Oath of Fealty
Larry Niven
and
Jerry Pournelle
Timescape Books
Distributed by
Simon and Schuster
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 1981 by
Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle
All rights reserved
including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form
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Manufactured in the
For Robert A. Heinlein,
who showed us all how.
Joe Dunhill Probationary
Officer, Todos Santos Security
Isaac Blake Lieutenant,
Todos Santos Security
Tony Rand Chief
Engineer, Todos Santos
Arthur Bonner General
Manager, Todos Santos
Frank Mead Comptroller,
Todos Santos
Delores Martinez Executive Assistant to the General
Manager, Todos Santos
Barbara Churchward Director of Economic Development, Todos Santos
MacLean Stevens Executive Assistant to the Mayor of the
City of
Sir George Reedy Deputy Minister of Internal Development,
Genevieve Rand Tony
Rand's former wife
Alice Marie Strahler Executive Assistant to Tony Rand
Allan Thompson Student
Sandra Wyatt Assistant General Manager, Todos
Santos
James Planchet City
Councilman,
Mrs. Eunice Planchet James Planchet's
wife
George Harris Businessman and convicted tax evader
Thomas Lunan Newsman
Amos Cross Chief, Todos Santos Security
John Shapiro, LL.D. Counsel, Todos Santos
Samuel Finder, M.D. Medical Resident, Todos Santos
Hal Donovan Lieutenant, Robbery/Homicide, Los
Angeles Police Department
Cheryl Drinkwater Todos
Santos resident Armand Drinkwater Waldo Operator
Glenda Porter Tattoo Artist
Sidney Blackman District
Attorney,
Penelope Norton Judge,
Superior Court, State of
Phil Lowry Newsman
Mark Levoy Publican;
former Yippie
Ronald Wolfe General, American Ecology Army
Rachael Lief Bulldozer operator
Mrs. Carol Donovan Lt.
Donovan's wife
Vito Hamilton Captain, Todos Santos Security
Vincent Thompson Subway
mugger
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is
for good men to do nothing.
-Edmund Burke
Elsewhere in
There was a fresh smell
of fertilizers and crushed orange peel carried on the warm Santa Mia wind.
Close ahead the eastern face of Todos Santos was a black
wall across the world. Thousands of balconies and windows in neat array showed
in this light as no more than a faceless void seen through gray leaves, a sharp-edged
black rectangle blotting out the sky.
The invaders blinked as they searched through uncertain
light, and froze at the thunder of wings above. Nobody was about. They had
watched the grounds tenders leave. They had seen no guards.
"There." The girl pointed. Her voice was no
louder than the leaves' rustle in the wind. "There."
The two boys stared until they made out a square outline,
barely visible, at the base of the towering wail. It seemed about man-sized.
"The big door," she said. "We're still a good way away. It
doesn't look it, but that door is thirty feet high. The little one is to the
left of it."
"I can't find it," said one of the boys. He
giggled suddenly, and stopped as suddenly. He said, "Nervous? Me?"
The other boy was lean and sketchily bearded, and he
carried a black case on a strap. He stared at tiny lights set on its top, then
said, "Run for the big door until you see the little one. On the count.
Three, two, one, go."
He ran holding the case in front of himself to cushion
against shock. The others lagged behind. They were carrying a much larger box
between them. The leader was already taking things Out of the case when they
came puffing up.
"This lousy light," he panted.
"Bad for the guards, too," said the girl.
"It's late afternoon everywhere but here. At night they'd know they
couldn't see. They'd be watching harder."
The other boy grinned. "We'll give 'em a hell of a shock." There was a sign on the door.
Below a large death's head it said:
IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR,
YOU WILL BE KILLED.
It was repeated in Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, and Korean.
"Subtle, aren't they?" the girl said. She stiffened as the bearded
boy pushed the door open. There was no sudden wail of alarms and they grinned
at each other for a moment of triumph.
They dodged through fast. The bearded boy closed the door
behind them.
Life in the state of nature is solitary, poor,
nasty, brutish, and short.
-Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan
Joe Dunhill polished
his badge on his sleeve and plucked imaginary lint from the crisp blue of his
uniform. The door was still there, still marked CENTRAL SECURITY: Authorized
Personnel Only. He took a deep breath and reached for the small button at one
side. Before his finger could touch it, there was a faint buzzing sound and the
door opened.
The room inside gleamed with steel and chrome and Formica.
A policeman with metal sergeant's chevrons on his collar sat at a desk facing
the door. There was nothing on the desk but a small TV screen. "Yeah?"
"Officer Dunhill, reporting for duty."
The older man raised an eyebrow. "Bit early for the
evening shift."
"Yes, sir. I thought there might be paper work, my
first day and all."
The sergeant smiled faintly. "Computers take care of
that. Dunhill?" He frowned. "Oh, yeah, you're the new man from
Seattle PD. Guess you had a pretty good record up there. Want some
coffee?" He turned to a machine on one side of the room.
"Uh, guess so. Light and sweet, please."
The sergeant pushed buttons. The machine thought for a
moment, then whined faintly. The sergeant held out a molded plastic mug.
"Here you go."
Joe tasted experimentally. "Hey. That's good."
The surprise was obvious in his voice.
"Well of course it's - Oh. You're new here. Look, all
the coffee machines in Todos Santos make good coffee. We wouldn't have 'em here if they didn't. Boss lady bought a thousand of
these."
Even clichés die, Joe Dunhill thought.
"Why'd you leave
The question sounded casual, and maybe, Joe thought, maybe
it is. And maybe not. "Todos Santos made me an offer I couldn't
refuse."
The sergeant's smile was friendly, but knowing.
"Dunhill, I wasn't on the board that decided to hire you, but I've heard
the story. I think you got a raw deal."
"Thanks."
"Yeah. But I wouldn't have hired you if it was left up
to me."
"Oh." Joe didn't know what to say to that.
"Not because you shot that punk. I'd have done the
same thing myself."
"Then why not?"
"Because I don't think you can do the job."
"I was a damned good policeman," Joe said.
"I know you were. And probably still are. And that's
the trouble. We don't have police here." The sergeant laughed at Joe's
blank stare. "We look like police, right? Badges. Uniforms. Guns, some of
us. But we aren't police, Dunhill. We're security people, and there's a lot of
difference." He came over to put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Look, I
hope you work out. Let's go."
He led Joe out of the reception room and down a long hail
to a closed door.
"Did they tell you about the locking system we use
here?" the sergeant asked.
"Not really."
"Well, everybody in Todos Santos has an ID badge.
There's some kind of electronic magic-well, hell, it might as well be magic for
all I know! It opens locks if you've got the right badge for it. Residents'
badges open their own doors, that kind of thing. Security badges open a lot of
doors." He waved his own badge at the door in front of them. Nothing
happened. "But not this one. Security Central's kind of special. What
happens is we alert the inside duty officer."
They waited for a few moments, then the door opened into a
small, dimly lit room the size of a closet. The door behind them closed, then
another door in front of them opened onto a much larger and even more dimly lit
room.
There were TV screens around all four walls, banks of them,
with uniformed men seated in front of each bank. In the center of the room was
a huge circular console with dozens of dials and buttons. More TV screens were
built into the console. A uniformed captain wearing a tiny telephone
headset-microphone sprawled in a comfortable chair in the middle of the center
console.
"Dunhill, Captain," the sergeant said.
"First day. Assigned to Blake."
The captain nodded. "Thanks, Adler. Welcome aboard,
Dunhill."
Isaac Blake had a square face with roundness shaping under
the square chin, a square body also turning round, black-and-white hair with
the white winning. He lolled at ease before the bank of TV screens and sipped
coffee. Every twenty seconds or so he touched a knob and the pictures shifted.
There seemed no order to the flow of pictures. Now the
camera looked down on the heads of hundreds of shoppers strolling along a Mall,
bright-colored clothing that looked strange because the light was artificial
but the scene was so large that you expected it to be sunlight. Now a view of a
big dining hall. Now a view through the orange groves, looking up at Todos
Santos standing a thousand feet tall.
"Whew - this is one big city. Even on a TV
screen."
Blake nodded. "Yeah, it still gets to me,
sometimes." His fingers moved, and the view shifted to look along one side
wall. Seen from that angle, the two-mile length seemed to stretch on forever.
The kaleidoscope continued. Sparse traffic in a subway.
Interior halls, stretching far away; people on moving belts, people on
escalators, people in elevators. A dizzying view down onto a balcony, where a
nude hairy man sprawled in obscene comfort on an air mattress. Thirty men and
women seated at a long bench soldering tiny electronic parts onto circuit
boards, chatting gaily and working almost without looking at what they were
doing.
The camera switched to the greensward beyond Todos Santos's
perimeter, where a dozen pickets lethargically marched about with signs. "END
THE NEST BEFORE IT ENDS HUMAN1TY," said one. Blake sniffed and touched
buttons. The scene jumped to a pretty girl in a miniskirt carrying a bag of
groceries; the camera followed her down a long hall from an escalator, zooming
along to keep her in close-up as she walked into a small alcove. When she took
her badge out of her purse, the door opened, and she went inside, leaving the
door standing open while she set the bag down on an Eames
chair. For a moment the screen showed an expensive apartment, meticulously
clean, thick rugs, paintings on the walls. The girl was unbuttoning her blouse
as she came to the door and closed it.
"Like to watch the rest of that show," Blake
muttered. He turned a lazy smile toward Joe Dunhill.
"Of course we aren't supposed to do that,"
Dunhill said.
"Nope.
Can't, either."
"Oh.
I've noticed you haven't shown up the inside of any apartment. I guess I
wouldn't want cameras in my bathroom either."
"Oh, we've got them there," Blake said. "But
they don't go on without authorization -there's one now." He touched his
headset. "Captain, I'll take that interior call."
"Right."
The TV screen flicked to show a kitchen. A small boy was
pulling things out of cabinets, scattering flour on the floor and carefully
mixing in salt preparatory to pouring a bottle of sherry across the mess. Blake
reached forward to a button under the screen. He waited a moment, then said
into the tiny headset microphone, "Ma'am, this is Central Security.
Somebody pushed the panic button in the kitchen, and I think you'd better have
a look out there. Yes, Ma'am, it's safe but you ought to hurry."
He waited. On the screen above, a woman, mid-thirties, not
very attractive at the moment because her hair was partly in curlers and partly
in wet strings, came into the kitchen, looked down in horror, and shouted,
"Peter!"
Then she looked up with a smile and moved closer to the
camera. "Thank you, Officer," she said. Blake smiled back, for no
sane reason, and touched a dial. The picture faded.
Joe Dunhill watched in concentration. Sergeant Adler had
been right, this was no kind of police work he'd ever seen. He turned to Blake.
"I don't get it. You just skip around."
"Sort of. Of course there are exceptions, like when
somebody asks us to keep an eye on things. But mostly we watch what we feel
like. After a while you get some judgment about the feels."
"But wouldn't it be better to have assigned places?
Instead of jumping around-"
"Bosses don't think so. They want us alert. Who can be
alert just staring at one scene all the time? The math boys worked it out, how
many of us, how many TV screens each, probability of trouble-over my head, but
it seems to work."
Joe digested that. "Uh-seems to me I'd be more
valuable out on the streets. Responding to calls-"
Blake laughed. "After you've been here a year maybe
they'll put you where you interact with stockholders. If you work out."
The kaleidoscope above continued. A moving beltway, with some kids walking on a
balcony above it. Blake touched controls, and the camera zoomed in on the kids.
After a moment the kaleidoscope started up again. "Think about it,"
Blake said. "In
"Sure-"
"Well, in here it's different." Blake suddenly
frowned and set down his cup.
It took Joe Dunhill a moment to realize that Blake was no
longer interested in the conversation, and another to see why he was staring.
It wasn't the screen at all. A blue light to the side had lit up.
"On the roof," he said, with a question in his
voice. Then, with more confidence, "Visitor. How did he get up
there?"
Blake played with the controls. The screen jumped with
disconnected pictures, flashing views of four square miles of roof: the
curtained windows of the Sky Room night club; golfers on the golf course; a
view down onto one of the inverted-pyramid shapes of an air well, plunging down
in narrowing steps each one story high and lined with windows. Then a forest of
skeletal structures; a children's playground, empty at the moment, then another
jungle gym with a dozen kids hanging like bats. The Olympic swimming pool, with
a wide, shallow children's wading pool just beyond. Baseball diamond. Football
field. On the Todos Santos roof was every kind of playground for child or
adult.
Then beyond a low fence, an empty area, bags of concrete
and piles of wood for forms, cement mixer idle at the moment. The camera zoomed
to the mixer. "ID badge," Blake muttered. "Visitor badge, must
be stuffed into the cement mixer. What the hell for? And what's he doing up
there?" The TV screen flowed across the roof again, searching-
"There," cried Joe Dunhill.
"Yeah. I see him. Doesn't seem to be carrying
anything. Might have been, though. We'll have to search the roof. Detectors
would have picked up anything metal, and there's not a lot worth bombing up
there, but we'll have to look anyway."
The figure moved rapidly along the twelve-foot fence
between him and the edge. He was hunched over, a caricature of a man sneaking.
He found a gap in the fence, hesitated, and moved into it.
Blake grinned. "Hah! Maybe we won't have to send
anyone up after all. He's found the diving board."
"That's not the pool area."
"I know. Sometimes I wonder about
"Huh?"
"Watch. If he's really a leaper, we won't have to call
anyone." Blake touched another button. "Captain, I have the bandit on
the roof area. Looks like he's going to dive." Blake fiddled with the
knobs. The picture sharpened.
He had been following the fence for thirty minutes, looking
for a way to reach the edge. The fence seemed endless, and he wondered if he
could climb it, and if there were alarms. Todos Santos was said to be very Big
Brother.
Then he saw the opening. There was a cement mixer nearby
and he pushed the visitor badge into it. The badge wasn't his, and told nothing
about him, but it was the last possible clue. Maybe they'd find it and maybe
not. He moved on, to the gap in the fence.
There was a big sign: WATCH YOUR STEP. He did not smile.
His long, unhandsome face was dead calm, as if he had never smiled and never
would. He turned into the channel of fencing. It was just wider than his
shoulders.
The channel ended in a steel ladder. Through the steps he
could see the orange groves and parks far below, then beyond them the tiny
shapes of city houses, some with the blue splash of a swimming pool, all looking
like miniatures. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal and looked down
... a fifth of a mile down to the green landscape around Todos Santos. A
thousand feet to oblivion.
He climbed the steps. The situation was strange. The steps
ended in a long, narrow rectangle. He tested it with his foot. Wood padded with
burlap ... and it shook slightly.
A high-diving board.
He walked out on the board and looked down.
The balconies receded in perspective until they merged with
blank wall. The parkland below was a green blur. A view more mathematical than
real, parallel lines meeting at infinity. So here was the end of a dull and
thwarted life. He was carrying no identification. After a fall like that they
would never know who he was. Let them wonder.
The board bounced as he shifted his weight.
"But-but suppose he jumps?" Joe Dunhill asked.
"Well, we don't advertise it, but there's a net that
comes out when he passes the spy-eyes. Then we just collect him and eject him.
Let him give his bad publicity to someone else," Blake told him.
"Does this happen all the time? You don't look
particularly interested."
"Oh, I'm interested. I've got five bucks in the pool.
See that chart?" Blake waved at the far wall, where chalk marks said:
LAUGHING 3
BACKED OUT JUMPED
8
TERRIFIED 7
"That's this quarter's tally. Work it out," said
Blake. "The roof of this place is eight miles of sheer cliff. We get every
would-be suicide west of the
The man stood straddle-legged at the end of the board,
brooding above a thousand-foot drop. The picture of melancholy, until a gust of
wind slapped across him, and suddenly he was dancing on one leg and waving his
arms.
"Maybe not," Blake said. The jumper was
reflexively fighting for his life. The gust died suddenly, and he almost went
off the other side of the board. He wound up on hands and knees. He stayed
there, gripping the board. Presently he began backing toward the ladder. When
he reached the steps he stayed stooped and backed down, placing his feet very carefully.
"Leaper's off, Captain," Blake called.
"Right. Got a detail going after him."
Joe asked, "Some of them laugh?"
"Yeah. It's a funny picture, isn't it? You're going to
kill yourself. It's the most powerful statement you can make about the way the
world has treated you. That's what
Joe shook his head, grinning.
"They don't all back out. Once I watched a woman stand
up there, take off her overcoat-she wasn't wearing anything under it - bounce
once, and take off in a really gorgeous swan dive." He smiled, then shook
himself. "But the board turns off a lot of them.
"I'd like to meet him."
"You will."
Fat chance, Joe thought. "What happens to the
leaper?"
"One of the bosses will talk to him. Standing orders.
"Can we hold him?" Joe asked. "I mean, civil
rights and all-"
"Sure. Some of us are real live cops," Blake said.
"It's a legal thing. Todos Santos is legally a city. Sort of. But the
insurance is cheaper if most of us are security officers rather than peace
officers. But we are a city. We even have a jail. Judges, too, but they don't
get much work. Corporation people take care of civil matters, and felonies go
to the LA County District Attorney."
"It sure is different here-" Joe blinked and
leaned closer to the screen. "Hey-"
"What?"
"I saw a light flash. That one."
"Um. Tunnel area. We better check, that's critical
territory-" He did things to the console, and a row of lights flashed
green. "Nobody there who doesn't belong there. You sure you saw something?"
"Almost sure."
"Probably some maintenance troop had his badge inside
a tool box." Blake yawned. "Get me another coffee?"
"Sure."
Preston Sanders ranked high in the Todos Santos hierarchy;
high enough to rate the enormous office furnished as he liked it, with abstract
paintings and maps of ski slopes. A teak-bordered TV screen nearly covering one
wall showed motion pictures of ski events. The flickering motions, shifting
from third-person to over-the-shoulder views of an expert taking the world's
steepest slopes and jumps, generally drove his visitors to ask for something
else, but
The furniture was mahogany and teak; even the panels of the
desk console were covered with teak, and there were dark wood borders on the TV
screens on the desk and on the walls. When Sanders had explained the decor he
wanted, Tony Rand had characteristically remarked, "Matched set, eh?"
Sanders thought of that sometimes. It was true enough.
Sanders was the color of oiled teak. And Tony Rand had meant the remark exactly
as it sounded. Sanders looked up at Rand, who was doing his best to ignore the
gut-wrenching view of the Olympic jump. "I used to wonder about you,"
Raised that suddenly by a black man, the subject would have
jarred some whites.
"Certainly. It's normal. So I wondered, and I finally
got the answer. You still think of Todos Santos as practice for building a
starship, don't you?"
"Sure, Pres. I built Todos Santos. Who should know
better than me? We could start building the ships right now. The design is straightforward.
What we can't do is build a technological society that's self-sufficient with
only a few thousand members."
"Did the Directors know you thought that way? I'm
surprised they even let you work on this place. They could have picked someone
who thought it was an end in itself."
"It isn't. I don't think the Directors think so. They
think it's practice for better arcologies. It is, too. We're too dependent on
"Not just now. I've got to see Art before he gets tied
up with a visiting fireman-surprised you don't know about him." Sanders
reached to the teak panel and turned a dial. The Olympic scene vanished, to be
replaced with a view of
"I know about him. I convinced Bonner I'd be busy all
day. What was your great contribution to race relations?"
"Well, one day I said to myself, here I am, one of a
couple of hundred black people in a building the size of a city, and I'm Art
Bonner's deputy. And here's Tony Rand, flying a starship in his head, with a
single black man in the bridge crew. Then it came to me. I'm the token alien,
and you're studying me."
"Green."
"Pointed."
They grinned at each other. '
"Sure,"
"Think you'd catch me trying? All right, is Barbara
Churchward a genius?"
Sanders frowned for a moment. "I don't work the
Economics department much. Art thinks so." He frowned again. "Aha. I
think I see what you're driving at."
"Right," Tony Rand said. "Now, they've both
got those implants."
The TV screen showed the phallic shape of the
"Or of my next arcology. So you tell me: are those two
just geniuses, or are they now something more?"
"How the devil would I know?"
"Just on the odds, I thought you might be a genius
yourself. I mean, the only black man in the command staff of Todos Santos must
have had something more than the usual going for him."
"Oh, you idiot."
"Query?"
"It doesn't take that. It takes a certain amount of
intelligence, plus being willing to take the responsibilities for the orders
you give, and-" He stopped, flinching at the word he had been about to
use; and he looked to see if
But his problem was just the opposite.
"All right,"
"Tomming? Uncle Tom? But you
give more orders than you take."
Which was why Sanders generally felt comfortable with
But if he ever does get involved, Sanders thought. If he
ever does, he's going to be a dangerous man. True, Maintenance was part of
Operations-but the Maintenance supervisors would probably side with the Chief
Engineer if it came to a choice. Maybe not openly, but-. Sanders had a mental
image of someone trying to lever Rand and ending up with his sink connected to
his toilet while his air conditioning poured out eau d' skunk. His face split
into a wide grin.
"Does the name Sir George Reedy mean anything to
you?"
"He's the chap you ducked out of meeting, the Canadian
who's come to study Todos Santos. I've been watching for his helicopter."
"I thought you'd changed the scene to be polite."
"And, Tony-Sir George has an implant."
"Uh. I guess he's worth talking to, then."
"More than you know. He got the implant as a favor
someone owed his family. I doubt that he was a genius before the implant went
in."
"Oh ho."
The grin slipped away as Sanders followed private thoughts.
His family had never been enslaved. Undoubtedly someone had
been, somewhere; but from as early as 1806, the furthest back anyone could
trace, the Sanderses had been free Negroes working
for the
He straightened, remembering, and used the console controls
to change the view on the TV from eastward toward LA to westward toward the
ocean. A joystick control moved the camera until he saw a brightly colored
shape in the afternoon sky, and he zoomed in on it. Frank Mead, shouting
happily as he hung from the double-winged hang glider. Mead wasn't overweight,
he was just big, and it took a specially designed glider to carry him. Mead was
one of them; one who made no secret that he thought Preston Sanders was going
to blow it one day. Why don't I hate him?
If only they believed in me.
He got up from his desk. It was time for his interview with
Art Bonner.
Management
has been the success story of a century which has not been one of the most
successful centuries in human history.
In
the society which our history books describe, everybody worried constantly
about rank and precedence. Nobody today worries about precedence. What all
these managers worry about is talking to each other.
-Peter F. Drucker,
"Management's New Role" in The Future of the Corporation, Herman Kahn
(Ed.)
Preston Sanders walked briskly along the corridor called
Executive Row, not really noticing the thick carpets and the paneled walls
dotted with paintings. He considered what he had to cover, rank ordering
priorities for Bonner-who had a million demands to fill, and couldn't possibly
give Sanders everything he wanted.
The anteroom to Bonner's office was a study in comfort,
designed by psychologists to make waiting to see Bonner, if not pleasant, at
least as minimally unpleasant as possible. Delores Martine certainly
contributed to that feeling. Sanders knew she was at least as busy as Bonner - possibly
even more so - but she always had time to chat with anyone waiting.
"Get your work done,
"All right. Mr. Bonner will be free in just a moment.
He got a satellite call from
From the big bosses, the money people who owned Todos
Santos. "It's all right," Pres assured her. "Really."
She nodded and began shuffling through papers, leaving
Sanders to his reverie. He wanted to think about the labor problem in Air Shaft
4, but his thoughts strayed to Delores-and Art Bonner. Wonder what happened to
those two? They were obviously having an affair the year after Art's wife left
him. Who'd want a casual visitor for a husband and father of her children? But
"He's off the phone now," Delores said.
"Thanks." Sanders went into the inner office.
Art Bonner leaned back in the black leather chair and put
his heels on the walnut desk. Despite the expensive furniture there was a
junkyard look to the office: model sailboats; shelves full of bric-a-brac
including the truly horrid souvenirs sold in stalls near the boat landings of a
dozen tourist-trap cities; a couple of yachting trophies; and mixed with all
the nautical stuff were expensive "executive toys" of every
conceivable variety, most of them ridiculous. There were also books opened and
left on the credenza, some piled two deep. No one would accuse Art Bonner of
compulsive neatness.
The TV screen on the wall showed a holographic view of Todos
Santos in all its complexity.
"
"A few. OPEC's raising prices next month. Thank God
we've got our own power sources," Bonner said.
"If we can keep them. That's my top problem,"
Sanders said.
Bonner sighed. "Yeah. Okay, unload the bag, Pres. But
you'll have to make it fast. My visiting fireman is early for the cocktail
hour." He frowned slightly, and the hologram faded from the TV screen,
replaced by a view from the roof looking toward the
The building was a thousand feet in height rising starkly
from a square base two miles on a side. It rested among green parklands and
orange groves and low concrete structures so that it stood in total isolation,
a glittering block of whites and flashing windows dotted with colors. The sheer
bulk dwarfed everything else in view.
"Magnificent!" Sir George Reedy crowded against
the window of the Los Angeles Fire Department helicopter, then turned in wonder
to his host. He had to shout above the thrum of the motor. "Mister
Stevens, I've seen it on TV, of course, but I had no idea-"
MacLean Stevens nodded. Todos Santos Independency affected
everyone that way, and Stevens was long accustomed to the reaction. That didn't
make him feel any better about it.
Sir George Reedy dutifully looked off toward the sea.
"Ah, I was going to ask about that. I saw it when we flew in. The great
white mass-"
"The iceberg." I might have known, Stevens
thought. Five hundred billion gallons worth of Antarctic iceberg had been towed
into
There was no way to get off the subject of Todos Santos.
Stevens gave in gracefully and called the pilot. "Captain, if you'll just
circle Todos Santos for Sir George-"
The whine of the turbines changed subtly as the big red
chopper curled in a tight circle. It traced the perimeter of the parks
surrounding the huge building. To their left was Todos Santos and its outlying
moat of orange groves and green parklands. Reedy peered down, then exclaimed,
"Did I see deer?"
"Likely enough," Stevens said.
Directly below them, where they couldn't see, was a ring of
shabby houses and decaying apartments.
MacLean Stevens did not look down but he was acutely aware
of what was below.
Block after block, a mockery to city government and all of Stevens's hopes,
houses filled with families without hope living on welfare-and on the leavings
from Todos Santos.
The turbine whines continually changed pitch as the pilot
varied the speed, and Stevens hoped his visitor wouldn't notice. Eaters didn't
usually shoot at the Fire Department anyway. Not anymore.
"But what is that made of?" Sir George asked.
"This is an earthquake area."
"Yes. They tell me it's perfectly safe," Stevens
answered. "The contracts require that the architect, contractors, and a
lot of the work force have to live inside. They put a lot of design sweat into
it."
"As to what it's made of, just about everything. The
supporting towers are steel trusses, mostly. The walls don't carry gravity
loads, and they can be anything that resists the wind stress. Composites like
fiberglass reinforced with carbon filaments. Some of the more advanced compote tuffies.
Sir George wasn't listening. He had lifted his binoculars
and was busily staring at the monstrous building. Fifty levels rose out of the
parklands and orange groves below. Balconies jutted at each level. At seemingly
random intervals, yet with an overall pleasing pattern he couldn't have
explained, extra-large balconies protruded, and these were covered with tables
and chairs where groups of people in brightly colored clothing ate, or played
cards, or did other things not noticeable even with binoculars from a mile
away.
"I say, some of those people are naked!"
Stevens nodded. Not the diners and card players, of course.
Sir George must be spying on individual apartment balconies. The inhabitants of
Todos Santos were fond of sunbathing, and the balconies were completely private
from one another. Only airborne peeping toms could watch them-as if anyone
cared all that much in
"And what are all those below?" Sir George asked.
He pointed to a series of low mounds, obviously the roofs of underground buildings;
the mounds were covered with trees and shrubs, but concrete driveways led
downward to doors at each one.
Stevens shrugged. "Food factories, mostly. Dairies.
Chicken ranches. Processing sheds for the citrus groves. Sir George, I'm not
really an expert on Todos Santos. You'll get better information inside."
"Yes, of course." Reedy turned away from his binoculared rubbernecking and looked at Stevens with
sympathy. "I forgot, it's not really part of your city at all, is it?
Aren't you a bit jealous?"
Stevens controlled his face and the grimace he felt. The
question reminded him of the ever-present sour pain he felt in his guts
recently. "Of the wealth, yes. Of the money that flows into it and goes
out of the country. Of the taxes it evades. I resent those, Sir George, but I
am not jealous of the people who live in that termite hill."
"I see."
"No, sir, I doubt if you do." The bitterness was
open now and Stevens rushed on, heedless of the consequences. "Termites.
When you're inside, notice the similarities. Caste system remarkably well
developed. Warriors, Kings,
He checked himself before saying more. It would be better
to let this visiting dignitary see for himself. Sir George looked an overweight
fool and might be one, but Stevens thought he probably was not. He ranked as a
Deputy Minister, and Stevens had noticed that many English-Canadian officials
feigned careless buffoonery.
"I saw demonstrators," Reedy said.
"Yeah," Stevens answered. "Several
varieties, too. Todos Santos is not exactly popular with the younger
generation."
"Why not?"
"Maybe you'll see for yourself." And maybe you
won't, Stevens thought. Maybe-ah, to hell with it.
The helicopter had turned again and now cruised above a
well-marked flight path across the orange groves toward the building. As the
chopper rose, the roof came into view.
The enormous surface was cluttered. It was cut into areas
by four huge light wells, each step-shaped with interior balconies.
"They look like the box the Great Pyramid came
in," Sir George quipped.
Stevens laughed. "Actually, they're bigger."
Even with the light wells, the remaining area was huge.
There were parks, swimming pools, miniature golf and a driving range;
heliports, playgrounds with running children; corner towers for penthouse
residents, the highest caste of all.
"What powers it all?" Reedy asked.
"Hydrogen," Stevens said. "They've got a
complex of nuclear breeder plants in
Reedy nodded approval. "Hydrogen. Todos Santos doesn't
add much to your LA smog, then."
"No. That was part of their contract with the federal
government." Stevens paused. "Some environmentalists are still
unhappy, though. They say Todos Santos is simply exporting its pollution-"
He was interrupted by the roar of the helicopter as the
pilot let the bright red machine settle gently onto a painted circle at one
corner of the massive building. The roof was so large that it was difficult to
realize they were hundreds of feet above ground level.
Men waited for them. A brisk wind whipped across the
building. The wind was cold in the late afternoon, and they were glad to get
inside one of the low rooftop structures.
The heliport reception area was not large. Most of the men
in it wore uniforms and carried weapons. The guards very politely photographed
them.
"If you'll just put your hands on this identiplate, please, sir," a guard lieutenant
prompted. The readout screen was hidden from view of visitors, making it
impossible to know what the guard found out.
Machinery hummed and spat out two thick plastic badges.
MacLean Stevens, Executive Assistant to the Mayor of the City of Los Angeles; and
Sir George Reedy, Deputy Minister for Internal Development and Urban Affairs,
Dominion of Canada. Their photographs filled half the badges' faces, and
VISITOR was printed in letters of fire across them.
"Please wear these at all times while in the Independency,"
the lieutenant said. "That's very important."
"What would happen if I lost the badge?" Sir
George asked. His voice was very precise and clipped, perfect Oxbridge accent. It
held just the right note of incredulity and contempt, and MacLean Stevens
envied it.
The guard didn't seem to notice that he had been insulted.
"Sir, it would be very serious. Our detectors would indicate someone
without identification in the Independency, and officers would be sent. It
might be embarrassing to you."
"Might be dangerous, too," Stevens said.
"Lieutenant, how many people come in here and never come out?"
"Sir?" The guard was frowning now.
"Skip it." No point in harassing a rent-a-cop.
The man might not know. Or, Stevens thought, I might be wrong. "Shall I
take Sir George, or do we need an escort?"
"As you choose, sir. Mister Bonner-" the
lieutenant lowered his voice, as if in fear, or reverence, or both--"will
be expecting you shortly. If you're planning any delay en route, please tell us
so that we can notify him."
"We'll probably take a quick tour through the Mall,
thank you."
"Very good, sir. I take it you will not need a routing
slip."
"No. I've been there before."
"I know you have, Mr. Stevens." The guard glanced
down at the invisible screen. "Have a pleasant stay in Todos Santos."
* * *
The holographic view of Todos Santos blinked a blue light,
and two small blue dots appeared in the heliport reception area. "My
visitors will be here pretty quick, Pres," Art Bonner said. "Anything
you can't handle for me?"
"No. But I want to say it again. That hydrogen
delivery schedule is very tricky, Art. If the FROMATES manage to zap an input
line this month, we're hip deep in trouble."
"All right, already. You can have the overtime
authorization for your cops." Bonner frowned.
Bonner's pause was momentary, almost imperceptible, and
Sanders wondered what his boss was listening to. Only it wouldn't exactly be
listening, either. What would it be like to have data fed directly into your
mind?
"The comptroller won't like you much for it,"
Bonner said. "Mead was screaming about budget overruns just yesterday. But
it's your decision."
"He'll scream louder if those yippies
shut down our power," Sanders said.
"Right. Have no pity on me. I have to account to
Bonner's contract gave him complete authority within Todos
Santos. He was responsible to the money people who'd built the city, but they
had no right to interfere with how he ran it. Of course they could always fire
him.
"Take it as easy as you can," Bonner said. His
voice became serious. "It isn't just Frank Mead.
"Yes, baas." It was easy to talk that way to
Bonner. It hadn't always been-which was probably why Bonner did it, Pres
thought. Art Bonner was damned if he'd have a thin-skinned deputy.
"You know how to sort the crap," Bonner said.
"Well, my people will be here shortly. Drinking and carousing at all
hours, no doubt. The wild and happy life. So, guess who'll be on duty
tonight?"
"Yes, sir," Sanders said.
Bonner eyed him critically. Then he thumbed a button in the
arm of the big chair. "Delores."
"Yes, sir," the intercom responded.
"Dee, if Mac Stevens and that Canadian get here before
I'm ready, give them the Number 2 Stall, will you?"
"Yes, Mister Bonner."
"Thanks." He cut the intercom. "Okay, Pres,
what's eating you?"
"Nothing-"
"The hell there isn't. Talk."
"All right. I don't like being in the worry seat,
Chief." If you've got to know, he thought. "I like my job. It isn't
the work, and it isn't the responsibility. You've never given me anything I
can't handle-"
"Precisely. So what's the problem?"
"The people out there don't like me as Number One.
Number Two to you, sure. I'm their black man because I'm your deputy. But not
in that seat."
Bonner frowned. "You been getting static? Who from?
I'll-"
"No." Sanders spread his hands hopelessly.
"Don't you understand, Art, you'll only make it worse if you have one of
your famous talks with-with anybody, about this. It's nobody in particular
anyway. They all resent having me in tap charge. A lot of them may not even
know they resent it. The ones that do work like hell at hiding it. But I can't
make a mistake! Not even one."
"Neither can I-"
"Bull puckey. You can't make
a big one. I can't make one at all."
"You're telling me to replace you because you can't
handle the job?"
"If you think that, do it."
"I do not think that. If I thought it, I'd have
replaced you a long time ago." Bonner sighed and shook his head.
"Okay. You know how to find me. But for God's sake, see if you can't buy
me a couple of hours, anyway."
"Sure. I can always do that," Sanders said.
"And if the big one comes up and I can't reach you-"
"Yeah?"
"I'm in charge, Art. I know that."
"Good. Now can I see my visiting Canadian? We
finished?"
"Sure."
"For now. We'll have lunch on this," Bonner said.
"See Delores about when." He looked at the array of screens around
him. They were all bordered nicely in green. "I'm giving you a clean
board. Call me when you reach your office. As of then, you're in charge."
As Sanders left, he noticed that the blue dots had moved to
a level far below Executive Row.
* * *
"We can talk here if we keep it down." The
bearded boy sounded uncertain, but there were no alarms, and he grinned.
The others nodded and opened one of the boxes. The girl
took out a gas mask. It was warm in the tunnel, and she wiped sweat from above
her eyes before she put it on.
Custom reconciles us to everything.
-Edmund Burke
The reception lobby opened onto a roomful of elevators.
"The Executive Suites are below," Stevens told
Sir George. "We can go straight down, or we can take a quick look at this
anthill before they assign you a guide."
"But I thought we were expected."
"Don't worry about it. Bonner has plenty to keep him
busy, and he knows exactly where we are."
"Really? Then there is some means of tracking these
badges." Stevens nodded. "We'll take a quick swing past some of the
outside corridors. It wouldn't be fair to take you to the Mall first
thing."
"Why ever not?"
"Too much to see. There's every kind of store in the
world, and it's pretty crowded."
Reedy frowned. "If it's so big, why is it crowded?
Surely there aren't enough people living here to-"
"Not the residents," Stevens said. His face held
a sour expression. "Angelinos. A lot of them come here to shop. Hell, I
can't really blame them. It's convenient. All the stores in one place, and the
subway system to get them here. But the money comes in, and it never goes back
out, not back to LA anyway."
"But-" Reedy gasped as the floor dropped from
under him. "I say, that was abrupt." He watched the floor indicator
blink rapidly. "I don't suppose you can restrict your people? Keep them
from coming here?"
"How?" Stevens asked. "We tried that once.
Courts threw out the ordinance-and the voters wouldn't have put up with it
anyway. Didn't matter, though. Todos Santos owns the subway system. This place
is the hub-and it's easier to get from San Pedro to the
The elevator door opened onto a broad corridor. "We're
on Level 15," Stevens said. "Mostly small industry. Electronics
assembly, waldo operators-"
"Waldo operators?"
"Yeah." Stevens looked as if he were swallowing a
live mouse. "It's the latest way Todos Santos drains off money from LA.
Skilled machine operators are scarce. A lot of them want to live in Todos
Santos, but there aren't enough jobs for them here. So they live here, and work
here-the lathes and milling machines are out in LA, and controlled by TV and a
telephone-computer hookup. The technical name is 'teleoperated
systems.'"
Stevens led the way to a moving pedway. "Watch your
step." They walked onto the moving black slideway.
"This one's slower than some. If you want to get to the other side of the
building, you go to another floor and catch a fast strip."
The ceiling was high, and the entrances to the chambers off
the corridor were no more than a series of closed doors; at infrequent
intervals there was a split-second view of the outside. Tubs of growing plants
stood along some of the walls, but there was never any illusion of being
anywhere but in a building.
"Todos Santos built the
"Sure. They have the capital.
The inward side of the corridor was another jumble: neat
signs on the doors announcing electronic shops, repair services, light industries
of one kind or another, interspersed with small convenience shops. Sometimes
there was a long series of doors blocked off, each with a single sign:
Westinghouse, Teledyne, International Security Systems, Oerlikon,
Barclay-Yamashito Ltd., stood out as some of the
largest.
They ended at an elevator bank. "Well, now that you've
seen the drab parts, you're ready for the Mail," Stevens said.
"That's a sight not to miss."
The elevator dropped like a falling safe. Stevens watched Reedy's face as the doors opened.
Reedy knew what to expect, of course. Most visitors did.
And they still took several seconds to make sense of what they were seeing.
They were looking down a broad corridor that stretched
diagonally through the ground floor of Todos Santos. It was almost three miles
long. Moving pedways in the center were a blur of human figures approaching and
receding, though they stood motionless. Lines met at infinity. The pedways were
flanked on both sides by walks, and people strolled along these, looking into
shop windows, going in and out of stores, clumping to hold animated discussions
where they would block the passage of others. Tiers of balconies rose high
above them. Residents strolled along the balconies or idly leaned over to look
down. Glass-sided elevators clung to walls and moved at impossibly high speeds.
Gigantic spaces, and wails and a roof enclosing all; that was what confused the
mind; but the real shock was to see all these shoppers taking it so lightly.
Stevens chuckled. "Tell yourself you can get used to
anything." He led the way out onto the floor.
They passed under an enormous sign:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. PERMISSION TO PASS REVOCABLE AT
ANY TIME.
"Which means?" Sir George asked.
"Exactly what it says," Stevens answered. They
stood looking for another moment, then Mac escorted his visitor onto the pedway
strip. Sir George seemed accustomed to them. Most new shopping centers and
airports had them, although not as elaborate as these.
The outer strip was broad and had seats. A series of much
narrower strips separated it from another broad seat-laden belt in the center.
Each strip moved faster and faster until the inner one flashed past at fifty
kilometers an hour. They moved progressively across strips until they reached
the fast one, and sat next to the transparent windscreen partition that moved
with them.
Parallel lines converged ahead at the vanishing point.
There was a medium-sized city poised over their heads. Mac knew it, but he had
never been able to sense it, not even here, in this tremendous ... room.
Through the Plexiglas they could see the flicker of faces
and bright clothing of passengers coming in the opposite direction, a blur of
humanity. Both sides of the barrier were lined with shops, all doing a brisk
business. Reedy noticed a branch of Dream Masters, the chain of fantasy art
galleries. They swept past a side corridor that led upward to another level
with more walkways and conversation areas. More changes of level; balconies
overhanging the pedway itself, with more shops.
There was no special order to the shops, but the signs - Reedy
frowned, puzzled. What was it about the signs on the shops?
"See it? The Corporation permits advertising,"
Mac Stevens said, "but they regulate the size of the signs, and they've
got an aesthetics committee that sets up standards. If Art Bonner doesn't like
something, it'll probably be found to be unaesthetic."
Sporting-goods shops, stationery, clothing, bicycles,
restaurants, banks, electronics, music, bookstores. People moved in and out in
random patterns. The buildings had a fragile look: not made to withstand
weather. Sir George grinned at the sudden incongruous sight of a tobacconist's
shop, built apparently of brick, and as solid-looking as a Mayan pyramid.
"Does anyone buy?" Reedy asked. "No one
seems to carry packages."
"Security," Stevens said. "Visitors have
their purchases delivered. Either to the exit plaza, or directly to their
homes. Residents don't usually carry much around either. The guards don't like
it."
"I should think Americans have a long tradition of
telling the police off," Reedy said.
"Sure. But the residents of Todos Santos are
different. I didn't say the guards won't put up with residents carrying
packages. They just don't like it. And the residents don't deliberately annoy the
guards. They'd rather cooperate." They had reached the opposite corner of
the building, and Stevens led the way across the slow strips and finally to the
corridor.
"I don't see badges on everyone," Reedy said.
"In fact, not more than half."
Stevens nodded and led the Canadian to the end of the
diagonal. A series of exits funneled the traffic and they went through.
