They walk over to the sofa next to the picture window. Rocket sits, takes off his electric-blue-striped jacket, and places it next to him.
“Beautiful view, Drew. Gotta hand it to you. You really know how to live. But I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? Hope you haven’t spent all the money I gave you after the market did its little dance. It’s nice to be even so we can start all over. It’s not too late to place a bet on a weightless pie-eating contest on Uranus.”
“Not interested, Rocket.”
“Not classy enough for your tastes? Doesn’t have the cache of the races at Epsom Salts?”
This is true, but Drew says nothing.
Rocket takes out a piece of gum that has the letters VV on it, pops it into his mouth, and starts to chew. He holds out the box and offers Drew a piece.
“What does the VV mean?”
“Very vitamin,” Rocket answers.
Drew shakes his head. “Still taking all that stuff?”
Rocket frowns. “It’s good for ya. It’s a health food. Better than most of those Congress Drug food supplements that you take. It’s amazing how much people will pay to eat nothing.”
“You’ve mentioned that. So, why are you here?”
“I want another sample of that stuff you got me from Congress Drugs.”
“No can do. After the poisoning of the Chocolate Moons, Congress Drugs as well as every other drug Company, is super careful and weighs every gram of its products daily. Everyone is making sure that nothing is out of order. These investigations are making everyone in the drug business edgy. Until they find out what made the Chocolate Moons poisonous, everyone’s under suspicion.”
“Which means no one is under suspicion. Look, why don’t you just replace the missing grams with something else? You’re a clever guy. Plenty of things look like an innocent white powder and weigh the same.” Rocket cracks his knuckles.
Drew stands and looks down at him. “Do you have to do that? I hate that sound.”
Rocket takes out a large white handkerchief with the initials RP and blows his nose. He reaches out and puts his arm on Drew, who yanks away.
“Now, ready to hear my punch line?” Rocket returns the handkerchief to his pocket.
Drew sighs. “Didn’t I just hear it?”
“It’s about an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a big one.”
“A big one?”
“Titan Labs is a new freelance drug company not far from my apartment on Titan.” Rocket points his thumb at himself and says, “Yours truly has just bought it. I want to develop my own generic brand of the anti-flavonoid and my own product to compete with Freedom Plan foods. That’s why I’m asking you to get me another sample. I promise Titan Labs won’t produce any of the anti-flavonoid for two years. That way people will think everything was developed independently. No one would be able to link you to this, except me, of course.”
Rocket takes out his handkerchief and blows his nose again. He looks up. “What are those little colored dots on the ceiling? Some kind of new artwork?”
Drew looks. “What little dots?” He squints for better focus. “I can hardly see them, Rocket. I can assure you, it’s nothing.”
“I hope they’re not some kind of listening device. You better be right, because you don’t live long in my business if you’re wrong.” Rocket narrows his eyes. “Look, we could use an experienced CEO like you at Titan Drugs. I’ll double your current salary. You’ll only be young for another fifty or sixty years. Think of your future.”
Rocket stands. He raises his hand, and the antigravity case rises too. He heads toward the table where the Giacometti sits. Drew is close behind. Then he slides the case on the table next to the Giacometti and pops the lid. Drew looks and gasps. Another Giacometti, identical to his, is inside. Rocket reaches in and places it next to Drew’s. Then he puts a hand on each one, and, like a professional three-card Monte player who always wins, rapidly crosses them several times.
“Stop!” Drew shrieks, waving his arms. “Stop!”
Rocket grabs one of the statues and tosses it into the case. A DNA-coded bolt sounds, and Drew knows that only Rocket can open it.
“How do I know which one is mine?”
“You don’t. That’s the point. But I’m not going anywhere soon, and you know where to find me.” Rocket puts out his hand, and the case rises next to him. He walks to the door then turns back to Drew. “Did I mention that the four-flame Bunsen Burner prize-winning scientist Decibel Point, who invented the formula used in Freedom Plan foods, and I used to be partners? We had a falling-out many years ago, but if I give him his own lab at Titan Drugs, maybe he’ll join my team.”
