Man of the World by Robert Gibson

32: PRESIDENT

That night, when the weather turned nasty, he could see the top branches of the near trees - somewhat illuminated by street lights - tossing in a violent wind. Without even going to the window he could let his mind leap among all that movement, to bound in three dimensions through the noisy dark. Didn't recent theory say that climate change must bring violent weather, caused by pollution or greenhouse gases, something of that sort, but never mind that now, let the wind howl, the point was, what was he going to do about the summons from the President?
Midax sat up in his armchair. He was no more able to rest or sleep than if he had truly in fact been swinging like an ape through a storm-tossed forest. He must think. He must prepare. World President Waretik Thanth had summoned him. He was in the year before mine. Never a friend, or even an acquaintance, so I can’t make much of the fact that we went to the same school…
Still, as coincidences went, it was pretty fantastic. Wasn’t there some article, he’d read a while back, on the “small-world effect”, just a few “degrees of separation” being enough to link everyone…? Shunt that thought aside: the memory of Glight was creepy enough without accompaniment from suggestive little pieces in magazines. Midax told himself it was time to get focused. In his hand he held a fax which had arrived from the President, confirming the phone message. It read:

Executive Lodge, Merod Palace, Derom, Cenland.

To: Discoverer Midax Rale. From: World President.

Dear Midax,

I can readily imagine how busy you must be, but, for obvious reasons, I feel obliged to request that you pop round for a private chat at your earliest convenience.

I feel all the more justified in making this inroad upon your time, as we all know how you of all people are the least inconvenienced by travel!