"If we hadn't had unrestricted visiting badges, we'd have been stopped
back there," he said. "The Mall is an open area. They let in nearly
anyone. They only watch for known criminals and terrorists." His lips
tightened. "With their fast transportation system they siphon off a lot of
business from the city."
He pointed down a long corridor. "East perimeter, Mall
level. Mostly apartments, of course. The outside view is a first choice f or
living quarters."
"Totally? That seems a poor design-"
"No, not totally. There's a mix here, as everywhere.
Night clubs, restaurants, private clubs, even some exclusive shops. Of course
any business out here draws only customers from inside, except for favorite
customers with permanent Visitor badges."
"Strange," said Reedy. "I'd think they'd
want visitors. Why all the restrictions?"
"Oh, there're reasons." Stevens indicated a door.
As they approached it, it slid open. A red-and-blue-uniformed guard stood
inside. The rent-a-cop smiled pleasantly as they passed and headed for another
bank of elevators.
About fifty people were waiting for elevators with them.
All had badges, and very few bore the bright VISITOR label. Reedy looked at the
badges and people, saying nothing.
There was no way to characterize them. Pick fifty random
citizens from any major city and you would find as much variety. What was it
about them that made them seem like a gathering of distant cousins? Reedy
couldn't put his finger on it.
The elevator rose swiftly and deposited them at another
moving pedway. They were on the outside periphery, and they passed apartments,
open areas leading to outside enclosed decks; it was obvious that this was an
affluent area.
"All right," Sir George said. "I've been
unable to work it out. What is it about the people-the sameness? They don't
dress as flashily as one expects of
Stevens grinned. "Termites. No? Well, I admit I don't
know either, not completely. But did you notice how quiet it was, even in the
Mall, among those people?"
"Why-yes. Not at all the noise level I'd have
expected. Is it some regulation?"
"Custom. Customs are very powerful here. By the way, I
wouldn't be surprised if some Company policeman were listening to us through
those badges."
Sir George looked at his badge as if he had discovered a
poisonous spider on it. "Do the residents put up with this?"
Stevens shrugged. "Resident badges are different. Or
so they're told. But, Sir George, the residents want surveillance. It's another
custom. The Law and Order tradition is very strong in here. A kind of siege
mentality-"
"Paranoia?"
"Oh, they've got their reasons. Paranoids have enemies
too," Stevens said. "Here, that's where we're going, the exit up
ahead. Have you been following the news? The FROMATES, the Friends of Man and
The Earth Society, keep trying to sabotage Todos Santos. Not to mention various
other hate groups. And just plain gangsters out to extort money. Stink bombs.
Hornet nests. That kind of thing, mostly, but sometimes the terrorists come up
with something really nasty, like the grenade that killed a dozen people in the
Crown Center Arcology in Kansas." He shrugged helplessly. "My police
haven't had much luck at catching them outside, so the Company has its own
police."
"But doesn't that play into the terrorists' hands?"
Reedy asked. "One purpose of terror is to provoke a reaction. Make things
so bad that people welcome any change-"
"Any change that will protect them," Stevens
said.
The journey ended at another elevator plaza, and they took
an Up car to the Executive Suite. They emerged into thick carpets and walnut
paneling. It came to Sir George that he was lost.
Every resident of Todos Santos had known that moment of
shock, save only the children and Tony Rand. One can lose one's way among city
streets, but being lost in Todos Santos was like being last in
The moment passed. It didn't matter that Sir George had
followed an impossibly twisted path. He had guides; he wasn't trapped. But
there was always that moment.
MacLean Stevens was in his mid-thirties, and very athletic,
while Art Bonner was ten years older and walked with a limp he'd picked up in
the Army. Stevens's hair was light tan, Bonner's dark and thinning on top, with
a bare spot his hair stylist had more and more trouble covering. Both were tall
men, over six feet, Bonner perhaps an inch higher and twenty pounds heavier
than Stevens.
Put that way the two men didn't look alike at all; yet
those who knew them, and sometimes even visitors who met both casually, were
more impressed with their similarities than their differences. It wasn't
anything you could put your finger on. Certainly you would never mistake one
man for the other. But both looked at people in the same way, and both spoke in
the same tone: the tone of command, of a man so thoroughly accustomed to being
obeyed that he did not have to raise his voice or resort to threats.
"Good to see you again, Mac," Bonner was saying.
"Been a while," Stevens responded automatically.
"Art, this is the Honorable Sir George Reedy, Deputy Minister for
Development and Urban Affairs for the Canadian government. Sorry we're a touch
late, but I took the liberty of showing Sir George the shopping mall-"
"Sure, I know," Bonner said. "Come in,
please, have a seat. Drink? We've got nearly anything you could possibly want,
and a lot you wouldn't."
"You sound as if you're showing off," Reedy said.
He smiled broadly. "Pimm's Cup, if you
please."
"Certainly. Mac? The usual?"
"Yes, please."
Bonner waved them to leather chairs and took another in the
conversation group with them, leaving his desk in the background. The office
lighting adjusted subtly so that only the conference area stood out.
There was a low hum in the background. Otherwise the office
was silent. "Quite a place you have here," the Canadian said.
"I'm very impressed." But he looked uneasy. Too much of the touch of
strange ... and the moment of being lost was still with him.
"Thank you," Bonner said. "Would you like to
see more of it? Let me show you around." He gestured toward the wall and
the decorative art works vanished to be replaced by an enormous cutaway view of
Todos Santos in three dimensions. Colored dots seemed to crawl through the
holographic presentation; it was all diagrammatic, with the too-realistic lines
of an architect's drawing. That vanished to show a montage of color pictures,
each a blur of motion: shops, people getting onto a moving pedway, a riot of
color.
Sir George frowned. "Why, that's the route we came
here by-"
Bonner smiled. "That's right." The diagram
reappeared. "You see the moving dots? Those are members of my staff that
we want to keep track of. Your badges are tagged VIP so I was able to see where
you went. Not that I paid a lot of attention, but the route is recorded
anyway-"
There was a slightly louder hum. "Here we are,"
said Bonner. He was having fun. The solid black rectangle of a coffee table in
the conversation group opened to reveal three glasses. Bonner reached down and
lifted the tray. "Pimm's Cup. Talisker. And Mac's Royal Gin Fizz. Don't know how he can
drink that mess. Cheers."
Sir George laughed, and was joined by the others.
"Well done. I will admit I thought you had forgotten-" The smile
faded into something else. "Just whom do you have listening to us?"
he demanded.
"Nobody," Art said. "Oh - my apologies, Sir
George. I like doing this with drinks and food orders, but believe me, nobody
is listening to us. I used my implant to tell MILLIE what we wanted and she
took care of it."
"I see." Sir George's eyes focused on nothing for
a moment--
Bonner grinned. "Try again. Use your last name for the
key."
"Ah. Thank you."
"You're welcome. I've given you a visiting VIP access
clearance. Mac, have they made any progress on swinging an implant for
you?"
"Think the city's got an extra million bucks?"
Stevens asked. "Hell, we haven't got an extra five hours' overtime for a
sanitary engineer." Stevens eyed Sir George warily. "I hadn't known
you were one of the elite."
Reedy looked sympathetically at Stevens. "Don't rate
it, actually. Family helped PSYCHIC LTD. once and they paid off with
this." He paused, searching for words. "Very useful gadget, but you
know, you can communicate with a computer about as well with a good briefcase
console."
Reedy and Bonner looked knowingly at each other. It was a
look that left MacLean Stevens out. It was the look that sighted men might give
each other in the presence of the blind.
"Well, what would you like to see, Sir George?" Bonner
asked. "As you've gathered, we're rather proud of Todos Santos. I have us
scheduled for dinner a bit early, 1900, but we've plenty of time before then.
Oh, and Mr. Rand, our Chief Engineer, will be joining us."
"Will we be eating in the Commons?" Stevens
asked.
"I thought Schramm's. Best Hungarian food in the
country."
"Hell, Mac, I'm not trying to hide anything,"
Bonner said. He grinned. "There's nothing alcoholic to drink there, and
the food's nothing special in Commons, but there's plenty of it. Shall I cancel
out Schramm's?"
"Commons by all means," Reedy said. It was
obvious to him that Stevens thought he had scored a point in some complex game.
There was an awkward silence, and Sir George said into it,
"As you know, we're thinking of building units like this one. We must
construct the housing at any event, and the Government is wondering if we
should not do it rationally as you have. There are a quarter of a million
people here, as I understand."
"About that," Bonner said. "MILLIE could
tell you. But we ought to let Mac listen in, and we can't." He looked
thoughtful for an instant, and words flowed on the wall screen.
Total Present: 243,782
Unrestricted Visitors in Mall: 31,293
Visitors with Special Passes: 18,811
Non-resident Workers: 114
Unauthorized Visitors: 7
Detained Prisoners: 1
"Who's the prisoner?" Stevens demanded.
Bonner looked thoughtful, then said, "A leaper.
They've got him in Central Security. He's been under arrest for three hours.
They'll let him go by
Words crawled on the screen again. How many residents are
accommodated here?
Design Goal: 275,000
Now Resident: 247,453
Resident in Outbuildings: 976
"Roughly a quarter of a million, then," Sir
George said.
Bonner nodded. "In four square miles of building, or
about ten square miles of buildings and grounds. That's about the highest
population density ever achieved on Earth anywhere. Remember the studies a few
years ago that proved that if you pack a lot of people into a small area they'd
all go insane? Doesn't seem to have happened."
MacLean Stevens chuckled. Bonner threw him a threatening
look, then grinned.
"Where did you have in mind building, Sir
George?" Bonner asked.
Reedy shrugged. "There are a number of possible sites.
We have so much undeveloped land-"
"Won't work," Stevens muttered. Bonner said
nothing, and the two executives exchanged significant glances.
Bonner is laughing about this, Reedy thought. Why? I'd
expect Stevens to be negative about the whole idea, Lord knows he hates this
whole complex -- do all Angelinos think that way? -- but what is this joke they
share?
And why, when three of these arcologies have been more or
less failures, is Todos Santos apparently so successful despite being packed in
among ten million enemies in Greater Los Angeles?
Where is the man who owes nothing to the land in
which he lives? Whatever that land may be, he owes to it the most precious
thing possessed by man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue.
-Jean Jacques Rousseau
The guard turned with a puzzled expression. "Seems to
be a glitch in Tunnel 0-8, Captain."
"What kind of glitch?"
"No visual."
The duty captain frowned. "In 8? That's a critical
area. Don't need intruders in 8 ... " He typed furiously on his console,
then looked relieved. "MILLIE shows maintenance in that," he said. "With
overtime authorized yet, the lucky beggars. Punch in an immediate repair
request for the visuals."
"Hell, it's near dinner time. They'll never get it
fixed tonight."
The captain shrugged. "If they don't, we'll send in a
patrolman. Give 'em a chance, though. They're in there
already, maybe they can take care of it." He looked at his readout screen
again and nodded. "Looks all right. Nobody's opened any doors to the
outside. Let me know when the visual comes on again."
"Sure." The guard settled back and sipped coffee
as the kaleidoscope began again.
* * *
Anthony Rand put down the, telephone with a grimace. It was
always an unpleasant experience when Genevieve called, and he wasn't sure
whether it was worse when they fought or when she tried to make up. Why the
hell didn't she marry and get out of his life? She was no bloody use when he
was trying to make a career; and when he hadn't risen fast enough to suit her,
she'd walked out taking Zachary and two-thirds of his inadequate income with
her. Now, of course, she wanted to come back.
She doesn't want to live with me, she wants to live in Todos
Santos, Tony thought. And I will be damned if she's going to come here and live
like a goddam princess off my status.
Of course she had a bribe to offer: Zach, aged eleven. And
she had same good arguments. The boy needed his father, but Tony Rand didn't
have time to raise a son-he barely had time to have the boy in for visits-and
someone should take care of Zach, why not his mother? And maybe their breakup
hadn't been quite so simple and one sided. She did have her side to the story-
He squirmed a bit as his body remembered Genevieve, suddenly, against his will.
Djinn had been wonderful in bed. It had been too long
since he'd had a satisfying affair. No time for that; no time to make friends.
Too bad you couldn't rent mistresses. He'd heard that was possible: that there
were women who'd gladly pretend affection, be attentive when you wanted them to
be and self-reliant when you had no time for them. He wished he knew where to
find someone like that. It wasn't so much that he was afraid to ask, as that he
hadn't any idea of whom to ask.
Why not Genevieve? She was offering almost the same thing-
no, I'll be damned first.
His apartment was nothing like the others in Todos Santos.
It was large, because his status rated a large place; but much of the space was
concentrated in one enormous room. There was a small bedroom, but he seldom
used it because it was too far from the drafting table; he'd forgotten a good
idea once while stumbling from bedroom to drafting table, and that wasn't ever
going to happen again.
The drafting table dominated a whole side of the big room:
a vast expanse of metal surface littered with drafting instruments and bordered
by switches and buttons; when he drew on it, an image went into his computer
files and was accessible in his office, or on a job site. Another wall held
awards, framed scrolls and trophies. Books took up another. There wasn't room
for all the books he needed-and where should he keep them, here or in his
office suite? Better to get them read into the electronic brains of Todos
Santos. Somehow, though, storing his books in computer memory hadn't conquered
the mess: the room was still littered with letter trays full of papers,
magazines (mostly unread but full of important articles he didn't want to miss)
in half a dozen mahogany rack tables, unanswered letters spilling out of
drawers. He was drowning in paper.
He envied the quiet efficiency of Preston Sanders or Art
Bonner or Frank Mead. Their assistants almost invisibly took care of details.
Tony had never been able to manage that. It wasn't that he didn't have good
people. Alice Strahler was a good engineer and executive assistant, and Tom
Golden ran the procurement division, and- But good as his staff people were, it
wasn't enough. They might protect him from mere details-but far too often he'd
found that details were the key to the problem. He had to follow the minutiae,
because he didn't know what would turn out to be vital.
That led to his development of robot probes; small devices
with cameras and sound equipment which could move freely through Todos Santos
under
Good as the Arr-twos were, with
their full two-way communications and their TV screen to show Rand's face, he'd
found it necessary to get out and talk to the technicians and carpenters and
pipe fitters and maintenance people; talk to them himself, because most
construction people didn't like talking to an Arr-two
even with Rand's TV image.
And he had to go himself. His subordinates, even the best
ones, didn't seem able to recognize an important point when they heard it. And
getting around Todos Santos took time, which meant that the journals and
magazines and letters piled up until he was hopelessly behind-
The phone rang. Genevieve again? he wondered. What in hell
does she want this time? "Hello," he barked at the empty room.
"Strahler here, Chief," the phone speaker said.
Uh oh.
"Sorry to bother you at dinner time. We have a problem
on that carbon filament reinforcing lattice. Medland
can't deliver on time."
"Sir?"
"Nothing. We need that stuff." Boy do we ever
need it, and it's completely out of our control, damn it all to hell! How would
we handle this if we were a space colony? Or a starship? "
"That's why I called," Strahler said. "I
tried alternate sources. Farbenwerke has the best
delivery schedule, but it's still a four week delay. But I did find a
condominium going up in Diamond Bar that has enough to take care of us for a
month, and they've got a strike so they don't need it right now. We can buy
theirs and have Farbenwerke ship ours to Diamond
Bar-but they'll want a premium."
"Sounds like you've done your homework," Tony
said.
"Yeah. But it'll cost us," she said.
"Rescheduling around a four-week delay costs one point six million. The
Diamond Bar deal costs nine hundred thousand. I can't find any other
choices."
"Pretty clear what we have to do,"
"Yes. Shall I talk to the comptroller?"
"Yeah. Do that. Say, this is Tom's job, not
yours."
"Mr. Golden has an anniversary party," Strahler
said. "His wife would leave him if he missed it. So I took it."
"Thanks,
"Sure will. Good night."
"Good night,"
It was only by accumulating details that you found
something like that-and the way the details fit together wasn't at all obvious,
which meant there was no rational filing system for them, resulting in the mess
in his apartment (his office was kept relatively neat) because you never knew
when you'd need an old memo or an article.
Maybe,
He put on a clean shirt. It was time to meet Bonner and
Stevens and, what was his name? Reedy. Time to meet them for dinner.
The dining hall was large enough for six thousand people
and served an entire level. Holographic panels along one entire wall gave the
impression that it looked out over the sea; sailboats moved on the Bay, and
lights winked as sunset shadowed
"That's lovely," Sir George said. "And quite
realistic."
"It ought to be," MacLean Stevens told him.
"They've piped the view inside."
"Yep. Real time,"
And certainly he had reason to be pleased at Reedy's response:
appreciative silence,
and another close look at the holographs. "Pity the ceiling is so
low," Reedy observed finally. "But even so the illusion is nearly
perfect."
Art Bonner laughed, a short polite sound. Tony Rand had no
trouble reading Bonner's mind: the cost of the holographic walls had been high
enough without using up valuable space to give high ceilings to the Common
rooms.
Art hadn't wanted the holographs, either, but Tony
insisted- and brought them in under budget, too. He was proud of that. The
Commons wouldn't be nearly so nice without that illusion of looking out- The
room was filled with the buzz of conversation and clicking plates. There were
the random sounds of people in motion. "A good bit less noise than I'd
have imagined for this many diners," Reedy said.
"Custom again," MacLean Stevens said.
"Deeply ingrained custom. Developed pretty rapidly, too."
"Doubtless there is selectivity," Reedy said.
"Those who can't adapt won't stay long."
"The idea is to adapt the habitat to the inhabitants'
needs," Art Bonner said.
"You seem to have done well," Reedy replied.
The tables were long and narrow, with a pair of moving
beltways down the center. Dirty dishes came from their right, and a continuous
stream of food and beverages and clean utensils poured from some cornucopia to
the left. "Take a place," Art Bonner said. "You can choose your
own company, or wait for someone to choose you."
"No reservations?" Reedy asked.
"No. It's a random proposition." Bonner led them
to an empty stretch at a long table. "Scheduling's
going to catch hell for this if it doesn't fill up." He paused for a
moment to stare at nothing.
That's the value of that implant,
Reedy waited until he saw Bonner was attentive again. Then
he said, "How can you plan without reservations?"
Bonner shrugged. "We manage."
Stevens's voice was carefully controlled as he said,
"Residents must take a certain number of meals in the Commons. They're not
only charged for them as part of the services, but they pay extra if they skip
out too many times. With that incentive it's a simple matter of queuing theory
mathematics."
"Not all that simple,"
Reedy frowned. "That doesn't seem very pleasant."
They took seats, Reedy and Bonner on one side of the table,
Rand and Stevens on the other. The moving dishes and foods seemed to distract
Reedy and made it hard for him to talk across the table. Bonner didn't seem to notice.
"You'll find clean plates coming along any
second," Bonner said. "I think you'll like the meal, and certainly
it's efficient." Pause. "Tonight's was only seven dollars
twenty-eight cents per person that we'll serve, assuming the projection's right.
If you see something you like, just take it. When you've served yourself, put
the rest back on the conveyor."
"Is that sanitary?" Reedy asked.
"Certainly." Bonner snared a covered dish of
chicken fricassee. "There are no more than four portions in a dish to
begin with. And we've empirical evidence, too. Check our absenteeism due to
minor illness-"
Reedy looked thoughtful. "Quite low," he said.
"Check the LA rate for comparison. Not that they have
as good data as we have, but it gives you an idea."
"There's another reason for no more than four portions
to a dish,"
"Oh dear. Is there much chance of that?" Reedy
asked. He seemed to have lost his appetite.
"Almost none," Rand assured him. "The
security agents watch all the time." He waved toward the low ceiling.
Reedy glanced around nervously, as if feeling eyes on the
back of his neck. Then plates and silver came past and he took them. Bonner
handed him Hungarian goulash, and vegetables and bread quickly followed. There
was tea and coffee, and milk, and water, and fruit juice. The goulash was hot
and smelled deliciously of paprika.
"Gets to you, doesn't it?" MacLean Stevens said
gently. He began to eat. "Not much you can do about it, so enjoy your
meal."
"About what?"
"Being watched all the time."
"But we're not watched all the time,"
"What do you do if you catch them?" Reedy asked.
"Saboteurs. Or even just pickpockets."
Bonner snorted. "That's a sore subject. What happens
is, we turn them over to Mac's police, and they let them go."
Sir George lifted an eyebrow. "Really, Mr.
Stevens?"
"Not quite-"
"Close enough," Bonner said. "Let's suppose
we catch an Angelino with his hand in a stockholder's pocket. Suppose we've got
him dead to rights, a dozen witnesses. We call the LA police. They come get
him. One of the District Attorney's people comes out and takes statements. So
far so good.
"But now the Public Defender gets in the act. It'll be
some bright youngster just out of law school, anxious to make a reputation. So
we get delays. Continuances. Every time the victim and our witnesses show up,
the Public Defender isn't available. Schedule conflict. Something. Until the
day the victim isn't available, and wham! That's the day they insist on a speedy
trial."
"Now, damn it, that's not fair," Mac Stevens
insisted.
"It's close enough, Mac, and you know it. If we want a
conviction, we have to spend hours and days in courtrooms, and for what? Even
if we do it, the yo-yo gets bail and probation."
"So what do you do, Mr. Bonner?" Reedy asked.
"We grit our teeth and play the game," Bonner
said. "And try to see that no repeat offenders get in here. We do have the
right to keep the bums away from our people."
And how would we do that on a starship? Tony Rand wondered.
Hmmm. We'd have to have criminal law. Justice, if you will. Which is hard to
automate ... and not my department.
The food was good, and they ate in silence for a few
minutes. Most had second helpings.
Finally Sir George looked up and said, "Surely there's
a lot of wastage? You can't possibly predict how much will be eaten."
"We do better than you think," Bonner said.
"Yes, and they sell the leftovers to Las Angeles
welfare institutions," Stevens said grimly. "Churches, skid row
missions, that sort of thing. There's no waste because the
"Now, that's not true,"
"He means that only the untouched portions are sold
for human consumption," Bonner said. "And he's right, the real
garbage feeds animals. And, Mac, you may not like feeding your welfare people
on our leftovers, but I notice you don't complain about the water we
supply."
The sun fell into the sea and the iceberg offshore winked
with navigation lights. The darkness of the holograph was lovely, but it made
the low ceiling press down even more heavily. Sir George glanced around again.
"I shouldn't think Americans would like surveillance while they eat."
"The Corporation doesn't much like the expense of
providing it, either," Bonner said. "Now tell me what I should do?
Despite everything the FROMATES do get into Todos Santos. And they do try to
poison people-"
"They don't think it's poison," Stevens said.
"LSD is poison," Bonner said. "If my people
want to turn on, they'll do it themselves. They don't need help from eaters. And
slipping acid into the food isn't all the honorable Friends of Man and the
Earth do. They've also tried blowing up the kitchens, as well as other parts of
Todos Santos. They tried-well, their diseased minds come up with pretty
ingenious stunts.
"So we have to watch for them, and we can't abandon
the Commons. Wouldn't if we could. Most of our residents like the Commons. Some
never eat anywhere else. After all, it's our most democratic institution."
"Why do these criminals dislike you so much?" Sir
George asked. "Surely they know your people are not unhappy here-"
Bonner and Stevens laughed together, a shared joke, which
"The FROMATES claim to be ecologists," Bonner
said. "As if I didn't have some of the best ecological talent in the world
available to my staff. Only they can save the Earth-"
"Art's not being quite fair," Stevens said.
"I've got no use for terrorists, but the FROMATES have a point. They claim
that if Todos Santos succeeds, there'll be no barrier to population growth. Not
even famine and overcrowding can stop the population bomb, until it's too late
for everyone and everything. Actually their best arguments are fiction. They're
backing a movie made from an old science fiction novel, The Godwhale,
about how the human race crowds itself until no humans are left."
"I take it you agree with them," Sir George
asked.
"No. But they do have their share of truth. Todos
Santos uses enormous resources to produce an elite that enjoys-" He
clamped his lips firmly together. "I'd rather you saw everything for
yourself."
Saw what?
"I saw the demonstrators outside," Sir George
said. "Do you often have serious attempts at sabotage? Bombs, that sort of
thing?"
"More than I like," Bonner said. "But they
don't often get past Security. Setting off a bomb's pretty hard when the guards
are looking over your shoulder."
"Isn't there anywhere the guards don't watch?"
"Not many places."
A young family came over to their part of the table and sat
next to Art Bonner. The man was about thirty, and his wife considerably
younger. There were two boys with them, about six and eight years old. All wore
the neat slacks and wrinkle-free shirts that seemed to be standard dress, and
all four wore resident badges. Like most resident badges these were
personalized. The parents' had color drawings with their names in stylized
calligraphy; the children's had cartoons. The shirts had complementary patterns
of wild color, designed so that you could see from a distance that they were a
family, although each shirt was different.
The man sat next to Bonner and examined Art's badge with
care before he spoke. "I thought I recognized you, Mr. Bonner."
"Good evening," Bonner said pleasantly. He looked
at their badges: Cal and Judy Phillips. The color had already told him they
were resident stockholders, and the badge identified his business: Executive
Row Clothing Rental, 25th Level Mall.
Bonner gestured to his companions. "Mister Phillips,
this is Tony Rand, the Chief Engineer. Our visitors are Mr. Stevens of the Los
Angeles Mayor's Office, and Sir George Reedy of the Canadian government."
Phillips's eyes widened slightly. He nodded pleasantly to
the others, then began to gather dishes for himself and his family. He spoke in
a low voice that they could just make out if they listened hard enough.
The newcomers talked only to each other for a while, but
when Cal Phillips was certain that Bonner was finished with his meal, he said,
"Mister Bonner, my shower is not delivering enough water."
Bonner frowned. "You've had Maintenance in to
check?"
"Yes, sir. They say everything's fine."
"But it isn't," Judy Phillips said. "I used
to be able to rinse off completely, and now I can't. And there's been no water
allowance reduction in our neighborhood."
"Where?"
"Forty-four, West, R-ring," Judy answered.
"Hmm. Could be the computer. I don't think
there's-"
"Leave it to Maintenance, Tony," Bonner said. He
frowned for a moment. "All right, someone will look into it."
"Thank you," Cal Phillips said. "If you've a
few minutes-"
"Not tonight," Bonner said pleasantly. "I
have to show my guests around. If you'll excuse us-"
"Certainly," Cal and Judy Phillips chorused.
"We'll have coffee at my place," Bonner said to
his guests when they were away from the table. "And we can discuss the
economics of the situation, Sir George. Expect that will bore you to tears,
Tony-"
Was Bonner trying to get rid of him?
Before they reached the outside of the Common Room, Bonner had
heard five more complaints, been given three separate solutions to problems in
garbage disposal-one interesting enough that Rand took out a notebook and wrote
it down-and had been encouraged not to give in to outside pressures from the
Teamsters.
When they reached the corridor, people obviously recognized
Bonner, but they didn't speak to him, except to wish him a pleasant evening.
"We'll head an up to my place," Bonner said.
"Sure you can't join us, Tony?"
Definitely a hint,
He watched them get onto an elevator.
There were other residents in the elevators, and they
didn't speak to Bonner either as he led his guests to a corner of the 47th
floor. An apartment door opened as they approached. He ushered them into a
large carpeted room. The view of the city was magnificent on two sides of them.
Long lines of light that were streets overflowing with
traffic; dotted lines of empty lighted streets; tall buildings with more
patterns of light; a bank of fog rolling in from the bay, shrouding the
iceberg, its top far below them; Los Angeles lay in splendor around them.
MacLean Stevens stood at the windows basking in the light.
"Now that's a city," he said. "Alive and lovely and free."
"Splendid," Sir George said. "Really
lovely."
"Especially from here," Bonner added. "Pimm's Cup again, Sir George?"
"Thank you, I'll have brandy-"
."Carlos Primero be all right?"
"Splendid. Thank you."
They took seats. They watched the solid coffee table for a
moment, a duplicate of the one in Bonner's office.
"Customs again," Reedy said.
Bonner looked puzzled.
"The residents. They are permitted to speak to you in
the Commons, but not in the corridors."
"More or less," Bonner said. "Not so much
permitted as-well, as you say, a custom."
MacLean Stevens started to say something, but caught
himself.
"Actually," Bonner said, "anyone can speak
to anyone in the Commons. If you hadn't been along they'd have talked my arm
off. They were being polite to outside visitors."
"And why was everyone so interested in garbage
disposal?" Reedy asked.
"It's the 'Problem of the Week'," Bonner said.
"Every week we have something the residents are asked to think about. If
they come up with a good idea, we use it. Works more often than you
think."
"I see. And you eat in the Commons regularly?"
"Reasonably so. I'm exempt from the requirement, of
course, although I'm not so certain that's wise. Getting out and meeting the
residents is just plain good politics. If Nixon had gone drinking in bars once
in a while, he'd have served two full terms as President. For that matter, Mac,
your Mayor would benefit by getting out and meeting some random citizens."
"Sure. With fifty bodyguards."
"See?" Bonner said. "I don't need
bodyguards. Not in Todos Santos. I can go meet anyone I like. Ah. Here are our
drinks."
The coffee table opened to reveal three large snifters of
brandy.
Reedy asked, "Is an automatic bartender standard in
all apartments?"
"It's not automated," MacLean Stevens said.
"Somewhere in this building a very human bartender poured those
drinks."
Bonner nodded agreement. "Most places get deliveries
by jitney to their outside door. Executive and luxury suites have direct
conveyors."
"A service reserved for the higher castes,"
Stevens said. "Kings,
"That's a very old image, Mac." Bonner lifted his
own glass in reply. "Cheers. I suppose you could call the executives kings
and queens, and the major stockholders drones, but what's the sense of it? Sir
George, Mac doesn't like Todos Santos-but his wife wants to live here. Doesn't
she, Mac?"
Stevens nodded sourly.
"You'll notice he doesn't say he can't afford to bring
her here, either," Bonner said. "I've offered him nearly every job in
my department."
Stevens fidgeted nervously, then glanced at his watch.
"Sir George, I really must be leaving soon."
"Good heavens, yes, of course you'll have to get back
to your family. I'm very sorry-"
"You needn't leave," Bonner said. "We have
guest suites. Please stay on, Sir George. What time is your first appointment
in the morning?"
"Well, actually I had expected to return here-"
"That's settled, then. I'll have a guest suite with
same toilet articles laid out for you. You've no family with you in
He didn't say it as a question. Stevens wandered for a
moment, then nodded. Bonner would have had MILLIE check airline and hotel reservations.
"I would enjoy staying over, if Mr. Stevens doesn't
mind," Reedy said.
"No, of course not. I can find my way out, Art. Can
you have my chopper meet me?"
"Sure."
Stevens downed the last of his brandy and stood. "Be
seeing you. I'll come by for Sir George in the morning.
"We'll get him back to you," Bonner assured him.
He walked with Stevens across the thick carpets to the entryway. "Bring
Janice with you next time. Sometime when you're not showing the Commons-"
Stevens nodded. "Thanks." The door slid open for
him, then closed.
"Poor Mac," Bonner said as he came back to his
seat. "His wife really enjoys this place, and Mac thinks coming here is a
chore. Excuse me a moment, please?" He frowned in concentration.
Reedy could hear the instructions: That is, he could hear
MILLIE listening to them. MacLean Stevens leaving 47-001 now. Full
Protection. Call LAFD for his helicopter.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Bonner said, "I expect you've got a few more
questions."
"Millions," Reedy agreed. "I don't know
where to begin. Uh - I say, Mr. Bonner, I can't help noticing that your
relationship with Mr. Stevens is rather peculiar."
Bonner grinned broadly. "That's not the way I'd put it,
but yes. Mac is convinced that this place couldn't exist without
"I see. And yet you're friends."
"I wish we were closer friends. He's a very good man,
Sir George. But then you've seen that."
"Yes. Is his theory correct, by the way?"
Bonner hesitated for only a second. "Certainly. In a
way. There have been several experiments in arcologies, Sir George. This is the
only one that has succeeded."
"You're quite the largest and best financed."
Bonner nodded. "True. But that isn't all of it, I
think. We have had a lot of success. Not just avoiding deterioration, we've had
growth and improvement and we make a profit far the stockholders and
financiers. The earlier arcologies need massive tax subsidies, Todos Santos
pays taxes. As few as possible, but we pay."
Sir George nodded agreement. "I know. It's the purpose
of my visit. Why?"
"Our independence and lack of tax strangulation,"
Bonner said quickly. "We make our own laws, and no one outside bothers us.
Dictatorial efficiency. 'The first bloom of fascism.' I make the trains run on
time. I even build trains."
"Seriously-"
"I am being serious. We do have efficient
administration. Simply getting out from under the dead hand of government,
chopping out bureaucratic deadwood-that's worth a lot."
Reedy nodded again. "That's the standard explanation,
but I am not at all certain that I accept the standard theories, else I'd not
be here. I am looking for what the sociologists and economists may have missed.
Most of them hate you from theoretical principles. Or love you from
others."
"Something else you've seen," Bonner said.
"Security. Nobody has to be afraid in Todos Santos. Everyone in this place
can talk to everyone else, and not be afraid. I think that's worth something,
too."
"But what of Stevens's theory?"
Bonner smiled. "I'll jump Mac's gun, since he'll tell
you all about it tomorrow anyway. But do keep in mind what I said. Without our
communications, upwards and downwards and sideways, the rest wouldn't matter.
"Now, Mac Stevens believes that without the resources
of a big city to draw on we'd never make Todos Santos anything like self sufficient.
We'd forget something vital, and it would take time and effort to correct.
That's why he said you couldn't build an arcology out in your undeveloped
lands."
"I see. But there was an experiment like that. In
Bonner nodded. "MILLIE has the details, if you're
interested. Yes. And the project failed dismally, for precisely the reasons
I've mentioned. Sure. Sir George, I won't try to hide from you just how much we
depend on
"But certainly that's not enough by itself. It can't
explain your economic successes."
"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."
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.
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,"
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
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."
"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.
"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,"
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?"
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
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 joysticks 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
Power cuts would - "Negative phasedowns,"
Sanders said. "Carry out previous order and use flywheel storage."
"DONE."
"Not enough!"
"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
"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
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," Sanders 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,"
"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."
Two dead,
Art Bonner came in. He took in the situation at a glance,
his eyes resting momentarily on the full ashtray. "Status?" he asked.
"You already know," Sanders said. "I gassed Niner. They're getting men into survival gear to go
inspect. And-"
"INTRUDER CAPTURED," MILLIE announced. She used
audio to speak to all of them.
Fleming appeared on the screen. "Got him."
Another image formed: a young man, early twenties at most, long hair in back
but cut short at the sides and in front; scraggly beard, which wasn't unusual;
cotton denim pants and jacket.
"No weapons," Fleming reported. "We fluoroscoped him. Nothing. And Medical says no drugs. He
tried to put on he was high, but we've got him convinced we know better."
"That may have been a mistake," Sanders said.
"Mister Bonner's here. Take over, Mister Bonner?"
"I relieve you. Get Delores up here, will you? And
Sandra. I'm going to have to have some sleep before this night's over, and you
will too. Fleming, send that intruder up here."
"Yes, sir." The images faded.
Bonner put his hand on Sanders's shoulder.
"Relax." Sanders tried to smile. It didn't work.
"I killed them, Art. Both. In cold blood."
"Sure. Tony, get Pres a drink."
"It happened so fast. All over in a minute. Art, what
if it's nothing? Like that kid, no weapons, nothing? Just trying to throw a
scare into us? They never had a chance!"
Tony Rand brought over a brandy. "If they were trying
to scare us, they made it nicely," he said. "Here."
Bonner nodded agreement. "You made the right decision.
Same as I would. What if it wasn't nothing? What if they had bombs all set to
take out the hydrogen lines? Set off the hydrogen with a big whoosh. Big
bonfire, right in the park."
"I wish it hadn't been .me."
"It was. And I'll back you all the way."
"It isn't
"Sure."
The boy was grinning. That was the first thing Tony Rand
noticed when Lieutenant Blake ushered him into Sanders's office: a wide,
triumphant grin.
"We got an ID on this one," Blake said.
"Sure. I'm Allan Thompson," the youth said. His
voice was pleasant and sounded educated. "My father's a real estate broker
in
"What others?" Bonner asked.
"Aw, come on," Thompson said. He was still
grinning. "You gotta have them by now-" He
shrugged. "Maybe you don't." That seemed to amuse him even more.
Preston Sanders had ignored his brandy, and sat staring at
the youth, his eyes a study of misery. The grin got to Tony Rand. "What's
so damned funny?"
Bonner raised a hand in warning.
"We found a VIP Visitor badge outside the crawlway
entrance to the unfinished section," Blake reported. "A Mr. Roland
Thompson, who's a favored customer for a number of places."
"Sure, that's my Dad's badge," Allan Thompson
said. "Okay, so now you call him and tell him the prodigal's in trouble
again."
"Please sit down, Allan," Bonner said carefully.
"And tell us why you were crawling around on a catwalk a hundred meters
above ground level this late at night."
"It was fun, man." Thompson sat with the attitude
of an important visitor. "We thought, what the hell, they're always
talking about the security system at Todos Santos, we'll just show 'em it's not as good as they think-"
"We?" Bonner demanded. "Who are the
others?" Thompson grinned slyly. "So you really haven't caught them
yet! That's choice. Well, I better tell you, 'cause it's getting pretty late
and sitting here's a bummer. I don't guess you'll let me loose until you round
'em up. There are two, Diana and Jimmy, and they
stayed in the stupid tunnel we got in from."
There was a sharp hiss as Preston Sanders took in a quick
breath. Lieutenant Blake looked grim.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Thompson demanded.
"Look, they aren't going to hurt anything!"
"Allan, were your friends carrying anything? Special
equipment or anything like that?" Bonner asked casually. It was difficult
to keep the strain from his voice.
Tony Rand leaned forward to listen. He felt the same thrill
of horror that Bonner did; but he also wanted to know, how did they do it?
"Oh, some big boxes full of sand. Had 'dynamite'
painted on the outside, you know? Just to show you. And Jimmy, that's Jim
Planchet, he's an electronics genius. He made something that he thought would
really give your detection stuff fits-"
"What? How did it work?"
"Hell, I'm no electronics type," Thompson said.
"But it must have worked if you haven't got 'em
yet!"
Art Bonner was posed in the characteristic way he used to
talk to MILLIE with his implant. His face looked-strange.
The screen showed:
JIM PLANCHET. IDENTIFICATION.
COUNCILMAN JAMES PLANCHET OF LOS ANGELES HAS A SON AGE TWENTY
NAMED JAMES EVERETI' JR.
"Lord God," Tony said involuntarily.
"What?" Allan Thompson squinted at
"No," Bonner said. "Who is Diana?"
"Aw, Diana Lauder. Kind of engaged to Jimmy, you know?
Rooms in the dorm with us."
"I see. Well, I hope the automatic systems haven't
harmed your friends," Bonner said evenly. "Lieutenant, please take
Mr. Thompson to Central Security. We'll have to hang on to you for a while,
Allan. What you did was highly illegal, didn't you know that?"
"You mean unlawful. Illegal's
a sick bird," Thompson said. "We didn't mean any harm. Might even
have done you a favor. Suppose we'd been somebody really out to get you? Wasn't
my idea anyway. Jimmy's father kept spouting off about this place, and - there's
something wrong, isn't there?" The boy's grin faded.
"Jesus, they weren't hurt, were they? Look, Mister,
they didn't mean any harm, they didn't have any weapons or anything! You didn't
hurt them, did you? Jesus, Councilman Planchet will kill me if anything's
happened to Jimmy!"
"So it was your idea," Bonner said evenly.
How can he be so calm?
"Take him out, Blake," Bonner said. "We'll
talk to him later."
"Hey, wait a minute, tell me, what's happened to Jimmy
and Diana? Let me go, you goddam rent-a-cop! What did
you bastards do? You can't handle me this way-"
The door closed behind the guard and the struggling youth.
So that's that, Art Bonner thought.
"Kids out playing," Sanders said. "I don't
want to believe it! Boxes full of sand. Art, they're as dead as-they're dead! I
killed them, and they were just kids!"
"Yeah. Get hold of yourself. You did the right thing,
given what you knew. Suppose it'd been FROMATES with a bomb?"
Sanders sat unmoving, staring at a wall he couldn't see.
"Come on, Pres, it's all right,"
Medical. Get someone in here to take care of Mister
Sanders, Bonner thought.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
And get Sandra on duty. For everything except this.
I don't want to be bothered with trivia.
MS. WYATT IS JUST REACHING HER OFFICE.
Tell her she's in charge as soon as she sits down.
And Medical can give Pres a shot to get him through the night, but what the
hell are we going to do tomorrow?
An LA City Councilman's kid and his girlfriend. Planchet -
Jesus, why did it have to be him? He spouts off a lot, but he's not really an
enemy. Wasn't an enemy. He will be now.
Can we keep it a secret? No. Thompson knew where the others
were. Others might. Maybe not. Unwanted, a thought crept into the darker part
of his mind. Sorry, kid, you know too much - Bonner pushed it away.
Get me legal.
Roust out Johnny Shapiro, right now, and get him up to my office.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Status?
SECURITY TEAM NOT READY TO ENTER. DETOXIFICATION ALMOST
COMPLETED. ESTIMATE TEN MINUTES UNTIL SAFE TO ENTER.
We'll just have to wait.
"They're flushing out the last traces of nerve
gas," Bonner said. "Not important enough to send guards in there with
protective suits, not until it's safer. Is it?"
"Don't think so. I tried to get a robot in, but the comm link is still jammed."
"Why the hell can't your people develop something
better than nerve gas? Something to knock a man over instantly but not kill
him?"
"Tall order,"
"I suppose."
"Here's the route they must have taken," Bonner
said. A thin line moved through the holograph; a second screen showed what
someone traveling that route would see. Twice the stark words appeared:
IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR
YOU WILL DIE
SI USTED POR ESTA PUERTA
HABRIA PASADO, USTED HABRIA MUERTO!
MUY PELIGROSO
"Subtle we aren't,"
"You too?" Bonner said irritably. "Look. We
took precautions. At great expense. Dammit, we aren't
morally obligated to design this place so that idiot geniuses can't hurt
themselves! What are we supposed to do, sit back and let a pack of crummy
bastards shoot our police, poison our people, burn the city, put our people out
of work-and never fight back?"
