Even as he tried to remember, the tickler-file screen lit next to the visionphone, and Elaine was punching in the information: Carolyn Shure ... 48 ... 4th marriage . Daughter, Andrea, by #1, Darrell Clive, then president of Empire State Police Services ... #2 husband, MacNeil Busby, novelist ... #3, Chan Xuan Thu, holder of important patent on mass accelerator ... Daughter, Arden, by #4, George Shure, financier ... estimated annual income from combined sources -before taxes 7.4 million ... address, 10 Hightop Circle, Camelot.
"Why have you called?" Blake asked, hoping to get her back to the point. "Carolyn," he added.
"Well, now, my daughter Arden is about to become engaged to the most charming young man, the eldest son of the Von Arrows, and I was hoping you'd be free to do the party. It's the first week in August, which doesn't give you much time, I know, but would $25,000 be adequate? We spent fifty thousand on Andrea's wedding, I know; but after all, this is only an engagement."
Blake's eyes flicked to movement on the tickler screen. Elaine was holding up a hastily scrawled sign: SEBASTIAN FREE-DAUGHTER ELOPING-TRY FOR $40-$50.
Blake smiled and settled into his sales-talk patter to flatter her ego and to flatten her pocketbook. How could she, a pacesetter, the social leader in her ark, afford to commission anyone less than the best? The best, it was obvious and unstated, was Blake Mason. But, alas, his time was in such short supply that only a sufficiently high retainer could possibly get him to adjust his schedule. There was the Shah, of course, and the pleasure dome, and...
"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Shure, I'm certain that you will be pleased."
"Then you will come out this week?" He could see her trembling anxiety to score a triumph in having "Blake Mason," who dined with dynastic emperors and bedded vidstars, share her table.
"Yes, but I’m not certain just when. I'll have to give you a call." Don't give her time to have more than a minimum of rich, but boring, friends waiting for me with their questions about the Shah and the others. The tickler file flicked on again, and Blake gave it a quick scan. Money from soybeans, arcolog condominiums, a marina, a baseball team, an insurance company, garbage recyling. God, the conversations I'll have to endure!
The screen changed to show Elaine holding up a sign: SAT THRU TUES FREE. "Perhaps this weekend, perhaps as late as Tuesday. I'm sorry to make this so indefinite, uh, Carolyn, but the Shah wants some minor changes and trusts only me to do them." Let her know how valuable my time is.
"Oh, do tell that dear, dear monarch I said hello!" You never met him in your life, lady, Blake said to himself. "Yes, of course. Au revoir, madame!"
"Good-bye, you dear man. I'm so happy we arranged this today. I can't wait to tell the girls!" She waggled her fingers as Mason cut the connection, then his forced smile.
Blake opened the intercom. "Elaine, my precious pearl, you have zero defects. Does that woman's husband really make that much?"
"Yup. Disgusting, isn't it? But she has part of that, too. As the man said, you can see the way the good Lord feels about money by the damn fools he gives it to."
"Steady there," Blake laughed. "I am not exactly a pauper, pet."
"I was hoping you'd say that, boss. How about a raise?"
"No raise, but a bonus if this job goes through. Knowing that her daughter was planning to elope cinched it and I could push hard enough to get the larger fee. She's just the kind of woman who likes an excuse to make a big splash and show off. But how do you know all these odd little things?"
"Society pages, boss. What do you think I fill up my time with out here?"
Blake grinned. Elaine had often come up with the strangest information at just the right moment. "Okay, mark yourself down for a dollar and a half bonus as soon as we get the retainer."
"You are too kind. Monday would be a good day to go out. No weekend guests, and a business day gives you a good excuse to make it a quick trip."
"Make that two bucks even and tell Sebastian."
"He'll love all the froufrou and the fawning."
Blake, grunted and clicked off. Ravel was playing, but he wasn't listening to it now. His mind had gone back to the possibility of a Voss undersea project. In the Atlantis dome he had used a mermaid decor in one area; a seashell motif in another; a pagan throne room with gas torches; mosaics set with rocks, then laser-cut and polished and permafinished to look wet.
