“But, as I say, I did promise that the Kar-chee would be taken back to the Kar-chee worlds, to the Ring Stars. I hope that my promise will be kept, sir?”
Por-Paulo shifted in his seat and nodded. Then he blew out his cheeks. “I don’t at the moment know how, boy. And its dragon, too? But I’m sure that it can be done. And so it will. Because — What—?”
“Oh,” said Jon-Joras, “the thought just came to me. It’s that the Hunt Company is the biggest rogue dragon of them all. What’s to be done about that?”
He had some notions, and he expressed them, about annulling its charters and disqualifying its officials. Por-Paulo grunted, muttered something about baby and bath-water. The best thing, he thought, was to do nothing and allow nothing to be done. Just let the word get around that the dragons in The Bosky were harmless, and nature — human nature — would take its course. “You just stated rather clearly what it was that the Hunt Company didn’t want to happen. Well, then. We’ve drawn their teeth. The mere fact that we know and that they’ll know that we know will see to that. And all those things will just go ahead and happen. And we’ll just let them. The Company and their gentlemanly allies will hurt. All right. Let them. They’ll adjust. It won’t happen overnight.”
The flower-scented, salt-scented breeze came in through the screens. Jon-Joras moved and stretched. He had a quick picture of sandy beeches and surfy waters and perhaps, probably, why not? female company. But first. “And meanwhile, sir? What of all those mismarked dragons wandering around? And all the trained rogues? Are we to allow the hunts to go on when they might turn into massacres? In a way, I suppose, we could say, if any over-ripe Commissioners get smeared all over Belroze Wood that it serves them right. Eh?”
His father pulled his nose and pulled his chin and said Mmph a few times. “Well, what do you suggest, damn it?” he demanded, after a while.
Promptly, Jon-Joras said, “That we not do nothing. That we do something. A ten-year moratorium, at least, on hunting. That will not only allow the marked and mis-marked dragons to die off, it will let the Company and the Gentlemen do their hurting now. That way the pain will fall on those who deserve it and not on their children and successors. In fact, I’m not sure that it might not be a bad idea to send trained crews to comb the woods and blow the heads off everything over hatchling size. That way would make sure. And I certainly wouldn’t let the movement into The Bosky and beyond go on haphazardly. What’s to stop some Gentleman who’s shrewd enough to see the handwriting on the wall from moving in there himself? With his servants and his little private army, I mean, and carving himself out another little feudal empire and getting ready to start the whole thing all over again?”
Again Por-Paulo grunted and fingered his face. And now Delegate Anse unexpectedly had something to say. Confederation, he suggested, could do more than continue its passive role. This was after all, Prime World, the birthworld of mankind. Confederation had many debts to pay here, and this was an excellent place to begin. “We have ample experience in helping settlements get started in proper fashion,” he pointed out. “We needn’t let this one go higgledy-pig-geldy, root-hog-or-die, and devil-take-the-hindmost. We can help those who want to move to help themselves in the most efficient fashion. And the same goes for those who want to stay. In fact, I rather think we’d better. There must be lots of the Hue sort around… men whose sufferings have unhinged them to the point where they’d rather burn the house down than see it cleaned up. I rather think we’d all rather see it cleaned up.”
The answer of Por-Paulo to this was oblique. “But I want to have a personal talk with Gentleman Aëlorix,” he said. “And as for that puissant poop, the Chairman of Drogue…” He thrust out his chin and his lip and he growled. Then he turned to Jon-Joras. “Finish your breakfast,” he said.
Jon-Joras pushed the tray away. “I don’t want any more,” he said.