The Sirens of Space by Jeffrey Caminsky Page B

most daring coup in
Terran history, and its owner—who loved intrigue more than a miser
loved money—would never even know.
    “ I’d like my usual stall, Ricardo. The
one overlooking the river. Have Sally bring me some coffee, and
I’ll leave breakfast to your discretion.”
    “ Yes, Senator Hollenbach. At once,
Senator Hollenbach.”
    Ricardo clapped his hands, sending a
half-dozen employees scurrying in a dozen different directions. He
tried not to notice the man and woman being escorted from Number
Twenty-six by one of the waiters, an uncomfortable-looking man with
a thin moustache who smiled sympathetically at the outraged
sputterings of the displaced couple.
    “ Oh,” Hollenbach added, almost as an
afterthought. “I’m expecting some friends to join me. One I expect
shortly, the other may be detained. Please show them to my table
directly.”
    “ Of course, Senator Hollenbach. And
may I say....”
     
    * * *
    North of Covington , near a
bend in the Mendenhall River, was a large parabolic dish carved
into bare rock. Through a collection of communications satellites
in orbit over the planet, the device linked New Babylon to the rest
of Terra, and served as Terra’s window into the capital. Through a
planet-wide network of relay stations, radio towers and cable
links, every bit of news that enterprising journalists from Ishtar
to Isis could uncover found its way into the mammoth computers
buried deep inside the rock. From there, it was beamed skyward for
instant dissemination to the planets and colonies that comprised
the Terran League. But with the Senate in Winter recess, the
Crutchtan border quiet, and nothing but continuing prosperity on
the economic front, there was little news to liven a cold January
day in the Earth Year 2551. Aside from routine government
announcements about trade balances and space traffic, and the
typical human interest filler that dominated the subspace channels
from time to time, the only item of note was the monthly brunch
hosted by the Greater Terran Media Society in the Old Center area
of downtown Covington. There, the banquet room of the Broadcaster’s
Club was filled to capacity and buzzing with excitement. Duncan
Heathcoate, Demeter’s senior senator, was about to address the
gathering.
    Unlike most of his Senate colleagues,
Heathcoate enjoyed press banquets. He frequently spoke at these
monthly gatherings, though he’d never before accepted an invitation
that conflicted with a vacation. Gregarious and good-natured, as
handsome at age seventy as he was controversial, the Society found
his oratorical skills useful in preserving the importance of their
brunch on Covington’s social circuit. Relaxed and calmer than in
days past, he was still given to the occasional reprise of his
youthful tirades about the threat posed by alien powers to the
east. He had, in recent years, also taken upon himself the role of
elder statesman for the Tory movement, becoming as committed to
promoting the traditional Tory concepts of free trade and planetary
sovereignty as he was to venting his customary outrage over the
inadequacy of Terran security. And though some saw in him the same
fool they’d always seen, others heard his pronouncements as the
words of a sage entering the twilight of a distinguished
career.
    As the chairman of the Greater Terran Media
Society finished his introduction, a smiling Duncan Heathcoate, his
silver hair neatly in place, rose and walked to the dais, nodding
his head and acknowledging the applause.
    “ Mr. McSweeny, members of the Press,
fellow guests,” Heathcoate said at last, in the velvet voice that
knew no equal. “I remember the first time I addressed this group,
as a wet-behind-the-ears freshman Senator some time ago. It was
summer—one of those hot days Covington gets from time to time where
the sun seems to bake the air itself. Everyone had left for the
beach and I had to address a room where the busboys and waiters
outnumbered the guests in much the