by Allen Steele
Except that Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde existed only as an account number within the vast memory of Empire Securities’ computers. It had taken DeWitt a considerable amount of hacking, using his Toshiba laptop computer to establish a secret back door into Empire’s computers through the comsat system. Yet once he had managed to do so, it had been relatively simple to ferret out the information he desired. Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde had been a minor company specializing in penny stock until it had gone bankrupt six weeks ago. The company had been dissolved and its meager capital assests sold to another brokerage. Yet, through the negligence of some overworked systems keypuncher, its name and account number had not been eradicated from the memory of Empire’s computer mainframe. In name only, therefore, it still existed.
DeWitt secretly purchased the defunct company for exactly one dollar, then created an entirely fictitious board of directors and listed the revived firm as a company dealing in “space and media futures.” He had then patiently waited to see what might happen, but nobody at Empire Securities appeared to notice: Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde continued to exist as a tiny, unnoticed cog in a vast machine stretching from New York to London to Tokyo to Rio to Johannesburg.
The alleged president and CEO of Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde, Elliot Entwhistle, was one of DeWitt’s phony identities, created long ago as a standby entity. Entwhistle was supposedly a wealthy investment banker in Houston, complete with an account in a large Texas bank. A secret, well-guarded subroutine in the Empire Securities computer was programmed so that the money received from investments in Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde would automatically be transferred via computer network to the Houston bank, into Entwhistle’s account.
The New York computers did not know that Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde and Elliot Entwhistle existed only as ghosts; they would obediently follow instructions planted in advance by DeWitt. The legitimate flesh-and-blood bankers who rubber-stamped the transactions would never notice the primary transaction; Empire Securities bought and sold, on a daily basis, stock in excess of several billion dollars on behalf of their clients. A couple of hundred thousand bucks diverted, over a year’s time to a small brokerage handled by their own holding company, would be ignored, lost in the fathomless paperwork and number-crunching. And the investment-minded moondogs at Descartes Station would receive a regular series of faxed letters from radio stations on Earth, all of whom wanted to syndicate Radio Free Luna—all completely fictional, of course, but necessary to maintain the verisimilitude of the bogus company.
The moondogs would also receive authentic-looking stock certificates from Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde; these would be ground out by a desktop-publishing program that DeWitt had managed to steal from a California software firm which specialized in such things. Only a skilled security hacker hired by Empire Securties could ever crack the elaborate system DeWitt had established, and DeWitt had taken pains to eliminate any loose ends that might draw the attention of Empire’s counter-hackers.
The whole thing would look, sound, and feel like a completely legitimate stock transaction … but all the money invested in MoonTunes through Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde would be electronically transmitted to the Texas bank account of Elliot Entwhistle. In the meantime, the puppet strings would be manipulated from DeWitt’s comsat-linked laptop computer on the Moon, protected by layer upon layer of cutouts. If all worked well, this scheme would take almost exactly twelve months to complete. Then, after those twelve months, Jeremy Schneider’s contract with Skycorp would expire. He would not renew his contract, but instead would ship back to Earth … and disappear from existence almost as soon as he touched ground on the shuttle landing strip at Cape Canaveral.
Within two days, the reclusive Elliot Entwhistle would resurface in Houston, where he would liquidate his bank account, taking the money away in cash and vanishing once again. Within at least an hour of that, a secret pass-phrase would be activated along the computer network, activating a well-buried cybernetic worm which would obliterate all traces of MoonTunes Ltd., Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde, and Elliot Entwhistle … leaving behind several dozen bewildered moondogs with stock certificates worth exactly zip, and not one clue as to where their money went. Except maybe some confused recollections about a dependable, honest-looking young entrepreneur named Jeremy Schneider who had convinced them to purchase stock in MoonTunes Ltd. Except that Jeremy Schneider, too, had ceased to exist.
It was a lovely scam. It had taken weeks of unflagging effort to put all the pieces in place, hacking out the programs which would establish the dummy companies and identities, using the covert comsat link from his niche to crack the necessary bank accounts and corporate files. It was a masterpiece of criminal art; from the Moon, the beginnings of an invisible, untraceable financial network had been established on Earth.
