by Ben Bova
THIRTY-THREE
VASILY MALIK STRODE onstage like a conquering hero, with a broad smile and a happy gleam in his eyes. Dressed in an impeccably tailored blue suit, he went straight to the podium and gripped it with both hands. The hall was filled to overflowing with news reporters; video cameras focused on the newly elected chairman of the Global Economic Council. Two big TV monitors flanked the podium, one displaying the BBC’s broadcast, the other CNN’s. Both pictures were the same, except for a minute difference in the angle at which the cameras were focused on Malik’s triumphant expression. Jane Scanwell sat in the balcony section reserved for VIPs. All the other Council members were there: Muhammed Shariff Sibuti looking slightly nonplussed, as if he did not fully understand what was happening; Rafaelo Gaetano with a smile that looked decidedly forced, Jane thought. It had been three months since she had last seen Dan. For three months Jane had hammered at her so-called friends high in the corporate world of the news media. They had listened to her story of criminal corruption in the GEC, promised to study the situation, and done nothing. They always asked for her source of information. When she told them it was Dan Randolph they invariably shrugged her off. “He’s trying to get back at Malik; everybody knows the two of them hate each other. We can’t be party to a personal vendetta—we’d be sued for billions! And Randolph ’s a fugitive from justice, to boot.” Only two of her media contacts actually promised to examine the information Jane brought with her. Again, no action from them. It was like pouring a cup of water onto the Sahara . The information disappeared somewhere in the network’s labyrinth of departments and bureaus. Jane began to understand that the Mafia had people in the news networks, too. They wanted Dan’s information, not to broadcast, and certainly not to use as the starting point of an investigation. They wanted it to help them track down the leaks in Astro Manufacturing. Now Malik stood before the media reporters, fresh from his unanimous election to the GEC chair, the sky blue emblem of the GEC serving as a backdrop for him. Smiling for the assembled reporters and the hundreds of millions of TV viewers, Malik said, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. You will be happy to learn that I do not have a prepared speech to give you.” A titter of laughter rippled through the reporters. “However, I do have an announcement to make. After it, I will be happy to answer your questions.” He paused, took a breath while the hall fell absolutely silent except for the barely audible sound of the cameras humming and the faint hiss of the lights. “My first act as chairperson of the Global Economic Council is to institute an Industrial Coordinating Committee, which will consist of the CEOs of each of the world’s leading industrial corporations. The ICC will serve as a focal point for the GEC’s continuing efforts to ameliorate the effects of industrial pollution on the Earth’s atmosphere.” “He’s lying,” said a voice. The hall stirred. “He’s not telling the whole truth,” said Dan Randolph, whose image filled the BBC monitor screen. “Ask him why he needs an Industrial Coordinating Committee.” Just as suddenly as it appeared, Dan’s image winked off, leaving Malik’s angry red face on the screen. Malik turned and glared at his aides, standing openmouthed with shock in the wings of the small stage. “Who was that?” somebody asked. “Was that Dan Randolph ?” “Please?’ Malik raised his hands for calm and put a reassuring smile on his face. “There must be some crank somewhere in the BBC system—“ “I’m not a crank,” Dan said, this time from the CNN monitor. “But I think maybe you’re a crook.” Pandemonium among the reporters. They were on their feet, shouting questions—not at Malik, but to Dan’s image in the screen. Dan grinned at them. “Hey, this is Vasily’s media conference. Ask him your questions, not me. He’s got all the answers you want.” Malik angrily strode off the stage and Dan’s image winked out, leaving the reporters with no one to question. The TV screens showed only the GEC emblem and a bare stage. “I want him found and I want him found immediately?’ Malik was screaming into his phone. “Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter. If I don’t get results immediately I’ll have you replaced! Do you understand me?” Gaetano had brushed past the Russian’s distraught secretary and come into Malik’s office looking as tense and angry as Malik himself. He stood before the desk as the Russian turned off his phone with a furious bang of his fist against the keyboard. “And what do you want?” Malik snapped. “To help you,” said Gaetano. Malik rose from his chair and leaned his knuckles on his desktop. “The only help I want is in finding Dan Randolph.” “Dead or alive, I know.” The Russian made a furious snort. “I can help,” Gaetano said, pulling his silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket. Malik saw that his hands were trembling slightly. “Is it true, then?” Malik asked. “You have connections to the Mafia?” Gaetano lit the cigarette and puffed a cloud of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. “I have friends who can help you find Randolph .” “The Mafia,” Malik insisted. “Call them whatever you want to,” said Gaetano. “You want the man dead. So do I. We can work together to see that he never bothers us again.” “The Mafia,” Malik repeated. He turned his back to Gaetano, went to the windows and stared out at the gray Paris sky. It always seemed to be gray, these days, he thought. It seems as if I haven’t seen a blue sky in years. “You can’t turn your back on us,” Gaetano said, his voice brittle with suppressed anger. “You and I have been working together for