private lift.
I had no time to explore the apartments; they dressed me for the audience. Bonforte had no valet even dirtside, but Rog insisted on «helping» me (he was a hindrance) while going over last-minute details. The dress was ancient formal court dress, shapeless tubular trousers, a silly jacket with a claw-hammer tail, both in black, and a chemise consisting of a stiff white breastplate, a «winged» collar, and a white bow tie. Bonforte's chemise was all in one piece, because (I suppose) he did not use a dresser; correctly it should be assembled piece by piece and the bow tie should be tied poorly enough to show that it has been tied by hand — but it is too much to expect a man to understand both politics and period costuming.
It is an ugly costume, but it did make a fine background for the Order of Wilhelmina stretched in colorful diagonal across my chest. I looked at myself in a long glass and was pleased with the effect; the one color accent against the dead black and white was good showmanship. The traditional dress might be ugly but it did have dignity, something like the cool stateliness of a
Rog Clifton gave me the scroll which was supposed to list the names of my nominations for the ministries and he tucked into an inner pocket of my costume a copy of the typed list thereof — the original had gone forward by hand of Jimmie Washington to the Emperor's State Secretary as soon as we had grounded. Theoretically the purpose of the audience was for the Emperor to inform me that it was his pleasure for me to form a government and for me to submit humbly my suggestions; my nominations were supposed to be secret until the sovereign graciously approved.
Actually the choices were all made; Rog and Bill had spent most of the trip lining up the Cabinet and making sure the nominees would serve, using state-scramble for the radio messages. I had studied the Farleyfiles on each nomination and each alternate. But the list really was secret in the sense that the news service would not receive it until after the Imperial audience.
I took the scroll and picked up my life wand. Rog looked horrified. «Good Lord, man, you can't carry that thing into the presence of the Emperor!»
«Why not?»
«Huh? It's a
«It's a ceremonial weapon. Rog, every duke and every pipsqueak baronet will be wearing his dress sword. So I wear this.»
He shook his head. «They have to. Don't you understand the ancient legal theory behind it? Their dress swords symbolize the duty they owe their liege lord to support and defend him by force of arms, in their own persons. But you are a commoner; traditionally you come before him unarmed.»
«No, Rog. Oh, I'll do what you tell me to, but you are missing a wonderful chance to catch a tide at its flood. This is good theater, this is
«I'm afraid I don't follow you.»
«Well, look, will the word get back to Mars if I carry this wand today? Inside the nests, I mean?»
«Eh? I suppose so. Yes.»
«Of course. I would guess that every nest has stereo receivers; I certainly noticed plenty of them in Kkkah nest. They follow the Empire news as carefully as we do. Don't they?»
«Yes. At least the elders do.»
«If I carry the wand, they'll know it; if I fail to carry it, they will know it. It matters to them; it is tied up with propriety. No adult Martian would appear outside his nest without his life wand, or inside on ceremonial occasions. Martians have appeared before the Emperor in the past; they carried their wands, didn't they? I'd bet my life on it.»
«Yes, but you — »
«You forget that I
Rog's face suddenly blanked out. I went on, «I am not only “John Joseph Bonforte”; I am Kkkahjjjerrr of Kkkah nest. If I fail to carry that wand, I commit a great impropriety — and frankly I do not know what would happen when the word got back; I don't know enough about Martian customs. Now turn it around and look at it the other way. When I walk down that aisle carrying this wand,
«I guess I had not thought it through,» he answered slowly.
«Nor would I have done so, had I not had to decide whether or not to carry the wand. But don't you suppose Mr. B. thought it through — before he ever let himself be invited to be adopted? Rog, we've got a tiger by the tail; the only thing to do is to swarm aboard and ride it. We can't let go.»
Dak arrived at that point, confirmed my opinion, seemed surprised that Clifton had expected anything else. «Sure, we're setting a new precedent, Rog — but we're going to set a lot of new ones before we are through.» But when he saw how I was carrying the wand he let out a scream. «Cripes, man! Are you trying to kill somebody? Or just carve a hole in the wall?»
«I wasn't pressing the stud.»
«Thank God for small favors! You don't even have the safety on.» He took it from me very gingerly and said, «You twist this ring — and shove this in that slot — then it's just a stick. Whew!»
«Oh. Sorry.»
They delivered me to the robing room of the Palace and turned me over to King Willem's equerry, Colonel Pateel, a bland-faced Hindu with perfect manners and the dazzling dress uniform of the Imperial space forces. His bow to me must have been calculated on a slide rule; it suggested that I was about to be Supreme Minister but was not quite there yet, that I was his senior but nevertheless a civilian — then subtract five degrees for the fact that he wore the Emperor's aiguillette on his right shoulder.
He glanced at the wand and said smoothly. «That's a Martian wand, is it not, sir? Interesting. I suppose you will want to leave it here — it will be safe.»
I said, «I'm carrying it.»
«Sir?» His eyebrows shot up and he waited for me to correct my obvious mistake.
I reached into Bonforte's favorite cliches and picked one he used to reprove bumptiousness. «Son, suppose you tend to your knitting and I tend to mine.»
His face lost all expression. «Very well, sir. If you will come this way?»
We paused at the entrance to the throne room. Far away, on the raised dais, the throne was empty. On both sides the entire length of the great cavern the nobles and royalty of the court were standing and waiting. I suppose Pateel passed along some sign, for the Imperial Anthem welled out and we all held still for it, Pateel in robotlike attention, myself in a tired stoop suitable to a middle-aged and overworked man who must do this thing because he must, and all the court like show-window pieces. I hope we never dispense with the pageantry of a court entirely; all those noble-dress extras and spear carriers make a beautiful sight.
In the last few bars he came in from behind and took his throne — Willem, Prince of Orange, Duke of Nassau, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Knight Commander of the Holy Roman Empire, Admiral General of the Imperial Forces, Adviser to the Martian Nests, Protector of the Poor, and, by the Grace of God, King of the Lowlands and Emperor of the Planets and the Spaces Between.
I could not see his face, but the symbolism produced in me a sudden warm surge of empathy. I no longer felt hostile to the notion of royalty.
As King Willem sat down the anthem ended; he nodded acknowledgment of the salute and a wave of slight relaxation rippled down the courtiers. Pateel withdrew and, with my wand tucked under my arm, I started my long march, limping a little in spite of the low gravity. It felt remarkably like the progress to the Inner Nest of Kkkah, except that I was not frightened; I was simply warm and tingling. The Empire medley followed me down, the music sliding from «Kong Christian» to «Marseillaise» to «The Star-Spangled Banner» and all the others.
At the first balk line I stopped and bowed, then again at the second, then at last a deep bow at the third, just before the steps. I did not kneel; nobles must kneel but commoners share sovereignty with the Sovereign. One sees this point incorrectly staged sometimes in stereo and theater, and Rog had made sure that I knew what to do.
«
