Giant's Star g-3

by James P. Hogan

  A shadow fell across the ground, and Mikolai Sobroskin sat down on the bench next to him. He was wearing a heavy suit and necktie despite the fine weather, and his head was glistening with beads of perspiration in the sunlight. "A refreshing contrast to Giordano Bruno," he commented. "What an improvement it would be if the maria were really seas."

  Pacey turned his head from staring across the lake and grinned. "And maybe a few trees, huh? I think UNSA has got its work cut out for a while with the proposals for cooling down Venus and oxygenating Mars. Luna’s way down the list. Even if it weren’t, I’m not sure that anybody has come up with any good ideas for what they could do about it. But who knows? One day, maybe."

  The Russian sighed. "Perhaps we had such knowledge in the palm of our hand. We threw it away. Do you realize that we have witnessed what could be the greatest crime in human history? And perhaps the world will never know."

  Pacey nodded, waited for a second to assume a more businesslike manner, and asked, "So? . . . What’s the news?"

  Sobroskin drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his head. "You were right about the coded signals from Gistar when you suspected that they were in response to an independent transmitting facility established by us," he replied.

  Pacey nodded without showing surprise. He knew that already from what Caldwell and Lyn Garland had revealed in Washington, but he couldn’t say so. "Have you found out how Verikoff and Sverenssen fit in?" he asked.

  "I think so," Sobroskin said. "They seem to be part of a global operation of some sort that was committed to shutting down communications of any kind between this planet and Thurien. They used the same methods. Verikoff is a member of a powerful faction that strongly opposed the Soviet attempt to open another channel. Their reasons were the same as the UN’s. As it turned out, they were taken by surprise before they could organize an effective block, and some transmissions were sent. Like Sverenssen, Verikoff was instrumental in causing additional messages to be sent secretly, designed to frustrate the exercise. At least we think so. . . . We can’t prove it."

  Pacey nodded again. He knew that too. "Do you know what they said?" he inquired out of curiosity, although he had read Caldwell’s transcripts from Thurien.

  "No, but I can guess. These people knew in advance that the relay to Gistar would deactivate. That says to me that they must have been responsible. Presumably they arranged it months ago with an independent launching organization, or maybe a part of UNSA that they knew they could trust. . . . I don’t know. But my guess is that their strategy was to delay the proceedings via both channels until the relay was put out of action permanently."

  Pacey stared across the lake to an enclosed area of water on the far side in which crowds of children were swimming and playing in the sun. The sounds of shouting and laughter drifted across intermittently on the breeze. Apart from the confirmation of Verikoff’s involvement, he hadn’t learned anything new so far. "What do you make of it?" he asked without turning his head.

  After a long, heavy silence, Sobroskin replied, "Russia had a tradition of tyranny through to the early years of this century. Ever since it threw off the yoke of Mongol subjugation in the fifteenth century, it was obsessed with preserving its security to the point that the security of other nations became a threat that could not be tolerated. It expanded its borders by conquest and held on to its acquired territories by oppression, intimidation, and terror. But the new lands in turn had borders, and there was no end to the process. Communism changed nothing. It was merely a banner of convenience for rallying gullible idealists and rationalizing sacrifice. Apart from a few brief months in 1917, Russia was no more Communist than the Church of the Middle Ages was Christian."

  He paused to fold his handkerchief and return it to his pocket. Pacey waited without speaking for him to continue. "We thought that all that began to change in the early decades of this century with the end of the threat of thermonuclear war and a more enlightened view of internationalism. And superficially it did. Many like myself dedicated themselves to creating a new climate of understanding and common progress with the West as it emerged from its own style of tyranny." Sobroskin sighed and shook his head sadly. "But the Thurien affair has revealed that the forces that plunged Russia into its own Dark Age did not go away, and their purpose has not changed." He looked at Pacey sharply. "And the forces that brought religious terror and economic exploitation to the West have not gone away, either. On both sides they have merely modified their stance to avert what would have guaranteed their destruction along with everything else. There is a web across this whole planet that connects many Sverenssens with many Verikoffs. They pose behind banners and slogans that call for liberation, but the liberation they seek is their own, not that of the people who follow them."

