by Ben Bova
TWENTY-FOUR
Dan WAS HUMMING to himself as he stood at the controls of the hopper. It had been a good trip: he had carried a full load of pilfered electronic simulation equipment, erotic videotapes and the homebrew liquor everyone called “rocket juice” all the way out to the Fra Mauro complex, halfway to Copernicus. The construction team building the new mining and refining center there had paid handsomely. Not in cash, of course. In electronic credits, which Dan immediately relayed to Pops Tucker back at their shelter, and Tucker deposited in one of the safe banks they had picked. They had three, all Earthside: one on the Cayman Islands , one in Liechtenstein , and one in New Jerusalem. Each bank had a reputation for discretion, solidity and compliant GEC inspectors. Tucker sent the credit information directly Earthward by a small communications laser that George had assembled for them. They spoke directly to a specific commsat in Earth orbit, bypassing all lunar communications nets. Dan knew from his own early experiences that the most deadly hazard on the Moon is boredom, especially in a new, raw camp without any real facilities for entertainment. A guy could do crazy things in his empty off-duty hours; he’d known men who just walked off in their pressure suits and never came back. More often there’d be a fight over one of the women—or over one of the men. The fights could be brutal, or worse still, they could create smoldering grudges that ended in outright murder. Rocket juice helped pass the idle hours, although it could also aggravate the tensions and confrontations. So did drugs. Dan thought that the simulation equipment would be the most help to the construction workers. There were enough electronics whizzes among them to jigger the equipment into virtual reality rigs, where a person could put on a simulator helmet and escape into a private fantasy world for hours on end. That’s why the construction camp supervisors looked the other way when Dan landed with his load of goodies. They knew better than the administrators who worked in safe, comfortable offices back at Alphonsus that their crews needed diversion and entertainment almost as much as they needed oxygen and water. Dan Randolph, benefactor of the working man, he said to himself. And woman, he added, grinning. One of the construction workers had been especially grateful for his appearance. A rangy brunette with the kind of sculptured face he remembered from his years in Caracas , she had shown Dan to a private little shelter just large enough for two. It had been the best hour Dan had spent since Tetiaroa. He grimaced inside his helmet at the memory of that tropical atoll and Jane and Malik and how they had all conspired to strip him of everything he had built. “I’ll get it all back,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll get it back if I have to tear down everything between here and Paris .” His dark mood ended almost at once, though, because the beeper on his control panel began flashing its red light. The propellant tanks were sitting down there on the dusty, pockmarked Nubium plain, precisely where the Japanese guy he was dealing with at Yamagata had said he would leave them. Their minitransponder was sending out its weak little signal; you had to be practically on top of the tanks before you would know they were there. Dan nudged his pistol-grip joystick forward and the hopper descended, flat as a carpet, no nosing down as a plane would in Earth’s atmosphere. It was night once again on this side of the Moon; Dan only operated the hopper at night, less chance of being spotted by a legitimate vehicle or one of the satellites in orbit. He strained his eyes for sight of the tanks and finally saw them, sitting gray and round like a trio of natural boulders on the darker basaltic floor of the mare. It took the better part of an hour to refill the hopper’s tanks. Dan almost forgot to disconnect the transponder beacon; at the last minute he unclipped it, shut it off, and carried it back aboard the hopper. Then he took off again on the final leg of his trip back to the shelter where George and Pops Tucker were waiting for him. Dan was bone-weary when he finally opened the inner hatch of the airlock and stepped into the shelter’s familiar confines. Even before he could slide open his helmet visor he realized that he had stepped into a trap. George and Tucker were nowhere in sight. Instead there was a quartet of strangers in dark gray coveralls holding pistols leveled at him. “You’re under arrest,Randolph ,” said one of the men. Dan recognized him as the burrheaded jock he had shot back in his office the first time they had tried to take him in. “And this time you’re