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THE PALACE AT MIDNIGHT

By Robert Silverberg

The foreign minister of the Empire of San Francisco was trying to sleep late. Last night had been

a long one, a wild if not particularly gratifying party at the Baths, too much to drink, too much

to smoke, and he had seen the dawn come up like thunder out of Oakland 'crost the Bay. Now the

telephone was ringing. He integrated the first couple of rings nicely into his dream, but the next

one began to undermine his slumber, and the one after that woke him up. He groped for the receiver

and, eyes still closed, managed to croak, "Christensen here."

"Tom, are you awake? You don't sound awake. It's Morty, Tom. Wake up."

The undersecretary for external affairs. Christensen sat up, rubbed his eyes, ran his

tongue around his lips. Daylight was streaming into the room. His cats were glaring at him from

the doorway. The little Siamese pawed daintily at her empty bowl and looked up expectantly. The

fat Persian just sat.

"Tom?"

"I'm up! I'm up! What is it, Morty?"

"I didn't mean to wake you. How was I supposed to know, one in the afternoon-"

"What is it, Morty?"

"We got a call from Monterey. There's an ambassador on the way up, and you've got to meet with

her."

The foreign minister worked hard -at clearing the fog from his brain. He was thirty-nine years

old, and all night parties took more out of him than they once had.

"You do it, Morty."

"You know I would, Tom. But I can't. You've got to handle this one yourself. It's prime."

"Prime? What kind of prime? You mean, like a great dope deal? Or are they declaring war on us?"

"How would I know the details? The call came in, and they said it was prime. Ms. Sawyer must

confer with Mr. Christensen. It wouldn't involve dope, Tom. And it can't be war, either. Shit, why

would Monterey want to make war on us? They've only got ten soldiers, I bet, unless they're

drafting the Chicanos out of the Salinas calabozo, and besides-"

"All right." Christensen's head was buzzing. "Go easy on the chatter. Okay? Where am I supposed to

meet her?"

. "In Berkeley."

"You're kidding."

"She won't come into the city. She thinks it's too dangerous over here."

"What do we do, kill ambassadors and

barbecue them? She'll be safe here, and she knows it."

"Look. I talked to her. She thinks the city is 'too crazy. She'll come as far as Berkeley, but

that's it."

"Tell her to go to hell."

"Tom, Tom-"

Christensen sighed. "Where in Berkeley will she be?"

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"The Claremont, at half past four."

"Jesus," Christensen said. "How did you get me into this? All the way across to the East Bay to

meet a lousy ambassador from Monterey! Let her come to San Francisco. This is the Empire, isn't

it? They're only a stinking republic. Am I supposed to swim over to Oakland every time an envoy

shows up and wiggles a finger? Some bozo from Fresno says boo, and I have to haul my ass out to

the Valley, eh? Where does it stop? What kind of clout do I have, anyway?"

"Tom-"

"I'm sorry, Morty. I don't feel like a goddamned diplomat this morning."

"It isn't morning anymore, Tom. But I'd do it for you if I could."

"All right. All right. I didn't mean to yell at you. You make the ferry arrangements."

"Ferry leaves at three-thirty. Chauffeur will pick you up at your place at three, okay?"

"Okay," Christensen said. "See if you can find out any more about all this, and have somebody call

me back in an hour with a briefing, will you?"

He fed the cats, showered, shaved, took a couple of pills, and brewed some coffee. At half

past two the ministry called. Nobody had any idea what the ambassador might want. Relations

between San Francisco and the Republic of Monterey were cordial just now. Ms. Sawyer lived in

Pacific Grove and was a member of the Monterey Senate; that was all that was known about her. Some

briefing, Christensen thought.

He went downstairs to wait for his chauffeur. It was a late autumn day, bright and clear

and cool. The rains hadn't begun yet, and the streets looked dusty. The foreign minister lived on

Frederick Street, just off Cole, in an old white Victorian with a small front porch. He settled in

on the steps, feeling wide awake but surly, and a few minutes before three his car came putt

putting up, a venerable gray Chevrolet with the arms of imperial San Francisco on its doors. The

driver was Vietnamese, or maybe Thai. Christensen got in without a word, and off they went at an

imperial velocity through the virtually empty streets, down to Haight, eastward for a while, then

onto Oak, up Van Ness, past the palace, where at this moment the Emperor Norton VII was probably

taking his imperial nap, and along Post and then Market to the ferry slip.

The stump of the Bay Bridge glittered magically against the sharp blue sky. A small power

cruiser was waiting for him. Christensen was silent during the slow, dull voyage. A chill wind cut

through the Golden Gate and made

him huddle into himself. He stared broodingly at the low, rounded East Bay hills, dry and brown

from a long summer of drought, and thought about the permutations of fate that had

`transformed an adequate architect into the barely competent foreign minister of this barely

competent little nation. The Empire of San Francisco, one of the early emperors had said, is the

only country in history that was decadent from the day it was founded.

