The Sam Gunn Omnibus

by Ben Bova

  “I say, Pierre, I want to ask you about something.”

  I turned to see one of the women directors, Mrs. Haverstraw. She was British, an elegant lady with snow-white hair beautifully coiffed and a long, horse-like face complete with huge projecting teeth. She could barely keep her lips closed over them. She wore a light blue skirted suit, touched off with massive sapphires at her wrists, throat, and earlobes.

  “Mrs. Haverstraw,” I said, in my best fawning manner. “And how is Mr. Haverstraw?”

  “He’s dead. Kicked off last month. Skydiving accident.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not. He always was a pompous twit. Rich as Croesus, though, I’m happy to say.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Yes, rather. I wanted to ask you, though, about this invitation to go to the Moon.”

  I felt the blood drain out of my face.

  “Does Rockledge have a tourist center on the Moon now?” Mrs. Haverstraw asked. “And if we do, why hasn’t the board been informed of it?”

  I swallowed hard and asked her, in a very small voice, “Um, may I see the invitation, please?”

  “I haven’t it with me. It came electronically, just this morning, as I was leaving for this meeting.” She smiled toothily. “I remember the first line of it, though. It said, ‘Go to Hell.’“

  I wanted to throw up.

  If Mrs. Haverstraw had received an invitation to visit Hell Crater, then every member of the board must have as well. So that was Sam’s plan all along. He conned me into this scheme to destroy me, to humiliate me in front of the board of directors, to get me fired, ruined, disgraced. I could hear his mocking laughter in my mind.

  “I say, Mr. D’Argent, are you quite all right?”

  I focused on Mrs. Haverstraw, who was staring at me quizzically.

  “I’m ... I’m a little surprised, that’s all,” I said, thinking faster than I ever had before in my life. “We had ... planned to announce the, eh, tourist facility at the meeting today. Under new business.”

  “Oh, goodie,” said Mrs. Haverstraw, suddenly almost girlish in her enthusiasm. “I love surprises.”

  I went back into the conference room, my mind spinning. The meeting resumed, dragging along. Next to me, the comptroller sat staring blankly into space, stupefied into quiescence by the boring proceedings. On my other side, Sally continued to sneak food into her mouth. Crumbs littered the carpeting around her. Ms. Marlowe breathed deeply and continued to focus on the CEO.

  At last, the CEO looked around the long conference table and smiled handsomely. “That completes our agenda, ladies and gentlemen. Except for one item of new business.”

  Mrs. Haverstraw looked my way.

  I got to my feet, brushed a few of Sally’s errant crumbs from my trousers, and cleared my throat uneasily. If the board didn’t like the idea of Rockledge’s building a Sin City on the Moon, my career was finished. Clever of the CEO to make me the messenger.

  Half a dozen of the directors had already pushed their chairs back from the table, ready to leave. They glared and grumbled.

  “As you know,” I began, trying to put the best face on the situation, “the space operations division has always been at the frontier of innovation and ...” I struggled for a word “... and, uh, progress.”

  Several gray heads nodded, although I saw a few impatient stares as well.

  “Today I’d like to announce that we have nearly completed a tourist facility on the Moon, at Hell Crater.”

  That stirred them. The CEO kept his expression neutral, although I thought he snuck a quick glance in Ms. Marlowe’s direction.

  I took a deep breath and began to explain what we were building at Hell Crater, all the while thinking of how Sam would have done it. I’m no spellbinder, but I managed to spin out a vision of a tourist facility that would rival anything on Earth, while skirting the matter of gambling and prostitution.

  “And on the Moon,” I went on, “with its one-sixth gravity, there’s no problem of people becoming space sick, yet they still weigh only one-sixth of what they do on Earth.”

  “What about our space sickness cure?”

  “We’ll still sell it to people going into orbit. That’s a firm market. And tourists heading for the Moon will be in weightlessness for a day or so. They’ll buy our pills too.”

  “But will people go all the way to the Moon for a vacation?”

