Текст книги "Peacemaker"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

He had not gotten that sort of answer from them, he thought, in some time—not since they had come back from space. It was a little off-putting—like the firm closing of a door. And then he thought—that was the way it was, before.

That’s the way it’s always supposed to be.

In that light—he felt perhaps he could oblige Jago and just let it go, as he had not, for some time, been able to let go anything in their realm. They hadn’t known about the Guild’s forty-year-old problem, simmering at a very low level, before the coup had changed things. The people they had just put in charge of the Guild hadn’t known it was going on, either—or they’d have done something to prevent it.

But now the people who should be in charge had finally done something, and his aishid evidently thought the Guild was functioning again.

It wasn’t the paidhi-aiji’s job to second-guess that process. Maybe, knowing what he knew, he should still be alert, and a little on his guard, but even that—

No, if anyone could pick up a problem within the Guild as it reconstituted itself, figure it to be his aishid, and the dowager’s aishid, and if they wanted to close that door on outsiders to their Guild and handle things by their rules, it was not the paidhi’s job to put himself in the middle of it.

“Thank you,” he said with a little bow. “Thank you very much, nadiin-ji. One actually understands. I think I shall be able to sleep, if you are confident.”

“Rely on us,” Jago said, and Algini just said, “Go to bed, Bren-ji.”

 · · ·

Traffic in the city had suffered a major disruption with the blockage of the central city freight. Everyone’s mail had been late yesterday.

But despite all confusion and difficulties, the crates from Tirnamardi had made it up to the Bujavid yesterday late, passed security, and finally poured forth wardrobe . . . doubly welcome, Bren thought: he had been hard on his clothes this last few days, and court dress had borne the worst of it.

But nothing that came out of a shipping crate was fit to hang in the paidhi’s closet, or their guest’s, oh, no. The laundry backstairs had been in a frenzy of activity, receiving the contents of the crate and spilling forth freshly cleaned and pressed shirts and trousers and coats in rapid succession, filling two racks in the hall last evening. Now, this morning, when he returned from the bath, his valets opened his closet to show its racks filled with choices.

“One is extremely glad,” he said to his valets, “and pleased, nadiin-ji. Have my casual boots possibly turned up?” He was down to his best and only pair, which had suffered bloodstains, and one lightweight pair of house boots he had never liked and hadn’t packed for Tirnamardi in the first place.

“Indeed, nandi,” Koharu said happily, and from the bottom of the closet, produced, indeed, the newly-returned boots.

But Supani, from the same source, and with a slyly expectant look, brought up a cardboard box done up in tape and string. Supani proffered the box, a wonderful box with a customs tag that said, even before he took it in his hands: apparel: Bren Cameron, paidhi-aiji, the Bujavid, Shejidan. The return address was a tag he well knew: his bootmaker’s.

“It arrived with the crates, nandi.”

His pocket-knife was in the tray atop the bureau. He opened the box in delight, expecting, since it was a largish box for one pair, perhaps two pairs of boots—that worthy gentleman maintained the special forms on a shelf in his workshop, and he had made several orders. But there were three pair, one gray dress, one black casual, and one stout brown pair of laced, high-topped and heavy boots with a note from his bootmaker: If you can destroy these, Mr. Cameron, I’ll replace them at no charge.

He had to laugh, even if his head hurt. He sat down on the dressing bench and tried them on, with his valets’ help. Even the pair with the reinforced tops fit beautifully, and the laces to the toe, not a common style on the mainland, made the heavy ones unexpectedly comfortable. “One is delighted,” he said. “And relieved, considering tomorrow. But I shall prefer the old comfortable house pair today, baji-naji. One has no intention of stirring outside the apartment.”

He went to the little breakfast room, had a lengthy and informal breakfast with Jase—who wanted to be kept abreast of events. He could not be briefed on all of it: there were details he could not divulge—but there were events in the Marid, the entire situation in the south, the situation that was sure to arise over the rail connections, the necessary cooperation of the station aloft where it came to shipping—and completely idle gossip from the station, and from the world—who was where, what the real story was on half a dozen topics, and what the inside story was on Toby’s relationship with Barb.

“True love,” he said with a shrug. “They’re happy. Amazes me, but I’m far from objecting. If my brother ever does inherit this job—Barb’s going to provide some interesting moments. She certainly puzzled Machigi, but we all survived it.”

