The Lotus Eaters

In appearance, Moore seemed a near brother to the captain. Albeit a bit taller, he was likewise blonde and blue-eyed, as were most of Old Earth's ruling class.

'Can it wait until tomorrow?' she asked. 'Gravity aboard ship is less than here and I find I'm very tired.'

'He assumed that,' Moore answered. 'You're set to meet tomorrow, over lunch.'

Lunch with the SecGen? Wallenstein mused. Or am I supposed to lunch the SecGen? Well, whatever the market will bear. I'll bring kneepads in a satchel, just in case.

'How did he take the news of the loss of the High Admiral and the Marchioness of Amnesty?' Marguerite asked. Note: I didn't say 'deaths;' I said 'loss.'

Moore sighed. 'Rather hard, actually. He and the Marchioness were very close.'

'Did he . . . ?' Wallenstein let the question trail off.

'Yes,' Moore answered. 'The entire Consensus accepted your version of events.' He knew from her tone that Wallenstein had been worried about that.

Now Marguerite sighed, and hers was with relief. If there had been any suspicion that she had turned the High Admiral and Lucretia Arbeit, the Marchioness, over to the Terra Novans, she'd have been for the chop, she was quite sure.

Fortunately, the only people who know that are myself and another Class Two who wants a caste lift. Oh, and Carrera back on Terra Nova . . . but he's not likely to tell anyone.

Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova

Carrera didn't look up as McNamara and Jimenez took seats to ether side of him around a small wooden table on a largish balcony that overlooked Terra Nova's greatest ocean, the Mar Furioso. Indeed, he didn't acknowledge their presence until Mac placed another bottle of whiskey, along with two glasses, next to the nearly drained bottle sitting by the ice bucket in the middle of the table. At that, Carrera only said, 'Welcome.'

Jimenez thought, It's funny; despite the gray hair he actually looks younger than he has in years.

Mac filled the silence that followed Carrera's one word by taking the open bottle and pouring what was left, half and half, into the two glasses he'd brought from the bar.

'Lotsa history made right here,' Mac commented, as he transferred ice from the bucket to the glasses.

Eyes still affixed on the ocean in the distance, Carrera said, 'That's so lame, Top. You couldn't come up with a better opening line than that?'

'Man's got to play the hand he was dealt, sir,' McNamara said, while plinking ice into his own glass.

'I suppose,' Carrera conceded. He turned his eyes from the ocean to McNamara's dark, seamed face. 'Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you? Lourdes won't buy me any. I haven't felt up to driving in a while. And she's threatened all the help with death if they give me one.'

Tobacco on Terra Nova had been infected with a local virus that tended to make it much less carcinogenic than was the case on Earth. Even so, it couldn't precisely be called good for anyone.

'Sure, boss,' the grizzled older man said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a pack of Carrera's preferred brand, Tecumsehs, imported from First Landing in the Federated States, and a lighter. These he slid across the table.

'You're not drunk,' Jimenez said in surprise, gesturing at the now empty bottle.

Carrera shook his head. 'I sip. But that bottle's been on that table for over a week, ten days maybe. I find if I get drunk that I feel things I don't want to feel any more, remember things I'd just as soon forget.

'Not that I don't remember them in my dreams, mind you.'

Rome, Province of Italy

For reasons known only to himself, Moore directed the driver of the vehicle to pass by the Ara Pacis, Augustus' Altar of Peace and the holiest spot on all of United Earth. Here the last vestiges of open Christianity had died—been burned, rather—and one couldn't get more holy than that.

'I don't mind that it's a bit out of the way,' he informed the Class Four driver.

'Yes, Lord,' the driver answered.

'What's with the ribbons around the heads? They're kind of attractive. Should I wear one to keep in style?' Marguerite asked, once she noticed that about one in twenty of the people they passed on the street wore them.

Moore snickered, 'The diadems? No, I don't think so. They've become something of a fashion statement by the children of the Class Ones. From our point of view, it saves trouble by telling us lowly Class Twos exactly whom we must bow and scrape to. There's a color and ornament coding to it I can brief you on later.

'It isn't just the children, actually,' Moore amended. 'Some fairly older Class Ones have taken to wearing them, too, the last couple of years. The SecGen, however, has not.'

Whatever the Class Four driver thought of the subject of diadems or fashion statements, he kept it to himself.

'Ara Pacis coming up on the left, Lord,' the driver announced, slowing his vehicle to a crawl. The Altar itself had been modified some centuries prior, with a matching white marble roof having been