not getting away.” To her credit, Kate Williams did not gloat. In fact, she seemed more than serious: she seemed wrathful. “Drugs!” she nearly screamed at Dan. “You’ve been peddling drugs to my people here!” They had brought Dan to his former office, where Kate now stood behind his old desk, shaking with fury. “Recreational stuff,” he said, taken aback by her rage. “Nothing harmful.” “How the hell would you know what’s harmful and what isn’t?” Kate snarled. “Did you try any of the junk yourself?” Dan blinked with surprise. Of course he hadn’t. Alcohol was his drug of choice. “So you’ve turned into a dirty drug dealer,” Kate snarled. “Look at you! You even smell filthy? “I’ve been in a space suit for damned near fourteen hours,” Dan said defensively. But he knew it was more than that. He hadn’t cut his hair or beard in weeks. His coveralls were shabby and unwashed. “The great Dan Randolph, a drug dealer. Smuggler. Thief. You’re never going to get out of jail.” Dan just sat there, knowing that she was right. He felt utterly exhausted, spiritually as well as physically. There was only one way Kate could have found him, he thought. George or Pops must have turned him in. Waited until I was out by myself and they ran to the authorities. Saved their own skins, probably. The sons of bitches will probably access the money we’ve banked! He felt totally alone in the world, alone in the universe. Betrayed by everyone he had known. Including this furious redhead standing behind his desk in his office. Anger surged through Dan. “You’ve stolen everything I’ve worked to build up,” he said to her through gritted teeth. “You’ve got a fucking lot of nerve to call me a thief.” “You’re the one who’s broken the law,” she snapped. She turned slightly, and said in a softer voice, “I could see why you ran away, Dan . But selling drugs—that’s unforgivable.” “Taking a man’s life away from him is okay, though.” “You won’t be executed, you know that. Even though you deserve it and the law allows it, we won’t kill you.” “You already have.” That one look at Gaetano’s face was all that Jane had needed. She knew instantly that he was guilty. No amount of evidence, no witnesses, no judge or jury could convince her otherwise. Gaetano had murdered Jeff Robertson. Or caused his murder. It was all the same as far as she was concerned. The accident report came in a few days afterward. Jeff had been flying his own plane from Houston to Dallas , something he did almost every week. According to the coroner, he suffered a massive heart attack. He must have lost control of the plane and it crashed, killing him. What was left of the body had been cremated, as specified in the old man’s will. No chance to go back and check for poison, or the kind of drug that could trigger a heart attack. As far as the world was concerned, the eighty-eight year-old man had died of natural causes. The global energy industry mourned his passing with impressive pomp. There was even a TV special about his life. Jane knew it was murder. She did not know what to do about it. There was no one in the GEC she could trust, no one she was certain was not in league with Gaetano. Not even Vasily Malik. Yet she was determined to avenge her old friend’s death. The burning acid of vengeance was a new emotion to Jane. Even when her husband had died and she had blamed Dan for it, she had not felt this flaming hot hatred that now seared every nerve in her body. It was weeks later, at a conference with Yamagata Industries’ chief executives in Tokyo , that she saw a way. She knew Nobuhiko Yamagata only slightly. Through her staff secretary she invited the young man to an informal lunch. Through his staff secretary he accepted. Jane suggested her hotel; Nobo’s representative came back with the suggestion that they meet at the Yamagata Building , where they could dine in privacy and get to know each other better. Jane, who had hoped for precisely that, readily agreed. They met in a small, luxurious dining room done in deep rich woods and decorated with exquisitely delicate silk paintings. Jane was relieved
