Empire Builders

by Ben Bova

  TWENTY-THREE

  “BUT I THOUGHT that when drugs were decriminalized,” said Jane, “organized crime went pretty much out of business.” Jeff Robertson gave her a pitying smile. “For a former President of the United States , you’re still awfully naive, Janie girl.” He was the only man in the world whom Jane would allow to call her “girl.” She smiled at Robertson as they sat on the glassed-in patio of her Texas home. The spacious house was on a hillside overlooking the large, man-made LBJ Lake . Outside it was a fierce summer day, the kind that allows Texans to say they don’t have to be afraid of hell. Jane kept the air-conditioning comfortable but not frigid. If Robertson wanted it cooler, he had yet to ask. The old man was dressed up in a floral cowboy shirt and stiffly new jeans tucked into his fancy tooled boots. Jane was in an “at home” outfit: loose-fitting slacks of light tan topped with a short-sleeved pale yellow blouse. A frosted pitcher of margaritas sat on the low table between them, next to a plate of coarse salt. Robertson held his wide-rimmed glass in both hands; Jane’s was on the end table next to her chair. “Oh, I know they’re still into prostitution and smuggling and things like that,” she said. “But we cleaned them out of the international banking industry years ago, and-” Robertson shook his head. With his pop eyes and jutting beak he sometimes reminded Jane of a turtle. He took a sip of his margarita, then said, “Look, honey: when most of the states in the Union legalized betting to the extent that they started state lotteries, did that drive the Mafia out of gambling?” Without waiting for her to answer, he went on, “Hell no. When you legalized drugs, it didn’t drive the crooks out of the narcotics business, either. Cut their profit margins, yes. But they still sell drugs: they sell the kind you can buy legally for cheaper than the legal price, and they sell the kind you can’t buy because they’re too dangerous to use.” “How can they undercut the government’s price?” “They steal the stuff and then resell it!” “Oh.” “They’re still into banking; more respectable now, smarter than they used to be, almost legitimate. But they siphon billions off into their own pockets every year. The bankers just take it as part of the cost of doing business and pass on the expense to their customers.” “That wasn’t going on when I was President,” Jane murmured. “Course not.” Robertson’s tone of voice was not quite condescending, but close enough. “You’re telling me that the Mafia is now a worldwide organization.” “Yep. Just like the corporations, the crooks have gone international. The Mafia, the Yakuza gangs in Japan , the old Latin American drug cartel—they’ve all linked up worldwide. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve wormed their way into the Big Seven, up on the Moon.” Jane felt angry, confused, puzzled. “But how? What do they do? How are they making their money?” “Skimming, mostly,” said Robertson. He leaned forward to refill his glass, then twirled it in his hand to find a part of the rim that was still salted. He half-drained the glass, then smacked his lips noisily. “Best margaritas this side of Albuquerque .” “You were telling me about skimming,” Jane said gently. “Yeah.” Robertson leaned back in his chair and half-closed his eyes. He looked as if he were going to sleep. “Your company takes in ten dollars, let’s say. But somehow only nine-fifty gets onto the books. The rest winds up in some crook’s pocket.” “But how can they do that?” “Lotsa ways, honey. They bribe one of your employees. Maybe with real money. Maybe with women, or drugs or something else the poor sucker thinks he wants bad enough to take the chance. Oftentimes the sucker himself comes to them for a loan—“ “They’re still loan-sharking?” The old man’s eyes sprang wide open. “Long as banks want collateral there’ll be loan sharks. Pretty often a guy’ll get in over his head gambling; even legalized gambling can break your back, Then he goes to the sharks and”—Robertson banged his hand down on the arm of his chair so hard that Jane jumped—y’know “they’ve got him. At the kinds of interest rates they charge, the poor slob never gets out from under. He owes them. He either does what they tell him or they break him in half.” “So he starts to work for them.” “Yep. It’s almost all white-collar stuff now. More money stolen with a computer than with a gun, any day. But there’s always the threat of violence. And not just to the sucker himself; they threaten his family, too.” “That’s sickening.” Robertson finished off his margarita and put the empty glass down on the table between them. “You haven’t hardly touched yours. Jane said, “How do we keep them out of the conversion program, Jeff? It’s going to be tough enough to make this thing work without having the Mafia leaching money out of it, making everything more expensive.” “And it won’t be just money skimming, come