The Sultan smiled. "I'll impart an item of confidential
information--although Trimmer no doubt has preceded me with it." He gave
his boots an irritated whack. "To expand I need funds. Funds are best
secured in an atmosphere of calm and confidence. The implication of
emergency would be disastrous to my aims."
"Well," said Murphy, "I see your position."
The Sultan glanced at Murphy sidelong. "Anticipating your cooperation,
my Minister of Propaganda has arranged an hour's program, stressing our
progressive social attitude, our prosperity and financial prospects ..."
"But, Sultan ..."
"Well?"
"I can't allow your Minister of Propaganda to use me and _Know Your
Universe!_ as a kind of investment brochure."
The Sultan nodded wearily. "I expected you to take that attitude....
Well--what do you yourself have in mind?"
"I've been looking for something to tie to," said Murphy. "I think it's
going to be the dramatic contrast between the ruined cities and the new
domed valleys. How the Earth settlers succeeded where the ancient people
failed to meet the challenge of the dissipating atmosphere."
"Well," the Sultan said grudgingly, "that's not too bad."
"Today I want to take some shots of the palace, the dome, the city, the
paddies, groves, orchards, farms. Tomorrow I'm taking a trip out to one
of the ruins."
"I see," said the Sultan. "Then you won't need my charts and
statistics?"
"Well, Sultan, I could film the stuff your Propaganda Minister cooked
up, and I could take it back to Earth. Howard Frayberg or Sam Catlin
would tear into it, rip it apart, lard in some head-hunting, a little
cannibalism and temple prostitution, and you'd never know you were
watching Singhalût. You'd scream with horror, and I'd be fired."
"In that case," said the Sultan, "I will leave you to the dictates of
your conscience."
* * * * *
Howard Frayberg looked around the gray landscape of Riker's Planet,
gazed out over the roaring black Mogador Ocean. "Sam, I think there's a
story out there."
Sam Catlin shivered inside his electrically heated glass overcoat. "Out
on that ocean? It's full of man-eating plesiosaurs--horrible things
forty feet long."
"Suppose we worked something out on the line of Moby Dick? _The White
Monster of the Mogador Ocean._ We'd set sail in a catamaran--"
"Us?"
"No," said Frayberg impatiently. "Of course not us. Two or three of the
staff. They'd sail out there, look over these gray and red monsters,
maybe fake a fight or two, but all the time they're after the legendary
white one. How's it sound?"
"I don't think we pay our men enough money."
"Wilbur Murphy might do it. He's willing to look for a man riding a
horse up to meet his space-ships."
"He might draw the line at a white plesiosaur riding up to meet his
catamaran."