  "Yes, I know," Pacey said. "We’ve uncovered some of it too. What’s the answer?"

  Sobroskin raised an arm and gestured at the far side of the lake. "For all we know, those children might have grown up to see other worlds under other suns. But the price of that would have been knowledge, and knowledge is the enemy of tyranny in any disguise. It has freed more people from poverty and oppression than all of the ideologies and creeds in history put together. Every form of serfdom follows from serfdom of the mind."

  "I’m not sure what you’re saying," Pacey said. "Are you saying you want to come over to us or something?"

  The Russian shook his head. "The war that matters has nothing to do with flags. It is between those who would set the minds of children free, and those who would deny them Thurien. The latest battle has been lost, but the war will continue. Perhaps one day we will talk to Thurien again. But in the meantime another battle is looming in Moscow for control of the Kremlin, and that is where I must be." He reached behind him for a package that he had placed on the bench behind him and passed it to Pacey. "We have a tradition of ruthlessness in handling our internal affairs that you do not share. It is possible that many people will not survive the next few months, and I could be one of them. If so, I would like to think that my work has not been for nothing." He released the package and withdrew his arm. "That contains a complete record of all that I know. It would not be safe with my colleagues in Moscow since their future, like my own, is full of uncertainties. But I know that you will use the information wisely, for you understand as well as I do that in the war that really matters we are on the same side." With that he stood up. "I am glad that we met, Norman Pacey. It is reassuring to see that on both sides, bonds exist that are deeper than the colors on maps. I hope that we meet again, but in case that is not to be. . ." He let the words hang and extended a hand.

  Pacey stood up and grasped it firmly. "We will. And things will be better," he said.

  "I hope so." Sobroskin released his grip, turned, and began walking away along the side of the lake.

  Pacey’s fingers tightened around the package as he stood watching the short, stocky figure marching jerkily off to keep its appointment with fate, possibly to die so that children might laugh. He couldn’t let him, he realized. He couldn’t let him walk away without knowing. "Mikolai!" he called.

  Sobroskin stopped and looked back. Pacey waited. The Russian retraced his steps.

  "The battle was not lost," Pacey said. "There’s another channel to Thurien operating right now . . . in the United States. It doesn’t need the relay. We’ve been talking to Thurien for weeks. That was why Karen Heller returned to Earth. It’s okay. All the Sverenssens in the world can’t stop it now."

  Sobroskin stared at him for a long time before the words seemed to register. At last he moved his head in a slow, barely perceptible nod, his eyes expressionless and distant, and murmured quietly, "Thank you." Then he turned away and began walking again, this time slowly, as if in a trance. When he had covered twenty yards or so he stopped, stared back again, and raised his arm in a silent salutation. Then he turned away and began walking once more, and after a few steps his pace lightened and quickened.

  Even at
that distance Pacey had seen the exultation in his expression. Pacey watched until Sobroskin had vanished among the people walking by the boathouses farther along the shoreline, then turned away and walked in the opposite direction, toward the Serpentine bridge.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Niels Sverenssen’s million-dollar home was situated in Connecticut, forty miles from New York City, on the shore side of a two-hundred-acre estate of parkland and trees that overlooked Long Island Sound. The house framed two sides of a large, clover-leaf pool set among terraced banks of shrubs. A tennis court on one side and outbuildings on the other completed the pool’s encirclement. The house was fashionably contemporary, spacious, light, and airy, with sections of roof sweeping in clean, unbroken planes from crest almost to ground level in some places to give the complete structure the lines and composition of an abstract sculpture, and drawing back in others to reveal vertical faces and slanted panels of polished brownstone, tiled mosaic, or glass. The imposing central structure rose two levels and contained the larger rooms and Sverenssen’s private quarters. One wing fell to single level and comprised six extra bedrooms and additional living space to accommodate the guests of his frequent weekend parties and other functions. The other was two-storied, though not as high as the central portion; it contained offices for Sverenssen and a secretary, a library, and other rooms dedicated to his work.