"Sure," Tony said; but he couldn't help wondering
if there wasn't something else he could have done. A more foolproof design. But
these kids were anything but fools!
A young medical resident came in and gave Preston Sanders a
shot. Later, a security team brought out the bodies of Jimmy Planchet, age
twenty, and Diana Lauder, nineteen. They had nothing dangerous with them; only
dummy bombs with garish cartoons, a box of sophisticated electronic gear that
There were no weapons at all.
Knowledge of human nature is the beginning and end
of political education.
-Henry Brooks Adams
Lying on a strange bed in a strange city in a foreign
country, Sir George Reedy gradually realized that he wasn't going to sleep.
It was jet lag, of course. Sir George had always suffered
from biorhythm upset. It was a pity, because his work involved a good deal of
traveling. He would not have survived had he not learned to sleep on airplanes.
But, having slept through the flight to
The day was full of undigested data … Anthony Rand had
mentioned stockholders who worked outside without ever leaving Todos Santos. An
intriguing possibility in a world running out of fuel. What had
MILLIE, Sir George
said in his throat. Reedy.
READY, SIR GEORGE.
What have you
got on waldos?
WALDO: A SYSTEM
IN WHICH THE MOTIONS OF A HUMAN HAND OR HANDS ARE IMITATED BY A MECHANICAL HAND
OR HANDS LOCATED ELSEWHERE. THE IDEA WAS FIRST CONCEWED BY ROBERT HEINLEIN FOR
A SHORT SCIENCE FICTION STORY, Waldo, PUBLISHED IN 1940. WALDOS, OR
TELEOPERATED DEVICES, WERE LATER DEVELOPED FOR USE IN HANDLING RADIOACTIVES,
THEN FOR ANY DANGEROUS PROFESSION: THE MINING OF URANIUM OR COAL, MANIPULATION
OF DANGEROUS CHEMICALS, WORK IN VACUUM ON THE MOON. THE TELEOPERATED TOOL MAY
BE OF ANY SIZE, AND MAY BE MITTEN-SHAPED RATHER THAN HAND-SHAPED. A ROUTINE MAY
BE RECORDED ONCE USING AN OPERATOR, THEN THE PROGRAM MAY BE REPLAYED
INDEFINITELY.
How many waldo
operators presently reside here?
FOUR HUNDRED AND TEN.
Reedy was at the window now, looking out at a glowing
carpet of light. Indeed,
YES, WITH 80% EFFICIENCY.
Cost?
RESTRICTED.
Sir George paced. Order me a large mug of chocolate
and two ounces of bourbon.
DONE.
This science
fiction writer. What else did he invent? Did he make any money at it?
ROBERT HEINLEIN IS CREDITED WITH THE IDEAS BEHIND THE
LINEAR ACCELERATOR LAUNCHER, THE MOVING WALKWAY, AND THE WATER BED. NO PATENTS
ARE ON FILE.
Reedy shook his head, grinning. Typical. But waldos, now; that would have a strong bearing on how much
parking place
An arcology wouldn't work without a city nearby? If true,
it was crucial. What kind of city? How near? Todos Santos and
Perhaps the Canadian host city, or its citizens, should be
given concessions of some kind?
That family in the Commons: they had been financed by Todos
Santos itself. Bonner had said so. How would that work?
MILLIE.
READY.
What data have you on a Phillips family, man and
wife and at least two children?
PHILLIPS, CALVIN RAYMOND, AND JUDY NEE CAMPBELL. INDEPENDENT
STOCKHOLDER RESIDENTS. MARRIED ONE TIME NINE YEARS TO PRESENT. CHILDREN CALVIN
RAYMOND JUNIOR PRESENT AGE EIGHT YEARS, PATRICK LAFAYETTE AGE SIX YEARS. COOPERATWE
OWNER UNIT 18-4578. PERCENTAGE OF OWNERSHIP RESTRICTED INFORMATION.
Omit personal details, Reedy instructed. How was his business financed interrogative.
DIRECTOR FOR CAPITAL DEVELOPMENT ADVANCED CORPORATE LOAN
FUNDS IN EXCHANGE FOR ONE QUARTER INTEREST IN THE BUSINESS
What security was given for the loan? Sir George scratched his ear. The tiny voice in
his head tickled.
NOTE OF HAND ON RECOMMENDATION OF MISS CHURCHWARD.
He'd heard that name ... from Bonner? Who is
Churchward?
DIRECTOR FOR CAPITAL DEVELOPMENT.
"My word," Reedy said aloud.
QUERY?
Glitch. Is
this kind of financial arrangement normal?
443 STOCKHOLDERS HAVE OPENED BUSINESSES IN TODOS
That was quite a good record, Reedy decided. Tell me
about Barbara Churchward.
PERMISSION FROM CHURCHWARD REQUIRED. CHURCHWARD HAS PRESENT
STATUS NO DISTURBANCES FOR ROUTINE MATTERS. IS THIS AN EMERGENCY?
No. That will
be all, thank you.
The table opened to deliver Sir George's hot chocolate. He
sipped enough to make room, then added the bourbon. The mix had put him to
sleep on other occasions.
Sipping, he smiled out at the carpet of light. No wonder
the Angelinos were bitter. Every previous arcology had begun its life as a
hopefully self-sufficient entity. Todos Santos had begun as a symbiote on
Just how necessary was Churchward to the process?
Might she be looking for a new career, with a hefty rise in
salary? Reedy made a mental note to find out.
That a man could be so lost in despair that he was prepared
to destroy himself, and that other men could mock him in the very act! He would
never have believed it. The last of his illusions had burned out of him while
he danced in the wind on the high board. His anger was deep inside him, too
deep to show, and turned against itself.
His face wasn't even sullen. It was dead calm, as he sat,
waiting, waiting; for what he didn't know, and didn't care. He had walked where
the guards had led him and sat where they pointed.
The guards had found him leaning against the fence, looking
outward, with tears running down his calm face. He had felt the stubby fingers
on his arm, had followed the pull. The guard had spoken in reassuring tones; he
had not heard the words. They led him into an elevator. Dawn, like a falling
stone. Out. To this room, where he waited. The door opened.
He did not bather to look up. But people were talking.
"I don't know, Tony. I don't know what's going to
happen now. But I swear they looked like they were going to blow up the hydrogen
lines."
"I was there. I came dawn to see the equipment they
carried. It's not in here? Oh. Who's he?" Voices grew clearer as heads
looked into the roam.
"Him? Oh, he's a leaper we pulled off your high
board."
"Jeez, Patterson, we've got worse problems than him!
They've got Mr. Sanders doped to the eyes. Mr. Rand, what do we do if the
Angelino cops come for him?"
"Nothing. Pres killed two saboteurs and captured a
third. That third one was lucky. Pres had every right to kill him too.
"Yes, sir-but the kids weren't carrying dynamite, dammit! It was just a box of sand. How will that look to a
Grand Jury?"
He looked up to see "Tony" shrug and say,
"Blake, those three did their damndest to
convince us they were ready to wreck Todos Santos. I'd say they succeeded
beyond their wildest dreams. Think of it as evolution in action."
A bark of laughter, and a sober voice: "It won't stop
there, Tony. God, I'm glad I'm not Bonner."
Answering laughter. "So is everyone else
tonight."
They closed the door. They had forgotten him again. He
resented it. He resented their laughter; it mocked his coming death.
They remembered him an hour later. The stubby-fingered
guard led him back to the elevator and took him down and put him in a subway
car and said things he didn't bother to hear. He had already made his decision.
Thomas Lunan zapped the electronic gizmo and drove the
Jaguar into its garage. He wrestled two bags of groceries out and set them
down, then busied himself with locks; an enormous metal bar across the steel
garage door, then the police lock and two deadbolts to let himself out the
smaller door for humans. Once outside with his packages he had to set them down
and lock up.
His apartment was three blocks away, and he had to carry
the groceries. The streets were well lighted, though, and busily traveled; it
was one reason he'd selected that garage.
The apartment building had been a house before it became
old and run-down; dilapidated wouldn't have been too strong a word. The hall
carpet was threadbare, and the walls hadn't been painted in years. There were
only two apartments in the ancient house.
He climbed one flight
to his own and unlocked it. The locks were not new and didn't appear
particularly good, although in fact they were recommended by a firm of security
consultants he'd interviewed.
Inside, everything was different. His apartment was
tastefully furnished, and everything was bright and clean. His stereo and TV
were expensive and new. Some of the paintings on the wall were originals.
But from the outside you'd never know there was anything
worth stealing; which was the idea. Lunan was rather proud of the method he'd
hit on. He wanted to live near the beach, and couldn't afford the expensive
beach communities; therefore it had to be
The car was the toughest part; if he parked the Jag near
the building someone was bound to get the idea that its owner had good loot.
They'd follow him home and rip him off. Lunan lived alone, and his job kept him
away for week-long intervals; that was bad enough, but worse would be for a
street gang to come when he was home. Which was why he was careful going from
his car to his apartment, and so far it had worked perfectly.
He turned on the news, but paid little attention to it,
keeping an ear tuned to alert him to anything unusual. Unusual for him meant a
lead on a hot story.
Lunan was in trouble. Not, he told himself, big trouble,
but trouble just the same. He hadn't had a big story in months, and the station
director was breathing down his neck.
If he didn't find something pretty quick, they'd assign him
something; and he'd worked too long and hard for his high status as a roving
investigator to go back on assignment. Worse, the associate producer who
handled assignments didn't like him, and neither did most of his reporter
colleagues. They'd give him dull crap. Not all dull crap, of course; he was too
good for that. But any dull crap was too much.
The trouble was, he hadn't had an idea in a long time. And
he lived on ideas. Lunan didn't do stories the way others did: didn't chase
ambulances, or go to fires, or hang around the police station. He didn't do
what the others would call news at all. His specialty was in-depth interviews,
digging out big human-interest stories that explained the world.
So what to do now? He estimated that he had about two weeks
before they called him in and put him back in the pool. Not very long. How in
hell was he to find something big in two weeks?
He decided to fall back on a technique that had worked for
him in the past: go fishing. Wander out, people-watch, talk with anyone he
could find, and let matters develop. It sounded haphazard, and it was; but luck
had been with him in the past. He'd gotten two Pulitzer nominations that way.
So where to go? He put on a classic, the Beatles, and
relaxed with a glass of Chivas Regal, and after a
while he remembered that he hadn't visited the Santa Monica Mall in quite a
while. Why not? Maybe something good would come of it.
The leaper left the subway at the
But would they know?
It was important. He was carrying no identification and no
suicide note. He had only the money the Todos Santos guard had thrust into his
pocket. He had decided to die anonymously. Now that was not enough. He must
leave something. He stood between the empty track and the walls scrawled with
obscene messages and gang symbols, while half-thoughts formed in his mind.
He searched his packets for a Magic Marker until he found
it. He stood before the wall, not caring if anyone was watching, and presently
inspiration came. He printed in large letters, over a message that had almost
been washed away:
THINK OF
IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION
Now, that was good. It was not too proud. It was the
statement of a man who had done one last service to the human race, by ridding
it of a chronic loser. He would scrawl it on the parapet, or wherever, just
before he jumped. And this man, Tony, would recognize it for his own words.
He turned and walked briskly toward the exit stairway.
Big Jim Planchet poured himself another bourbon and settled
back into his study chair. He thought that his visitor was finally getting to
the point. George Harris had spent a lot of time talking about nothing, and it
was late; time for Planchet to rejoin his other guests an the patio.
"You know I go to jail every week," Harris said.
Councilman Planchet frowned. "I guess I'd heard about
it."
In fact, he knew almost as much as Harris did; he'd had to
check it out, because he wanted to be sure that having Harris on his campaign
finance committee wouldn't cause him trouble with his
George Harris had falsified his income tax returns, been
caught, and convicted of tax fraud. At his trial he'd said he'd done it in
protest against
Not many knew where Harris went on weekends, and most of
those who did felt sorry for him. Doesn't everybody cut his tax return as close
as possible? There were same who thought Harris deserved a medal. So there
wasn't any problem about remaining friends with George, which was just as well,
since Planchet had known him for years.
"I need help," Harris said.
Big Jim Planchet frowned. "Look, George, that was a
federal court. If your lawyers can't get you out, I sure can't-"
"I know that," Harris said impatiently.
"Most people think I got off easy. I guess I did, compared to what it
would be like if they kept me inside all week. But Jim, I can't stand much more
of it."
This was going to be embarrassing. Planchet could tell.
Harris, tough old George Harris, was about to break down and cry. And that
wouldn't do at all. They weren't that good friends. Harris would regret it
later, and - "Look, George, I know it's not pleasant, but-"
"Not pleasant? Jim, it's sheer hell! No human dignity
at all. The jailers are sadists. Every week it's the same speech from one of
the fat slobs. 'I'm real easy to get along with. Real easy. But you give me
trouble and I'll make you regret it. Just remember that. Them rules you see
pasted on the wall got nothing to do with what really goes on in here. Remember
that and we'll get along fine.' Every week he says that.
"And he means every word of it. They enjoy their work,
Jim. They like waking us up at four-thirty in the morning. They like herding us
to the showers in lockstep. They like rousting us into a holding tank and
keeping forty men crowded into a cell meant for six. I come in every Saturday
at eight in the morning. I have to be there at eight. They don't even let me in
until nine, but God help me if I'm not there at eight to sit out front for an
hour. Then jammed into a holding cell for processing. Every damn week. They
know I'm coming, so what's all this processing? But I don't dare ask, and you
wouldn't either."
"Yeah, well-"
"And that's not the half of it." Harris had
broken the barrier of reluctance to talk. Now the words rushed out in a flood.
"Breakfast at five, and it's not edible. Soggy bread. Eggs cooked in fish
oil. At
"Jail isn't supposed to be fun, George."
"I know that! But do they have to take away every last
shred of dignity? Are they 'reforming' me? How? I'm not a criminal."
"No. The judge thought you were something more
dangerous. A rebel."
"Damn it, Hitler was treated better when they jailed
him after the Munich Putsch."
Sure, and if they'd treated him worse, maybe he wouldn't
have tried it again, Planchet thought. Make it easy on tax evaders, and there'd
be a tax rebellion all over the country, and what would happen to the poor
then? George was protesting nuclear power plants, but the same logic could be
used to protest welfare-and welfare was a lot less popular than power plants.
He really didn't have a lot of sympathy for George Harris. On the other hand,
there were those campaign donations, and Harris seemed to have influence with
some heavy people in real estate. A good man to be friends with.
"And the people they put me in with! Jim, one weekend
I had a cell by myself. The toilet didn't work, it had overflowed all over the
floor, but that was the best weekend I had yet. The animals they throw me in
with-"
"I guess that could get pretty bad," Planchet
said. "What do you want me to do? The jail's county, not city. I don't
have any control over it. That's the sheriff's department."
"But can't you do something?"
"We try. Every now and then a judge declares that jail
'cruel and inhuman' and there's a big brouhaha about 'reforms,' but it never
amounts to anything."
"Yeah, but what can I do? I'm at the end of my rope,
Jim."
"I suppose," Planchet said. He lifted a
microphone from a desk drawer. "Emil, see if you can get Mr. George
Harris-spelled like it sounds-set up for VIP treatment at county jail. He's on
one of those weekend detention work furlough programs. Reports on Saturday
morning and gets out Sunday night. At least try to get him a better class of
cell mate. County owes us a couple, call in one of our favors." He put the
microphone back in the desk. "There. My assistant will get on it in the
morning."
Harris looked genuinely relieved.
"Can't promise," Planchet warned. "But I
think things will change for the better. A little better, anyway."
"Thanks. Thanks a hell of a lot." He drained his
glass. "Oh. About your fund raiser. I think I can get some of the guys at
the Athletic Club to buy tables. It'd be easier, though, if you'd show up once
in a while." He looked accusingly at Planchet's
middle, which was beginning to hang over the Councilman's belt. "If you'd
been that out of shape, you wouldn't even have made the team at USC."
"Suppose you're right," Planchet said. That had
been a long time ago, when Jim Planchet was a star running back. That hadn't
hurt his political career, either.
George patted his own flat stomach. "You ought to keep
in shape, Jim. Work out sometimes."
"Weekends in the pokey don't seem to have hurt you
that way," Planchet said.
"Hell they don't. The only way to exercise is
regularly. Every damned day. And can you see me doing exercises in a cell with
a screaming queen? But leave out how flabby you're getting, you ought to get to
the club to meet the boys. Play a little poker once in a while. You'd be
surprised how many friends you can make losing a couple of hundred bucks."
Planchet nodded. "Good advice. Now when do I do it? I
don't even have time to see my own son."
"What's the problem?"
Planchet shrugged. "Todos Santos, mostly.
Harris nodded in sympathy. "Yeah. They bring in their
own construction people too. Buy everything from their favorites. For a while I
thought I had a deal lined up selling them some electrical supplies, but they
found somebody inside their shop to take care of it for them. Your constituents
have a legitimate complaint. Todos Santos is exempt from most of the regulations
that drive our businesses under."
"Sure. But that was the only way they'd build the
place," Planchet said.
Fifteen years ago,
Probably a mistake, Planchet thought. But it looked like a
good idea at the time.
"You ever have to talk money with Todos Santos?"
Harris asked.
"Not too often." Planchet got up and put his
glass on the bar.
Harris continued to talk as he followed Planchet to the party.
"Be glad you never did. They've got a female shark you'd have to do
business with. Beautiful woman, but cold as that iceberg they have out in the
harbor. Hard as nails."
When the waiter brought the check, Barbara Churchward took
it before the young man across the table from her could protest. His look of
dismay was interesting, and idly she wondered if he were worried about the deal
he was trying to swing, or if he simply couldn't accept the idea of a woman
paying for dinner.
It never hurt to be nice, she thought. "It's all
right, Ted," she said. "We own half of this place. I get a good
discount."
Not that it mattered a lot. Mr. Binghamton was in for a
disappointment. Possibly several, if she'd correctly read his intentions for
the rest of the evening. Not that it would be particularly unpleasant to let
him show her his earnings report or whatever he was likely to use to induce her
to his guest suite on Level 96. He was handsome, he was intelligent, he was
personable … but she never mixed business with pleasure, as he was about to
find out.
And for that matter, she wasn't going to do any business
with him tomorrow either. It had looked like a good deal, if a trifle
complicated. She'd recently acquired a company that had an excellent outside
sales force; in fact, the salesmen were better than the production staff. If
she had a good home product line to add to their wares they could handle it
fine.
And Mr. Ted Binghamton represented an undercapitalized
company that made excellent low-cost vacuum cleaners that her sales force could
peddle door to door with very little retraining. The only problem was the
"iceberg."
Tennaha Electric had a generous
pension policy. How many of its employees were overage? If there were a lot of
them, the initial profits would be high, but after a few years things would
come apart.
MILLIE, she
thought. Has Sam come up with the figures on the age structure of Tennaha yet?
Data flowed into her mind. Age of employees, pension
entitlement, average turnover, average age when hired. When the stream was
finished she examined what she'd learned. From long experience she controlled
her expression, but inwardly she frowned. Tennaha was
an oldsters' outfit; old craftsmen. They weren't hiring new people, and they
had a lot of elderly craftsmen who wouldn't be around more than a decade.
No good. As she'd suspected, the iceberg was just too big.
She toyed with the idea of buying Tennaha out,
skimming the cream, and unloading; but that involved the risk of finding a
sucker. She could probably do that. The inflated downstream cost load was well
hidden, and it had taken a lot of investigation to nail it down. But she
couldn't be sure of a sucker when she needed one.
Besides, she had a better use for the sales force. There
was another company, CMC Inc., small, located right here in
There were a lot of advantages to that. Todos Santos was
exempted from most of the stupid regulations that businesses outside had to
live with. If they bought Tennaha they'd have a hell
of a time streamlining the place, what with equal opportunity and anti-age
discrimination and all. Far better to import the capability than acquire an
outside firm.
Of course the management of CMC wouldn't want to sell out
to Todos Santos, but that was a technical problem only. The right offer to the
stockholders at the right time and the directors wouldn't know what hit them.
They were a pretty naive bunch anyway. A couple of the directors weren't so
bad, and those she'd keep on, but most would have to go- "Hey, come
back," Ted Binghampton said. "You're a
million miles away."
"Oh. Sorry," Barbara said. "I guess I
was."
"I can never tell what you're thinking."
She gave him her best smile, which she knew was pretty
good. "There's luck." Until she found out if the key CMC people would
move to Todos Santos, it would be best to keep the Tennaha
deal alive.
She listened idly as he said something about what a
pleasure it was to do business with a lovely woman. She'd heard that before,
and she could respond with the proper smile without listening.
She didn't have to listen. She had a totally objective
appreciation of her attractiveness: high. After all, Playboy had once offered
to do a spread on her when she was just getting started in business. Now that
was flattery. Thank God she'd had sense enough to refuse, although at the time
she sure could have used the money. Back then she was young enough and naive
enough to think that physical attractiveness was terribly important. All the
evidence said it was. She'd made plenty of money by modeling.
Enough that she'd had to pay some attention to what was
done with the money, and discovered that she liked business. It was the most
exciting game in town. It hadn't hurt to be a pretty young thing who could talk
like an ingénue, either. Not then. She was popular at parties, where she met a
lot of other young women with money. Models, movie and TV stars, the whole
panoply of Hollywood society, and after a while she was managing their
investments; before that phase of her life ended she'd built a
multimillion-dollar investment counseling firm, in which she still owned a 20 percent
non-voting interest. She'd also earned enough to pay for her implant, and that
was invaluable. While the people she negotiated with fumbled with papers and
tried to remember figures, she had all the data available simply by wanting it.
"And we have some new production figures," Ted
was saying. "I didn't bring them down to dinner, but if you'd like to go
over them now I can show you."
She was considering how to refuse politely when the
warbling began inside her head, and she knew she had real trouble.
Those who would treat politics and morality apart
will never understand the one or the other.
-John, Viscount Morley of
The conference had started when Tony Rand came back to
Executive Row. He entered quietly and took his seat at the big mahogany table.
Most of the rulers of Todos Santos were there. Art Bonner
at the end of the table, with Preston Sanders next to him. Sanders ware a
strange expression: haunted eyes in a face relaxed by tranquilizers.
Barbara Churchward, even more beautiful than usual, in a
gold lamé gown that probably cast two thousand
dollars, her red hair swept up into a sculptured helmet, her eyes focused on
nothing.
Next to her was Frank Mead, his buttocks overflowing the
comfortable chair, his face in a perpetual scowl. As Comptroller, Mead worked
for Bonner and Churchward, but he also reported directly to the Board in
There were others. Colonel Amos Cross, Chief of Security, a
thin, dapper man going bald in a handsomely distinguished way. The young
medical resident who'd given Sanders the shot, looking very out of place among
the mighty. And John Shapiro, the head of the legal staff, self-conscious in a
shirt open at the collar; usually he wore a full-vested suit and conservative
necktie.
They were all looking at Tony Rand. Bonner frowned.
"Learn anything?"
"Some. They had one signal generator that put out a
code MILLIE interprets as routine maintenance, another that bollixed up the
capacitance detectors, and a couple of others I won't understand without a few
hours work."
"Any conclusions from that?" Bonner asked.
"Good brains at work. How could anyone that smart be
that stupid?"
"Tony, how did they know what they'd need?"
Tony shook his head. "Some of it's logical, but they
couldn't have guessed the frequencies, and they'd never have guessed the codes
to open locks."
"Meaning they had an inside source?" Frank Mead
asked. "It's likely," Tony said. "Probably somebody who has
access to MILLIE. But I've no idea who."
"I don't either," Bonner said. "I hate to
think of anyone as disloyal-"
Mead asked, "Whose staff would he be an?"
"Yours?"
Mead shook his head. "None of my people know a damn
thing about electronics. I don't myself. Look, if we've got a goddam traitor in here, we have to get rid of him."
"Certainly," Bonner said. "We'll see what we
can do in the morning. But for now, we don't need another penetration. Colonel,
are your troops on alert?"
"Yes, sir," Cross said. He smoothed dawn his
nearly invisible pencil mustache, then put his hands together and laid them
carefully on the table where he could watch them. "I've doubled the watch
in Central, and we've got teams with dogs out walking the perimeter. Also, with
your permission, I'd like to see just who's had access to MILLIE."
Bonner nodded agreement. "I've already got MILLIE
working up a report for me. Tony, is it possible they've got a way to get
information out of MILLIE without leaving any record?"
"Sure. You do it all the time. So does Barbara. And
your deputies, and Delores. Anyone with an implant, or with a terminal and
unrestricted access."
"Aren't there records of who's, called up what file,
and when?" Barbara Churchward asked.
"Sure," Tony said. "But the accession
records aren't secure. Almost anyone could alter them."
"Why is that?" Mead demanded. "Seems awfully
loose to me."
"Well," Tony said, "every time you put in
closed files, you complicate the programs. Complex programs are hard to
maintain. We can do it, but it will get expensive."
Bonner's lips tightened. "Okay. That's another problem
that'll have to wait until morning." He took in a deep breath. "Planchet's kid, of all people. He's more powerful than the
Mayor! He can really hurt us, and we've got to assume he'll try."
"Scapegoat," Sanders said. "He'll want a
scapegoat. Me."
"Well, he won't get you," Bonner said.
"Johnny, what's the legal situation?"
"Not good," Shapiro said. "For the moment
we're all right. We're a police department, and we've notified ourselves. But
it's been an hour, and by now we should already have called the
"Can we fight that?"
Shapiro shook his head decisively. "No, sir, no way. Tados Santos has a lot of legal immunities, but we're still
a part of LA County and the state of
"I'd like to ignore it," Frank Mead said.
"Bury 'em deep and say the hell with LA
County."
"Be serious, Frank," Bonner said. "A hundred
people know about the break-in. Not to mention the Thompson boy."
Mead raised hands the size of small hams. "Yeah, I
know. It was just a thought." He brought his hands down flat on the table
in a gesture of helpless rage. "But damn all, Planchet's
going to hurt us, just now when the cash flow's a mess. It's just a bloody
lousy time to fight LA."
"There's never a really good time for economic
warfare," Churchward said to no one in particular.
"John, what happens when we do report this?" Bonner
asked. "Will they try to arrest Mr. Sanders?"
"Probably. They don't have to, but given the political
situation they will if Planchet insists on it."
"I don't like that much," Frank Mead muttered.
Preston Sanders laughed. It was a horrible sound. "But
Mr. Mead, you've always been so certain I'd screw up. Now it's happened."
Mead was shocked. "Hey, Sanders, I don't deserve
that!"
"There's no need for that, Pres," Barbara
Churchward said. Her voice was smoothly professional. "Art, we know what
happened here. Do we need Pres any longer?"
Bonner frowned. "He's my deputy-"
"And doped to the eyes," Churchward said. "I
suggest you let him get a good night's sleep."
"I suppose you're right. One thing we make clear,
though. Los Angeles does not put Sanders in jail. They can interview him all
they want to, but right here. Are we agreed?"
There was a chorus of assents, except for Shapiro. The
lawyer looked worried. "Not going to be easy to do, Art. If they decide to
arrest him, how do we stop them?"
"For the moment, he's too ill to be moved. Dr. Finder,
you take care of that. Take Pres down to your hospital and keep him there. No
visitors without my approval, only don't say it's my approval, say it's Dr. Weintraub's. Won't that do it, Johnny?"
Shapiro nodded slowly. "I suppose. Best get a couple
of shrinks into the act. We have to have a plausible reason for this."
"I'm not crazy," Sanders protested. "Damn
it, I am not crazy!"
"Nobody says you are," Bonner snapped. "But
it's best if we say you're 'emotionally upset.’"
Which he certainly is, Tony Rand thought. "Pres, it's
all right. Just go down and babble once in a while. You know, think up some
good stories for the city shrinks. Like you see green snakes crawling out of
the air vents, and flying purple people eaters in the bathtub. If you lack
imagination, I'll come help you."
Sanders giggled. Bonner nodded to the medical resident and
Dr. Finder stood. After a moment, Sanders got up and let Finder lead him out of
the room.
"He said it, not me," Frank Mead said after the
door closed behind Sanders. "And he did screw it up."
"What would you have done?" Bonner demanded.
"Waited for Security to catch the upstairs
intruder," Mead said. "And tried knockout gas."
"Letting them blow up the hydrogen input lines,"
Tony Rand said. "That's not too bright."
"Better than starting a war with
"That's enough from both of you," Bonner said.
"We are not here to go over what happened. We're here to decide what we do
now. Understood?"
"The first thing we'd better do is call the coroner's
office," Shapiro said. "The longer we put that off, the worse we
look."
"All right," Bonner agreed. "I'll have
Sandra do that now." He paused for a moment with his head tilted to one
side. "There. Now we've got less than an hour before it hits the fan.
"Next. Who should tell Councilman Planchet? If he has
any special friends in Todos Santos, MILLIE doesn't know about it."
"MacLean Stevens," Barbara Churchward said.
"Call him and let him notify the Councilman."
"Good thinking. I suppose I'd better do that now.
Excuse me." Bonner left the room to go to an adjoining office.
"We'll need statements for the press," Churchward
said. "I suppose Sandra can get the PR people on that. I'll check with
Art."
Now she's doing it,
"And there will be all kinds of economic impact,"
Churchward said. "Sales of TS products in the LA area will fall like a
falcon. I wonder if we'll have food shortages? Before this breaks it wouldn't
be a bad idea to lay in supplies."
"You sound as if you're preparing for a siege,"
Frank Mead said.
"Not a bad analogy," John Shapiro said. "And
not a bad idea, either."
The man lay sprawled across the concrete stairs, a dozen
steps below the subway exit. Beneath the bruises his long face had never been
handsome, and the wrinkles formed a permanent sulk. His skull was distorted; it
had been pounded repeatedly against one of the steps. His clothes were worn and
dirty, but they had been expensive.
The rookie who had discovered him walked away, wobbling a
little and looking greenish. Lieutenant Donovan politely ignored him. He
watched as a lab man turned out the pockets.
Nothing. The muggers who'd killed him picked him clean.
There was nothing in his pockets but a pocket pack of Kleenex and a Magic
Marker pen. Donovan wondered why they had left those.
Solving muggings is like bailing out a lifeboat with a
teaspoon, he thought. He wouldn't waste much time with this one. He'd been on
his way home when he saw the meat wagon pull up and had come over to look,
otherwise he'd never have came to the scene. Muggings were for lower-grade
detectives, not homicide lieutenants.
Wonder what he was doing here? Damn fool. Of all the places
to get off the subway. The trains are safe enough, but not this station. Damn
fool. Donovan had given up crying for them.
But he had to go through the motions. It was still a
murder.
No witnesses. No way to find anyone who'd been riding the
train. They'd either come forward or they wouldn't. But there was another
possibility. There was an access way into the uncompleted tunnel system right
here in this station. The Todos Santos crews were working back there-if he
stood very quietly he could hear it, the humming roar of their big digging
machine burning its way under City Hall. Maybe one of their crews had come out
to use the can or something. Not likely, but it was possible. He made a note to
call the TS tunnel foreman.
Or, he thought, I could go in there now and talk to their
people. That would be interesting. I've never seen one of those big machines
working, and I'd like to, and this is as good a chance as any.
"Sir?" The rookie cop was back, still looking a
bit greenish. His eyes avoided the dead man. "I've found something. If you'll
bring that pen that was in his pocket." He led the way downstairs.
Broad lines in blue ink, a freshly printed message among
the other messages, less obscene than most:
THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION
"If that's a dying message, it's not likely to name
his murderer," said Donovan. "You're right, though. It matches the marker.
He probably wrote it." Another reason to talk to the TS tunnel crew. Maybe
they saw him writing on their door.
"I wonder what he meant?"
"We can't ask him," said Donovan, and forgot it.
Or thought he had.
MacLean Stevens kept his emergency phone on a fifty-foot
cord rooted in the central hall. That way he could move around the house while
tied up on the phone. In particular, he could reach the coffee cup and the liquor
cabinet, and when he got calls on that phone he often needed to.
This time he needed both. During a marathon bargaining
session on the costs of digging new subways, Art Bonner and Tony Rand had
introduced Stevens to the habit of lacing strong coffee with brandy. Now, as he
listened to Bonner, he padded barefoot out to the kitchen to put on the coffee,
then to the front room for brandy. Then he decided not to wait for the coffee.
"All right, Art. I'll tell him," Stevens said.
"God damn it - Oh, hell. I'll tell him." He put down the phone and
poured two fingers of Christian Brothers. He was tossing it off when Jeanine
came in in her lumpy flannel nightgown.
As usual when she was disturbed at night, she looked both
irritated and wide awake. "You'll tell whom?" she asked.
"Councilman Planchet. His son's been killed."
"Oh, no! Mac-Mac, it will kill Eunice."
Stevens nodded. "Yeah."
"Who was that, one of your police?"
"Art Bonner."
Her face showed surprise, then shock, then went blank.
"But- Art, what happened to Jimmy?"
"He was killed breaking into Todos Santos. And now
I've got to call Mr. Planchet."
She came over and held him for a moment, her head buried
against his shoulder. Then she was all business again. "I'll get your
coffee. And your slippers, no need for you to catch cold."
Which was the way she handled any emergency, and why Mac
couldn't conceive of life without her.
He held the telephone without dialing. This was going to
hurt. Big Jim Planchet was in many ways more powerful than the Mayor. Mayors
lasted two or three terms at most, but a City Councilman could be reelected
forever. This was Planchet's fourth term, and his
second as Council President.
He made himself dial the number. It buzzed four times, then
a thick sleepy voice said, "Yeah?"
"Mac Stevens."
There was a significant pause. Stevens wouldn't call
without a damned good reason. "Yes, Mac, what is it?"
"There's been an accident at Todos Santos,"
Stevens said. "Your son was involved." He paused just long enough to
let that sink in, to let Planchet guess there was worse coming. "He's
dead, Mr. Planchet."
"Dead? Did you say dead? But I just saw him at
dinner-" The voice lowered, spoke conspiratorially. "Accident, you
said. What kind of accident?"
"Jimmy and Diana Lauder-"
"Yeah, I know her, nice kid-"
"-broke into Todos Santos. They were both killed by
Todos Santos guards."
"Broke in? Killed by guards? Mac, that doesn't make
sense! My kid wouldn't have hurt anybody, why would the guards kill him?"
"The Todos Santos people say they were carrying a lot
of complicated electronic equipment, and boxes of what looked like dynamite.
The guards thought it was a real attack by FROMATES."
Another long pause. Then, "I'll be out as soon as I
get my clothes on. Meet me at the East main entrance of the Box."
"I wouldn't advise it, Mr. Planchet. There's nothing
to see. Your son and Diana aren't there any longer, and the area where it
happened is-is contaminated."
"Contaminated how?"
"With poison gas."
"They gassed my kid? Gassed him?" Planchet was
shouting in rage. Then his voice fell again. "Where is he?"
"They're taking him to the coroner's labs."
"To the morgue. Jesus, I don't want - I can't take
Eunice to the morgue! What-what can I do?"
"Stay there," Mac advised. "Get some friends
over. Your clergyman. I'll look into this for you. .
"Yeah. Do that." There was another long pause.
"They gassed him. Mac-Mac, I want to see justice done here. Justice."
"I'm assuming the District Attorney will decide to
prosecute," Shapiro said. "That's a fairly safe bet. And assuming
that, the first step is a preliminary hearing. The D.A. will try to convince
the judge that a crime has been committed, and that they have a prima facie
case against Sanders."
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "It's not customary
to put on a defense at a preliminary hearing, but my immediate thought is that
we ought to. Our defense will be that there's been no crime at all, only a
justified action."
"What are the chances of winning?" Bonner asked.
"Not good. The judge will be under a lot of pressure.
Here are two dead bodies. Unarmed. Harmless kids. Were we justified in using
deadly force? It's going to be a sticky decision, and most of the precedents
are against us. We could win, but I doubt it."
"Suppose we do," Barbara Churchward said.
"What do we do with Sanders?"
"Put him back to work," Bonner snapped.
"It would be costly," Churchward said. "I
think you ought to consider it carefully."
"She's right," Mead said. "Planchet isn't
going to forget this. His kid's been killed. And as long as Sanders is here to
remind him, he'll be coming at us."
"He's my deputy. I need him."
"We need sales, too," Churchward said. "I
don't mean to suggest that we dump him out, but the Romulus Corporation has a
lot more enterprises than Todos Santos. And will we be doing Pres any favors by
keeping him here where he'll be surrounded by people who'll call him a murderer
every chance they get?
"Prisoner chasers," Bonner muttered.
"Sir?" Shapiro prompted.
"Old Army story. Never knew if it was true, but we all
believed it. That if a soldier assigned to guard prisoners ever shot one, they
fined him the cost of the cartridges, gave him a carton of cigarettes, and
transferred him to another post. What we're proposing to do with Pres. Johnny,
suppose we lose this hearing?"
"Then he'll be bound over to the state for
trial," Shapiro said.
"And we'll try to convince a jury that he acted
properly. I think we've got a fairly good chance of that. And we can always
play legal games to get it declared a mistrial. And there are appeals,
and-"
"And meanwhile, Pres is in jail."
"Well, probably out on bail."
"And spending his life in courtrooms," Bonner
said. "I'd like to think we can take better care of our people than
that."
"How?" Shapiro asked.
Bonner shrugged.
"That's not all the bad news," Shapiro said.
"What now?"
"You can bet that within a week, someone's going to
file for an injunction to make us dismantle our defenses. Make us get rid of
the lethal gasses. And they're very likely to get that, Art. Very likely. We've
always been on shaky ground with that stuff."
"Shit fire. Colonel?"
Cross looked sad. “We can increase the physical security.
Try to keep intruders out of the system in the first place. But it's hard to
see just what more we can do. The VX was a backup, in case physical security
failed. Turned out we needed it-"
"Or thought we did," Churchward said.
"Same thing," Colonel Cross said. "Uh - in
this preliminary hearing, how much of our system do you have to make
public?"
"A lot," Shapiro said. "I have to establish
just how tough it is to get into that tunnel. Show that these weren't just casual
trespassers-and that Sanders had good reason to know they weren't."
"I thought so. Tony, we're going to have to rework the
system again."
"I can delay the preliminary hearing," Shapiro
said. "For months, if you'd like."
"I don't like," Barbara Churchward said.
"This thing is a financial disaster anyway. Keep it hanging fire and it's
worse."
'What about this injunction?" Bonner demanded.
"How long can you delay hearings on that?"
"A week. Maybe two," Shapiro said. "No
guarantee of longer."
"Not long enough, but it will have to do,"
"I don't like to be crass about things," Frank
Mead said, "but there's this problem I have. How much is all this going to
cost?"
"A lot," Bonner said. "And I don't think of
one thing we can do about it."
"Me either," Mead said. "Look, Art, I'm on
your side."
Sure you are, Tony Rand thought. Support Bonner all the
way. Like you did Pres.
"But it's not up to me," Mead said. "It's up
to
"We're fighting for our lives," Art Bonner said.
"This whole project could go down in bureaucratic regulations. The way the
rest of the country's going. So. Barbara, you're going to have to live with
delays, and Frank, you'll sign some big checks with a smile, and I'll talk to
Frank Mead's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything.
"No choices," Bonner said. "
"Shouldn't somebody ask Pres?"
"Sure. We'll talk to him in the morning," Bonner
said. "Okay. We all know what we're supposed to do. Let's get to it."
Justice consists of an enduring and unalterable
intention to render to each what that person deserves.
-Aristotle
Thomas Lunan relaxed on one of the circular benches in the
Santa Monica Mall, smiling, looking about himself, sometimes sipping a small
Coke.
Thomas Lunan had presence. He carried a tangible
self-satisfaction and a nice smile. Passersby usually smiled back. He was too
well dressed to be a bum, too sedentary to be doing anything but goofing off.
In a minute or so he'd move on, perhaps to a drugstore, perhaps to another
bench a block down.
Every other reporter would be out at Todos Santos, or in
the LA City Hall. Two kids dead, one a pretty girl, one a City Councilman's
boy, both unarmed, both harmless. The story of the year! and Thomas Lunan was
in the Santa Monica Mall.
It wouldn't make sense to the City Editor. It didn't make
sense to Lunan, except that he trusted his instincts, his luck, his moira.
The crowd meandered past. Some struggled with bulky
clusters of paper bags. Isolated shoppers swung wide of half-a-dozen
college-age boys and a girl. Mostly Lunan was ignored. Others shared his bench;
they generally refused his offer of conversation. When nobody was watching, he
sometimes talked to himself.
Lunan called it legwork.
A young girl came past.
Even Lunan wasn't sure what made her stand out; but she did.
She was vivid in a crowd of blurred faces. Her walk. Her hair. Her style of
dress. The curious way she treated the people around her: moving obstacles to
be avoided, or objects of curiosity.
A Todos Santos girl.
He stepped briskly forward. "Pardon me, Miz-"
Her reaction was curious: she looked around the Mall. Then
she looked over Thomas Lunan. "Yes?"
"I'm a reporter for the Los Angeles Trib. You've heard about the murders last night?"
She almost walked away. "I've heard," she spat.
Her anger showed.
"What do you think about it?"
She debated with herself. To speak, perchance to be
misquoted - Lunan knew that reaction. But she was young, probably under twenty.
She would speak.
"They were not murders," she said, her voice very
much under control now.
"But the District Attorney is going to charge, uh,
Sanders with murder," Lunan said.
"Mister Sanders was doing his duty. The Angelinos have
no right to interfere in our internal affairs."
He was diffident. "I wonder, did the situation require
such drastic action?"
"Yes."
"How can you be so certain? I mean, you can't know
much about what happened. There was very little in the news this morning-"
"I know exactly what happened, and I don't need to
read it in Angelino papers, either. Mister Bonner showed us this morning."
She saw his puzzled frown. "On the TV. Our cable station. Mister Bonner.
The General Manager of Todos Santos. This morning he showed us exactly where
the invaders were, and what would've happened if they'd set off a bomb."
He would have hated losing her, but he risked it.
"They didn't have a bomb."
"Your Angelino children did their best to pretend they
were FROMATE saboteurs carrying a bomb," she said. "How can they complain
when they were treated like saboteurs? Think of it as evolution in
action."
I've heard that before, Lunan thought. In the City Room.
Unidentified mugging victim wrote it just before somebody pounded his head into
jelly. "Where did you hear that phrase? From Mr. Bonner?"
