Empire Builders

by Ben Bova

  TWENTY-ONE

  RANDOLPH JONES, DAN’s assumed persona—was a lowly computer programmer in Astro Corporation’s logistics department. In other words, a high-tech clerk. The actual Randolph Jones was enjoying two days of fun and games with some of the women that Big George played with over in the mining facility out on the plain of Mare Nubium. Horny though he might be, Dan had not been able to bring himself to bed one of Big George’s playmates. No wonder the company’s group insurance rates keep going up, he thought the first time George had taken him out to the camp. They looked sleazy and dirty, not at all the kind that Dan felt comfortable with, even after several rounds of locally brewed “rocket juice.” One of the whores had plunked herself on Dan’s knee and whispered into his ear, “Even if you’re too old to cut the mustard, honey, you can still lick the jar.” Then she shrieked with wicked laughter. For the rest of that evening Dan was glad that his beard was coming in gray. Now, after an hour’s walk through the Yamagata Hotel shops, ogling jeweled baubles and pricey clothes and handsome women that he could no longer afford, Dan headed for work as Randolph Jones at Astro Manufacturing’s logistics office. The women bothered him. It was fine to feel free of responsibilities, to live from day to day, almost like a teenager. No worries. No cares. But no women, either. I’ve got to do something about that, he told himself. Astro’s logistics office was two levels below the main plaza, connected to the big enclosed garage where the surface skimmers and tractors were housed and maintained. The personnel computer accepted R. Jones’ ID badge without a quiver, simply checking the retinal pattern coded onto the badge against Dan’s eyes. It was not programmed to check the pattern on the badge against R. Jones’ pattern in the personnel file. Dan realized that this was a hole in Astro’s security procedures that you could drive a tractor through. But who would have thought that the company needed tight security procedures at a lunar base? Besides, every piece of equipment and item of supplies was constantly monitored by the logistics computer, wasn’t it? The past three weeks had taught Dan how fallacious that assumption was. “Hey, man, you’re not Randy Jones.” Dan clipped his badge back onto his pocket as he surveyed the man accosting him. He was another maintenance tech, a black American somewhere in his early thirties, tall and gangly in blue coveralls that were just as faded as Dan’s own. His face looked more curious than suspicious. “Randy’s taking a couple of days off. He asked me to fill in for him so he wouldn’t lose any pay.” “Yeah?” Dan sidled closer and lowered his voice. “He’s with a couple of girlfriends.” The black man huffed. “Sounds like him. Tryin’ to live up to his name.” Glancing at the man’s ID badge, Dan said, “Listen, Bob—you’re not going to give me away, are you? Randy and I are splitting the pay, and I sure could use the money.” Robert Thomas obviously did not like the situation. But he said, “I won’t give Randy away; he’s a friend. A screwball, but a friend. Just don’t you fuck up on the job, man. Then we’ll all be in the soup. You know anything about tractor maintenance?” Dan said, “Randy told me his JOB was running the inventory program.” Thomas smiled. “Okay. I guess you really do know the old motherhumper. Yeah, you handle the inventory while the rest of us do the real work.” Letting out a breath that he had not realized he had been holding in, Dan followed Bob Thomas up the power ladder to the big, echoing garage where the tractors and skimmers were kept. Men and women were already at work, welding sparks sputtering, the Dang of metal on metal ringing across the concrete floor of the domed chamber. ‘I’ll see you at lunch break,” Thomas said to Dan, then he headed for his workstation across the wide floor. He’s going to be a problem, Dan told himself as he swung onto the power ladder that carried him up to the cubbyhole office on the catwalk overhead where the logistics computer was housed. Jeff Robertson leaned back in his squeaky old desk chair and smiled politely at his two visitors. His desk was cluttered with memorabilia: a small forest of framed photographs of family and old friends; a massive silver-plated drill bit from his first oil well, that took up one whole side of the desktop; several model airplanes; and a miniature mock-up of a fusion power reactor that looked almost puny next to the drill bit. Through the window behind Robertson’s desk, Jane Scanwell looked out at the soaring glass and steel towers of Houston , but the allegedly blue Texas sky was lost in a gray haze of smog. ‘I can see your problem,” Robertson said, his voice a thin tenor, “but I don’t understand why you’re bringing it to me.” To Rafaelo Gaetano, sitting beside Jane in front of the desk, Robertson looked like a canny old cowboy, or perhaps the flinty sheriff: of some frontier Western town, hard-bitten and quick on the trigger. The old man was whipcord lean, his face like tanned leather stretched over an ancient skull, a strong eagle’s nose jutting out from it, his hair white and wispy. His eyes bulged, hyperthyroid almost. But they were bright blue and keen