"No you don't, Supe! You don't get the half of it. This guy isn't your average
Liberal -- those guys usually basic opportunists. He's a _zealot_! He'd like to
beat us with _truncheons_! I went to one of his debates, and he showed up with a
_baseball bat_! He tried to _hit me_ with it!"
"What were you doing at the time?"
"What does it matter? Violence is never an acceptable response. I've thrown pies
at better men than him --"
Hershie grinned. Thomas hadn't invented pieing, but his contributions to the art
were seminal. "Thomas, the man is a federal Minister, with obligations. He can't
just write me off -- he'll have to pay me."
"Sure, sure," Thomas crooned. "Of _course_ he will -- who ever heard of a
politician abusing his office to advance his agenda? I don't know what I was
thinking. I apologise."
#
Hershie touched down on Parliament Hill, heart racing. Thomas's warning echoed
in his head. His memories of Woolley were already morphing, so that the slick,
neat kid became feral, predatory. The Hill was marshy and cold and gray, and as
he squelched up to the main security desk, he felt a cold ooze of mud infiltrate
its way into his super-bootie. There was a new RCMP constable on duty, a
turbanned Sikh. Normally, he felt awkward around the Sikhs in the Mounties. He
imagined that their lack of cultural context made his tights and emblem seem
absurd, that they evoked grins beneath the Sikhs' fierce moustaches. But today,
he was glad the man was a Sikh, another foreigner with an uneasy berth in the
Canadian military-industrial complex. The Sikh was expressionless as Hershie
squirted his clearances from his comm to the security desk's transceiver.
Imperturbably, the Sikh squirted back directions to Woolley's new office, just a
short jaunt from the exalted heights of the Prime Minister's Office.
The Minister's office was guarded by: a dignified antique door that had the rich
finish of wood that has been buffed daily for two centuries; an RCMP constable
in plainclothes; a young, handsome receptionist in a silk navy power-suit; a
slightly older office manager whose heart-stopping beauty was only barely
restrained by her chaste blouse and skirt; and, finally, a pair of boardroom
doors with spotless brass handles and a retinal scanner.
Each obstacle took more time to weather than the last, so it was nearly an hour
before the office manager stared fixedly into the scanner until the locks opened
with a soft clack. Hershie squelched in, leaving a slushy dribble on the muted
industrial-grade brown carpet.
Woolley knelt on the stool of an ergonomic work-cart, enveloped in an
articulated nest of displays, comms, keyboards, datagloves, immersive headsets,
stylii, sticky notes and cup-holders. His posture, hair and expression rivaled
one-another for flawlessness.
"Hello, hello," he said, giving Hershie's hand a dry, firm pump. He smelled of
expensive talc and leather car interiors.
He led Hershie to a pair of stark Scandinavian chairs whose polished lead
undersides bristled with user-interface knobs. The old Minister's tastes had run
to imposing oak desks and horsehair club-chairs, and Hershie felt a moment's
disorientation as he sank into the brilliantly functional sitting-machine. It
chittered like a roulette wheel and shifted to firmly support him.
"Thanks for seeing me," Hershie said. He caught his reflection in the
bulletproof glass windows that faced out over the Rideau Canal, and felt a flush
of embarrassment when he saw how clownish his costume looked in the practical
environs.
Woolley favoured him with half a smile and stared sincerely with eyes that were
widely spaced, clever and hazel, surrounded by smile lines. The man fairly oozed
charisma. "I should be thanking you. I was just about to call you to set up a
meeting."
_Then why haven't you been taking my calls_? Hershie thought. Lamely, he said,
"You were?"
"I was. I wanted to touch base with you, clarify the way that we were going to
operate from now on."