She frowned, trying to remember. "No. I don't know
where I heard it. From one of the guards when I was leaving this morning?"
Too bad it wasn't Bonner, Lunan thought. It would make a
better story if it had been said by a high official of Todos Santos. Think of
it as evolution in action-"Well. It's certainly true that two of them
aren't complaining. I notice you name the FROMATES directly-" Lunan's
microphone, projecting from his shirt collar, stood just beyond and below his
chin like a hatpin. Tiny as it was, it made some people nervous.
But not this girl. "Who else?" she asked.
"They broke up a concert with wasps only last week. They tried to put LSD
in our water. They're proud of doing things like that."
"Not bombs-"
"No. There's another group that takes credit for bombs
and grenades," she said. "The Ecology Army? Something like that. But
they're all FROMATES. Who else hates us that much?"
She had more to say, about atrocities real and fancied
against Todos Santos. Some Lunan knew about. Others he would have to look up in
the files. And of course she knew all about the
Let the other reporters dig for facts. The key to this
affair was the conflict between two cultures. How had Todos Santos become so
paranoid? Why did they react so strongly? Their official statement on the news
this morning said they "regretted the necessity" of Sanders's action.
Sorry they'd killed two kids, sure, but stressed the necessity of defending
themselves.
And that was what Lunan wanted. The key. Two cultures, so
different that Lunan could spot a Todos Santos girl in a milling crowd of
shoppers, although he wasn't sure how he'd known. She was about eighteen; she
could have spent most of her life inside the towering balconied walls.
He wanted the flavor of Todos Santos: the life, the
attitudes, the philosophy. "Your Angelino children-" Like that. He
let the conversation drift away from the murders, drift where it would. He
asked questions. Listening is a fine art, and Lunan had mastered it.
Her name was Cheryl Drinkwater. She was a student at
" ... and we used to jump just as the elevator was
starting down," she said. "If you're careful you can touch the
ceiling, then get back before there's weight."
"Sounds too bloody fast for me. Like a roller
coaster."
Cheryl was amused. "If we slowed them down, it'd take
twice as long to get anywhere, wouldn't it? We've got a hundred levels to get
around in."
Narrow chin, upturned nose, brunette hair streaked with
blond; she was lovely. Not beautiful in the sense of classic beauty, but lovely
just the same. When she laughed Lunan wished for a photographer. Maybe later
She knew little of the FROMATES beyond their constant
sabotage attacks. When he spoke of their work in preserving the ecology of
"Not my FROMATES."
"Sorry. Not mine either." She frowned. "We
never had any trouble from the FROMATES or the Angelinos when I was growing up.
Say, do you remember a movie, a feature-length cartoon? Called, uh, The Nest, I
think."
"Yah. Ten years ago?"
"Well, my parents say the FROMATES made that film, and
all the hassle has come since. I don't remember." She looked a question at
him.
He had heard that, from another source, but he couldn't say
so, not in his present role. He changed the subject.
When he asked her how she liked living in a walled fort,
she said that a walled fort didn't have balconies.
"You could be getting a bit inbred," Lunan said.
"Your university - are all the students residents in TS?"
"Just about. We have a few exchange students. Some of
my friends go to schools Outside. I like it where I am. We get real working
engineers for instructors. And real managers. Miss Churchward teaches
economics. Mister Rand lectures on city design."
And so on. She wasn't exactly defensive, but she wasn't
going to admit that life might hold more than a promise of a place in Todos
Santos or some other arcology.
"You're watched every minute of the day," he
said. That's why she doesn't freeze up in front of a microphone. "Isn't
that a bit much of a good thing?"
She smiled up at him across her second iced tea.
"Maybe we don't have a lot to hide."
Touché, dammit. "Well …
dating? They tell me the automobile revolutionized dating. It meant that
couples could find privacy. Any people, so long as they could get to a car.
You've taken a giant step backward, haven't you?"
"I wouldn't know. I didn't grow up then."
"But the-" He almost said rent-a-cops.
"Security would know every boy you dated. Where you went. I suppose they
can even spy on the rooms."
She thought it through, frowning. Then, "We don't have
cars, and we don't have much privacy. We ball, but we tell our parents."
"You b-b-"
"After all, they'll find out anyway," she said
briskly. "Go ahead and ball, but tell Mom and Dad.' That's what my brother
Andy told me when I was growing up. And the schools teach us how not to get
pregnant if we don't want to. I wouldn't ball with a boy my parents didn't
like, but that still leaves me plenty of leeway. Of course marriage is a lot
more serious thing." She noticed his expression, which must have been
interesting. "What's wrong? Did I use the wrong word?"
"No. We use it too." Jackpot. Talk about
serendipity-
The alleyway smelled of urine and stale garbage. It was bounded
on one side by a blank wooden wall, on the other by a chain-link fence opaquely
overgrown with ivy. The blacktop surface was marked with crystalline smears of
dried urine. Homicide Lieutenant Donovan wanted to hold his nose, but he didn't
dare. There was a growing crowd of chanting blacks near the alley entrance.
"PO-LEECE MURDERERS!" The voice was female, but
not feminine.
"Metro squad's coming," Sergeant Ortiz said
softly. "The local precinct commander's worried he can't hold them."
Donovan nodded and went back to the body that lay crumpled
behind an overflowing garbage can. It had been a young black man. There wasn't
a lot left of the face beneath the thick Afro. There wouldn't be after a charge
of number-four buck fired from the twenty-inch barrel of a Remington Model 870
twelve-gauge riot gun had done its work.
There was also a large hole in the chest.
A dozen police stood near the body. Two stood just apart
from the others, not quite part of the group but not yet separated from it
either. Donovan motioned to one of them and led him a few steps farther away
from the others. He kept his voice low as he said, "Okay, Patterson, let's
go over it once more."
"Yes, sir. We got a call at oh-
"Before entering the alley I drew my service pistol,
and observed Officer Farrer with the riot gun at the
other end of the alley. On entering the alley I heard at least two gunshots.
The shots came from behind a garbage can. I shouted 'Police,' and heard an
additional gunshot. The flash attracted my attention, and I saw an armed
suspect crouched behind the garbage can. I aimed for the can at chest height
and fired one shot. As I fired I heard my partner's shotgun discharge.
"The suspect fell from behind the can. When we
approached we found a .45-caliber Colt Commander automatic pistol near the
suspect. We then reported an officer-involved shooting to the dispatcher."
And after he's rehearsed that a few more times he'll have
it down perfectly, Donovan thought. Now for Farrer-
He looked up in annoyance as a black Imperial came into the far end of the
alley. The police line holding back the crowd parted briefly to let the car
through. Donovan saw batons uplifted and swinging.
"JUSTICE!" someone shouted.
"Hope Metro gets here soon," Patterson said.
"Can I go now, sir?"
Donovan nodded, and stood waiting for the Imperial. When it
got closer he recognized MacLean Stevens, and felt relieved. The Mayor kept
some strange ones on his personal staff, but Stevens was all right.
The Imperial's window rolled down. Stevens looked at
Donovan and raised an eyebrow. Donovan went over. "Looks righteous,"
he said. "Some crazy kid with a forty-five blazed away at two patrolmen,
and they blew him up."
Stevens scowled distaste. "The crowd thinks
differently. Why?"
"Hell, they always turn out when there's a
shooting," Donovan said. "You know that, sir." He frowned.
Something was wrong. Stevens wasn't reacting properly. Why? What was going - Holy
shit! No wonder Stevens was looking funny. He wasn't alone in the car.
Donovan recognized the man in the back seat. The Reverend
Ebenezer Clay, an old-time civil rights activist and leader. What the hell was
he doing here? Frantically Donovan tried to remember what he'd said. Not a lot.
No real harm done. He'd said "they," meaning blacks in
"Reverend Clay had an appointment with the
Mayor," Stevens said. "Then we heard about the shooting and came down
to see."
"Nothing much to see," Donovan said. "Uh-the
body's not very pretty, sir, you wouldn't want to look-"
"I can stand it," Reverend Clay said. He got out
of the car, a tall thin man with skin the color of weak tea. He had cotton-tuft
white hair that might have come right out of an old movie. Clay wore a gray
suit and clerical collar, but he had put a lavender handkerchief in the breast
pocket. He looked around the alley and curled his lip in distaste, then went
over to the body.
"It was a good shooting," Donovan said.
"Suspect fired three times at the officers."
"Witnesses?" Stevens asked.
Donovan shrugged. "Only the officers-"
"Only the officers. Nobody heard shots? Nobody saw
anything?"
"Nobody who'll admit it," Donovan said. "And
believe me, Mr. Stevens, we're looking. Hell, I know what'll happen. As soon as
the officers tell their story for the papers, there'll be a dozen witnesses,
all saying it didn't happen that way. Then we'll start running them down. Half
of them couldn't possibly have been within miles of here when it happened. Some
more will tell stories that don't make sense. But one or two could have been
here, and will tell stories that fit the evidence they know about, and then
we'll have good cops in trouble."
Reverend Clay came back to join them. He gestured toward
the crowd. "I will talk with them-"
"To say what?" Stevens asked. "To calm them,
or-"
"Calm? What is calm?" Clay demanded. "A
brother lies dead, and you speak of calm! A youth, a mere boy-"
"That mere boy tried to shoot two police officers,"
Donovan said quietly. Think of it as evolution in action. Got to be careful
about that. Say that here and my ass is grass.
"So they say," Clay said. "Yet why would he
do that? He was guilty of no crime."
"None we know of," Donovan admitted. At least the
officers sent to look at the house where they first saw the kid couldn't find
anything. "But he did have a gun we haven't been able to trace. It may
have been stolen-"
"You accuse him, but he cannot defend himself,"
Clay said.
"Reverend, you're not making sense," Stevens said
quietly. "Neither you nor I know enough to have an opinion. You wanted to
see the scene for yourself, and you've done that. I think we should
leave."
"While my people cry for justice," Clay said.
"Not much we can do to get it for them," Stevens
said.
"There never has been. All right, Mr. Stevens, I'll
come with you. I have missed my appointment with the Mayor, but there is a
matter of importance we must discuss." He got into the car.
As they drove away, the first three units of the Metro
Squad arrived, and Donovan felt a lot better.
Eleven years earlier Thomas Lunan had come here with a
girl.
With apartments ready for tenancy in the west wall, the
managers had been looking for publicity. There had been refreshments and guides
and a hang glider floating around inside the Mall itself. Thomas Lunan had been
a fledgling newsman then, but he hadn't come for news. Todos Santos had been
publicized to within an inch of its life. The world's television audiences knew
all there was to know about the half-finished city-in-a-building.
But it was a fine excuse to bring … what was her name?
The roof of the Mall, that was. The Mall had been finished
and two-thirds occupied, with the overhanging balconies partially completed.
The city's outer walls had been finished too, and some of the interior. Lunan
and
Eleven years later. Marion Something was probably fat and
married now, and Lunan had never got around to coming back. The great box had
been sitting on the skyline for eleven years, while pressures from within the
box had reached out into
Not until now.
Thomas Lunan and a different girl looked down on the Mall
from a small balcony just under the roof. Cheryl was finishing her dessert.
Lunan itched to talk to his microphone, but the girl became restive when he did
that. Still, the mike was live, and he had a good memory.
"Thanks for bringing me," he said.
Cheryl Drinkwater smiled up at him. There was chocolate
syrup at the corner of her mouth. "Has it changed much? It was already
finished when we moved in, and I don't remember much anyway."
"It's changed. I like what they've done with the
pillars. Last time I was here they were just-pillars."
"You really should see the day-care center. I spent a
lot of time there."
They were most of the way up the northwest pillar. Shops
wound upward in a spiral, narrowing as they rose, culminating in a series of
small balconies with restaurant tables. Cheryl was certainly giving him his
lunch money's worth. The whole of Todos Santos was spread below him.
The view was staggering: the vast expanse of the Mall with
its bewildering game board of shops, beltways carrying people, the balconies tiered
below them, others across from him glimpsed through a maze of pillars and
conveyor tubes. You wouldn't dare try hang gliding in here now. Apartments,
shops, restaurants, even factories overlooked the Mall, and Lunan thought it
must be wonderful to live with a view like this; so many people to watch. But
he was getting more than scenery.
Again he wished he could dictate. There was a lot to
remember.
The guards. They were not police. They were not obtrusive,
unless they were deciding whether to let you in; but they were not invisible.
Todos Santos citizens didn't ignore them, any more than Lunan would really
ignore a waiter. They were there, and they were convenient.
Cheryl had stopped at the gate to have a guard locate her
father. Drinkwater had been just leaving a dentist's office. He had agreed to
meet Lunan for drinks when his tour at the waldo transceiver ended at five. And
a boy younger than Cheryl had been asking another guard to track down his
missing date, and he knew the guard's name. And the drunk businessman. He'd
gotten off the subway looking apprehensive, and weaved his way up to the
entryway, and his relief at getting into Todos Santos was so evident that Lunan
had spoken to Cheryl about him.
"Sure he's relieved," Cheryl said. "Angelino
police would arrest him, wouldn't they?"
It hadn't even occurred to her that Todos Santos police
might arrest a citizen for being drunk in public, and they hadn't. Instead, one
had helped him to an elevator.
He had to remember it all, because it might be the biggest
story he'd ever done. The murders/regrettable incident (choose one) had
triggered a renewed interest in Todos Santos, and the city-in-a-box was going
to get a lot of headlines and prime time; but that wasn't Lunan's kind of
story, not by itself. The new culture that had developed unnoticed here; the
impact of Todos Santos on its inhabitants; that could be Pulitzer Prize
material.
A city at peace with its police force. Our guards, our
police, holding our civilization together. And it was a civilization. That
showed in the very structures. The seeming frailty of shops not built to resist
weather … or vandalism.
It showed in the people, too. The stout lady in her
underwear- They had stopped in a clothing shop halfway up the northwest pillar.
While Cheryl was buying tennis shoes, a fortyish,
matronly woman had realized that the dress she was trying on was too small. She
had stepped out to the counter in her bra and support pantyhose to trade the
dress for another. Nodded cheerfully to the other customers and went back in.
Just before she disappeared, her eye had caught Lunan's.
Clothes weren't needed for protection here, unless on the
roof. A constant awareness of the guards' eyes might make concealment seem
futile. If the nudity taboo disappeared in Todos Santos, would it be
surprising? But that look. She'd known he was an Angelino; and then she was
embarrassed.
Meanwhile, Cheryl had said-? "Day-care center? Sure,
let's go see it. Where is it, on the roof?"
Cheryl pointed. Lunan didn't .understand, at first. She
meant the vast artificial tree enveloping the southwest pillar.
A fence ran beneath the tips of the lowest branches of that
great tree. There were many children and few adults within the fence. When
Cheryl and Lunan were close enough, the illusion of a tree broke down; the cone
of greenery was hollow. Lunan could look up into what the branches had
concealed. Not just schoolrooms, but jungle gyms, seesaws, a merry-go-round;
and a vast three-dimensional steel grid for climbing, with netting beneath. A
score of children were playing what had to be a team sport within the grid.
"You liked it," Lunan said. For just that moment
he wanted to be a child again. This was wealth.
Cheryl nodded happily.
"Do all the Todos Santos kids come here?" Lunan
asked.
"Sure. Well, we have neighborhood parks too,"
Cheryl said. "But they aren't used much. Some of them are being closed
down. Mr. Rand talked about it in class last month. The original idea was to
have small neighborhood parks because that's what the people were used to when
they lived outside. But when everybody realized that it was safe for the
children to go anywhere, the designers decided to build the tree because it
could be better than a lot of small places."
"But you still have small parks?"
"Sure," Cheryl said. "For adults and babies,
mostly, though. And we use them for ball games if it's raining on the
roof."
Another thing to think about. Would Todos Santos be
different if the outside weather were worse? Or would they simply put a dome
over the roof? "There are four pillars," Lunan said. "The shops,
and this tree-what are the others?"
"Come see."
She led him to the Mall pedway. They edged inward toward
the fast strip, Cheryl always ahead of him, Lunan pushing himself and feeling
clumsy. They stood upright, hurtling through the Mall at fifty kilometers an
hour, while Cheryl tried to explain the rules of the game she'd played as a
girl on that three-dimensional grid in the nursery tree. Everybody around him
seemed perfectly at ease.
Another datum. They must really trust the Todos Santos
engineers, Lunan thought. He was filing other impressions in his head:
Quiet. The machinery was nearly silent, and voices didn't
batter the ears. Lunan considered the sound-baffling effect of all those
balconies, and the two pillars that had been turned into trees, and the high
ceilings. Not enough; there must be soundproofing in the ceilings. Have to ask
someone. But that still didn't explain it. Lunan made himself listen ... and
knew that the loudest voices he heard were all Angelinos. Even the children.
And he could hear the difference.
Todos Santos children weren't loud, but they were agile.
This was their turf (all of it! No wonder the designers had built that nursery
tree. Why would you want to play in your own neighborhood when you could go
there? And that promoted loyalty to the city as a whole, not just to your own
block!) and they moved through it like streaks, never bumping anyone. Even
here, where there were a lot of Angelino visitors, clumsy moving objects to
avoid.
They came to a wide arch spanning the pedway. Above was an
arcade with shops, but for a moment they were passing through a tunnel,
stationary walks but no shops on either side of the swift moving pedway. There were
boys on the walks. One slipped a coil of rope off his shoulder. Lunan watched
in horror as he flung it high in the air. It floated down, unrolling, across
the fast pedway ahead of Lunan. Boys on the other side caught it. They pulled
it taut, leaning back with the effort.
"Duck!" Lunan roared. He dropped to the belt and
tried to sweep Cheryl's legs from under her. She danced back, laughing, fending
him off. The rope caught her across the chest, and disintegrated. It was toilet
paper.
Lunan got up. "Swell. What if it was a real
rope?"
Cheryl was still laughing. "It can't be. The guards
would stop them. Did you see anyone else duck?"
He hadn't. He thought: Even Angelinos learn better. It
can't be real rope. Security wouldn't let it be. Are they crazy or are they
right?
* * *
Stevens drove the Imperial back toward City Hall. They
passed through block after block of low, wood-frame houses, structurally sound
(mostly) but usually in need of paint; houses that weren't really squalid, but
were officially classed as sub-standard, and looked it.
Some would call them slums, but MacLean Stevens resisted
that.
Not a slum, Stevens thought.
"We saw the report," Stevens said. "The Mayor
made a strong protest. I know it was strong, because I wrote it. I could show
you the file if you like-"
"I believe you," Clay said. "But protests
don't hire people or build housing. We need that housing now! And the jobs.
Jobs! You know what that means? Do you know what the unemployment rate is down
here? What are the young people supposed to do? They have no jobs. There is no
one to work for. The result is that they run in gangs, like that young man
today-"
"You saw the gang tattoos, then?" Stevens asked.
Clay nodded slowly. "Yes, Mr. Stevens."
They turned onto a main north-south thoroughfare. It was
lined with bars and liquor stores, all looking like fortresses with iron grill
window guards and steel cagework to cover the doors.
At the corner stood a supermarket, one of a major chain. Stevens noticed the
prices. At least 20 percent higher than in his neighborhood.
They have to, he told himself. It costs more to do
business. Insurance alone. And security against shoplifting, and-And the higher
prices help keep people chained down to this miserable block.
"Yes, I saw the gang symbols," Clay repeated.
"Could they have a bearing on his actions this
morning?"
"I don't know," Clay admitted. "It's
possible. Or he may have been high on something. Without jobs, without hope,
they join gangs. They use drugs. They also steal. At the moment they steal from
their neighbors. Someday the neighbors will have nothing worth stealing. Then
they will come out and steal from your neighbors, and perhaps you will pay some
attention-"
That won't happen, Stevens thought. As long as welfare and
food stamps and aid to dependent children and social security and all the other
benefit programs pump in money, there'll be something to steal. And we already
paid too much attention to
"Reverend, I know how you feel, but what can I do? The
federal government is putting up 84 percent of the cost, and their inspectors
have to be satisfied that it's safe. After all, there was a chemical plant on
that site."
"Thirty years ago!"
"Yes, but they might have buried some toxic
wastes," Stevens said.
"The Del Rio Company states that they did not."
Stevens shrugged. "HUD won't take their word for it.
They insist on taking their own soil samples and making their own tests."
And for that matter, when did Ebenezer Clay start taking a corporation's word
for anything?
"The developer will quit while they are testing."
"We'll find another one," Stevens said.
"It took more than a year for Jacobsen and Myers to
qualify," Clay said. "A new firm must start completely anew-" He
sniffed and wrinkled his nose. "Or perhaps not? Perhaps that is the plan. To
delay and delay until we can delay no longer, then obtain an emergency ruling
relaxing the affirmative action program? And then a nice lily-white company
will come-"
"That won't happen," Stevens said wearily.
"It has happened in the past."
Mac Stevens had nothing to say to that. Of course Clay was
right.
"All we want is justice," Clay said.
Justice, Stevens thought. A line from the hymnal ran
through his head. "Thy justice like mountains, high soaring above, Thy
clouds which are fountains of goodness and love." But what soared above
off to the left was neither justice nor mountains. It was the blank wall of
Todos Santos.
"Does anybody really want justice?" Stevens
asked. "If justice is getting what you deserve-"
"A fair chance, that is all we want. Why can't we have
it?"
Because nobody gives a damn anymore, Stevens thought.
Nobody but you and your friends, and you don't have many of those left. The
glorious old days of the civil rights movement are gone, long gone and not many
lament them.
We did care, once. A lot of us did. But something happened.
Maybe it was the sheer size of the problem. Or watching while everybody who
could afford it ran to the suburbs and left the cities to drift, and complained
about taxes going to the cities, and - Or maybe it was having to listen to my
police explain why they'll only go into Watts in pairs with cocked shotguns and
if the Mayor doesn't like it he can damned well police that precinct himself.
People think they've done enough.
What's enough? It isn't enough. If we'd done enough, we
wouldn't have the problems- "I'll do my best to speed things up,"
Stevens said. "We'll call
"Do you think that will help?"
"It can't hurt." And probably can't help,
although you never knew. The problem was that
He remembered the chanting crowd outside the alleyway. They
demanded justice. And the Reverend Clay wants justice. Mr. Planchet wants
justice. The Mayor wants them all kept happy, meaning I'm supposed to deliver
what they want. Justice. Hell, I don't even know what it is.
Not that it matters. We'll get Clay his development, but it
won't bring justice to the ghetto. It'll just be another project.
And whatever justice is, Jim Planchet doesn't want it. What
Big Jim wants is vengeance.
The northeast pillar had become another tree; but this was
no Christmas tree. There was a glass-walled ballroom nestled in its topmost
branches. In its sprawling, knotted roots was the red-lit entrance to
Lucifer's, the gambling hail. Halfway up the thick trunk were three levels of
Dream Masters, the gallery of fantasy art.
Lunan stared, searching for old memories. "And there's
a serpent gnawing at the roots, right?" he asked. "And an old one-eyed
god comes to impale himself in order to learn the runes?"
"We've got a hologram serpent. I don't think anybody's
had the nerve to play Odin yet. Thomas, would you like to get a sculpted bust
of yourself? Or a tattoo?"
"Ah … why?"
Cheryl laughed. "I'll show you." She led him to
an outside elevator shaped like a rocket ship out of a 1930s Amazing: baroque
fins guiding a pointed glass tube, glow of orange lights in rockets clustered
underneath. "You should see this anyway."
Fantasy art had come a long way since the art shows at
early science fiction conventions. Dream Masters still displayed paintings:
creatures foreign to Earth, and "artists' concepts" of interstellar
spacecraft and structures that would have dwarfed the Earth itself. But there
were also window-sized holograms that looked out on alien worlds; a gun with a
double stock, for use by something with two right arms; tiny landscapes for use
as game boards in role-playing games, and dragons and trolls and elves for
markers; ornately carved rings, cups, belt buckles.
There were two small shops within Dream Masters itself.
In the solid-photography shop Lunan sat with parallel bands
of light and dark demarking his head and shoulders, while a score of
photographs were taken from pre-set angles. "It's absolutely
accurate," the clerk told him. "The markings guide the computer that
guides the tools that carve the bust. We do have to add the eyes; they come out
blank. And we can fiddle with the texture of the hair, and make the bust bigger
or smaller." Lunan's bust would be the size of a fist, carved in synthetic
malachite.
The walls of the tattoo parlor were covered with designs.
Line cartoons, very simple and very expressive. Slogans in ornate Gothic
script. Photographs of astronomical scenery, suns and glowing interstellar gas
clouds, tattooed on human backs; a white comet running down a suntanned arm.
The tattooist was in her twenties, with wild black hair and
somewhat protuberant eyes. She caught Lunan staring at a pair of photographs
and said, "They were both from the Red Plush Onion."
One was a color photo of a woman's ass - not bad, Lunan
thought - with a cluster of vertical lines tattooed on one cheek. Product identification
markings. The other, a puffy red giant star losing a stream of flame into the
blue-white accretion disk around a black hole, tattooed across a black woman's
chest.
The tattooist had a vivid smile, and her eyes danced. Damn,
they were almost hypnotic, almost too big for her face. Lunan said, "I
didn't know the Onion ran to astronomy buffs."
"You'd be surprised."
Her voice was louder than
She admitted it. She had moved in last April, right after
making out her income tax form.
"Where were you before? What were you doing?"
"I lived in Westwood. And I did a little of everything
… including a movie. They had me playing a zombie-" and she widened her
eyes and grinned a death-rictus at him, so that Lunan
recoiled even while he was laughing.
"Are you glad you moved?"
"Oh, I love it here. I was a little worried, you know,
about making new friends, but it wasn't bad at all. There's the Commons; you
can't help meeting people. And then, Saints seem to trust each other. As if
just being here means you're okay. And I get plenty of customers."
"Angelinos? And the Onion?"
"No, mostly Saints. I think it's like ego plates: you
know, personalized car license plates? Nobody wants to be exactly like
everybody else. You'll see a lot of my designs floating around. that is, you
would if you could make friends fast enough. I put some of them in fairly
private places."
"I've got one myself," Cheryl said demurely.
There was a buzzing in Lunan's ear. "My master's
voice," he said with genuine regret. "I've got to call in." As
Cheryl led him to a guard station, Thomas Lunan wondered what could be so
important that the City Editor would beep him.
White shall not neutralize the black, nor good
Compensate bad in man, absolve him so: Life's business being just the terrible
choice,
-Robert Browning
Tony Rand wasn't happy. For one thing, it was lunch time,
but instead of eating he was standing in Art Bonner's office. "I found out
how they did it," he said. "We've got maintenance people in those
tunnels all the time. Security used to watch them, but that got too expensive,
so we set up a system to have MILLIE track everyone in there and call Security
only if something unusual happened." He shrugged. "So the kids fed
MILLIE the right signals."
"How about getting in to begin with?" Art Bonner
asked.
"Same thing. As far as the computer was concerned, one
of our own work crews went in for unscheduled maintenance. Happens often
enough. Art, it bugs me that someone can do that to MILLIE."
"Bugs you, does it? Tony, how would you feel if you
knew someone could fiddle with your memory?"
Tony turned, startled. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that
aspect."
"I rather hope nobody else does. Don't mention it to
Miss Churchward, okay? We'll have to work out some safeguards for MILLIE's memory. I'd say a man could make himself very wealthy
by tampering with what MILLIE tells Barbara. And that's not the worst that
could happen."
"You'll have them. Now, in future I want everyone going
into a critical area to check in with Security. At least be looked at,"
Bonner said. "It won't be as convenient, but we have to do something.
Meanwhile, life goes on."
"Maybe," Tony said.
"You still worried about the carbon filament
deliveries?"
"Some. That condominium outfit's holding us up for
more than Mead likes to pay."
"Like it or not, we've got to keep expanding. He'll
pay it," Bonner said. There was a low tone from his phone. Bonner lifted
the instrument. "Excuse me, Tony. Yes, Dee?" He listened a moment.
"Put him on. She says it's John Shapiro with something urgent."
Bonner listened again. "He what? I don't believe
it."
"Who what?"
Bonner ignored Tony's question. "That tears it,"
he told the telephone. "I guess we'd better have another strategy meeting.
Ten minutes, in the board room."
There were more people in the conference room this time.
John Shapiro had brought a legal assistant, a big competent-looking woman
dressed as conservatively as Shapiro was. Colonel Cross, dark suit, narrow
club-striped tie, was flanked on either side by uniformed majors. Jim Bowen,
They listened, some patiently, some not so, while Major Devins talked. "Who was going to stop him?" Devins asked. "Not any of our people. He's our boss, dammit. He went down to the subway lobby and caught a
train. Nobody had orders to keep him inside."
"Not your fault," Art Bonner said. "I should
have told MILLIE to let me know where Pres was at all times."
"How could you know he'd do something like this?"
Shapiro asked. "Hardly anyone's fault."
"He must be off his rocker," Frank Mead said.
'Why the hell would he turn himself in? Messes up all our plans, too."
"That it does," Art Bonner said. "Johnny,
what's next?"
Shapiro looked more at ease: he had his vested suit and his
briefcase. He spread his hands elaborately. "As I said last night,
preliminary hearing. Whenever you want it. I can delay, or start next week, as
you'd like."
"Can you get Sanders out on bail?" Barbara
Churchward asked.
"I doubt it. Not in a capital case," Shapiro
said.
That shook all of them. "Capital case? Death
penalty?" Mend asked.
"It's possible. I doubt they can win an appeal,
though," Shapiro said. "But Murder One is what Big Jim Planchet
insists on, and he's got the clout to make it stick with the D.A.'s office.
Besides, it looks better for the politicians if Sanders is in jail. Lets them
look much tougher than if he were walking around free waiting for trial. Of
course we ask for bail, and if it's turned down we appeal, but that all takes
time."
"And meanwhile one of our people is in their
bucket," Mend said.
"I am not sure I understand your position,"
Churchward said. "You don't like Sanders-"
"What's that got to do with anything? He's ours,"
Mend protested. "We can talk over this damn fool stunt when he's out.
Meantime, the Angelinos have one of our people, and I don't like it."
"I see. Art, why did he turn himself in?"
Churchward asked.
"Guilt. He wants absolution," Bonner said.
"And you know, it's our fault. In all we said while he was here last
night, we didn't really make it clear that we're behind him. We talked a lot
about strategy and what we ought to be doing, but we didn't just flat out say
'You done good, Pres'."
"You did," Tony Rand said. 'When you first came
into his office."
"I didn't make it strong enough," Bonner said.
"And we should all have said it. Here in this conference room, with every
one of us backing him up, and a parade of people to say the same thing this
morning. My fault."
"He might have thought he was helping us," Tony
Rand said.
"How's that?" Bonner demanded.
"The morning news was full of threats by
Planchet," Tony said. "How he'd wreck Todos Santos. It could be that
Pres thinks he's saving us a lot of grief."
"It won't help," Frank Mead insisted. "Makes
us look like idiots-"
"What do we do now?" Churchward asked. "We
didn't talk to Pres about strategy, and we weren't supportive enough. We'll fix
all that. But what do we do this afternoon?"
"Prepare for siege," Art Bonner said. "Tony,
you and Cross will have to speed up the new security system installations.
Meanwhile, we'll try Angelino justice. I don't have any faith in it, but we'll
give it a try."
Alice Strahier waited nervously
in the comptroller's office. Why was he late for his appointment with her? His
secretary had said something about an emergency meeting in the board room. Some
new development from the FROMATE raid.
Could they have found out?
The guilty flee when no man pursueth,
And that was just the trouble. She wasn't proud. Tony Rand
had trusted her, promoted her to an important position, and she had betrayed
him.
I had to. The Movement put me here. And it's important.
We're rushing toward the eco-spasm, we have to act before it's too late-
But it's already too late for those kids. They're dead, and
they wouldn't have tried it without your information, Alice Marie. And now the
Movement will want more. Everything about the new security systems, the guards,
everything-and you know why they'll want it.
Damn, people are complicated. It's so much easier to work
with computers. I should have stayed a programmer, never taken that promotion,
then I wouldn't have -- Frank Mead came in, charging ahead as if he were
hitting the line for
She followed him into his big corner office. It was
elaborately furnished-more so than Art Bonner's, she thought. And that has to
mean something. She took a seat and waited for the inevitable inquisition:
Frank Mead trying to learn more about Tony Rand's department.
"I have a right to know," Mead had told her the
first time he'd summoned her. "And asking Tony is a waste of time. So
you're not betraying him, you're doing him a favor."
Which might even have been true. Tony Rand would hate
having to explain himself to the comptroller, but since he went over - or
outside of-his budget quite often, somebody had to come down here and defend
what
And what I tell Wolfe is legitimate human business, she
told herself. The survival of the human race is far more important than petty
bourgeois morals.
Which doesn't explain why I feel so cheap sometimes.
"So. Here's the check, all approved," Mead was
saying. He held out a slip of paper. "Hope your friends in Diamond Bar
appreciate it. Easiest profit they ever turned. They don't really have anything
at all coming to them-"
She took the check and waited for the questions, but Mead
seemed preoccupied, and after a while she left his office.
Homicide Lieutenant Donovan drank quietly and alone.
That is not to say that he was not enjoying himself. There
could have been drinking buddies if he'd wanted them. He could have gone to a
cop bar. He wasn't in the mood this afternoon. Instead, he was in a mood to get
quietly buzzed, watching the thoughts that played through his head, enjoying
some of the life that surged around him. This very skillful pickup, that clumsy
approach that worked anyway. The endless political discussion between the two
who didn't know what they were talking about.
He also had memories to savor. The Todos Santos tunnel crew
knew nothing about the mugging victim, but they'd enjoyed telling him about
their job, and showing off the enormous machine that chewed into dirt and rock,
fused the detritus to line the tunnel walls, and crawled inexorably onward. It
had been something to see, and there wasn't another machine like that in the
western hemisphere. And then came the news that their high mucky-muck Sanders
had turned himself in. The work crew hadn't been happy about that at all.
Interesting, workmen who worried about their boss- But the argument at a nearby
table threatened to ruin his mood.
Three of them. Men younger than Donovan, getting excited.
The youngest sat quietly, happily, letting the others lecture each other. He
wasn't going to stop the developing fight.
"Don't tell me about those Todos Santos bastards."
That one had small features and very pale blond hair. He leaned forward,
forearms braced on the table, to emphasize his words.
"They got a right to live," said the third man.
He was small and lean, with a face like a hatchet and a tension in him that
showed even when he relaxed.
"Yeah? Listen, do you know the Red Plush Onion? Right
in the shadow of that big fucking building?"
"I've heard about it. Never been there."
"It's a whorehouse. I thought I'd try it. You know how
it is. I got lonely one night." The blond man relaxed, looked into his
beer, drank. Donovan watched in the mirror. Donovan's pleasantly melancholy
mood had faded somewhat.
It was a pity he couldn't take off his reflexes with his
badge. Then he could let them work themselves up, punch each other out, get
thrown into the street, incident finished. None of his business anyway. But
he'd been a street cop a long time before making detective. He reached into his
pocket.
"So I drove out there and tried to get in. You know,
they wouldn't let me in? I wasn't drunk. Not drunk. The big bouncer said they
didn't want my kind." The blond man's lips crawled away from his teeth.
"I was going back to thy car when a guy went past me. A tall, thin guy
with lots of teeth. I knew him. The bouncer let him in. Said 'hello.' Called
him by his name. Know who he was? The Todos Santos undertaker!"
"Well, you can see their point," said the other.
"They get most of their customers from Todos Santos."
"Yeah. Yeah. And the Hivers
won't go in if the Angelinos do. That's what they call us. Angelinos. I hope
they put that Sanders bastard in the gas chamber."
If the little guy could have let it lie … nope. "Why?
Because he killed two kids, or because he's from Todos Santos?"
"Yes," said the blond man. Then, "What are
you defending him for? He gassed 'em. Gassed 'em. Nerve gas! What the fuck, they were only
Angelinos."
"Maybe they won't dare try it again," the smaller
man taunted him. "Why don't you try sneaking inside some night with a box
labeled Dynamite?"
Donovan was there as the blond man tried to surge across
the table. "Think of it as evolution in action," he said, because it
seemed to fit and had been on his mind.
They froze and looked at him, all three. It was a good
stopper, that phrase: just cryptic enough. He held his badge low, cupped, so
that only those three could see it. "Forget it," he told them.
Their eyes dropped.
Donovan went back to his own table. His eyes found theirs
in the mirror. They left very soon.
The interview room in the new Los Angeles County Jail had
not intentionally been designed to be intimidating. The furniture was heavy and
nearly immobile, of course, and the windows were barred; but the designers had
tried to make the room comfortable. They hadn't succeeded.
Big Jim Planchet tried to keep his voice under control as
he eyed Allan Thompson with distaste. Why hadn't he paid more attention to the
kind of companions his son had? And yet-what could he have done? This boy
wasn't any criminal. Good family, real estate people, good upper middle-class
family. Just like Diana Lauder. The Lauders were blaming him.
He didn't want to think about it, but he had to. And he
didn't have a lot of time. He wasn't supposed to be here, of course. It had
taken pulling strings. But Jim Planchet was a lawyer, and if Ben Costello (good
thing the Thompson family lawyer was an old friend) insisted on having Planchet
as an associate, the D.A.'s office wasn't going to object.
"Why?" Planchet demanded. "What did you
think you were doing?"
"Easy," Ben Costello cautioned. "Mr. Planchet's right, though, Allan. If I'm going to defend
you, I've got to know everything."
For a moment the boy's face held defiance. He even started
to say it. "It seemed like a good-" But his reserve broke. "My
God, Mr. Planchet, I'm sorry. Really sorry."
"
"Easy, dammit,"
Costello said. "Can't you see Allan doesn't like this any more than you
do? Why, Allan?"
"Well-Mr. Planchet had said
a lot about Todos Santos. Jimmy really respected you, Mr. Planchet. He
thought-he thought he was helping you."
It hit Planchet like a blow. And it was probably true. I
did, he thought. I did spout off a lot about Todos Santos. Termite Hill. The
Box. Graveyard of freedom. Picture of an ugly future.
He remembered it all,
public statements and what he'd said at home at the breakfast table (would
Eunice ever sit across a table from him again? They had her in Queen of Angels
under sedation, and they were talking about nursing homes) and Junior making
wisecracks but listening, listening- "All right. I can see that," he
said when he'd got his voice under control "But-you went past those doors."
There'd been a special on Channel 7 showing that door and its ominous warnings.
"It was said plainly. 'IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR, YOU WILL BE KILLED.'
It said it."
"We didn't believe it," Allan said. "We just
didn't. I mean, everyone's always telling you what horrible things are going to
happen to you, but they never do."
Only this time they did, Planchet thought. Oh my God.
He sat down and put his head in his hands. Unwanted
pictures came to his mind. Jim Junior with his chemistry lab. Jim getting his
ham radio license at age thirteen and getting a home computer for his next
birthday. Eunice bragging to their friends about her son the genius. And I
guess he was.
Ben Costello took out a yellow legal pad and a dozen
pencils. "I'd better get as many details as I can," he said.
"This isn't going to be easy."
Allan Thompson looked puzzled. "So what? What's the
worst they can do for trespassing?"
"The charge isn't trespassing," Costello said. He
tried to keep his voice as calm and gentle as possible. It was obvious that the
boy was torn up with guilt. He talked defiantly, but he was ready to
collapse-and what Costello had to tell him wasn't going to help either.
"The charge is murder."
"Murder! But I didn't kill anybody! Those termites,
they did the killing, with war gas-"
"You were committing a felony. When there's a death
resulting during the commission of a felony, the law says it's murder,"
Costello said. "Same as if you were holding up a liquor store and the
police shot your partner."
"Jesus." Allan's eyes darted around the interview
room. "Maybe it's right. Maybe I did kill them. But I didn't mean to! I
didn't mean any harm!"
May as well hit him with all of it, Costello thought. He'd
better know how serious this is. "I can't plea bargain, either. Not with
Todos Santos involved," Costello said. "Look, they turned you over to
the Los Angeles D.A., but they'll go to the state Attorney General if they have
to. They want your arse, Allan. And if you don't help
me, they're going to get it. Now. You went to Todos Santos carrying the gear
that James had built. You waited until there was no one around, and you went to
the access-way door. Was it unlocked?"
"No. Jim unlocked it."
"With what?"
Allan shrugged. "It was an electronic lock system.
Jimmy had the combination."
Costello wrote rapidly. "So you unlocked the door. How
did you know the combination?"
"I don't know. Jimmy had it."
"He had quite a lot of information about the Todos
Santos Security system," Costello said. "Where did James get all
these data?"
"Arnie, I guess."
"Who is Arnie?"
"
"Did Mr. Renn suggest this
expedition?" Costello asked.
Allan looked puzzled. "Dr. Renn,"
he said automatically. "Uh - well, he didn't exactly suggest it."
"But you had discussed it with him?"
"Yes."
Councilman Planchet raised his head and looked at the boy.
They wouldn't let Tony Rand see Sanders in an interview
room. That was for lawyers only. Friends had to use a different- and degrading,
Tony thought-system.
Rand and Sanders sat at tables facing each other. They were
separated by a doubled glass screen, thick. They talked by telephone.
What do you say in a situation like this?
"Hi, Tony."
Awkward silence. "Now that you've had a week to get
used to it, how do you like the accommodations?"
"Not too bad. Are you going to tell me I'm crazy
too?"
"Do you want me to?"
"What? The thick glass tended to distort Sanders's
expression. "What?"
"If you want me to, I'll tell you you're crazy,"
"Look, I had to," Sanders said. "I can't get
Shapiro to understand that. I had to. I killed-"
"Whoa,"
"Eh?"
"The Sheriff swears blind these visiting phonies
aren't tapped," Tony Rand said. "You can believe as much of that as
you want to."
"So what? I don't have any secrets. The whole
English-speaking world knows what I did."
Uncomfortable subject. "How are they treating
you?"
"All right." He smiled. Almost. "They don't
know how to treat me. All that publicity. So I got VIP status."
"That figures. They give you a roommate?"
"Yeah."
"What's he in for? Anything interesting?"
"Tony, he's in for tax evasion. He wants to sell us
construction supplies. He does exercises in the cell, and he wants me to do
push-ups and jumping jacks with him. He'd really like to cheer me up. Want
more?"
"You know, you're a real wet blanket today."
Pres said nothing.