Your well-wisher

Waretik Thanth

So it had come at last, the long-expected, inevitable summons. Discoverer called to heel by President. What must Discoverer do, to prepare for the showdown?
  I have been left, up till now, on as long a leash as I had any right to expect, and I have no right to act surprised, or grumble or resist, now that the leash is being hauled in by the ultimate civil authority.
  On the contrary, he was glad that the time had come.
  It would be a relief, in fact it would be bliss, to be regularised, tamed, forced to re-join the rank and file of citizenship.
  He would come in from the storm and shake off his unique responsibility like a pelt which he could hang up on the coat-stand. No more lawless pioneer, no more gambler with the currency of unknown fates.
  He was tired of being the Discoverer.
  Or was the less flattering truth, that he was getting too scared to continue?
  His scheme to explore Glight systematically, to become a real Discoverer – a pitiful effort to find a substitute for the love he had lost – had turned out badly. It had ended with the death of one of his companions, and with a sighting which not one single member of the group had dared to discuss.
  Dangerously out of your depth, Midax. And now you have the opportunity to admit as much, to the right person.
  The appropriately resourceful person.
  He could pass the torch to the President.
  How misleading my title of ‘Discoverer’ has always been!
  During his entire life he had been searching for a spiritual roof over his head, a ceiling low enough to touch and to keep him in his place. That was the great trouble: he had never been kept in his place.
  And where was this rightful station? SECOND place!
  Yes, a Number Two spot where he could be obedient and take orders!
  What a refreshing idea. Hand over the decision-making to the President. Waretik the ceiling; authority the cure. Or at any rate the tourniquet, the limit, the brake on a rampaging self.
  Another uncommon idea hit Midax then. Need he prepare for the President all by himself?
  Since I head an organization, why not seek its advice?
  L2C had some good people. Xapler Twick, Somwa Axtain, Polange Nsef, Ni Banyall… Midax thought about it. Habit was so strong, however, that he went on merely playing solitary guessing-games rather than picking up the phone to ask the views of any of his followers.
  Besides, there wasn’t much excuse for delay. The President seemed to expect him to make his way to the interview point via Glight.
  Certainly, convenience made that an attractive option. Fast, easy and confidential. Nobody would notice his journey. The entire visit might remain unrecorded, if the President agreed to such secrecy. And he might well agree, for confidentiality could well suit him and his advisers… Midax hesitated while a sudden vapour of distrust curled into his mind. It did not condense into any definite reason, but it induced him to turn to the other option, the public-transport route in the dimension of everyday.
  He picked up the phone. It might be as well to ask his followers for help, after all.
  “Ni? This is Midax. Sorry to disturb you at this late hour…”
  “Not at all, Discoverer! We lugged a TV set into Reception and have all been watching the show. None of us will get much sleep anyway.”
  “Hmm. Was the nightmare as bad as all that?”
  “Nightmare? Recruitment dream, you mean! Absolutely electric!”
  “President Waretik Thanth has had a jolt of it too,” announced Midax drily. “He has been watching the TV like everybody else.”
  Pause. “Oh.”
  “He wants me to go and see him.”
  “Ah. Quite a development, that.”
  “Yes, and not one I want to hog to myself. So there’s a word for you to spread. And – care for some admin?”
  “Certainly.”
  “Book the journey, will you, from start to finish… Train to the airport, flight to Deron. Do it openly, in my name. Yes, I’m travelling the slow way. No Glighting this time. This is one occasion when I’ll not be shunning the limelight.”
  A snort on the other end of the phone-line, and Ni Banyall replied in that outspoken tone which L2C had evolved to deal with its leader. “You can shun it or not, but it won’t shun you, Discoverer.”
  “But you agree…”
  “We’ll arrange your journey, plus an escort who will stay out of sight. The tickets will be brought to you first thing in the morning.”
  Banyall turned out to be an efficient enough aide. A chauffeur called for Midax at an early hour, bringing him the packet of tickets and offering him a lift to the railway station. He declined; he preferred to walk. Attired in a thick old dufflecoat and slope-brimmed hat, he set out on foot through the almost empty streets of Tarestu.
  He hoped to make his way without causing too much of a stir. Experience had taught him that when he went around dressed like this, half the population did not recognize him, perhaps a quarter were prepared to leave him alone, and the rest, though they might wish to accost him for one reason or other, were well aware that it is impossible to mob a Glighter who can disappear at will. This partial disguise therefore signalled to his neighbouring townsmen: “Yes, it is I, but I am busy”. Preferable to a complete disguise, under present circumstances. He wasn’t too keen on nobody knowing where he was.
  Doubtless the President was a man of honour; nevertheless, history recorded many leaders whose hands were kept clean by henchmen doing the dirty work… So, by travelling privately enough to avoid serious interruption, but openly enough to leave a faint trail all the way to Merod in Cenland, Midax intended to make a “normal” journey to the Presidential Lodge.
  The pavements of Tarestu were littered with twigs, slates, fallen signs and boughs, for the unusual storm last night had been heavy enough to tear branches off trees. Roadsweepers were out early, and workmen with saws were cutting and dragging chunks of the mess onto the backs of motor-wagons. Midax expected the trains to be running late, and sure enough, when he reached the station he heard the loudspeaker’s quacky mispronouncements: “The 7.00 surface to P’Arlcena is running approggzimately fifteen minutes late. We apologize for the late running of this surface.” Without a doubt, this was a plunge into the everyday. The only thing that distinguished the journey from millions of others was the fact that his tickets had already been bought for him. He was playing the game almost fairly. And he was going to meet someone who might force him to become fairer still.
  For might not the President command him to live henceforth completely beneath that ceiling of practical limitations which covered everyone else in the ordinary grumbly world of queues and late trains?
  As his train chugged out of Tarestu Station it occurred to Midax that perhaps at this very moment he was already playing Waretik’s game. The wording of the Presidential summons might have amounted to a double bluff. Clever old Waretik could well have expected him to go for the opposite approach-style to the one suggested in the summons. And to submit to the slow public approach was in its own way an affirmation of Authority. Well, if that was all the game was, there was no harm in playing it.
  The train reached its terminus outside P’Arlcena airport. Midax emerged, made his way to the station exit and stood for a minute scanning the immense glass-fronted airport building which extruded at ground level into modernistic bays and folds. Abstract sculptures wetted by fountains rose in a forest of twisty shapes. He had allowed himself to get “rusty” as far as airports were concerned; he felt a bit confused.