At the Berkeley marina Christensen told the ferry skipper, "I don't know what time I'll be

coming back. So no sense waiting. I'll phone in when I'm ready to go."

Another imperial car took him up the hillside to the sprawling nineteenth-century splendor

of the Claremont Hotel, that vast, antiquated survivor of all the cataclysms. It was seedy now,

the grounds a jungle, ivy almost to the tops of the palm trees, and yet it still looked fit to be

a palace, with hundreds of rooms and magnificent banquet halls. Christensen wondered how often it

had guests. There wasn't much tourism these days.

In the parking plaza outside the entrance was a single car, a black-and-white California

Highway Patrol job that had been decorated with the insignia of the Republic of Monterey, a

contorted cypress tree and a sea otter. A uniformed driver lounged against it, looking bored. "I'm

Christensen," he told the man.

"You the foreign minister?"

"I'm not the Emperor Norton."

"Come on. She's waiting in the bar."

Ms. Sawyer stood up as he entered-a slender, dark-haired woman of about thirty, with cool, green

eyes-and he flashed her a quick, professionally cordial smile, which she returned just as

professionally. He did not-feel at all cordial.

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"Senator Sawyer," he said. "I'm Tom Christensen. "

"Glad to know you." She pivoted and gestured toward the huge picture window that ran the length of

the bar. "I just got here. I've been admiring the view. It's been years since I've been in the Bay

Area."

He nodded. From the cocktail lounge one could see the slopes of Berkeley, the bay, the ruined

bridges, the still imposing San Francisco skyline. Very nice. They took seats by the window, and

he beckoned to a waiter, who brought them drinks.

"How -was your drive- up?" Christensen asked.

"No problems. We got stopped for speeding in San Jose, but I got out of it. They could see it was

an official car, but they stopped us anyway. "

"The lousy bastards. They love to look important.

` Things haven't been good between Monterey and San Jose all year. They're spoiling for trouble."

"I hadn't heard," Christensen said.

"We think they want to annex Santa Cruz. Naturally we can't put up with that. Santa Cruz is our

buffer."

He asked sharply. "Is that what you came here for, to ask our help against San Jose?"

She stared at him in surprise. "Are you in a hurry, Mr. Christensen?"

"Not particularly.".

"You sound awfully impatient. We're still making preliminary conversation, having a drink, two

diplomats playing the diplomatic z game. Isn't that so?"

"Well?"

"I was telling you what happened to me on the way north. In response to your question. Then I was

filling you in on current political developments. I didn't expect you to snap at me .I like that."

"Did I snap?"

"It certainly sounded like snapping to me," she said, with some annoyance.

Christensen took a deep pull of his bourbon and-water and gave her a long, steady look. She ` met

his gaze imperturbably. She looked composed, amused, and very, very tough. After a time, when some

of the red haze of irrational anger and fatigue had cleared from his mind, he said quietly, "I had

about four hours' sleep last night, and I wasn't expecting an envoy from Monterey today. I'm tired

and edgy, and if I .` sounded impatient or harsh or snappish, I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I understand."

"Another bourbon or two and I'll be D properly unwound." He held his empty glass toward the

hovering waiter. "A refill for you, too?" he asked her.

"Yes. Please." In a formal tone she said, "Is the Emperor in good health?"

"Not bad. He hasn't really been well for a couple of years, but he's holding his own. And

President Morgan?"

"Fine," she said. "Hunting wild boar in Big Sur this week."

"A nice life it must be, President of Monterey. I've always liked Monterey. So much quieter and

cleaner and more sensible down there than in San Francisco."

"Too quiet sometimes. I envy you the excitement here."

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"Yes, of course. The rapes, the muggings, the arson, the mass meetings, the race wars, the-"

"Please," she said gently.

He realized he had begun to rant. There was a throbbing behind his eyes. He worked to gain control

of himself.

"Did my voice get too loud?"

"You must be terribly tired. Look, we can confer in the morning, if you'd prefer. It isn't that

urgent. Suppose we have dinner and not talk politics at all, and get rooms here, and tomorrow

after breakfast we can-"

"No," Christensen said. "My nerves are a little ragged, that's all. But I'll try to be more civil.

And I'd rather not wait until tomorrow to find out what this is all about. Suppose you give me a

précis of it now, and if it sounds too complicated, I'll sleep on it and we can discuss it in

detail tomorrow. Yes?"

"All right." She put her drink down and sat

quite still, as if arranging her thoughts. At length she said, "The Republic of Monterey maintains

close ties with the Free State of Mendocino. I understand that Mendocino and the Empire broke off

relations a little while back."

