Source: The End Of Fellowship

Tanneau sleeps in the back of the limosine, and Pamelon is worried. The long-distance tour of industries has been exhausting, and Pamelon has developed a genuine affection for the old man. Too busy, and he's going to get in trouble if he doesn't use the rhetoric more. Pamelon had seen it before - a woman who had lost her position and descended into obscurity, all for not using the right words. It had made Pamelon much more careful.

The ragged brick domes of the industrial sector slide by the windows, and Pamelon savors the coolness of the air conditioning. It had been real nice of the boss to take him on this trip, but the tropical climates were hot this time of year, even on the far side of summer.

"Sir?" he calls.

Tanneau stirs. Pamelon steers into the parking yard. "Sir? We're just about there."

Tanneau's eyes come open, and for a moment he is looking around, bewildered. Then his memory returns. Finally, "Thanks, Vin." He yawns. "Which one is this?"

"Omisteau Regional 34, sir."

The door is narrow, glass half blacked with makeshift plastic panels. Even the lowest scale garage factory in Prometheus has more self-respect than this, Tanneau thinks. But it is not much worse than most of what he has seen so far.

He pulls the door open and steps into the darkened hall. The floor is filthy and the walls are a merciful sienna brick. There is a smell of molten iron and wet soil that reminds him of his mother's foundry.

"That's all very well, but where is the man who developed it?" Tanneau asks.

The manager frowns. "I don't understand."

Tanneau leans closer, eyes narrow. "Am I using words that are too complex for you? I've seen the record of this factory. I know that you have someone who's helped you improve the process. I want to talk to him. And I'm sure you understand, that if I need to, I have access to your complete employment records. But I'm sure you don't want me to do that." He loathes having to speak like this. Even before he had been recruited, he had never wanted to, never needed to threaten. But now it seemed impossible to get people to respond to anything else. Of course, it was his position. In part. But he saw it in this man's faintly glistening eyes - an acceptance, a callus that required it, because he had treated no other way for too long. So Tanneau softens his voice and steps back. "I'm not going to take him away, man. I just want to meet him."

"But, but... " the man is horrified. "I don't know where he is, Comrade Minister. It's been a week since he was here. There was a terrible fire at his block. Several deaths. It was on the audiator. He died. I suppose."

Tanneau sees the shock and realization on his face mirrored in the other man's surprise; swiftly he closes his expression. "You're sure of this?"

"Afraid so, Comrade Minister."

"Well, then, I'm sorry, Manager Legrange. I imagine things will be hard for a while."

"That's so. But perhaps you can allocate someone for me, Comrade Minister? I've been talking to the local branch, but they keep telling me there's no one available."

Tanneau sighs. "They're right. There isn't." But he sees an odd pain in the man's eyes, and he continues, "but I'll see what I can do."

Beyond the windows, the city is a scattering of dull lights against the darkness. Correta's face is drawn and lined in the light from the fireplace. He sips his strong liquor and reacts with a slight frown. "Bad stuff," he complains, placing the glass carefully on the end table. Tanneau, at the window, looks back at Correta, his expression carefully schooled, then returns to contemplating the remains of the city.

"You know, Marcel," Correta continues, "I admire you quite a bit. You really made the transition well. And you've handled yourself well, even with Larisa sniping at you. But these suggestions of yours..."

Tanneau turns and leans back against the wall. "You've seen my reports."

Correta shakes his head, though whether he is denying the report or the reality which underlies it is unclear. "Liberalization isn't going to fly, you've got to know that."

"We've got a year, not much more. That's what's clear to me."

But Correta is watching the fire. "Marcel, I don't know, maybe the cities are embers dropping out of the middle of the fire. They glow for a while in the ashes - then they die away. Well, maybe it's time for it to all die away. Take us back to a simpler state." His focus seems to sink to the bottom of the glass of liquor. Then he tosses back the drink and his eyes refocus at the window. From where he sits, the city is invisible.