Jase laughed at the right places. And regaled him with a few Polano anecdotes. It was, all in all, a pleasant afternoon—and they spent an hour of it with his valets, putting Jase in all-out court dress. Jase had brought wardrobe down with him, but not in the newest mode, and the occasion demanded extravagance.

So with a little tuck here and there, and a good shirt, one of his newer coats would do. They settled from that to lunch, including Polano and Kaplan, on a day become remarkably sedate and restful. Algini came back and quietly reported his mission to the Guild accomplished. Measures were being taken. It was the one worrisome spot in the afternoon, the one thing that had him gazing down the hall at Algini’s retreating back, and wondering, in this new resolve of no information, whether there was anything going on that would worry him if he knew. There had been something in Algini’s face, a little tension that said business, but the paidhi-aiji was in the midst of outfitting and entertaining his guest, and Algini had only paid a passing courtesy.

Well, and the youngsters would, so one heard through the servant network, go back with a complete wardrobe of clothes—to model for parents and friends in private, perhaps, and the wardrobe would help them keep the memories—good memories, one hoped, in spite of all the goings-on. God, in spite of all their elders’ machinations current and future, he hoped Cajeiri’s guests could hold on to that bond.

They would get their private birthday party. He swore they would.

When they’d gone out to Tirnamardi, he’d envisioned a modest, low-key celebration, with just one preceding day for the youngsters to arrive from their retreat at Tirnamardi, tour the Bujavid, go to the museum, maybe an art gallery, or some other place the young gentleman and his guests could be assured of protection, then have a little human-style party after the family one. He’d been prepared to offer his dining room for such an event.

They’d come back under entirely different circumstances, and had more time here, and it wasn’t a private party, far from it.

Well, whatever it had mutated into, Tabini willing, they might still go back to the relative privacy and security of Tirnamardi until the shuttle was prepared to fly.

But how that was going to work was becoming increasingly cloudy. The dowager and Lord Tatiseigi’s presence was absolutely required in the day or so after, if the tribal peoples bill was going to be up for debate—not even to mention the succession question in Kadagidi and Ajuri.

He needed to be available for the legislature. None of them were likely to have time to deal with a handful of increasingly restive youngsters.

Jase, however—

Jase could escort the youngsters. Jase was still known onworld as the ship-paidhi. He wasn’t fluent, but he could manage. It was a great deal to ask of Lord Tatiseigi, to turn his estate over to humans . . . so to speak.

But he could send them to his own estate of Najida, maybe. Or Taiben, Taiben, which detested roads, and distrusted outsiders . . .

Taiben would be safer . . . and it had mecheiti . . .

But the young gentleman’s dearly treasured birthday present was resident with a herd in Tirnamardi’s stables, and one did not put a child aboard a mecheita newly introduced to another herd.

Not to mention the politics of putting Tatiseigi’s gift into a Taibeni herd.

He sighed. It was just not going to be easy.

They couldn’t postpone the tribal peoples bill. Too much rode on it. He couldn’t get free. They couldn’t do without Tatiseigi. The dowager had to be there to push the bill.

“Deep thoughts,” Jase said.

“How much ground time do you expect for the shuttle?”

“What? Do you need us out of here faster—or slower?”

“Is there any chance the kids could wait for the next shuttle?”

“No logistical problem with Phoenix or station authorities. We just load cargo instead. Next rotation we load the passenger module and leave six cans of dried fruit and fish paste. The parents, however . . . Shall I ask?”

“Tomorrow will tell,” he said. “Let’s just get the lad through the actual birthday.”

“Not to mention your other operations.”

“I haven’t been a good host.”

“I have no complaints. I really should leave you to your work. I came down here to assist, not to be entertained. And I can see you’re up to your ears.”

“You know, if you could delay the kids to another shuttle, we could actually get that fishing trip.”

“You’re threatening to take me out in a shell with no attitude controls to float on a hundred meter depth of turbulent water. This is the reward.”

He laughed. “I wish I could absolutely promise it. But if you could shake yourself loose for another rotation, we’d have a better chance.”

“This hasn’t been the most opportune timing for us.”

“It’s no accident it hasn’t. But you know that. Past tomorrow, things should be a lot less tense, and there’ll be no public exposure. Can you manage it? These kids . . .”

