by Ian Miller
"You want to know what I think?"
The patrician remained silent. Eventually, one of the young men laughed, and said tauntingly, "I think that's why you've been paid to come here."
"I think you should say no," the advisor burst out.
"Why?"
"I fail to see where it gets us," the man said, now finding that having committed himself, he had to finish. "There are two outcomes. Either we end up negotiating an association with the Federation, or we don't. If we don't, I don't see the point of accepting. And I don't see the point of an association."
"And what about you?" the patrician asked the other advisor.
"I agree," he said. "We don't need the Federation."
"Let's look at the second point first," the patrician said. "Suppose we don't want to join. Do we lose anything? We get to send someone to the academy at Tashkent, and we get to find out all about Defence. Is there any harm?"
"I see two problems, and little upside," the first advisor said. "First, I can't see a candidate for a space programme being shown any of the real Defence secrets. Second, I can see such a candidate being bullied and disgraced by the other corporate louts there. If the candidate was sent home in disgrace I think we could have real downside."
"I don't agree," one of the young men said. "First, I think our people are as good as theirs. Our candidate won't come home in disgrace. And even if he did, so what? Nobody would know about it. The worst that would happen is that you'd set back the clock even further for reconciliation, and nobody seems to want that anyway. Perhaps that disgrace could be a bonus."
"I do agree, though," the second young man said, "that the chance of picking up any secrets worth having is remote. Kotchetkova's not stupid, by all accounts. If that's the purpose of going, I vote no."
"Marisa?" the patrician turned towards the young woman.
Marisa was amused to notice the more fidgety advisor could not quite make up his mind whether to turn to look at her. There was little doubt where his glance would go if he did. "I agree with Emilio," she said softly and slowly. "The only reason for going is if you want to consider joining the Federation. If everything turns out badly, you still don't have to join, but I think it'd waste everybody's time if you had no intention of joining all along."
"So is the Federation worth considering?" the patrician asked, and turned his glance at the advisors.
"Under no circumstances, if it brings the corporations," the first advisor said.
"Agreed," the second said. "They're scum."
"As Economics Minister," the patrician said, "I have to consider the effect of having markets of several billion opened up to us. Quite frankly, our economy is constipated."
"That market is illusory," one of the advisors said. "The market's there in principle, but there'd always be enough restrictive regulations to keep our penetration to a very low level. There'd be various inspection fees we'd have to pay, various middlemen, various tariffs, quotas, bottom prices. They'd take most of the bag; we'd get a few beans. And all the time, the corporations would demand to get in here, to buy everything up. Too many of our people would want the money, and they'd sell, but our people can't buy any industries there because the corporations, who never sell any infrastructure, own them all. In theory we have a huge market, but the reality is there's no way we can use it. In theory we have an even chance, but in practice we end up as an economic colony. It's the mathematics. Their system protects themselves totally, but refuse to let us introduce equivalent protection in the form of legislative restrictions. We cannot merge and retain our economic freedoms."
"He's got some good points," Emilio nodded, then added. "Also, we don't have a distribution network, so the corporations would control our trade. It's all stacked against us."
"Marisa?"
"I don't want the corporations," Marisa said, "but I know some of my friends would like to see new fashions."
"To put our workers out of work," an advisor grumbled.
"And I'd like to see more books and music. I also think our musicians and writers could well sell more there than we'd buy," Marisa went on.
"Suppose I put it to you that we could arrange it so that our currencies weren't externally convertible," the patrician said. "Suppose all trade was in fecus?"
"We haven't got any," the advisors both said, almost in unison.
"Exactly," the Economics Minister said. "If they want to sell anything to us, it would mean they'd have to buy something first, to give us the fecus."
"I don't think you're serious," Emilio chided. "There're two possibilities: they buy up our companies and resources or they don't. If they do, then we get our initial glut of fecus, then we're done like little dinners. If they don't, that's no different from our current barter through the South Pacific."
"Perhaps," the patrician smiled, "but the point remains. Suppose we can do this and keep the corporations out, and not get into the old debt-slave relationship, do we want to stay out on principle?"
"Yes," the two advisors said firmly.
"I can't think of any way to keep the corporations out once you join," Emilio said. "You might get away with it for a while, but they'd eat away at it. Sooner or later we'd get a weak politician and in they'd be."
"Suppose we can negotiate conditions? Only the independents can come? Or the corporations can only come under certain conditions, which would either keep them out, or make them modify their behaviour?"
"No difference," Emilio said. "Sooner or later the rules would change, and they always change in favour of the strong. Inevitably, we'd end up with the worst of all worlds. Father, you know as well as I do that that changes are always made on inadequate analysis, and the winners are those who can move fastest. And the first thing to come up in new ground is weeds."
"Marisa?"
"I think we could keep them out in principle, but probably not in practice."
"I see," the patrician said to himself. "Then I have decided. We shall accept Kotchetkova's offer."
"I fail to see why you always ask our advice," Emilio said, shaking his head sadly.
