Earth

by Ben Bova

  The natives of Ross 128d were appealing for a new governing system. Their request was assigned to the standing committee on alien affairs.

  Tray sat through the agenda, glad that none of these matters engendered lengthy debate or even background briefings. Under Balsam’s practiced leadership, each item was swiftly handled, with hardly any discussion.

  Baron De Mayne looked as if he wanted to raise a comment about the Ross 128d matter, but after squirming unhappily in his chair, he held his voice—and his temper.

  At last Balsam looked up from the podium and, smiling almost beatifically, said, “That concludes our agenda. Is there any new business?”

  Tray shot to his feet. Balsam looked surprised, but nodded and said, “Councilman Williamson.”

  Calmly, without hesitation, Tray said, “I move that the Council investigate the murder of Jordan Kell.”

  DEBATE … AND INVESTIGATION

  Balsam’s expression clouded over, but he recovered swiftly and replied, “Councilman Kell’s death has been investigated. Unfortunately, there was no way to recover the failed Athena vessel or the councilman’s body, so the investigation has been halted due to lack of evidence.”

  “That’s not so,” Tray snapped.

  One of the Council’s unwritten rules was that a Council member must never accuse another member of lying. Tray’s three words came close to violating that rule.

  Balsam’s fleshy face contorted into a frown. He said, “There is no evidence to show—”

  “I have evidence,” Tray interrupted. “Evidence that points to a conspiracy and murder.”

  An actual moan arose from the Council chamber. Out of the corner of his eye Tray could see Council members whispering to one another. What does he mean? What evidence does he have?

  Balsam’s expression turned stony. “And just what evidence do you possess?”

  Tray answered, “A visual recording of a bomb being placed in the body of the android Para, a bomb that was meant to assassinate me—and perhaps Baron De Mayne and his daughter, as well.”

  Dozens of conversations broke out among the Council members. Surprise, indignation, disbelief.

  From the podium atop the stage Balsam shouted, “Visual recordings can be faked!”

  Undeterred, Tray went on, “Plus the testimony of a man who was present while the bomb was implanted—in your office, Mr. President!”

  The chamber erupted in chaos. Members got to their feet, shouting, gesticulating, pointing outstretched arms. De Mayne sat quietly, a hint of a satisfied smile playing across his lips.

  Balsam’s smug expression of superiority visibly crumbled. He said, in a slightly quavering voice, “That … that is a very serious accusation.”

  Tray shouted back, “Jordan Kell was assassinated and the android Para was turned into a murder machine to kill me!”

  The noise level in the chamber climbed even higher. Everyone seemed to be screaming, yelling at the top of his or her voice. Even De Mayne shouted in French and jabbed an accusatory finger at Balsam.

  For several eternally long moments Balsam seemed frozen as he stood gaping openmouthed from behind the podium. At last he picked up the gavel and began hammering away while he shouted, “Order! Order! The Council will come to order!”

  It took several minutes, but at last the Council members quieted and sat back down on their seats.

  Tray could see sweat trickling down Balsam’s ample cheeks. The Council president said, in a hollowed voice, “Your accusations are monstrous, Mr. Williamson.”

  “They should be investigated,” Tray shot back.

  “By all means,” said Balsam, recovering some of his dignity. “I shall appoint a committee—”

  De Mayne’s hand shot into the air. “I volunteer to chair the committee!”

  For more than an hour the Council members shouted, argued, wrangled back and forth, hurling accusations and denials across the Council chamber, but at last a committee of six experienced Council members was agreed upon. De Mayne headed the opposition party’s three members.

  Balsam banged his gavel one more time and shouted, “This meeting is adjourned!”

  It took more than a half-hour to clear the chamber of the arguing, yelling, bellicose Council members.

  * * *

  As they flew back to Normandy, Baron De Mayne leaned across the plane’s central aisle and patted Tray’s knee.

  “You have stirred up a hornet’s nest, my boy.”

