Politician by Piers Anthony
“Perhaps your wife will play,” I said, indicating the piano. It was one of the electronic ones, similar to Megan’s own, set on a table so as to emulate the style of the mechanical pianos that had existed on old Earth.
“No, no, Señor Ambassador,” she protested, blushing. She was not expert; she practiced to divert herself and knew she would only embarrass us all.
“Then perhaps if my wife could accompany herself—”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed quickly. She spoke in Spanish, but her intent was evident to all.
Megan sat at the piano, near Raul, who ignored her and the world of normal folk. He contemplated his moving fingers with total fascination. Megan checked the piano to be sure it was in tune, adjusted it, and began.
First she played and sang an operatic selection in English. The premier understood the language but did not deign to acknowledge, and his wife could not follow the words at all though she obviously appreciated the music. Thus this selection was to an extent lost on its limited audience. But I watched Raul, using my talent, and confirmed what I had suspected. His fingers slowed slightly, as if part of the music were reaching his mind.
“Now,” I murmured to Megan.
She began the first of the Spanish songs I had had her learn. It was a pretty one, popular with children, very quick and light, with a catchy refrain. She sang it well—probably better than it had ever been sung on Gany before, for there was no singer of her stature here. The room filled with sound, and Hopie began moving to the beat, as a child will. “Oh, lovely,” the premier’s wife breathed in Spanish.
I took the premier’s elbow unobtrusively. He stiffened, furious at this familiarity; he touched others freely in public but did not like others touching him. “Raul,” I murmured.
He looked at his son and saw the boy’s gaze turning to Megan. The restless fingers paused, and the expression of complete indifference was shifting to one of faint interest.
“He hears!” the premier whispered, awed.
Megan finished the song, and the boy froze again. His gaze became blank. Whatever current had passed through him had been turned off.
She started the next, another pretty one with a strong Latin beat, and again Raul responded. He began to move, ever so slightly, to the music, copying Hopie. There was no question that the song reached him.
The third song Megan played and sang was the planetary anthem of Ganymede. The premier, startled, stood to attention, and his son copied him, standing straight but not tuned out. There were tears running down the face of the boy’s mother.
When Megan finished that one, she smiled at Raul, and he smiled back. “A miracle!” the premier’s wife exclaimed.
“Sometimes music helps,” I said. “The right music, sung with proper feeling. One cannot expect too much, but ...”
That was the turning point. The premier’s stifled rage was replaced by an opposite emotion. Thereafter we were welcome at his home, Megan especially. She worked with the premier’s wife to discover what music would reach the boy most effectively. And by a seeming coincidence, a number of quite qualified people showed up to work at the embassy. The sinister men of the street disappeared. We had no further significant difficulties of any kind.
• • •
As time passed I came to know the premier better. He was a ruthless and, at times, violent man, but he was in an environment that required such qualities. He did have firm principles, and he was trying to improve the lot of his planet. Gradually we spoke more candidly to each other, as he recognized that it was not my purpose to judge him, humiliate him, or to work against his interests. I had, after all, been as ruthless as he, in the course of my prior military career. It was my purpose to improve relations between Jupiter and Ganymede.
“How would it be,” I inquired musingly, “if we arranged to find something to do?”
His eyes narrowed appreciatively. “What do you have in mind, Señor ?”
“Suppose we were to commence negotiations for the resumption of sugar purchases by Jupiter, the orderly transfer of Tanamo to Ganymede suzerainty before the lease expires, that sort of thing?”
His eyes fairly popped. “You would do that?” Tanamo was a major Jupiter Naval base situated on Gany, the one I had invoked for the mock defector shipment. It operated under a long-term lease arranged before the revolution that had changed the nature of Gany’s government. Tanamo’s presence was perhaps the leading sore spot of the present Gany regime. But there was no way Gany could take over the base without provoking war with Jupiter, and that was not to be contemplated. That lease would terminate in another decade, but it was not known whether Jupiter would give up the base even then. Treaties are honored by governments only when it suits their convenience, and Jupiter’s interplanetary record in this respect was no better than Saturn’s, no matter what the school texts might claim.
“Sometimes capitalistic and communistic purposes coincide,” I said. “I would like to facilitate peace in our time in the Solar System, naturally—”
“Naturally,” he agreed dryly.
“And the elimination of trouble spots should help,” I continued. “It is possible that the position of the premier who arranged for the resumption of territorial integrity—”
“And the reputation of the ambassador involved,” he added.
We looked at each other, smiling. We both could profit.
“Of course, there is always a certain quid pro quo,” I said.
“Ganymede has been accused, perhaps erroneously, of fomenting revolution elsewhere in the Jupiter sphere, and of serving as a supply conduit for Saturn arms.”
He nodded. “Were this the case, it might be that it would not be entirely under the control of the local authorities,” he pointed out. “There might be debts to pay.”
“Granted. Yet perhaps a dialogue with the appropriate party ...”
“Perhaps a dialogue,” he agreed.
“And some have claimed—naturally I do not personally credit this—that there are political prisoners who might safely be released: intellectuals, misled youths, ill folk.”
