The compleat collected s.., p.578
The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 578
"No mere servant," said Ciaran in a neutral tone, "would dare to tell a palace guest that he was wrong."
"The reason you came forward to serve me," Nolan added, "was that no ordinary bar attendant would dare serve an officer of the ship with cold tea."
"That was one of the reasons," said Ciaran, without taking his eyes off him.
Nolan laughed uncomfortably, and went on, "It is possible that I'm completely wrong and that you will talk about me and laugh afterward. But I dislike untidiness, in things or events or people, and you are untidy as a person. No offense intended, Ciaran, but you are not what you seem. I think that you have two jobs, that you perform both of them very well, but you don't look like a servant."
"No offense, sir," said Ciaran, "but you don't look like a Healer."
Nolan felt his face growing hot as memories of all the stupid and narrow-minded female hostility he had suffered during and after his medical training came welling up, but the other laughed suddenly.
"It was not meant as a criticism of your professional competence, sir," he said, "just that you are not a woman."
"True," said Nolan, smiling in return.
"Not only do you not look like a Healer," Ciaran went on, "with your height and girth you could very easily be mistaken for one of my undercover Guardsmen. For security reasons a few of them have been given permission to wear a ship uniform, and the people here who think they know everything have taken one look at your size and unexpected insignia, and decided that you are just another Imperial Guardsman in disguise, and that asking you questions about the expedition would be a complete waste of time. So rest assured, the reason they didn't talk to you was not due to a forbidding visage, social discourtesy, or the omission of regular bathing.
"Sir," he added.
"I'm relieved," said Nolan dryly. "But earlier you implied that there were other reasons for you trying to poison me?"
Ciaran glanced over Nolan's shoulder as something in the main hall attracted his attention, then he said seriously, "I wanted to talk to you about the expedition. I've read all the published material, naturally, but was hoping for a less romanticized, inside view before I confirm my resignation from the Guards."
"You've already been accepted?"
"Yes, as a noncrew volunteer," said Ciaran, and laughed again in an attempt to conceal the pride and excitement in his voice. "Don't look so surprised. I have other accomplishments besides serving at a bar and keeping my armor polished. I have a certain amount of rank and influence here."
"How much rank and influence does a Guards officer carry?" asked Nolan curiously.
Ciaran looked faintly embarrassed as he replied, "This one is the Ionadacht."
Nolan shook his head in disbelief. This large, smiling, friendly man in a servant's smock was the second-in-command of the Imperial Guards. He stammered, "I—I'm surprised that you want to go, Ciaran. The life there will be very primitive, dangerous, and unpleasant in ways we cannot even guess at. If the navigation is faulty we might not even get to the New World, and with insufficient ship stores for the return voyage ..." He lifted the goblet to his lips, then remembered in time and put it down again. "At Court you have position, authority, the trust of the High-Queen, wealth, comfort, security—"
"And boredom," the other broke in. "You're forgetting the awful, soul-destroying, never-ending boredom of watching petty squabbles and character assassinations, which is the closest these people ever come to an honest fight. I am an overdressed ornament most of the time, with nothing of any real importance to do. The comfort and security are driving me mad!"
"If you have volunteered," said Nolan, smiling, "it may already have done so."
Ciaran did not return his smile. Nolan sighed, and said, "Of course I'll talk to you about the expedition, as fully and honestly as I can. You appear to be in some mental distress and, as a Healer, I'm obliged to do everything possible to relieve it. Beside, nobody else wants to talk to me, so I don't have much choice.
"And while we're talking," Nolan added, "you might consider ways of relieving my own distress with a therapeutic shot of something which only looks like cold tea."
Ciaran nodded and bent down behind the counter, then looked past Nolan and checked himself in midstoop. His expression was apologetic as he said quietly, "I'll have to leave you now; your chief has just arrived. He's about ten paces behind you and it is you, not me, he'll be wanting to talk to."
"The—the captain?" Nolan asked nervously. He had yet to meet that God-like being and he was not looking forward to it.
"I mean your real chief," Ciaran replied as he turned away, "O'Riordan."
Monsignor O'Riordan, the expedition's senior representative of the Sacred College for the Propagation of Faith, was not in uniform. He had chosen instead to wear the red-lined cape, cassock, and biretta favored by Romish prelates of his ecclesiastical rank. Apart from the small ship's crest appearing inconspicuously on his collar, he could have been any one of the dozens of middle-ranking clerics with reasons or good excuses for attending the reception. But if there was anyone present who did not know the rotund little priest with the deep, bass voice for who and what he was, then that person was remarkably ignorant.
"You look very well, my son," said the monsignor, his eyes moving slowly from Nolan's highly polished boots to his heat-flushed and equally shining face. He patted his waist gently, and added, "I lack the physique for that particular uniform, and must disguise the results of a lifetime of moderate gluttony by taking refuge inside this ecclesiastical bell-tent."
He smiled and looked over his shoulder into the reception area before turning back to Nolan. "For a man in your position this is a unique experience, but you don't look as if you are enjoying it very much. If something is worrying you, my son, please speak freely."
