“Very well. We shall soon interdict the transparency of your gallery. However, introductions first: directly across the Convocatorium is the Ktor delegation.”
“The water heaters,” grumbled Wasserman.
“Moving clockwise from them toward your gallery is the Slaasriithi delegation and then the Arat Kur delegation. To your immediate left are the Hkh’Rkh, who were heard first today.”
“Why?” Eight pairs of eyes turned to glare at Lemuel. Who stared back. “Hey; it’s a fair question.”
Alnduul’s answer disrupted the silent, growing consensus that Le Mule Wasserman was about thirty-three years overdue for a truly life-altering spanking. “Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question without disclosing data regarding the Hkh’Rkh. However, the clockwise order of the galleries reflects the order in which the member states have joined the Accord.” He paused. “You will note that your gallery precedes the Hkh’Rkh’s in the sequence.”
“But we are not yet a member state. Nor are they.”
“This is true, Ambassador. However, should you both become member states, the gallery order you see now is the order that will be retained. I will signal you again shortly.”
Trevor was the first to speak. “So we have seniority.”
Elena’s hair hung down, concealed her face from Caine. “But we don’t know why.”
“And we don’t know if that is good or bad.” Durniak rubbed her elfin chin.
The world around them faded to cream; the canopy was no longer transparent. A light flashed on the console in front of Thandla; he opened the link at a nod from Caine.
Near the gallery’s narrowest point—the tip of its teardrop-tail—a very convincing hologram of Alnduul appeared. Thandla leaned forward to study it; Wasserman leaned back, squinting at the image and glancing quickly at the walls.
“We will begin,” said the Alnduul hologram. “When Dr. Thandla opens a channel, you may see one of us from each gallery, and we may see and hear those of you who stand within the sending circle.” A faintly glowing ring—maybe big enough for two—appeared in the floor. “If you wish privacy, simply close the channel and reopen it when you are ready. To do so abruptly or unannounced will not be taken as rudeness. We understand that the need for confidential discussion will arise throughout this meeting. If you are ready, I will introduce the spokespersons of the other delegations.”
Caine realized that if he swallowed now, he would make a loud gulping sound. “We are ready.”
“May I present he whose name translates as Wise-Speech-of-Pseudopodia of the Ktor.” Another hologram—this of one of the water-heaters they had seen on the opposite side of the amphitheater—snapped on. The voice was clearly a machine simulacrum: “The Ktor are honored to encounter the human species.”
“And we are honored to meet the Ktor.”
Alnduul resumed. “May I present Vishnaaswii’ah of the Slaasriithi.”
There was a pause and then a blinking green quatrefoil pulsed into existence to the right of Wise-Speech. Caine waited: no further image appeared. After several very long seconds, he started: “Alnduul—”
“My apologies, Caine Riordan. It seems that the Slaasriithi delegation has elected not to share their likeness with your species at this time.”
“It is their right,” added Wise-Speech mildly.
Caine heard various rustlings in the gallery behind him; people were standing, sitting up straighter, taking notes. “Is this expected, Alnduul?”
“It is not.”
“Are they receiving our signal?”
Another simulacrum voice answered, this one from the green quatrefoil: “We mean no slight by withholding our image. We would understand if you wish to do the same.”
“A little late for that now, isn’t it?” snapped Wasserman, quite loudly. Caine saw Downing turn to glare at him, but not quite so harshly as before: after all, “Le Mule” did, once again, have a point.
Vishnaaswii’ah’s voice was puzzled. “I did not hear your last utterance clearly, the Riordan-who-is-Caine.”
“One of my colleagues was commenting on the awkwardness of this situation. However, we will continue to make our image available to you.”
“This is a kindness—made greater, since we are currently unable to reciprocate. We shall not forget.”
Hmmm: an unpromising start to that introduction, but a rather reassuring finish.
Alnduul’s voice sounded very flat now. “And finally, may I present Darzhee Kut of the Arat Kur.”
Another pause; another quatrefoil—this one yellow—flicked on and pulsed next to the green one. More rustling from behind; Visser looked at Thandla, made a slicing motion with her hand. The connection broke. She turned to Caine. “A second race chooses not to share its image? What does this mean?”