by M S Murdock
Ardala sat down at a small vanity table and daubed some ruby red on her lips. She examined her long fingers, and picked up a nail file.
“I have no knowledge of this girl,” said Ardala, putting on an irritated face. “She says she’s related to Uncle Simund. But she lives on Earth and attends college? How quaint!”
Tanny unzipped a breast pocket and pulled out a microfile, then adjusted his owl-rims superfluously to examine it-superfluously, because of course he had already committed the contents of the microfile to memory.
“Iran a check on her, of course,” said the devoted appointment secretary. “Indeed, she attends Martian University, here on Mars, which is noted for its marriage of scientific and cultural curricula, and its lucrative grants-in-aid from RAM research installations. She takes a variety of courses, but is listed as a major in bioengineering.”
He glanced at Ardala, who was listening with a bored visage as she filed her nails to tiny, sharp points. “That shows some initiative-lots of dabbling and controversy in bioengineering at the moment. Wide open field for the future.”
Tanny paused to adjust his owl-rims. Ardala looked up brusquely, as if to say: Get to the point.
“Rather a type in most respects,” said Tanny, who, as ever, was unruffled, “No academic distinction-barely passing grades. Drinks a bit much of the local sludge on weekends, and afterward pukes her guts out. Listens to electric ‘deep-noise’ music obsessively. A search of her room indicates the usual trendy array of posters and books, nothing political or subversive.
She has decidedly slovenly personal habits, in spite of which she has a rather astonishingly long list of boyfriends and one-night favors. I have a readout here of her known couplings. Insofar as it is complete, it is revealing of nothing.”
With one hand, Tanny lifted up a small cassette reel and let the microfile unspool to the floor. It measured perhaps seven inches of single-spaced names and dates. Tanny looked meaningfully at Ardala and. rolled his eyes in bemusement.
“As far as I can determine,” Tanny summed up, “she is what she seems to be. Except for this intriguing detail: She earns a little pin money keeping track of local doings and writing up covert reports for your friend and mine, Neola Price.”
Ardala raised an eyebrow. That was a name she recognized: Neola Price sat on the executive board of RAM. She was one of the withered ancients whose power Ardala envied and plotted to subsume. Once a master architect of the long-range orbital colony,
Neola Price had become a hard-nosed, bitchy old woman who overcompensated for her position of vulnerability by toadying shamelessly to Simund Holzerhein That, the toadying, kept Neola Price on the executive board, even as, in the long run, Ardala knew, it would make her twice as vulnerable.”
“I admit it is not much to go on,’ ’said Tanny dryly.
“So why should I see this-this girl?” Ardala demanded. “What possible benefit could there be? Leaders of great armies wait for months to get an appointment with me, but this girl, who pretends to be a Holzerhein . . .”
“Well, that is just it,” countered Tanny. “It’s hard to say precisely, but I would say that her claim is authentic. You know how confusing the genealogy is ….' Ardala Valmar frowned. Well she knew. She herself was a Holzerhein way back in the tangled history of intermarriage and test-tubing. There were literally hundreds of Holzerheins in the universe. All somehow related, and all; Ardala knew, fairly irrelevant to Uncle Simund. They all called him that, regardless of whether they had ever met him: Uncle Simund.
“She is, in fact, some sort of half niece, by common law, once or twice removed. Born on Luna. Parents long deceased. Only child. Raised by older half-sister, etcetera. Hard to trace, but seems on the square.” He paused for effect. “And I don’t think you should take the chance that Uncle Simund might not take some interest in her ultimate welfare.”
Ardala had moved to a small sitting desk, and was idly gazing at herself in the mirror. She showed her teeth in a perfect smile. She looked marvelous today! She glanced from an angle and caught Tanny eyeing her as she eyed herself Good.
“The only person who cares less than me about another Holzerhein is Uncle Simund himself,” she commented with a sigh. “But I suppose you’re right. Show the little menace in at 9:00 AM.” Here she glanced at her wrist monitor and micro-daylog. “Tell her she will have eight minutes for her matter of ‘utmost importance.”