"I'm not worried, sir," Nolan began, then hesitated as the other's expression hardened momentarily at the omission of his ecclesiastical title. He went on quickly, "It's just that I feel, well, uncertain about this whole business. If the Imperial Treasury doesn't approve it after all the money that has already been spent ..."
O'Riordan was holding up both hands. "Please forgive me, Healer Nolan. It was presumptuous of me to call you 'my son' when you are not of the Faith. I had forgotten that you are one of these heretics God has sent among us, I suspect, to test the quality of our own belief.
"And if I refer to you as 'my son' again," he went on, his eyes twinkling, "please forgive it as the irritating habit of a forgetful old man. Pardon the interruption, Healer. You were saying?"
O'Riordan was going out of his way to put him at his ease, but Nolan knew that one of the few things that the monsignor was not was forgetful.
"It isn't really my responsibility," Nolan resumed. "It is just that I wonder whether we are being entirely honest in our approach to the general public ..."
O'Riordan was holding up his hands again. "If we are going to debate moral subtleties, please let us converse in your own native tongue. What you are doing to our beautiful Gaelic, had you been other than a Godless heathen, I would define as a mortal sin. Please go on."
All at once Nolan had the feeling that he should not go on; that, friendly and approachable as the monsignor might be, he was numbered among the ship's hierarchy and, although the graduations of priestly and professional rank on Aisling Gheal were often obscure, it was rumored that he was to be its second-in-command—and one who should not, therefore, be burdened with the minor anxieties of a very junior officer. He had not made any impression on the guests, probably for the reasons given by Ciaran, and he was in danger of making a very bad one on O'Riordan.
Nolan cursed himself for getting into this stupid and unnecessary predicament. He was not really worried by what was going on here, just proud and excited and concerned for its eventual success. But he had developed the habit of framing and answering questions, regardless of the subject, clearly and honestly and in complete detail so as to impress a succession of female Healers who otherwise would have had no time for a mere male trainee. It was a habit he was trying to curb. He should curb it now.
"I'm sorry," Nolan said. "You have more important matters to occupy your time than listening to me worrying aloud. Please forgive me, sir."
O'Riordan laughed quietly. "Forgive you, indeed? Dear me, that could be construed as the first step to hearing your confession. But if you were not a benighted unbeliever, you would know that it is my first and most important priestly duty, on or off the ship, to listen to my people worrying aloud. I'm sure that I would not risk excommunication by extending the same facility to you."
Nolan was beginning to like this friendly little monsignor, whose public reputation as a militant theologian and unrivaled debater was at such variance with his private manner. He said, "Possibly it is a legacy of my frugal past, sir, but the cost of all this is, is ... I mean, we're pretending that the expedition is a certainty, that it simply needs a few details to be finalized for the ship to be ready to leave. The truth is that I feel we are taking part in a very expensive, and possibly necessary, confidence trick. It is said that the expedition lacks proper financial support, and I fear that it has very little real chance of success. I realize that the ship can be used for other purposes, but these people are going to be very angry with us if we disappoint—"
"You were made aware of all the risks, my son," O'Riordan broke in, and suddenly he was no longer genial. "Are you, perhaps, hoping that we will fail?"
"God, no!" Nolan burst out. "Honestly, I'm not afraid of what might happen when we arrive. It's not getting the chance to leave that frightens me."
O'Riordan was smiling again. He said, "The same thought frightens all of us. Perhaps your trouble stems from the, to me, unusual combination of a well-developed conscience and a serious lack of faith. But we will have to discuss this matter in detail at a more convenient time, Healer. Now I must leave you."
As the small red-cassocked figure slipped into and beneath the surface of the sea of people, Nolan became aware of a change in the atmosphere. An expectant near-hush had fallen, and a tidal surge of brightly garbed bodies moved toward the edges of the processional carpet.
Ciaran jumped to the top surface of the board and stood among the crystal goblets, wearing the expression of some stupid amadan of a servant with no other thought in his head than to see his Queen Empress. He appeared to be a most slovenly and untidy servant, because his smock fastenings were loose and it would have needed a keen eye and foreknowledge to see the dull gleam of metal between the partially open folds. The drapes enclosing the refreshment area had moved silently apart so that the disguised Ionadacht na Garda had an unobstructed view all the way from the entrance stairs to the throne.
Nolan, as politely as possible, used his considerable advantages of weight, size, and uniform to push forward to the carpet's edge.
A double line of trumpeters in Imperial livery had taken up positions along both sides of the staircase; so still and precisely spaced were they that they might have been part of the ornamental statuary. Suddenly their instruments swept upward as one and the Imperial Fanfare pealed out.
Maeve VII was about to walk among them.
In spite of himself Nolan felt his scalp prickle and a shiver go crawling along his spine as that splendid music reached its stirring climax. Then, as the trumpets were silenced, the musicians positioned under the entrance balcony went smoothly into the equally stirring, but more stately, "Brendan's Victory", muted so as to enable the strong, beautifully modulated voice of the Master of Protocol to carry clearly to the farthest corners of the great hall.