"Why'd you do it, Pres? Why didn't you at least talk
to someone first? The first we heard about you turning yourself in was off a
television set!"
"It was no good, Tony. Hiding out. Making like I was
crazy. No good, dammit."
"Yeah, I can see that wouldn't sit well,"
"It wasn't right, either. Art was taking a hell of a
chance. I could see that Shapiro was worried. Tony, the last damn thing I need
is to have Art Bonner in jail because of me. How is he?"
"He was fit to be tied."
"Why?"
"He thought he hadn't made it clear enough that you
did the right thing. The only thing you could do."
"Sure, he'd say that-"
"Not just him. Pres, you're a bloody hero! It's all
they talked about in Commons for days, ever since it happened. Savior of the
city and all that."
"They really say that?"
"That's right. Oh, and I've got a message from Art. He
says, all right, it's your life, and if you want to try
“No.”
"What?"
"I said no." Sanders was adamant. "No change
of venue. No legal tricks. Tell him that, Tony. I don't want to get off on a
technicality. I'd rather leave it to a jury."
"A
"Angelinos. Tony, I saw them when they were being
carried out. They were dead people, dead human beings."
Tony sighed raggedly. "So did I, on the screen. Pres,
could I have designed it differently?"
"What?"
"They got in. They put themselves where we had to kill
them, or else let them burn up some of our city and some of our citizens. They
had to go to enormous trouble to do that, but Pres, they shouldn't have been
able to do it at all. How could I have stopped them? How do I stop the next ones,
the ones with the real bombs?"
"Tony, this is silly-"
"The hell it is! Pres, do you think you're the only
one with nightmares? You did the right thing. You did the only thing. It's not
your fault you didn't have any choices. You should never have been in that
situation. But what could I do?
"It looks like a computer problem," Tony Rand
brooded. "They knew too much about MILLIE, and MILLIE may be too
vulnerable anyway. Too many people with access. They have to have access. Okay,
maybe I can't deal with that, but suppose there's something else? One more
door, or another set of locks, or a trapdoor somewhere-"
"Tony, you're doing it again." Preston Sanders
looked as if he were trying to reach through the glass. "You're putting
people in boxes. They don't fit. You can't stop everyone. It's like trying not
to offend anyone. Remember what TV was like in the seventies? Even your
high-diving board doesn't work on everyone, does it? A clever, determined
suicide brings wire cutters and goes through the fence."
"Yeah. I used to wonder if that was a murder. Why
would a suicide go to that much trouble?" Tony brooded for a moment.
"Skip it. Is there anything I can bring you?"
"Yeah. My roommate brings westerns and is eager to
loan them to me. So pick me a good thick science fiction novel with lots of
obscure technical terms."
It was perfectly clear to Tony that Pres had said that to
cheer up Tony Rand. "That'll fix him," Tony said.
Justice, I think, is the tolerable accommodation of
the conflicting interests of society, and I don't believe there is any royal
road to attain such accommodations concretely.
-Learned Hand
Tony Rand fidgeted uncomfortably on the courtroom chair.
From time to time he tried to catch Preston Sanders's eye, but Pres was sitting
rigidly upright, his eyes fastened on the witness, and never looked back. He
didn't look too bad, considering that he'd been jailed for nearly three weeks.
The courtroom looked like a TV set. It was the special
courtroom, with a big Plexiglas panel between the spectators and the area where
the action went on.
Judge Norton looked very stern in her black robes. It was a
big case for her, the biggest she'd ever been involved in. In the strategy
meetings back at Todos Santos, John Shapiro had described her as
"up-and-coming," a judge who'd likely end up on the California Supreme
Court once she had more experience; he'd known her in law school. He also
thought she'd pay more attention to the political situation than to the law,
but he had no way to challenge her. "And," he'd said, "at least
she's smart enough to understand the arguments. I don't think we'd get a better
one, and it would take a long time to try."
That had been the deciding factor for Art Bonner. He wanted
the trial over and done with, as soon as possible. No delays. There'd been
argument over that, with Shapiro protesting that he had to work in Sanders's
best interest, not the corporation's, and the best thing for Sanders would be
to delay. That was when Bonner had taken Shapiro into his office, and Tony
didn't know what Art had said to the lawyer, but certainly the legal
proceedings had been surprisingly swift after that.
Tony was no lawyer; actually, he disliked the breed. For
Tony Rand the world was a relatively simple place, and there was no need for
people whose profession was to get rich by making it complex. However, he had
to admire John Shapiro, who had carefully and patiently built his case, not
merely in common sense, but in the strange convolutions required by the law. He
had wrung Tony Rand dry of information, and at the same time kept a lot of the
Todos Santos security system secret. Now he was cross-examining Allan Thompson.
"Allan," Shapiro said, "you told the
District Attorney that you carried no weapons, and nothing harmful."
"Yes, sir."
"What did you carry?"
"Well, some electronics gear."
"Anything else?" Shapiro's manner was entirely
friendly, matter-of-fact; he seemed almost uninterested in the answers.
"Gas masks."
"Gee. That's a strange kind of thing to carry, isn't
it? Why gas masks?"
"Objection." District Attorney Sid Blackman was a
tall, thin man with black hair cut to a fashionable length, and good but not
expensive clothes: which made him a liar in Tony Rand's opinion, because
Blackman was one of the heirs to a department store fortune, although he tried
to give the impression of a man of the people. "Your Honor, this witness
was not present when the gas masks were worn."
"Let's phrase it differently," John Shapiro said.
"Did James Planchet or Diana Lauder tell you why they brought gas masks to
Todos Santos?"
"Yes, sir. They were worried about knockout gas. We'd
heard that Todos Santos used gas to defend the tunnels."
"Lethal gas?"
"No, sir, we didn't know they used poison gas! We
thought they just used something to knock people out."
"Hmm. I see." Shapiro's manner didn't change.
"Who did you hear that from, Allan?"
"I don't know."
"But you had all kinds of information about Todos
Santos security systems. You were able to open locked doors and defeat the
alarm system, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"And surely you learned that from someone. We've heard
Mr. Rand and Colonel Cross testify that such information is very carefully
guarded. It wasn't published anywhere. Where did you learn how to gain entry to
Todos Santos?"
"I guess somebody told Jimmy," Allan said. He
squirmed uncomfortably in the witness chair. "But I don't know who."
"You're sure you don't know who told Jimmy
Planchet."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure."
John Shapiro looked away from the sweating boy for a
moment. Tony thought the lawyer was disappointed, but it wasn't easy to tell.
Shapiro came back, his voice again friendly. "All right. Now, you were
carrying other things, too, weren't you? What were they?"
"Some boxes of sand."
"Sand. Did those boxes of sand have anything painted
on them?"
"Yes, sir-"
"What?"
'Well, uh-uh-"
Shapiro let him stammer. He waited expectantly, and finally
Allan said, "They said dynamite."
"Dynamite. The word dynamite was painted on the boxes
of sand. Is that correct?"
"On two of them. The other one said bomb," Allan
said. There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom.
Judge Norton looked stern and lifted her gavel, but she
didn't have to say anything.
"So. If you hadn't known those were boxes of sand,
would you have thought they were dangerous explosives?"
"Yes-"
"Capable of setting fires?"
"Objection," Blackman said. "Calls for a
conclusion from the witness."
"Did you want people to think those were dangerous
explosives?"
"No, not really. We were going to leave them, and when
the guards found them they'd know we could have left real explosives-"
"I see," Shapiro said. "And why did you
choose Tunnel Nine?"
"Because that's where the hydrogen lines come
in-"
"And what's special about hydrogen lines?"
Shapiro seemed a little more eager, a little more interested than he'd been
before.
"Well, they need it to run that anthill-"
"Anything else?"
"Well, gee, if it had caught on fire it would have
been pretty spectacular," Thompson said.
District Attorney Blackman cursed under his breath. Tony Rand
saw it, and wondered why.
"If it had caught fire. In other words, the managers
at Todos Santos would have legitimate cause to worry about fires if there were
an explosion in Tunnel 9?"
"Objection-"
"Excuse me," Shapiro said. "Allan, did you
think the managers would have legitimate cause to worry about fires from an
explosion in Tunnel 9?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did Jimmy or Diana?"
"Objection-"
"Did either of them tell you they thought the managers
of Todos Santos would be worried about fires from an explosion in Tunnel 9?"
"Sure. Jimmy said they'd be scared shitless."
Shapiro smiled in triumph. "And of course you knew
that Todos Santos is inhabited. That there were people living there when you
entered that tunnel."
'Well sure-"
"Thank you." Shapiro turned away, looking
satisfied.
Thomas Lunan thought it a rather strange bar. For one
thing, the bartender was lonely. He never saw most of his customers: orders
came up on a television screen, the drinks were mixed, and then put through a
pass-through, and from there they went to various places in Todos Santos.
The bar itself was wood with a Formica top. There were
barstools, and a television set, and a few tables; but almost no customers. Two
Todos Santos men -- Lunan wasn't sure how he knew they were Saints, but he did
-- sat on barstools drinking beer and talking about the unfairness of their
wives. Otherwise the place was empty.
Lunan had taken a seat as near the customers as he could.
He'd told Phil Lowry to meet him here, and he had to wait, although he'd have
preferred a place with more people to watch. After a few moments he'd struck up
a conversation with the bartender, which was how he knew the man was lonely.
He'd never met such a friendly bartender. Or one who knew
so little about what was going on. It was typical of Todos Santos people,
though; none of them cared much about what went on outside their fortress.
Except for the Sanders hearings. They knew all about those.
The bartender's name was Mark Levoy,
and he liked to talk. Lunan knew that as soon as he admired the Old Fashioned.
"Yeah," Levoy said.
"My drinks, now they're popular. I get more business than the Blackbird,
more than Dreamland. But it's all remote. Drinks are popular, but my place
isn't. Don't know why."
"Too bad. You own this place, then?"
"Well, me and the Todos Santos bank."
"Ms. Churchward loaned you the money," Lunan
guessed.
"Miss Churchward. Yeah. Thanks to her, I got my own
business. But it sure gets lonesome in here. Don't like being alone. Didn't
like it in my underground days-" Levoy paused,
hesitantly.
"Underground?" Lunan prompted.
Levoy's smile was broad.
"Yeah. I was in the Weather Underground. Way back when. Had to hide out
from the law-"
The two Todos Santos customers picked up' their drinks and
moved to a table. Levoy watched them with a frown.
They didn't seem unfriendly. They just left.
"Regulars?" Lunan asked. He nodded toward the
two.
"Yeah. How'd you know? Anyway, I didn't like being
alone then either. After a while the statute of limitations ran out. But it
started going sour a long time before that."
"How so?"
"
Lunan considered responses, and chose, "Tough
luck."
The bartender snorted. "Luck? My poker buddies would
call that a run of bad playing! I'm sorry they got killed, of course. Not so
sorry we didn't blow up the Lady. But you know what really got me out of the
Movement? You'll never guess."
"I'm sure I can't," Lunan said. The two regulars
glanced his way, then grinned at each other.
Levoy had to go mix more drinks.
He made a shaker of martinis and put it onto the conveyor, then spent more time
on a tall, complicated rum drink. He came back with another Old Fashioned for
Lunan. "I wish that damned Canadian would go away," he said.
"I've made enough Pimm's Cups to last me the
rest of my life."
"Say, I've never tasted-"
Levoy rode him down. "You
know, we used to tell each other about how stupid politicians are. You know, so
dumb that they passed a law making pi equal to three, exactly?"
"I heard about that," Lunan said. "Pretty
stupid all right-"
"Well, it didn't happen," Levoy
said belligerently, and waited for Lunan to call him a liar. When Lunan didn't,
he said, "I looked it up. I was going to use it in a pamphlet. Didn't
happen. What did happen was that some joker in
"Nine?"
"Nine. But the legislature didn't know that because
they couldn't read it. So they referred it to the Committee on Swamps."
"Did you say Swamps?" Lunan was laughing.
"Swamps. Somebody must have been having fun. The
Committee on Swamps recommended that they pass it, so they did. The other house
figured out what was happening and sent it to the Committee on Temperance. It
died there."
"And that's all?"
"That's all," Levoy
said. He sniffed. "And here I'd believed all that, you know-"
"Well, hell, so did I! And it's a much better story
the other way." The two regulars were grinning at him. Lunan surmised that
the bartender had told this tale before. Often.
"Got a question," he said. "Maybe you know.
Those pillars in the Mall downstairs. Three of them bring in money. Shops,
restaurants, the gambling hall, day-care center, and so forth. But the
waterfall-"
"Yeah. Someday Bonner'll
sell that waterfall and it'll be something else. He's just never gotten an
offer that had enough money in it and would be as pretty as the
waterfall."
"That counts?"
"It counts for a lot. Shouldn't it? We could pile a
lot more money-makers around the Yggdrasil pillar,
but it'd look cluttered."
"Is that why you moved into Todos Santos?"
The bartender grinned. "It was eleven years ago, and
coming up on April fifteenth. The word was out that nobody'd
be making out their own taxes in Todos Santos. The taxes'd
be part of our rent. It came to me that I didn't like being an accountant for
the government on no pay."
"Nobody does," Lunan muttered. "That's a
hell of a deal you people have."
"Sure," Levoy said.
"But look at it this way. After the fire, there was this flicking great
hole in
"There's my assistant," Lunan said. "He'll
want Teachers and soda. Nice to have met you." Thankfully Lunan took a
table.
Lowry was a regular reporter, and he didn't much like being
assigned to help Lunan get a big story. He wasn't much younger than Lunan, and
he wanted off assignments, but so far he hadn't had any big breaks, and Lunan
didn't think he ever would. Too much of a plodder.
"How'd the trial go?" Lunan asked.
"Dull. Only good part was when the Thompson kid told
about the boxes of sand with dynamite and bomb painted on them. Kid's a liar,
though."
"Liar? I've seen the boxes-"
"Not about that," Lowry said. He sipped his
Scotch and soda. "Naw, earlier. He said he
didn't know who'd given the dead kids the info about TS. Said it right in
court, and he's lying."
"He does know?"
"Sure." Phil Lowry looked smug.
"This is straight?" Lunan had a feeling in the
pit of his stomach. This could be it, the lever he needed to get some
exclusives with the Todos Santos top brass.
"Absolutely."
"All right, I bite," Lunan said. "How do you
know?"
"I've got sources," Phil Lowry said. "As
many and as good as you, you lucky bastard."
"Sure you do, Phil," Lunan said. Now how can I
con him out of the information? I can't. He knows I'm interested. "Look,
this place isn't your beat. Are you still interested in that
"Sure-"
"Trade you," Lunan said. "I'll give you a
line on the whole scam. Exclusive. Two commissioners on the take. It'll take a
lot of leg work, but you can get it all.
"For what?"
"For everything you know, source and all, about the
Thompson kid and the raid on Todos Santos."
Lowry thought it over. "Yeah, that's fair," he
said. "You can do more with the Todos Santos story than me." He spoke
grudgingly. "That was a good article you did on the two cultures."
Better than you think, Lunan thought. Better than you
think. The Trib's publisher also owned a TV station,
and he'd liked Lunan's articles so much he'd assigned a camera crew and a
director to work with Lunan on a TV documentary, and that was going to make
Lunan's career. "So who's your source?"
"You can't use her, Tom," Lowry said. "It's
Councilman Planchet's aide. Ginny Bernard. Lonely
chick. Not a very good lay, either. And so damned hung up that it took me six
weeks to get in her pants, and another month to get any information out of her.
But that's my source. Now what about the
"In a minute. Okay, it'll take awhile to use your
source. But you can at least tell me what she told you. Who put the kids up to
the raid?"
"Professor Arnold Renn of
UCLA. He's Fromate, and Ginny thinks he's got ties to
the American Ecology Army too. Now what about our bargain?"
"You'll get it." Lunan took out a notebook and
began writing names for Lowry, but his mind was somewhere else. Fromates! And Councilman Planchet knew it. That ought to be
worth a lot to Art Bonner. Maybe enough to get some exclusive interviews! Lunan
turned a page and jotted a note, rapidly, in neat square printed letters.
"Dear Mr. Bonner:
I've found out something that I think you would be very
interested in knowing. I would appreciate an appointment at your earliest
convenience."
That ought to get him, Lunan thought. Now how do I send it?
Tony Rand brought his drink into the board room. Art Bonner
and Barbara Churchward were already there with John Shapiro.
"How are we doing?" Bonner asked.
Shapiro shrugged. "If this was a quiet little hearing
out in some hick town with no political implications, we'd have it won,"
he said. "As it is, I'm pretty sure we can win on appeal."
"But you won't get a justifiable homicide judgment in
this trial?" Barbara Churchward asked.
Shapiro shook his head. "I doubt it. Judge Norton only
has to rule that the state has enough of a case to go to trial. She can say
that most of it hinges on facts, and that's for a jury to decide. We can appeal
that-"
"Will Pres be out on bail during the appeal?" Bonner
asked.
"Unlikely. The D.A. will fight it. Of course when they
deny bail we can appeal. I'd be doing that now only you said get it over-"
"I did indeed," Bonner said. "Tony, please
sit down. I don't like people hovering over me. Thanks. Look, Johnny, what's so
complicated about it?"
"It just is," Shapiro said. "Look, we've got
some tricky points of law here, and Penny Norton doesn't want to rule for us.
It'd cost her like crazy. She says she wants on the state supreme court, but
I'm betting she'd like to run for state Attorney General in a couple
years-" He shrugged again. "But I got the grounds for appeal into the
transcript today."
"What, that the kids actually committed suicide?"
Barbara Churchward asked.
Shapiro looked thoughtful. "Not a bad argument."
He frowned. "But it's no good here."
"Why not?" Tony asked. "That door was marked
plainly enough. It practically said that you'd commit suicide if you went
through it."
"Good argument for a jury," Shapiro said.
"But it won't affect Penny a damn bit. No, I've got another plan."
"Tell us," Churchward said.
"Well, our defense is that there wasn't any crime. In
my final argument I'll show that Sanders had good reason to suppose a felony
arson was about to be committed-"
"That's why all that about fires this afternoon,"
Shapiro grinned. "Yep. Blackman hated that. He could
see where I was headed. See, one of the key cases in homicide defense came up
when an IRS agent shot a man resisting arrest. The courts held that it was justified-"
"But Pres is not a policeman," Tony said.
"Right, and Blackman will try to make a lot out of
that. But it doesn't matter," Shapiro said, "because in
"Well, I should think so," Churchward said.
"So why aren't we going to win?" Bonner asked.
"Well, there are other cases," Shapiro said.
"Mainly ones that say that a peace officer takes his chances when he kills
a suspect. It's okay if the suspect was committing a felony, or resists arrest --
by the way, I'm going to try to show that those gas masks were a way of
resisting arrest -- anyway, it's all right if the suspect is running away from
an atrocious felony, but not if it's a misdemeanor. And Blackman will show that
the kids weren't committing a felony, only misdemeanor trespass."
"But it looked like arson," Churchward said.
"They were trying their best to make it look that way."
"And it hasn't always been just trespassing,"
"Now you're trying to use common sense on the
law," Art Bonner said. "And I don't think that works. All right. We
lose. What then?"
"Appeal. Or let it go to trial and argue it before a
jury. We might win with a jury. And if we don't, we can appeal again."
"Meanwhile Pres is in jail."
"Well, until the trial's over," Shapiro said.
"I'd bet the worst we'd get would be manslaughter. Then we could get Pres
out on bail."
"But you're talking weeks. Months, maybe," Bonner
said.
"Sure-"
"That's not justice. Sanders didn't do a damn thing
wrong, but he gets locked up anyway." Bonner's lips tightened. "Damn
it, I don't like this. I don't like it at all."
"Johnny's doing the best he can. Don't
discourage him." The voice was MILLIE's, but it had the subtle differences indicating the
words were Barbara's. The computer/medical experts who'd inserted the implant
in Bonner's head had explained how it worked, that MILLIE was programmed to transmit
non-verbal impulses which implant wearers learned to interpret as tones and
emotional subtleties, but that didn't make it less miraculous.
"You're right, as usual," Art thought. Then he said, aloud, "Keep trying,
Johnny." He put his hand on Shapiro's shoulder. "We'll all keep
plugging away at it. One thing more. This just came. An offer from a newsman,
guy named Lunan, to trade information for our cooperation in his documentary. I
think we ought to discuss it."
"Can't hurt," Churchward said. "We could use
some sympathetic news coverage. Let's talk to him."
There was mist over San Pedro. It couldn't quite be called
a fog. You could see through it, out across the yacht basin and into the
Alice Strahler walked along the
She strolled through the shopping area, pausing now and again
to look back the way she came, going through the shops, in one door and out
another, until she was certain that no one was interested in her movements.
Finally she went through a parking lot and under a highway viaduct.
It was like coming to another world. Instead of chintz and
new paint and new rental cars, this was a region of run-down buildings and
battered old trucks, marine engine repair shops, warehouses, and cheap cafes.
The road led along the waterfront to a drab building on a pier. It had once
been painted, but years of salt-laden wind had faded it until no one knew what
color it had been. Large saltwater tanks of crabs and Pacific lobster stood
against the building. There was no one else on the pier. Inside, there was a
fat man in a stained apron behind the counter. At first
He grinned widely. "Good to see you again." He
swept his hand to indicate the seat across the carved and marked booth table.
"Coffee? And the clam chowder's the best in the city."
"Okay."
He got up and went to the counter to order for her. She sat
in silence, biting her lip, wanting to get this over with. After what seemed
like ages, he came back with her food and coffee. The coffee mug was old and
chipped, and so was the shallow chowder bowl, but the chowder smelled
delicious. She automatically ate a spoonful, then another.
"Gets to you, doesn't it?" he asked with a grin.
Then his face became serious. "We haven't a lot of time. What's this all
about?"
"What I told Phil," she said. "Ron, I can't
take it any longer. I quit."
He shrugged. "Okay. So you quit."
She looked at him without saying anything, but he wouldn't
meet her eyes. "Damn it, you could say something-"
"Sure. What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"That the work's important and we need you? Hell, you know that already.
If I could think of anything to say that would keep you with us, I'd say it,
but you told Phil your mind's made up. I'm not sure why you wanted to see
me."
"Maybe you shouldn't have bothered."
"Come off it. We owed you that much, and more. So I'm
here." He shrugged. "Tell me what to say."
"You might ask why-"
"I presume you've lost faith in the Movement."
"I don't know,"
"I know it's hard, but we need the information-"
"Not from me. We killed Diana and Jimmy, and for
nothing-"
"It wasn't for nothing." His eyes narrowed and
his voice hardened. He spoke so intensely that it came across like shouting,
although he never raised his voice at all. "Never say it was for nothing!
Because of them, we're closer, much closer, to shutting down that termite hill.
People are asking questions, wondering about Todos Santos and all of the
arcologies, wondering why they have to defend themselves with war gas, and who
they'll kill next. We're showing the world that humanity can't live like that.
So you can have all the second thoughts you want, but don't try to take
anything away from Diana and Jimmy!"
"But it's my fault they're dead-"
"Bull shit," he said. "Because you didn't
know about nerve gas? That was the hive's best-kept secret, and you didn't find
out, so now it's your fault?"
"They wouldn't even have got in without me," she
said.
He nodded. "That's true enough."
"So it was my fault."
"And now you've got the guilts?"
he asked. "You want to atone. Turn us all in-"
"No! I'd never do that-"
"Why not?" he asked. "We're nothing better
than murderers."
"But we are-"
"Why? How are we better than some petty crook?"
"Because the Movement is important, it's right.
Because Todos Santos is the beginning of a horrible future, and it has to be
stopped now."
"I believe that," he said. "But you
don't-"
"I do, too."
"Then why are you quitting?"
"Because-"
"Because it's hard?" he asked. His voice was full
of contempt. "You've got it hard? You don't have to look over your
shoulder all the time. You've got a bed to sleep in and plenty to eat. You're
not mucking around with explosives, and you don't have to jump every time you
see a cop, but you think you've got it hard."
"It isn't that!" she insisted.
"Then what is it?"
"Oh I don't know, you get me all confused-"
"I'm sorry," he said. "It just seems so
simple to me. We've got to work for humanity because there's nothing else worth
doing. What else is there? Their bourgeois God with his thunderings
and mumblings and petty jealousies? Alle Menschen mussen sterben. We'll all die. All of us. Poof. Gone, out like a
light. Well, it has to mean something. There has to be a reason for living, and
keeping mankind human is a damned good one!"
"I don't know-sometimes, watching them in Todos Santos
-- Ron, they're happy. They like it."
His voice dropped low, and became more intense.
"Happy? Of course they're happy. Aristocrats usually are happy. But how
many of those places can the Earth support? And there'll be more hives, hives
everywhere-you're the one who told us about that Canadian. Hives in
Do I? she wondered. I guess I do.
"Alice, if you quit now, then you really did something
evil. If we don't succeed, then Jimmy and Diana were killed for nothing,
nothing at all, and you helped kill them."
He reached across the table and took her hand. "I
know. It is hard, being inside there, never seeing your friends, having to be
on guard all the time. But hang on. It won't be long now. Get us their new
defense setup. This time we'll shut that place down. For good."
It is easier for a man to be loyal to his club than
to his planet; the bylaws are shorter, and he is personally acquainted with the
other members.
-B. B. White
Tony Rand's Videobeam television
screen covered most of a wall. It was big enough to watch reruns of 2001: A
Space Odyssey, which was true of damned few TV sets. He never used it to watch
war movies or rock shows. They seemed just too intimidating on that huge
screen.
Tony was on his bed, with the headboard panel pulled out to
support his back. The huge face looming above him had a lean and hungry look,
like Cassius.
"What I found," it said, "is a feudal
society. Now, when I speak of feudalism, I don't mean plate armor and
crossbows. Todos Santos isn't just modern, it's at the forefront of technology.
The carbon fibers in those compote walls were precipitated in an orbital
laboratory, and couldn't have been made except in free fall. The very concept
of an arcology is only a few decades old. When Paolo Soleri
first began to write about arcologies it seemed like science fiction, even
though Soleri was a student of Frank Lloyd
Wright."
Tony Rand nodded agreement. When Paolo Soleri
began construction of Arcosanti, his new model city
in the
"Certainly Todos Santos is modern," Lunan
continued. "The Romulus Corporation which built the Box has for years been
towing icebergs from
"Perhaps beyond modern," Lunan said.
"Hundreds of Todos Santos residents work in
The scene shifted again, to a smiling, burly, black-haired
man.
"Experimental mechanic," Drinkwater corrected.
His voice boomed.
"- for the Konigsberg
Medical Instrument Company. The instruments he works on didn't exist five years
ago. Armand, I'm told you generally work stark naked."
"Right. Maybe I'm overreacting. But I used to have to
wear white coats and a cap to work in the clean rooms, and I got damned sick of
it. Got sick of freeways, too."
"And now?"
"I smile a lot. Oh, you mean working days? My contract
says I have to be at work at nine. Fine. I get up at ten of nine. That gives me
time for coffee. Harriet generally makes me a bacon and egg sandwich around
half past, and I eat it while I'm working. When I take a lunch hour, I get the
whole hour. Do a little sun bathing out on the balcony. I knock off at five,
and I'm home at five. I can have a drink if I want, and it won't be to wind
down from fighting traffic."
The scene faded into a shot of Drinkwater at a combination
desk and work table. A bank of TV screens curved in a horseshoe shape along one
edge. In the center was a pair of thick gloves suspended from universal-jointed
trusses something like an old fashioned dentist's drill. Cables led from the
gloves to plugs on the desk.
"In deference to our video audience, Armand dressed
for work this morning," Lunan's voice said over the scene. Drinkwater,
wearing a black bathing suit that blended invisibly with his thick pelt, put on
the gloves. His hands made precise motions. A complex shape took form on one of
the TV screens in front of him.
"I mostly make one-of-a-kind items," Drinkwater
said. "But this happens to be the prototype for a production run.
Everything I do is recorded, and when I get it right, the computers will take
over and make a hundred just like this by doing what I did. I get a
royalty." He lifted a micrometer and applied it to nothing; a similar
instrument appeared on the TV screen, and another screen lit up with
measurements. Drinkwater nodded in satisfaction.
"What are you making?" Lunan asked.
"Pump for a heart-lung machine," Drinkwater said.
"I think this lot's for export to
The scene moved back to real time, Lunan interviewing
Drinkwater. "I take it you like it here," Lunan said.
"Nope. I love it."
Tony Rand smiled.
The scene shifted. "Meet Rachael Lief," Lunan
said. "Ms. Lief is a bulldozer driver." Lunan paused for effect.
"As you see, Rachael doesn't look like your typical tractor driver."
She certainly didn't. Tony remembered meeting her once: a
short woman, not particularly pretty, but very delicately built, with small
features and piercing dark brown eyes, and a voice so raucously loud that you
expected to hear glass shattering when she spoke.
"But then," Lunan said, "not every bulldozer
operator works on the Moon." The cameras followed the trim woman into
another room, where there was a replica of a large tractor. It was surrounded
by TV screens. One screen showed an astronaut seated in the driver's seat,
staring impatiently into the screen. A bleak, nearly colorless pit showed over
his left shoulder.
"About time you got here," the astronaut said.
"We were busy." Rachael sat down in the driver's
seat and took hold of the controls. "I relieve you."
There was a pause. "Busy hell - all right, I stand
relieved. Thank you."
The bulldozer moved through the lunar strip mine. Lunan
alternated views: inside Todos Santos watching Lief move the controls; the
scene that she saw in her control screen; and a composite from over her
shoulder looking into her monitor. "As you can see," Lunan's
disembodied voice said, "this is no easy job. When Rachael gives a
command, it takes over a second for the signal to get to the Moon, and another
second for the information to get back to her. It takes a lot of computer power
to work this trick, but it's worth it. Meet Colonel Robert Boyd, commander of
Moon Base.
"Colonel Boyd, does it help to have Earth-based
machine operators?"
"Sure. It costs a lot to keep people on the Moon. Now
it's like I have four or five times as many people up here, and I don't have to
feed them or find air for them."
"High technology applications," Lunan said.
"You see a lot of them in Todos Santos." The TV scene changed to show
other Todos Santos people: electronic assemblers, an elaborate chemistry
laboratory, a man making intricate drawings using a computerized drafting
table, more waldo operators. Then it changed again to show children in the
jungle tree, people playing on the roof, swimming in rooftop pools.
"There's more than work," Lunan said. "They
play hard too. Industrial feudalism can be fun, as we've seen. But why are
Todos Santos residents so exuberant? It isn't just freedom from freeways-"
The TV came back to Lunan standing in front of a bank of TV
screens. They showed a bewildering variety: people sprawled on balconies,
people working, people walking in corridors. Uniformed police watched the
screens, some lolling back in comfort, others peering intently at the TV
monitors.
"Security technology in Todos Santos is modem,
too," Lunan said.
Tony Rand cursed. Whatever Lunan's information was, it
couldn't have been worth this!
"Who the hell let
him in.-" He looked closer at the screen. "Son of a bitch. It's a
fake. Damned good one, though. Wonder who described the security room for
him?" They'd even got the chart showing the leaper results.
"The only place Todos Santos residents are not under
full surveillance is in their apartments. The security guards have the
equipment to look even there, although they're not supposed to do it except
when asked to, or if there's good reason to suspect a resident is in
danger," Lunan said. The scene cut back to Drinkwater.
"Do you ever worry that the police might be watching
you when they're not supposed to?" Lunan asked.
"Should I?" Drinkwater shrugged. "Maybe I do
think about it sometimes. We've got jokes about what the guards know, what
they've seen us doing. Thing is, though, they're our guards. Our friends."
"You love it here," Lunan said. "Doesn't all
the constant surveillance ever bother you?"
"Bothers hell out of me if it fails," Drinkwater
said. "Goddam FROMATES got LSD into our food
once. Put four residents into the giggle ward. If it hadn't been we had a
bartender who'd been through that stuff to talk them down, we'd have lost some
stockholders."
"You said FROMATES. Are you sure of that?" Lunan
asked.
"Who else would it be? Bleeping bleep keep trying,
too."
The scene shifted to the Mall, with a guard post
conspicuous in the foreground. Lunan's voice asked, "Did you always feel
that way about police?"
"Nope." Drinkwater laughed. "When I was a kid,
my folks gave me that 'the policeman is your best friend' jazz, but it didn't
take long to find out what a crock that was. You may get friendly with cops,
but that's mostly to talk them out of giving you a ticket, right? You don't
like them. Look, suppose you're a solid citizen. Never been in trouble. You go
out with your buddies and you have one too many, and you're trying to get home.
No accidents, but maybe you weave just a little, and the cops see you. What
happens?"
"You get a ticket-"
"You talk fast. And you still get busted,"
Drinkwater said. "Not here. In here the police work for us. I get drunk on
top level and get lost, the guards bring me to my apartment."
A pretty girl came onto the screen from the right. She went
up to the guard station.
"We recorded this yesterday," Lunan said.
"Meet Cheryl Drinkwater, Armand's daughter. Unlike Armand, Cheryl grew up
in Todos Santos."
She smiled pleasantly at the guard. "I had an
appointment with my father, but I'm going to be late," Cheryl told him.
"I'm not sure where he is." She held out her Todos Santos identity
badge. The guard returned her smile and nodded in understanding while he put
the badge into a slot in his console.
"Mr. Drinkwater is in the 40th Level Hideaway,"
he said. "Do you want to telephone?"
"No." Cheryl's grin widened. "Just let him
know I'll be an hour or so late-"
"Sure thing. Have a nice day."
The camera zoomed back, a long way back, to show Thomas
Lunan standing on a balcony overlooking the kaleidoscopic Mall. Cheryl
Drinkwater and the guard booth were almost invisible dots far below. The scene
dissolved to a street in
"Of course we've been unfair," Lunan said.
"Not all police encounters outside Todos Santos are unpleasant, and there
have been murders in the Box. Last year a man used a kitchen knife on his wife
and two children."
Sure, Tony Rand thought. But Marlene Higgins had lived long
enough to push the panic button, and the TS guards got there in time to save
the third kid who'd been hiding in a closet.
But those kids with the boxes of sand … how could I have
saved those kids? Tony wondered. And Pres. Judge Norton had given her decision
very quickly after the evidence was presented, sooner than anyone had expected;
Preston Sanders would stand trial for murder. Damn, Tony thought. Double damn.
Tony got up and went to the icebox for a beer. When he came
back, Lunan was lecturing.
"Feudal societies are always complex: everyone in such
a society enjoys rights, but few have the same rights. There is not even a
pretense of equality -- of rights, nor of duties and responsibilities.
"There is, however, loyalty, and it runs both ways.
The Todos Santos resident is expected and required to be loyal, but in return,
Todos Santos gives protection. Todos Santos accountants negotiate income taxes
for the Box. Committees test consumer products-"
Sure do, Tony Rand thought. I still get burned up about
those damned paper towels, good quality, but they put the perforations so far
apart you used up two when you only needed one, and I could never remember
which brand it was until the evaluation committee gave them the "Ripoff" rating sticker.
"Loyalties in Todos Santos tend to be personal,"
Lunan said. The scene faded in to show Art Bonner's office. Lunan spoke
feelingly about the luxuries Todos Santos provided for its General Manager. Then
back to Armand Drinkwater.
"Armand, are you jealous of Mr. Bonner's
position?" Lunan asked.
"Great Ghu no! I only have
one boss. Mr. Bonner works for everybody."
"Loyalty and protection," Lunan said. "The
ties of the Oath of Fealty run in both directions. The trend in the
The scene shifted to Commons. There were a dozen residents clustered
around Art Bonner, but Tony was looking at the low ceilings, which looked even
lower on television. They ought to be higher, dammit-
The telephone rang. Tony's phone turned down the TV's sound as he picked up the
phone. "
"Art Bonner. Has Sir George Reedy called you
lately?"
"No. I wish he would, I need to talk to him."
"I've set it up for him to tour Security and the power
plants. Tony, if he asks you to show him around those areas, beg off, will
you?"
"Sure. Why?"
"Hell, Tony, how much do we want an outsider to know
about our defenses?"
Sir George Reedy, a Fromate spy?
That was laughable. Still paranoids have enemies too. "Okay, Art. Is that
all?"
"No. Did-" Bonner interrupted himself; stopped to
consider. That was odd. Art never did that. Then, "You know about the
court decision today."
"Sure."
"Have you been watching Lunan's documentary?"
"Yeah-"
"He got me to thinking," Bonner said. "I
never thought of this place as a feudal society, but maybe he's right. Tony, we
haven't delivered what we promised. Not to Sanders."
Tony didn't say anything.
"So it's time we did," Bonner said. "Tony, I
don't think our legal people can get Pres off. Johnny Shapiro told me today the
best legal tactic would be to plead guilty to a lesser charge-"
"Pres won't do that,"
"I know. Even if he would, I couldn't let him. And
even if we can get a not guilty verdict, Pres will have paid too high a price.
It's not justice."
"No, it's not," Tony said. "But it is the
law."
"Also it's bad advertising," Bonner said. "I
don't mean for profits. I mean the message it gives to anyone else out there
who's thinking of trying a repeat with real bombs. We need to let the world
know we take care of our own. So. I want you to think of a way to break Pres
out of jail."
"Huh?"
"You heard me. Plan us a jailbreak. I don't want
anybody to get hurt, and I don't want LAPD to be able to prove we did it. But I
don't at all mind them knowing it was us.”
"Art, you have lost your mind?
"Could be," Bonner said. "But it won't hurt
you to look at the problem." The phone went dead. Bonner sometimes forgot
to let people know when he was through talking.
Ye gods, Tony thought. He went out to the kitchen for
another beer, thought better of it, and dialed for a Scotch. When he looked
back at the screen he saw his own face. Lunan was saying something about the
"court magician."
Court magician. Tony wasn't sure he liked that. His drink
came, and he tossed it off. He decided not to order a second. Jailbreak. Was
Bonner serious? He had to be. Art knew how much work
Of course Soled hadn't built it all. He hadn't wanted to,
because he wanted the design to evolve, and it hadn't, not far enough to
construct. He never did do a final design. But Tony Rand, with degrees in
architecture and engineering and experience working with Soled, and
considerable fame from building the new
Maybe, just maybe, he thought, I could have got away from
those vertical walls? But how? We wanted as much park area as possible. And
there was always the budget. And it had to be built, with available labor and-
Did Angelinos really read rejection into those high walls, as Lunan claimed?
Give them a different shape, and maybe two innocents wouldn't have died.
And maybe we couldn't have defended the place at all? The
FROMATES didn't much care for Soleri, either.
Commercial time. Tony shook his head. "Be a nice
girl," he said aloud.
"READY," MILLIE's
contralto answered. "YOU HAVE A MESSAGE FROM SIR GEORGE REEDY."
"Later. Tell me about conspiracy."
"CONTEXT?"
"Law."
"CONSPIRACY. CRIMINAL LAW. A COMBINATION OR CONFEDERACY
BETWEEN TWO OR MORE PERSONS FORMED FOR THE PURPOSE OF COMMITTING, BY THEIR
JOINT EFFORTS, SOME UNLAWFUL OR CRIMINAL ACT, OR SOME ACT WHICH IS INNOCENT IN
ITSELF, BUT BECOMES UNLAWFUL WHEN DONE BY THE CONCERTED ACTION OF THE
CONSPIRATORS, OR FOR THE PURPOSE OF USING CRIMINAL OR UNLAWFUL MEANS TO THE
COMMISSION OF AN ACT NOT IN ITSELF UNLAWFUL.
"THE ESSENCE OF A CONSPIRACY IS AN AGREEMENT, TOGETHER
WITH AT LEAST ONE OVERT ACT, TO DO AN UNLAWFUL ACT-"
"Enough. Thank
you."
"ANYTIME."
Well, we haven't conspired yet, Tony thought. Not yet. But-
Damn, I need to talk this over with someone. Security problem there-it would
have to be someone who'd be told Bonner wanted him to plan a jailbreak. Who?
The trouble with being a loner is you're alone- He thought for another moment,
then lifted the phone. The TV considerately muted its sound. He tapped in half
a number and hung up, thought about it, punched again. The phone rang six times
and he was about to hang up again- "Hello?"
"Delores? Tony Rand."
"Hi, Tony." There was a question in her voice.
What the devil did
"Did you see Lunan's broadcast?" Tony asked.
"Some of it-"
"Good. Look, your boss has gone nuts, and I have to
talk to somebody,"
There was a long pause. "Um. Tony, I'm dripping
bathwater. Come down in twenty minutes, okay? We'll talk about it. I'm sure Mr.
Bonner knows what he's doing-"
"I used to think so too."
"Oh, come on. Anyway, shall I have coffee waiting, or
a drink?"
"Thanks. Uh-both. Irish coffee."
A tiny pause in which
"Done," she said, and hung up.
Twenty minutes. "Be a nice girl and call me in fifteen
minutes," Tony said aloud, using the voice shift that MILLIE recognized.
"SURE THING, BOSS. I HAVE MESSAGES-"
"Give them to me."
"FROM SIR GEORGE REEDY. 'I WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU AGAIN
TO DISCUSS DETAILS OF MY NEW ARCOLOGY. I UNDERSTAND HOW BUSY YOU ARE DUE TO
EMERGENCIES. ARE YOU FREE FOR DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT?"
"WILL DO."
"Thank you."
"ANYTIME."
Lunan was taking a camera through his own apartment in
And what of Zach? My boy's growing up in that, instead of
here where he belongs. And does Genevieve deserve that? Oh, damn- Lunan was
back with the Drinkwaters again. Cheryl was saying,
"I don't see how you can live like that. I don't see how anyone
could." And now back to an Angelino woman saying, "I don't see how
they can live like that. Eyes on the back of your neck, all the time. Sure, I
shop there-" Cut back to the Shopping Mall again, view down a fast pedway,
another kaleidoscope; boys with toilet paper rope (Tony smiled; it happened to
him at least twice a year); Cheryl again, laughing. "No, of course
not," she giggled. "Nobody ducks. Well, Angelinos duck-"
Not bad, Tony thought. Not bad at all. He dressed
hurriedly, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He wanted to talk, dammit; but his glands told him he wanted something more,
and he might, just might
“ - siege mentality," Lunan was saying. "Todos
Santos has always seen itself as apart from
Cut to Barbara Churchward, neatly tailored skirt suit and
bright silk scarf, radiating both femininity and competence. "A large part
of our development loans go to outsiders," she was saying. "Of
course, most are to let outsiders come inside. But yes, we depend on
"So you do depend on
Churchward laughed. "Let's just say we spend a lot of
money in
“- and an ugly mood has developed lately," Lunan said.