as a prairie scout’s. Robertson was wearing a comfortable old shirt of sagebrush lavender with a string tie hanging loosely from its collar. Gaetano had refused to take off his dark suit jacket, even though Robertson had remarked that the office might be a bit warm for them. To Jane, in a tailored silk blouse of cream white and a knee-length navy blue skirt, the room felt almost frigid. Texans and their air-conditioning; her years in Europe had made her forget how profligate her fellow Texans could be. “You are the chief executive officer of the world’s largest energy corporation,” Gaetano answered smoothly. “Who else would the Council turn to, except you?” “Aw hell,” Robertson said, “I’m just an old man who got kicked upstairs.” His smile belied his words. His voice did quaver slightly, and Gaetano knew that this man had spent nearly seven decades in building Southwest Energy Corporation into the multinational giant it now was. Jane said, “I don’t think anybody could ever get away with kicking you anywhere, Jeff.” Robertson’s smile flashed wider. “Miz President, I would never argue with you. Hell, even if I hadn’t voted for you, you’re much too purty to argue with.” Jane made herself smile back at the old man. She had known Jeff Robertson since the days when his oil money had helped lubricate Morgan Scanwell’s first campaign for governor. A hundred years ago, Jane thought, trying to keep the pain from showing. A thousand years ago. “The simple fact of the matter,” Gaetano said, leaning forward in his chair slightly, anxious to get down to business, “is that you are the most respected man in the world energy industry.” Robertson gave a modest shrug. “I been working in the oil patch longer’n anybody who’s still around and kickin’, I reckon.” “You have seen the GEC report on the greenhouse cliff?” “Yep. Read the executive summary, at least. Got my science people going over the details for me.” “That report is Top Secret!” Gaetano said. “It shouldn’t be revealed to anyone! If the public finds out about the greenhouse cliff there could be mass hysteria and panic.” “Relax,” said Robertson. “My people know how to keep their mouths shut. Nobody’s gonna go ‘round scaring the hoi polloi.” “It’s all right, Rafe,” Jane said soothingly. “We can trust Jeff.” “Well then,” said Gaetano, more calmly, “you know the catastrophe that is about to strike us,” “I know what your report claims will happen.” “It’s real, Jeff,” said Jane. “This isn’t a matter of scientists making guesses. The facts are inescapable.” Robertson studied her for a silent moment, his pop eyes narrowing. “Real, huh? Then what can we do about it?” “That is exactly why we are here,” Gaetano said. “To get your help.” The old man leveled a finger at him. “Now look. I know what you’ve done to the Big Seven space corporations. Don’t think you’re going to take over Southwest that way. Or any of the energy corporations. That’s out of the question.” Jane realized that his down-home accent had vanished. Gaetano’s nostrils flared with suppressed anger. “No one wants to take over the energy corporations,” Jane said quickly. “Least of all Southwest.” “Good.” “But we do need your cooperation.” Robertson did not reply. “It is urgent,” said Gaetano, “more than urgent—it is imperative that we begin to move transportation and industry off fossil fuels.” “Hell, I know that! Knew it twenty-five years ago. Why do you th
ink I turned Southwest Oil into Southwest Energy? When we had movie stars running around the country scaring everybody to death over nuclear, I was backing fusion as hard as I could.” “But now we’ve got to start phasing the auto industry into electric cars,” Jane said. “And quickly.” Robertson snorted disdainfully and leaned his skinny arms on his desk. “That won’t be easy. You’re talking maybe a hundred billion dollars of tooling and redesign. More. To say nothing of the advertising and public relations campaigns they’ll have to start.” “Yamagata has promised his cooperation in Japan ,” said Gaetano. “In three years there will be no more petrol-powered automobiles built by the Japanese.” “You expect Detroit to go along with that?” “It is imperative.” With a shake of his head, the old man replied, “Don’tcha see? If the Japs go to electric cars,Detroit will see it as an opportunity to grab the import market back from them. It’ll be easier to sell gas-powered cars; that’s what the public really wants. Muscle cars. Not those little electric putt-putts.” “That’s why we need your help, Jeff,” said Jane. “You’ve got to be a leader on this.” “Janie, dear: you know and I know that by the time this thing strikes, I’ll be dead and gone.” “But there are twelve billion other human beings who’ll be hit by this disaster!” Jane insisted. “You’ve got to help us, even if it’s the last thing you do!” “Convert the whole global energy industry from fossil fuels to nuclear? In ten years?” “Nuclear and solar,” said Jane. “The Big Seven are all under GEC control now. They’ll produce the fuel for fusion plants and build solar panels at maximum output. We’re already developing plans to double their capacity within the next five years, and then double it again.” “But that won’t do you much good if nobody down here on the ground wants to buy ‘em, huh?” “Exactly