"Her Most Puissant and Imperial Majesty, Maeve the Seventh, High-Queen of the Provinces of Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught, of the island Kingdom of Man, and of Cymri and Caledonia ..."
With the first few words she moved forward onto the stairs and began her stately, measured descent in time with the music, the long, formal cloak flowing over the marble steps like a dark green and gold river behind her. She had chosen to wear a simple emerald tiara with the golden, jewel-incrusted armor and accoutrements of a warrior queen, which, because of the constant battle being waged so successfully between her advancing years and the Court cosmeticians, showed to the best advantage her striking, waist-length red hair, renowned comeliness of face, and splendid physique.
"... Ruler of the Great and Glorious Empire of the West, of the Protectorates, Dependencies, and Mandated Territories of Skandia, Arctica, Amundsenland and of Mex. Empress Mother of the Common Weals of ..."
The visiting dignitaries were bowing or curtseying low, while the Imperial Citizens exercised their prerogative of remaining standing and holding their heads high in the presence of their High-Queen. As a result, Nolan had an even better view as Maeve drew abreast of him.
"... Knight Commander of the Noble Orders of the Red and of the Green Branch, Defender of the Faith and Guardian of the Pax Hibernia ..."
It was not Maeve, however, who claimed Nolan's attention, but the man in crew uniform who walked two paces to her left and one pace behind her. He had not been announced, because no lesser person accompanying her, whether they were a lowly guard or a high-ranking minister of state, could have their name coupled with that of the most powerful ruler in the world, the Ard-Rioghan of Tara and Empress of the Westland.
A tall, graying, stern-featured man who moved with a barely perceptible limp, he carried himself with an air of authority rivaling that of the Empress. He wore only his badges of rank, displaying none of the many decorations and awards bestowed on him by seats of learning all over the civilized world. Had it not been for that limp—the legacy of a prenatal accident to his mother—and the strict rules governing the physical, as well as the mental and moral, requirements for election, he would not have been walking one pace behind his temporal ruler, because the crown of the High-King Emperor would have been resting on his own head.
There had been no surprise when, following his narrow defeat at the election, he had entered the Church as a member of one of the confraternities devoted to the scientific and technical disciplines so that his many and varied talents could be put to use in the Imperial Civil Service, where his rise in both the ecclesiastical and scientific rankings was deservedly rapid. And even though there was no constitutional way of exchanging rulers, there were many who still made unfavorable comparisons between his abilities, accomplishments, and blameless private life and those of the reigning Empress, who tried very hard to surpass, on the scented battleground of the silken bed, the conquests of the first Ard-Rioghan to bear her name.
That, it was rumored, more than any other consideration being weighed here today, was the reason why Maeve was lending her active support and that of her treasury to the project. It was the only safe and legal means by which she could rid herself of this man and the constant embarrassment his presence caused her.
In spite of her faults, Maeve was not a bad Empress. Even though she was a staunch traditionalist who bitterly fought against the changes forced on her by a constantly changing world—as witness the archaic trappings ordered for today's reception—she was far from being the worst to occupy the Seat of the Ard-Ri at Tara, and she had accomplished much good during her reign.
Maeve's place in the history books was assured.
But so also would be that of His Eminence Padair, Cardinal Keon, priest-scientist and statesman, commanding officer and driving force behind Project Aisling Gheal, Earth's first starship.
Chapter Two
FROM THE project's inception it had been realized that Aisling Gheal, the Bright Vision, would have to be Earth's first starship rather than be exclusive property of the Hibernian Empire, for not even the richest and most advanced civilization that the world had ever known possessed the financial and technical resources needed to launch a project of such size and complexity. And because the proud and powerful Empire had been forced to seek the help of its weaker contemporaries, the major problems encountered were political rather than scientific.
Hibernia, however, the Great Empire of the West, had existed in a stable if not always peaceful condition for more than five centuries, and knew more than a little about the art of politics.
"But this is just a friendly get-together," Nolan went on pleasantly, in answer to the question of a guest seated opposite. "Thankfully, the more complex diplomatic and financial negotiations are not in either of my areas of responsibility. All I am supposed to do right now is be nice to everyone and answer all their nonpolitical questions."
Beside him Ciaran cleared his throat and said, "What exactly are your areas of responsibility, sir? I mean, are you a spasaire with medical qualifications or a Healer with astronaut training?"
A number of specially chosen guests had been moved discreetly from the mass audience chamber to the palace's state banqueting hall, and the ship's officers had been scattered not quite at random among these important personages. During the very few minutes between their arrival and taking their places, Ciaran had been able to exchange his original seat for the position on Nolan's right so as to continue, he had explained blandly, the conversation interrupted by the arrival of the monsignor.
Somehow he looked even larger now that the loose, bar-servant's smock was no longer hiding his uniform, and it was obvious that not one ounce of that weight was adipose. Ciaran, it seemed, was a very potent individual indeed, and it made Nolan feel uncomfortable that the Ionadacht insisted on calling him "sir".
"If the question is not proper ..." began Ciaran apologetically. He must have mistaken the other's hesitation for reluctance to answer.