  A figure was lounging next to a black marble cube. It was one of his staff – Stid Orpen. Midax began to head that way. As he approached, Stid straightened and moved silently aside, turning to face one of the entrances; Midax took the hint and went in there.
  Inside, there was no need for him to scan departure boards or queue for ticket checks. It looked as though L2C had foreseen the need for their leader to make this trip (or a similar one) sooner or later. Glancing around he saw at least three more of his staff standing with rolled newspapers in their hands and attaché cases at their feet. Living signposts, they indicated his route with wordless efficiency. So, with no trouble, he found the gate which matched the logo on his ticket.
  One aircraft, more expensive than most, used mainly by diplomats, captains of industry, heads of state and their families, flew daily for Serorn International Airlines. Banyall had booked Midax onto this “Power Plane”.
  Now as the Discoverer walked through the departure tunnel and onto the runway, he jostled with people who, without exception, knew who he was; a higher proportion of them than usual were whisperers and pointers, who could not resist saying to their friends and children, “Look! See who that is?” – but though they could not know why the Discoverer was travelling this way instead of via Glight, they all seemed to accept as natural that if he were to travel publicly, this would be the way. So they let him be. Nevertheless he reckoned that the return journey might be different: reporters would surely be primed to lie in wait for him by that time, after he had met with the President.
  Could this be what had repelled Pjerl? The whole business of being followed, being famous, being talked about and pointed at – had that put her off me?
  It could be the sad, simple truth. Looking back I can see that she “wanted” me only while it was clear that she couldn’t have me. She quickly stopped wanting me as soon as there began to seem a prospect of getting me. For of course it would have involved a disruption to her life.
  He began to write a letter in his head:
  Dear Pjerl, I wish you had not been quite so prompt to take evasive action. You swerved to avoid pressure, but, before you swerved, you should have waited to see whether I did put any pressure on. Now look, Pjerl, how about admitting that your “Never” was a lie, spoken in panic? If you can admit that, then maybe we can still be friends. But if you stand by your statement – if you really meant it –
  But no, it can’t be true!
  But then, why say it? How could you tell a lie that big?
You couldn’t. So then it must be true –
  He stumbled as his part of the queue reached the passenger steps which led up into the plane. Stupid, to allow that old futile memory-loop to threaten his concentration on this vital day. He tugged mentally at the loop, strove to pluck it, to tear it out as if it had dug itself by means of a hook in his brain…
  Now the imagery of it changed and the thorn turned into the valve of an emotional heating system, and the gush of reverie inside its pipes continued to roar, the system overheated, he could not open the valve to disperse the pressure – round and round it continued in full spate –
  Was she lying? WAS SHE LYING? Whether I think so depends on how I arrange the evidence. If I fold it crisply, the juxtaposition shows she is lying. “I wish I had been free when I met you” can’t fit with “I was never in love with you”. But suppose I fold it less crisply, allowing for the fact that she said these things at different times? Then it’s not necessary to believe that she was consciously lying, because she could have changed without remembering that she had changed.
  But how? That’s what I can’t get over. How the blazes could she have forgotten?
  The circuit closes again; the bells clang again; the clang arouses a counter-chorus; and so on and on and on and so on –
  And now there was a reporter. A lone one, doubtless an inspired guesser, running up alongside the queue of passengers who were waiting to board; the reporter was shouting, “Discoverer, are you being carpeted by the President?”
  Like cold water dashed in the face, this woke Midax from his trance of memories. It also caused some disturbance around him. Concealment was not an option. He must say something. He leaned down toward the reporter and called out: “Look how I am travelling there. Going by plane – that in itself is a message, is it not? If I were headed for trouble, you’d not see me on the way!”
  Moderate laughter spread up and down the line of thirty or so passengers. Seconds later some stewards hustled the reporter out of sight, and the boarding continued without further trouble. Midax found an entire row of seats to himself. The other passengers left him alone while the plane manoeuvred prior to take-off. Perhaps a word had been passed around, and no one liked to be the first to break the ring of calm around the Discoverer.
  After all, the sort of people who used the Power Plane knew all about the need for quiet concentration to prepare for a vital meeting… only, is that really what I’m doing? Concentrating, preparing? He winced as he realized that so far he had merely been moping, on this trip to the most important interview of his life – just indulging in his usual futile Pjerl-centred regrets. Would he never learn that Romance was no good? Or (as Twick would say) pernicious poison? Look at me, staring morosely out of the window… Meanwhile the plane rolled forward and accelerated and lifted – and now he could enjoy the tremendous visibility of far things in the clear, pure air.
  Gazing at the flowing landscape he felt as light of body as though he himself were the skimming plane, flying over the wrinkles in the ancient peninsula-land of Serorn; the ridges and chasms both natural and man-made; terraces of housing and granite ranges; gabled roofs and gabled mountain peaks; avenues and river valleys; factory chimneys and volcanic chimneys; spires and crags and all the awesome contours of the natural world, whether mountain, city or termite’s nest… You never know what’s around the next corner, she used to say. The memory loop had caught him again.
  And often she would then say, “I’ve got a funny feeling about us; one day we’ll be together…” Just a hunch she had. In her slow reflective way she also used to “wonder if so-and-so has guessed that we’re fond of each other, you and I…” This heap of memory, what am I supposed to do with it all? Bin it? Splice it with “I was never in love with you” and try to make them match? Impossible. But then why should she have said it if she didn’t mean it? Impossible again. One of them she must not have meant. So exactly which of them did she not mean? Round and round and round…
  His incorrigible mind was doing it all over again – this really would not do. He couldn’t even enjoy a plane ride without going into mope-mode! He dug into his travel bag, imitating the outward motions of those passengers – businessmen on their way to conferences – whom he had seen delving for their briefing papers.
  His hand closed on a book.
  He found himself looking at Xapler Twick’s anti-Romantic diatribe, The Road of Lies.
  He flicked it open and read,