But he would have to come up with something different for Voss. Blake wanted to have at least one idea to throw out spontaneously when Voss brought the subject up. That always gave the client a feeling he was talking to a creative person. But the best idea, the final idea, should never be revealed quickly or casually. Although he might come up with the concept in a second, Blake liked to polish it in private, mainly to give the client the feeling that this was the best possible answer to his problem, and one not quickly or lightly reached. Blake remembered a senior environmentalist, one of the old breed who still called themselves decorators, who used the phrase "I was thinking last night," and then proceeded to improvise his thoughts of the moment. "Doing so gives greater weight to your words," he had told Blake in his student days, "And it gives you the reputation of being a thinker."
The intercom lit up. "Mr. Mason." Not "boss" – someone was there.
Blake hit the stud. "Yes, Elaine?"
"Mr. Voss is here."
"Please show him in." Ritual and facade. Oh, what the hell!
Voss was tall, tanned, and ugly, with that beautiful sort of arrogant ugliness that seemed to devastate women satiated with pretty men. He was quick and sure as he came through the door. Everything about him radiated money and power. He doesn't walk as if he owns the place, Blake thought, he enters as if he doesn't care who owns it. Used to the rich and powerful and their often egocentric ways, Blake was nevertheless impressed.
Voss's handshake was firm and quick, his smile wide and friendly, his eyes steady and automatically appraising. Behind him two burly men eyed Blake and the room, but then left instantly at a flick of Voss's hand.
Voss sat down in a Life-style chair and fingered his Martian firestone cuff links as his gaze took in the room. "You have many lovely things," he said. "I believe I have a Coe assemblage of that period. Somewhere."
"Thank you." A pitiful handful, Blake thought. You probably have more warehouses full than I have pieces. "Would you like a drink?" As he spoke, he thumbed the bar stud and a panel slid upward.
Voss peered at the wine behind the cooler panels, then his dark eyes scanned the array of bottles, flasks, and vintage tubes. "Ah, a favorite," he smiled. "Benedictine and brandy, please." Blake selected two small Gral goblets and poured. He left Ravel playing, but turned down the volume.
"Shawna suggested you to me," Voss said without preamble. "Her home is very pleasant. Fits her beautifully. Nothing that I would want, of course, but very pleasing."
Blake was silent, smiling briefly and acknowledging the compliment with a salute of his glass.
"What I have in mind is ... unusual for our time, but very ancient, really. I want a tomb."
Blake was surprised. Voss seemed so young to be thinking of such things. "Yours?" Blake asked, just to be certain.
Voss smiled broadly. "But of course." He held up his hand warningly. "But, pleases not some tacky little pillared tomb, all solemn and marble, a piece of ego sculpture. Nothing, ur, tricky. You did a lovely miniature Taj Majal in something transparent for Topaz."
"Magnaplastics."
"Yes, and that Moon-orbiting casket for Ron Bellingham is really quite beautiful. It's becoming something of a tourist attraction." Voss smiled again. "But I want something that is definitely not a tourist attraction. More like an Egyptian tomb, quite hidden. I have the site already picked out. We'll laser the whole thing right into the living rock."
Blake nodded as if tomb design was something he did every day. Everyone has an ego, he thought. They leave foundations behind, nameplates on buildings, scholarships, trust funds to operate homes for wayward cats, stadiums, museums. Some
commission art. Some want political power. Some are just egotists.
"I want the best art. Murals by Don Kains, a portrait by Paula Powers, a Coe assemblage from the trivia of my life. Sculpture by Rosenthal, Gieen, perhaps Mallinoux or Cordova. But nothing that needs, power – no sensatrons, no electronics, nothing that can be detected. Everything must be built to last."
Blake smiled. "Are you planning to take it with you into the afterlife?"
Voss looked at him a moment before he smiled, "Perhaps, Mr. Mason, perhaps." He laughed softly. "If the pharaohs could do it, why can't I?" He nodded to himself, then looked at Blake. "This project will make you rich and famous."
Sensing a bargaining point not to be lost, Blake matched his smile and said, "I am already rich and famous."
