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Updated: June 22, 2025
Lanze was fiddling with the control knobs, stepping up magnification and focusing on the speaker's head and shoulders. Then everybody laughed; Nikkolon had a small plug in one ear, with a fine wire running down to vanish under his collar. Degbrend brought back the full view of the Convocation Chamber. Nikkolon went on and on.
Once or twice, when a Master thought his was turned, he caught the same look in Masterly eyes, directed at him or at Lanze. The Midyear Feasts approached; each time he returned to the city he found more excitement as preparations went on.
You and Colonel Ravney can decide what interpolations are needed to fit the situation." "Number Five; the really tough one," Degbrend considered. "I take it that by interpolations you do not mean dilutions?" "Oh, no; don't water the drink. Spike it." Lanze Degbrend grinned at him. Then he snapped down the visor of his helmet, unslung his carbine, and presented it.
Then it is ordered so recorded." Then he had to make another speech, to inform the representatives of his new sovereign of the fact. Prince Trevannion, in the name of the Emperor, delivered the well-worn words of welcome, and Lanze Degbrend got the coronet out of the black velvet bag under his arm and the Imperial Proconsul, Obray, Count Erskyll, was crowned.
Vann Shatrak summoned a robot to furnish him with a cold beer and another cigar. Erskyll was drumming an impatient devil's tattoo with his fingernails on the gold-encrusted table in front of him. Lanze Degbrend began interpolating sarcastic comments. And finally, Pyairr Ravney, who came from Lugaluru, reverted to the idiom of his planet's favorite sport: "Come on, come on; turn out the bull!
The simplest, like old Lanze and his daughter Lina, are intrinsically commonplace; the most elaborated, like Madame Tonska and the duke Jean-Théodore, waver between familiar types and questionable shadows; and those that, like Laudon and the Gennevilliers, promise better results, are imperfectly developed. Such defects would be fatal in a novel of the ordinary kind.
I am a noble of the Galactic Empire, and on this pigpen of a planet I represent his Imperial Majesty. You will respect, and address, me accordingly." Khreggor Chmidd no longer wore the gorget of servility, but, as Lanze Degbrend had once remarked, it was still tattooed on his soul. He gulped. "Y-yes, Lord-Master Proconsul!"
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