“Decibel Point? I see him all the time at Congress Drugs. He’s easy to spot because he’s so fat. Didn’t know he invented the Freedom Plan foods!”
“Sandy Andreas does everything he can to hide that information. Business could suffer if people knew that a fat guy who never eats any Freedom Plan foods himself invented the stuff.”
The next morning Drew takes the Giacometti that Rocket switched to Smart Art Appraisers.
“You are wise to have this independently appraised, Mr. Barron. Theft and counterfeiting is big business.” The appraiser inserts a small needle into the statue’s foot and extracts some material. He squeezes a liquid on it and inserts it into a microscope. Drew taps his fingers on the counter and waits. When the appraiser finally looks up, he says, “Sorry, Mr. Barron, feet of clay.”
14
LUNCH TIME. MY favorite time. Jersey and I walk through a long, high hall that leads to the Quantum Corner Café. Fragrant spices hang from twisted vines that dangle from ceiling to floor. And although Jersey’s implants give her extraordinary vision, she has a poor sense of smell. Every day she watches me inhale the delicious aromas that waft through the halls, and every day she is amazed.
Wine racks designed by Beowulf and Grendel Associates hang in grids. We know, as insiders, that the Dewey Decimal System and the Code of Hammurabi have been woven into an intricate, unique pricing system that only the top brass can understand so they can justify charging astronomical prices.
The flower of the week, the fuchsia, heart-shaped Rosa-Parks, stands in a large green-and-yellow paisley vase in the front of the the room, while smaller matching vases sit on tables. I pass three glass cases that hold rows of pastries and crusty breads that I can practically taste just by looking at them. I smile at the clerk behind the counter. She waves and returns my smile.
Jersey looks neither right nor left and marches straight to our table, where she begins her table ritual. First she taps each corner of the table twice to make sure it is steady. Then she realigns every knife with the glasses and measures the distance between the forks and the spoons before straightening the rest.
“There is no problem with the table,” I say. You find something wrong with the setting every time we’re about to sit down. Stop it. I can’t relax.”
“Well, I can’t relax and eat when it is so unbalanced.”
“Just sit. You’re embarrassing me.”
Jersey sits. A waiter carefully places a roll on her plate. She picks it up and crumbles a piece. I know she does it to look like she is eating, but the food never goes near her mouth. It is something I’ve seen Flo and her friends do whenever anything with more than ten calories gets near them. Jersey orders a raspberry quince iced tea that I know she could make last all day and a leafy green salad with no oil and balsamic vinegar on the side.
I butter my roll and pop it into my mouth. I order a double cheeseburger with fries. The fries are made from potatoes that are long and thin like bananas because Mars’s lower gravity makes all produce elongate. The twins won’t eat any round foods from Earth because they say those foods must have more calories. Jersey says the hypothesis is reasonable.
“Whoever put something in the chocolate vat did it during the day, right under our noses,” Jersey says, sipping her tea. Unusual things happen in plain sight all the
time. Besides, people on tours are like a flock of sheep. The Culinary, and especially Candy Universe, is filled with people being told where to walk and what to look at. They are listening to the guide, not listening for strange sounds.”
A waiter brings our orders. “And the salad is for…ah, let me guess.”
My eyes narrow. “We’re not leaving this one a big tip,” I whisper. I take a bite of my burger and swallow. I look at Jersey’s roll. “Are you going to finish your roll, Jersey?”
“No, I’m not. I didn’t like its shape.” She is happy to push it closer to me. And before you can say carbohydrates, I move her roll to my plate.
“One doesn’t eat a roll for its shape,” I say.
“But the right side is higher than the left side.”
I take a small bite and hold it up. “Not anymore.” After a larger bite, I say, “Tell me, how do Chocolate Moons get made?”
Jersey sits straight up and brushes crumbs on the table into a tissue and hands it to a passing waiter. She slowly presses her napkin flat with the palms of her hands and folds it into equal quarters.