  “Of course they will,” I enthused, crossing my fingers behind my back. “And they’ll book their passages aboard Rockledge spacecraft.”

  “This is a family resort?” one of the younger men asked. “Not for adults?”

  “There will be plenty of entertainment for adults as well as families,” I said.

  They grilled me for the better part of an hour. By the end of it, the board was satisfied that the Hell Crater project would be a moneymaker. I even began to believe it myself.

  “That explains the invitation I received this morning,” said the oldest member of the board, a crooked smile snaking across his withered face. “I was going to ask you about it, after the meeting.”

  “ ‘Go to Hell,’“ quoted a balding director seated halfway down the long table. “Catches your attention, doesn’t it?”

  Everyone laughed, rather guardedly, I thought.

  Swallowing hard again, I apologized weakly. “Publicity people sometimes lack a sense of decorum.”

  “Well, I’m ready to go,” said the younger director who had asked about adult entertainment; “How about the rest of you?”

  Thus the entire Rockledge board of directors decided to attend the grand opening of the Hell Crater resort.

  You’ve got to understand that up until this moment none of the directors knew that Rockledge was in partnership with Sam Gunn. I wanted to keep it that way as I met with the CEO after the board meeting, in the privacy of his airport-sized office.

  “Although we’re a full partner with, um, the builders of the facility,” I said, “I thought it best to keep Rockledge’s name out of the limelight on this. After all, we’re not really in the resort business.”

  He pursed his sculpted lips. “Perhaps we should be, Pierre. There’s a lot of money in entertainment.”

  It was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name! I didn’t even realize that he knew my first name !

  I managed to hide my elation and warn, “There is also a lot of risk in the entertainment business, sir. I believe we should enter this area very carefully.”

  “Good thinking,” he said. Then, with a sly smile spreading across his sculptured features he added, “I believe the comptroller should have a representative go to Hell with the board and a few chosen members of senior management.”

  “Yes,” I agreed immediately. “Of course.”

  So the entire board of directors, their spouses or significant others, and a select few employees (including Ms. Marlowe) packed into a Rockledge rocket vehicle that took us to the Moon. The CEO ordained a high-thrust flight, so we were in zero gravity for only twenty hours, enough to prove the efficacy of the corporation’s space sickness pills.

  Despite her nervousness at flying into space, my wife thoroughly enjoyed our first day at Hell Crater. Sam was nowhere in sight, of course, one of the few times he displayed enough common sense to remain behind the scene. Not a mention of his name anywhere in the complex.

  The complex was built inside a huge dome of lunar concrete that was covered with rubble from the Moon’s dusty surface soil for protection against radiation and the day/night temperature swings. From outside it looked like a large perfectly symmetrical hill. Inside, the dome was studded with amusement arcades; fine restaurants and fast-food cafeterias; Dante’s Inferno Casino; an office where you could rent wings and fly on your own muscle power through the dome; The Imaginarium, which featured the very latest in virtual reality simulations (including sex fantasies); and a garishly lit “entertainment center” blatantly named Hell’s Belles.

  The
re were lights and raucous music everywhere, and plenty of smiling attendants in colorful uniforms to guide us and answer our questions. The Rockledge contingent were the only guests in the complex, a total of about fifty of us. The resort wasn’t open to the general public yet, so we had the run of the place, no waiting in lines, no being told, “I’m sorry, we’re fully booked.” And no news media to snoop on us.

  Burrowed belowground there was a five-star hotel, a medical complex that specialized in cosmetic and rejuvenation therapies, a tastefully decorated mall of boutique shoppes, and living quarters for the surprisingly large staff.

  We wandered from one spectacular site to another, goggle-eyed. I was shocked to see that my wife was passionate about gambling; I couldn’t tear her away from the slot machines. We were each given a thousand credits on the house, and she was running it up into a respectable fortune. I realized that Sam was letting her win; it would simply be added to Rock-ledge’s payments to S. Gunn Enterprises, sooner or later. It was just as well that she was so fascinated with the slots, I told myself. Let her stay in the casino; then she won’t get curious about Hell’s Belles or the sex simulations at the virtual reality center.

