Robert Silverberg: The Palace at Midnight

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.”

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.

“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? 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 but ten soldiers, I bet, unless they’re drafting the Chicanos out of the Salinas calabozo, and—”

“All right.” Christensen’s head was buzzing. “Go easy on the chatter, okay? Where am I supposed to meet her?”

“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.”

“I talked to her. She thinks the city’s too crazy. She’ll go as far as Berkeley, but that’s it.”

“Tell her to go to hell.”

“Tom, Tom—”

Christensen sighed. “Where in Berkeley will she be?”

“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 any more, 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, 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 and 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 practically 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 Geary through downtown 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 Hotel Claremont, 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, hundreds of rooms, 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. “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.

“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 and they stopped us anyway.”

“The 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.”