Solomon Leppo had been born on Mars and raised in a settlement called Americyon, founded among the southern highlands in the early days to put into practice the ideals of communal living and sharing. There, apart from household furnishings and personal effects, the community had owned everything. Private quarters were allowed only for married couples and families; the rest slept in dormitories, ate together, relaxed and exercised together, and worked together in roles assigned via a military-style command system that employed ranks and uniforms. The expectation was that everyone would find fulfillment through universal recognition of their contributions according to their inclinations and abilities, great or humble. Solomon departed at the age of fifteen by stowing away with a passing Arab caravan of surface crawlers and trailers that had camped nearby on their way to make a home somewhere. He eventually ended up at Lowell, where he found work as a trainee fitter in a machine shop. From there he had progressed to equipment servicing and repair, and now, at nineteen, was making good money as Mahom Alazahad's resident mechanic.
The key to everything that had appeal in life, he had decided, was money. Sure, like some people said, it wasn't everything; but all the other things depended on it. In all his long years of observing life and forming insights as to how the limited time that it offered could best be enjoyed, he had come to identify three things at the bottom of it all that mattered: girlsat Americyon, betrothals were by approval that depended more on social needs than what the individuals involved thought about it, and the likelihood of his getting approval of any kind had been a joke; things, like clothes he picked himself, a place to live that he'd decided he liked, or a snazzy set of wheels to drive around onfor instance, any of the numbers in the front row lined up across Mahom's lot; and freedom, which in Solomon's vocabulary meant being able to devote his energies to pursuing the first two, as opposed to having to do what somebody elsesuch as the superintending tribunal at Americyondecided he would do. But simply being free to pursue one's ends didn't amount to much without the necessary wherewithal to achieve them. In short, it all boiled down to money. True, you couldn't take it with you at the end of the act; but where else could you go without it?
He looked up from reconnecting the turbine compressor gearing in a Mars-assembled "Camel" tractor in the workshop, as the sound came of a car turning in from Beacon Way. A shiny black Metrosine, flashing silver and white wheels and outside trim, drew up in front of the door of the office building. Solomon had seen it around town a few times. Three men got out, all soberly and more expensively dressed than the norm for Mars, and went inside. Several seconds later, Phil Verlan, Mahom's sales manager, appeared from among some parked vehicles and sauntered in the side door, drawn by the scent of possible prospective customers.
Now, that was what he meant by money, Solomon told himself as he settled back to what he was doing. Doing things in style was what pulled the interesting chicks. In a place like Mars, a good mechanic would always be able to pay the rent, take care of the bills, and would never need to look very long for a job; but it would never lead to the kind of life that had style. Working for Mahom, however, opened up other possibilities that went beyond just fixing trucks, autos, and other weird kinds of machines that appeared in the yard. The "Stores" building at the back contained enough hardware to equip a revolution. With his mechanical and workshop skills and some applied study, Solomon could use his time here to start himself on the way to becoming a weaponry and ammunition expert. Now, that was something that could command really good money. The people who had what it took kept big places on their payrolls for those who helped them hang onto it.
Having grown up on Mars, Solomon had difficulty imagining what life must be like on Earth, with every square inch of land controlled by a government that laid down rules you couldn't argue with, and nowhere much different for anybody to go. Here, there was an "Administrative Congress" in Lowell, a "Security Council" at Osaka, in the Tharsis region, a "Directorate" at Zerolon, on the planet's far side above Hellas, and other kinds of setups at other lesser places, all of which performed more or less the same kind of function in spelling out a few basic rules that few people would argue with, and backing them up with the muscle and firepower to make sure they stuck. For instance, you didn't walk in and take anything you fancied of anyone else's just because you happened to be bigger and meaner, or blow someone away for disagreeing with your opinions. And that seemed to make sense. It was businesses and industries that had built Lowell, so they should have the right to spend their money keeping enough law and order for people to want to live and work there. And anyone who didn't like it was free to find somewhere in the Outlands or self-run settlementssuch as Americyonthat suited them, and take their chances.
Some people said things couldn't last like this; that the territories being organized around places like Lowell, Osaka, Zerolon, and likewise the others, would expand outward bit by bit, maybe gobbling up the little guys, until their borders all met up and there wasn't anywhere left in between; then they'd either settle down, or that would be when the really serious trouble would start. But either way, the eventual appearance of the same general pattern that had taken over Earth would be only a matter of timebut that would be far in the future as far as Solomon Leppo was concerned. And in the meantime, for those with the savvy and expertise, there was money to be made hiring out to a hundred variants of the protection, security, and enforcement business. And making the right kind of name in that department could do wonders for supplying life with the chicks and the things too.
He had just tightened the flange bolts and was starting to reconnect the sensors, when a shadow darkened the open doorway of the shop. Solomon looked up as a figure that he hadn't heard approaching entered and stopped to look around casually. The man had dark hair, styled into a crest, that should have been showing some graying for his ageprobably rejuvenatedand the kind of even, golden tan that you got in the classier gyms and spasnot blotchy from spending too long outside under the raw Martian sky. He was dressed in a dark suit that fluoresced silver ripples where it creased, and a gray turtleneck shirt. "Hi, kid," he greeted.
Solomon used a rag to wipe the worst of the grease from his hands and straightened up. "Can I help you?"
"So how's it going?"
The friendly approach, eh? Solomon maintained a neutral air, keeping his options open. "You mean the tractor? Nowhere till I'm done fixing it."
The man grunted approvingly. "Quick thinker. Got humor, too. You could go a long way."
"I plan to . . . when I'm ready. So what are you, some kind of headhunter? I didn't know they went looking for auto mechs. Something must have happened in this business lately that nobody told me about."
"Sorry, it's not your turn today. But yeah, I guess you could say we're sort of headhunting. Three days ago, a guy that we'd very much like to talk to was out at Wuhan in a car that came from this place. Kind of tall, wavy brown hair, lean, fit-looking . . . Also has a dogkind of big, black with some light brown around the face. I was wondering if you'd seen him around, like when he was here to pick up the car. It's a business thing. Anything you've got would be worth something."
Whoever these people were, or why they were looking for the man with the dog, the message came through clearly that it was they who asked the questions. Solomon thought back, then shook his head. "Wish I could help. What kind of a car?"
"Kodiak, dark colorblue or black. The car had this place's name in chrome on the trunk."
"Yes, I know the car. It was rented out four or five days back. But it must have been my day off or something. I wasn't here when it went out." Solomon shook his head and shrugged. "That's all I can tell you."
The man seemed to accept it as a matter of routine. He produced a wallet from inside his jacket and extracted a calling card. His hands were strong but well manicured, with several rings that glittered expensively. The card bore the name Lee Mullen, described as a "Financial Expediter," along with a mail drop and net code. While Solomon was studying it, a twenty slid across on top. He hesitated, then took the bill and tucked it in his shirt pocket. "Everybody could use a little extra, huh?" Mullen said. "If you remember anything else, or if he shows up again, I'd appreciate a call. Like I said, it'll be worth your while."
"If I hear anything, you've got it."
"You could go a long way, kid," the man said again. Then he turned, and sauntered back toward the office.