to think of it,” he said. “You better be damned alert and watch who you contract out the work to.” “What do you mean?” “You’ve seen your share of recycling outfits that just dump the garbage in the dark of night instead of actually recycling it, haven’t you?” “I’ve prosecuted enough of them.” “Well, suppose you have an organization that’s got the job of replacing gasoline cars and diesel trucks with your new electric buggies. Suppose the buggies somehow get mysteriously hijacked and later on they show up halfway across the world, selling for ten times the price the GEC has set?” “I don’t see how anybody could get away with that.” Robertson shrugged his frail shoulders. “Maybe I picked a poor example. But things like that can happen. You better keep a sharp eye out.” Jane picked up her drink and took a sip of it without taking her eyes off Robertson. At last she asked, “Jeff—will you keep a sharp eye out for me?” He cocked his head slightly to one side, as if he hadn’t quite heard her. “You know so much more about this than I do. Will you be my eyes and ears? I’ll give you complete authority to go anywhere, see anything. You’ll report directly to me and no one else.” “I’m an old man, Janie. I can’t go flittin’ around the world the way I used to.” “Then I’ll see to it that you have access to all the program’s files. If you see anything suspicious you can alert me.” Frowning, “Hell, I’ll be spending twenty-nine hours a day in front of a damned computer screen.” “I need your help!” Jane pleaded. His frown melted. “Well ... I guess I ought to put my mouth where my money is.” “You’ll do it?” “I’ll do some of it. Nobody’ll be able to keep track of everything; this danged project of yours is gonna be just too big for any one person to watch over. That’s what they’re counting on. That’s one of the advantages they have.” “But you’ll help.” “On one condition.” He raised a bony finger. “This is just between you and me. Nobody else in the loop. Nobody, I don’t want that Gaetano guy knowing about this. I’d be dead in half an hour once he found out.” Jane frowned at him. “Do you actually think . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Sure as God made little green apples, honey,” said Jeff Robert-son. “He’s one of ‘em.” Zach Freiberg squinted in the unaccustomed glare of the studio lights. “If you think this is bad,” said the elderly man who would interview him, “you should have been around before the low-light-level cameras were available. Damned lighting would melt your makeup!” Zach knew his interviewer was trying to put him at ease. Television was new and unnerving to the scientist, even this little local public-access show. He knew that if Dan Randolph were still running Astro, he could have stayed in his lab in Pasadena ; Dan himself would have handled the P.R. And been much better at it. “I’m a planetary geochemist, not a TV personality,” he had told the eager young woman who had phoned him. Rumors of the greenhouse cliff had leaked out, of course. No matter how tight a lid the authorities in Paris tried to maintain on the story, their very own extraordinary actions against Astro and the others of the Big Seven had started the rumor mills running. Her bright eyes glittering like a snake’s, she had answered, “But you’re the man who discovered this greenhouse cliff, aren’t you? I got your name from a source in the GEC’s office in Manhattan .” With a mixture of flattery and cajolery she enticed Zach to the TV studio in the old, run-down area of Studio City where he now sat in a fake leather chair up on a carpeted platform, blinking at the lights that all seemed aimed straight into his eyes. Out among the cameras positioned on the studio flo
or sat a TV monitor screen that showed Zach’s own face, looking flustered and unhappy. “This is going to be taped, you know,” said his interviewer as a pair of technicians clipped nearly invisible microphones to their lapels and wormed a wireless receiver into the man’s left ear. Ignoring them, he went on, “It won’t matter if you hesitate or fluff an answer; we can start over. So don’t worry about a thing.” Zach ran a nervous hand through his wiry red hair. Don’t worry’ about a thing, he repeated silently. The whole world in danger of annihilation and he tells me not to worry. “In five!” called a voice from the dimness out on the floor of the studio. “Wet your lips,” someone hissed at Zach. He ran his tongue over his lower lip just as the interviewer began, “Good evening. I’m Herman George and this is ‘Newsmakers,’ the program that takes you behind the headlines to meet the people who move and shake our society. Tonight we are fortunate to have Dr. Zachary Freiberg ...” It was like testifying in court, Zach thought. The interviewer began by asking his name, his profession, and a few friendly questions about what a planetary geochemist actually does. Then, “The whole world has been in a stir over rumors that a ‘greenhouse cliff’ is going to cause tremendous and sudden changes in our weather a few years from now. Yet the Global Economic Council has strongly denied that any such phenomenon exists. Are they lying to us, or is the ‘greenhouse cliff’ a mere figment of some environmentalist’s overworked imagination?” “It’s real,” said Zach. “The greenhouse cliff is as real as today’s weather.” The older man smiled. “I’ve always thought the weather in Southern California is a bit unreal.” Before Zach could respond, he asked, “Tell me, just what on Earth is a greenhouse cliff?” Zach launched into an explanation, trying to keep it as simple as possible. Out of the corner of his eye he saw on the monitor screen news clips of hurricanes striking cities, floods washing away villages, farmlands withering under a parching sun. Somebody in the studio had done her homework. “And all this will happen quite suddenly?” the interviewer prodded. “That’s why it’s called a cliff,” said Zach. “In ten years, give or take a couple, the world’s climate is going to change suddenly and very radically.” Before the next question could be asked, he added, “Unless we do something about it.” “Something? What can we do?” “Stop adding to the greenhouse!” Zach replied with some emotion. “Stop burning fossil fuels. Stop polluting the seas where the algae live. Stop tearing down the rain forests.” “How can we stop burning fossil fuels? Our factories, our furnaces, our automobiles-” “The GEC will be initiating a program to convert the whole world away from fossil fuels and into nuclear and solar.” “They’ve made no announcement of this.” “They will.” “Nuclear and solar energy, eh? Nuclear cars?” “Electric cars,” Zach snapped. “But their electricity will be provided by safe, clean fusion power plants. Solar energy can make individual homes self-sufficient.” On and on it went, for what seemed like hours. Without realizing it, Zach became quite passionate talking about what had to be done. “We have the technology to accomplish this? he insisted. “We have the brains and the muscle. We can beat this disaster if we all work together, everyone, all around the world.” “That’s a very tall order,” said his interviewer. “It’s the greatest challenge the human race has ever confronted.” Zach did not notice that the camera now was focused directly on his animated, earnest face. “This isn’t a war against another nation; it’s not even a war against nature. It’s a battle against ourselves, against laziness and greed and the thoughtlessness that’s fouled our planet’s air and water so terribly. It’s a battle we’ve got to win, because if we don’t, at least half the world’s population will die. Probably more.” He was drenched with perspiration by the time the interview ended and the hot lights winked off. “Wonderful!” said the interviewer, reaching over to pat his back. “You did a magnificent job.” Surprised but pleased, Zach mumbled his thanks and headed home. The next morning, thinking it over after a good night’s sleep, Zach concluded that on balance he had indeed done a good job. Until Vasily Malik phoned. “I have just seen a videotape of the interview you conducted last night.” Zach did not notice that the Russian was grim, unsmiling. “How’d you like it?” he asked eagerly. “My dear Dr. Frieberg, you are a phenomenon on television. A true spellbinder. Just the man to show the public how urgent this problem is.” Smiling boyishly, Zach started to say, “Well, thanks—“ “Which is exactly why you will not give any further interviews to anyone, under any circumstances. Is that clear?” “What? What are you talking about?” ,’ With great patience, Malik said, “We are working very hard to control news leaks, Dr. Freiberg. We must avoid premature disclosure of the greenhouse catastrophe. We must avoid public panic at all costs! Why do you think we have said nothing, officially? Why do you think we have denied all the rumors of the greenhouse cliff?” “Now look, you can’t muzzle me. I’m an American citizen. I’ve got a right to speak freely.” Coldly, “You are an employee of the GEC, Dr. Freiberg. If you do not promise to cooperate with me, you will be transferred to Antarctica . And your family with you. Do I make myself clear?” Zach glared at the phone screen for several angry moments, thinking, The bastard knows I’m not allowed to quit my job for the duration of this emergency. He can push me anyplace he likes. “Do you understand me, Dr. Freiberg?” Malik insisted. Nodding glumly, “I understand you. No more interviews.” “It is all for the best,” Malik tried to assure him. “Yeah, sure,” Zach muttered, wishing that Dan Randolph were around to defend him. It took almost a month for Kate Williams to get her sister to Alphonsus. Gaetano had been immediately suspicious, of course, when the clinic that was guiding Kimberly through drug rehabilitation reported to him that she had decided to leave San Francisco . He had phoned Kate and told her that he would not permit Kim to