Tanny got up and walked toward the double doors. He had perfect symmetry and coordination. He was built like a trapeze artist and his torso swayed like a dancer’s. Ardala knew that his bioengineered moderation acted as a crosscheck against her hot, impulsive temperament.
Of course, she had had Tanny “neutered.” Him and Hatch. Not for convenience’s sake, but because Ardala knew herself too well. Business was business, after all, and-what was the old Earth adage?--she knew it was a mistake to mix business with pleasure.
She had done that once-with Killer Kane-and it was the exception that proved the rule. In the years since Kane’s defection from NEO, the terrorist group he’d been a member of on Earth, he and Ardala had had many occasions for joint business ventures. He had, of course, succumbed to her charms-to both of their satisfactions. But she never felt she controlled him like all the other men she’d known. It was irriatating and stimulating at the same time.
“And, Tanny?” He was half out the double doors.
“Yes, my lady?” Tanny leaned back in with his milky white orbs peeking over the edge of the owl rims.
“What is her name?” Tanny emitted a sliver of a self-satisfied smile. “Ina Klimt-Low,” he said.
OOOOO
Ardala was annoyed at herself for getting boxed into this situation. The young female sitting in front of her looked like anything but someone who could be useful to Ardala Valmar. She was short, about five feet tall, dumpy, and wore striped leggings over which was fitted a sooty gray fleece shirt that Ardala knew was popular among students these days. Ina Klimt-Low wore her hair in a loathsome bowlcut, with bangs that were flecked with a trendy, ugly orange. Her hair needed a good shampooing. In general, there hung about her a distinct whiff of uncleanliness.
Their meeting was promptly at 9:00 A.M. in Ardala’s small private office. Her desk, an ebony slab, was elevated at a slant, with Ardala perched in a wing chair at the high angle. The desk was swept clean of everything except discreet data transmitters and microfiles. The sprinkling of wall hangings were all museum quality (indeed, some of them had been extorted from museums in one of Ardala’s fabled “data-wipes”).
The insipid college girl did not seem to be in the least bit honored or enriched by Ardala’s presence. In fact, Ina Klimt-Low appeared to chew a wad of gum as she gazed around the room distractedly.
“I want you to know at the outset that I do not regard you as a relative, nor would it matter if I did,” began Ardala. “‘I have no time or money for charity cases. I have no interest in Contributions to egalitarian causes, or in buying whatever it is you are peddling. I see you without appointment, only out of heartfelt love for and devotion to”---she inclined her head for emphasis-“Uncle Simund.”
The girl made a strange noise It was a moment before Ardala realized she had popped her gum. Ardala Valmar’s eyes went wide…
“You have eight minutes,” she said sternly. A glance at her wristchrono told her otherwise. “Oops, seven now,” ’ she added with relish. “So don’t sit there like a lump. What do you want, and, why did you come all the way to Mars to see me?”
“Something for something.” The insufferable girl was speaking m a mumbly undertone.
Ardala drummed her fingers impatiently on the desktop. “Speak up.”
The girl went on. She went on interminably, from Ardala’s point of View. She had cottonmouth, made very little eye contact, and seemed to be making no particular point. She was droning on and on about where she went to college and the courses she was taking and the people she had met….
Ardala fo
und herself Watching her wristchrono as the minutes ticked off
Seven . . six . . .five. . . four. three
All of a sudden Ina Klimt-Low reached down and proffered a smudgy book bag toward Ardala, who recoiled in horror.”
“This is it,” she was saying, “along with some other stuff I filched from the lab. May or may not be important.”
“What?” asked Ardala, off track.
“The article I was telling you about,” said Ina Klimt-Low more loudly, with some vehemence. “The one about the Old astronaut. By Dr Andresen. Walter’s big hero.” “Again,” said Ardala through gritted teeth.
“Walter is my boyfriend,” Ina Klimt Low stated, emphasizing her words, as if for the comprehension of a child. “Well, not really my boyfriend. A guy I met, Dr. Andresen is the professor who was getting RAM dough to investigate outer space archaeological digs. He wrote an article about this Anthony Rogers astronaut guy. Lost in space. Big fuss about the article, and Dr Andresen was kicked off campus. Aren’t you listening”
Ina Klimt -Low was staring at Ardala, who still were a puzzled expression. Ina Klimt-Low patted the smudgy book bag.