“I know. Let me have a go at it. Gene’s mother likely won’t object. Irene’s—” Jase shrugged. “Maybe. She’ll run to ask her problematic friends, and they won’t decline a chance that makes the kid more useful. Artur’s parents—they’ll want him back. They’re just parents. But for the sake of an education—”

“He’s certainly getting one.”

“He is, that. Let me give it a try. Pending tomorrow.”

“Yourself?”

“Oh, I’ll be persuasive. If the kids stay, I can’t leave them here alone, can I?” Jase made to get up. “I should leave you to your work, however. I’ve heard the staff coming and going. Things are in progress, and I’m in the way.”

“Never,” Bren said, but it was true, and he’d caught a sign from Narani in the hall that there was important mail in-house. “I had better cross-check with staff, however, and stay up on the details. Supper tonight if we’re lucky.”

“Formal?”

“Informal as hell, I hope. Are you running out of entertainment in there?”

Jase grinned. “We’re amply supplied. My office doesn’t let me alone. And Kaplan and Polano are on the longest leave of their lives, so I’m hearing no complaints. I don’t know where their poker tab stands, but neither one gets more than twenty credits ahead of the other and it’s been ongoing for days.”

“Good.” He laughed. “Good for them.”

He saw Jase to the door, went to his office and settled to look through his mail—was not surprised when Narani arrived with the mail, and prominent in the batch was a message cylinder of the heraldic sort that usually circulated within the upper floors of the Bujavid.

Red and black.

The dowager, he thought, telling himself he needed to ask his staff how the preparations for the event were going.

“Thank you,” he said. “Wait just a moment. There may be a reply.” He opened the cylinder. The seal on the message itself was not the dowager’s, however: it was Tabini’s.

The numbers of the Festivity have officially come in as favorable for the event . . .

Rarely did official ’counters produce anything contrary, for something the aiji firmly decided to schedule. It was a bit of a non-announcement for most long-scheduled events, particularly those naturally containing fortunate numbers.

We have waited for these numbers, considering recent events. We are, as of a few moments ago, absolutely certain of them. Expect, at the Festivity, investment of my son as my heir.

Investment. Nine was a fortunate year, extraordinarily felicitous. But it was also extremely young to be officially set into a will. The traditional number for a child to be invested as heir was . . . he recalled . . . fifteen, the next entirely felicitous number after nine, and offering the greater maturity of that year as well as a fortunate numerology.

A formal investment, however, fended off inheritance disputes, or at least let them happen during the lifetime of the parent, when they could be quashed with authority.

Tabini’s legacy wasn’t a set of fishing or hunting rights.

But it was a little unexpected, this. For various reasons, Tabini himself hadn’t had it. He was not sure it had actually been done for the aijinate since Tabini’s grandfather’s investment. Certainly it wasn’t in Wilson’s notes.

My wife is advised, and I am, in two other letters sent with this one, informing my grandmother and Lord Tatiseigi of my decision.

My decision. Not the plural. Not the imperial we. And not including Damiri in any implication whatever.

“Trouble, nandi?” Narani asked.

“Not trouble, exactly,” he said. “The aiji is going to invest the young gentleman as his heir.”

“Indeed.” Narani hardly lifted a brow. Surprised? It was rare anything surprised Narani.

“It is, apparently, held secret until the event. Please keep it so.” He had no doubts of Narani, who well knew how to keep secrets. “You look surprised, Rani-ji.”

“One would say the last three years have certainly urged it.”

An overthrow of the government and the whole world in upheaval. That, to say the least, was a reason to have intentions clear.

But one still had to wonder.

Had something significant gone on between Tabini and Damiri in the boy’s absence—an understanding reached, or definitively not reached, since Tabini had taken initial steps to shift the birthday party from private celebration to national holiday—on the very day they had gone to the spaceport to pick up the boy’s guests?

Tabini had evidently started that extreme move while they—including the dowager—were on their way out of the Bujavid, and dropping into a communications blackout. It was as if Tabini had waited for that.

He evidently hadn’t mentioned his intentions to Ilisidi—who might have had definite advice about it.

Geigi had hastened the shuttle launch—so the boy had been able to pick up his guests a few days early and enjoy a little vacation before all hell had broken loose.

But had that been the only reason Geigi had moved things up? Had Geigi had a clue this was in the offing?

