by Ben Bova
TWENTY
“BUT WE HAVE the legal authority to take over your entire company,” said Vasily Malik, his face somber, almost grim. “The authority perhaps,” answered Nobuhiko Yamagata, equally serious, “but I doubt that you have the power.” Jane Scanwell sat with Malik on the settee. Across the low coffee table from them sat Nobuhiko and the Japanese consul—a government official low enough to offer no real threat to the GEC Council members, but high enough to make it plain that the Japanese government was vitally interested in the fate of Yamagata Industries. Beyond the windows of Nobo’s hotel room rose the spires and rooftops of New San Francisco, still rebuilding after the mammoth earthquake of six years earlier. At least the city has insisted on keeping the view of the bay clear, thought Jane. That’s one benefit of the quake. But it had taken seventeen thousand deaths to overcome the greed of builders who had raised constantly higher towers in the old days. Malik glanced at the Japanese consul, an undistinguished-looking man of middle years dressed in a conservatively dark business suit, his face as expressionless as a blank mask. For three weeks he had been pressing for a personal meeting with the new head of Yamagata Industries. Finally Nobuhiko had agreed to meet him in San Francisco : a neutral ground between Japan and the GEC’s Paris headquarters. They were in one of the company suites in the rebuilt Yamagata Hotel. Nobo was wearing a casual knit shirt and shorts, fit more for a tennis match than a duel against the powers of the GEC. Both Malik and Jane were in business clothes: her pants suit was a shade of light blue that complemented her auburn hair beautifully; Malik wore a summer-weight suit of pearl gray. “Are you saying,” the Russian asked Nobo, “that the Japanese government would resist a GEC order of confiscation?” “Yes, that is precisely what I am saying,” Nobuhiko replied. “That would be ... unfortunate.” Nobo leaned forward earnestly across the bare coffee table. “I cannot speak for the government of Japan officially, but I assure you that Tokyo will take a very dim view of any attempt by the GEC to take over Yamagata Industries the way you have taken over Astro Manufacturing and several others of the Big Seven.” Jane offered, “We’re only talking about Yamagata ’s space facilities, not your terrestrial operations.” “I understand that.” “Your government would oppose that?” “To the point of exercising its option to withdraw from the Global Economic Council.” “That would be an extreme move,” Malik said uneasily. “And if Japan withdraws,” Nobuhiko pressed his advantage, “China and all the Little Tigers of the Pacific Rim will undoubtedly withdraw also. Perhaps Australia and New Zealand , as well. Who knows how far the movement might spread?” “That must not happen,” said Malik. “Don’t you understand?” Jane pleaded. “We must have control of the space facilities. In the next ten years or so--” “The greenhouse cliff. I know,” Nobo said. “Then you must understand why all the space facilities have to be under a unified control.” “Control is not the same thing as confiscation.” “Astro was confiscated because it broke the law,” Malik insisted. “And Rockledge? Ariane space? What pretexts did you use to take them?” Malik stiffened. “We are here to discuss the fate of Yamagata Industries, not the GEC.” “The two seem inextricably intertwined,” Nobo said, the faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth. “In the face of a global catastrophe, you refuse to cooperate with the GEC.” Nobo raised a finger. “Not so. Yamagata Industries will cooperate fully with the GEC. We understand the gravity of the greenhouse problem, the severity of the challenge that faces the world. Japan is very sensitive to this issue; after all, the rise in sea level will be especially disastrous for Japan . We will certainly cooperate but we will not be coerced.” Jane glanced at Malik’s grim face, then turned back to Nobuhiko. “You will cooperate voluntarily?” “That is what Dan Randolph advised us to do, just before he disappeared.” “Randolph.” Malik growled the name. “He called us together, you know, the day he disappeared; all seven of us.” “I know,” said Jane, her voice low. “I was in his office.” Nobo looked away from her. “I was . . . unable to attend the teleconference. But Dan urged us to cooperate fully with the GEC’s effort to avert the greenhouse cliff. Even if the GEC expropriates all our profits. He said we are facing a wartime situation, and we must act accordingly.” “Wartime!” Malik snapped. “Dan’s position was that we must make the same sacrifices we would if we were at war, if we are to beat this greenhouse cliff. Yamagata Industries intends to do so.” “I see,” Malik said stiffly, the way a man accepts a situation he hates. “That is good news, I suppose.” “On the other hand,” Nobo went on, “if the GEC continues with its efforts to take