  Seated beside Loris, Tray felt weak, empty, all the adrenaline drained out of him.

  “We’re a long way from winning this,” he said softly.

  De Mayne smiled broadly. “No. We have already won. Balsam’s days are numbered. You will see.”

  Tray closed his eyes and leaned back on the chair’s headrest. “I wish I had your confidence,” he murmured.

  He heard Loris whisper, “You’re going to win, Tray. I feel it in my heart.”

  He smiled without opening his eyes. And thought, If Mance gives honest testimony. If the committee Balsam’s appointed does an honorable job. If a meteoroid doesn’t fall on the De Mayne chateau and kill us all.

  * * *

  Two days later, Tray sat in the chateau’s media center, ready to give testimony to the committee Balsam had appointed. Mance Bricknell sat beside him; his usual air of smug superiority long disappeared.

  “You’re just as much a victim as Kell and Sheshardi,” Tray was saying to him. “Almost.”

  Bricknell nodded morosely. “You mean I’m still alive.”

  Tray nodded as he watched the technicians at the virtual reality control panel fussing with their equipment.

  “You’re safe as long as you’re here in the chateau.”

  “I suppose so,” said Bricknell, in a tone of voice that expressed anything but confidence.

  The chief technician turned on his little stool and pointed at Tray. “They’re ready in Copenhagen.”

  Tray glanced at Mance, who looked tense and white-faced, then said to the tech, “Let’s do it.”

  In an eyeblink Tray found himself sitting in an office in Copenhagen, with Bricknell beside him. Through a window behind the three people facing him, he could see the streets and towers of the old city. It was raining out there, dark and dreary.

  “Councilman Williamson, Dr. Bricknell,” said the man in the middle of the trio, “it is good of you to join us this day.”

  Mance mumbled, “Thank you.”

  Tray said, “It’s good to be with you.”

  De Mayne was not among the trio questioning them. The committee had decided he was too closely associated with Tray to be an unbiased inquisitor.

  The man in the middle of the seated trio—stern-faced, his graying hair shoulder length, his figure athletically trim—said, “We have thoroughly examined the video record you provided. It appears to be authentic.”

  “It is,” said Tray.

  Turning his walnut-brown eyes to Mance, he asked, “You were physically present when the bomb was implanted into the android?”

  Bricknell cleared his throat, then nodded once. “I was.”

  “How so?”

  His voice sounding strained, almost painful, Bricknell answered, “President Balsam’s administrative aide called me in Denver and said it was important that I come to his office the next day.”

  “And you did so?”

  “One does not refuse the Council president. I flew to Copenhagen that evening and was in the president’s office the following morning.” His voice faltered momentarily, then Mance added, “I had no idea why he wanted me in his office at that time.”

  “And you watched the bomb being implanted in the android?”

  Mance swallowed visibly, then answered, “I did.”

  “What were you thinking?” asked the woman to Tray’s right.

  Bricknell hesitated, looked from one inquisitor’s face to another. “I didn’t realize they meant to kill the Baron De Mayne and his daughter. I thought it was only Tray—Mr
. Williamson—that they wanted to get rid of.”

  “And you felt comfortable with that realization?”

  “No!” Mance nearly shouted. “But what could I do? President Balsam obviously wanted to draw me into his … his plan.”

  “What plan was that?” asked the councilman on the left of the trio.

  Mance hesitated, then said in a low voice, “His plan to develop the worlds we’ve discovered.”

  The sole woman among the investigators asked, “You received a payment in return for your complicity?”

  “Yes,” Mance replied. “I was given fifteen thousand shares in the fund.”

  “Fund? What fund?”

  Tray watched and listened as Bricknell slowly, cautiously, reluctantly explained that a group of international financiers and businessmen had created a private corporation to finance—and exploit—the development of the civilizations that had been found in interstellar space.

  “A development corporation,” murmured the gray-haired investigator.

  Mance nodded mutely.