"Typified by a phrase that seems to have caught on in Todos Santos."
The camera zoomed down on a sticker attached to an elevator door. "THINK
OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION."
"Since nothing happens in Todos Santos without at
least tacit approval by Bonner and his people," Lunan said, "we may
assume that the TS managers agree with this sentiment. I haven't been able to
trace the origin of the phrase-"
Ye gods, Tony thought. I have seen that stuck up here and
there. Lunan makes it look universal, but it's not, not really. And dammit, where did I hear it first? Somewhere. The night
Pres had to kill those kids-Yeah, that night, but not then, earlier. The
leaper. Hell, I said it! How'd it get out to the public?
"I'M CALLING YOU-000-000-000," MILLIE warbled
"
"Thanks, sweetheart," Tony said. "Be a nice
girl."
"READY."
"
"HOW LONG, BOSS?"
"Indefinite," Tony said, and felt his stomach
knot again. Ah, hell.
Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir
men's blood.
-Daniel Hudson Burnham
The Irish coffee was waiting, still hot, the whipped cream
half melted.
"So Mr. Bonner has gone out of his mind," she
said.
"Yeah. He wants me to-"
"I know what he wants," Delores said.
Hmm. Did Bonner call her, or had she called Bonner to
report the court magician's misgivings? Good question. I can find out who
called whom from MILLIE. Or I can if Art doesn't mind my knowing. MILLIE was
one of the few systems in Todos Santos that Tony Rand didn't control. At least
not completely. His mind toyed briefly with an idea, a way to get MILLIE to
tell him things Bonner didn't want known- "Well?" Delores asked. She
gave him a half smile, an indication that she understood his preoccupations but
she was damned if she'd be ignored when he was in her apartment.
"Delores, you've known Art a long time. Is he
serious?" Tony asked.
She looked at him. "Tony, we can't leave Pres with the
Angelinos."
Oops. Carefully, Tony said, "That's not Pres's opinion. I think he wants absolution. He wants to be
acquitted in court."
"No matter what it costs us?"
Tony shrugged. "Maybe he hasn't thought of it that
way. He thinks it's his life."
"And it isn't," Delores said.
"Put it this way, Tony," she said. "We-well,
Johnny Shapiro - claimed no crime was committed. That Pres was doing his duty.
And now Judge Norton has ruled against us. What does that mean?"
"Well-"
"It means that the
"Legal maneuvers-"
"Sure. So if we're lucky we get Pres off on
technicalities. Won't he just love that?"
"No. But a jailbreak?"
"It's not impossible, is it?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought that far." Tony
looked at Delores and saw she was in dead earnest. "It'd be a felony
whether it worked or not. Even talking about it is felony conspiracy-"
That didn't faze her either. Of course it wouldn't. Tony
giggled.
"What?"
"Well, I suppose Art could always find someone to
break us out of jail-"
"He would, you know." Delores was dead serious.
"You haven't touched your Irish coffee."
"Thanks." He sipped, then gulped, a bit too cool,
but strong, bitter and sweet. Irish coffee tastes like a black magic healing
spell.
"How do we break him out?" Delores asked.
Trapped. But he couldn't be jailed just for talking about
it. Conspiracy requires an overt act-"I guess I'd tackle the computer
system."
"How? I've got a terminal-"
Of course she did. And voice pickups too. Tony finished his
Irish coffee, then took the chair. It didn't take him long to summon up plans
of the new Los Angeles County Jail. He ran through all twelve floors, then
returned to the plan for the ground floor. It was about half cells and half
administrative offices and waiting rooms. "Pres is a VIP," Tony said.
"Ground floor. Mmm … he said he got sunrise on
the wall. Say southeast side. And the computer's on the top floor, but we don't
really need to know that."
"What do you need to know?"
"MILLIE knows a lot already. We could fool with the
computers. We might even just issue orders to transfer Preston Sanders to the
Todos Santos jail."
"If anyone noticed-"
"We'd be up shit creek. We have to fool a computer and
some human jailors, and they're likely to notice anything that happens to
Sanders. He's their star guest. Thanks," he said, as Delores handed him a
second Irish coffee. "Maybe we walk someone in, someone who looks vaguely
like Pres. Switch them, and switch Pres's description
in the computer. He's got a cell mate," Tony recommended suddenly.
"That's bad."
"Maybe not. The cell mate wants to sell us
plumbing." Tony pulled thoughtfully at his drink. Below conscious thought
he was aware of a woman's hand resting lightly on his shoulder; but his mind
had forgotten Delores, the room, everything but the screen before him. "I
don't like it. Everyone in that jail, from the warden to the garbage collector,
know Sanders's face by heart. You know why? Not because they've seen him. Because
they watch television."
"Can't we get sneakier than that? Make our stooge look
exactly like Pres?"
"We've got a problem there. This is a felony,
remember? We'll be leaving someone else in the pickle. And there aren't too
many individuals of the black persuasion in the upper ranks here. Of course we
don't have to be sneaky-"
She laughed. "Whyever
not?"
"Art doesn't care who knows we did it. Prefers they
know. All he cares about is whether they can prove it in a
"That should make things easier."
"Maybe." He stared at the screen again.
"Maybe we just tell the courthouse computer to open all the doors at once.
Just a minute." Tony played with the keyboard. He had to give three
different security identifications, but eventually MILLIE agreed that he was
authorized to have the information.
"Yep. MILLIE can do that. So. But we can't count on
Pres cooperating. Otherwise, we could just send a visitor in, and when all the
lights go out, he walks Pres out through a horde of escaping convicts. With
sirens going off, and fake messages of mayhem on the fifth floor, and like
that. Look, it might work."
Delores sat down on the day bed. She was on her own second
Irish coffee. "Tony, none of these ideas are foolproof, are they? And if
we get caught, we're caught for keeps."
"I don't think there is any safe way. Anyway, we're
just talking, right?"
"For the moment."
"It'd be nice if we had a plan where we could back out
halfway, wouldn't it? So we could try something else."
"Yes?" Delores looked wary.
"You think I'm trying to back out myself. Not so. What
we can do is get them to move Pres outside. The whole cell block goes funny,
right? The lights go on and off. The caterers aren't delivering anything but
escargot. The hot water shuts down. The fire alarms go off."
"The doors between the men's and women's wings
open-"
"Yeah! The orgy begins, and the guardroom doors lock.
The air conditioning system goes on, then the heating system-"
"-With disinfectant smells-"
"Then air conditioning again. Ruining the orgy. All
the prisoners have to be transferred out. We get someone else's computer system
to send Pres anywhere we want, and break him out on the way."
"Do you think it'd work?"
"I dunno. I've given you
four separate plans. What do you want from the court magician?"
"Aha! I saw that too."
Tony had noticed that her TV was on with the sound muted.
"I saw it," he said. "I wonder if he wasn't right. We're a new
feudalism. That's what we're doing now, isn't it? Snatching our man out of the
king's hands."
Delores nodded, and she didn't smile. She said, "Tony,
what do they do at the courthouse if the power goes off?"
"I don't know. Let's see. No lights … no computer.
They must have procedures for when the computer goes haywire."
"I'd think so."
"Then none of this will work. Sooner or later you come
up against human beings. That's the thing about people who think they hate
computers. What they really hate is lazy programmers."
"Don't give me philosophy lessons, Tony! How do we get
Pres out?"
"Brute force? How rough do we want to get? We could
send Shapiro in with a briefcase full of shaped charges. Blow the wall and go.
You don't need me for that. Or take thirty of the security force through … hold
it a second." Tony summoned up the ground floor plan for the
Delores was looking at him with active dislike. Lamely,
Tony said, "Maybe we don't have to use bullets? Gas? Or … I could rig
something sonic. A friend of mine came up with something for a novel. A jet
engine running in a truck, with baffles behind the engine to put out sonic
waves at terrific amplitude and ... "
He paused a moment. "Be a nice girl."
"RIGHT HERE, BOSS," MILLIE said.
"Human Factors. Physiology. Sonic effects."
"TOO MUCH TO TALK ABOUT, BOSS."
"Show it to me."
Data flashed across the screen. Tony nodded. "Enough.
Thanks."
"At nine kilocycles," Tony said. "It kills
everyone within a couple of blocks by ripping the walls of the capillaries
apart. We'd want something else, a frequency to stun without killing. Don't
know if-"
Her expression hadn't changed.
"Delores, this kind of thing isn't done any more. We
can't just tie a rope to the bars of a window and whip up the horse."
"So you'll invent a whole new technology for the
purpose? Tell me more, Dr. Zarkov."
Tony looked down at his empty mug, then up. "Turn on
the sound," he said.
"What?"
"The TV, dammit! Be a nice
girl. Television audio on." He was looking at a door on a concrete wall.
The legend carefully printed on the door in magic marker said: "THINK OF
IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION."
"Beaten to death at the foot of the stairs,"
Lunan's voice said. "The victim has not been identified, but it is
established that he wrote the phrase not long before he was killed. No one
knows why, but it seems to be the earliest appearance." There was a long
shot of a pathetic bundle huddled on subway stairs. Tony recognized the
clothing.
"Be a nice girl. Television audio off."
His eyes were still on the screen, and he was grieving.
Delores asked, "What is it?"
"He died anyway. He didn't go off the high board, but
we pulled him in and sent him off in the subway, and he got off at
"Tony?"
"We can bust Pres loose. One way or another. Did you
know there's a cable from the Mayor's office to the White House? It's for Civil
Defense. We can give the Emergency Alert and they'll have to evacuate the city.
We snatch Pres in the confusion. But what do we tell him? Shall we tell him
it's my fault? I designed it wrong. I shouldn't have let them talk me into flat
walls."
"Tony, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Flat walls. The flat walls make Todos Santos look
like a fort. Or a prison. Or a school. I could have done something else.
Different shapes. It would have been as easy to defend, because you only have
to defend the ground-floor level anyway. A pyramid, maybe. The damn leapers
wouldn't have come flocking to a pyramid. Why should they?"
"Build a pyramid and we have no greensward,"
Delores said. "I remember that argument. Tony, you wanted a pyramid."
"Yeah. I should have fought harder."
"Why? Are you trying to bar Death from Todos
Santos?"
She had him by the shoulders and was trying to shake him.
"People die, Tony. They die."
He laughed. "Do you know what Pres would say? He'd say
I'm flying a starship in my head. He'd say I just planned to drop the deceased
out of the airlocks."
"Would a Civil Defense Alert break Pres out?"
"Oh …" It was getting hard to think. In theory an
Irish coffee was the perfect drink for this kind of work. It released your
imagination without letting you sleep. "I'd think the rest of the
She studied him for a moment. Then she stepped to the phone
to order more drinks. They waited, and she watched him.
"Nothing up my sleeves," Tony said. "I'm out
of ideas, Delores. Sorry."
"I didn't mean to shoot you down," she said.
Tony shrugged.
The drinks came. She handed him his, sipped from her own.
Then she moved behind him and began to knead his neck and shoulders. She had
strong hands. "You're all knotted up," she said. It felt good. His
tension started to melt beneath her fingers. "Did I do that to you?"
"We've got to think of something. Maybe I shouldn't
have shot you down every time. Tony, what if I just ask for a dozen ways to get
Pres out of the damned jail. And no remarks from me."
"It isn't that."
"Well, what is it, then?"
The edges of Delores' hands drummed on his shoulder
muscles, almost viciously, but it felt good. It put a vibrato in Tony's voice.
"I almost got seduced by my wife."
The rhythm broke. "What did you say?"
"Ex-wife. I went to see Pres, but visiting hours
weren't until
Delores said, "Take off your shirt and lie down on
your belly. On the floor."
He did. She knelt above his hips and went to work on his
lower back. Tony sprawled out with a long sigh. "I bet I impressed her,
though," he said. "I not only walked out of her bedroom, I waited in
the living room and drank coffee and made conversation until Zach came home. I
think he saw some tension, though. He's eleven, and he's bright. He knows
there's something wrong."
Delores was running her thumbs along the edges of his
scapulae and on up to the base of his skull, digging in hard. "What does
she want?"
"She wants to move in here. Over my dead body she
will. When I wasn't getting rich and famous fast enough, she walked out on me,
taking my son and custody of the money. Now there's no place safe outside ... umph ... except the place I built, you should pardon my
natural egotism."
"She's not after more money?"
"She'd better not be! She had a sharp lawyer for the
divorce. Claimed that since she put me through architecture and engineering
school, she had a right to a percentage of my income forever. Got some kind of
sliding-scale alimony deal. She lives damn well. Doesn't work. Well, to be fair
about it, she's on a dozen civic committees and things. Toyed around with the
FROMATES back when we were first building Todos Santos-"
"I wouldn't think an ecosimp
would want to live here." Delores kneaded the shoulder muscles, working
from outside in, then back out again.
"Ah, give her credit. She didn't stay with that crowd
very long."
"Tony, it doesn't add up-"
"What doesn't?"
"If Zach is eleven-haven't you been here longer than
that?"
"Yeah. What happened was I got through engineering
school and wanted to study architecture. She didn't like that much. Wanted to
quit work, start moving up in the world. But she put up with it for a while,
until I got the chance to spend a year at Arcosanti-"
"That didn't pay enough?" Delores guessed.
"Didn't pay at all. I had to pay to go there. Paolo
never did have a lot of money. So Genevieve walked out and started the divorce.
While that was dragging through the courts I got lucky on the
She let him chatter on while she pounded on his back.
"Zach isn't even mine," Tony said. "Well, I
mean he is mine. The blood types match, and you'd know it just looking at him
anyway. But legally he was conceived out of wedlock, and I don't have any claim
on him at all."
"I'm surprised you didn't remarry."
"Delores, the morning after Zach was conceived, a
dozen Sierra Club people came to her apartment for an emergency strategy
meeting. The emergency was Todos Santos. The goddam
chapter president had a key to her apartment! I walked out screaming, and
didn't take any phone calls. Zach was six months old before I knew he existed.
Hey, that feels wonderful." But talking about Djinn
is not relaxing, he thought. Not at all. Damn, she almost had me today. I
wonder if she's still as ... oh, crap.
"Take off your pants."
He craned to look over his shoulder. "My legs are
tense? Or-" He didn't bother to finish. Delores had taken off the tops of
her hostess pajamas and was taking off the bottoms.
Tony rolled over. "I hope I remember how to do
this," he said.
There was no pale skin on Delores, no mark of a bathing
suit. Either she sunbathed nude on her porch, or not at all. Her skin was
smooth and hot to the touch. "Now, that can hardly be called premature
ejaculation," Tony said, "considering I've been thinking about it for
several years now."
She laughed softly. "It's always better the second
time. Do you feel like scratching my back?"
Any excuse to touch you, he thought. Should he say that?
"Any excuse to touch you," and he ran his fingernails in large,
luxurious circles, gradually descending. Djinn had always
liked that. Bloody hell, what a time to think of her. But she's the only woman
I've ever been really intimate with. Intimate, as opposed to-what? Is this
intimacy?
She moved and made purring sounds when he reached the swell
of her buttocks. "Erogenous zone, mark," he said.
"Check. I bet I can find yours."
They made love again, and it was better. Good the first
time, better the second, and how long could they keep that up? She left him
flat on his back, checked their Irish coffees and found them cold, and ordered
fresh.
One more datum for the bartender, Tony thought. He rolled
on one elbow to watch her as she walked about the apartment, naked. She was as
he had imagined her when she wore the orange hostess pajamas, except that she
had been wearing a bra and panties. She came back, found him ready, spread him
flat on his back to reverse their positions. They were at climax when the Irish
coffees arrived, and the table dinged to announce the fact, and Tony started
laughing and couldn't stop. Would Todos Santos be pleased that Rand and Delores
- the court magician and the keeper of the privy seal - were in love? Likely
they would.
He sipped Irish coffee and contemplated her back and the
world was a nice place to live in.
"Where did you meet her?" Delores asked softly.
"Tenth grade algebra class - uh, who?"
"Never mind."
The sky was gray with dawn, and they'd finished another
round of drinks, and she still hadn't mentioned Preston Sanders, and Tony Rand
wasn't sleepy at all. "Let's lay down some rules," he said.
"First, we want something we can back out of. Second, we don't mind using
Todos Santos equipment, if that's what it takes, and if we can say it was
stolen. Third, we involve as few people as possible. We use only people near
the top."
She nodded. At no time did she seem puzzled at what he
might be talking about. And then he knew. Their love affair was several hours
old now, and it was going just fine. But it had started when Delores decided
that Tony Rand had to be jarred loose from his depression ... somehow.
And it's still felony conspiracy.
Damn Lunan. Resident magician? Everyone who saw that show
would know who planned the jailbreak. But if I stop planning now ... or just
keep my mouth shut?
He was kneeling cross-legged on the bed, looking down at
his feet. He didn't have to look up. He knew that Delores was waiting,
cross-legged herself, the mingled sweat drying on her, her expression serious,
waiting.
Dammit, nobody can command a
genius to make new inventions. Nader tried that on
General Motors. General Motors made a car that wouldn't start unless the seat
belt was fastened, and sometimes not even then, and some woman got raped by
four big men because she couldn't start her car fast enough to drive away from
them, and it almost happened to Djinn that time the
purse snatcher chased her except she had the spray can of toilet bowl cleaner-fah.
All I've got to say is- "I've got part of an
answer," he said, and now he was committed. The dawn light showed her joy,
and she was beautiful. "I've got to talk about it with someone. And I've
got to know where they're holding Pres. To the centimeter. My problem is, do I
involve you? You'd be a co-conspirator."
"Come on, Tony!" Her hands on his hands.
"I'm in. What are we going to do?"
He told her. She started laughing, and he joined her.
'Tis not what man does
which exalts him, but what man would do!
-Robert Browning, Saul
Genevieve Rand woke to the realization that there was a man
in her bed. It took her a moment to remember who it was, and she almost laughed
aloud, because it wasn't all that usual. A woman with an eleven-year-old boy
didn't get too many opportunities to begin with, and although Genevieve had - in
her view anyway - far more than her share of sexual drive, she was also rather
particular about her bed partners.
Arnold Renn had looked better in
the dark. This morning his mouth was open and he snored gently. Genevieve tried
to sit up, and her head pounded. Another unusual situation. Slowly it came back
to her. Tony's visit. Damn. I almost had him. So close. Then that goddam pride, his and mine both, that always got in our way
when what we both wanted to do was hop in the sack and make believe it was an
old Chevrolet van stuck in a snowdrift in Minnesota and we thought we'd better
share blankets or we'd freeze and neither one of us knew anything about how to
do it but we managed damned nicely anyway thank you, and- A long time ago.
But it wasn't
Not fair.
Tony left, and Zach got an invitation to an all-night
camp-out treasure hunt, and the bottle of bourbon was half-empty when Arnold dropped
by for the first time in a year, and even then he wouldn't have got anywhere
except that documentary came on and there was Tony looking so flipping smug.
Under her breath she said, "Court magician,
forsooth!" and got up and went to the kitchen. Her thoughts ran on: Court
magician, and what am I? And what is Zach? And even if Tony doesn't care for me
anymore (and he does, he does, damn it, I can feel it, I know he does) he sure
as hell ought to feel something for Zach.
She began breakfast, and the smell of eggs Benedict brought
Arnold sleepy eyed and unshaven to the table in an old dressing gown that he'd
brought over a dozen years before and she'd never quite got around to throwing
out even after Arnold married. He'd never looked less attractive, but Genevieve
didn't resist when he kissed her. He was dutiful, not passionate, so there
wasn't a fight, although she wouldn't have minded having a fight and getting
him out of her life forever, except- Except what? she wondered as she sat
across the table from him. Except that he can make me feel wanted? There are
other men who can do that, why keep this one around? He's persistent, I'll say
that - "
He looked puzzled. "I hadn't seen you in a while and I
missed you. Why?" His puzzled look seemed genuine enough.
"Oh-I don't know. Tony was over yesterday."
"Was he, now? To see Zach?"
"Unfortunately."
Renn looked pained.
"Genevieve, I have never understood your infantile infatuation with that
man. You're worth a hundred of him."
She giggled. "You've made it clear you think he's got
a negative worth. What's a hundred times a minus number?"
He shared her laugh. "You know what I meant." He
was silent for a moment. "Genevieve-"
He'd tried to call her "Ginn"
once, and it sounded like Tony's "Djinn,"
and she couldn't stand that.
"Genevieve, for God's sake, if you feel that way, why
don't you take him back?"
"Take him back!" She laughed and felt rising
hysteria and choked that off so that her voice was calm when she said,
"What, and live in the termite hill?"
"If need be."
"I thought you Fromates
hated that place."
"I'm not a Fromate. But yes,
I disapprove of Todos Santos. For a lot of reasons which I'm sure you're tired
of hearing me repeat. I was thinking of you. And your son. I've always loved
both of you-"
I guess you have, she thought. At least enough to ask me to
marry you. Several times, in fact.
And she'd often wondered: did Renn
think Zach was his? He could have been. She'd slept with Renn
the night before Zach was conceived. And again after Tony walked out. The blood
tests made it certain, but
"Are you going to
see him again?" Renn asked.
"I doubt it."
"You ought to. Look, if there's anything I can do to
help-"
"Greater love and all that? You'll help me trap my
ex-husband? Regretfully, of course-"
"Something like that," he said. "I really do
want you to be happy."
"What does Tina think of all this?"
Renn shrugged. "Tina doesn't
interfere."
He'd tried to speak in a tone of indifference, but his
voice was full of irony all the same. Genevieve wondered if the stories she'd
heard were true, that Tina slept around, with
"Maybe if you moved into Todos Santos,"
"Sure you could. Give me enough to become a
stockholder in the Box." Her laugh was bitter. "What's the matter,
"Damn it, I am trying to put you ahead of
ideologies."
"I guess you are. That's sweet." Also just a
little unbelievable, she thought. What has come over him? "
"So you have to make him want you there," Renn said. "And you have something he wants-I presume
he does want Zach? He believes Zach to be his?"
"Yes." Dammit, he knows
Zach is his. Why didn't I say that?
"Then negotiate. Tell him you don't like it in
"I've thought of that," she said, more to herself
than to Renn. "Tony doesn't blackmail -"
"If you say it right, it isn't blackmail, it's an
opportunity for him to talk you out of something." He stood. "If
you'll excuse me a moment-"
"Sure."
Renn left the room. Genevieve
drummed her fingers against the dinette table. It might work, it just might. I
never wanted to put that kind of pressure on Tony, but why not? I'm not getting
any younger. And if Zach is ever going to live in an arcology, he ought to grow
up in one.
Might as well get dressed. She started toward the bedroom.
"Oh, I dropped the telephone. Just checking to see
that I didn't break anything. Looks all right." He tightened the earpiece
cover and set the phone down.
"I will talk to Tony," Genevieve said.
"And-I think you're more right than you know. If I can't bring him around,
it probably would be better to leave
"Hate to see you go,"
"I won't. You're sweet,
Tony Rand got off the elevator and went to the balcony
edge. Midgard was a sight he always stopped for, even if it did trigger
acrophobia. Too bad Delores couldn't be here with him. But there'd be time and
they both had work to do, and always would. But being in love was a new
experience (well, new again; he'd felt this way when he was married to
Genevieve) and he didn't want to be parted from her even for a little while,
even for this men-only luncheon.
He stood halfway between the floor of the Mall and the top
of the pillar. Midgard was egg shaped, with view windows all around, and the
bar at the small end. It was packed with men in three-piece suits.
They tended to form groups, small clumps of stability while
others circulated with grim determination, maneuvering to be introduced. The
older (and probably wealthier) men would find themselves in conversation with
the younger newcomers, conversation punctuated with quick turns to greet old
friends. Tony shook his head. There wouldn't be any real business conversation
here.
A dozen hostesses circulated through the crowd;
long-legged, pretty girls in their best party dresses, obviously models hired
for the luncheon. There'd been a time when Tony would have looked at them
wistfully and wondered how he could get to know one of them. Now he could be
amused at the other men's efforts, which, when you came down to it, were futile
anyway. These girls weren't for sale (although they certainly were interested
in furthering their careers-).
His new-found objectivity was enlightening and wonderful.
But the room was far too crowded. There were elbows
everywhere. The transparent walls helped dispel feelings of claustrophobia, but
they did nothing to alleviate bruises and spilled drinks. Conversations flowed
around him, none interesting enough to catch his attention, although it made
Tony feel good to find that he could understand what the people next to him
were saying. The sound-absorbent cones in the ceiling worked perfectly, keeping
down echoes and the general noise level despite the overcrowding.
In fact, he thought, maybe they work too well: There was a
chap yelling his head off at a friend not more than five meters away, and the
friend was ignoring him. Deaf? Rude, as the yeller obviously thought? Tony went
over to find out, fighting his way to a place next to the man being yelled at.
He turned and listened.
"Sam, goddammit, I know
bloody well you can hear me!"
Tony could just make out the words. He shouted back,
"No, he can't hear you." To make it more effective he made it look as
if he were screaming at the top of his lungs, knowing the shouter wasn't going
to catch on. Then he pushed his way across again. "See? You can't get his
attention from that far away. It always surprises Angelinos on their first
visit to Midgard."
"Ah. Okay." He looked at Tony, puzzled, then in
comprehension. "
"Some of it. The sound absorbers. Not the rest of
Midgard, although I wish I had."
"It's nice," the man agreed. He put out his hand.
"Joe Adler. I'm with Disney Studios. I was admiring the holos." He pointed up to the center of the ceiling,
where a probe's-eye view of Saturn hung in splendor. The view changed as the
probe moved toward the Rings, wide-angle views of .the Saturnian system alternating
with close-ups of the intricate Ring structure, panning over to the twisted
streamers of the F-ring, then back to wide angle. "That's damned
nice."
"Thanks. That part's mine too. When the probe gets
past, the lunch is officially over."
"Good work. You ever think of consulting for the
studios? You could make a bundle."
Tony grinned. "In my copious free time. I take it this
is your first visit?"
Adler nodded. "Yeah, I just got promoted. One of the
studio brass suggested I should contribute to Big Brothers. Suggested it strong
enough that I called in and reserved a ticket the same day." He gestured
at the crowd. "How do we get a drink?"
"Allow me," Tony said. He waved toward a waitress
to get her attention and to let her see his gold-edged badge. She wriggled
through the crowd like an exotic dancer, never touching anyone, took their
drink orders, and vanished. In an astonishingly short time she reappeared with
a tray.
"Guess you are a magician," Adler said.
"There-My God!"
"What?" Tony demanded.
"Someone just fell past the window!" There were a
lot of people clustered around the windows now. They chattered excitedly, but
there was no aura of panic. Damned strange, Tony thought. He pushed his way
through the crowd, heedless of custom or good manners or anything else. Another
leaper? Or Fromates- "There goes another
one," one of the businessmen shouted.
"Wow!"
A human-sized Golden Plover with iridescent feathers fell
past in a headlong swan dive. Tony reached the window just in time to see the
diver brought up short by the cables that trailed out behind. He - no, she-had
almost hit the Mall deck before the cables had completely stretched. Now the
girl bounced through the air, arms widespread, held by a pair of enormous shock
cords, a riot of brilliant color. Seconds later she was joined by a boy dressed
as a California condor.
"Bungee divers," someone said.
Aha, Tony thought. They do that-where?
"Damned right. I nearly had a heart attack." But
it was damned interesting. Wonder why we never had anyone do that before? Maybe
it'll catch on.
Adler drained his glass. "There sure are a lot of
prizes."
Tony nodded. The luncheon included a raffle. The biggest
prize sat in the middle of the room, roped off, crowding the bar area even
further. Everyone was crowding to the window, so Tony made his way to the
center area and examined the machine: a floatcycle.
He'd never seen one of the two-person ground effect vehicles up close, but the
ads said it would go over any land or swamp terrain as well as calm water.
There were other prizes around the walls: portable televisions, expensive
clothing, a hang glider, jewelry, and half a dozen kinds of home computers. He
turned back to see that he'd lost Joe Adler to one of the hostesses. She was an
Angelino, Tony noticed. She'd probably seen the Disney Studio label on his
badge.
As usual there were too many at the table, so that Tony's
elbows were jammed into his sides. He didn't catch the names as people were
introduced (or if he did he didn't remember them) so he had no idea of whom he
was talking to, but they did seem to admire the decor, particularly the
holograms.
"I'm surprised to find somebody like you sitting with
us," the beefy man across the table said. "I saw Art Bonner in the
bar."
Tony smiled and tried to be friendly. "Corporate
policy. When we have outside guests, they like us to mingle."
"Makes sense."
Generally does, Tony thought. Of course I'm not the world's
best ambassador, but what the hell. And it was fun talking about the holograms.
.
A couple of radio comics had been imported to raffle off
the prizes. They also told jokes. Fairly rough ones- "I wasn't too sure
about our welcome. I don't know if Floyd noticed, but they brought us in
through Accessway 9, Level 18, past the hydrogen
pipe-"
"-and the big sign that says 'Do your bit for human
evolution.' I haven't been so nervous since the Reverend Jones invited me to
"Another example of evolution in action, I suppose. Neverthestill, here we are, once again, to help
redistribute the wealth-"
"Taking from the rich to give to the rich."
"But first, these updates for those of you who like to
keep posted on what's happening outside these walls." The comics whipped
sheets of notes from inside pockets.
"We're still paying taxes."
"We're still complaining about paying taxes."
"Death and taxes and a word from our sponsor. Hey, you
people seem to have solved taxes, how're you doing on-"
"Jake!"
Uncomfortable laughter.
"-Sponsors? Hey, speaking of sponsors, James Shapiro
would like to update you on another aspect of the outside world: the great work
being done by Big Brothers of ... "
"Those birds have been retired for years," Tony
said. The man to his left chuckled. "Sure. And who do you suggest we
get?"
Tony frowned. "Ah. Yeah, I see. Jake and Floyd have
been retired long enough that we remember them from before we built Todos
Santos-"
"Exactly. While modern radio people are known mostly
to freeway drivers. Look, I'm Louis Charp-"
Quick handshake. "I did a lot of the work setting this up. Jake and Floyd
have been good to us, we'd probably bring them as guests, but how can we get a
little more current?"
Jake and Floyd began raffling off prizes, with the
assistance of some of the ladies. Tony mulled over the problem. What stars
would Angelinos and Saints have in common?
Louis Charp asked, "Do you
still watch TV? Soaps, situation comedies?"
"Not those, no. They don't seem to make much sense.
News well, mostly in-house news, actually. Even the Tonight Show monologue was
pretty cryptic last time I watched. We get movies on the cable," Tony
realized suddenly. "That new guy in Star Wars Eight, the sarcastic one who
keeps poking holes in Han Solo's physics?"
"Rip Mendez. Mmm ... maybe.
He might go for it. He's got an adopted son."
The table emptied, and Tony was able to move again. He
stretched with a sigh of gratitude and ordered another cognac. For the moment
his mind was clear of problems. He'd half finished the cognac when he became
aware of a man standing expectantly near his chair. Tony didn't recognize him.
"You're Tony Rand, aren't you?" the man asked.
"I recognize you from Lunan's documentary."
Tony sighed. It was flattering to be recognized, but there
was a price to that. "Yeah, I'm the court magician."
The man grinned and put out his hand. "George
Harris," he said. "We've got a mutual friend-"
Tony frowned. He was sure he'd heard the name before.
"Preston Sanders," Harris said. "My cell
mate on weekends."
"Have you escaped from the jail?" Tony asked.
"In a manner of speaking-"
Tony's mood was completely shattered now. "How?"
"I just walked out-they let me out, Sunday night to
dawn Saturday. Except for holidays. Holidays I go back in." He explained
the work furlough program. "But weekends I room with Pres."
Like a bloody omen, Tony thought. "How are they
treating you?"
"Not too bad, now. Mind if I join you?" Harris
didn't wait for an answer. He sat next to Tony and caught the waiter's eye.
"Two brandies. Anyway, it was pretty rough before they moved me in with
Sanders, but now it's all right."
"Could you take something to Pres for me?"
"Nothing you couldn't send him through the Sheriff's
office," Harris said. He grimaced. "They search us going in. Why, did
you want to send something? I'd be glad to help, anything I could do to help
that fine young man-"
It wasn't hard to draw Harris out. He liked to talk. He
wanted to tell Tony about his electrical supply business in between stories about
the jail, but after a while Tony had a good picture of the jail schedule.
The weekend schedule, he reminded himself. They might do
things differently the rest of the time. So it'll be a weekend, he thought, and
his heart thudded once, hard.
"I try to cheer him up," Harris was saying.
"These things don't last. Look at Watergate. Forgotten. And all those big
Mafia scandals. Same thing. People don't remember after a while. Of course that
was pretty drastic, killing those kids, and Jim Planchet keeps things stirred
up good, but I don't talk to Pres about that. Mostly I try to get him to keep
in shape. Exercise. If he'd work out good every day, he could leave that place
in better shape than he went in. Look at the bright side, that's what I tell
him."
"Pres gets pretty moody," Tony said.
"Boy, and how, it's all I can do to get him
talking-"
"He's also polite."
"Yeah, he sure is-hey, it was great meeting you. I've
got to get back to the office now. Could I come see you sometime? I'd sure like
to show you those new computerized light switch units. I can make you a hell of
a price in the quantities you'd buy-"
"I'll call you sometime," Tony said. "Thanks
for telling me about them." They shook hands and Tony waited until Harris
had left, then picked up the untouched brandy that Harris had ordered for him.
His hands were shaking as he drained the glass.
There is nothing-absolutely nothing-half so much
worth doing-as simply messing about in boats.
-Water Rat in The Wind in the Willows
Barbara Churchward smiled at the couple across the table
from her. "Then it's settled," she said. "I don't think you've
made a mistake."
"I hope not," Rebecca Plan said. She seemed
nervous. Which, Barbara thought, she had every right to be. Ted and Rebecca
Plan had just bet everything they owned on a long shot. Of course it was a long
shot for Barbara Churchward, too, but she was used to that sort of thing. Not
all her gambles had to succeed. Just enough to cover the rest and make a bottom
line profit. It was different for Ted and Rebecca.
"We'll have the equipment installed by next
Monday," Barbara said. "I've found space for you not far from your
apartment."
"When could we move in?" Rebecca asked.
Barbara stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment.
"Tomorrow after four," she said. "The Services people will have
everything ready then."
"You make things happen so fast," Ted Flan said.
"I wouldn't have believed it-"
Barbara shrugged. "If it's worth doing at all, there's
no point in being slow about it. Quite the opposite. The sooner you get into the
market, the bigger your share will be." She gave him her best smile.
"And I'm certain it will be a large share."
"I think so, too," Rebecca said. "I always
thought Ted could be rich, if he just had a chance--"
Which just might be true, Barbara thought. Ted Plan was a
brilliant man with insufficient confidence in himself. It wasn't that he didn't
have the drive. He worked himself silly. With his energy properly directed-
Just now, though, the problem was to get rid of them. The deal was made, the
papers signed, and there was more work to do. But of course the Plans weren't
the kind of people who could leave drinks half-finished in an expensive place
like this. Normally she'd never have brought them. The Inferno Bar was hardly
the place to do business. Midgard was much better. You could leave people to
enjoy Midgard and they'd never notice you'd gone. But Midgard was taken up by
the Big Brothers' fund raiser, and Rebecca had wanted to see Inferno.
It was worth seeing. One whole wall was a looped hologram
tape of
"Great place if you dig bleak," Ted said.
"There are those who like it," Barbara said. She
nodded to acknowledge a greeting from a gathering of men in three-piece suits
grouped around a table near the bar. Two had shed their jackets and were arm
wrestling.
Others came to join them.
"When does anyone get their work done?" Rebecca
asked. "It looks like the whole business community-"
Barbara laughed. "It very nearly is. The Big Brothers'
lunch was today. Annual event. They figure they'll never get any work done
because they're half-looped. So why not finish the job? Including, I see, the
General Manager of this place. Uh-if you could manage to excuse me, I think I'd
better join him."
"Oh, sure, not at all," Ted said. He stood
quickly.
Rebecca joined him reluctantly. "We haven't seen the
casino-"
"Plenty of chances for that," Ted said.
"We'll be living here." Yes, Barbara thought. And I wonder just how
much interest in the casino Rebecca has? MILLIE. Monitor financial
activities at Inferno for new residents Ted and Rebecca Flan. Notify me of any
activity over two hundred dollars.
"After all," Ted was saying, "We wouldn't
want to see everything in one day-"
"I suppose not," Rebecca said.
Barbara stood and offered her hand. "I think you'll be
very happy here. Good luck."
They shook hands, and Ted turned away. Then he stopped.
"Oh. I forgot." He fished in his coat pocket and came up with a key
which he held out to Barbara. "You will take care of Katie, won't you?
She's something special-"
"We'll find her a good home," Barbara said. She
put the key in her purse and watched them leave the bar. When they were gone,
she turned to go back to her office.
"Barbara-"
Nuts, she thought. No escape now. Tony Rand had seen her,
and he looked a good bit more than half-looped. "Hi, Tony."
"Hi. I'd like to ask you a favor."
"Oh? Sure, if I can-"
"It's kind of complicated," Tony said.
"Well, I was planning on working-"
"It's important," Tony said. He led her toward a
table. Barbara watched analytically as she followed. He's part drunk and damned
nervous, she thought. I'd better see what he wants.
"Sometimes this place is just a little too
efficient," Barbara said. "I didn't really need a drink." Nor,
for that matter, did you.
"Relax,"
"You've a point there," she said. The arm
wrestling game was continuing loudly-an Angelino deputy district attorney
against one of Shapiro's assistants. "What's your problem, Tony?"
"Hah. I've got a dozen problems. Including Art's
latest idiocy-',
"Yes?"
"Oh, you know-"
"No, I don't, Tony," Barbara said.
"But you have to know. You're on the management
council. He has to tell you. It's in his charter." He gave her a wink.
"You know-"
She let her voice show impatience. "Tony, I don't have
the least idea of what you're talking about, and I don't have time to play
games."
"But-" He looked up at the ceiling. "The
cones work. I don't think anyone can hear us-"
"Tony, if you're about to say something Art wants kept
secret, I'd advise you not to. There are Angelinos all over."
"Yeah. I know." He tossed off the Scotch and
waved at the waitress. "That wasn't the favor I wanted anyway."
"Good." MILLIE. Link me to Bonner.
"Art, your court magician is in his cups and wants to babble all our
secrets."
"I have another problem. I'm afraid of my wife."
"What?"
"Ex-wife. She called me. Wants to talk seriously with
me. If I don't give in to her demands, she moves to
"Barbara, I see you. Want me to come over?"
"Not just yet. But you better think of a way to
get him out of here."
"That's easy. Give me ten minutes and he'll be
gone."
"What are her demands, Tony?"
"She wants to live here, for starters," Tony
said. "And I think she wants me."
"And you don't want her."
"No. Good Lord no. Not now."
"But you don't want her to move to
"Why not?"
"I don't-I just don't."
Tell me about Genevieve
Rand.
Data poured into her mind. She hadn't time to digest it
all, but one thing was obvious.
"I suppose it's
the boy?"
"Yes-"
"Are you being fair to him, Tony?" Barbara asked.
"You're building your starship, and you're leaving your son behind-"
"You didn't have to be so damned blunt about it."
"Sure I did. That's what's bothering you, isn't
it?"
"Yes, but I don't know what to do about it. Barbara,
the only way he could live here is to have Djinn live
here too. He's legally hers, not mine."
"Yes, Tony, I know. But I don't know why you're so
dead set against her being here."
Tony was quiet for a long time. Barbara shook her head.
She'd never understood
"If-" he hesitated. "If I had to see her
every damn day I'd probably be married to her in a year."
"But if-Tony, if you think you'd marry her again, why
would that be so bad?"
"Because she's lived off me for all these damn
years," Tony said. "And she never did a damn thing for me all that
time. Where was she when I needed her? Now it's the other way around."
"So you're making her pay, but you get no satisfaction
from it because it hurts your son."
"You sure have a way with words," Tony said. He
brooded for a moment. "But I guess it's true."
"Then it's simple enough. Bring her here and put her
on the other side of the building. Todos Santos is a big place."
"What would she do here?"
Barbara digested more information. "She seems to have
done all right as a civic leader. Quite a natural organizer. I expect she'd do
well. Probably be a neighborhood representative within a couple of years-oh.
That's the problem, isn't it? You think she'd do too well."
"I'm not that petty."
Oh yes you are, my friend, Barbara thought. I wonder just how
long that little dilemma has been eating away at you. "Art, I
really think you should get Tony out of here soon."
"I've sent for reinforcements. Shall I join you
now?"
"One moment more."
"Tony, what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to talk to her. Negotiate for me. You're
the sharpest negotiator I know."
"Sure," Barbara said. "I expect I am. But
for all my fabulous skills, Tony, what can I do? You don't know what you want,
so how could I get it for you?"
"I don't know. You could do something. Better than I
can." He hunched his shoulders forward and stared into his drink.
"Let her in. I won't be here anyway."
"Tony, what in the world are you talking about?"
"Nothing-Hello, Art. Enter the Grand High
Executioner."
"Art, what in the devil is wrong with him?"
"I told him to plan a jailbreak. He's scared."
“?”
"Contingency
plan."
"Sorry I couldn't be with you earlier," Bonner
said. "Big powwow with MacLean Stevens." He shrugged. "Nothing
we could really talk about, of course. The situation's cut and dried. Planchet
wants blood, and Mac's got to supply some."
"Ours," Tony said. "Maybe he'll get more
than he expects. I've been looking up the law on conspiracy-"
"That will do." Bonner's voice was edged with
ice. "You're drunk. Take the afternoon off."
"Oh, yass, baas. Take the
day off. Shuffle off, shuckin' and jivin' all the way-"
"This won't do at all," Barbara thought.
"Rough and smooth?"
"Right."
She put her hand on Tony's arm. "Art's right, we've
all had too much." She pointed to the low table by the bar. The arm
wrestlers were still at it, and there was a five-way conversation over their
heads, with no one listening to anyone. "And we're the soberest people
here!"
"Hi, Tony. Mr. Bonner." Delores came to the
table. Bonner stood.