  There was something odd about the history of Sverenssen’s house.

  Lyn had flown up to New York accompanied by one of Clifford Benson’s agents, who had introduced her to a local office of the CIA to examine their records for additional information on Sverenssen. It turned out that his house had been built for him ten years previously by the construction division of Weismand Industries, Inc., a large, diversified corporation. The company was a builder of industrial premises, not private dwellings, which was no doubt why they had called in several outside architects and designers as consultants. What made the project even stranger was that Weismand was based in California; why would Sverenssen have used them when any number of qualified firms existed in the area?

  Further checks revealed that Weismand Industries stock was held mainly by a Canadian insurance consortium that was closely linked to the same British banking fraternity that, along with its French and Swiss connections, had launched Sverenssen’s spectacular career upon his sudden return from obscurity. Had Sverenssen simply been repaying a favor, or were there other reasons why he felt it necessary to build his house using a company with which he had close, and presumably confidential, connections?

  Lyn asked herself the question again as she reclined in a bikini on a chaise by the pool and studied the house through the intervening flower beds and shrubs. Sverenssen, wearing sunglasses and clad in a pair of scarlet bathing trunks, was sitting a few feet away at an umbrellaed table drinking iced lemonade and talking with a man he had introduced as Larry. A blonde named Cheryl was basking face-down and naked on another chaise a short distance away, while two other girls, Sandy and Carol, were laughing and shouting in the pool with a Mediterranean-looking character by the name of Enrico. Sandy was topless, and the object of the mкlйe in progress was evidently to render her bottomless as well. Another couple had been around earlier, but had been gone for the last hour or so. It was Friday afternoon, and more people were expected to arrive as the evening wore on, plus a few the next morning. Sverenssen had described the occasion as "a pleasant get-together of some interesting friends" when Lyn called him on Thursday morning.

  The only thing that seemed even slightly unusual about the house was the office wing, she decided as she looked at it. Sverenssen had stressed that it was not open to visitors when he showed her around earlier. That seemed reasonable enough, but something was different about it, she realized. This part of the building wasn’t built to the same airy and open design as the rest of the place, with yards of plate-glass windows and sliding glass doors that led through to the inside. Instead it was solid, with small windows set high off the ground. They looked thick and seemed more suited to keeping sunlight out, along with everything else. As she looked closer, she was sure that what had seemed at first to be ornamental trim across the windows was in fact carefully disguised bars guaranteed to exclude any possibility of entry-not just by burglars, but by a tank. There were no doors to the outside at all; the only access to the wing was from inside the house. If she hadn’t been looking specifically, she would never have noticed it, but the office wing, beneath its veneer of tiled designs and paint-work to match the rest of the house, was virtually a fortress.

  The noise from the pool rose to a crescendo that culminated in a shriek as Enrico emerged from a flurry of water and bodies waving the lower half of Sandy’s swimsuit triumphantly over his head. "One down, one to go," he yelled.

  "Not fair!" Sandy screamed. "I was drowning. That’s an unfair advantage."

  "Carol’s turn," Enrico shouted.

  "Like hell," Carol laughed. "That’s inequality. Sandy, give me a hand and let’s get the bastard." The commotion started all over again.

  "It sounds as if they could use some help," Sverenssen said, turning his head to look across at Lyn. "Go ahead and join in. There aren’t any restrictions on how you enjoy yourself here, you know."

  She let her head fall back on the raised end of the chaise and forced a smile. "Oh, sometimes spectator sports are just as much fun. Anyway, they seem to be managing okay. I’ll be the reserve division."