Except that the first piece of the mosaic adamantly refused to fall into place: the cooperation of Harry Drinkwater.
Without Moondog McCloud’s involvement from the very beginning, there could be no MoonTunes Ltd., no Radio Free Luna, no enticement for the wage-slaves of Descartes Station to kiss away part of their investment cash to Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde. Yet, much to his own surprise, DeWitt found that he could hardly care less if his scam was now dead as the proverbial doornail. For the moment, at least, he was fascinated by Harry Drinkwater.
“I would have thought the fame might interest you,” DeWitt prodded. “The chance to go gain some notoriety, perhaps …”
There was a fleeting expression of distaste on Drinkwater’s face. The DJ glanced askance at DeWitt as he slipped another CD into the vacant player and cued up the next song. “Fame sucks,” he murmured, concentrating again on his show. “Take my word for it. I’ve tried it before.”
“Then, the money you could make …”
“I make enough.” Drinkwater reset the levels on the mixing board and picked up the program log and a pen. “If you want to make serious money, you don’t go into this business,” he continued as he started updating the log. “Go jump into bed with the Japs if you want to make money up here. They want to own this place. Why don’t you throw in with them? Don’t try some crazy-ass notion about starting up some radio network on the Moon. That’s got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever …”
Abruptly, the pen paused on the checklist. Drinkwater looked up from the logbook and fixed his eyes on his visitor. DeWitt started feeling vaguely uncomfortable; he suddenly realized that Drinkwater, for the first time since he had walked into the studio and started making his pitch, had been sizing him up, too.
“Dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Drinkwater repeated softly. “And you don’t look like a dummy. Not by a long shot.” His eyes traveled back to the logbook, but his attention never left DeWitt. “What’s your game, Schneider?”
DeWitt swallowed a hard stone in his throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Harry Drinkwater shook his head. “Sure, you know what I mean,” he said easily, still looking at the logbook. “I don’t know what it is, but it ain’t radio. Maybe I’m getting a little slow, and maybe I didn’t catch on when you first walked in here, but I still know a con man when I see him.”
He smiled a little. “I’ve seen plenty,” he continued, “and you fit the profile. The fast talk, the smooth pitch, the get-rich-quick scheme leading into the I’ve-got-everything-figured-out routine.” Drinkwater chuckled and shook his head again. “Yeah, boy. You must have been hot shit in Great Falls or wherever you hail from, but I didn’t fall off the potato wagon yesterday.” His smile grew broader. “I’ve interviewed con artists like you before. They get easy to spot after a while. And, pal, you don’t even rate.”
DeWitt felt his hands begin to tremble. He nervously tucked them in his trouser pockets. “I don’t …”
“Hush.” Drinkwater’s voice was the easy whisper of a viper. He signed his name at the bottom of the page and tossed the logbook aside. “I don’t want to hear it,” he went on, n
ow looking straight up at DeWitt, transfixing him with angry black eyes. “You’ve got some kinda scam going. I don’t know what it is and I don’t really care, except that I don’t want you coming my way with it again. Just let me give you a word of warning.…”
He rested his elbows on the console, laced his hands together, and pointed both index fingers straight at DeWitt. “If you do anything … if you even try anything … that’s going to hurt or rip off the guys working here, I’m going to cut off your balls and shove ’em down your fucking throat. You got me straight on that, Jeremy Schneider?”
DeWitt fought the impulse to run straight out of the studio. In his career, he had been threatened in a hundred overt and subtle ways, but never before had he met someone who, without a doubt, meant every word of what he’d said. This was not the rhetorical teeth-gnashing of a college frat boy or a yuppie or even a cell block thug trying to cadge a cigarette. This was a threat from someone who meant serious business, and it felt like ice water had just been pumped into his guts with an enema bag.
He nodded stiffly, and Drinkwater responded with a slight nod of his own. “There’s good people working here,” the DJ continued. “They don’t deserve whatever you’ve cooked up for them. Do they?”