"I did not say we would join the Federation," the patrician smiled. "As I see it, there may be scope for something more limited. The only good reason I have heard is that we don't want the corporations. I totally agree. But I have heard nothing against some improved trade relationships, and I have heard a weak vote for improved cultural relationships."
"So we send someone to Tashkent," Emilio said. "Who?"
"Marisa."
"What?"
"You heard," the patrician smiled. "I can't send either of you two hot-heads. I need you here, and anyway, you'd miss the football too much. Marisa's a good pilot, and, I understand, an excellent navigator, which is more than I can say for you two, but apart from that, look what happened while you were watching the game. Marisa has an extraordinary ability at manipulating data. If anyone's going to learn from the Federation, it's Marisa."
"You knew about this?" Emilio turned on Marisa.
"It's the first I've heard of it," Marisa protested.
"That's true," the patrician said firmly. "In fact, Marisa's yet to even say yes. I hope you will, Marisa. I've discussed this with the Commissioner, and you wouldn't be an ordinary candidate. If you decide you can't see it through, you can walk out."
"The honour of Brazil would be at stake, wouldn't it?" Marisa asked.
"Only a little."
"Which means I can't walk out."
"You can't send her," Emilio said. "It's a man's job."
"They have combat courses," the other young man agreed. "It's not the place for you, sis."
"I could handle it," Marisa flared. "You two aren't all that smart."
"It's not a place for a young beautiful woman," Emilio said. "You don't know the effect you have on men."
"No?" Marisa flared again. "I can look after myself."
"Can you?" Emilio asked harshly, "or does the fact that you're a Robeiro help?"
"I should war
n you," the patrician said, with a deeper tone, "that the family can't do much to help you when you're there. You'd be on your own."
"I can handle it," Marisa said angrily.
"Then you'll go?"
"I never said that."
"Hah!" Emilio said. "You've seen sense at last!"
"Then I've made up my mind," Marisa countered, as she stood up. "I'll go."
"That figures," Emilio grinned, and returned to watching football.
Chapter 8
Below was a vast frozen lake of red. Across it ran a number of rilles, as though some ancient giant had taken a sharp stick and had playfully scratched. The rilles seemed to run forever; indeed the frozen lake at the centre of Arsia Mons was over one hundred kilometers in diameter. Surrounding the ancient lava lake, the cliffs of this once powerful volcano glistened their fiery red where the early afternoon sun struck. Faint wafts of cirrus cloud glistened in the blackish sky above. The fiery red of the walls and the never-ending red of the lava lake gave an initial feeling of heat, but the near black of the shadows gave the lie. In truth, the volcano was bitterly cold. The volcano was still, but not quite dead.
Faint tracks, accompanied by two sets of pipes, ran across the ancient lava from what appeared to be a large cave in the side of the cliffs towards two sets of fumaroles, then they disappeared into the ground. There were a number of other fumaroles, which glistened yellow and orange against the all pervading red; many of these had tracks leading to them, and small heaps of rocks showed that burrowing had occurred. Beside the cave there was a small flat area, and on this were parked three glistening shuttlecraft. At the end of the flat area furthest from the cave was a large pile of stones, which showed that the cave had been excavated. The stones themselves were grey, rather than the general red, which showed the excavation had been, in geological time, very recent. Between this pile of stones and the cliff was another pile, but this pile was Martian red, which implied a very old excavation. Such a conclusion would have been, however, very wrong, for the pile was very recent in origin. Very close inspection of this pile would have shown that it was not a pile of stones at all, but there was nobody to carry out such a close inspection. There was total silence, as nothing moved, and the thin air about this volcano was equivalent in pressure to that attained by a moderate vacuum pump on Earth.
Above the cliff a silvery light appeared; it turned and swept silently down on a curved trajectory, marked clearly by the white vapour trail, until it came to rest, silently, beside the other three craft. Two men in pressure suits emerged from the craft and clumsily waddled towards the cave. One of them plugged in an intercom jack and after a few moments the giant steel door to the outer airlock opened. The men entered, and the steel door closed.
The men went through two further sets of airlocks, and in the third were required to take off their pressure suits so their faces could be observed by those inside. At this point a sudden depressurization would have led to instant death, and one of the men's hands were shaking as the last item was removed. But the cameras passed over the men and the inner door opened without incident. The pressure suits were stored in lockers, then the men walked quickly down the corridor tunnelled into the rock. Small electric light bulbs on the roof gave sufficient light to allow the route to be clearly seen.
"You'da think they coulda spared some more light," one of the men grumbled in a thick Italian accent. The other man nodded agreement, but said nothing. There was no shortage of electricity. Each of the bases on Mars used electricity generated through magnetohydrodynamic generators attached to the fusion motors from space ships that were sacrificed to bring fabricated items that were too massive to shuttle down to the surface of Mars. The power from a fusion motor was in considerable excess of the requirements of a moderate sized base; the excess was always fed to accumulators. For the energy requirements of this tiny base, however, the motors were devoted almost entirely to providing the energy for the automated minerals extraction and processing being carried on outside.
