His impression was that his thespian efforts had changed nothing at all. He might as well have performed to a brick wall.
“You are correct that we are stuck in the Underpopulation Bomb,” TK said. “It could endure a thousand years. On the positive side, humanity now burdens the natural world very lightly relative to the ludicrous excesses of the Public Era. There are of course always those like the National Party who believe they can lead the people to some New Jerusalem.”
“I’ve already made clear I have no interest in politics.”
“It’s shocking how events accelerate once courtesy is abandoned,” TK said. “The habits of civility smother a whole world of vicious impulses—some daydreams must remain daydreams, or else the world explodes.”
“Could you came to the point, Your Decency.”
“Don’t be insolent,” Wingfield hissed.
“Is this some kind of test?” In his exasperation, Donald was becoming brazen. “You want me to tip out the laundry basket? All right, I freely admit I keep a lover called Tanya. I further admit she has in considerable degree the edge over Lavinia in congeniality and intelligence. I also freely admit to having an estranged brother Lawrence who might or might not become an embarrassment to all of us.”
“What makes you say that?” TK asked, his attention suddenly zoning in.
“Rumours have come my way—I don’t believe them, but rumours don’t have to be true to be dangerous. When I was interned on the Lands of Dasti-Jones, a glory officer called Haighman claimed he knew Lawrence in your town of Oban. He told me there was a rumour going around that Lawrence was fogged for crimes against your clan. Then a couple of weeks ago a young slummy woman called Sarah-Kelly Newman hustled herself into my home with the same story. She claimed Lawrence got eight years’ Fog. Of course, I dismissed her as a liar. It’s out of the question such a thing could happen without my being informed.”
TK was making notes in his little note book.
“When was Lawrence supposedly fogged?”
“Late July. I don’t have dates because I shooed her straight out.”
“Where is this man Haighman stationed?”
“The Broadstairs fort in the Lands of Dasti-Jones.”
TK finished his notes with a flourish. To Wingfield he said:
“Could you send a chap to Wilson House to fetch the Oban Castle reports for the summer months? Make it May to September to be on the safe side.”
Wingfield hurried out. TK followed him more leisurely, leaving Donald in peace to stare at his socks. Half an hour later, Wingfield called Donald into the conference room. There were still boxes of documents along the walls from the demographic calculations. The calculating machine still rested at one end of the long table. TK sat at the opposite end, reading through some reports bound in thin leather folders.
“I have news for you, Donald.”
“Your Decency?”
“Cost-Centre Lieutenant L. M. Aldingford was court-martialled and found guilty of the smuggling on a grand scale of high-value contraband from my Loch Sunart Nature Reserve. The stolen goods included elephant ivories and hides, amethysts and agates, lion skins, bear skins, shark hides and teeth, and modest quantities of gold from panning streams. In recognition of the gravity of the offence, he was sentenced to eight years of Night and Fog.”
Donald was too horrified to speak.
“It’s been done quite discreetly,” TK said. “They buried the details in an appendix. The July report merely refers to the appointment of a new officer to the Oban garrison. The court martial was a General Wardian process, so there was no obligation for Oban Castle to report details. No formal obligation, that is.”
He sat back, turning in his seat to address Wingfield.
“What do you make of this?”
“It’s awkward. If the news filtered south, society would assume we hid the bad news to protect our common appointed regent. Marcus-John would leap into action ranting and yelling. I think we could expect a storm of sputum, Tommy-Boy. ”
“This thing is a time bomb. We must defuse it—fast.”
The silence dragged. It was Donald who broke it. Afterwards, he was amazed at the spontaneity of his opportunism.
“I would like to make a suggestion, Your Decency. I owe Miss Newman the deepest of apologies. I would also like to meet her again to get more details about what happened to Lawrence. I’m sceptical he’s guilty of anything more than being unpopular.”
“He must have done something wrong to get court-martialled. Unpopular officers just get pushed elsewhere,” TK said.
“He probably had an affair with the account-captain’s wife. Haighman said Lawrence was a womaniser. I can certainly verify he was promiscuous as a teenager.”
“Most unlikely. That kind of spiteful—albeit thoroughly justified—retribution would be thwarted by corporate HQ here in the Central Enclave. For an officer as senior as he was to get flushed to the Fog, he must have done what it states on the charge sheet.”
“I can’t accept that, Your Decency. Lawrence was not a thief or a cheat. People just don’t change that much. Think back to those you grew up with; the dumb stayed dumb, the cheats kept cheating, sneaks and liars became functionaries, bullies went into business, the top crust took responsibility and a few sad failures hanged themselves or took to drink. Lawrence had two vices: girls and insubordination. If they threw him out, it was because of one of those two flaws—that charge sheet is a lie.”
“If he made it to cost-centre lieutenant, they found him useful,” TK said. “We’ve dismissed womanising, so it must have been insubordination, by your logic.”
“The only way this works is that Lawrence threw a cruel truth in