"Hell, you sent for her, too,"
"Oh, hush," Delores said. She sat next to
"That's the spirit. Let's go." Delores stood and
dragged Tony up. "Gee whilhikers, Mr. Wizard,
you walk funny-"
"Oh, shut up,"
"Whew."
"Yeah."
"What did he want from you? He spent long enough
telling you."
"He wants me to negotiate with his ex.wife.
He wants-"
"STOP!"
The command was a shout in Barbara's head. Involuntarily
she put her hands over her
ears. "My God,
Art, don't do that!"
"Sorry." Bonner looked nervously around the room.
"Are you all right? Has everyone gone insane
here?"
He was looking at her but not seeing her. She'd never seen
Art Bonner like that. Indecisive. Something really strange was happening-
"Let's go somewhere," Art said. "And-keep the conversation
verbal and trivial for a while."
"Sure-where do you want to go? Your office?
Mine?" My place or yours. Hah. That'll be the day. I wonder what it would
be like? She felt his hand on her arm, and she stood, letting him guide her
past an erupting
He led her onto a crowded pedway. Todos Santos people
automatically moved aside to make room for them, but the Angelinos either
didn't recognize them or didn't care. No one spoke to them, and they rode in
silence.
Strange. Weird, Barbara thought. We could talk without
being overheard, only he doesn't want to talk through MILLIE. Something of his
sense of urgency kept her from using MILLIE at all, and she rode through the
crowded Mall, silent, feeling cut off from the world and alone for the first
time in years.
The guard at the exit gate stared in surprise. "Don't
you want someone to go with you, Mr. Bonner?"
"Thanks, Riley, we'll be all right. Going to look at
some property. MILLIE can find us if we're needed," Bonner said. He led
Barbara out to the subway platform.
"Art, what in hell are we doing?" she asked when
they were away from the gate.
"Getting out of Todos Santos for a while."
"Where are we going? I have to tell my staff-"
"No. Please. Not this time. We won't be gone
long."
She looked at him intently. "Are you drunk?"
"A little. Has nothing to do with this."
"All right. But where are we going?"
"Anywhere. Restaurant. Coffee shop. Someplace
random-"
"Boy, When you flip out, you really do it, don't
you?" A train rushed into the station and stopped. They hopped on it and
found seats. Bonner's face was a deadpan, no visible emotion, a study in self-control,
and that was a little frightening too. "Any preference on where we get
off?" she asked.
"No, but let's make it a couple of stops more."
"Sure." She looked thoughtful for a second.
"I know where we can go."
"Fine. Lead the way."
Meaning don't say it out loud? she wondered. Well, I won't.
The train pulled into the
She was laughing as they went up the steps. "Were you
really worried about someone following us? Because I think I took care of
that-"
"You sure did. But no, I wasn't especially worried
about that."
They came out to bright daylight a hundred yards from the
ocean. To their right was a long stretch of beach, with dozens of Angelinos
playing in the surf, doing exercises on swings and jungle gyms, or just lying
around on the beach.
"Nice idea," Art said. "I haven't been for a
walk on the beach in ages."
"Actually I had something else in mind," Barbara
said. She led him off to the left, into the maze of slips and piers and docks,
through a forest of sailboat masts, searching for a slip number. "This
way," she said. They walked out a long pier and stopped in front of a big
single-masted boat. The name painted across the stem
was Katherine III.
"What's this?"
"I just bought it," Barbara said. "Well, for
the company, but I've got the keys. Want to help me aboard? My skirt's a little
tight to climb that rail-"
"Sure," he said. "Uh-those heels aren't
going to work so well on teak decks."
"Right." She took them off, then let Art lift her
over the plastic-coated wire guard rail. "Pretty boat," she said.
Art nodded. "Forty-foot motor sailor. You could sail
around the world in this. You bought it?"
"More or less. I took over the payments." She
took out the key and unlocked the companionway. A ladder led down to a large
saloon cabin fitted out with wide padded berths that served as seats along both
sides of a cockpit table. Art followed her down.
She looked around in the mahogany lockers. "Aha. JTS
Brown," she said, holding up a bottle of bourbon. "Or should I make
coffee?"
"A little bourbon won't hurt," Bonner said. He
found glasses in a fitted locker, and a small refrigerator below supplied cold
water. They sat at the table and Barbara poured.
"Typical story." Barbara said. "Young
couple, bright guy doing well writing software for a computer company. Making
lots of money, but they got in over their heads. Cars, fancy apartment,
furniture, this boat-so when his boss reneges on promotions, what can the poor
bastard do? He can't go start his own company, not owing all that money."
She grinned. "So I surprised hell out of the boss and set them up in
business."
"And the boat?"
"Distraction," Barbara said. "Look, we set
them up, and we're only taking 40 percent of the company. The rest is his.
We're risking a lot of capital-so I damned well insist that he risks everything
he's got. And I do mean everything. Gives him a powerful incentive."
"
"No pressures," Barbara said. "He's got his
office, a DEC computer, some lab space, a C3 apartment, and six months in Commons.
He doesn't owe anybody a cent and they can't starve. All part of the package.
Now all he's got to do is produce. And I know damned well he can do that,
because mast of what BFK Associates sells was written by him-"
"So you think of everything. How many of these deals
go sour?"
"Not enough of them."
"Eh?"
She shrugged. "A low failure rate means I'm not taking
enough risks. I'm supposed to take risks. My failure rate is down to -- Oh, DAMN
YOU, Art Bonner! We're out of range and I can't remember and I don't like being
cut off from my memory! What is going on?"
He sipped at his bourbon. "What did Tony want you to
talk to his ex-wife about?"
She shook her head. "Art, I won't play games any
longer. I want to know what's happening."
"Yeah. Hard to know where to start. You remember that
reporter, Lunan? You and the PR people thought it would be a good idea to turn
him loose-"
"Yes, and I don't think that documentary hurt us a
bit."
"Me either," Bonner said. "But that wasn't
what I was trying to say. He had an offer of his own. Information for
interviews. I bought it."
Art paused and sipped at his drink. "The information
was that a Fromate UCLA professor named Arnold Renn furnished the Planchet kid the data he needed to break
into Todos Santos. Okay, so where did Renn get the
data? We don't exactly advertise those codes."
She felt a tingle at the base of her spine. "Art,
where does Tony fit into this?"
"I had Security watch Professor Renn.
He spent yesterday night in Genevieve Rand's apartment."
"But-"
"Not the first time, either," Bonner said.
"Genevieve and Renn go back a long way, to
before
"Well, of course he would."
"Yeah," Bonner said. "And he took the kid to
Medical and had them take blood samples. Zach and himself. What he wanted was
complete blood types. Rh factor, M & N factors,
the whole damned works."
She frowned and started to frame a question in her mind,
but there was no response.
"The only reason for that kind of test is to establish
paternity," Bonner said. "Which he did. Insignificant probability
that the boy could be anyone's but his."
"But he did want to find out," Barbara said.
"All right. Fine. But-Art, you don't really think Tony Rand is giving information
to the Fromates."
"I don't know what to think. They'll be back, Barbara.
With real bombs, as soon as they know enough about our new defenses."
"Yes, but Tony?"
"I'm scared to think. Barbara-suppose he is? He
understands MILLIE better than we do! And MILLIE knows almost everything we
know. So when you mentioned Genevieve just after Tony was acting crazy, all I
could think of was to get the hell out and go where nobody could listen to us,
not even MILLIE." He grinned. "Sorry I was so melodramatic about it,
but I really was scared to think about it. I never felt that way before."
"I feel it too," Barbara said. "I think it's
called panic. I don't blame you for wanting to run. But - Art, I thought no one
could get at our files."
"Any security system is vulnerable. Especially to the
one who set it up in the first place."
"Yeah, but come on, Art. I don't believe Tony is a
traitor, and you don't either."
"No. And he's not usually a blabbermouth. But I
imagine it's hard to keep secrets from your wife, even if you're not living
with her. What did he want you to talk to her about, anyway?"
"She wants to live in Todos Santos. According to Tony,
she's wanted to for a long time, but he won't let her. Now - " She
repeated the conversation she'd had with Tony.
"She's putting the screws on, and Tony doesn't want to
talk to her," Bonner said thoughtfully. "Which may not mean anything,
and may mean-"
"I'm sure not. Certainly, she could be blackmailing
him, but Tony wouldn't have told her about the security codes."
"Renn got them from
somewhere," Bonner said. "And Tony's acting damned funny-"
"I'd act funny too if you told me to plan a
jailbreak."
"Would you?" He was perfectly serious.
She had to think about that one. "No. I guess I
wouldn't. Are we going to break Pres out?"
Art spread his hands. "Got any better ideas? Only-if
Tony's compromised, so is the plan." He poured more drinks, for himself
and for her.
"Should we be drinking any more?"
"Feeling it?"
"Some," she admitted.
"Good." He stood up, his eyes on hers.
So here it comes, she thought. Or not. It's all up to me.
All I have to do is make some funny remark. Or say anything at all. He's scared
to death! Of me? Why not? I've been a bit afraid of him myself.
She stood. Without her heels her head was just at the level
of his chin and she had to tilt her head up to look into his eyes. They were
very close in the narrow cabin. She stood, waiting, wondering what he was going
to do. It was a funny situation, Art Bonner, decisive manager of Todos Santos,
the man they all expected to be God, standing there trying to get up the nerve
to touch his colleague.
Maybe we'd better leave. Things won't ever be the same
between us if we- He put his hand on her shoulder. His easy grin was back.
"Damnation," he said. "I kept hoping for a
wave or something to throw us together."
She giggled. "The boat's awfully steady-" Then,
laughing, she threw herself at him. He caught her easily.
Extrasensory perception. Abbr. ESP Perception by supernatural
or other extraordinary means.
-American Heritage Dictionary
It was long past
First she studied the big, ornate steel buckle. Then she
pulled on it, experimentally. She found the catch and it came out of the belt
and became the handle on a five-inch blade.
"That's one you didn't show me," she said.
Lunan chuckled. "You were nervous enough."
She nodded "It felt ... dangerous. Walking all that
way from the garage and knowing there were no guards watching. Why do you park
that far away?"
"Well-"
"I know, you want the car safe, you told me. But how
can you feel safe, walking back? Is that what the knife is for? A knife?"
"I've never had to use it yet."
"Suppose the mugger has a gun?"
Lunan sat up grinning. "Does being nervous turn you
on?"
Cheryl grinned back. There's no way she could deny it,
Lunan thought. No way at all. She was turned on last night, and that's what did
it.
"It felt ... adventurous. I've never done anything
like this before," she said. She shook her head, curls flowing. "Like
something out of the past ... something starring Clint Eastwood, with enemies
on all sides of us and only one strong man to protect me."
I ain't Clint Eastwood, and I ain't all that strong, but I'll accept it- They had arrived
in late afternoon. He had showed her the locks on his doors, the cheap stereo
equipment in plain sight, the good equipment all hidden, the shotgun behind the
sofa, watching her reactions. He had assumed she would need soothing, but the
opposite was true. It had excited her. They had made love at once. Twice. And
they only pulled themselves out of bed to cook dinner.
That had fascinated her, watching him playing at impressing
her by playing chef. She'd never cooked a meal in her life. He'd finished in
time; they ate during the broadcast of Lunan's documentary on Todos Santos.
For I am your bold deceiver, thought Lunan. Poor Miss
Bailey, unfortunate Miss Bailey! Todos Santos had no place for the unabashed cocksman.
She'd disagreed with some of what his television image was
saying. They'd argued far into the night. He'd gleaned more than enough
material to start another documentary. Dan Rather, watch out!
But her attitude was ... suggestive. He was going to have
to brace Bonner again, and soon. If the rest of the Saints felt the way she
did, then Thomas Lunan wanted in. The next step Todos Santos took could make
Thomas Lunan famous. He watched her, a pretty but not beautiful girl,
attractive but not irresistible, and totally unaware that she was the key to
the riches of the Indies...
In that sense alone, Cheryl Drinkwater was the best thing
that had ever happened to him.
When she tossed him his pants, he bowed to reality and
began getting dressed.
She stopped in the doorway as they were leaving.
"What?" he asked. She was studying him closely.
"I had a lovely time, Tom. But I don't think I'll be
back."
Lunan had expected this. Sure. Not bloody likely you would.
But we both got what we wanted ... "You'd be very welcome." She shook
her head "I know," Lunan said.
"It was an adventure. You don't have to repeat an adventure. But maybe
you'll change your mind." He knew that she wouldn't.
An angel had gone slumming. No more than that. But-how much
variety could there be among the Todos Santos boys? Any Angelino was bound to
be an interesting experience for Cheryl. She's cut off from the mainstream. One
of us is.
Anyway, I tried to make it interesting for her. God knows
it was for me, and I owed her that, maybe. But if I'm a little miffed, she's
never going to know it-
Barbara woke in semi-darkness. The dock lights were on
outside, and some of the yellow light filtered past the curtains on the cabin
windows and fell on the cabin table, making strange patterns on her neatly
folded tailored suit and striped panties. Her brassiere atop the pile didn't
look like clothing at all. She moved lazily, snuggling closer to him, and felt
his arm tighten around her.
"Your poor arm must be asleep," she whispered.
"It's all right-"
"Why didn't we think of this before?"
He chuckled softly. "I've thought about it for five
years."
"Hmm. Me too. But not quite like this-"
The smile was still in his voice. "No. I wondered
what-"
"Yes. Well, we'll just have to find out, won't we?"
She giggled. "Here we are, both of us wondering what telepathic lovemaking
would be like, and we still don't know."
"We can find out."
"Or not," she said. "Art - are you sure we
want to continue this? We've stolen an afternoon. I'll bet they're going crazy
back there, wondering where we are. But they're wondering, now. Do we want them
to know?"
"Do you care?"
My darling, I don't care one damn bit, but then I'm a bitch
with no reputation anyway. You're the one who's got to worry. "Do
you?"
"Right now I don't even want to go back."
"Now just one minute, Mister! That's not even funny as
a joke."
"Why not?" His voice was serious, and that was
just a little frightening. "We're both rich. It's not as if we need our
jobs-"
"The hell we don't," she said.
He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. That's the part
Grace could never understand. That I could love my job and still love
her-"
"Now you've gone and said it."
"Said what?"
"That word. Love. Is this love, Art?"
"They call it making love."
"Damn you, don't make jokes. This is serious."
"Is it?"
"It could be."
He was quiet for a long time. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"I think we've been in love for years," she said.
"If love is sharing and caring and respecting."
"Hmm. Love without intimacy."
"We haven't needed intimacy. We can get all of that we
want, anytime we want," she said. "And have."
"Sure, but it's not the same, these affairs-"
"No." She nestled closer to him, then bit his
nipple.
"Ouch. Turn about's fair
play-"
"Not yet. Let's go back. They really will be worried
about us. And you've got a jailbreak to plan."
"Sigh. I suppose you're right. One of us has to be
sensible. You don't mind if I lose my head over you once in a while?"
"I want to move in with you. Would you feel
crowded?"
"Um ... we can make the next apartment over an
adjoining one." A pause, and a scowl. "Maybe. Check on it when we get
back."
"Good enough. We're at an age where we'll want some
privacy. And that'll make it official." She swung her feet over the edge
of the berth and began putting on her brassiere.
"What's the all-fired hurry?"
"Because, my darling, not only will they be worried
about us, but-"
"But?"
"I blush to speak of it, but there does remain that
unanswered question," she said. "And at our age, I doubt we could
manage anything three times in one day-"
He locked his fingers in her bra strap; tugged gently.
"You're kidding yourself. We're not going back to make love." She
turned to look at him. "We're going back to face a dozen emergencies. I've
got to check on Rand, and see if he's come up with anything ... " His
fingers loosened as he spoke. " ... see how we're doing with the new
defenses ... the bastards could be breaking in with real bombs! And I should be
checking on ways to get Pres out of
She nodded solemnly. "
"What?"
She laughed. "I tried to log it."
.* * *
Bonner felt MILLIE return to him while the subway train was
still approaching Todos Santos.
MILLIE?
RECEIVING.
Summary.
Information flowed. Nothing urgent had happened. He glanced
over at Barbara. She was staring at the ceiling, her eyes half closed.
Appointments?
NONE SCHEDULED. THOMAS LUNAN HAS REQUESTED ANOTHER
APPOINTMENT AT EARLIEST CONVENIENCE. HE SAYS HE WILL WAIT IN THE MIDGABD BAR.
Screw him. Tell Delores I'll be in shortly.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
He waited until Barbara's eyes opened fully. "Anything
interesting?"
"You rushed me off so fast I forgot an
appointment," she said accusingly. "I haven't done that in
years."
"Important?"
"Well, it could be. Sir George Reedy."
"Ah. Well, he wants to learn something. He won't be
annoyed. Or at least he won't admit to it."
"I suppose. Ah. Here we are. With any luck I'll see
you about midnight-"
"I'll keep an eye out for you."
Bonner's office staff had gone home, of course, leaving a
thick stack of messages on his desk. Five were from Lunan, who seemed desperate
to see him. Art thumbed through the stack, then dropped them into the
wastebasket before settling into his big high-backed leather chair and putting
his feet on the desk. He reached out to touch a button on the telephone
console.
A pause, then Delores's voice came through.
"Boss?"
"Here. How's Tony?"
"I fed him vitamin B-1 and a gallon of water. He'd
never heard of that. Can you imagine? He's just been living through the
hangovers."
"Is he in condition to talk?"
"Better than that. He sobers up as fast as he gets
smashed. We've been making notes on the you-know-what. On paper. Tony's a
little afraid of putting any of this in the computer."
"Good. Keep it that way. I'll drop in on you in an
hour or so, if you don't mind."
A momentary hesitation, then, "Fine. Welcome. But keep
it short. He has a dinner appointment with Reedy."
" ... Skip it. Send him to the sauna instead. 'Bye."
MILLIE.
HERE.
Locate Thomas Lunan.
MIDGARD.
Telephone link. Midgard headwaiter.
After a moment, the telephone said, "Yes, sir?"
"Find Thomas Lunan. He's a visitor, in the bar
somewhere. Send him up here."
Art Bonner's outer office was dark, and Thomas Lunan
stumbled twice as he made his way to the slightly ajar inner door. Shouldn't
have had a fourth drink, Lunan thought. Hell with that.
Art Bonner was sprawled in a big leather chair. He didn't
get up when Lunan came in, but he waved toward an open sideboard. "Make
yourself a drink."
Lunan poured a small scotch and filled the glass with soda.
He took a seat and lifted the glass. "Cheers."
"Cheers," Bonner said. There was a long silence.
"All right, what is it?"
"I've been thinking of a diplomatic way to say
this," Lunan said. "And there isn't one. Mister Bonner, are you
planning a jailbreak?"
That threw him, Lunan thought. Got right to him.
"Why do you ask that?" Bonner demanded.
"Because you are," Lunan said. "And no,
nobody told me. You don't have to worry about security leaks. I've talked to
too many of your citizens. They expect you to get Preston Sanders out of
jail."
"Who else knows? On the outside?" Bonner asked.
"Nobody I know of. Which doesn't mean someone else hasn't thought of it.
But I haven't told anyone. Maybe I should have." Lunan waited for Bonner's
response, and got an inquiring look. "I mean, you guys play that rough,
you could make me disappear. I'm not one of your citizens. You don't figure you
owe me a thing-"
"What's the point of this?" Bonner demanded.
"I want in," Lunan said. "I want an
exclusive, on everything. In return, you get the story told the way I tell
stories. Superbly. You saw my documentary?"
"Yes. It did us no harm-"
"It did you a lot of good, and you know it. Look, you
want the story to get out. Not naming names, of course. But you want
Bonner looked thoughtful. "Perhaps."
"Perhaps, hell," Lunan insisted. "THINK OF
IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION. Societies evolve too. That's the story you want out,
and I'll see it gets out!"
"You'll also be in a position to blackmail us."
"I'm in it now," Lunan said. "One phone call
and you won't get Sanders out. Not easily, anyway. But I'm not blackmailing
you. I told you all about Renn, didn't I? And I
didn't even take any precautions, because I'm not going to blackmail you. Not
now, and not later. I just want the story."
"And when the police ask you-"
"
"Maybe that's not quite enough," Bonner said.
"Maybe we'd want you to help out. Do something yourself-"
Lunan gulped. Shit fire, of course he'd think of that.
"All right."
"Good. We'll let you know. Just stay available,
because you won't get much notice."
"I don't need much notice." Lunan lifted his
drink in salute. He wanted to jump up and sing heroic arias. This would make
his career! And it was the only way to deal with these people. Level with them.
"Uh-you have thought about immunity," Lunan said.
Bonner nodded. "The D.A. can certainly give you
immunity from prosecution by the State of
"But not from you," Lunan said.
Bonner's smile widened slightly. "I knew you were an
intelligent man, Mr. Lunan. Cheers."
Tony Rand stepped out of the elevator, and leaped back as
shapes ran past him. He heard "Sorry!" and saw two teenage boys and a
laughing matron, crouched low, moving toward the swings at a dead run. They
wore dark coveralls, and their faces were striped dark as well.
The doors tried to close; Tony blocked them and stepped out
onto the roof, shaking his head. He was still a little wobbly from the
afternoon. Even so, he knew he should be feeling much worse. B-1 and water and
a sauna ... and never forget it, he told himself.
The restaurant was a fair walk from the elevators. Tony
passed gardens, a pocket-sized chaparral forest, a football field. He might
have been strolling through any park; there were no visual cues to tell him
that he was a fifth of a mile in the air.
The lights along the walk had been dimmed to twilight
level. Tony noticed other human shapes running or crouching in shadows. They
too wore dark coveralls and face paint, and there was a faint glimmer of
gemstones on their breasts. Tony kept his hands half-raised as he passed them.
Noncombatant.
He was nearly at the restaurant when there was a ruby flash
from behind him. The light-beam probed into the bushes ahead and to his right.
A young man, no more than fifteen, stood, as his dark coveralls flashed with
bright light. He cursed horribly, then sat heavily in the pathway and stared
moodily ahead. Tony nodded sympathy as he passed.
Schramm's was a glass bubble set at one corner of the Todos
Santos roof. Shallow steps led down from the entrance;
"I'd like to push a Volkswagen into Thomas Lunan's big
mouth,"
Sir George ignored that crypticism.
"I had a scare coming here. It was as if a street gang had taken over the
roof!"
"Nothing to worry about. It's a role-playing game. MAN
FROM UNCLE hunt club. Low-powered laser pistols, and suits that light up when
you're hit. Fashion designer named Therri organizes
them - it's considered an honor to be invited." Aha, Tony thought. He
still doesn't catch on. "Of course MILLIE and the Security force are
monitoring it."
"But-I would have thought you'd call it off during the
emergency."
"Hmmm. I doubt anyone even considered that. It's been
scheduled for months. Sir George, the stockholders don't like letting outsiders
run our lives." Tony noticed a waiter at his elbow, and ordered a fruit
daiquiri. Sir George's Pimm's Cup was empty; he
ordered another.
"Have you been keeping busy, this past week?"
"Oh, certainly." Reedy's
smile faded slightly. "Well, I'll admit time hangs a bit heavy while I
wait out your war. The combatants haven't much time for a visiting tourist.
When your Miss Churchward missed an appointment this afternoon, I thought I
would lose my aplomb. I needed that drink."
Tony nodded, feeling awkward.
"And yet it hasn't all been wasted time. What did
cause the war, Mr. Rand? More to the point, if I build an arcology in
"Do you have Fromate groups
in
"They're not a large influence. They might become one,
if we built something like Todos Santos."
"I wish I'd paid more attention to the bad
feeling,"
"I see other possibilities."
"Good! Enlighten me."
Sir George smiled. "Actually I came to be enlightened.
Still should I put my giant building inside the borders of an already existing
city? You weren't offered a choice there. I have one."
Tony's drink had arrived, and he sipped at it, cautiously.
He'd blown his head off once today, and once was enough. "Yeah. You should
be outside. You'll look less like competition. What else?"
"I've managed to see a good deal of Todos Santos. Your
power system, food and water storage, Security-all tend to make you independent
of outside supplies and outside forces. Are you aiming for economic
independence too?"
"Sure. MILLIE would have told you that."
"Quite right. Is that wise? You'll end as a bubble of
foreign matter inside the body of the city. Angelinos might well resent such a
thing, and
Tony looked at him. Practice for building a starship, he
thought. Is that where I went wrong? But-"Wait a minute. Isolation isn't
just a whim with us. It's what we're selling. People come to Todos Santos
because they can get free of what's outside."
"The crime rate?"
"Not just that. Sir George, suppose you just didn't
want to bother learning how to make out an income tax form? And deciding what's
deductible every time you spend ten bucks, knowing some supercilious son of a
bitch is being underpaid to second guess you? And keeping little pieces of
paper to prove it? It's a fun game, but why does everyone have to play?
Sometimes it feels like the government wants to turn everyone on Earth into
accountants." Sir George seemed about to interrupt, but
Sir George looked stunned. "I never felt that way at
all.',
"Plenty of our people do-at least that's what I hear
in Commons.
Sir George nodded thoughtfully.
"Maybe you're right, though," Tony said.
"Maybe we really shouldn't be inside anyone's borders. Build your arcology
outside city limits ... but get your subway built fast, because you'll need to
be trading with the host city. Have you decided where to put the project?"
"I have half a dozen sites to choose from." Reedy
smiled fleetingly. "I'll have to reject some.
Menus arrived. Tony ordered without paying too much
attention; he wanted to get back to the conversation. He noticed that Reedy,
too, had barely glanced at his menu.
Reedy asked, "How would you build a Canadian arcology?
Would you change the design?"
"Sure. I learned a lot, living here for all these
years. Anyway, Todos Santos is the wrong shape for a cold country. You'll need
more insulation, fewer balconies ... more storage for food in the winter …
"
Sir George had a sleepy look, as if he weren't quite paying
attention. It was wasted on Tony Rand, who stared out at
Reedy lifted an eyebrow and seemed thoughtful. "Thank
you. But there are other decisions I must make. For example, am I selling
independence, like you? And do I need such an elaborate security system?"
"I don't know," Tony said. "I'm an engineer,
not a manager-" Ye gods. Is he trying to hire me? He sure sounds like it. Naw, he couldn't be. But-"Uh--would you give the top
brass computer implants?"
Reedy frowned. "I hadn't thought of it. Implants are
expensive."
"What's it like to have an implant? To know anything
you want, just by thinking it? An arcology is terribly complex; it makes a
Saturn-type moonship look like a tinker toy."
"I believe I see what you mean." Sir George
smiled slowly. It wasn't his usual vague smile at all; it looked somehow
predatory.
There was a new door in the east wall of Art Bonner's apartment.
Bonner went through and found nobody home.
MILLIE. Time?
Location Barbara Churchward.
MILLIE told him, and he relaxed. She was just coming out of
the elevator, on her way. Moments later she opened the door and found him.
"Hello."
"Hi. How was Sir George?"
She shrugged. "As you predicted. Annoyed and
pretending not to be. He really is grateful to us. With what he's learned he'll
be able to get his Canadian arcology going in half the time it took us."
"Glad he wasn't too upset." He waved expansively.
"It looks like you've lived here for years. How'd you find the time?"
"I had Services move me. I'll be weeks finding out
where everything is. And how was your day?"
"Lunan's back."
"And?"
"He knows we're planning a jailbreak."
"Ye gods. How?"
"He's got a contact here. Cheryl Drinkwater. You saw
her on the documentary. I think she told him more than she knew."
Barbara subvocalized. MILLIE.
Data, Chery' Drinkwater.
Bonner broke in. MILLIE, phone link with Barbara Churchward.
"Love, I've started a file on Tom Lunan too."
Okay. MILLIE,
data, Tom Lunon.
Information whispered into her mastoid bone.
Updates-"He knows?"
"He's guessing. Cheryl can't possibly know, but she
must have told him how the stockholders feel. The subway adjunct is common
knowledge; he may have worked that in. Hell, maybe he's telepathic. Useful
trait in an investigative reporter."
"How will you handle it?"
"Take him along. Make him an accomplice. I told him
he'd be in at the kill ... Dammit, sometimes we
really do need some protection from our friends. This'll do it." He
stretched. "Tired."
She nodded. "How's Tony?"
"Delores sobered him up and put him to work. I don't
know whether he needs a keeper or not, but she's a good one, If she can stand
it." MILLIE, file ILLICIT.
Barbara's jaw went slack as she listened to MILLIE's characterless voice describing
Art grinned down at her. "I do admire subtlety."
"I'd have thought Tony would go for something more
complicated. Delores must be keeping him honest. Hey, let's go to bed."
Art looked back at the new door in what had been a blank
wall. They'd even remounted the pictures. "It all happened so fast - Yeah.
Let's."
"Too fast?"
He was stripping off clothing and tossing it through the
open door into his own apartment. They made a tight pattern on and around a
reading chair. "I'm adaptable. Are there any special daydreams you'd like
fulfilled?"
"I've been through that. Hell, I didn't mean to say that."
They moved into each other's arms. Eye to eye. Barbara
wondered. "How do you feel?"
"Half-excited, half-apprehensive. It's been a long
time."
"Why?"
"Complications. I get enough complications in real life
... for years now ... "
"This? Should we have waited?"
"Should have started earlier. Before those kids got
killed. Better late than never. What daydreams?"
"Rape. Once with a vampire. Costume number, masquerade
at a con ... science fiction convention ... we kept the costumes on. I was in a
white shroud. Tried not to move a muscle but ... why am I telling you
this?"
"It must be hard to lie subvocally:"
"What do you daydream, Art?"
"Fast. Sudden seduction. No complications."
"Fast, right!" She swung out of his arms and
yanked him toward the bed by one wrist. He found himself on his back, laughing,
still bouncing, and she was sitting on his hips. "Fast
enough?"
"And up against a wall. But I'm gettin'
old, and it's been a long day-"
"We'll try it some morning."
She wriggled, and they were locked. Barbara bent toward
him, and he thought, "No, stay upright. You'll pull loose."
"Thy servant." She swayed upright, and even
leaned back, hands gripping and tickling the back of his knees.
He gasped. He thought, "Lovely. You shine by your own
light."
He held up his hands,
and she took them, glowing at the compliment. His face altered as she moved up
and down, slowly. The messages passing through MILLIE became incoherent.
And finally, breathing as if he'd run a marathon, Art sent,
"I wonder what MILL1E thinks of all this."
Lunan found the tiny bar dead empty. He hoisted himself
onto a stool and said, "Keep it simple. Um ... Calvados. Soda on the
side."
"Be right with you." The bartender finished
pouring something pink and frothy out of a shaker, put that glass and a brandy
snifter in the wells of a drink tray and set it in the dumbwaiter. He was
grinning like a thief. He asked, "Insomnia?"
Lunan said, "Yah. Pure nerves." He took the snifter
before Levoy could set it down; sniffed, sipped.
"What's got you smiling like that at two in the morning?"
"I can't tell you," the bartender said happily.
"I just told thirty million people that there aren't
any secrets in Todos Santos."
"Well ... no offense, because you did a fine
documentary on us, Mr. Lunan. But you're not a stockholder."
Lunan nodded. "I never asked you what you think about
the Preston Sanders case."
The bartender's smile vanished. "I'm minded to brush
up on my explosives. It's been years since I swore I was gonna
be a law-and-order citizen, you know? But Sanders is a hero, and he's not being
treated like one, and that's wrong."
Lunan nodded. No surprises. All the saints must feel that
way. "Better make this a double."
"It's wrong. We can't let-" Levoy
shook himself. He poured another generous ounce of Calvados into Lunan's
snifter. "Okay, tell me what's got you so jumpy at two in the
morning."
"That, too, is a secret. And if I knew all of it I
wouldn't be so jumpy. Or maybe I would. Maybe I would."
"The Jacuzzi," Barbara thought suddenly. "We
wouldn't have to be young. Better than a wall, love. There's no weight."
"No privacy either."
"Lunan says privacy's obsolete here. Art, there's the
northeast-side Jacuzzi, on the roof. Reserved for adults. Lots of couples play
games there. Regularly."
"Not really privacy."
"No. Security knows. Some of them use it too."
"You?"
"No. I've been invited. Twice." She spoke part of
a name, and stopped. "I don't like this."
Art said, "We can cut MILLIE out of the circuit."
"Sure. I'm giving away too many secrets. But, Art,
shouldn't we get to know each other?"
"Good question. Ancient question. I don't feel
duty-bound, do you? We opted for some privacy in living arrangements. If the
link is too uncomfortable-"
She nodded. "Asshole. Duty-bound I Are we still linked? Eekl
Sorry, Art."
He chuckled "Price of telepathy."
"With
telepathy we could give each other pictures. Sensations. Memories."
"A great
sunset? A Japanese bath?"
"The night four of us lucked into a Beef
Wellington at Mon Greflier, It wasn't on the menu. It
was for a private party and the chef made more than he needed. It was the best
I've ever tasted, but part of it was just knowing we'd lucked into something."
"How
would a machine transmit that? It's hardly a sensation at all. I wonder if
we'll ever have real telepathy? Tony would know."
"Why did you and Delores ... "
She felt him tense against her. Tension slurred his subvocalized response. "I never knew. She just
dropped me. Meant it, too."
"Skip it.
What else do you daydream, love?"
"Orgies?
Never been to one-"
"Too damn
complicated."
"Oh?"
"It
actually went like this ... no, I only did it once. Fun while it was happening,
but they weren't very bright people, and afterward two of the men kept bugging
me. I'm sorry I did it. I was curious."
"With
real telepathy you could show me."
"I'll show you." She ran her fingers up his thigh, and he responded. "Just
pretend I'm six different women."
"I think you probably are."
The table in the next room opened and sprouted a tray. Art
went for the drinks. He handed a Pink Lady across the bed and said, "Now
it's really official. The bartender knows."
They touched glasses. Art wondered, "You've never been
married, have you? Why not?"
"Too ... hmm. What kind of a man should I have
married?"
"How would I know that?"
She spoke aloud. "I try to describe him and I get
contradictions. A househusband? How would I respect him? An ambitious type,
like me? But who runs our life? Who takes care of the kids and buys the
groceries?"
"A houseful of servants. Or the service department of
Todos Santos. No kid could be lonely or in danger in Todos Santos."
She nodded to herself, then suddenly looked him in the eye.
"Shall we?"
He thought about it. Kids love it in Todos Santos ... the
way Cheryl Drinkwater talked about the day-care center ... either of us could
raise a kid, here, if we split up or one of us died ... get him a link to
MILLIE at eight or ten? "Yeah. One?"
"The only child usually has problems ... nope, you're
right. Here it's one big family. She'd be okay. I'm not so sure about the computer
link. Age fifteen, maybe?"
"She? ... We could choose the sex."
"We could, but let's not. Let's gamble. And I'll get
my birth control implant taken out tomorrow."
"Hah. Then we're just wasting our time right
now."
She rubbed up against him. "All I get is
complaints."
"I've been wasting time, all right. Jesus, what I've
been missing! No, don't stop. Do you like this?" Fingernails scratching
lightly in a circular motion just above her buttocks.
"Like it."
Against their mastoid bones, a shrill buzzing.
And they were rolling in opposite directions.
"Invaders," Art panted, running for the chair where he'd flung his
clothes. "I knew it! Those kids were just a test run, and they didn't even
know it."
"We'll have to speak to them about their timing."
"Harshly." He stopped with his pants in his fist.
"Not too harshly. Damn, I don't want to kill anyone." MILLIE, phone
link with Security. And tell Sandra I'll be at the worry desk in four minutes.
The more technological sophistication we have
attained, the more destructive we have become ... Humans are destructive in
proportion to their supposition of abundance; if they are faced with an
infinite abundance, then they become infinitely destructive.
-Wendell Berry, author of "A Continuous Harmony"
"Let me in, dammit,"
Tony Rand shouted. "Who's the duty officer here?" This time. This
time. It ticked through his head like the sound of a clock. He couldn't think
what to do with his hands, and he stamped in impatience. This time. What was
keeping them? This time nobody would die.
"This is Captain Vito Hamilton. My apologies, but
you'll have to wait a moment - Ah. Positive identification. I'll open the door
now, Mr. Rand."
The door opened. He dashed into the Security control room.
The quiet calm of uniformed men at work calmed him too, a little although there
were signs that the guards took this seriously. Captain Hamilton was standing,
not sprawled in an easy chair; and many of the peripheral screens had doubled
crews.
One screen showed a map of the underground service areas of
Todos Santos, with moving red blips in one of the tunnels. Below it was a
screen entirely dark.
Blake didn't turn around. "Paint. They spray-painted
the camera before we even knew they were in the complex."
"How'd they get in?"
"Near as we can tell, they blew a hole through a wall
separating the sewer lines from maintenance access Tunnel 4-B."
"Use this one," a guard said. He stood to give
his chair to Tony.
"Five, we think," the captain said from behind
"Sounds like they're serious. I take it you haven't
seen them."
"Only one. They're screwing up most of our electronics
again. And they seem to know exactly where the TV eyes are. Ah. There we go.
Watch."
A screen showed an opening fire door. A shadowy figure came
through. Bulky, rounded, snouted ... Aliens aboard my
starship! The figure came directly toward them, raised arm hiding snouted face, and aimed something at the camera. The screen
went dark.
"Knew right where to go again,"
"Yeah,"
"I've been acting in command, with Sandra Wyatt
sitting in Mr. Bonner's office. Bonner is just getting to his station."
Tony picked up a phone. "Get Bonner for me-" He
waited. "Art? Tony Rand. I'm down in Security. Let me handle this."
There was a significant pause. "Okay. You don't mind
if I watch over your shoulder?"
"Would it stop you? Never mind. Thanks."
"Right. I'll tell Hamilton. If you need help, just
holler." The phone went dead.
"Yes, sir,"
"I know damned well MILLIE's
compromised," Tony said. He felt a tight knot in his stomach as he thought
about what he'd seen. Camera locations known. The thickness of the wall between
the sewer and 4-B had been known. And MILLIE couldn't remember that she was
supposed to monitor traffic in that sewer. There weren't many people who could
know all that and fiddle with MILLIE's programming.
Somebody was a traitor-probably somebody on Tony's own staff.
He fished in his pants pockets. "
Back to the tracking programs. How were the bandits doing?
Aha, Tony thought. "Let's try this." He began to type orders. The
refrain grew in his mind. This time. This time.
Captain Hamilton was surprised to see that the chief
engineer was grinning.
The five were sweating inside their wet suits. One reached
for the zipper down his chest. The man next to him slapped at his hand, glaring
behind the snout of his mask. They were all jogging, even the trailing two who
were carrying a box between them. Those two stopped, reeling, panting; then
began jogging again. Their breathing was stertorous,
and they stumbled frequently.
"Sounds like Cheyne-Stokes
breathing, doesn't it?"
"What did you do to them?" Blake asked.
"Well, I figured the next bunch of invaders would be
in something like wet suits, in case we used VX again."
"We're not? We really did obey that court order?"
"But-sir, I got the impression that we still had war
gasses."
"Me neither," Blake said. He glanced at Captain
Hamilton. "So," Tony said, "I put some quartz radiant heaters
along those tunnels to sort of enhance the effect. Now I'll bleed some air from
the turbine heat exchangers into the ventilating system for the tunnels ... Damn,
I wish the cameras were working. I'd like to see if they open their
suits." He grinned widely, plainly enjoying himself. This time! "At
least I can talk to them. They're coming to another interesting area. .
"New construction," the leader said. "Look
for new construction here."
"How the fuck do we do that?" Sherry demanded.
She was a big, burly woman, even without her equipment; and she was panting,
hard. "It's all new construction. Now what do we do?"
Then did the court magician's voice boom hollowly through
the tunnel. "RETURN TO YOUR FORMER LIVES. NONE BUT THE
The leader shook his head, the snout of his mask moving
from side to side like an anteater's trunk. "Fuck off!" he shouted.
To the others he said, "We hope this is it. Put some charges here and get
back out of the way." He glanced at his watch. "We haven't got much
time."
"I don't know, but I'm clearing my men out of all the
adjacent areas,"
"Yeah, do that. We plastered new cement all over
everything down there. With any luck they'll blow the wrong wall. Several wrong
walls."
The explosion overloaded the microphones, which momentarily
went silent. Then two screens lit.
"Nope. Northeast wall,"
"Already done," Bonner's voice said from the
speaker. "Now what?"
"We get to see where they're going,"
"Will they care?"
"By God," Bonner's voice said. "You have
another pickup?"
"Sure," Tony said. In fact, boss, I have three
more in there. Five's a critical area. This time ... God, I wish I could
remember which people know about which cameras. If I had an implant- If I had
an implant, Tony thought, I'd be getting false data from MILLIE, read directly
into my mind. Just this once, I'm glad I don't. So try to remember: was it
Alice who knew about camera 2, Tunnel 5?
The invaders went forward through the tunnels.
"
There was no answer.
"Christ, she's had it," Sherry said. "Leave
her!"
"You goddam bitch, she's one
of us-"
"Shut up," the leader said. "Sherry's right.
We have to keep moving. Get
Reese hesitated, then ran the zipper on her wet suit all
the way down. Now she might live, if the saints didn't use war gas.
"They lost one,"
"Right," Tony Rand said, with considerable
triumph. "One down and four to go. Get that one and take it up to Mister
Bonner. Ah, search it first, and we'll leave the camera on it till your men get
there."
"And I'm not tactful. Can you live with it?"
No answer.
The Security room door eased open. The entering guard was a
woman, looking still in her teens, and lean as a snake. She must have made
Olympic time down to the Mall and back, but she was barely panting as she
handed a yellow manila envelope to Hamilton, who passed it to
He fished out a page and said, "Hah."
Nobody commented. Tony shuffled through the notes-
handwritten, barely legible-found another page and said, "Right. Get me
Mr. Bonner." Dropped the papers and went back to watching.
"You go on," Sherry said. Her meaty face glowed
in the orange light, reflections off water, as if she'd just stepped out of a
very hot shower. "I can't go any farther."
"Get your ass up!" the leader shouted. "Put
that mask back on!"
"Go to hell!" Sherry said; but she said it from
the floor.
Gavin and Reese picked up her gear. The box was lighter
now.
"That's two,"
"You can't let them get much farther along that
way," Bonner's voice said.
"Yeah, I know that,"
"Yes, sir." The guard captain continued to stare
at the screen.