"No, man, rich and famous – not just rich and famous." He laughed lightly, with a kind of disturbing secret amusement, then sipped at his Benedictine.
"It sounds like a major project."
"It is. I'd like you to drop everything else," Voss said.
"I have contracts I must fulfill," Blake said. The impact of the project was only now beginning to get to him. A tomb as big as a pharaoh's, and to last how long?
"Then don't take on any new ones. When this is finished ... hell, long before ... you'll be able to command much higher fees."
Blake hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Just how much money are you prepared to spend, Mr. Voss?" He gestured as if to say it was crass to talk of such matters, but one must start somewhere.
"One hundred million. In Swiss francs, of course." Blake's chest was suddenly tight. "To start," Voss added casually. Now Blake's chest was much too tight for his heart. "I know these things take time and always cost more in the long run. I expect we'll change our minds about details as we go along. But I want it done right. The hundred million is only to get you thinking in the right area. I will go as high as 150,000,000 as long as the tomb is completed to my satisfaction."
"Mr. Voss..."
" 'Jean-Michel,' please. We will get to know one another, yes?" He laughed again, an odd, wry laugh, as if secretly amused. "We plan for my death, no?" At Blake's expression of shock he waved a genteel hand. "No, I'm not being morbid – only ego, my friend. A mark to make in the world, perhaps. I can afford it. You might say that after I am dead who will care...?"
"I..." For once Blake Mason was at a loss for words.
The Gardens of Babylon had been estimated at 300,000,000 European standard francs, but much of the labor had been done by the Shah's army, and the cost was borne by the treasury of a petroleum-rich nation. The pleasure dome projects were commercial ventures, with a return expected. But here was a private project, privately financed, an artistically oriented commission that was certain to bring him fame, if not glory.
"Uh ... Why did you choose me? There are other, bigger companies. Enzenbacher and Son. Quigley and Rausa..The Corwin Company. Environments, Unlimited–"
"No. You are the best. The best for what I want. This will be more than just a tomb, it will be a home. It must be built Mound a central chamber, and the specifications for that will be sent to you." Voss smiled. "You look puzzled. Yes, a home. In a mountain."
"A mountain?" Blake felt stupid.
"A mountain to hollow out. It's in the Rockies, and it is geologically stable; I've had it carefully tested. The only thing that might affect it is continental drift, but nothing can be done about that. We will hollow the rock out, make it into a home where, if I chose, I could live comfortably for many years. That is why I selected you. Should I ... um ... decide to live in it for an extended period, it would still be a pleasant place."
Blake nodded, though still not certain what was expected of him.
"You will begin to understand as our talks progress. This mountain, I own the sixty thousand acres surrounding it. Or rather, certain companies I control do, or foundations. We'll fly up there soon and look it over. When can you go? I'd like you to get an idea of the location soon."
Blake blinked but didn't answer.
Voss peered at him. "We do have a deal, do we not? The lawyers and the contracts can get here in good time. This is the important part: the agreement, the meeting of minds."
"Uh? Yes, of course."
Voss grinned. He stuck out his hand and Blake took it automatically. "When can you fly up?" he asked again.
"Uh, anytime next week. No, this weekend. This weekend all right?"
"Fine. Saturday morning. Which is more convenient for you, Palmdale International or the Catalina float?"
"Catalina."
"Fine. Be at the Voss hangars at, ur, nine?"
Blake felt just a bit dizzy and more than slightly confused. A hundred-million-franc tomb for a living man? Hollowing out a mountain. Top artists? Pharaohs, indeed!
"Mr. Voss, er, Jean-Michel, there must be other reasons why you picked me?"
Voss stopped as he strode toward the door. "You have the right sort of engineering degrees, the reputation of being discreet, and,, of course, because you were the most sensual."
"Sensual? You want a sensual tomb?"
"Yes, of course. No one has ever had a sensual tomb before, certainly not on this scale. Oh, a few nudes in sterile white marble – very virginal. A bed for the pharaoh's afterlife. That's all." His wry smile widened. "People don't think of death as being sensual, do they?"
"No. Neither do I, to be perfectly frank."