join her on the Moon. Kate had expected this showdown. She was prepared for it. Still, she was glad that Gaetano was a quarter-million miles away, and that they saw each other only on the telephone picture screens. If they had met in person he would have easily seen her tension, her trembling, her fear. “Rafe,” she said, in Dan Randolph’s former chair, holding sitting herself together with conscious effort, “I want Kimberly here with me. I’ve done a lot of dirty work for you and bringing Kim here is my reward.” He raised an eyebrow. “Your work for me is not finished.” Then he added, smirking, “Especially the dirty part.” Kate tried to keep her face from showing any emotion. “I’ve delivered Astro to you. Now you want me to find Dan Randolph. Okay, I’ll do that. If I have Kimberly here with me.” She waited until he heard her words and began to shake his head. Then she said, “There’s something else I want, too. Once I’ve located Dan for you, I want to continue running Astro Manufacturing.” That shook him. Both brows went toward his scalp. “You? Run the whole corporation?” “That’s what I want in return for finding Dan.” “That’s impossible!” They argued back and forth for nearly two weeks. But in the end Gaetano agreed to let her run Astro if she located Dan Randolph—dead or alive—and if she promised that she would continue to share his bed whenever she came to Earth. Kate readily consented to his terms, knowing that Gaetano would have to come to the Moon. She had no intention of leaving, not ever, not once she had Kim safely by her side. It took another two weeks for all the arrangements to be made so that Kim could leave California legally and have her medical records transferred to the hospital at Alphonsus. Kate spent the time actually running Astro; implementing the orders that were coming from GEC headquarters to develop a plan for doubling the production of fusion fuel and expanding the manufacturing capacity for solar panels. She spent her nights, though, tediously creating a computer program designed to spot discrepancies in Astro’s logistics system. And Yamagata ’s. The renegades who were living off Astro and Yamagata kept a low profile, pilfering such small amounts of goods that the company accountants were willing to write the losses off. “They’re down in the noise,” the chief accountant told her. “It’d cost more to root them out than they’re stealing from us, so why bother about it?’ Kate smiled at him and no
dded and wondered if he was on the take. Maybe the renegades paid him off? But with what? They didn’t steal enough to make a dent in the man’s salary and bonuses. She dismissed the idea. Instead, she slaved each night to perfect the computer program that would automatically highlight any discrepancy between what went into the logistics system and what came out. Down to a single bottle of aspirin or a cubic meter of oxygen. Dan Randolph is among those renegades, she knew. He’s one of the people stealing from his own company. And he won’t be content with small-time pilfering; his ego will drive him to do bigger and better things. I want to track everything that’s being stolen. Sooner or later I’ll find a pattern. Sooner or later Dan will try to grab something big enough that he’ll leave his signature on the theft. Then I’ll get him. And it better be sooner, rather than later, she told herself. Rare is not a patient man. Neither in bed nor out of it. Rafaelo Gaetano had other things to worry about. He thought of Kate often enough, and he did not like the idea of relinquishing her sister, who was his major hold over her. But now she wanted something else, something much bigger: she wanted Astro Corporation for her own. That gave him a bigger, more powerful control of the beautiful redhead. Gaetano smiled to himself as he sat in his Paris office. Steepling his fingers, he leaned far back in his chair and gazed out his window at the gleaming white dome of Sacre Coeur, up on Montmartre’s hill, and waited for the phone call he expected. So Kate wants her sister to join her on the Moon. From the videos I’ve seen of her, she’s a good-looking redhead, too. Skinny, almost scrawny, but that’s from her drug addiction. Once she’s on the Moon, Kate will fill her out. Maybe I’ll go up there too, for a vacation, perhaps. Two redheads in the same bed are better than one. Sisters, too. That should be interesting. The phone chirped. Gaetano leaned forward in his chair, stretched out his arm, and picked up the handset. “Yes?” he said in English. A man’s voice replied, “I just heard that there has been an airplane crash in Texas . A friend of President Scanwell was killed. A man named Jeffrey Robertson.’ “Ah,” said Gaetano. “Too bad. Make certain that President Scanwell receives the news.” “I believe she already has,” said the voice. “I see,” Gaetano said. “Thank you.” As he put the phone down he saw Jane Scanwell standing in his doorway, her face stricken with grief. And hatred.