Eventually they turned off through a further iron door, walked through a smaller iron-lined corridor, and entered an iron-lined room. The room contained a powerful computer facility on the far wall, and at the left end, a refreshments bar. There was a further door at the right end, and in the centre of the room was a large iron table, surrounded by several iron-framed chairs that had thin plastic covered padding. Seven men greeted the new arrivals.
"You're late," one of the men observed.
"I had a problem," the newcomer with the thick Italian accent explained. "You gotta realize that Hellas is on the other side of this planet, and –"
"Cut the crap, Baromei," the first man said harshly. "You were at Phoenicus Lacus last night."
"I hadda refuel, an' sleep, an –"
"Gentlemen! No names! Now, let's get on with it," a large, sandy haired man said firmly. "As you all know, I'm from GenCorp, and I'm going to chair this meeting." He looked around, almost daring someone to object, but nobody did. "Good. Each of you is aware of your position. Each of you has been sent here by your corporation as a forward move by that corporation to obtain a position on Mars. Each of us has a strong commitment to end the current exclusion of the corporations from Mars."
One man shrugged. "It's all for the good of Mars anyway."
"If the corporations could get some efficiency going," another agreed, "the Martians would find themselves with lots of spare time. The current philosophy seems to be to do things the awkward way, to fill up the day."
"Gotta agree," another said in a German accent. "ChemischeKorp could treble the efficiency of the salts processing without breathing hard. As for the ureas, they don't even seem to know what they've got."
"MinCorp's position is one of complete puzzlement," another said. "They've built this white elephant here which defies all logic."
"Just as a matter of interest, what does this place do?" someone asked.
"It extracts a number of elements they can't use, like arsenic and antimony," the MinCorp man said. "Then there's those pipes going into the ground that do nothing."
"What are they going to do?"
"We don't know, but we think they're going to pump water down there some time in the future, to extract elements like lithium, and maybe caesium and rubidium."
"Why?"
"Who knows? The same reason they've dug up so much arsenic and antimony sulphides outside. Probably because it's there."
"Gentlemen, if we could come to order," the Chairman said. "We all agree that the exclusion of the corporations from Mars is senseless. The question is, how do we end this problem?"
"With all due respect, Mr Chairman," the Italian called Baromei said firmly, "I believe the exclusion is by no means senseless."
"You mean you approve?" someone spat incredulously.
"I said nothing of the sort," Baromei said angrily. "Listen! It's the view of FoodBund that our exclusion from Mars has more sinister overtones. We believe that Defence wishes to break up the corporations, and to do that, they must have alternatives. We believe that they are using Mars as a laboratory to develop new techniques of supply. We believe that the new methods in hydroponics being developed at Theppot will eventually be used to reduce the influence of FoodBund on Earth."
"Poor FoodBund," someone tittered.
"This is no laughing matter," the Chairman said forcefully. "As it happens, GenCorp supports that view. The manufacturing techniques being developed in space, at, I might add, the taxpayer's expense, which means in turn the corporation's expense, will be used to replace GenCorp. And I put it to you, there is no meaningful corporation that could not be broken up if the military has an alternative."
"Then we've gotta do something," came several cries.
"Yes, we do," the Chairman said in an almost schoolmasterly tone, "which is why I’ve called this meeting. We need a strategy. It’s not going to be easy, though, because none of our affiliations must be known outside this circle. As far as Mars is concerned, we
must remain under cover until we can be sure of success."
"Then we might as well go home,” the man from MinCorp grunted.
"And exactly what's that meant to mean?" the chairman snarled.
"It's a waste of time attempting the impossible."
"What d'ya mean?" someone asked.
"Typical MinCorp defeatism," the Chairman spat. "That's what it means."
"Face the facts," the MinCorp man shrugged. "You can make someone do something, or you can persuade them, otherwise they don't do it. Even GenCorp doesn't have the wherewithal for force, and you're hardly likely to persuade anybody if we stay in secret. Persuasion requires dialogue, and dialogue means two parties. I assume you can count that far?"
"That sort of attitude isn't getting us anywhere," the Chairman pouted. "We must be positive."
"I prefer to be realistic," the MinCorp man replied quietly but firmly.
"I gotta tell you, we have another problem," Baromei intervened. "It's why I was late. I was at the shuttle port, when I saw this guy called Baxter. He used to be in FoodBund, until he tried to shake down the bosses."
"So he had misdirected initiative," the German laughed. "Why not use him?"
"Hell no!" Baromei spluttered. "When he made his play, he brought Garrett. He was a Justice plant."
"Then what's he doing here?"
"That's my point exactly," Baromei said, shaking his head sadly. "There's hardly any crime on Mars, because nobody's got anything worth stealing, and anyway, what'd you do with it? Everyone knows what everyone else's doing. No, my friend, there can only be one reason why Justice'd send such a high powered agent to Mars, and that's to catch the corporates on Mars."
"What're you saying?"
"I'm saying Garrett's also moving against us. It looks like our problems don't stop with Kotchetkova."
"Surely not!"
"I'm afraid our Italian friend may be correct," the Chairman said firmly. At the sound of the forcefulness of his voice, the meeting subsided, and he had everyone's attention. "GenCorp believes there's a concerted move against the corporations already underway."