Now the shuttle was visible as a bright white disc, a small-scale model for the huge white disc of the Langley. The Imperials were firmly convinced that prolate ellipsoids, flying submarines, were the only way to build good spaceships. Only the Creator, Waters thought, knew what they would make of tetrahedral starships, but they were not about to be asked.
Silently, Pinnace LRRC-1A extended its landing legs and sank to the ground. As it descended, its drives threw up a cloud of dust, a cloud blown away from Waters toward the rest of the landing field. A starport shuttle car – not the latest model, Waters thought, but this was the small corner of the field reserved for Anglics and other foreign species – advanced toward the Pinnace. If the pinnace had been carrying Imperial Navy officers, there would have been an honor guard, a brass band, a guard battalion in full dress uniform trooping the color, sideboys with piping whistles, a crew serving a signal gun, a luxury bus, and multiple banquets. The Fleet ceremony was very complicated and rather expensive. Here Captain Davis and a few staff would descend the boarding ramp, robots would onload his luggage into a Starport ground car, and he would be shuttled to his reception committee. A Committee, Waters thought of three, two of whom were his bodyguards when they were not doing useful work.
A few minutes wait brought the Captain and luggage to Waters’ waiting aircar. Andrews and Waters clasped hands. “Welcome to Barham, Captain,” Waters said. “My aircar awaits. I’ve notified the staff at the Eyes Resort to open the Anglic guest wing for your crew. As Anglic Union consul on Barham, I’ve notified the Imperials that you have messages and request an audience.” He gestured at the aircar’s now open door. “We’re good for up to three tons of luggage and a dozen people, so there should be no issue.” He followed Andrews into the car, and waited for his bodyguards and Waters’ crewmates to board and sit.
“This vehicle actually manages Security Level Five,” Waters said. “But please be introduced to Agent Smith and Agent Jones.”
“Our names when not doing useful work,” Jones said. “You’ll meet our other persona at Headquarters.” Andrews nodded understandingly.
“And this is my second in command, Martina Thistlewaite, and my Yeoman, Patrick Ploughman,” Andrews said. Waters offered his hand. Moderns seemed to have remarkably firm handclasps. He asked himself how many times over his centuries polite handclasps had cycled between firm and gentle. He couldn’t remember. ‘Yeoman’ was a remarkably bland title. It happened to include resupplying, so no one would be surprised if he wandered about the local city making purchases, but Ploughman was also the ship’s lead Intelligence Officer.