over Yamagata ’s space facilities, we will fight you in the World Court .” “But that could take years!” Jane said. Nobo acknowledged her assessment with a single nod of his head. “And in the meantime the greenhouse cliff will draw even closer,” said Malik. “That is true.” They all fell silent for several moments. The two Council members clearly saw the offer that Nobuhiko was making: stop the effort to confiscate Yamagata ’s space facilities and the corporation will cooperate fully with the GEC’s effort to avert the greenhouse cliff. Otherwise, the entire GEC itself might be torn apart and the greenhouse warming will devastate the planet. “Complete control,” Malik muttered at last. “We must have total control of all space facilities. That is imperative.” “I am willing to grant you total control of all Yamagata space facilities—provided,” Nobo raised both his hands, “that you recognize legally that such control is voluntarily granted by Yamagata and can be withdrawn whenever Yamagata desires.” Malik slapped his thighs angrily. “Impossible! How can we set long-range operations in motion when you can pull out at any moment?” “How can you expect me to give you control of my space facilities with no time limit? You could keep them forever!” Jane leaned toward Nobo. “How about a time limit written into the agreement, then? Say, ten years?” “Twenty,” said Malik. “Five,” said Nobo. They glared at each other over the coffee table. “Five years,” suggested Jane, “with an automatic renewal for another five, unless one party wants to end the agreement.” “We need ten years at least,” Malik insisted. “Even that will not be enough. How can we convert the entire planet’s energy and transport systems in ten years? It can’t be done! All we can hope for is to make a significant start on the problem.” Nobo said to Jane, “I believe a five-and-five agreement will be workable.” Malik leveled an accusatory finger at him. “I know what you are after! With the whole world looking to you and your other space industrialists to provide fusion fuels and solar power, you intend to gouge incredible profits out of this opportunity!” Nobuhiko forced a smile. “I presume that if I allow you to control all of Yamagata ’s space operations, that control will include a limit on our profit margins. In fact, I thought that was the real reason behind your insistence on control.” “The operations must be done at cost,” Malik said, not taken aback for a moment by Nobo’s placating tone. “It will be necessary for us to vastly enlarge our facilities in space,” Nobo countered. “How will the GEC provide capital for such expansion?” “Cost plus a percentage for expansion,” Jane suggested. “But no profits,” said Malik. Nobo leaned back in the settee, forcing the consul to move slightly, the first indication since their meeting began that the man was actually alive. “The GEC will provide any additional capital needed?” he asked. “Yes,” Jane said before Malik could open his mouth. “All salary levels will be maintained? We have a rather liberal policy of bonuses and salary reviews, you know.” “You will continue to operate the facilities as you see fit,” Jane said. “The Council will take the responsibility for management.” “Including price-setting,” Malik added. “Five years, with renewal option.” Malik hesitated, then said, “Over a total of twenty years.” “Three renewal options, then,” said Jane. Nobuhiko closed his eyes for a moment, as if communing with spirits. When he opened them again he said, “Very well. I will sign such an agreement.” “And you will get the others in the Big Seven to sign similar agreements?” “Those you haven’t already seized,” Nobo said. “Excellent.” All four of
them rose and shook hands across the coffee table. Not one of them smiled. In Paris it was two in the morning. Rafaelo Gaetano sat on the sofa in his living room, swathed in a burgundy red silk robe, his bare feet up on the pillows, his eyes fixed on the video screen. Transmission quality of the picture was good, considering that the camera was about the width of a human hair and set into the ceiling of the hotel room in San Francisco . The sound was weak, though; he had to strain his ears to understand what they were saying. When the four stood up and shook hands, Gaetano fished the remote control from the pocket of his robe and clicked off the TV. Unconsciously he bit his lower lip as he thought, We wanted total control of Yamagata and the others, but Malik’s made this half-assed deal with the Jap. Five years. That ought to give us enough time to put our own people in charge. By the time the renewal comes up, we could have Yamagata Industries and the others in our pocket, if we play our cards right. He nodded to himself, satisfied that his report to Don Marcello would be acceptable. At least, he thought it would be. Dan Randolph had learned a lot in three weeks. There was an underground community on the Moon—an