to see that Nobuhiko had provided a Western-style table and chairs, although the kimono-clad women waiting on them brought bamboo trays of sashimi and sake in thimble-sized cups. After expressing renewed regret at his father’s demise, and being politely reminded that his father was cryonically sleeping rather than truly dead, Jane turned their conversation toward business. “It must be an immense challenge to take over the entire Yamagata complex at a time of such enormous changes.” His lean face utterly serious, Nobo replied, “Yes. There are many problems, many challenges. But I think the work is going well, don’t you?” “Extraordinarily well,” Jane said. “We have had some difficulties with your GEC administrators,” Nobo said, surprisingly blunt for a Japanese. “They seem more interested in paperwork than in performance.” Jane smiled, wondering if the “we” Nobuhiko used was meant to be royal. “If there is any way I can help . . .” He smiled back. “I think we are educating them sufficiently.” When he smiled his eyes lighted up like a boy’s, Jane noticed. “Have you had any problems,” she asked slowly, “with the criminal element?” “Criminal element?” “What is the Japanese version of the Mafia called? The akuza. Nobo shook his head, frowning slightly. “Not the same thing at all. And, no, we have had no trouble from organized crime. None that I have been made aware of, at least.” Jane took a sip of sake. Then, “This immense program of ours, this movement to convert the world away from fossil fuels—it’s like a big fat tethered cow to the criminals. They will try to milk it as hard as they can.” “Perhaps in the United States that is true. Even in Europe . Not in Japan .” “Not in your space facilities?” He smiled again. “What can they steal in space? Or even on the Moon?” “There are criminals on the Moon. Fugitives from justice.” “Ah. You are speaking of Dan Randolph.” Inwardly Jane flared with anger. This was not the course she had wanted this conversation to take. Nobuhiko took her silence for agreement. “I wish I could have helped Dan. I was angry with him over something that does not seem so important now. I suppose I was upset at the time; my father had just been put away.” “Isn’t there some way Dan can be pardoned? He should be back in charge of Astro, if you want to get the best out of that corporation. In fact, if you put him in charge of all space operations you would be getting far more than is now possible.” “In charge of all of them—including Yamagata !’ Looking slightly sheepish, Nobo said, “Dan is the best manager in the business. He should be in charge of all the space operations, including Yamagata ’s. Then you would see results!” “He wouldn’t work for the GEC.’ “He advised us to,” Nobo pointed out. “He pleaded with us to cooperate with you.” “So that we wouldn’t have to take over your corporations, as we did Astro.” “So that we can make this tremendous conversion in energy and transport within ten years,” Nobuhiko countered firmly. Jane sighed. “Welt, maybe it would have been good to put Dan in charge. But he’s a fugitive now. A criminal. We don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.” Shaking his head, Nobo said, “A great loss. A great tragedy.” On impulse, Jane blurted, “The Mafia murdered a friend of mine, a man who was just starting to investigate how deeply they’ve wormed into the GEC.” Nobo’s eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?” “Yes. Completely serious. I’ve come here to ask for your help.” “What can I do?” “That’s just it. I don’t know yet. But I need an ally, someone with your strength and your resources. Can I rely on you? Will you help me?” The young man was silent for several moments. Then he answered, “I would be honored to help you in any way I can. But, frankly, it would be much wiser to find Dan Randolph, pardon him, and set him onto this problem. If anyone in the Earth/Moon system could tangle with the Mafia successfully, it would be Dan.” Once they led Dan away to a detention cell, Kate felt as if the room needed fumigating. But as she stood behind the broad gleaming desk, staring at the closed door to the outer office, she began to realize that maybe it was she who needed cleansing. I ruined his life, she said to herself. I drove him to this. But then she shook her head viciously. He didn’t have to deal drugs. There’s no excuse for that. He deserves whatever he gets. She looked around the office with new eyes. My office! It’s mine now. And Kim’s on her way here. She’ll be arriving in a few hours. I’ve got Astro and I’ve got Kim. Now all I have to do is get Rafe off my back and I can start to really live! A few hours later Kate stood eagerly at the reception area, under the pads where the spacecraft landed. She had watched on the video monitor as Kim’s ship settled down gently on its pad and the access tunnel snaked out and connected to its airlock. Now the first passengers were coming through the tunnel. And there was Kim! Thinner than Kate had expected, pale and thin, like someone who had been sick for a long time. But her flaming hair, cropped so short, was thick and luxuriant, her stride confident even in the unaccustomed low lunar gravity, her face beaming with a wide smile. She was not smiling at Kate. She was not even looking at Kate. She was smiling at the tall, darkly handsome man walking beside her. Rafaelo Gaetano.