Foreign Office
Chandler, National Syndicalist Republic
11:00 Chandler Mean Time
Rain lashed in sheets against the squat buildings of the capital. The grey clouds had collected and burst once more over the city, a present from the mountains in the north. In the city itself, trams and buses carried on their normal business without regard for the few pedestrians and yet with high regard for the few cars that actually plied the basically empty roadways, presumably government officials going about their daily business. And in the background, industry continued to boom, darkening the skies again with smog.
Business as usual, then.
Under-secretary Leons — Comrade Under-secretary to everyone except the man he was going to meet — was a little wet. An umbrella, a grey macintosh, and a government car did only go so far, after all, in Chandler, the Valley City. Luckily, arriving early had allowed him to dry off most of the excess water. Whether or not the Achesian ambassador was going to be punctual didn't concern Leons so much — all the more time, the better. Leons was precise, and methodical, and prepared too, like the Foreign Office itself. A photographic memory had helped him learn as much as he could from the briefs. Not just the pages and pages of academic text about historical foreign policies of Achesia, not just the carefully documented report about the ambassador himself produced by the Directorate of Internal Security, but everything he could lay his hands on about that country. He was prepared indeed. There would be no cultural misunderstandings. There would be no misunderstandings at all. In fact — Leons allowed a smile to wobble his moustache — the ambassador would understand everything Leons was telling him.
If he had done his job right.
Which, he believed, he had.
The negotiation room flickered gently and renewed light washed across it, demonstrating its bareness. Outside, some lights went off in the city. Leons almost frowned — hardly the best image of the country, at this crucial time — and forced his frown away. To keep himself busy, he re-arranged the ashtrays and the water beaker so that they were properly aligned. An eye for precision had got him this job, and the discipline to carry out that precision had let him keep it. The city washed itself with a burst of light again, although the building's generator had already kicked in. There. Now the empty crystal glasses were perfect too.
There was a knock at the door.