  There is no doubt that a stable and mature relationship may offer us the greatest happiness and fulfilment that human life affords. However, the experience of “being in love” is a road away from, not towards, this supreme goal. “Being in love” is a regressive lie which makes its victims believe all sorts of things which are not true and which they will have to stop believing before they can properly understand each other…
  The biggest lie of all is that there is only one person whom we must find if we are to be fulfilled in love…

Midax lowered the book. Just then he had not a clue as to whether he was wishing that he could believe it, or, conversely, whether he did believe it and was wishing he did not. Anyway why the blazes was he thinking about this at all when he ought to be making sure that he was prepared to see the President of the World?
  Shutting the book with a snap he told himself in sharp terms that he must make ready for the events that would soon start piling up against him. At least to the limited extent possible for one who faced contact with the summit of power, he must ensure he was at his best, for within the hour the plane would be descending towards Derom… a land he had long wanted to see. How strange that he had never gone on this trip before. Ah, the crisp pine-forests of Cenland! Far-northern birthplace of civilization! His stream of thoughts flowed round a new bend. He had long admired that saga-ridden pine-forest country to which he was now actually headed. Today he contemplated its ancient history with a new twist, as though he were planning to write some coffee-table brochure about the place.
  He began idly to list factors which might have made for the rise of civilization in the pine-forests of Cenland. The bracing northern air. The plentiful supply of game. The long winter nights, during which the inhabitants were driven to use the dark time to reflect, plan, organize… while the lazier folk in easier lands were still lounging around being prehistoric.
  Bosh! Deterministic twaddle. History, thought Midax, is a lottery. If you could run the experience again you’d get a different result… indeed every time you ran it you’d get a different result. Each new rattle of the dice-cup would bring yet another “only possible birthplace” of civilization. He smiled cynically. All right, in this epoch, it was the pine-forested north that did the trick. So what? Next time it might be the flat dry lands between the Two Rivers in Edduthploa. He could just imagine historians then saying it had to happen there, that it was inevitable because the inhabitants were forced to co-operate to dig vital irrigation channels and so to invent the State…
  He awoke from this trance of speculation as the plane banked and began to descend for landing. Cheek to window, he stared at famous old Derom sprawling below. It was now too late, he realized, to use the journey time to prepare. Well, maybe his preparation and learning days were over. Maybe it was time to stand and say: this is who I am, this is what I have done, and if all the insights which I have accumulated in the process amount to an acceptable concoction, all well and good, I am yours to command, Mr President. But if I am not the right kind of man for this busy world, well, I’m sorry but it is too late for me to change. And now here comes Derom Airport tarmac rising to meet the plane. Derom, as politically renowned as P’Arlcena is spiritually renowned. Derom, Cenland, on the north rim of the Zard, in the midst of the middle continent, Zanep, the land bridge between Larmonn and Shershe – the middle land fated by geography to extend its tentacles of influence east and west, spreading civilization through the world even as old Derom city itself declines in actual power. Out-performed by its breakaway colonies. Flattened more than once by earthquakes. But still free and independent, up until the recent establishment of the World State. Now the city of Derom is proud but unspectacular, in need of nothing more than its bulky stone buildings, its drab red roofs and its quietly unsurpassable reputation.
  The words “Merod, Derom” form the World President’s postal address.
  And here am I rather late in the day, realized Midax as he marvelled at how little attention he had paid so far to his own involvement with the new global regime. Despite having rubbed shoulders with fellow-members of the Chamber of Notables and despite actually having been acquainted with Waretik Thanth himself long ago in their schooldays, Midax’s quirky self had kept him detached from the colossal developments of recent years. Which was a pity; but on the other hand I’ve not been idle. I’ve acquired experience in the bogglement of mind, wrung by those competing soul-wringers, Pjerl and the Beyond.
  How could any President threaten more than this?
  It was as well to rest on that thought. As he stepped off the plane, the official car drew up. The airline must have radioed the exact arrival moment. Expertly and quietly the Discoverer was drawn aside and within minutes was speeding through leafy lanes towards the Palace.
  His escort – two large men in Merod Lodge livery – seemed unwilling to talk, even at the moment when they deposited him at the door of the Lodge itself.