“It’s all in here. Plus some other stuff of interest.”
Ardala said nothing. She was trying to remember where she had heard that name before: Anthony Rogers.'
“I heard all about it from Walter,” said Ina Klimt. Low exasperatedly. “He was Dr. Andresen’s assistant. Or researcher. Or something. That part doesn’t matter. I pumped Walter for more information. Learned plenty.”
“You were being paid well, I assume.”
Ina Klimt-Law’s face was blank.
“By Neola Price,” said Ardala smartly.
Ina Klimt-Law’s face turned positively gleeful. “Of course!” she exclaimed proudly. “But that’s the funny part. I was on stipend for Neola Price after Andresen’s article came out. But Walter just told me that he’s not only leaving town, he’s leaving Mars! Walter set it up-he told me last night.”
“Walter? Why should I care if he leaves Mars?” Ardala asked in irritation.
“No! Aren’t you listening? Andresen is leaving Mars. To look for the astronaut in the Asteroid Belt. I figure this is some pretty big deal, especially since Andresen ‘got kicked off campus for this whole thing.”
“Unusual,” conceded Ardala. “But why come to me? Why not Neola?”
“I took it to her first. She said that it was too small to bother Uncle Simund with.” Ina frowned. “Price was kinda strange, like she was guilty and didn’t want him to know or something. So, I figure this is all happening behind Uncle Simund’s back,” continued Ina Klimt-Low. “I figure it’s hot information. I figure you’d know what to do.”
“Why not take it to Uncle Simund directly?” asked Ardala pointedly.
“He wouldn’t see me," said Ina Klimt-Low, with a shrug. She returned to chewing her gum.
Ardala swallowed the desire to slap the girl’s face for her impudence, or congratulate her for possessing more brains than Ardala had thought Not much common sense, though Still, Ardala looked at her with new interest “What do you want for all this?” Ardala finally asked.
“Not much. A better life,” Ina Klimt-Low replied, adding brightly, “maybe after college, you’ll let me come to work for you.” Again she extended the smudgy book bag.
Ardala hid a sigh of relief and took the bag. Her eyes met briefly with Ina Klimt-Low’s. Then the" Martian beauty pushed a buzzer. Instantly, two of her bodyguards, hulking Martian Desert Runners, appeared and grabbed a surprised Ina Klimt-Low by the elbows, betting her toward the door.
“Get her out of my sight,” Ardala commanded. Then she added, generously, “On second thought, give her a long, hot bath. Burn her clothes and find her something decent to wear. Then send her someplace-anyplace.”
“But-but-but,” sputtered Ina Klimt-Low.
“I’ll be in touch? said Ardala, with a halfhearted wave. But it was unlikely that Ina Klimt-Low even heard her, as the girl had already vanished out the door.
Ardala opened the smudgy book bag and skimmed its contents. In a moment, she understood what Ina Klimt-Low had tried in her inarticulate way to express: The age alone of such an archaeological find made it noteworthy. But she had heard nothing about it from anyone at RAM. Neola Price obviously knew about it, though. Andala’s suspicions were more than piqued; instinct told her that she had stumbled upon something valuable indeed. But she needed more information on this Anthony Rogers before she could proceed.
She allowed herself the smallest smile of anticipation as she pressed a button to signal Tanny and Hatch.
OOOOO
Perceived by the masses to be one of the glittering Socialites of the ruling class, Ardala Valmar was, in reality, a tough-skinned professional. When on Mars, she always kept up obligations and responsibilities, and maintained a full and grueling daylog. When aboard her cruiser, the Princess of Mars (at least two weeks out of every month), it went without saying that she was always up to something-a little dubious, a little dangerous-the sole purpose of which was to boost her hourly tabulation at the Coprates Bank, Ltd.
It was hard to say exactly what she was a professional at-that is, what her profession might be named. “Information broker” was the phrase popular among the videomags. But all that meant, in reality, was that Ardala Valmar traded “dirty” data-meaning illegal, classified, clandestine, or just plain “naughty,” secrets-for money or favors. 0r money and favors….