More, the dowager’s servants were threaded all the way through Tabini’s household. And yet—had she been surprised by it?

All Tabini needed do to arrange it was sit in his office, write a few orders, seal them and send them: Give me the numbers of the event. Give me the numbers if I do thus and such in addition.

Damn, he hoped this didn’t mean Tabini had decided on divorce.

His headache threatened to come back in force.

What had Tabini discussed with Lord Geigi during their private conversations? And did Ilisidi know it was coming?

“Nandi. Will there be an answer?”

He blinked the room back into focus. “Rani-ji. One apologizes. No. No, there will not be an answer to this one. That will do. Thank you.”

“Nandi,” Narani said, and left the office.

God. If Geigi had gone up to the station with orders to get the kids down here . . .

Why? A distraction?

Maybe he was overthinking everything. Things too easily ran in interlocking circles. That didn’t help the headache, either.

But thinking often ran in circles, where Tabini was involved, circles that always ran right back to Tabini’s tendency to keep his own counsel.

Tabini’s quiet, even joking dismissal of his problems with his Ajuri wife?

Never believe Ajuri’s move physically to reach his grandson would be dismissed. No. Tabini had been amazingly forgiving of Komaji’s actions.

Damn.

Today was the day the birthday party should have returned from Tirnamardi, had everything gone as planned when they’d headed out there. Tabini had launched his own plan, ordered the numbers run—which meant he’d long since had to tell the ’counters what he was up to—and then having launched the inquiry about numbers—Tabini would also have had to tell the ’counters and kabiuteri what had happened at Tirnamardi and in the Guild. Keeping it from the arbiters of arrangement and felicity risked an infelicity in the goings-on that could turn into a political earthquake.

He’d had his moment of sheer terror pinned beside that shattered door in the Guild. Tabini had probably had his own moment in his sitting room the day after they’d returned, when Cenedi had told him they were going to go into the Guild and restore the old Guild leadership.

Well, if Tabini had surprised his grandmother with his plan to put the boy into his will—Ilisidi had certainly returned the favor with interest.

And God only knew what strings Tabini had just pulled with the College of Numerology to get a good outcome after the upheaval in the Guild.

He got up from his desk. Painkiller and pleasant company had thus far had kept the headache at bay. He backed it off with two deep breaths, then walked out and down the hall to the security station.

His aishid were all in their outer office, sitting in the arc of desks and consoles, apparently in conference.

“One would not wish to interrupt a discussion, nadiin-ji,” he said quietly, “but one has just received an advisement from the aiji. He intends formally to name the young gentleman his heir tomorrow, in the Audience Hall.”

Four faces showed rare surprise.

“An investiture,” Algini said, rocking his chair back. It was an obscure word, a variation on the modern legal word he had read it to be. “The Guild does not know this. Has he run the numbers?”

“He says they have come back favorable.”

Algini asked, warily: “Did you expect this, nandi?”

“In no wise did I.”

“Sit with us, Bren-ji,” Banichi said, and Bren sat down gingerly on the edge of the counter, closer to eye level. “It explains the aiji’s intention in making this a public event. But did he give a reason, Bren-ji?”

“None. It was a very short letter. He has told Damiri-daja. He said he was writing to the dowager and Lord Tatiseigi.”

“This was not anticipated,” Algini said.

Banichi said dryly, “With encouragement, the best ’counters can find felicity in an earthquake. But it is useful, considering the changes in the Guild, that these ’counters will proclaim felicitous numbers. One trusts he has told them about the substantial changes in the Guild.”

“It was not in the letter,” Bren said, “but this information seems down to the moment.”

“At nine years of age,” Algini said. “This will surprise everyone.”

“Investiture,” Bren repeated. “Different from investment?”

“Only that it applies to the aijinate and to the highest rank of the College of Numerology,” Algini said. “Tabini-aiji was never invested. Had the dowager strongly opposed his accession, that deficiency could have come into legal question. It has continued to be an issue with his detractors, who claim an infelicity in his accession. Murini of course was not given an investiture, and he was certainly an infelicity, with shocks still ongoing. Politically speaking—reviving the ceremony is a brilliant move. Doing it so young is a shock—but it will not be unpopular with the people.”