"All right," Tony said. "I guess it wouldn't
hurt if you put some of your armed people down there in Tunnels 5 and 6, sort
of parallel to these yo-yos."
Now they took one more turn, stopped, then went unerringly
to the TV camera. The screen blanked momentarily, then came on from another
angle as Tony activated the alternate pickup.
Damn, Tony muttered. Not much question about it now.
"Art? Our mole is Alice Strahler. What do we do about her?"
"Don't know yet. You sure?"
"I mapped it. She knew about camera 2 in Tunnel 5. She
didn't know about the radiants, and neither did the
bandits, but she was supposed to enter a monitor program, and she didn't. And
now they've knocked out a new camera she knew of, and didn't get one I never
told her about. I've got another double check coming up, but it's her."
"Your assistant."
"Yeah. Art, she may not be guilty of anything but
talking to the wrong person. She's a nice-"
"Okay, I'll deal with
Bonner's voice came on again. "Now just what are you
going to do about those jokers down there? I hate to remind you, but they're
getting close to the turbines and MHD systems."
"And if they zap one of those, we've had it. Yeah, I
got the picture,"
"Uh-uh. Last time it was fake a big fire. Tony, it's
the turbines. They don't really want to kill lots of people. Bad publicity.
They want to make Todos Santos too expensive to run. Believe it, they're after
the turbines."
On screen, the bandits were still moving toward the
turbines. They were slow, in a turtle's race with heatstroke, and Tony had one
more surprise for them before their route was clear, but after that- What now?
Wait? Send in
O Pres! I never really realized what you went through. He
looked up at the screens. The bandits had found the jog where he'd fiddled with
a wall. Now they were moving on. On the next screen over, the second bandit to
collapse had moved out of view. Damn! Two parties to keep track of now!
"
"Yes, sir."
This time. Tony heard Hamilton murmuring orders.
"Delta team to Tunnel 8. Automatic weapons. Full body armor as long as
they can stand the heat."
"What happens in 8?" Art Bonner's voice asked
from the speaker.
"I have another surprise for them," Tony said. He
tried to sound confident. This time. This time.
The corridor had angled slightly left. Everything down here
looked like new construction, but that jog wasn't on the map. But what could
they do if they left the map? They went on, pacing off their distances, until
Gavin said, "Here."
Reese and Lovin kept going,
staggering with the bomb box. Gavin shrieked, "Here!" He could barely
hear himself. Too many concussions.
They stopped, set the box down. A moment for heavy
breathing, then they were setting up the plastique. Lovin inserted the wire, and they staggered back down the
corridor.
The explosion slammed their eardrums. Gavin decided he was
deaf. It wouldn't matter; none of them had really expected to live through
this. They went back to where they had set off the blast. There was a shallow
crater in the wall, but it still stood.
Reese screamed something inaudible. Gavin shook his head.
They began to set another charge, bigger this time. Reese suddenly stopped,
then pulled his zipper down to his groin in one convulsive motion. Gavin tried
to shake him. Reese pulled away and ran, flinging his mask away, then the top
of his wet suit.
"That wall surprised them." Tony's grin showed
sick fear behind it. "I didn't just beef up the wall, I put frangible
disks in it and water behind to absorb the shock. And the other walls reflected
the shock wave back at them."
The bandits were running back down the corridor. "I
keep hoping they'll run out of explosives. Did you find the second bandit
yet?"
"First one must have reached medical by now. Second
one tried to go back the way they came. Found himself blocked. No camera, but
he doesn't seem to be moving. We'll have him in a minute."
The camera view was suddenly opaque with smoke and dust. It
cleared gradually. Light from Corridor 8 glowed through a thigh-sized hole in
four feet of wall.
"One more blast and they're through," Tony said.
"Why are they doing this?
"Do you have another camera back there, maybe?"
"If I can remember-" Tony tapped at keys, and a
screen lit. The third bandit showed clear, curled up with his back to a wall,
stripped naked, with face set in anguish and his hands over his ears. A gun lay
a good distance away.
The remaining bandits ran into view, and one seemed shocked
at his companion's condition. The other clicked something with his thumb while
he tried to cover both ears with his other hand and arm. Dust blew toward them.
On the other screen, the hole in the wall was comfortably
larger. "That's Tunnel 8," Tony said. No one commented. Everyone in
the room knew 8 was the crucial area. "Have you got your squad in 8?"
"They're there,"
"Get them clear for a moment. I've got one last trick,
but it's dangerous. Anesthetic darts." This time ... stoppit!"
He typed rapidly.
FILE NOT FOUND. FILE NOT FOUND.
"Goddamn it!" he shouted. "Never mind, I can
rewrite the program." Tony typed rapidly, watching two screens at once,
thankful for the touch-typing course his father had made him take in high
school.
One of the bandits eased through the hole in the wall. The
two wrestled their box through, then the second followed.
"They're after the turbines," Lieutenant Blake
said. "If they get those-"
"Blake,"
The guard lieutenant fell silent.
So what happens if they do get the turbines? Tony asked
himself. Nobody gets killed. But the cost ... And it would be a message to the
saints. Too many people hate you too fervently. You can't run Todos Santos
economically because we'll keep ruining your expensive equipment. You'll go
broke. You have to quit sooner or later. Why not now?
Well? Would the money men in
I'm defending my city!
"Did
"I've been trying to remember." He recalled boasting
about the darts. But to whom? Never mind. Nothing else to do anyway. He waited
until they were both in Corridor 8, then hit the RETURN key on his console.
Lovin and Gavin straightened up
with the mass of the explosives box pulling them down ... and a dozen
explosions burst from the walls.
Gavin found himself in fetal position, his cheek on hot concrete.
It would be so easy to lie there, to wait, soon they'd come and take him where
it was cool ... No! He stood up, patting himself ... and found himself .bristling
with harts. He sat up, laughing, entirely buzzed on fatigue poisons, adrenalin,
and dehydration.
Lovin looked like a porcupine as
he rolled over and stood up. They spent a minute pulling darts off each other
in handfuls. The points might work through the metal mesh imbedded between the
thick layers of their wet suits.
There wasn't a chance of their hearing each other.
Explosives had rendered them deaf, but even through the deafness they could
hear the roar of the Todos Santos turbines. They picked up the box and
staggered toward the sound.
"Armor,"
Tony leaned back in his chair. "I'm out of
tricks," he said. "Damn
To us, heaven switches on daylight, or turns on the
showerbath. We little gods are gods of the machine
only. It is our highest. Our cosmos is a great engine. And we die of ennui. A
subtle dragon stings us in the midst of plenty.
-D. H. Lawrence
"There's another one," Sergeant Gomez said. He
pointed to the Day-Glo sticker. "THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION,"
Gomez read aloud. "I think I counted a dozen on the way here."
"Yeah," Hal Donovan said. "I'm getting a
little tired of them myself." He looked around the tunnel complex.
"Find anything?"
Gomez shrugged. It looked jerky. "Nothing the TS cops
didn't tell us we'd find."
"What's got you so nervous? You think it's a
setup?"
"Naw, that's not it. How are
we going to find anything if we keep getting lost? If the guards just turned us
loose in here I don't think we'd ever get out. The Saints keep having to lead
us around by the hand."
Lieutenant Donovan nodded again. "I get a touch of it
myself. Well, tough it out. Keep stirring things around. I'll go get their
official story."
There were only two men in the interview room. Donovan
frowned. One was wearing the uniform of a captain of the Todos Santos guards.
The other-Donovan had no trouble at all recognizing the youngish man in the
thousand-dollar three-piece suit. He'd seen him often enough in court.
The man stood and extended his hand. "I'm John
Shapiro," he said. "General Counsel for Todos Santos."
Of course they had their lawyer in the interview room.
Donovan felt that he ought to resent that, but he couldn't really blame the
Saints.
"I asked to see all the Todos Santos police involved
in the shootout," Donovan said.
"Yes," the uniformed captain said. "But I
was in charge, and I'd like to go over the story with you before letting you
have at my men."
Donovan grimaced slightly. These goddam
sensitive Saints! "Hell, Captain, we're all cops."
"I wish it were that simple," Shapiro said.
"In any event, we are ready to cooperate with you as fully as
possible." He sat down and opened a steno notebook.
Donovan chuckled and looked around the room. If Shapiro
needed to take notes, Donovan was next in line to be Pope. He saw no point in
saying so. "You're Captain Hamilton, then. You were in charge?"
"I was the senior officer of Todos Santos
Security,"
"Which is not quite the same thing," Hal Donovan
said. "Who was really running the show?"
"The police took my orders,"
No point in pushing that just now, Donovan decided.
"All right, Captain. Suppose you tell me in your own words what
happened."
"I'll do better than that,"
The story went as Donovan expected. Intruders got into TS
by blowing their way through a wall. The Saints used a variety of non-lethal
weapons to try to stop them. Nothing worked, and finally the gadgets failed as
they always did, and some cops had to put their arses
on the line, and that always happened too.
The screen showed two policemen with rifles and a third with
a bullhorn, crouched behind some kind of portable barricade (not a bad thing,
Donovan thought; we ought to have something like that). They were in tunnels,
and the sound track conveyed the rumble of machinery. The picture stopped,
freezing that instant of time.
"They were approaching the turbines,"
"You sure did," Donovan agreed.
The TV drama came back to life. "YOU ARE UNDER
ARREST," the bullhorn blared. "THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND FOR GOD'S
SAKE LET'S GO WHERE IT'S COOL!"
The intruders came doggedly toward the camera.
"Dunhill gave them another chance,"
The TS cop with the bullhorn stood. "SURRENDER,"
he shouted.
The leading intruder held out a revolver and fired. The two
TS cops with rifles returned the fire at full automatic, a loud stutter of
small-caliber high-velocity weaponry. The leading bandit began to fall, then
there was an explosion.
"Dead man switch on his explosives, we think,"
"I see." The scene went on, showing messy
details. Donovan sat down hard.
"There's a little more,"
The TV picture dissolved, then came up to show a burly
woman, naked except for panties. She was holding a big Webley
revolver in both hands, almost in a parody of the official police grip. The
pistol waved back and forth.
"She was too tired to hold it steady,"
The woman fired, several times. The picture didn't show
what she was shooting at.
"I had four guards in good body armor about thirty
meters away from her,"
Eventually the woman in the picture sat heavily on the
ground. A half-dozen Saints in bulgy SWAT uniforms appeared. They grabbed her
and handcuffs flashed.
"That's it,"
Donovan nodded. "The difference being that she didn't
have any explosives."
"I suppose,"
"All right. I've seen it. Now can I talk to your
men?"
Hamilton and Shapiro looked at each other.
"Certainly," Shapiro said. "Of course you won't mind if Captain
Hamilton and I stay here ... "
I should mind, Donovan thought. But what would be the
point? "Fine. Let's get this done."
After the interviews, Donovan went back to the tunnels and
let Gomez lead him through the route the intruders had taken. They'd cleaned up
some in the final tunnel, which was just as well. Even so, Donovan didn't think
he'd want any lunch. After an hour he had seen enough.
He left the Todos Santos underground complex, whistling
again at the sight of the large holes blasted in one of the concrete walls.
There were guards at every fire door in the tunnels, and the elevator door was
opened for him by two more uniformed Todos Santos guards. They looked blankly
at Donovan, but they didn't say anything. "Hell, it's not my fault,"
Donovan said. "It's homicide, and we have to investigate."
"Sure. Last time you jailed Mr. Sanders," the
younger guard said. "Who this time? Officer Dunhill? Lieutenant Blake?
Captain Hamilton? Or maybe somebody higher up-"
"Can it, Prentice," the older guard said.
"The lieutenant's just doing a job. He can't help it if they put him in
charge."
The younger guard's lips tightened. Donovan was glad when
they reached the executive floor and he could get away from them.
In charge, he thought as he paced down the thickly carpeted
corridor. It is to laugh, ho ho! The Mayor sends
MacLean Stevens. Councilman Planchet has two field deputies here. The D.A. and
the Coroner both come in person, and then they've got the goddam
nerve to tell me I'm in charge. Hoo ha.
Donovan smiled at the receptionist and got an answering look
that made him feel really welcome. Delores, Anthony Rand had called her. A nice
name. Too bad I'll never get to meet her off duty.
She waved him into Arthur Bonner's office, and Donovan
wondered about that for a moment before he realized that with the setup they
had here, she'd known he was coming long before he got to her anteroom. She
could have told Bonner while he was in the corridor. A good setup. Didn't have
to keep people waiting.
Bonner was at his desk, and MacLean Stevens was pacing in
front of it.
"Keep 'em at home,
Mac," Bonner was saying. "Before we have to kill a lot more of
them."
"Yeah. Great image. See Todos Santos and die. You
don't have a city, you've got the anteroom to the morgue."
"That's about enough-"
"I surely agree," Stevens said. "If you mean
enough dead kids-"
"Goddamn it, with all their gear, and a spy in my
headquarters-"
"Dammit, Art, am I supposed
to restrict the sale of wet suits?"
Donovan cleared his throat. Stevens turned, stared at him
for a moment, and said, "Find anything new?"
"No, sir," Donovan said. "And we
won't."
"That seems a strange attitude for a homicide
investigation."
Donovan laughed. "Investigation. With all respect, Mr.
Stevens, what's to investigate? We can look at the bodies, we can stick our
fingers in the bullet holes, and we can talk to people. Then what? The Saints'
Rent-a-cops say this bunch broke in. They shoota the
guns, they banga the bombs. So the Saints shoot back,
which God knows they're entitled to do, and the kids get hurt, and some get
dead."
"You can make certain it really happened that
way," Stevens said.
"Yes, sir."
"You doubt us, Mac?" Bonner asked. "It's
really come to that?"
"Whether I doubt you or not, a lot of people
will," Stevens said. "And they'll want proof one way or
another."
"Which we can't get," Donovan said. "Mr.
Stevens, we'll go over all the evidence. We'll interview all the witnesses. But
no matter what we do, Mr. Bonner's people are as smart as we are, and they've
had plenty of time to set the stage if that's what they wanted. So when it's
all done it's going to come out the thing went down the way they said. They
tried everything they could, and eventually they sent in their SWAT people. The
bandits shot it out and lost."
"You have any reason to doubt that it happened that
way, Lieutenant?" Art Bonner asked.
Donovan shook his head. "If I did, I wouldn't be
talking like this. No, sir, I'm sure it all went as your people say it
did."
"Good," Bonner said. "So why are your
detectives poking into every corner of our defenses?"
Donovan shrugged. "You're charging the survivors,
right? We have to gather evidence."
"Yeah," Bonner said. He gave Stevens a sour look.
"Of course your cops have their normal share of curiosity. Speaking of
prisoners, are you ready to take custody of them?"
"I can send for some troops."
Bonner's office was filled with police when Tony Rand came
in. LAPD, D.A.'s men, deputy sheriffs, even a marshal from the federal district
court, all waiting expectantly, until Colonel Cross and five Todos Santos
guards brought in their prisoners.
They were both women. The male prisoner had collapsed from
heat exhaustion, and would be taken by ambulance to the prison ward of
Tony Rand stared at the women unashamedly. It was the first
time he'd seen them without their protective equipment and masks.
"Something wrong with me, fat boy?" one asked.
"Yes," Tony said. "You want to burn down my
city."
"That's the court magician," the other woman
said. "He designed this place. The chief technologist."
"So now he's here with the pigs."
"Enough." One of the policemen came forward.
"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the
right to consult an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney-"
"Of course we gave them their rights earlier on,"
Colonel Cross announced. He seemed annoyed that anyone would doubt it.
"It never hurts to repeat it," a federal marshal
said. "Sounds just like TV, doesn't it, Sherry? Don't worry, officer,
we'll go quietly. What are we charged with?"
"Suspicion of homicide," the policeman said.
"0, wow-"
"That's a heavy trip," Sherry said. "We
didn't kill anybody. Their pigs killed our friends."
"Your friends were killed during the commission of a
felony," the
"Yes sir." The uniformed policeman came forward
and expertly handcuffed each of the women. Then with two policewomen and half a
dozen other police he escorted them out of Bonner's office.
"There's one more," Bonner said. "But I
thought you might want to keep them separated. Colonel-"
"Yes, sir," Colonel Cross said. He spoke into a
microphone attached to his lapel, and a moment later a guard led
Despite the police who had left with Sergeant Gomez, there
were half a dozen left.
The LA officer came forward again. "Alice Strahler,
you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have-"
Tony Rand couldn't stand it any longer. "Why?' he
asked. "
She shook her head.
"I trusted you-"
"Yes, sir,"
"People who got killed!" Tony said. "You - damn
you, you made us kill people! You made Pres Sanders into a basket case,
and-"
"That's not fair,"
"Pres did," Tony said. "And I still don't
understand you. You worked here. You knew what we were building, that people
like it here, we don't pollute, we-"
"You don't live like humans, either," Alice Said.
"And even if you call this human life, it's not for very many people.
Todos Santos is beautiful, Tony, but it uses too many resources to support too
few people. The more successful Todos Santos is, the worse it will be for
everyone else, don't you understand that? Don't you understand that technology
is not the answer, that using technology to fix problems created by technology
only puts you in an endless chain? That the more success you have, the more you
make people believe that 'Progress' is possible, and Progress just leads to
more technology and more waste and more doom-"
"
"One thing I do understand," Art Bonner said.
"You gave us good reason to trust you. We believed you, and you betrayed
us. I'm sorry your friends were killed, but I'm not sorry they can charge you
with murder."
Murder. Damn, of course, she was in the conspiracy, and
that led to murder and- Conspiracy.
Eventually the outsiders left. Tony turned to go. "A
moment of your time," Bonner said.
"Yeah?"
"There are a lot of cops wandering around here,"
Bonner said. "Like a well-smoked beehive. And reporters. And everyone
else, all looking at us."
Tony nodded. "Yeah. I've been meaning to catch some
sleep, but it's interesting-"
"You won't get a chance to sleep," Bonner said.
"I've been reviewing your plan to get Sanders out of jail. I like
it."
Tony eyed him warily.
"It seems to me this is a good time," Bonner
said. "While everyone's watching us. You did say weekend, and this is
Saturday."
Oh shit oh dear, Tony thought. "But we don't need to.
Not after this! Everybody will know we really need defenses ... "
"What happened today won't change the fact that the
kids Pres killed were carrying nothing more deadly than sand and paint. This
may make it easier to get a jury to acquit him, but he'll still have put in a
year in jail before it's over."
"And Pres? Have you asked him about this?" Tony
demanded.
Bonner ignored the question. "Your plan needs some
advance preparations," Bonner said. "As near as I can figure, if you
start now, we can be ready tonight at lights-out. Any reason why you can't get
to it?"
"Conspiracy," Tony said. "And if anyone's
killed, it's homicide-"
"So don't kill anyone. You've already made up your
mind, Tony. I don't have to wheedle you. So let's cut the crap and get at it.
We both have work to do."
Tony nodded in submission.
When we jumped into
-General James Gavin
George Harris had learned to disconnect his mind during
heavy exercise. If he thought about the pain or the fatigue or the monotony,
he'd stop. His body followed the routine while his mind daydreamed, or planned
business strategy, or slept.
But on Saturdays and Sundays, shut away from his weights
and machines and confined by concrete and iron bars, he had to improvise a
routine. That took concentration. It took more concentration to ignore a
distraction, the sad-eyed ghost in the upper bunk.
Twenty-nine ... thirty. Harris rested for a few seconds,
waiting until his breathing slowed before he spoke. A harmless vanity. Then,
"I wish to hell you'd join me. You're in good shape. What were you doing
on the outside, skiing? Surfing? You're not doing it now. In here I've never
seen you do anything but lie there and eat your liver."
Preston Sanders didn't look up. His arms were behind his
head, his eyes were on the ceiling.
"That raid last night has to help your case,"
Harris said. "They
had real bombs, and the
TV said there was a shootout. Guns and everything. This wasn't just kids out
playing tricks."
Still nothing. "Now there's demonstrations all over
the city. Fromates and a lot of outfits named
Citizens for This and That want to burn Todos Santos to the ground and sow salt
where it stood. Funny thing, though. There are counter-demonstrators. Nothing
organized, but more than you'd expect." George went into his sit-ups. The
patrolling guard stopped for a minute to watch, then moved on. On previous
weekends he'd made witty comments ... until George called him
"Butterball" every time he passed, and then every felon in the block
took it up, and now the guard generally didn't say anything.
Thirty. George stood and went to the bunks. "You lie
there long enough and you'll turn to butter," he told Sanders.
"Jesus, you're younger than I am. Can you do thirty push-ups?"
''No."
"It'd take your mind off what's eating you. Sanders,
it is impossible to think about what a jury will do to you when you're on your
twenty-fifth push-up and going for thirty. Try it with me?"
Sanders shook his head.
He was the least troublesome cell-mate George Harris had
ever had. More: He was a potential customer, even if he did turn off whenever
George tried to swing the conversation around to new construction in Todos
Santos. I guess I brought it up too early, George thought. Too bad, but maybe
that'll change. If I can get him to talk at all, and that's tough enough.
"They didn't identify the raiders yet," Harris
said. "But that commentator guy, Lunan, said they were an outfit calling
itself the American Ecology Army. That's a splinter group that broke away from
the Fromates years ago, but Lunan says the two
outfits still work together. He sounded real sure. I read everything I can
about it, what with being in here with you. Besides, I knew the Planchet
kid."
That got Sanders's attention. "I never did. What was
he like?"
Harris shrugged. "Nice enough, I guess. Personable,
maybe a little shy. I only met him twice. I could have liked him, except I
heard about a stunt he pulled in high school. Never mind. The point is, he was
a total damned fool and he died for it."
"He didn't die. He was killed."
"Yeah, sure, but he worked at it. Hey, you know you're
a hero back in Todos Santos? Yeah, no kidding. I went to the Big Brothers lunch
out there last week-"
"I always liked those."
"Yeah, I can see why. Quite a blast. I won a pocket
computer in the raffle. Anyway, when they found out I was your cell-mate
everybody wanted me to give you the same message. 'You done good.'"
"Who?" Sanders asked. "Art Bonner?"
"Yeah, he was one of them. Some others, too, I didn't
get everybody's name. And Tony Rand." Harris looked sidewise at Sanders.
"He's a strange one, isn't he?"
"He can be," Sanders said. "Tony's about the
best friend I have out there."
"Oh, I can see how you could like that guy a lot. Once
you got to know him. Anyway, they're all on your side. Sanders, it's dumb to
lie there eating your liver. You got paid to do a job, and when the time came
you earned your salary. You don't need to hear that from a jury. Think of it as
evolution in action."
"What did you say?"
Harris laughed. "I saw it on-" He stopped.
Listened. Then he said, "Get down from there. I mean it. Sit on the lower
bunk. I think-" He listened again. "Feel that? I think there's a
quake coming." He tugged at Sanders's arm, and Sanders came down. He wasn't
that soft; he didn't drop, he lowered himself by the strength of his arms.
Harris said, "You feel it? Not a jolt, just shaking,
like a preliminary temblor? Everything's vibrating-"
"I feel it."
"I hear something, too." It was right at the
threshold of sound but it went on, steadily.
"Machinery somewhere," Sanders said. "You're
not from
"Wha ... ? Oh. Too
bad." Harris considered going into deep knee bends; but by damn, he'd
finally got Sanders talking, and he wasn't going to stop. "What I saw was
a bumper sticker. 'RAISE THE SPEED LIMIT. THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN
ACTION."
Sanders smiled. "I can guess who said that first. It
had to be Tony Rand."
"Really? I wouldn't have guessed that. I mean, I
didn't get to talk to him very long, but I was impressed, meeting the guy that
built the Nest." Aaargh. Wrong word, it had just
slipped out. In haste, Harris continued, "What's he really like?"
"A good friend," Sanders said. "He didn't
used to worry much about social relationships, politics, anything like that.
Now he's eating his liver, like you said. He's losing sleep because maybe he
could have designed Todos Santos so I wouldn't have to do that." Sanders
shuddered, and Harris was suddenly afraid there would be histrionics. But
Sanders said quietly, "Maybe he's keeping me sane. Damn, I'd love to blame
it all on Tony Rand. And I know he never thought of that. I know it. That's the
nice part."
"Court magician," Harris said. "That's what
they called him on the TV documentary, anyway." And I've got you talking
now- Only a miracle could have captured Harris's attention at that moment.
The miracle was a tiny hole that formed suddenly in the
concrete floor, just where Harris's eyes rested. George slid off the bunk and
crouched to look. He poked at the hole with his finger. It was real.
Sanders asked, "What are you doing?"
"Damndest thing," Harris
said. He thought he saw light through the hole, but when he bent closer to
look, there was only darkness. And a trace of a strange, mustily
sweet smell. "Orange blossoms? I saw this little tiny," he said, and
fell over.
The vehicle Tony Rand was driving was longer than four Cadillacs, and shaped roughly like a .22 Long Rifle
cartridge. Thick hoses in various colors, some as thick as Tony's torso,
trailed away down the tunnel and out of sight. The visibility ahead was poor.
The top speed was contemptible. The mileage would have horrified a Cadillac
owner. It wasn't even quiet. Water poured through the blue hoses, live steam blasted
back down the red hoses, hydrogen flame roared softly ahead of the cabin,
heated rock snapped and crackled, and cool air hissed in the cabin.
For so large a vehicle the cabin was cramped, stuck onto
the rear almost as an afterthought. It was cluttered with the extra gear Tony
Rand had brought with him, so that Thomas Lunan had to sit straddling a large
red-painted tank and regulator. There were far too many dials to watch. The
best you could say for the Mole was that, unlike your ordinary automobile, it
could drive through rock.
So we're driving through rock, Lunan thought, and giggled.
The blunt, rounded nose of the Mole was white hot. Rock melted and flowed
around the nose, flowed back as lava until it reached the water-cooled collar,
where it froze. The congealed rock was denser then, compressed into a fine
tunnel wall with a flat floor.
Lunan was sweating. Why did I get into this? I can't get
any pix, and I can't ever tell anybody I was here.
"Where are we?" Lunan asked. He had to shout.
"About ten feet to go,"
"How do you know?"
"Inertial guidance system,"
"You trust that thing?"
"It's pretty good,"
Lunan laughed. "Let's hope they want a tunnel
here-"
"Yeah."
Despite the air flow, and the cabin insulation, Lunan was
sweating. There was no place to hide. None at all. If anyone suspected what
they were doing, they had only to follow the hoses to the end of the blind
tunnel.
"We're here,"
Noise levels fell as
"Here."
"My computations tell me I'm either under Pres's cell or just offshore from
"You don't have to keep me entertained." The
voice blurred and crackled. No eavesdropper could have sworn that Art Bonner
was speaking to the soon-to-be-notorious felon, Anthony Rand. A nice touch,
Lunan thought.
"No, sir," Tony said.
"As far as we can tell, you hit it just right,"
the radio said. "They're still at dinner. Or all the months of tunnel
drilling around here got them used to the noise. Whatever. Anyway, we don't
hear any signs of alert."
"Good,"
Lunan had carefully prepared for this moment. He took a
pack of cards from his pocket and said, casually: "Gin?"
It was nine-thirty in the evening and Vinnie
Thompson couldn't believe his good fortune. He'd been hoping for a decent score
later, some guy coming back from winning a big bet on the hockey game at the
Forum, or maybe a sailor with a month's pay. This early there probably wouldn't
be much, but there might be somebody with bread, although most Angelinos were
smart enough not to carry much into the subway system. Of course they'd carry
money in the Todos Santos stations, but everybody in Vinnie's
line of work learned early to stay away from there. The TS guards might or
might not turn you in to the LA cops, but more important they might hurt you. A
lot. They didn't like muggers at all.
Maybe tonight he'd get a break. He needed one. He hadn't
hit a good score in two weeks.
Then he saw his vision. A man in a three-piece suit, an
expensive suit with alligator shoes (like the ones Vinnie
kept at home, you wouldn't catch him taking something valuable like that into
the subway). The vision carried a briefcase, and he was not only alone, he'd
gone through a door into a maintenance tunnel!
And there sure as hell wasn't anybody in that tunnel this
time of night. What could Mr. Three-piece want? Take a pee? Meet somebody?
While he was wondering about that, by God here she came! A hell of a looker,
well dressed in an expensive pantsuit, and she was alone too! She went in the
same door as Three-piece, and Vinnie snickered. She'd
get a surprise ... Once again he congratulated himself. Heaven couldn't offer
more attractions.
She'd locked the door behind her, but it didn't take Vinnie's knife long to take care of that. He went through
quickly and pulled the door closed. The corridor in front of him was empty, but
he could hear rapid heel-clicks around the bend ahead of him. He could also
hear sounds of machinery coming from down the tunnel. Somebody was working
overtime here. Well, that didn't matter, he'd just have to be quick, although
that was a shame, the chick was a real looker and it'd be something to get into
that. He could imagine her look of fear, and feel her writhing in his grasp,
and he quickened his step to catch up to her. She'd be just around this bend in
the tunnel- He rounded the bend. There were half a dozen people there, all in
expensive clothes. They looked up at him, first in surprise, then in annoyance.
Too many, Vinnie thought. But
they looked like money, and he had his knife and a blackjack made of a leather
bag of BB's and if he did this right - Feet scuffed
behind him.
He was trying to turn, to run, when a bomb exploded under
his jaw. Lights flared behind his eyes, but through the blaze he saw his vision
again: fluffy razor-cut hair, and a broad, smooth-shaven face snarling with
even white teeth, and a polished gold ring on a huge fist.
"Gin," Rand said. "That's thirty-five
million dollars you owe me." He stared at his watch. "And now we go
to work."
Lunan grimaced. So far they hadn't done anything. Well,
nothing that would send you to prison. God knows what crime it might be to dig
a tunnel under the County Jail (reckless driving?) but so far no harm done.
Now, though.
"Eh?"
"Oh. Nothing."
"Yeah, barring three surprised muggers. Have at
it."
"Roger."
The ceiling was concrete, very rough. Lunan thought the
drill bit too thin and weak for the job, but when he applied it and pulled the
trigger, the drill ate in quickly. And quietly, Lunan noticed. After a while
the bit went in all the way.
"What do I do?" Lunan asked.
"Just stand by."
"Mask time,"
The hole in the ceiling was no more than a pinprick, which
was what
"Phase two," Lunan said into the mike. "Hope
we're in the right place-"
"All quiet here. Out," the radio answered.
Lunan replaced the mike. Quiet there, which was the tunnel
entrance. Just one entrance, guarded by TS executives, which meant Lunan and
"What?" Lunan asked.
"Blocked,"
Concrete floor, something overhead, all very dark. Tom
Lunan adjusted the light amplification and rotated the periscope.
Aha. Foreground, a pair of feet showed under a very low
ceiling. He was under a bunk. Beyond, a mouse's-eye view of a jail cell:
concrete floor, toilet, sink, and a middle-aged felon in fine physical shape
sleeping peacefully on Tony Rand's first periscope hole.
While Tom looked,
He let it run another minute, then disconnected the hose and
brought up the periscope again. Meanwhile, Lunan had attached the electronic
stethoscope to the floor. He put on the earphones. At highest sensitivity he
could hear the sounds of breathing and a heartbeat. Otherwise nothing. He made
the "OK" sign to Rand.
It wailed like a banshee. Lunan felt real terror. Surely
someone would hear that, the horrible rasping sound that proclaimed
"JAILBREAK!" Evidently it worried Rand too, because he rigged up the
tank and sent more sleepy gas through the hole.
The saw cut on a bias, a concrete disk larger at the top
than at the bottom. Eventually the cut was made, and Tony used the jack to lift
the plug until it was two feet higher than the cell floor. Lunan helped him set
up a newly bought aluminum stepladder. Rand scrambled up it and disappeared,
while Lunan arranged Therm-A-Rest air mattresses on
the flat top of the vehicle. Then he climbed up, squeezing under the concrete
plug. There was a moment of terror when he dislodged his gas mask, but he got
it back on without breathing.
Preston Sanders was on his side in the lower bunk, with his
feet hanging over the edge. He'd lost weight since Lunan had seen him in a
courtroom, but he was still heavy. They lifted him and
Now they had to work fast.
"Got it,"
"Won't they be able to see the hole?"
"Yeah, sure, I couldn't make the join perfect,
especially working from the bottom-but they'll never get that plug out without
jackhammers and such. Let's get out of here."
"Get your shirt," Lunan said.
"Shit, oh dear. What else have we forgotten?"
"The ladder, and the mattresses, and-"
"That's okay,"
"Hey, I'm supposed to get the whole story."
"You've got all the story,"
"Yeah. All right," Lunan said. So. The adventure
was coming to an end. Ye gods, what he'd seen! The top brass-the TOP BRASS-Of
Todos
They drove away at the Mole's contemptible top speed.
Pres woke up twenty minutes later. He blinked and focused on
Tony Rand, stared for a moment, and said, "We were just talking about
you."
"Oh?"
"True. What's going on? Where am I?"
"We're roaring away in our trusty getaway vehicle,
seconds ahead of The Law."
"Yeah, I can hear the roaring, anyway. It matches my
head." Pres pushed himself up and looked back down the tunnel. "Good Lord.
Tony? Is it the digging machine, the one that's making the subway under City
Hall? Shit, are we really making our own tunnel?"
The Mole surged forward. Needles spun on the panel, and the
automatics cut off the hydrogen flow. Without melted rock to carry heat away
from the nose, the nose itself would melt. Half-fused rubble slid past the
cabin. Then the Mole lurched into the open night. Tony lifted the microphone from
the console panel.
"We're loose." He put down the mike and turned to
Sanders, grinning. "Most of the time you were asleep we were running back
along an already-made tunnel. Then just before you woke up we started boring
again. Now come on. You know, Pres, we might actually make it?"
Sanders was still groggy, but recovering. "Where are
we now? Did you really break me out of jail?"
Tony led him out of the Mole and walked him through the
night. Where was that stairway? "The OK Corral will never be the same.
We've reached either the famed concrete banks of the
"You gonna just leave the
digger?"
"Jesus! Stay here." Tony sprinted back to the Mole
and came back uphill more slowly, carrying his shirt and the gas canister.
"This could be traced. The rest of that garbage was all bought today, by
credit-card number and telephone, delivered to a blind drop. It was charged to
one Professor Arnold Renn. That might cause a bit of
confusion."
"Renn? He's Fromate, isn't he?" Pres started to laugh.
"Art says he was the advisor to the Planchet
kid,"
"Oh." Sanders was silent a moment, then laughed.
"Hey, they'll think the Fromates got me!"
"Not for long they won't, but it might slow down the
opposition."
Sanders stopped. "Tony, I don't like this much. I
mean-you broke me out of jail. We're both wanted by the law. Where can we
go?"
"We're going home, I hope."
"Yeah, but-look, Tony, Art must have put you up to
this, and don't think I'm not grateful, but dammit,
Art doesn't own Todos Santos! He can't hide me forever, the management council
has to know, and some of them don't like me. Somebody'll
turn me in, for sure ... "
His voice trailed off when he realized that
"Thank God," Tony said. "Come on, Pres, just
a little farther. Ah. Good, they remembered to cut the fence. Here, through
right here, and we go the rest of the way by taxi. Swallow your pride and climb
in."
An ordinary Yellow Cab stood waiting for them. The driver
didn't speak.
Sanders tumbled into the back seat, still rubber-limbed,
and thrashed to right himself as Tony tumbled in beside him and the taxi took
off. Pres complained, "Hey! The speed limit! My pride wouldn't take it if
we got pulled in for reckless driving."
The cab slowed at once. Tony asked, "How do you
feel?"
"Fine. No more headache. No hangover." Sanders
settled back in his seat. "I feel great! Of course they'll find us-"
"Maybe not,"
The cabbie said, "Where to, sir?" and turned
around.
"Mead? Frank Mead?"
"Did you think we'd leave you for the eaters? Welcome
home. In a half hour you'll be wolfing a midnight snack and drinking genuine
Scotch. No, brandy's your drink, right? Remy Martin, then."
"Frank Mead. Sheeit! I
thought ... never mind what I thought. Listen, Tony, if I'm awake now, so is
anyone else you dosed, right?"
"It'll take them awhile to get their act
together," Tony said. "They won't know how you got out or where you
went. I sealed up the hole. It's a locked-room mystery, secret passage and
all."
"That's all right, then." Sanders started
laughing.
George Harris woke with a mild headache and a feeling that
something was wrong. That was confirmed when he heard the guards running up and
down the corridors. "Head count!" they were shouting. "Everybody
stand by your bunks!"
"Pres, what the hell is all this?" George
demanded. "Pres?"
When there was no answer he looked around the cell.
"Jesus H. Christ!" he shouted. Now what? And how had it happened? He
remembered the tiny hole he'd seen, and looked down at the floor, but in the
dim light he couldn't see anything at all. Should he tell the guards? Tell them
what, that his cell-mate was missing? To hell with those bastards! But if he
didn't cooperate, they'd nail his arse to the wall.
George grinned faintly to himself and lay down on the lower
bunk. It wasn't hard at all to go back to sleep.
"Uh?" George woke to bright lights and a dozen
deputies in his cell.
"What? Where's Sanders? Where'd he go?" the fat
jailer shouted over and over.
"Uh? Pres, tell these buzzards to buzz off-"
"Where is he?"
"That'll do, Winsome. Mr. Harris, I remind you that
aiding an escape from lawful confinement is a felony. Now, are you willing to
cooperate?"
"Sure," George said.
"Excellent. What can you tell us?"
It was hard to keep from giggling, but George managed a
straight face. "Nothing. Not one thing. I went to sleep talking to Preston
Sanders and I just woke up." He rolled out of his bunk and looked into the
upper bunk. "Pres?" He lifted the blanket. Nothing. "Shit
fire."
"Hal? Hal, it's the telephone."
Donovan came awake as from beneath a deep, stagnant pond,
vaguely aware that Carol was speaking to him. Gradually he understood.
"Okay, honey. Thanks." He took the phone and listened.
Carol watched from her bed. Her blue negligee fell open and
Donovan winked at her. His pretense was that she always turned him on. She did,
often enough.
When he put the phone down and reached for his pants, she
looked resigned. She'd
long since stopped asking questions. He'd either explain or he wouldn't.
"Not a new murder," Donovan said. "Maybe not
even my case. But it was my prisoner." Even that didn't get a rise. She
looked at him expectantly, even with interest, but she wasn't asking questions.
"Preston Sanders," Donovan said.
"Technically my case and my prisoner. He's escaped from the county
jail."
"Escaped? Great heavens, Harry, how?" Carol
Donovan demanded.
"Nobody seems to know, just at present," Donovan
said. "I suppose they'll find out."
"So you're going down to the jail?"
"I'll start there. Just to see how they did it."
"How they did it?"
"Sure. I don't have to know what happened to know
Todos Santos has made their move. I just hope it doesn't mean all-out
war."
When Donovan arrived at the
"He went out that way, all right," the deputy
said.
"Here," a workman said. "Hey! Watch
out!"
"What is it?" Matson asked.
"It's all hollow under there. A tunnel."
"Tunnel," Donovan said. Of course there had to be
a tunnel. How else could Sanders have got away? But how had the tunnel got
under the
"What?" his friend demanded.
"The digging machine! The Mole!" Donovan shouted.
"That's how they did it, they dug a subway tunnel with the Mole, that big
damned digging machine of theirs-any minute now they'll report it stolen.
Anybody want to bet they won't?"
"Oh, crap," Matson said. "Jesus. That's
acting on the grand scale."
The workmen had the tunnel open. Deputies squeezed through and
when they were out of the way Donovan and Matson followed.
"No doubt about it," Matson. said. "A new
subway tunnel - well, we won't need bloodhounds to follow this trail."
Donovan laughed, but he thought they might as well get out
the bloodhounds. Nothing else was going to catch Sanders. Not just Sanders. He
looked at the smooth-sided tunnel walls. "Just like magic," he said.
"Which?"
"We're looking for a magician. In this case a court magician."
It was highly irritating to Donovan that Oliver Matson
hadn't seen the documentary. Donovan hated to explain jokes.
The meeting was in an apartment that showed on no maps of
Todos Santos. It would have taken twenty people with excellent measuring
instruments the better part of a day merely to prove there was an apartment
there; finding the entrance and getting it open would take a lot longer.
Most of the Todos Santos brass was there, and Tony Rand
basked in their approbation. Everything had gone well (and he could forget just
how scared he'd been).
"What about the other guy?" Bonner asked. "Pres's cell-mate. Maybe you should have done him a
favor."
"Whooo-ee," Sanders
said. He bellowed laughter. "Jesus, no, Art. Harris is only in there on
weekends! He'd have screamed bloody murder, to find out the cops are after him
and-" He stopped laughing, and the general mood of euphoria faded.
"So what happens now?"
"Several choices," Bonner said. "All of them
reasonable. How would you like my job?"
"That's silly-"
"Not here," Bonner said. "And not an
arcology. But Romulus has a lot of operations, and the top slot's open in one
of them. How do you feel about going to Africa?"
Sanders lifted one eyebrow. "Seems a long way to
run-"
Bonner spread his hands. "We'll talk about it in the
morning. As I said, it's your choice. You wouldn't have to go too far - don't
forget, at the moment the police have no proof that you escaped. You may be the
victim of a kidnapping."
The grin, or part of it, returned to Sanders. "Do you
really think we can pin it on the Fromates?"
Frank Mead snorted. "Wouldn't want to, would we? We
saved one of our own, and I'd like it if everybody in the LA Basin knows it. As
long as they can't prove it." He looked thoughtful. "We didn't
actually put our autograph on anything, unless Tony --"
"Would Picasso refrain from signing his
masterpiece?"
"Sign it or not, they'll guess," Art Bonner said.
He giggled suddenly. "Speaking of signing your work-"
"What?" Barbara asked.
"The muggers. What should we do with the
muggers?"
"Kill the sons of bitches," Frank Mead said.
"Hey, no," Sanders yelled. "Hey -"
"Don't worry, we won't," Bonner said. "Frank
didn't mean that anyway."
Mead shrugged and massaged his fist. He had bruises under
his large ring and on two knuckles, but there was a pensively happy smile on
his face. "So what do we do with the meat heads? Where are they,
anyway?"
"In a dark room off Medical," Bonner said.
"I believe the technical term is 'under heavy sedation.' Of course we'll
have to let them go, eventually."
"They were bad dudes," