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go away."
Gus Brannhard parted his gray-brown whiskers carefully as he prepared to
answer the question from the Clerk of the Colonial Courts. "Champagne, Mr.
Wilkins, is very bad for the sinuses." He inhaled deeply from the enormous
brandy snifter easily cradled in his huge hand."And that is why," he
concluded, "I never touch the stuff. No, no-all those bubbles hopping around
inside a man's head; must make a terrible racket. I imagine it would make my
ears pop something fierce."
It was the eyes that were popping for Roy Wilkins. He had never dreamed that a
human being could drink as much as the Colonial Attorney General and still
retain his faculties. Wil-kins shoved his glasses back up his nose to a firmer
footing and plunged back into the conversation.
"And what," he asked, "do you think about this business of Hugo Ingermann
being disbarred? Personally, I'm tickled pink."
Gus eyed the young man solemnly. "Why, as an official of the colonial
government, I have no thoughts on the subject at all. As public employees, we
should have no comments-not public ones, anyway-on the fortunes of any private
citizen. Do you get my meaning, son?"
Wilkins sipped his champagne nervously. "Oh, I understand perfectly, sir. It's
just that-I mean-that is-I didn't intend it to sound-exactly-like I rejoiced
in Mr. Ingermann's disbarment."
Gus eyed him some more, then his face broke into a smile and he winked
broadly.
" 'Course you didn't. People in our position just have to be prudent." Wilkins
nodded. One lesson learned. "There is something, though, that I would like
your opinion on, Mr. Wilkins-professionally."
Opinion? This legendary giant who was the Attorney General wanted his opinion
on something? Gosh!
"What," Gus Brannhard asked, "is the scuttlebutt on the coffeepot telegraph
around your offices about the constitutional convention? Interworld News and
the rest show the delegates all busily roaring like wounded damnthings every
night on the screen, but as far as actual resolutions and articles filed, it's
as dry as a temperance meeting. I just wondered if they were actually
generating documents and someone forgot to send me review copies. What are
they doing?"
"Well, sir, I can't rightly say. I do know that we 've copied and sent over
about a metric ton of colonial case law which they 've requested."
"And they haven't sent any of it back?" "No, sir."
"And they haven't filed any draft articles or resolutions?"
"No, sir," Wilkins said. "Well, sir, that is, with one exception."
"Which is?"
"They sent me a draft request to extend the convention for a year, and wanted
to know if it was properly framed."
Gus jabbed his finger at the ceiling triumphantly. "Now I know what they've
been doing. The buggers have studied everything to death. Now they see that
their year is almost up and they aren 't even close to framing a constitution,
so they want us to give them another year-another year during which the
government can't levy taxes.
"Well, I guess it's time for Governor Rainsford and myself to pay these
dedicated foot-draggers a visit in open session-in situ as it were-and sort of
explain the facts of life to them."
Wilkins pushed his glasses up his nose, again, hesitated, then gulped and
spoke. It was not the usual thing for the Clerk of the Court to correct the
Attorney General on process, even at a party. "But, sir," he said, "colonial
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law forbids any appointed official of colonial government being in attendance
at the site of a constitutional convention-uh-to prevent sandbagging, I
guess."
Gus took another swig of brandy while Wilkins spoke, and glowered at him
through the snifter glass as he did so. He lowered the glass and fluffed his
beard. "Of course it does, Mr. Wilkins, but only in an uninvited capacity. I
'm sure the intrepid colonists in that body will be pleased-once the matter is
explained to some of the leaders-to invite us in for some 'advice.' "
While Gus Brannhard guffawed at Roy Wilkins, a slender man who stood nearby,
chatting with Ernst Mallin, frowned and pursed his lips.
"That man's a perfect example, Ernst," Dr. Jan Chris-tiaan Hoenveld said.
"Refinement and breeding are out the airlock in Mallorysport so long as the
Governor General still wears bush clothes and his colonial officials are a
bunch of bumpkins like Brannhard. Rainsford's offices and quarters in
Government House have animal skins all over the floors. It's just not
civilized."
Mallin sipped his champagne and smiled. "I suppose, Chris, that you preferred
Nick Emmert's administration- cocktail parties sparkling with mindless
chatter, and all those damned canapes. Personally, I don't care if I never see
creamed cheese again."
"Well, at least the man had some style," Hoenveld sniffed.
"I used to like those parties of Emmert's, too," Mallin mused,
"until-something-I guess it was me-changed. I can tell you one thing, Chris,
Rainsford's administration is one hundred percent honest, even if the men in
it are a little rough around the edges."
"Oh, don't talk to me about 'rough around the edges,' Ernst. This mob of
ragged vagabonds that's immigrating to Zarathustra is ruining what little
grace we had developed in Mallorysport. My tailor is feeling the pinch
already; no one has any standards, any more. And why should they-when the
Governor always looks like he's been sleeping in his clothes? One just throws
on any old flak jacket one finds wadded up in the back of the closet and one
is in perfect style."
Mallin smiled. "I 'm sure refined taste will survive, Chris. It's come through
worse setbacks than this.
"Excuse me, will you? One of my people is waving frantically for me to join
her."
Mallin had to get away from Hoenveld; he wasn 't sure how much longer he could
keep a straight face. Chris Hoenveld was the best biochemist ever to set foot
on Zarathustra, but he sure had some strange ideas about what was important.
Besides, Liana Bell really was signaling him to come over and join her and
Juan Jimenez.
As he threaded his way through the guests, he caught a scrap from another
conversation that was refreshingly balanced against Hoenveld's notions about
genteelness.
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