  Even the CEO seemed to enjoy himself immensely. I’d never before seen him smile so broadly, nor heard him laugh out loud.

  “This place is going to be a great success,” he said to me, actually clapping me on the back as we stood at the blackjack table. “Congratulations, Pierre.”

  His wife was nowhere in sight, even though she herself was a member of the board of directors. Ms. Marlowe was standing close to the CEO, in a spectacularly low cut sequined gown.

  Then he leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “Now to pry it away from Sam Gunn.”

  The hotel suite my wife and I shared was sumptuous, to say the least. But as I lay in the darkness of our bedroom that first night, an uneasiness began to assail me. I wasn’t worried about booting Sam out of Hell; the little sneak would do the same to me if he could. No, what worried me was the splendor of it all. This is all too good, I thought. Sam must have spent huge amounts of money to build this complex, far more than the Rockledge funding I had funneled to him.

  We were scheduled for an excursion to Selene the next morning, although about half the board members said they wanted to remain in Hell; lunar scenery and a tour of the oldest human settlement on the Moon didn’t interest them as much as the attractions of the resort complex. A few of the younger men wanted to try their hands at flying like birds (and then, once their wives were gone, enjoying either virtual or actual sex). I told the CEO I wasn’t going to Selene either because I had to stay and confer with Sam. He nodded understanding and gave me a knowing wink. My wife was less sympathetic. She absolutely refused to go outside the complex’s dome without me.

  “But I have business to conduct, darling,” I told her.

  She arched an eyebrow at me. “At that virtual reality place, no doubt. I understand you can program sexual fantasies there.”

  I was aghast that she could think that of me. “Heavens no!” I said. “I have to meet with Sam Gunn.”

  “Sam Gunn? That reprehensible little brat? I’d rather you visited Hell’s Belles.”

  I assured her that I was meeting with Sam, and she finally decided to believe me. “I believe I’ll take a look at the cosmetic clinics down on the lower level. They have some lovely shops down there, too,” she said.

  I knew she intended to spend every credit she’d made at the slot machines the night before, and then some. Ah well, I thought. Peace at any price. Then I remembered an old bit of wisdom from Monte Carlo: money won by a gambler is merely loaned.

  Sam’s private office was rather modest, compared to the ego palaces of men like my CEO. It was part of a small suite nestled into the office complex between Dante’s Inferno and The Imaginarium. His private office held a small desk and a couple of chairs, nothing more, although the walls were smart screens. When I walked in, one wall displayed a view of Mare Nubium: empty, desolate, yet strangely beautiful, especially with a nearly full Earth hanging in the black sky.

  Sam was leaning back in his swivel chair and grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. The wall behind his desk was a collage of photos of Sam with the movers and shakers of the world, as well as Sam with various scantily clad women, each one a knockout.

  “So how do you like the place, Oh Silver-Haired Partner of Mine?”

  I felt a frown knit my face. Sam was being altogether too familiar, just like the irreverent rogue. I said nothing as I sat in front of his desk, but my frown turned to surprise. The chair was much lower than I had expected; even in the soft lunar gravity I thumped onto its seat. Sam was actually sitting higher than I was.

  “It’s a trick Josef Stalin used,” he told me before I could say a word. “Put your chair on a platform and saw the legs down on your visitors’ chairs.”

  “I should have expected as much,” I growled, “from you.”

  “Don’t be touchy, Silver One. Isn’t the complex terrific? Your boss seemed to have a great time. I see he brought la Marlowe with him.”

  “It’s terrific all right,” I growled. “Too terrific.”

  Sam’s pie plate of a face took on a look of hurt innocence. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Sam, you couldn’t possibly have built all this and staffed it so handsomely on the funding Rockledge has provided you.”

