"We're thinking more in terms of a thousand a month," Biber said carefully. "With a bonus for success, of course. A large bonus."

Amy clasped her hands tightly together as though she was praying. Mark didn't look directly at her, but from the corner of his eye he could see that her face was white. She'd never thought her brother was a saint, but this barefaced treachery amazed as well as horrified her.

"Five thousand a month," Yerby repeated nonchalantly. "The first six months now, in cash. Later payments paid quarterly into my account on Kilbourn."

"That's absurd!" the Vice-Protector said. "Mr. Bannock, that's absolutely absurd!"

Yerby chuckled, eyed the level in the liquor bottle, and took another mouthful. "Is it, laddie?" he said after swallowing. "Well, I'll tell you what I think is absurd. That's you figuring that because you got a hellacious lot of people on this planet, that you can put enough of them on Greenwood to chase out the folks who're there already. If you really believe that, you're even dumber than you look."

Finch drew himself up stiffly. Biber glared at him, then said in a would-be reasonable tone, "There's a level of truth to what you say, of course, Mr. Bannock. That's why we're talking with you. The actual figures involved, however-"

"You heard the figures," Yerby said. He hadn't shown a sign of anger or anxiety during the whole discussion. "You can pay me and I'll do what I can to bring my neighbors to what I think's the right attitude. Or you can come to Greenwood yourselves and try to talk folk around. But I recommend if you do that-" He smiled like a crocodile. "-you not wear such fancy clothes as you got on now. Because chances are that people are going to give you a guided tour of cesspools and manure piles."

Vice-Protector Finch swore, softly and bitterly.

Mayor Biber's face was as black as a thundercloud for a moment. Finally he shrugged and said, "All right, we accept your terms. We'll have the money for you tomorrow, as soon as the banks open at ten."

Yerby laughed with the same thunderous abandon as he'd been singing in the hallway. "Ten o'clock?" he said. "Well then, laddies, why don't we go out and find what bars are still open, shall we? We got some celebrating to do!"

"Oh God," moaned one of the Zeniths. Those were the first words any of the aides had spoken since they entered the suite.

Yerby waved the Zeniths out ahead of him with a flourish and banged the door closed behind him. Mark stood up, feeling a little dizzy from the way the awkward posture had cramped his legs.

Amy got smoothly to her feet again. Her face was flushed. "Thank you for being willing to help," she said primly to Mark. "I think you'd better go now, though."

"Right," said Mark. He waited until the elevator closed on the strains of " Fanny Bay " before he went out into the hall.

"It was very foolish of me to worry about my brother being in physical danger," Amy said in a bitter voice. "And obviously it was far too late to worry about his morality-or the lack of it!"

"Good night, Amy," Mark murmured. He half believed that he'd dreamed the whole business. It just couldn't be true…

17. The High and the Mighty

The palace of Guillaume Giscard, Protector of Zenith, was on a mountaintop 270 miles from New Paris. Eastward through the glass walls of the anteroom to Giscard's office Mark could see a breathtaking sweep of bare ridges plunging thousands of feet toward the foothills.

To the immediate south, Alliance troops bundled in winter uniforms like so many gray snowmen were being drilled in a courtyard two stories below. The site was a barracks as well as a palace. Judging from the number of corrugated-plastic huts, there must be several thousand soldiers quartered here.

Very uncomfortable soldiers, too. It was only fall in this hemisphere, but the palace was high enough that snow already drifted around the shelters.

A servant so gloomy that he could have been a basset hound threw open the doors to the office. "His Excellency will see you now, Mr. Maxwell," he said, as if he were reading the burial service for a very sinful man. Mark entered behind his father.

There were seven people in the large room. Four, including both women, wore Alliance military dress uniforms. Protector Giscard was a tall, stooped man. He rose from behind a desk littered with papers, recording chips, and three different styles of hologram projector. The remaining civilians were an older man across the desk from the soldiers and a supercilious-looking youngster.

"Mr. Maxwell," Giscard said, extending his hand, "I'm seeing you out of respect for those who recommended you, but there's absolutely no way that I can interfere in the matter you raise. Or would want to."

Lucius shook hands politely; Mark bowed in Quelhagen style, feeling very tense. He didn't worry about the Alliance officials, but he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his father.

"Well, I appreciate your position," Lucius said. "However, I thought-"

"I mean, my own Vice-Protector's involved in the matter, I understand," Giscard interrupted. He played nervously with the papers on his desk. "With all the trouble going on here, I'm certainly not going to get him and the rest of the local council stirred up."

"Stirred up, hell," said a heavyset officer with close-cropped, iron gray hair. "If you took my advice, Finch would be in jail right now."

"And if he resisted," added a woman of similar age and physique, "he'd be under the jail. He's a prancing little prick."

Giscard forced his face into a smile. " Paris thought if I associated responsible local people in the government, things would… there'd be less trouble," he said to Lucius apologetically. "So I appointed Mr. Finch, but-"

He broke off and waved a hand, frustrated at his own dithering. "Anyway, I can't interfere. I'm sorry you had your trip for nothing, but I'm sure my secretary warned you you were wasting your time."

"Many times," said the young man. He couldn't have stuck his nose farther in the air if there'd been a turd on the carpet. "But Mr. Maxwell absolutely insisted."

"I thought it only fair that I give you a chance to cover yourself before the matter goes to Paris," Lucius said. His nonchalance made Mark shiver with its glacial perfection: polite but at the same time utterly superior and dismissive. It was the tone that Mark had expected the Protector to be using on them.

" Paris?" Giscard said. "You can't-"

"I'm afraid that in some quarters your decision to let planetary courts invalidate Alliance grants won't be very well received," Lucius said. This time he raised his voice enough to override the Protector's.

"Those Hestia grants are invalid!" said the elder civilian.

Lucius cocked an eyebrow. "That's certainly the position a Zenith court took," he said. "Very possibly a commission set up by the proper Alliance authorities might agree. But I very much doubt that officials in Paris will believe that a Zenith court had authority to make that decision on its own."

Giscard swallowed. He looked at the aide who'd just spoken. That fellow cleared his throat and said, "There are no grounds for appeal of a local decision to authorities in Paris." Mark could almost hear the question in his voice.

"Grounds?" said Lucius. "Oh, I think if the proper people in the Protectorate Office learn of what's happened here, they'll find grounds at least to recall His Excellency-"

Lucius bowed to Giscard.

"-to explain why he allowed local authorities to overrule the actions of an Alliance protector. But of course that's your decision, Your Excellency. Thank you for your time."

"Wait!" Giscard said.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Your Excellency?" he said, as if he were only vaguely interested in what the protector had to say.