by Larry Niven
"Right," Bonner said. "But you saw some of that tonight."
"Did I?"
"The Phillips bay. Clothing rental. Obviously there was a need for that service. We weren't providing it, but our people like to dress up for parties and weddings and such. So we were imparting rental clothing and exporting money. Now Phillips does it, and the money stays right here. Mare than that, he's buying stock with his profits."
"And he brought in the capital to start the business," Reedy mused. "Of course, I can see why people with no capital resent you."
"And you're wrong," Bonner said. "I admit I checked on Phillips so I know in advance, but his story's typical. He came in with nothing. We loaned him the money to build up his business."
Reedy thought that over. "Do you do that often? It seems risky."
"Win a few, lose a few. We do pretty well. Our Director for Capital Development is very seldom wrong."
"Ah." Reedy smiled. He wondered if Arthur Bonner realized just how much he was revealing. Or cared. "And how would we go about locating such a magician?"
Bonner grinned. "That's your problem. We've got Barbara Churchward."
V. COMMAND DECISIONS
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just...
-Francis Scott Key
Tony Rand was at loose ends. There would be movies, either in Commons or on his TV … or he could read some of the technical articles now cluttering up his working space … but he wasn't sleepy and he didn't feel like working.
He had wanted to watch Art Bonner and Sir George together, but Art had made it clear that he would be in the way. Business. Fine. Art was no engineer, but he had a way of smoothing things out, so that the real work of Todos Santos could go on. Tony was still annoyed.
He punched for his own level, 100, and braced for the thrust. There were slow and fast elevators; you learned which were which. Art polled the residents regularly. Some hated waiting for elevators; some hated the accelerations. It wasn't hard to change the operating speeds to suit the users.
Hmm. Delores had seemed glad to see him when he was in Bonner's office earlier. She'd be up, it was early. Could he drop by her place? But on what excuse? Damn it, why couldn't he learn how to pick up girls? Even with women he knew, like Delores, he couldn't seem to change the relationship from business to social. Did other men have this problem?
He decided that Delores wouldn't want to see him, not at this hour, without an appointment. Who would?
Genevieve. She'd be glad.
He'd been in love with her once. He was still in love with her when she left. And to be fair, he hadn't been much of a husband. Too wrapped up in work, irritable when interrupted, unwilling to go places with her, rude to her friends, and glad enough when she decided not to go to conventions with him because she was always bored.
There'd been plenty of danger signals. He could see that now, looking back at the last year they were married; but he hadn't seen them then.
If I had, he thought. If I'd noticed how unhappy she was, could I have done anything about it? I'd have tried. But tried what?
She'd be glad if I called. I could invite her to come visit. Bring Zach and come stay a few days. She'd like that, and, dammit, she used to be fun to have around. Am I still in love with her?
The elevator stopped at his floor. Somehow the idea of his empty apartment was unpleasant; too unpleasant to face. Instead he took his pocket electronics box-calculator, phone, computer terminal, alarm clock, and calendar, an invention of his own that someday he'd market when he had time to perfect it-and plugged it into a jack in a panel near the elevator call box.
Genevieve's number didn't answer after twelve rings.
So now what? The apartment was still empty. Dammit, there had to be someone who'd be glad to see him - Sanders. Pres would be on duty, and he could use some company. Pres didn't like night duty on the worry desk. Rand entered the elevator again and punched for the Operations level.
The Olympic ski jumps were back on the screen in Preston Sanders's office. "Evening," Tony said. "Why can't you be addicted to reruns of the Mary Tyler Moore show? Or at least watch the evening news?"
"I do watch the news," Sanders said. "And I generally get some work done when I've got night duty on the worry desk."
"Quiet tonight," Rand said. "Oh-there's some kind of problem with water deliveries in 44-West. Could you have Maintenance check it out?"
Sanders laughed. "I logged that one in an hour ago. How did your dinner go? Any conclusions about implants and genius?"
"Haven't made up my mind. Best way to find out would be to get my own."
"Sure. Tomorrow morning."
A shrill tone shattered their conversation. Red flashed above the screen, and the skier disappeared in mid-jump, replaced by a red-bearded guard captain. "Break-in. Intruder on C-ring, 1 8-North."
Tony stopped breathing. Burglars in the house?
Sanders looked automatically at the holographic model. Tony Rand didn't bother. The north side was unfinished in large part; nothing but girders and framework and the thin curtain wall that had been erected for appearances and environmental control. But two main hydrogen intake lines and a fastube to Santa Barbara came in near ground level on the north side.
A red pinpoint winked on in the holographic display. Level 18, and definitely out in the unfinished area. "Visual," Sanders demanded.
"Getting it, sir," the guard said. Another screen swam, then showed a dim figure on a narrow catwalk. "He won't know we've spotted him."
Rand went around behind the desk to look over Sanders's shoulder, careful not to distract Pres. There wasn't enough light far details.
"Keep it that way a minute, Fleming. What's he carrying?" Sanders demanded.