“If, perhaps, an initiative were made.”
I nodded. We had an understanding.
And so it was that I, in the dutiful performance of my office, relayed to my government the Gany petition for early consideration of the transfer of Tanamo and other matters.
And the antimatter, as the saying goes, hit the matter.
I received a close-coded message from President Kenson: “What the hell are you doing, Hubris?” But the lure of progress toward genuine peace was too strong; the president had to permit the initiative. When the furor raged, he had to support it. When Congress passed a resolution of condemnation, Kenson had to assert his position by appointing a Jupiter/Gany committee to explore matters. And I received an invitation to visit the Saturn Embassy on Ganymede.
The man I met was one Mikhail Khukov, a captain in the Saturn Navy. I knew the moment I saw him that he was a meteor. That is, a man with the background, intelligence, and drive to blaze to the top, if not assassinated on the way. Saturnine politics, I knew, were played in true hard-ball style; one small error of judgment could render a person dead, figuratively or literally. This one intended to make no mistakes, yet he was also a creature of calculated risks. His type had to be.
He shook my hand, western-style. Technically the Solar System has no east or west, but the terms derive from antiquity: Jupiter is west, Saturn is east, and all else is indeterminate. “So glad to meet you at last, Captain,” he said in English. “I have admired your conduct of the matter of the Belt.”
“I regret I am not acquainted with your own record.”
“Nor would you wish to be, Comrade Capitalist,” he said heartily, dismissing the subject. “So you lit a fire under the tail of your own president.”
“Well, I was sure he would support an initiative for peace.”
“Don’t we all—in our fashions. Exactly what concessions do you seek?”
&
He laughed. “You have the power, Hubris! Do you not know it when you see it?”
I had to smile. “I had thought to conceal my observation.” For he did indeed have a talent similar to mine; the genius of judging people. He was reading me even as I was reading him. We were in a contest of skills—a contest that had no discernible object other than understanding, and no reckoning of points. We could not deceive each other.
“We can do each other much good—or ill,” he said.
“Have we reason to do ill?”
“I see none, when we allow for certain distinctions in our situations.”
Such as his murderous political environment. In his situation I, too, would have had to kill or be killed. His was basically a pirate government. I did not necessarily approve, but I understood.
“Do you play pool, Captain?” he inquired.
“Does a black hole squeeze?”
“It has been long since I have matched against my own rank.” I was no longer a captain, technically, but there was indeed a kind of interplanetary camaraderie of rank: a lieutenant competed against other lieutenants, and a commander against other commanders. Every unit had its ladder of proficiency, but at the level of captain or above, there were few to compete against. Evidently it was similar in the Saturn Navy.
We adjourned to the embassy pool room. The table and equipment were top-line, as that of such establishments tended to be. I had not played regularly since leaving the Navy, but such skill is never truly lost; I knew I could, after wearing off the rust, give a creditable account of myself. But the point was not really to win; it was to match against one’s own rank in as varied and exotic a manner as possible.
We played. I do not remember who won; I think we split games. He was out of shape, too; Saturnine officers are not given undue leisure. It was fun; I realized again that I missed the Navy, and this was like being back in it. While we played, we continued to measure each other. I judged Khukov’s talent to be less than mine, but he was a harder man; he had the kind of backbone that my sister Spirit had, so he used his powers more effectively than I did. Essentially I won over people, who then served my interests loyally; he served his interests directly.
“Perhaps we could exchange favors,” he said.
I had known he was working up to something; he saw in me a way to magnify his power in some way. “Perhaps.”
“I speak no Spanish, yet I must deal with those who do. I distrust interpreters.”
I could appreciate why. Ganymede was an often unwilling partner to Saturn; if he used a native interpreter, his words might suffer more than was comfortable, and there could be much he missed. That could be dangerous. “You might learn the language,” I suggested, realizing what he wanted of me.
“There might come a time when you found it advantageous to comprehend Russian,” he said. “You will in due course be dealing on that level.”
“I’m only a minor ambassador!” I protested, intrigued.
“And I’m only a Navy officer, on inclement duty. But sometimes it is possible, how do you put it, to make of a sow’s ear a silken purse?”
There could indeed be advantage to knowing Russian. He read in me the same ambition I read in him: to achieve the ultimate seat of power. The odds were against either of us making it, but careful preparation and special skills could help. I nodded, interested but not committed.
“But one reservation,” he said. “I prefer that such ability not be known.”
Again I nodded. A man could learn a lot, if those about him believed he did not understand their language. Such secret understanding could on occasion make a life-and-death difference. “I have no need to advertise such a skill as the speaking of Russian, either,” I said.
We shook hands, trusting each other as no two people lacking our avenue of understanding could. This was not a matter of friendship or even of compatibility; our loyalties and philosophies were diametrically opposed. But in this we were united, as two panthers might unite to preserve a favored hunting ground.