“San Andreas Farms roasts and shells the beans at a factory on its farm. The company only sends the nibs, the part of the bean that makes the chocolate. I think one guy with a computer can do the whole process, except for the picking.”
“What happens after the Culinary gets it?”
“The beans are ground into liquid called chocolate liqueur but there is no liqueur in it.”
“Mmm, too bad.”
“Then they add other ingredients and it all gets heated and mixed. The art of chocolate making is in the mixing. That’s the part that the tourists see. Everyone tells me it smells so good, but as you know I have a poor sense of smell.”
“You mean like the smell of those brownies the waiter is carrying? I never realized your condition was so serious.” I breathe in their aroma and signal the waiter to bring me an order.
“We just finished lunch. We haven’t even left the café, and you had an extra roll. Now you’re ordering brownies.”
“Maybe I’ll take the order out and save them for later.”
“Ha, with you and chocolate, there is no ‘later’!”
“You never know.”
“I know.”
“So where does the chocolate go after it is mixed in the vat?”
“It’s sent to different areas and poured into individual molds, one of which creates Chocolate Moons. When they have hardened, they are sent to three different tasters. If they approve, they are sent on to packaging.”
“I know a professional taster. She’s married to Cortland’s cousin. Her name is Florida. I never see her eat a thing.”
“Bet she has beautiful clothes.”
“Stay focused, Jersey. What happens to the chocolate next?”
“Twenty-five pieces are put into each box. Then the boxes are sealed and wrapped.”
“Who puts the pieces in the boxes? Sounds like a good job.”
“Robots put the chocolate in the boxes. Can’t worry that someone like you would slip through the screening process and eat the goodies. And, after they are packed they are sent to local middlemen at various distribution centers, who deliver them to neighborhood shops.”
“So, since Chocolate Moons are the most popular product, most tourists want to see how they are made. Right?”
“The only time the vat is exposed is when the melted chocolate is being mixed, which is done right in front of the tourists so they can get the maximum smell, which of course increases sales. Every tourist wears a sterile gown, hat, and gloves so there is no contamination.”
I close my eyes, imagining the scene and the smell of melted chocolate.
“Are you with me or not on this, Molly? You look like you’re in a trance.”
I open my eyes.
Jersey continues, “After the melted chocolate is poured from the mixing vat into molds, the tourists are led to the gift shop. No one leaves the Candy Universe without buying something, even if it’s just a candy statue of Saint Hershey, OBM.”
“OBM?”
“Of Blessed Memory.”
I raise my eyes. “Amen! Unless the tourists are like you and can’t smell at all.” I peer at Jersey. “But you’re an exception that way. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. Martians can smell as well as you.”
“At least my sense of smell is something I have in common with you natives. Because when it comes to food, it sure looks like native Martians don’t love it the way I do.”
“Oh, we love food, but we usually don’t eat much of it.”
“Yeah, like you eat but don’t swallow.”
Jersey says nothing.
“Let’s backtrack. The chocolate vat is exposed in front of the tourists. What if a foreign substance were put into the vat? Would it be possible for nanosized amounts to mix with the chocolate then randomly scatter down the line before it is poured into the molds? And then when it is packed, one piece could be infected and the rest not?”
“Yes, I suppose it could happen.”
“Hmm, mixed but not dissolved.” I finish the brownies.
Jersey frowns. “I knew there was no chance you would save those for later. Let’s check and see if any of the lab reports and security holographs are ready. Unless of course you want to start lunch all over again.”
“Not funny, Jersey.” I sigh. “I still want to come over to talk to Trenton about my hunch. The last time I was at your home, he showed me his new laboratory equipment.”
“He’s a forensic freelancer for Mars Yard now, so he has even more stuff. Come any time. Ever since his race car accident, he’s had so many body parts replaced he needs tune-ups rather than check-ups. The media called him a human-android. Not everyone is comfortable being with him.
“Too bad he didn’t win the four-flame Bunsen Burner prize and only got the three-flame for finding out how many filberts were in a filibuster.”
