Caine noted which delegates offered a nod or some other sign of recognition: both of the Commonwealth delegates, Sukhinin of Russia, Visser of Germany, Medina of Brazil. The last he dismissed: at this point, it was impossible to distinguish warm but impersonal Brazilian cordiality from a sign of personal receptivity. He was similarly undecided about Durniak’s lack of response: she was somewhat young and very intent, probably too focused to even think of personal interaction, at this point. No surprise in Ching’s silence: he was the Great Sphinx of international relations. China’s Foreign Minister for almost eighteen years now, one journalist had quipped that Ching could go days without speaking—even if he was China’s sole representative at a two-nation summit. An exaggeration, but not by much: according to Nolan, Ching had not spoken a word during the first day at Parthenon.
All five blocs. Two representatives from each. The US was conspicuously absent, probably because the mediator—Nolan—was a fairly famous American, and also in deference to providing a seat at the table for the Commonwealth’s newest (and still probative) member state: the UK. Was this the shape of things to come? The first de facto sitting of the Confederation Council, meeting to will itself into existence, to midwife its own birth? Ex nihilo—a new world order. For a moment, Caine felt himself as the watcher, not the watched, immersed in the surreal quality of being present for the unfolding of a historical moment, and sharply aware that the neat beginnings and endings of history as reported had nothing to do with history as made.
Nolan’s voice was gentle. “Mr. Riordan, whenever you’re ready.”
“Uh, yes—sorry.” Wonderful beginning. Ass. He glanced down at his palmtop, at the notes he knew by heart, and calmly decided to ignore them. “Ladies and gentlemen, one hour before departing from Delta Pavonis on July 10, 2118, I returned briefly to the main ruins at Site One—”
—and he was there. His own voice became distant; he fell out of the council chamber and emerged into—
* * *
—The glare of Delta Pavonis, low on the horizon, glinted off the semi-rigid body armor of the Marines who, face shields down and weapons in an assault carry, preceded him out of the landing craft. Caine could hear the second fire team milling eagerly behind him, ready to follow him down the ramp. Overhead, a transatmospheric fighter orbited lazily. Caine wasted no time, moving through the swirling dust even as the whine of the landing thrusters was still dying away. Every second counted, now—and would until he got back to Earth. He walked past the right-angled dig pits, clambered over the berm, the first group of Marines hustling to keep in front of him.
He popped over the rise, side-footed down to the base—where the head archeologist was waiting, pudgy hands on pudgy hips, rounder, dustier, more gnomelike than Caine remembered. “I’m here,” said the Gnome.
Caine couldn’t decide whether he was more struck by the superfluity or petulance of the utterance. “Thanks for coming.”
Gnome snorted: Caine’s “request” to meet had been, in reality, merely a polite ultimatum. “What do you want?”
Caine debated whether he should try to apologize for the ruse he had used to get information out of the Gnome when they first met, but pushed that aside: there was no time. Gnome was never going to like him, so this had to be all business, pure and simple. So he went straight to the heart of the matter: “I have something you want.”
“Oh? Maybe a time machine, so I can undo the past and not ruin my career by talking to you?”
“No, better than that.”
Gnome’s truculence gave way to interest. “How much better? What kind of ‘better’?”
“The kind you really want: a ticket out of this place. Here’s the offer—and you’ve got one minute to consider it.
“Someone has to write up a full report on the collective archeological findings from this dig site. That report will be presented at a global summit, sometime next year. That summit will remain a secret until after it has occurred, but I’m offering you the chance to write the report—and be the first to publish on what’s been found here, and its archeological implications. That means a free trip back to Earth, and—I should imagine—the endowed chair you’ve been craving.” Actually, it meant a lot more than that, but Caine hardly needed to explicate: Gnome’s eyes seemed to grow as large as the round glasses that were in front of them. His lower lip flopped about a little.
“Does that mean you accept?”
Gnome sputtered and nodded. “Yes, yes—what do you want? How can I help?”