“Uh, Professor, are we even allowed in the Forbidden Zone?”
“Why, of course! It’s just a name, like the Death Zone or the Zone of No Return. All the zones have names like that in the Galaxy of Terror.”
We’re going to need imagination, teamwork, and a lot of heavy weaponry.
There’s that word again. “Heavy.” Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the Earth’s gravitational pull?
She preferred the times when she could pretend that she was in a gravity well to the little reminders that she was the puppet of acceleration and inertia.
Half of North America just lost their Facebook.
Why on earth people who have something to say which is worth hearing should not take the slight trouble to learn how to make it heard is one of the strange mysteries of modern life.
"No vocal cords. We’re assuming they communicate with each other through some other means. "
"You’re obviously not thinking about hand signals and body language. "
So, the whole war is because we can’t talk to each other.
We’re still going to have those problems, you know," Elizabeth said almost conversationally after a moment. “All those people on both sides who don’t like each other. All that legacy of suspicion.”
“Of course.” Pritchart nodded.
“And then there’s the little matter of figuring out where this Alignment’s real headquarters is, and who else is fronting for it, and what other weapons it has, and where else it has programmed assassins tucked away, and exactly what it’s got in mind for the Republic once the Star Empire’s been polished off.”
“True.”
“And, now that I think about it, there’s the question of how we’re going to rebuild our capabilities here, and how much technology sharing—and how quickly—we can convince our separate navies and our allies to put up with. You know there’s going to be heel-dragging and tantrum-throwing the minute I start suggesting anything like that!”
“I’m sure there will.”
The two women looked at one another, and then, slowly, both of them began to smile.
“What the hell,” Elizabeth Winton said. “I’ve always liked a good challenge.”
She extended her hand across the table.
Pritchart took it.
She followed it up by a handshake with the Vicereine exhibiting all the air of some secret sisterhood revealed. Miles was slightly unnerved by the older ladies’ attitude of cheerful maternal conspiracy.
There were the meaningless greetings the humans called “formalities”: insincere inquiries into the state of health, nebulous benedictions and hopes for past well-being; all compensations for the lack of human Mediators.
Moving parts in rubbing contact require lubrication to avoid excessive wear. Honorifics and formal politeness provide lubrication where people rub together. Often the very young, the untraveled, the naive, the unsophisticated deplore these formalities as “empty,” “meaningless,” or “dishonest,” and scorn to use them. No matter how “pure” their motives, they thereby throw sand into machinery that does not work too well at best.
All Big Ones talk together, all pick some for take care of things belong everybody. Gov’-men’ not let anybody take somebody-else things, not let anybody make anybody dead, not let hurt anybody.
What we’re looking at may be a serious breach of galactic law!
“The Shingaine Convention on free passage mandates that all warp termini be open to all traffic,” Kolokoltsov shot back.
“Does it?” Carmichael arched his eyebrows, then shrugged. “Well, I’m prepared to take your word for that, Mister Permanent Senior Undersecretary. Unfortunately, the Star Empire of Manticore isn’t a signatory of the Shingaine Convention.”
Mister Saavik, you go right on quoting regulations!
Wait a minute. If we let it in, the ship could be infected. You know the quarantine procedure. Twenty-four hours for decontamination.
Indeed. One perceives the potential hazards.
We are so screwed.
I don’t like this set up and I don’t like the way it’s going.