  "She’s being smart and saving her energy," Larry said, speaking to Sverenssen and sending Lyn a broad wink. She did a good job of pretending not to notice.

  "Very wise," Sverenssen said.

  "The real fun starts later," Larry explained, grinning. Lyn managed a half-smile, at the same time wondering how she was going to handle that. "We’ll find you lots of new friends. They’re great people here."

  "I can’t wait," Lyn said drily.

  "Isn’t she charming," Sverenssen said, glancing at Larry and looking approvingly back at Lyn. "I met her in Washington, you know-a most fortunate encounter. She has people that she visits here in New York." It made her feel like a piece of merchandise, which was probably a pretty close assessment of her situation. She wasn’t especially surprised; if she hadn’t been prepared to play along for appearance’s sake, she wouldn’t have come in the first place.

  "I get to Washington a lot," Larry said. "You work there or something?"

  Lyn shook her head. "Uh uh. I’m with the Space Arm in Houston-computers, lasers, and people who talk numbers all day, but it’s a living."

  "Ah, but we’re going to change that, aren’t we, Lyn," Sverenssen said. He looked at Larry. "As a matter of fact I was thinking of something in Washington that would suit her perfectly, and prove far more interesting, I’m sure. Do you remember Phil Grazenby? I had lunch with him one day while I was there recently, and he wants somebody bright and attractive to manage the new agency he’s opening. And he is talking about really worthwhile money."

  "We’ll have to get together there if you make it," Larry said to Lyn. He made a face. "Aw, but that’s business, and it’s a long time away. Why wait until Washington? We can get to know each other right here. Are you here alone?"

  "Yes, she’s free," Sverenssen murmured.

  "That’s great!" Larry exclaimed. "Me too, and I’m the perfect guy for introducing new faces around here. Believe me, honey, you’ve made the right choice. You must have good taste. Tell you what-you can partner me in one of the games later. So we’ve got a deal, right?"

  "I live for the present," Lyn said. "Suppose we let later take care of itself later, okay?" She stretched to squint up at the sun, then looked at Sverenssen. "Right now all I’m going to be good for is a case of radiation sickness if I don’t cover up. I’m going to go inside in the shade and put on something else until it cools down a bit. I’ll see you later?"

  "By all means, my dear," Sverenssen said. "The last thing we want is for you to end up on the casualty list." Lyn unfolded
herself from the chaise and walked toward the house. "I think you may have a little game of playing hard to get to win before-" she heard Sverenssen murmur. The rest was drowned out by another burst of screaming from the pool.

  Cheryl raised her head and watched as Lyn disappeared between the shrubs. "You’ve got nothing to offer, Larry," she said. "Now I could show her a good time that’s really different."

  "So what’s wrong with both of us?" Larry asked.

  Lyn’s room contained twin king-size beds and was as luxuriously furnished and fitted as every other part of the house. She was supposed to be sharing it with somebody called Donna, who hadn’t arrived yet. Inside, she took off her bikini and put on a shirt and shorts. Then she stood by the window thinking for a while.

  There was a datagrid screen in the room, but she didn’t want to make any calls since there was a good chance it was bugged. Anyway she didn’t need to if she wanted to get out because Clifford Benson’s people had aheady anticipated that. Inside her shoulder bag in the closet was a microelectronic transmitter that looked like a powder compact but would send out a signal when she unlocked a safety catch and pressed a disguised button. If she pressed it once, a CIA agent would call the house within seconds, posing as a brother with news of a family emergency and stating that a cab was on its way to collect her. If she pressed it three times, the two agents in the airmobile parked a mile down the road from the front gate would arrive in under half a minute, but that option was for use only if she got into real trouble. But she didn’t want to get out just yet. The house was empty and quieter than it would be at any time for the rest of the weekend. There would never be another chance like this for a look around the place with little risk of being disturbed. She sure-as-hell wasn’t going to chicken out after a couple of hours with nothing to report, she told herself.