Although she had been born into excess wealth, Ardala had spent her entire life amassing a greater and even greater personal fortune, while inching ever upward into the upper ranks of RAM leadership. It was part of her image to look like such a lovely-how the videomags relished the display of her photograph!-but beneath the velvet glove was the iron fist of greed, cunning, power-thirst, and egomania.
It would have been a busy day for her even without the unscheduled appointment of Ina Klimt-Low. The Buck Rogers revelation created additional problems-as well as opportunities. The important thing was to confirm all the niceties as soon as possible. Ardala gave Tanny and Hatch full instructions. They would spend the day fact-finding and charting the potential profitability of information concerning the Buck Rogers archaeological find, while she attended to more immediately pressing matters.
The bulk of the morning was already given over to meetings with financiers, investors, accountants, and advisers. Ardala had her legitimate business “fronts” and they needed constant nurturing and adjustment. These included (but were not limited to) real estate transactions, landlord collections, health corporations, stock options, colony investments, inside trading on precious metals, and merger options. Nothing was more boring than such financial minutiae; nothing was more important.
Her 11:00 A.M. appointment was with Beers Barmaray, the autocratic leader of the Intersolar Terraforming Egalitarian Laborers’ Organization (ITELO). “BB” as he was known, was a barrelchested, oily-complexioned, tattooed ex-grunt who had risen to a position of dominance in the largest fraternal organization of skilled colonizers in the galaxy. As such, he controlled an enormous slush fund of payoffs and benefits, and could call on the unquestioned allegiance of more than two million working stiffs on colonies and space stations scattered around the solar system.
Ardala had her own private orbital base on Deimos, one of the moons of Mars. The base was a refueling station, but more important than that, it was an ultramodern “thinkbank” that scanned interplanetary transmissions and computertroves for information of possible value to her.
Suspecting Ardala’s profit margin, BB had taken it upon himself to make new wage demands on behalf of his work force-to include, implicitly, a skim-off for himself. He was a real tinpot, a massive, pug-ugly fellow, but he could make good on his threats, and Ardala felt it necessary to deal with him herself.
BB slouched in his chair impudently, unimpressed by the great Ardala Valmar as he repeated his demands.
“So, as I was
saying, given the cost of living on such a desolate and cultureless place as Deimos-I’m sure a woman of your breeding can understand that—“ BB stopped to scratch his left side “--that my workers need another two hundred Dola per week--” BB became tongue-tied as Ardala provocatively toyed With the zipper of her jumpsuit.
Suddenly Ardala plunged her hand beneath the neckline of her suit and produced a handful of fuzzy holographs. The pictures, holos of the formidable Beers Barmaray cuddled in the arms of one of the fleshpots of Mars, spoke for themselves.
The look on BB’s face was pure astonishment. In an instant, he had crumpled into an abject, blubbering state. BB, Ardala well knew, had a reputation as a loving husband and devoted family man (with nine children). His leadership would never survive the destruction of his image. Not to mention that his wife, a certifiable nut case (according to Ardala’s memoranda), would probably seize the excuse to kill him. Ardala would make certain she found out, if need be.
This, the showdown with Beers Barmaray, was a highlight of her day. The federation leader sat before her now, reduced to twisting his hands and pleading.
“Please, Miss Valmar-” now it was Miss Valmar! “---you can’t-”
“Can’t?”
Flustered, BB’s face burned red. “What I meant was, I’d be very grateful if you didn’t let anyone see those.”
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.” Her voice was low.
Beers Barmaray agreed to freeze all pay and benefit plans for five years, to extend the ten-hour workday to twelve (no overtime), and to immediately transfer five per cent of all outstanding federation funds to Ardala’s standing account at Coprates Bank, Ltd.
“That’s more like it,” she said smoothly. His ugly, pleading eyes nearly made Ardala gag. She looked away and added, “Don’t worry, Mr. Barmaray, you can rest assured that the holos stay right here with me. And as your reward for being so . . . civilized about this whole thing, I’ll make sure your friend here-” she tapped the picture “---vanishes.” What she really wanted to do was make the repulsive little extortionist himself vanish, but he was more valuable to her now than before. Her possession of those holos nearly ensured his loyal cooperation in the future.