  “Shades of the old British East India Company,” grumbled the investigator on the left. And Tray recognized from his brown skin and almond-shaped eyes that his ancestry must be Asian.

  VIKTOR KROONSTAD

  “A development corporation,” muttered Baron De Mayne.

  “That’s what Mance told us.”

  Tray had left the VR center and found the baron and Loris in De Mayne’s spacious office, high in one of the old chateau’s towers. He told them what had unfolded at the committee hearing. Mance Bricknell had returned to the room the baron had given him, under careful watch by De Mayne retainers, human and robotic.

  Tray was sitting tiredly on a couch in the baron’s office, Loris next to him. De Mayne was at his desk, looking grim.

  “I have had heard rumors of such an organization,” the baron said. “Naturally, no one has invited me to join.”

  “Naturally,” said Loris, the beginnings of an impish smile curving her lips slightly.

  “Then it’s all true,” said Tray. “A multinational organization created to exploit the intelligent beings we’ve found among the stars.”

  “True,” De Mayne agreed, with a shake of his head. “Quite true. They see our contact with alien societies as a means for lining their pockets.”

  “Aren’t they rich enough?” Loris demanded. “Why do they want more?”

  De Mayne shrugged elaborately. “Why not? It is a human trait. Scientists seek new knowledge. Artists seek new forms of expression, new ways to create art. Businessmen seek new wealth, new opportunities to increase their fortunes. We all want more, constantly more.”

  “More power,” Loris murmured.

  “Ah yes,” her father agreed. “With wealth comes power.”

  At that precise moment, De Mayne’s desktop phone announced, “Incoming call from Viktor Kroonstad, sir.”

  De Mayne’s eyes widened. “Kroonstad? From the diamond trust?”

  A moment’s hesitation. Tray realized the phone was searching its memory files.

  “Viktor Kroonstad, sir, of the Kroonstad Fiduciary Trust,” the smooth, almost sultry female voice answered.

  De Mayne looked impressed. “I will speak to him.”

  The screen on the wall facing the desk morphed into a three-dimensional view of a much larger, more ornate office. A dark-haired, smooth-faced man was sitting at a much bigger desk—which was absolutely bare of any papers.

  “Baron De Mayne,” said Kroonstad, in a hearty, smiling light tenor voice.

  “Mr. Kroonstad,” the baron answered.

  “I wonder if you might have an hour or so to speak with me tomorrow or the next day? In person. I can be at your chateau either day.”

  De Mayne tapped a button on his desktop keyboard and peered at his appointments calendar. “Either day would be fine. Take your pick.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Midafternoon, perhaps?”

  “Of course. Stay overnight, if you like.”

  Kroonstad smiled, showing lots of teeth. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Baron. Thank you.”

  “Good,” said De Mayne. “Have your people call my people. We’ll arrange to have you land at my private airfield.”

  “How kind! Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

  “Au revoir,” said De Mayne.

  As he reached to tap the phone’s OFF button, Kroonstad added, “Oh, by the way, I assume that young Williamson is staying at your chateau.”

  “Yes, he is right here.”

  “Wonderful. What I want to talk to you about concerns him, as well.”

  The wall screen went blank.

  De Mayne turned to face Tray, his expression somewhere between satisfied and puzzled.

  “I would be very surprised if Kroonstad is not a central member of the cabal.”

  “Kroonstad diamonds,” Loris murmured.

  De Mayne’s expression remained quite serious. “His forebears managed to keep the prices for precious gems stabilized, back when the rock rats started flooding the market with diamonds and other stones from the asteroids. He is no stranger to power politics—and to violence.”

  Tray nodded slowly. “Why does he want to come here?”

  De Mayne’s expression turned into a bitter smile. “Why? To buy you out. Why else?”

  * * *

  With Loris at his side, Tray climbed the winding stairway to his snug suite of rooms beneath the chateau’s roof.