"A fishing dispute, nothing major."

"But you have no direct contact with them right now. Therefore this should come as news to you.

The Mendocino people have learned, and have communicated to our representative there, that an

invasion of San Francisco is imminent."

Christensen blinked twice. "By whom?"

"The Realm of Wicca," she said.

"Flying down from Oregon on their broomsticks?"

"Please. I'm being serious."

"Unless things have changed up there," Christensen said, "the Realm of Wicca is nonviolent, like

all the neopagan states. As I understand it, they tend their farms and practice their little pagan

rituals and do a lot of dancing around the Maypole and chanting and screwing. You expect me to

believe that a bunch of gentle, goofy witches are going to make war on the Empire?"

She said, "Not war. An invasion."

"Explain. "

"One of their high priests has proclaimed San Francisco a holy place and has instructed them to

come down here and build a Stonehenge in Golden Gate Park in time for proper celebration of the

winter solstice.. There are at least a

quarter of a million neopagans in the Willamette Valley, and more than half of them are expected

to take part. According to our Mendocino man, the migration has already begun and thousands of

Wiccans are spread out between Mount Shasta and Ukiah right now. The solstice is only seven weeks

away. The Wiccans may be gentle, but you're going to have a hundred fifty thousand of them in San

Francisco by the end of the month, pitching tents all over town."

"Holy Jesus," Christensen muttered.

"Can you feed that many strangers? Can you find room for them? Will San Franciscans meet them with

open arms? Do you think it'll be a love festival?"

"It'll be a fucking massacre," Christensen said tonelessly.

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"Yes. The witches may be nonviolent, but they know how to practice self-defense. Once they're

attacked, there'll be rivers of blood, and it won't all be Wiccan blood."

Christensen's head was pounding again. She was absolutely right: chaos, strife, bloodshed. And a

merry Christmas to all. He rubbed his aching forehead, turned away from her, and stared out at the

deepening twilight and the sparkling lights of the city on the other side of the bay. A bleak,

bitter depression was taking hold of his spirit. He signaled for another round of drinks. Then he

said slowly, "They can't be allowed to enter the city. We'll need to close the imperial frontier

and turn them back before they get as far as Santa Rosa. Let them build

their goddamned Stonehenge in Sacramento if they like." His eyes flickered. He started to assemble

ideas. "The Empire might just have enough troops to contain the Wiccans by itself, but I think

this is best handled as a regional problem. We'll call in forces from our allies as far out as

Petaluma and Napa and Palo Alto. I don't imagine we can expect much help from the Free State or

from San Jose. And of course Monterey isn't much of a military power, but still-"

"We are willing to help," Ms. Sawyer said.

"To what extent?"

"We aren't set up for much actual warfare, but we have access to our own alliances from Salinas

down to Paso Robles, and we could call up, say, five thousand troops all told. Would that help?"

"That would help," Christensen said.

"It shouldn't be necessary for there to be any combat. With the imperial border sealed and troops

posted along the line from Guerneville to Sacramento, the Wiccans won't force the issue. They'll

revise their revelation and celebrate the

solstice somewhere else."

"Yes," he said. "I think you're right." He leaned toward her and asked, "Why is

Monterey willing to help us?"

"We have problems of our own brewing-with San Jose. If we are seen making a conspicuous gesture of

solidarity with the Empire, it might discourage San Jose from proceeding with its notion of

annexing Santa Cruz. That amounts to an act of war against us.

Surely San Jose isn't interested in making any moves that will bring the Empire down on its back."

She wasn't subtle, but she was effective. Quid

pro quo, we help you keep the witches out, you help us keep San .Jose in line, and all remains

well without a shot being fired. These goddamned little nations, he thought, these absurd

jerkwater sovereignties, with their wars and alliances and shifting confederations. It was like a

game, like playground politics. Except that it was real. What had fallen apart was not going to be

put back together, not for a long while, and this miniaturized Weltpolitik was the realest reality

there was just now. At least things were saner in Northern California than they were down south,

where Los Angeles was gobbling everything and there were rumors that Pasadena had the Bomb. Nobody

had to contend with that up here.

Christensen said, "I'll have to propose all this to the Defense Ministry, of course. And get the

Emperor's approval. But basically I'm in agreement with your thinking."

"I'm so pleased."

"And I'm very glad that you took the trouble to travel up from Monterey to make these matters

clear to us."

"Merely a case of enlightened self-interest," Ms. Sawyer said.

"Mmm. Yes." He found himself studying the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the delicate arch of her

eyebrows. Not only was she cool and competent, Christensen thought, but now

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Robert Silverberg - The Palace at Midnight.pdf

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