He was ushered into a wide, white corridor. Treading the deep carpet he was conducted past alternating doors and windows at lengthy intervals which made him wonder, if the Lodge was this big, what the main palace must be like; and he belatedly also wondered whether you addressed a World President as “Mr” or as “Rmr”. Shush, mind of mine, give me some peace. Merod Palace, he knew, was no longer lived in and was part offices, part museum of the old Kings of Cenland. But this Lodge was certainly lived in. The question was, where…
  All of the doors but one were closed; he looked at his escort and they nodded and stood back; he made for the one open door, alone.
  In an emergency, Midax had discovered on occasion, you borrow calm, like a businessman will borrow money from a bank to tide him over a hard patch. Luckily, if you have already withstood the shocks of Glight and Pjerl, your credit must be good.
  Waretik Thanth, who had been seated by a huge kidney-shaped desk, now rose to give the tall Midax the unusual experience of being towered over. Grey, leathery, the President had an abundance of that “presence” which is the mysterious property of film-stars and the rare politician who is not only successful but also respected.
  “Good morning, Mr Discoverer.” The man advanced with hand outstretched.
  “Good morning, Mr President.”
  As they shook hands, Waretik stated brusquely: “This is for us two and nobody else. Just for once, my advisers are happy for me to cope alone while you and I have our belated private talk.”
  “You won’t need help in dealing with me,” Midax averred.
  “Are you not a problem, then?” Waretik’s eyebrows rose.
  “Well… maybe I’m a minor problem; the kind that solves itself. The less notice you take of me –”
  “No, that won’t work and you know it,” smiled the taller man.
  Midax looked away. “You could try –”
  “If I were to ignore you now, I’d end up facing impeachment, and rightly so.”
  “Then – co-opt me. Wrap me in the flag.”
  Waretik’s smile became broader: “I think we talk the same language, which is good, but we have to tread a fine line – if I were to notice you too much, appearing with you in public, people might cease to notice me. ‘Who’s that man with the Discoverer?’ they would say.”
Was the fellow joking? Midax’s arms dangled at his sides as he stood uncertainly. Yes, he must be. A twinkle in those eyes, as the President nodded at his own words and then walked around Midax to another door, which he opened into another reception room while beckoning the Discoverer to follow, suggested the sardonic treatment which was hard to answer.
  “First let’s sit down and have a drink. My dream day,” Waretik remarked, “is to see whom I please without rubberneckers or recorders, and to follow my own time-table. Legging it whenever someone awkward shows up… for it’s conveniently easy to disappear in this labyrinth.”
Was all this, Midax wondered, designed to lull him? Set him up for a put-down? No, the friendliness seemed genuine, albeit magisterial. No cheating brilliance about this man: Waretik was straightforward in his greatness. Midax therefore might respond with wary acceptance. But he must not allow himself to forget that he and Waretik were to some extent opponents, rival intelligences who circled each other and sniffed for advantage.
  Above all, Midax felt he must brace himself ready for the snapped demand, Tell me what you found in your expedition. And what about that man you lost: Bercane Carphrae; what happened to him?
  “Now,” said Waretik Thanth, settling onto one armchair and leaving Midax to sprawl on another, with a low drinks table between them. “Let’s see if what the diplomats say is true – that there’s no substitute for a face-to-face negotiation. I could have telephoned you on some private line; it would have been easy enough to arrange. But…”
  “But you wanted to read my mind, Mr President. All politicians are aspiring mind-readers.”
  “Whereas you, Mr Discoverer, are going further still. Reading into the soul, it seems.”
  “You saw that chat-show, I suppose.”
  “My staff insisted I watch it. Afterwards, I was glad they had.”
  “Well, don’t accuse me, Mr President, of having rocked any boats on that occasion. I was a bulwark of orthodoxy, if I remember my words correctly. All I did was trot out the standard arguments for the existence of the soul.”
  The President wagged a finger. “But, when you do a thing like that, you do it rather more effectively than it’s usually done. Orthodoxy pushed to the point of actually being believed, of actually making a difference, amounts to radicalism.”
  “Now you’re getting cynical, Mr President.”
  “No, I don’t think so. I actually know perfectly well why you did it. You want to downplay Glight as an arena for religious discovery. There were two ways of doing that. Downplay the soul altogether – that would have been one way; but you chose the opposite approach: saying there is no need to look elsewhere for what we’ve already got. I think, Midax, that you are about to surprise yourself in the size of your soon-to-be-acquired following. And it’s my business to beware what the world is letting itself in for.”