  He steepled his fingers in front of his face for a moment, then nodded. “No fooling you, eh?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Well, I knew the half-bill you ponied up wouldn’t cover everything I wanted to do, so I took in another partner.”

  “Another partner? You can’t do that! The terms of our agreement—”

  “Not really a partner, not legally,” Sam interjected, looking like a mischievous imp. “I used your funding as leverage for a loan that really paid for building the complex. And staffing it.”

  “A loan? Who in his right” mind would loan you a penny, unless you held the threat of blackmail over him?”

  “There are people,” Sam said slowly, “who specialize in high-risk loans.”

  “People? Who?”

  “They also have a lot of experience in running gambling casinos and, uh, other entertaining diversions.”

  “Experience in—” Suddenly it hit me. “Oh my God! The Mafia! You’re in with the Mafia!”

  Sam tut-tutted. “They haven’t called themselves that in half a century. And they’re international now, not just Sicilian: there’s Russians, Japanese, Colombians; they’ve gone global, just like all the other major industries.”

  “The Mafia,” I groaned. “You’re in league with—”

  “Call them the Syndicate. That’s the name they prefer.”

  “They’re the bloody Mafia!” I snapped.

  “Be polite to them,” Sam warned. “Call them the Syndicate when you talk to them.”

  “Me? Talk to the likes of them? Never!”

  Sam shook his head sadly. “Never say never, pal.” And he pointed with a stubby finger past my shoulder.

  Turning, I saw a slinky, sultry, sallow-cheeked young woman with lustrous long black hair and smoldering dark almond-shaped eyes set in high cheekbones. How long she had been standing in the doorway of Sam’s office I had no way of knowing. I distinctly remembered having closed the door when I came into the office. She must have opened it without making a sound.

  Sam got to his feet. “Pierre, mon confrere, may I introduce Ilyana Campanella Chang. Ilyana, Pierre D’Argent, head of space operations for—”

  “For Rockledge Industries, I know,” she said in a smoky voice. Ms. Chang was wearing a skintight black dress that showed a tantalizing amount of bosom and shimmered as she walked to the chair next to mine. “Walked” is only an approximation of the way she moved. She reminded me of a jungle beast, a sleek black leopard or maybe a slithering boa constrictor. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She sat down and crossed her long, beautiful legs
.

  Sam was staring at her, too. He had always been partial to sultry brunettes. And bubbly blondes. And tempestuous redheads. Sam was an equal-opportunity chaser, making no discrimination against anyone female who was even mildly attractive. Ms. Chang was much more than mild. Much.

  “Ilyana is the Syndicate’s local representative,” Sam said, in a voice choked with testosterone. Or perhaps it was fear.

  She smiled silkily at me. “What you call the Mafia. As Sam told you, we have become a global enterprise. My own family heritage is part Russian, part Italian, and part Chinese.”

  “The Ma—” I cut the word short. “I mean, the Syndicate. You?”

  “Does that surprise you?” she asked.

  I glanced at Sam. He was still walleyed, obviously enraptured by this vision of dangerous loveliness.

  “Frankly, it does,” I replied. “I wouldn’t think that a young woman such as yourself would be involved in criminal activities.”

  Her smile widened enough to show teeth. “I was born to it. I’m a Family person, on both sides of my family.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

  “Well, you are in Hell,” Sam said, regaining some of his composure.

  “And you will remain here,” said Ilyana, with a hint of steel in her voice, “until our business is brought to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “Our business? What business?”

  “Our global operation is expanding,” said Ms. Chang. “We’re going interplanetary.”

  I understood her immediately. “You want to get your hooks into this facility, here on the Moon.”

  She smiled approvingly at me. “Mr. Gunn, here—our darling Sam— has borrowed a rather large sum of money from the Syndicate. It is time to repay.”

  I drew myself up straighten “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m afraid it does,” she said.

  Before I could reply, Sam jumped in. “I told you, I used your money as collateral on a bigger loan. None of the regular banks would handle it, so the Syndicate loaned me enough to get this complex built.”