Good Lord, was this guy telepathic or what? DeWitt quickly shook his head. Drinkwater relaxed a little. He sat back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, still staring straight at DeWitt. “Okay,” he said. “Now get out of here, con man. I’ve got work to do.”
If Drinkwater had slapped him—if he had taken a CD and frisbeed it across the studio at him, if he had ripped off his testicles and pushed them bleeding down his throat—DeWitt could not have been hurt more than by those few dismissive words. He had met someone very much like himself, a person with whom he felt an untouchable, yet distinct bond—and had been written off as a cheap swindler. Harry Drinkwater had rejected him as beneath contempt.
Drinkwater reached forward to the soundboard to segue the next song. The conversation was concluded. DeWitt eagerly turned around and started to open the door. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. But as he opened the door, he heard Drinkwater say, “Just one more thing …”
DeWitt stopped and looked around. “Is it about money?” Drinkwater asked. “Is that all it’s about? Tell me the truth.”
DeWitt took a deep breath. There was no sense in lying to those eyes. “No. It’s not,” he admitted.
The black, unwavering gaze lingered on his face. “It’s the hunt, isn’t it? The game. That’s what you’re all about. Isn’t it?”
DeWitt nodded his head very slowly. “I sort of thought so,” Drinkwater said. “What’s your name?” DeWitt started to reply, but the jock cut him off. “No, don’t tell me it’s Jeremy Schneider,” he said. “You don’t look like a Jeremy Schneider to me, and con artists don’t use their real names. Tell me your real name. The one your momma gave you.”
DeWitt hesitated. This was the hardest question anyone had ever put to him. How could he trust this guy? How could he …?
“Willard,” he blurted. “Willard DeWitt.
“Very good.” Drinkwater nodded approvingly. “Don’t worry. You’re safe as long as you play straight with me. You’re not with the feds, are you, Willard DeWitt? You’re not working with the company?”
DeWitt quickly shook his head. “Are you any good at what you do?” Drinkwater asked.
“I’m not the best …” DeWitt admitted, then stopped. “But I’m working on it.”
Another long pause; Drinkwater’s eyes never left his face. Then, unexpectedly, a wide grin spread across Moondog McCloud’s bearded face. “C’mon back in and shut the door, Willard,” he said. “I think I got an idea. You’ll love it. You may even make some money with it, too.”
DeWitt stared back at him. Drinkwater smiled and nodded his head; it was an invitation to dance with the devil. The con man turned to shut the studio door, and as he did, he heard the DJ’s chair scoot back on its casters along the floor. He quickly turned around, half-expecting an attack, only to find Drinkwater standing up behind the console. He held out his hand for him to shake.
“Sit down,” he said. “We’ve got some things to talk about.”
The Art of the Moon (Pressclips.4)
Excerpt from “A Canvas as Large as the Universe—The New Space Art” by Lowell Weishaupt: Atlantic Monthly; July, 2028:
Historians and aficionados of space art generally agree that the first true work in the genre was produced by the twentieth century pulp artist Frank R. Paul; it was a painting of Jupiter, which appeared on the cover of the March, 1930 issue of Astounding Stories. In the decades that followed, many other artists would follow in Paul’s footsteps: Lucien Rudaux, Chesley Bonestell, Ludek Pesek, Ron Miller, Pat Rawlings, David Hardy, Adolf Schaller, Andrei Sokolov, and David Egge are among the names most frequently cited as seminal artists in the field. The roster includes painters as renowned as Bob McCall, whose work ranged from vast murals on the walls of the National Air and Space Museum to postage stamps issued by the U.S. Postal Service, and as obscure as Morris Scott Dollens, whose best work is nonetheless prized by collectors.