“What does it do?” Bren said. “I know it in terms of a will. The aijinate is not technically inherited. Does it somehow bind the legislature?”

“It does not,” Banichi said. “In ordinary inheritance, investiture sets business relationships for the future, makes the relationships public. And, especially with a family that has heirs through various contract marriages, it makes the future directorship of the business clear. To pass over an invested heir is only possible if the heir has disgraced the name or committed a crime. Investiture of an heir of the aishidi’tat establishes that the College of Numerology, the chief of which is the only other office that uses investiture, has set a stamp of good numbers on this heir being chosen on this date, and any change in those numbers thereafter has to go back to this point and demonstrate the origin and cause.”

“It makes it far more difficult,” Jago said, “to argue infelicity of origin.”

Origin.

Damiri.

“Nine,” Algini said, “carries the potency of an unbeatable number. And it will be six years,” Algini said, “before another year almost as felicitous. Under present circumstances, with a second child coming, there is certainly motive.”

“This,” Bren said, “effectively disinherits the daughter.”

“As regards the aishidi’tat, yes. It does. Having his son invested before this second child even exists—one sees, entirely, why he would decide on this course. The ninth year is indisputably fortunate; the next entirely felicitous year, the fifteenth—means six years in which speculation—and politics—might build around a second child. Considering the opposition to certain influences on the young gentleman—it is a statement, and a very timely one.”

“It also makes clear,” Banichi said, “that, given the history of the persons involved, the aiji-dowager, not the aiji-consort, could instantly be regent should anything untoward befall Tabini-aiji in the next twelve years. The executor of the inheritance would be, legally, of the aiji’s bloodline.”

“That would cool the opposition,” Jago said, “since the persons most likely to plot against Tabini-aiji have no desire to see the dowager in power.”

“And removing rights of succession for the daughter,” Banichi said, “leaves no argument that could make Damiri-daja regent if he leaves the daughter in her care—as he has promised to do. Damiri-daja may have title to her daughter. But that daughter will not have the aishidi’tat. And there has been some speculation about that, should something happen to Cajeiri.”

“The city will be wild tomorrow night,” Jago said, “once that news is run out.”

“An excitement that would tax resources at the best of times,” Banichi said. “Bren-ji, we have kept this as quiet as possible—but the Guild had a choice last night, when the new leadership seized control of communications. We could continue the old communication system—which could expose our operations to the remnant we are hunting. We could shut the system down entirely. We could continue to use it but redefine the signals for a given few, which could create dangerous confusion. Or we could go ahead with technical changes, which would lock everybody but a chosen few out of the system entirely. The Council opted for the latter, which will deny access to any units not specifically cleared, until they can be approved into the system.”

“We cannot reach the Guild?”

“We can. We, that is to say we four, the dowager’s units, those assigned to the aiji, and those assigned to Lord Tatiseigi, will all be cleared into the system from the beginning. This includes the aiji’s under-classified personal guard; Guild Headquarters, and units that it puts in place in and out of the Bujavid. We have argued to have the young gentleman’s bodyguard put onto the system, but thus far we have not moved the Council on that matter, since the Council is still reviewing records and has not cleared them. It is solely on our recommendation and Cenedi’s that the Council has not removed that unit from the young gentleman’s premises because of the date of their assignment. We will be able to use our equipment through the change, but we are noticing small interruptions. We were warned of this. We are assured there will be no interruptions from tomorrow afternoon, but we count that an optimistic assurance. Reliable Guild assets are moving into position right now, but, in the same security considerations, we are not informed in all cases where, or in protection of what.”

The paidhi-aiji was supposed to stay out of Guild affairs. The resolution of his non-involvement had held, what? Less than a day.

“The Guild, however, does not yet know the aiji’s intention for the event,” Bren said.

“No,” Algini said. “They do not. And this is not information I would gladly commit to the network at the moment.”

“One of us,” Banichi said, “needs to make another journey down to headquarters, before the crowds make van traffic impossible.”

“One hopes they have the headquarters doors back up,” Algini said. “They will have to reduce building security and reactivate numerous units to take duty in the streets, one assumes, without full communications resources.”

“Will you go?” Banichi asked him.

“Surely you will not,” Algini said. “And Cenedi has already made one such trip today.” Algini rose from his chair and reached for his uniform jacket. “Baji-naji, I should be back in an hour or so. I shall inform Cenedi on my way.”