  “It’s really quite lovely here,” Loris said, going to the window that looked out on the extensive gardens below.

  “I suppose it is,” Tray admitted as he dropped onto the wheeled chair at the minuscule desk opposite the window.

  To the phone console he said, “AI Companions, please.”

  Loris turned from the window and asked, “Artificial Intelligence?”

  Tray nodded to her. “In California. They built Para. I’m having them build a duplicate.”

  She actually clapped her hands together. “How wonderful!”

  His face shadowing slightly, Tray confessed, “With your father’s money, I hope.”

  Loris’s smile warmed his heart. “Of course! Why not? It will be Father’s wedding gift to us.”

  “I suppose I should tell him about it.”

  “Let me do it. He couldn’t refuse me.”

  Tray grinned at her and turned his attention to the engineer who appeared on the phone’s wall screen.

  After several minutes of technical jargon, Loris heard the engineer suggest, “Are you sure you want an exact duplicate? We’ve made a few improvements to the design—”

  Tray cut him off. “I want an exact duplicate. Nothing else.”

  The engineer shook his head. “Well, the customer is always right, I suppose.”

  “I’ve already sent you Para’s complete files.”

  “Yes, we have them. Plus the machine’s original specs.”

  “Good,” said Tray. As he terminated the call, he wished that he could have Para at his side again when Viktor Kroonstad arrived at the chateau. But he knew that that would be impossible. He’d have to face Kroonstad on his own.

  AN OFFER

  Kroonstad was actually much smaller than Tray had thought from his appearance at his earlier phone conversation with De Mayne.

  The word for him is elegant, Tray decided. No taller than Tray’s chin, still Kroonstad radiated grace and style as he stepped into the chateau’s entrance hall. He wore a trim-fitting suit of deep green, and smiled graciously when the baron introduced Tray.

  “Ah,” said Kroonstad as he took Tray’s hand, “the troublemaker.” But his gleaming smile gave the impression that he was merely joking.

  Tray made himself smile back at him.

  In his powered chair, De Mayne led Kroonstad and Tray to the chateau’s main elevator and up to his airy, well-furnished office. Loris was not with them; her father had decided that this meeting with Kroonstad should be kept to a minimum.

  Once in the offic
e, De Mayne wheeled himself to his desk as he said carelessly, “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.”

  Kroonstad took the deeply cushioned burgundy chair in front of the desk. Tray sat beside him, in a smaller yet still comfortable armchair of the same hue.

  From behind his desk the baron asked, “What brings you to my humble abode, sir?”

  Kroonstad smiled broadly. “Hardly humble, Baron. A chateau that has existed for centuries, filled with the memories of your illustrious family. Hardly humble.”

  De Mayne conceded the point with a nod and a tight smile. “May I ask why you are here, monsieur?”

  Gesturing to Tray, Kroonstad said, “To see what it will take to have this investigation into Jordan Kell’s death quashed.”

  Tray gripped both armrests of his chair, but before he could open his mouth to speak, De Mayne said, “What do you have in mind?”

  For several moments Kroonstad did not reply. Instead he looked from De Mayne to Tray and back to the baron again.

  At last he said, “I assume that this young man is working under your … guidance.”

  De Mayne’s smile widened. “Not at all. He is his own man. He is engaged to my daughter, and staying here at the chateau until they are married.”

  “I see. And this investigation he has called for?”

  Tray burst out, “I want Jordan Kell’s murderers brought to justice.”

  Kroonstad turned in his chair to face Tray. “To accomplish that you must first prove that Councilman Kell was actually murdered. You have no such proof.”

  “There was an attempt on my own life.”

  With a wave of his hand, Kroonstad dismissed the idea. “A robot malfunctioned. Hardly proof of a conspiracy.”

  “It was a bomb!”

  De Mayne cut through the burgeoning argument. “What specifically do you propose?”

  Returning his attention to the baron, Kroonstad said calmly, “Kell is dead. Nothing can bring him back.”