"Can't make it out," Captain Fleming answered. "No history on him. He had a badge at one time, or he wouldn't be here."
"And he ditched it before he went into that area. Right," Sanders said.
Rand felt beads of sweat pop out on his forehead, and a cold knot began to grow under his belt. This was no lost child. And if he felt the tension, what must Sanders be feeling? The black man looked calm enough. "A teener resident out to have fun?" Rand suggested.
"Possibly," Sanders muttered. He continued to stare at the screen. "But not likely. Not out there. Keep on it, Fleming. You've sent men down there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Maybe you ought to call Bonner," Rand suggested.
That got him a scowl. "Art's been drinking with the Canadian," Sanders said. "Afraid I can't handle the situation?"
"You know better," Tony protested. Was that what I was thinking?
"Two more," Fleming said excitedly. "Two bandits, Accessway 9. They've got some kind of interference gear. Don't know what it is, but we can't get an exact location."
"Interference?" Rand shouted. "What in hell could they-" He fell silent, thinking furiously, recalling the details of the security system. Accessway 9? That was a main hydrogen input tunnel!
A bright band sprang into view on the model: the indeterminate location of two intruders, deep underground. The southwest pipeline complex that ran parallel to the tunnel showed up as a series of thick purple lines.
"It makes a pattern," Pres said uneasily. "Opposite sides. Both aimed at hydrogen intake lines. That's our weakest spat. We've got to get visual on those new bogies!"
"Yes, sir," Fleming said from the screen. "Trying. I can send men into the tunnel-"
"And alarm them. Hold that." He looked up helplessly at Rand. "Christ, if they've got explosives, they can make one hell of a mess."
Tony could only nod agreement. "Pres! My Arr-two's. I've got one near Tunnel 9. Maybe they wouldn't be suspicious of a robot -"
"Maybe worth a try," Sanders said absently. "Use that console over there to fire it up, but don't do anything else without letting me know. Now let me think."
"Sure, Pres." Tony went to the console. It wouldn't be easy controlling the robot with this standard input; Tony usually used joysti
cks and gloves with special sensors, and other devices, but there weren't any of those closer than Tony's office-and by the time he could get there, this might all be over.
Sanders came to a decision. He pushed another button on the desk console. "Cut the hydrogen in those lines. All the lines next to Tunnel Niner, and the northside lines too. MILLIE, what does that do to us?"
"WE WILL GO TO FLYWHEEL DRAIN. NO ESSENTIAL POWER LOSS FOR SEVENTEEN MINUTES. AFTER FOURTEEN MINUTES WE MUST BEGIN PHASEDOWN POWER CUTS TO PREPARE FOR INEVITABLE POWER LOSSES. DO YOU WISH MORE DETAILS?" The contralto voice spoke in impassive block capitals; at least that was how Rand always visualized them.
Power cuts would - "Negative phasedowns," Sanders said. "Carry out previous order and use flywheel storage."
"DONE."
"Not enough!" Rand said. "We need those -"
"Tony, shut up," Sanders said. "Fleming, are you certain they've got something that intentionally fouls up the detectors? That's not an accident?"
"Not bloody likely, sir."
"MILLIE"
"PROBABILITY INSIGNIFICANT."
He turned to Rand. "Tony?"
Rand shrugged. "I don't know how they did it, but I can't see that happening by accident." He pointed at the fuzzy band on the hologram. "We aught to have intruders located to the decimeter."
"I'm getting an infra-red image now," Fleming said. "Tunnel Niner."
The screen showed a dim shadow of two figures, each carrying something heavy. The faces bulged like the snouts of pigs.
"Gas masks," Sanders said grimly. "MILLIE, do the images match anything in your memory?"
"PROBABILITY OF GAS MASK OR DELIBERATE SIMULATION OF GAS MASK, 76 PERCENT. OXYGEN MASK, 21 PERCENT PROBABLE. IF OXYGEN MASK, THE TANKS ARE VERY SMALL."
"Simulation? What's the chance of that?" Sanders demanded.
"INSUFFICIENT DATA."
"Jesus. Tony, get that damned robot of yours in there. Fast."
"I can't, Pres. Whatever they're using to interfere with our detectors is jamming my comm links with the Arr-two. I can't help you a bit."
It had happened at last. Preston Sanders had always known it would. It was the reason he hated the worry desk. Sitting here always involved political decisions; nothing else would be bucked up to the top duty officer. That was hard enough.
And now the big one had happened while he was on duty. I've got about thirty seconds to dither. Should I call the bass? It'd take him at least that long to get up to speed. Maybe I should have called him earlier. Probably would if Tony hadn't suggested it. Oh, damn it- And what if Art's not sober? That LA man has left, but the Canadian is still here. One of the shadows in the tunnel bent over. Possibly to tie his shoes. Possibly to set off a bomb that would wreck the lines. Sanders made his decision.
His voice was calm as he said, "Big one. Tunnel Niner. Big stuff. No drill. Execute."
His voice was calm, but sweat dripped from his chin. He'd never been in the Army.
And he had just killed two men, deliberately, in cold blood.
