Sam's mind on the Accord issue
and might get a phrase or two in the gossip section. He sent it off and found
himself pacing around the study, which felt too small, looking at the time on
the console, wanting 1400 to arrive.
He debated running through aworkout but rejected the idea.
Compromising, he sat down back in front of the console and accessed
historical information on New Augusta, deciding to see if he could learn
anything new while he waited.
Surprisingly, the Empire apparently had no problem with open library files.
The index alone was massive. That whetted his interest and encouraged him to
dig in. Buzz!
He barely resisted the urge to jump before tapping the plate on the screen.
Lord Whaler? Heather was on the screen. He looked for the time. 1407. Yes?
A lady in the reception area says you are expecting her.
Ms. Ferro-Maine? Ah, yes. I'll be there shortly.
He shut down the screen. So far he'd gotten through the founding of New
Augusta and the events leading up to the creation of the Empire from the
wreckage of the Second Federation.
Realizing he was still in a set of undress greens, he retreated to his
bedroom for a quick change to a tan tunic and matching trousers.
Sylvia rose when he entered the reception area. Since the morning, she had
changed into ashort-sleeved, dark blue tunic trimmed with white, with
corresponding slacks. The color imparted a fragile, almostelflike cast to her
face.
I understand you were hard at work.
Just background research. Not work.
Please don't tell Courtney that, she mock-pleaded. Our secret. He looked
over at Heather and shrugged. When I will be back, I do not know.
Don't worry.Lord Whaler. Theredhead smiled. You need to enjoy yourself.
As they stepped out into the corridor, he turned toward. Sylvia. Where would
you suggest we begin? She came to a stop and faced him. What do you have in
mind this time? He ignored the hint of bitterness in her tone. To look,
tosightsee, perhaps to have some dinner at a place you suggest. Just to enjoy
the afternoon. Or did I not make myself clear? he asked.
I wasn't sure. Wanted to know where we stood. Have you seen the fire
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fountains at the Gallery? - I knew of neither. Where?
Let's go. We'll take the drop and the tunnel train. The Gallery is where the
most noted art from all through the Empire is displayed. They change exhibits
almost daily,and some of' it is fascinating. There's also a section
ofpre-imperial art dating back to the dawn.
She reached for his hand and half skipped, half ran down the corridor toward
the drop shaft. With the pace she set, it seemed only minutes before he was
being dragged into the Gallery.
The circular main hall was larger than the receiving hall where he had met
the Emperor and more than twice as high. In the center a bronze wall, fully
three meters high, circled an area fifty meters across.
Behind and above the wall the fire fountains played, colors interweaving,
shimmering, rising, falling the rough image of a dying angel, superseded by
the angry red bursts that suggested the usurpation of grace by a demon and the
fall of the demon in turn.
Green, green, the first real green he had seen inside the corridors and
tunnels of New Augusta, showered up in the eternal triumph of spring, measured
in instants, followed by the darker green of summer and the red and gold of
fall, the gold fading into the dead white of winter.
Standing there, entranced, the corners of his eyes filled with his reaction
to the green images and the flow of seasons. You miss Accord?
Yes. You have so many endless tunnels andwalled-away vistas from the towers
where one can see, but not touch.
She reached over and touched his hand.i Let's go see the old Hall of
Sculpture.
Again, she skipped off, catching him off balance as he watched her dancer's
gracefulness leaving him flat-footed.
He had to remind himself that she had once been and still might be an agent
of the Imperial Intelligence Service.
No, he corrected, doubtless still was. How else could she have gotten the
materials which gained them access to the Defense Tower?
This one dates from before the age of atomic power. It's called the
Thinker.
They had trade negotiations then, I see.
Less of the diplomat, dear Envoy, and more of the artist.
I cannot draw even straight lines. Sylvia drifted toward the next
sculpture, a representation of a man breaking out of a sphere. Nathaniel
studied the markingso n the sphere momentarily before understanding,belatedly,
that the sphere was Terra and that the markings were the outlines of the
continents.
The sculptor had captured a steely look of determination, one that the
Ecolitan had seen more than once on the faces of his Institute troops, along
with the hint of hope, a suggestion of something faraway and unattainable.
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Flight,circa 100A.E.F.F. Sculptor unknown. Recovered from ruins atDENV.
The Ecolitan nodded. Sylvia, on her way to the next figure, didn't fully
appreciate what the artist had meant. He did. Maybe that was the problem
between the Empire and Accord. The Empire stood for containment, whether in
New Augusta's corridors or within the sector boundaries drawn from star to
star.
He leftFlight and rejoined Sylvia at the next statue, a dancer poised on one
toe, impossibly balanced on that single point. You miss the dance? he
guessed. You don't ever get it out of your blood.
Why did you not continue?
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