  “The world? I think you overestimate my –”
  Waretik cut him off. His voice was suddenly harsh. “None of that myopic modesty. Tell me, what do you do when you make yourself enter Glight? It is time I was informed. What precise action do you take?”
  “I’m sorry, I don’t know how I do it,” apologized Midax. “I know what I’m saying is unhelpful but it’s the truth. I have never managed to understand the process.”
  The World President fired another question: “And when you get there, is this other dimension, this straight-line dimension, this Glight – is it how things really are, or is it just a diagram-dimension or in-between state, for short cuts only?”
  “Surely, sir, you are committed to believing in this world as the real place – where things appear as they really are?”
  Waretik smiled bitterly. “You’re still trying to fence with me. Don’t,” he advised. “Don’t take it for granted that you have an edge over me merely because I ply the sordid trade of politician. Realize this: I can face reality. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if we humans ultimately create our own reality.”
  “An amazing doctrine, Mr Pr –”
  “It’s the most workable doctrine for a man of action.”
  “Maybe,” the Discoverer mused, “it is you who have the edge over me.”
  “Never mind who has the edge. Say on. Answer my question. How real is Glight – is it more or less real than our world?”
  “I know only what I feel,” said Midax, “which is, that when I am there, I sense that Glight is realer than our world, but that belief fades when I return. For example at this moment as I sit on this sofa and drink your liqueur, I cannot accept the other dimension as anything more than a medium for short cuts – a diagram to exploit.”
  “And is that a stable point of view, do you reckon?”
  “You mean, shall I go on believing it for the rest of my life? I suspect not,” admitted Midax uncomfortably.
  “I see you are being honest with me,” nodded the other.
  Silence fell.
  “Almost,” Waretik sighed after some moments, “do I feel impelled to give up all my duties and follow you into Glight; even though politics is my life; yes, even though I would lose everything I have striven to gain. The temptation, to abandon my duties and explore – you don’t know how strong it is.”
  Amazed by this, Midax took a deep breath and said, “Then, sir, I suggest you yield to that temptation! Follow that instinct! Come with us next time we go, and, as President, direct operations in Glight yourself!”
  Chin on hand, Waretik sat as if he had not heard. He made no move, uttered no word as Midax continued, “Sir, I’m serious. This would be great beyond all hope. A fantastic relief for… well, for me. That I could really hand over the business…”
  “No,” spoke Waretik at last, sadly. “You see – I know you.” He looked up with a distant expression. “By repute, mostly. We went to the same school, you and I, but we were in different years, weren’t we? But anyhow I know you. You are the Discoverer and whether I am in charge or not, you are going to find something which will turn this newly unified world upside down – I can sense it, though I can’t foresee the details. I simply know this: that what you are going to do – if I let you – will be too much for this world’s unity and peace, which have been so recently and precariously achieved. So why don’t I just have you shot? Skies above, just think: if I, even I, have difficulty in conquering the temptation to join you – imagine how strong that compulsion will be for those who have less to lose! They’re all going to follow you, Midax. It’s already happening. Polange Nsef and Vemorth Syorr (you don’t know Vemorth: he’s the man I put in command of the surveillance team assigned to watch you; I had to sack him today) – they’ve abandoned me, and so will all the others in due course. If, that is, you are permitted to carry on. So I am warning you, Midax Rale.”
  The President’s speech rambled to a close.
  The moment had come; the moment in which Midax at last felt the roof of subordination over his head.
  “And the precise content of your warning, sir?”
  “Is simply this: you are now under threat from me.”
  “By what law, sir?”
  “By that basic law of self-defence which all states possess.”
  Midax made an uncertain noise.
  Waretik held up his hand. “If I were you, I would not put a lot of effort, at this juncture, into thinking of something to say. Instead, if I were you I would make haste to decide on the right thing to do. You are sufficiently intelligent to know the pressure which you are exerting and that you must put a stop to it forthwith. Make sure that your change of heart is writ large upon the history of next week.”
  It was a dismissal.
  Midax stood up. It burst upon him that he had not, after all, been forced to talk about what had happened on the Glight expedition, nor had the disappearance of Bercane been mentioned. And now it was plain that these things were going to remain unsaid. For to say them would have been to speak of those things which neither man really wanted to air; and in the same vein Midax thought: my boss was probably right to threaten me.