many months now. You are part of my organization, whether you like it or not.” Malik said nothing. He wished that Gaetano would disappear. “I will see to it that Randolph is found. And done away with. Then we can go on with our plans for organizing the world’s industries.” Malik waited until he heard his office door click shut. When he turned around he noticed the new nameplate that his secretary had placed on his desk for his approval: V. S. Malik, Chairman. He tasted ashes in his mouth. Gaetano strode along the hallway to his own office, thinking furiously. Malik is a reluctant ally, but he’ll go along with what I want him to do. He has to. He has no other choice. Jane Scanwell is the dangerous one; she’s in league with Randolph , probably in love with the bastard. By the time he reached his office and closed the door behind him, though, he was smiling. Why not use Jane to lure Randolph into the open? That would work. And then both of them can die in the same accident. The more he thought about his idea the more he liked it. And once the two of them are out of the way, he told himself, Don Marcello can at last have the fatal heart attack I’ve been waiting for. Gaetano actually whistled happily as he sat at his desk and picked up the telephone handset. There was no way to hush up Dan Randolph’s brash interruption of Malik’s media conference, not when Dan had been seen by more than a hundred million TV viewers. GEC public relations flacks tried to deflect reporters’ questions. Randolph is a criminal, a fugitive from justice. He’s sore because the GEC stripped him of his company. Yes, but how did he break into the BBC and CNN transmissions? How did he do that? We’re investigating that. Both those networks are beefing up their security. And we’re installing new protective circuits in all the communications satellite ground stations. You mean he broke into the ground stations? Electronically, yes. That seems to be what he did. We’re checking out that line of investigation. There was no physical break-in. It looks as if he managed to override the uplink transmissions from Earth to the satellites and insert his own transmission in place of what the uplinks were carrying. But how could he do that? Where did he transmit from? We’re looking into that. You don’t know? Not yet. But one thing is for certain: with the new protective programs we’re adding to the ground stations, he’ll never be able to do it again. Two days later, the UNESCO educational channel was running a program about global warming. Schools all around the world tuned in to see the top experts from major universities discuss the possibilities of drastic changes in the global climate. “Much of the problem stems from human activity,” said a geo physicist from Kenya , his thick white hair a startling contrast to his deeply black skin. “Yes,” agreed the moderator, a world-famous actress who had turned activist when her career began to slump. “As I understand it, atmospheric pollution from huma
n sources is now a bigger factor than all the natural sources of pollutants combined.” “If by ‘natural sources of pollutants’ you mean volcanic eruptions and animal wastes, then, yes, it is true. Humans are ruining the atmosphere at an alarming rate.” “What about the greenhouse cliff?” asked Dan Randolph. His grinning image suddenly appeared between the moderator and the scientist. The moderator and scientist went on speaking as if nothing had happened, because the show had been taped in advance of its airing. But their sound went off and Dan Randolph’s image seemed to hover between them like an elf or a leprechaun. “They’re not telling you about the greenhouse cliff, kids,” Dan said cheerfully. “There’s a strong chance that the climate is going to shift abruptly, within a few years. Think about it. What would you do if the sea level was going to rise by ten meters or more?” Before the shocked schoolchildren could react, before their stunned teachers could think to turn off their TV sets, Dan’s image disappeared and the original show droned on as if nothing had happened. But that evening a dozen million children asked their parents what a greenhouse cliff was. Both the World Cup soccer game and cricket match were interrupted by Dan Randolph. His image seemed to appear randomly on television broadcasts ranging from daytime soap operas to a live presentation of Ai’da from the Baths of Caracalla inRome . Dan appeared during one of the intermissions; opera lovers appreciated his courtesy. He never was on the screen for more than thirty seconds. He spoke about the greenhouse cliff and the fact that the world was facing an inexorable crisis. “The GEC’s answer is to take control of all the world’s industries,” Dan said, for once his elfin smile gone, his face grim. “That means they’re taking control of all the world’s jobs. They stole my company from me. What will they be stealing from you?” Reporters all over the world beat themselves into exhaustion trying to find Dan Randolph, trying to get Malik or anyone in the GEC to reply to his charges. Zach Freiberg appeared on nationwide TV in the United States and explained what the greenhouse cliff was. But two dozen other scientists gave interviews belittling Zach’s views and casting doubt on his credibility. “After all,” said one kindly-looking white-haired woman, “he did work for Dan Randolph, didn’t he?” She herself worked for Rockledge Industries, under GEC management. Finally, after two weeks of uproar, Jane Scanwell announced that she would give a news conference in Paris to respond to Dan Randolph’s charges on behalf of the GEC. Malik knew that Jane would confirm everything Randolph had been saying. “It will be a disaster for us,” he moaned to Gaetano. “Then we must not permit her to meet the reporters,” said the Italian.