right.” “I don’t know if it can be done, Janie. Especially in the time you say we’ve got to do it.” “We’ve got to try.” “The alternative,” said Gaetano coldly, “is for the GEC to take over the energy corporations and run them for the duration of this emergency. Robertson glowered at him. “You try that and there won’t be any GEC. We’ll tear it apart.” “This is no time for threats,” Jane snapped, “from either of you. There’s no room for anything but cooperation. Period.” The two men stared at each other for a long, wordless moment. Finally Robertson turned back to Jane and said, “You’re right, honey. We got no choice. This problem is bigger than all of us put together.” Then he turned back to Gaetano. “It’s even bigger than the Mafia, isn’t it?” Gaetano’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped. “Wh... why do ask me that?” he sputtered. “I didn’t get this old by being a fool,” Robertson said. “I know the crooks are crawling all over this mess, like a bunch of roaches nibbling away in the dark.” “Are you accusing me “ “I’m not accusing anybody. I’m just telling you that if you want the world’s largest corporations to cooperate with the GEC, you better keep the goddanged Mafia off our backs.” “There is no such thing as the Mafia,” Gaetano snapped. “Mafia, Cosa Nostra, the international crime syndicate-call it whatever you want to. We both know it exists and the people in it are licking their chops for the chance to skim the cream off this disaster. You just make sure they keep out of our way. Because if you don’t we’ll blow you to hell and gone. We won’t go to the police or the lawyers or the courts. We’ll use whatever kind of force it takes to get rid of you cockroaches. Understand that?” Trembling visibly, Gaetano rose to his feet. “You insult me because I am Italian. I assure you, sir, that if there actually were such a thing as the Mafia, it would not interfere with the work you will be doing.” “Like hell.” Jane said, “Jeff, you’re talking to a member of the Global Economic Council.” Robertson huffed, swiveled back and forth slightly in his desk chair, then got up and put on a smile. “Well, maybe I got carried away. Sorry ‘bout that. I apologize. Nothing personal, son.” The old man stuck his hand out over the desk. Gaetano took one step forward and clasped Robertson’s proffered hand. “No offense meant,” said Robertson, thinking, He’ll be carrying my message back to his goombah pals in Sicily , all right. “None taken,” Gaetano said, thinking, He won’t live to see the end of this. That is for certain. Kate Williams rubbed her bleary eyes. She had been staring into the computer’s display screen for hours, patiently, doggedly going through the logistics inventories for the past month, item by item. Leaning back in the comfortable swivel chair, she closed her eyes yet still saw columns of numbers parading past. They’re clever, she said to herself. Damned clever. Must be a whole network of people stealing and covering it up. And they’re getting all the help they need from Astro’s own employees. Those renegade people out there couldn’t exist without Astro employees covering up their pilfering. They’re smart enough to keep it small, keep it down at a low level so nothing disturbing shows up to alert management. No wonder Dan never found out about it. His own company is honeycombed with people who’ve helping these fugitives to survive. And now Dan’s one of them. Now he’s part of it, I know he is. Kate opened her eyes and sat upright once again. The digital clock on the desk said 1:47 A.M. “Phone,” she called in a tired but clear voice, “get me Kiberly’ Williams in San Francisco .” “Yes, ma’am,” replied the phone, in a neutral voice. It had been a sexy female voice when Kate had taken over the office from Dan; she had immediately changed that. “No answer,” said the phone a moment later. Kate felt a tingle of alarm. “What time is it there?” “The correct time in San Francisco is sixteen forty-eight and eleven seconds.” Almost five in the afternoon, Kate thought. She could still be in school. Or the clinic. Or maybe just out enjoying the day. Nothing to worry about. I’ll call later. She’s okay. It’s perfectly normal for a person to be out in the afternoon. But why wouldn’t she be carrying her phone with her? Kate asked herself. What’s she doing that she won’t answer my call? She tasted blood in her mouth and realized she was biting her lips. With a groaning sigh she unclenched her teeth and reached for the computer keyboard again. Personnel files. Kate made a mental note to tell maintenance to install a voice activation circuit in the computer; Dan may have enjoyed fiddling with the damned keyboard, but she didn’t. Still, she flicked her fingers across the keys quite adroitly, determined to check every person who had left Astro’s employment in the past year against the manifests of each departing flight. She wanted to know who was still roaming around Alphonsus, unemployed, undocumented, outside the system. Dan Randolph would be among those drifters, she knew. Rubbing her weary eyes again, she thought, If only Dan would steal something big enough to be noticed right away by the logistics program. I can’t keep track of all these minor pilferings. If only he’d try to grab something big.