Robert Silverberg - The Palace at Midnight

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THE PALACE AT MIDNIGHT

By Robert Silverberg

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, Tom. Wake up."

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. The

fat Persian just sat.

"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? You mean, 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 ten soldiers, I bet, unless they're

drafting the Chicanos out of the Salinas calabozo, and besides-"

"All right." Christensen's head was buzzing. "Go easy on the chatter. Okay? Where am I supposed to

meet her?"

. "In 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."

"Look. I talked to her. She thinks the city is 'too crazy. She'll come as far as Berkeley, but

that's it."

"Tell her to go to hell."

"Tom, Tom-"

Christensen sighed. "Where in Berkeley will she be?"

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Robert Silverberg - The Palace at Midnight

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