Voss threw back his head, and his laugh was a sharp bark. "But you see, after it is built, I will live in it, at least for a little while; and later on, too, perhaps. I may have companions. Then, perhaps, if I have an afterlife, the tomb will certainly be my home." He paused, came back, and clasped Blake's upper arm. "Who knows what the world of the future may be like?"
Chapter 3
Blake left the studio that night in a state of total bemusement. The crowds that thronged the malls and corridors of the arcolog did not bother him. Usually their jostling and noise gave him a feeling of claustrophobia and loneliness. He had often contemplated moving closer to his studio, or even expanding and building a home as an extension of the studio, but the space he would need had never become available. Now he enclosed himself in the ark dweller's capsule of indifference and pushed his way mechanically through the crowds.
He stopped at a restaurant and ate a bowl of soysoup without really tasting it. His thoughts were on the project ahead.
Epic. That's what Voss wants, Blake told himself. Something fabulous, as well as eternal. Something with a unifying sense, something that has to be taken as a whole, not just as a collection of items. The Egyptians had it because their art was of one style, with only one way of doing things, one way of looking at art. From the top down, Blake thought as he paid for the soup.
He took an escalator up two decks and walked along the commercial level until he came to the Swain Gallery. The pedestrian traffic was very light here, for the shops were closed. A new sensatron artist had an exhibit, and an example of his art was in each window of the dark gallery. The plastic window panels were especially fenestrated with microholes to allow the Alpha and Beta waves as well as the sonic waves to come through directly.
The first cube was a pastoral, a square of primitive forest in some long-gutted section of the world. Blake could see through the thick underbrush toward a clearing in the trees, almost as if he were in hiding, watching for prey. The cycle on the cube was not long. Insects crawled on the leaves nearby, a huge butterfly flopped through drunkenly, the wind sighed in the clean, green trees. Then Blake saw movement through the tree trunks, and the Alpha-wave projectors made the adrenaline surge in his bloodstream. He was suddenly tense. A deer walked slowly into the clearing, a doe with delicate markings. She stopped, looked around, dipped her head to chomp some grass, looked around again. Blake was startled when the brush before his face parted, as if his own hand had moved it. The deer's head went up, and a second later the animal was bounding away, to disappear in a few seconds. The brush stopped moving,
the forest returned to its noisy silence, and the same butterfly flopped through again.
Not bad, thought Blake. I wonder where he found such a parkland to use for his basic photographic imagery. Places like that are hard to find. He moved on to the next window and the second sensatron.
Here was a dawn world, with strange prehistoric ferns that seemed outsized. There was a murky pool of water in the foreground, dark and topped with scum. Suddenly the placid scene erupted. The head of a great gray-green brontosaurus rose, dripping and munching on slimy greens. The reptilian head loomed close, then turned ponderously and looked over his shoulder. With a crunching sound, a Tyrannosaurus Rex stalked out from behind some rocks, and the subsonic music quickened in Blake's ears. Another monster from the past roared challenge offsereen, and the herbivore in the foreground ducked away. There was the smell of sweat and decaying vegetation.
Suddenly Blake felt pressure against his kidney, and hands grabbed his arms. Fool! Blake was annoyed with himself. After-hours on a darkened commercial level, what else can I expect but a mugging?
His assailants twisted him around roughly. One was thin, with the erratic twitch of an Eroticene addict gone past the help of any antidote. The other, young and elegant in a cheap, trendy way, wore a sleek and shiny white suit with a fashionably padded crotch. Both were smiling, but the addict's grin had a mean twist to it.
"Your money or your life," the one in white said.
"Stand and deliver," the addict said in a gravely voice that dissolved into a high-pitched giggle.
They've been watching too many historical tapes, Blake thought. "I only have credit tabs," he said. No one uses cash anymore, at least no one legitimate – or not often. But surely they know that, too.
The slim one in white laughed abnormally loud, and right in Blake's ear. He waved a knife around and Blake stared at it. It shone in the light from the cubes. The Tyrannosaurus Rex was rolling around on the bottom of the cube with a spiny-backed reptile Blake had not seen enough of to identify.
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