illegal, unacknowledged subculture that lived by theft, barter and bribery. And now he was part of it. He was walking through the main plaza of Alphonsus City , heading toward the grand entryway of the brand-new Yamagata Hotel, grinning to himself that he could get away with it. Of course, he had changed considerably. He had not shaved, and although his three-week beard was depressingly gray rather than the youthful sandy blond he would have preferred, it effectively kept his face from being recognized by the men and women walking along the plaza. And he was thinner, tauter. Three weeks of living as an outlaw had burned off some fat. The people in the plaza were almost entirely Japanese, of course. Still, Dan felt a pang of surprise. And he felt annoyed with himself that he was surprised. He had known that Alphonsus was basically a Yamagata facility; his own Astro operations merely leased space from Sai’s corporation. But he had surrounded himself with his own people so much that he had forgotten, down in his gut where it counted, that his Americans were a small minority of the men and women who lived and worked in Alphonsus. I insulated myself too much, he thought as he walked along the pedestrian thoroughfare. How easy it is to separate yourself from the real world. Big-shot Dan Randolph, sitting in your office and giving orders, watching your flunkies jump, ignoring the world around you because it was so much easier to let yourself think you knew what was going on. So much more pleasant to tell yourself you were in charge, to watch people hop when you gave an order. You took up swimming while the rest of ‘em were working to steal it all. No wonder Malik was able to take my company away from me. It was my own damned stupid fault. The main plaza was an immense domed structure, big enough to hold six football fields. But the city was all underground, buried deep below the plaza level. The area up here was devoted to green trees and flowering shrubbery, an open-air theater with a gracefully curved acoustical shell, small shops and restaurants and pleasant winding walks through the greenery. A few fliers were gliding high up above on rented plastic wings and their own muscle power. Soft music wafted through the air over the hum and hubbub of the crowds on the thoroughfares. To Dan it all seemed like a giant shopping mall, the kind he had known in Houston that had created an environment just as artificial as this vast dome on the Moon. A pair of young Japanese whizzed past him on a skateboard. Probably a married couple, from the looks of them. Maybe not: she’s holding him awfully tight. They shouldn’t be in the pedestrian lane, Dan grumbled to himself. Sure enough, they were stopped by a robot traffic monitor only a few hundred feet up ahead, the spinning light on its head glaring red. The young man looked abashed as the robot recited its programmed lecture on traffic safety and a printed summons chugged out of the slot on its side. Dan grinned at them as he sauntered past. He noticed that both the man and his lady friend had earphones clamped to their heads. God knows what kind of brain-numbing music they were pumping into their skulls. The traffic robots were equipped with radio overrides, so their lectures and instructions were piped right into the earphones. The long arm of the law. Just be careful that the long arm of the law doesn’t tap you on the shoulder, he warned himself. He was carrying a fake ID that Pops Tucker had cooked up for him, based on data from Astro’s personnel file that the grumpy old man had hacked into. It would not bear close scrutiny, but a simple robot might be fooled by it. The secret was not to be stopped and asked for identification. Accordingly, Dan walked with the flow of pedestrian traffic, as innocuous and unremarkable as the shrubbery planted along the thoroughfare. The coveralls he wore were old and faded from their original sky blue, but clean and not too frayed. The ID badge clipped to his breast pocket identified him as R. Jones. His shoulder patch claimed he worked in Astro’s logistics department. He had left his pistol back in the tempo shelter he shared with Tucker and Big George; hidden it behind his bunk. He still did not trust his two new acquaintances enough to show the gun to them. He sauntered through the entryway of the hotel, past the built-in X-ray detectors and security cameras and the two burly Japanese doormen in their bright new uniforms. Anybody could come into the hotel’s lobby area; there were restaurants and shops open to the public. It would be a different matter to try to get into one of the residence suites. The lobby was gorgeous, floored with basalt from Mare Nubium polished to a mirror finish. Like all lunar facilities, the hotel’s various floors were deeper underground than the main plaza’s level. There were no staircases on the Moon; too easy for newcomers unaccustomed to the lower