Emerald Eyes | Page 3

damned Statement of Principles, to allow
the Secretary General to hold office for more than three four-year terms.
Sarah Almundsen must be turning over in her grave; the first
amendment ever proposed to that brilliant piece of writing being a tool
to keep one of her more foolish successors in office for another term."
He shook his head. "It's not going well; SecGen Tenerat didn't think

this one through, silly damn frog he is." He paused a moment and
without looking at her added, "No offense meant."
"None taken," she said dryly.
"Not that the opposition has prepared for it either. The Unification
Councilor for Sri Lanka opened the floor for discussion on the subject
and so far this morning that's been the most coherent thing anybody's
said."
"I see."
Kalharri turned his head then to look at her. He grinned broadly. "I've
been watching this damned box all morning. I tried turning up the
brightness control earlier--"
"Didn't work."
"Afraid not." He turned back to the screen.
"Amnier's here."
Kalharri took a sip from his coffee before replying. "Guards told me.
You're supposed to believe that he's going through your documents.
He's been there for an hour already; he knows you don't usually get in
until 9 am, and he'll be expecting you to come charging up to your
office as soon as you learn he had himself let in to wait."
"Wheels within wheels. What do I do?"
"Command," said Kalharri, "bring coffee." Acknowledged blinked in
the lower right hand corner of the 3D tank. He lowered his voice
slightly. "Amnier's appointment isn't until ten o'clock."
"So?"
Filled cups and condiments appeared on the floor next to the couch;
memory plastic raised itself up from the floor to become a table at
Kalharri's right hand. Kalharri took his cup and sent the table gliding

across the floor toward Montignet. "I don't like surprises. Darryl's the
same way. Right now he's expecting you to blow through your door
any moment, pissed off. So, have a seat," he said cheerfully, "drink
your coffee and watch the politicians, and make the bastard wait."
The door slid aside at 10 am.
"What the fuck are you doing in my office?"
Suzanne Montignet was, Darryl Amnier thought in surprise, an
astonishing beauty. The holos in her files did her no justice. Her blond
hair was tucked up under a net that reminded him of the hair net the
Sisters had worn at St. Margaret Mary's, the Catholic school he'd been
taught at as a child. She stared at him, waiting for an answer. He
wondered at her anger; forty-five minutes ago it had undoubtedly been
real. Now it was simply a mask stamped across features that were,
perhaps, slightly too delicate. It seemed to Amnier that she was
undernourished as well; she must have lost five kilograms since the
most recent holographs of her had been taken.
Darryl Amnier rose belatedly from behind Montignet's desk, removed
his hat, and sketched a bow. "I am M. Amnier, here for my
appointment." It was his best French.
Suzanne Montignet looked him over as though he were something
unpleasant she'd found in her salad, and shook her head in a tired
motion. She dropped the pile of folders she'd entered with on her
desktop. "Lights," she said in English. The fluorescent lamps came up
bright, and Darryl Amnier realized that the odd gray of her eyes, that
he'd assumed an error in her holo reproductions, was their true color. "I
know who you are. Do you usually pop into people's offices two
damned hours ahead of time?"
Amnier found himself caught in the challenge of her gaze. He found his
posture straightening. "Mademoiselle, only when I wish for the person
with whom I am meeting to be ill at ease." He shook his head. "In this
instance, I regret the use of the technique--and have for the last half
hour."

Suzanne Montignet looked him over, and smiled wearily. She held out
her hand. "I have," she said softly, "been looking forward to meeting
you, Mister Amnier." He took her hand, and was not surprised at the
strength in her grip. "As has Colonel Kalharri."
Someday I will tell you of the life of Jorge Rodriguez. It is the least one
can do for a man one has killed.
It is the truth that I killed Jorge Rodriguez.
Like all truths it is susceptible to interpretation. I had taken all the
precautions available to me that my visit to this time might not cause
more damage than good; but it is never possible to know all of what
may come from a course of action. This is as true of a God of the
Zaradin Church as of any other sentient.
Jorge Rodriguez entered the small room with two doors