"Now we take care of the one on the north side," Sanders said. "Stand by lights and snipers. He doesn't look to be carrying anything heavy enough to do much damage. Right?"
"Right," said Fleming.
"Make sure he's got nothing to penetrate the intakes. And no bomb. Then catch the son of a bitch. Catch him alive, and no alarms."
"Roger, Mister Sanders." Captain Fleming turned away from the screens, and Preston Sanders sank back into his chair.
Art Bonner drank a final nightcap with Sir George Reedy and left the Canadian in the guest suite. The perimeter corridor was dark and deserted as Art limped slowly toward his empty apartment, but he paid it no attention.
He almost turned to the elevator that would take him to Delores's apartment. But … no. She'd made it clear that whatever they'd been, it was all over now. She'd be glad to see him, but for what?
What do I want? he wondered. For the apartment not to be empty when I get there. And that's impossible, because who wants to live with a man who lets a city set his schedule-and loves it. It was a wonder Grace stayed five years.
Actually … - Delores will be glad to see me. We can talk about next week's schedule, and she'll make some tea, and - Not fair. She must have men friends. One of them might be with her right now.
It would be literally no effort to find out; he had only to think the question. Why not? But - There was a rising and falling note in his head. It wasn't quite sound; the implanted receiver fed directly into the auditory nerve, and he could sense the difference from true sound. For one thing, there was no vibration. But it was loud enough to startle him no matter how often he had heard it before.
He thought, MILLIE?
INTRUDER ALERT. SINGLE INTRUDER NORTHSIDE LEVEL 18 CORRIDOR 128 RING C. INTRUDER APPARENTLY UNARMED CARRYING NOTHING LARGE. TWO INTRUDERS CARRYING SURVEILLANCE INTERFERENCE EQUIPMENT AND GAS MASKS AND OTHER HEAVY EQUIPMENT EXTENT AND NATURE UNKNOWN IN ACCESS TUNNEL OH-NINER LOCATION IMPOSSIBLE TO DETERMINE.
Mare information poured into his head: everything MILLIE knew about the situation, the computer's probability estimates, the probable consequences of explosions in the penetrated areas; all happening so quickly that Bonner was hardly aware of it.
"Lord God," Bonner said to himself. He moved toward the fast lane of the pedway.
Sanders has it?
AFFIRMATIVE.
He's in charge.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
He was automatically going toward the Operations Center. And what do I do when I get there? he wondered. I left Pres in charge. He'll think I don't trust him if I come in and take over. He hasn't asked for help.
And there's the little matter of the brandy, too. Am I competent to make decisions?
SANDERS HAS ORDERED LETHAL GAS ACTION IN ACCESSWAY NINER, MILLIE told him.
"Christ Almighty," Bonner muttered. He had seconds only to interfere, if he were going to. And he had no information.
Pres is a good man, he thought. Another part of his mind answered: "He'd damned well better be." Bonner walked rapidly along the pedway. It was silly, it wouldn't get him to the control offices more than a few seconds earlier, but he did it.
VX RELEASED IN ACCESSWAY NINER. SECURITY IS MOVING IN ON THE INTRUDER IN NORTHSIDE AREA.
Well. That's that.
He was past his own apartment now; not far to the elevator to the top floor. That location was stupid, Bonner thought. Administrators ought to be either next to their own apartments or somewhere in the middle of the building; but the designers had their own ideas. What was happening to Pres?
He began moving off the fast lane again. An elevator was waiting far him, of course, and there were two uniformed men next to it. All through Todos Santos the Security people would be moving quietly into place, just in case there were more to this attack than just three intruders in uninhabited areas.
Maintenance and engineering and the fire department would be on alert, too. If the hydrogen lines went, even if there wasn't a fire, Todos Santos would come grinding to a halt. It took energy to run the city. Less than the same people would need if they were scattered out in hundreds of thousands of buildings, of course, but it took plenty.
He limped off the pedway, acknowledged the guards with a wave, and entered the elevator, twitching while it rose. How's Pres taking it? He's killed two people! The elevator loosed him and he ran for Preston Sanders's office, angling sideways to favor the bad leg.
Tony Rand watched the black man with awe. How can he be so damned calm about it? he wondered.
Maybe he's not. He's smoking like a chimney - have I ever seen him smoke before? He's usually so fussy about emptying ashtrays, and that one's half-full already.
He went to the shelf and poured a shot of brandy, tossing it off, almost laughing at the absurdity of his thoughts: it came unbidden that he'd put Sanders's prize brandy in coffee this afternoon, now he was drinking it like medicine. "Brandy?"
"I'm still on duty," Sande
rs said. "Fleming, what's the status on that northside intruder?"
"He's spotted us. He's hiding."
"Thank you."
"Maybe you ought to call Bonner now," Rand said.
"MILLIE already told him," Sanders said absently. "Standing orders on anything this big. He'll be here in a moment." He painted at the holograph, where a blue star moved rapidly upward toward the operations suite. "I'd go easy on that brandy. Art will want you in on the conference."