“Take four from Cenedi,” Banichi said. “Better this floor be short five guards than have you approaching Headquarters alone. And ask them again to put the young gentleman’s bodyguard into the network. Name them again those of the Bujavid guard in whom we have confidence. Tell them– I leave it to you what to tell them. Convince them if you can.”

“Yes,” Algini said, agreeing, buckled on his sidearm, zipped his jacket, and left.

At least, Bren thought, the kabiuteri and the ’counters had been discreet enough that the dowager’s network hadn’t picked it up—a testament to the historic integrity of those individuals.

The Bujavid printing office, too, which also prided itself on discretion, had to have gotten its orders now, at least as far as the director, who at least would have cleared the presses to run. The cards to be handed out to the public, as well as the special run for the attendees at the event, would likely be in process within the hour, boxed, and kept in tight security until the official release . . . in the Audience Hall, and on the steps. Such public distributions were limited usually to thirty thousand of the first issue, and while atevi crowds understood the principle of keeping an orderly line, the distribution of cards could not be without Guild presence in force.

Unfortunately, at the moment, Guild presence in force had some problems.

“I had best leave you to your concerns,” Bren said quietly. “I have no needs at the moment. Jase-aiji is in his room and I am answering correspondence. I shall need nothing today that I foresee, unless the dowager sends for me. I shall ask Jase-aiji to check on the children.”

 · · ·

He went back to his office, hoping Algini managed a quick passage, and hoping Algini had picked up a unit from the dowager’s household.

Traffic would be picking up down at the foot of the hill. The long-awaited Festivity being tomorrow, the streets down in the hotel district would be filling up with booths. By evening, as the crowds grew, anticipating tomorrow, the smaller streets would become absolutely impassable to van traffic. That meant those wealthy sorts accustomed to the luxury of the finer hotels and their ready transportation were going to have to use the common rail or go on foot to their destinations.

It would not likely be as crowded as at the seasonal celebrations, but short notice or not, people rarely lost the chance for a holiday, and would to go to the largest town or city they could manage—to Shejidan itself if they were near enough. Certainly the whole city population would be involved in the event. Little eateries and open-air pubs would be busy around the clock. The usual number of individuals would imbibe too much, perhaps spend too much, and definitely eat too much, having a splendid time along the way. Musicians would have country dances chaining through amiable crowds—

Or at least that was the sort of atmosphere one hoped would prevail, given the recent goings-on. Number-readers and ’counters real or self-proclaimed would solicit coins at one-legged wandering booths shaded by the black and gold umbrellas of their trade—apt to be a brisker business than usual, given the rumors bound to be circulating in the drinking establishments. Entertainers were not so formal—they’d take the coins that came their way either in a bowl or a bag, as they circulated through the prospective audience. There’d be drink, food, excess before the small hours of the morning . . . likely a little broken pottery, a few canopies knocked askew . . .

He had never, himself, ventured down into the press. He had the security of the Bujavid. In a year when he had felt competent to navigate the events—security had become far too precarious. But he had been as far as the Bujavid’s upper steps, and seen the banners and the press below.

And the colors. Festival clothing observed heraldic colors only for the lords and their households. For everybody else it was a display of only occasional political significance. The lords of provinces and associations would have their tents going up out on the northeastern shoulder of the Bujavid hill, and outward, in an ancient precedence of place. Clans major and minor would be flying their flags there and representing their clan, offering services to any of their own who might need them—impromptu Contract marriages were not unknown, sometimes repented with sobriety.

And the tents offered shelter to clan lords, lost children, and others who might want to take a break from the noisy goings-on in the streets without braving the crowds on the way to the hotels.

Najida was entitled to a tent. He had not provided one—and he should. He was resolved to do it, and to provide transport for Najida folk who wanted to come so far, and for staff of his who wanted to go down: they so deserved that benefit—granted security improved. In a public Festivity, the lords actually resident in the Bujavid would not likely be braving the press of bodies down in the hotel district; but those seasonally resident in the hotel district might well take a night in the tents—the noise on the esplanade was not conducive to sleep. It was ordinarily one night of moderate rowdiness, a second of mild madness and a great deal of food and drink . . . utterly, utterly out of the question, but he conceived the oddest longing to go down there himself—granted his bodyguard ever approved.