Yet it was a long time, even after the beginning of the Space Age, before artists ventured into space itself. Although two early astronauts, Alan Bean of the U.S. and Alexei Leonov of the U.S.S.R., became astronomical painters in their own right, their best work did not begin until their flying careers had long since ended, when both men were working from fading memories of their experiences. NASA made an admirable effort to promote realistic and abstract space art with the short-lived NASA Fine Arts Program—with some noteworthy results such “Blockhouse 34” by James Wyeth and “Power to Go” by Paul Calle—but these paintings were rarely seen outside of limited runs at municipal galleries and small-press portfolios; some of the best works were on permanent display only in the sterile corridors of the NASA headquarters building in Washington D.C., seen only by government bureaucrats on their way to lunch.
For the most part, though, astronomical art largely remained in the realm of science fiction magazine covers, industrial promotional work, and movie backdrops. Some of Bonestell’s best astronomical paintings, for example, can only now be seen in videotapes of 1950’s SF movies such as War of the Worlds, Destination Moon, and The Conquest of Space. With the arguable exceptions of Bean and Leonov—who did all their work on the ground—it took many years for true space art to emerge.
Despite the prognostications of futurists and science fiction writers, it was not until 2023 that the first impressionistic art was actually produced in space. Although many astronauts carried sketchbooks into orbit, beginning with the first wave of shuttle flights by NASA in the 1980’s, it was some time before a dedicated, trained artist actually journeyed into the cosmos, to create his work on-site in real-time. Yet it eventually occurred, and although the Mars paintings of Milos Capor are considered to be the touchstone of the field today, most contemporary observers agree that the first off-Earth space art was done by a lunar hermit best known by his signature—“Yuri.”
Yuri was Gregor Gagarin, a Russian immigrant from Soviet Georgia to the United States, who made the dubious claim (thus far unproven) to being a descendant of Major Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space. Gagarin lived up to his supposed-ancestor’s name by becoming an industrial space pilot. After working for Skycorp as a so-called beamjack in 2017 and 2018, Gagarin left the company and, along with several other former employees of Skycorp, Glavkosmos, and Arianespace, started the private space-salvage company Cheap Thrills, Inc. in 2019. At the age of twenty-nine, when he was the co-pilot of the company’s “flagship,” the orbital tug appropriately christened Cheap Thrills, he began to produce his first serious art.
Gagarin had taken art as an elective while an engineering student at Stanford University. According to popular legend, he started drawing sketches aboard the Cheap Thrills during the long hours in Earth orbit while the tug was making mid-course corrections to home in o
n a piece of debris or a defunct satellite which the company had been hired to salvage. Others claim that his first sculptures were produced in a bunkhouse module on Olympus Station, where he stayed between salvage missions; these are reported to be abstract miniatures, as befitting the close confines of his quarters. At any rate, very few of these sculptures and sketches remain in existence, and those which do are now in the hands of private collectors who rarely, if ever, exhibit them to the public.
In 2021, the National Transportation Safety Board of the FAA revoked Cheap Thrills, Inc.’s license when the company was found guilty of hijacking defunct U.S. government communications satellites and reselling them to private firms. Gagarin was not among those indicted in the conspiracy, but his first tenure in space ended with the bankruptcy of the company. After spending fourteen months on the ground, Gagarin managed gather the capital to reacquire the title to the Cheap Thrills and convert it into a small lunar tug, through the addition of landing gear and an uprated propulsion system. Orbital salvage was still a desirable enterprise in deep space, especially so on the Moon; industrial activities had put thousands of tons of garbage into lunar orbit, where it posed a hazard to navigation.
According to several sources inside Skycorp, Gagarin made the giant space company an offer it could scarcely refuse. In return for salvaging discarded OTVs, broken satellites, and similar space refuse, and repairing the junk for reuse by Skycorp’s lunar mining facility at Descartes Station, all Skycorp had to do was furnish Gagarin with an independent habitat near Descartes Station, which could serve both as a junkyard and as a studio. Except for negotiable costs of life-support, materials, insurance and taxes, no other payment was necessary. Simply put, Skycorp would act as a patron of the arts in return for Gagarin’s services as a salvager. Skycorp considered it to be a highly profitable arrangement; it was then considering several other bids by startup companies eager to take the place of Cheap Thrills Inc., but each was tendering contracts of up to five billion dollars. Gregor Gagarin’s arrangement, by contrast, was a bargain.