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    “They’re giving me rope,” he murmured.
    Chandwani gave a thin smile. “How can we lose? At best, your plan succeeds, we win the bid for this world of theirs, you will no doubt remain as administrator or whatever. You’re out of our hair. At worst, we lose the bid and you return in disgrace, defeated, finished. You’re out of our hair.”
    “The administration’s gratitude for my past efforts is almost overwhelming.”
    Chandwani’s smile vanished. He stood up, pushing the chair back, and crossed to the window to look out at the bicentenary monument in the square outside – a 50-foot statue of the Mahatma. “The Indian republic is 200 years old,” he said, “and in that time I think we’ve occasionally drifted somewhat from the principles on which it was founded.” He nodded at the statue. “Every now and then a country goes mad. It happened to the fascist and communist states of the twentieth century, the combines of the twenty first ... and it happened to us in the twenty second. We were rich and powerful but we were peaceful. We founded the Confederation because economically and technologically we dominated Asia and we wanted to use that power for the good of all. And we did, for a while, until you and your kind came along with your talk of Greater India and your dreams of the bad old days. Conquest, war, glory.”
    “You have to admit it is more interesting than parliamentary democracy,” Krishnamurthy said.
    Chandwani glared at him.
    “I know how you despise the Progressives,” he said, “but we are healing India, and hence the Confederation. We came close to the Mahatma’s ideals once and people like you drew us away. Now we’re having a second chance.”
    “What goes around comes around,” Krishnamurthy said. “Very karmic. And in the process you weaken our borders, dilute our power-”
    “Our border acquisitions were justified at the time as necessary for our security. Now that we are confident in our security, we no longer need the acquisitions. Thus, the administration shows its consistency and sense of purpose.” Chandwani strolled back to his desk and sat down again. “We are getting off the point. The Rusties are grateful, your plan is approved, now go.”
    Krishnamurthy turned to leave, slowly, showing that he was leaving because he chose to and not because he had been dismissed.
    “The crew will all be citizens, of course?” Chandwani said behind him. Krishnamurthy smiled to himself: so, even Chandwani had an ounce of patriotism inside him.
    “Of course,” said Krishnamurthy. The Rusties had specified that all delegates provide their own ship – a stipulation doubtless intended to separate the men from the boys, and it had almost excluded the Confederation, except that one of the procurements the Prime Minister had just approved was of a spaceship adequate to the task in hand. The crew would have to be picked from the trained spacers of other spacelines, but-
    “May I suggest the Gandhi as a suitable name?” Chandwani said.
    “It had occurred to me.” If it kept the man quiet ...
    But not Gandhi, no, for all Krishnamurthy’s admiration of the way the man had stood up to the British. The ship’s name would be from an earlier and darker part of India’s history: a man for whom Krishnamurthy’s admiration was unbridled and unconditional. Founder of the Maratha state, protector of his people and owner of a name that had struck fear into the hearts of his enemies.
    “ Shivaji! ” he murmured, but only to himself.

- 4 -
    26 March 2149
    An amboid was waiting for Gilmore when he reached the palace. The icon that glowed on its faceplate told the world that the artificial intelligence occupying it was called Plantagenet. The intelligence itself was contained in a ROM crystal somewhere else on UK-1, but its attention was concentrated here. It was rare for such a high-level AI to be running mundane errands, and Gilmore wondered if he should feel flattered that one had come