Jersey leans back and takes a last sip of her raspberry quince iced tea. “Although that was brilliant it couldn’t match Decibel Point’s discovery of what came first—the gin or the tonic.”
We stand. Jersey pushes our chairs carefully under the table. A waiter approaches holding a tray. “Won’t you try a free sample of our new Freedom Plan coconut cream candy before you leave?”
We each put one in our mouth. Jersey swallows.
“Not bad,” I say. “Reminds me of pureed okra.” When the waiter’s back is turned, I spit mine into a napkin then reach for some regular spearmint taffies that sit next to the pay-scan.
“Not going to get me to eat that Freedom Plan junk,” I say.
Jersey represses a giggle. “I thought it was good but not as good as pureed okra.”
We exit the Quantum Corner and walk down a hall lined with large picture windows that show off the tiled open kitchens with hanging copper pots. I watch a chef pipe snowy whipped cream around the tiers of a wedding cake.
“I love working here. Even with all the recent troubles, what could be better?”
Jersey marches, arms at her sides, head high, eyes straight ahead. “Maybe a bank,” she says.
I gaze at Jersey and think, Ah the smell of money. How sweet it is.
Breezy lies curled up on their four-poster bed. She wears a t-shirt with a picture of a man with three eyes that says property of MOMA (Museum of Martian Art). Her hands cover her ears. Pluto is screaming. “What do you mean you can’t find the remote control I gave you when we were at the Culinary?”
Breezy lowers her hands and sighs.
“After they examine the security cubes and check the time everyone was distracted by the alarm sound, they’ll find that it was the same time everyone looked away from the chocolate vat.”
Breezy pouts. “They could think it was a coincidence?”
“Not if they discover that the remote can trigger an alarm. What’s more, it’s possible that the holo cube recorded my hand raised near the chocolate vat at the same tim
e all that was happening.”
“I must have dropped it when you were rushing me. You’re always rushing me, Pluto.”
“Oh, now it’s my fault you lost it.”
“I didn’t say that. I just said you rushed me.”
“Think back. When was the last time you remember having it?”
“I think it was in the Chocolate Moons room at the Culinary. I thought I dropped it into my purse, but it must have fallen on the floor. Then with all the confusion, I didn’t realize it was gone. It was hard to do two things at the same time.”
“Yeah, like walk and chew gum.”
Breezy starts to cry. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic, Pluto,” she sobs. “I’m sorry.”
Pluto puts his arm around her. She reaches for a tissue and blows her nose. “The robotic crew that collects garbage might have chewed it up and tossed it into the recycle. I guess we’re going to have to wait it out and see what turns up. To do anything else looks suspicious.”
Breezy gets up from the bed and goes to the bathroom to wash her face. When she comes out, she is more composed. “My father wants to have dinner with me. On top of his regular work at Congress Drugs, he consults for several off-planet unregulated labs on the outer moons.”
“Three cheers for Daddy Decibel Point! It’s about time Sandy Andreas and his Congress Drug company gets some serious competition.”
“He is also having problems with Rocket. Rocket says he found a loophole in an old contract that says if Dad develops any new products, they are his to market. But he’s willing to drop it if he helps him in his new laboratory on Titan that will make generic drugs.”
Pluto interrupts. “I don’t care if your father and Rocket are in business together or not, just as long as your father doesn’t ask me for any money.”
“Who said anything about money, Pluto? You’re always thinking about money.”
Pluto smiles. He puts his hand on Breezy’s breast. “Not always,” he says.
15
CRAIG CASHEW SITS at his desk in his office at the Culinary Institute and stares at the stack of mail labeled “hate mail: Chocolate Moons.” Opposite is a small gold bag marked “Eyes Only.” He reaches for it and rips its seal. Three large chocolate fortune cookies containing new recipes from Al Lacart, his head chef, tumble out. He cracks one, nibbles, and frowns. This is not a good time to try anything new. Or, for that matter do anything new like build Culinary satellites in other cities, a project he hoped would deflect the constructing of a convention center that some board members were touting, because it would destroy beautiful natural areas.
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