gravity to trip themselves. Dan descended a wide rampway, walking slowly like the rest of the crowd to admire the sheets of water sliding noiselessly down tilted panes of glass on either side of the central rampway, into spacious fish ponds at the bottom level. Freely flowing water was still a rare sight on the Moon, even though aquaculture provided much more protein for the lunar diet than agriculture could. Tourists tossed bread and other goodies to the beautifully colored fish. Dan wondered if they realized that they would be eating those same fish in another day or two. Dan felt strangely happy. For the first time in years, in decades really, he felt free. No obligations, except to his stomach. And his groin. No responsibilities, except to avoid getting caught. At the age of fifty he was starting a new life, almost as if he were a kid again. So half the world’s going to be flooded out in ten years or so. Not a damned thing I can do about it. I would’ve tried to help, but they stopped me. Not my responsibility anymore. I wanted to help, but Malik saw to it that I won’t be able to. Tough luck, world. I could’ve saved you a lot of trouble. But they won’t let me. Malik. And Jane even she turned against me. We could have had a great life together, the two of us. But it was never meant to be. He shrugged as he walked, trying to accept it all philosophically. But inwardly he seethed. The more he thought about it, the less he liked his thoughts. Malik. And Jane. Nobuhiko turning his back on him. And Kate Williams. The traitor. The damned smiling, long-legged, redheaded, sexy-looking traitor. I’d like to wring her neck, he told himself. But he knew that was not what he really wanted to do. With an angry huff he realized that what he really wanted was to get her in bed. Or anybody, come to think of it. The one problem with this new life-style is getting laid. It’s a lot easier when you’re filthy rich. Katherine Williams was speaking to Rafaelo Gaetano from her office in Astro Manufacturing’s complex in Alphonsus. In the three weeks since she had spearheaded the GEC’s takeover, Kate had come to think of Dan Randolph’s former office as her own. It had not changed much, physically. The pictures on the walls were still mostly photographs of rocket launches and space facilities that Randolph had built. Kate had replaced one especially pointless engineering sketch with a print of colorful flowers in a vase. She kept a small photograph of her sister and herself in the top desk drawer, where no one could see it. It had been taken when they were teenagers, arms around each other’s waists, smiles full of milk-white teeth, no marks of pain or disappointment or responsibility on either of their happy pretty faces. “He’s not dead,” she was sayi
ng to Gaetano. “I’m certain of that, Rare.” It took two and a half seconds for her words to reach Earth and his response to return. She was smoothing her hair when he replied: “How can you be so sure? He hasn’t shown up for three weeks. He can’t live out in the open that long.” “He’s not out on the surface,” Kate said firmly. “He’s somewhere here, around Alphonsus, using an assumed identity.” Gaetano seemed annoyed by the transmission lag. He glowered into the screen. “You’re guessing,” he said at last. Kate shook her head. “Nobody’s found his body. But I’ve found something that’s maybe more interesting than his corpse.” She stopped, smiling, knowing that he would be impatient to hear what she had to say. “So? What is it?” “People are living in the emergency shelters that are scattered around up on the surface. People who aren’t registered on the personnel files of any corporation up here.” Gaetano’s frown deepened even further when her words reached him. “People? What people?” Kate waved an uncertain hand. “The lunar version of the homeless, Rafe. People who have no IDs, no jobs, no permanent abode. I’m digging into this; there’s apparently an entire underground community here at Alphonsus. I’ll bet the same situation holds at all the other lunar facilities, as well.” “I thought everybody lives underground up there.” “I mean underground like---well, like crooks. Black market. Illegal aliens, sort of. They must be criminals, Rafe. They can’t hold down regular jobs, or they’d be on the personnel files and have regular living quarters assigned to them.” His scowl turned thoughtful. “You mean there’s a whole nest of illegals at Alphonsus?” “Yes. And Copernicus, and the other communities, too. Just like any city on Earth, Rare.” “And you think Randolph is in with these burns?” “He must be.” Gaetano ran a finger across his moustache. “Then you’d better find him. Don’t even think about coming back until you do.” Kate tried to look upset at the thought that she was not to return to Earth until she had rooted Dan Randolph out of his hiding place’ She kept herself from smiling until several seconds after the phone link had been ended.