Thus it was that over the course of the next year I taught Khukov to speak Spanish with very little accent—he was an apt study—and he taught me to speak Russian with, I trust, similar finesse. Neither of us told any other party of this deal. Nominally we were playing pool and discussing ambassadorial matters. We never became friends—a too-complete understanding is no better for friendship than a too-complete familiarity is for romance—but we knew that neither would betray the other.
• • •
Meanwhile, Megan had not sat idle in the Jupiter Embassy. She set about learning Spanish herself, openly, and encouraged Hopie to do the same. Indeed, Hopie entered the local school system as she came of age. We had faced the choice of private tutoring, which seemed affected and expensive; or sending her to the Navy Dependent School at Tanamo, which Megan would not hear of for several reasons, such as her aversion to military commitment and her refusal to separate our child from our family; or letting her go to a Gany school. That course seemed simple enough, and Hopie was welcomed there. The original alienation shown by the population had entirely disappeared.
But after a year our course seemed less certain.
The schools of Gany are not for simple education. It is the revolutionary philosophy that political education is fundamental; that a person cannot function as a responsible citizen if his political attitudes are wrong. For example, he cannot be a truly selfless team member if his philosophy is one of self-interest. He can not budget his money wisely if he is dedicated to immediate gratification at any cost. It is attitude that is critical—and so the Gany schools educate for that as thoroughly as for the literary and technical and social skills.
Hopie was a bright child and a pleasant one. She got along well in school, as she mastered Spanish, made friends, and learned the lessons well. When she began debating the liabilities of capitalism at home, Megan grew uneasy. When Hopie challenged some of the Jupiter versions of history, such as the manner the so-called Mid-Jupe Canal was arranged, Megan became angry. And when the child began praising the dedication of Saturn to System peace, Megan had had enough. “I shall not suffer my child to become a Saturnist!” she exclaimed.
I tried to reason with her, pointing out that the child did understand that there were different ways to view every issue and that the Gany school espoused merely one view, not the ultimate truth. But Megan replied that even a little bit of brainwashing was too much. In this we had our first significant disagreement, for I was unworried by propaganda, knowing it to be a standard tool and a two-edged one, while Megan simply could not tolerate it for the child. I tried to point out that there was indeed a question about the Mid-Jupe Canal, but that only upset her further. We had come up against a Saxon/Hispanic schism that was best left buried.
In the end Megan took Hopie back to Jupiter, while I remained on Ganymede. I had a post to fill and things to do here that were too important to leave; I simply could not yet return to Jupiter.
And so we separated, and it hurt me deeply, and Megan, too, but we were helpless in the circumstance. It had never occurred to me that anything could drive us apart, least of all our child, but for this occasion it was true.
Shelia and Ebony and Coral expressed their condolences and seemed to regret the situation as much as I did; but all three had suffered their own privations during schooling, and understood. None of them attempted to console me directly, for a reason they presumed I would not understand: All three of them were too strongly attracted to me to risk it. This effect on women is one of the liabilities of my talent. I appreciated their discretion.
The premier expressed regret but did not interfere. “Women have their own perceptions, which men must tolerate,” he said. “Raul will miss her.” But Raul was now making progress independently, now that the channel had been opened; his mother was singing to him and doing well. The premier was a busy man, not given to much concern about th
Khukov understood. “My wife—when I joined the Party ...” He shrugged. I had not known he was married, and it seemed that was no longer the case. Only a few citizens of Saturn actually join the Party, of course—those who are seriously interested in government and power. Evidently Khukov’s wife had wanted a different kind of life.
“This is new to me,” I confessed in Russian. “And painful.”
“Ah, yes,” he agreed in Spanish. “There is no pain like it. But you and I, we must sacrifice all else in the pursuit of our destinies.”
“I love Megan,” I said. “I will never give her up.”
“It will not be by your choice,” he said with the wisdom of experience.
I also received a note from Thorley. “Methinks I judged your wife too harshly.” Naturally he approved of the direct expression of opposition to the Communist indoctrination but had evidently supposed that Megan did not. I appreciated his interest; it reminded me that though he and I still opposed each other philosophically, we retained a kind of friendship personally.
The committee on the sugar and Tanamo issues was hopelessly deadlocked. The problems were these: the sugar market that had once been Ganymede’s had been apportioned among several other Latin countries on and off Jupiter; they raised a howl of protest at the notion of losing those shares. Sugar was their major source of income; without that market some of them would quickly bankrupt. The Tanamo transfer was opposed by the Jupiter administration itself, though President Kenson remained publicly noncommittal so as not to undercut my position. The base could not be allowed to fall under Saturnine control.
These two objections blocked the other parts of the negotiation. Neither Saturn nor Ganymede would agree to halt the export of arms and subversion to nations of the Jupiter sphere unless Tanamo were yielded, and the premier was adamant about regaining the sugar trade in return for whatever prisoners he might release. The barriers were, ironically, with the Jupiter side, rather than the Gany side. Megan’s protestations to the contrary, there was some merit in the Gany political indoctrination. Not a lot, but some. A contrary political view was a serious matter here; this was something few of the folk on Jupiter could appreciate, because of their much greater freedom to adopt any political configuration they chose, or none.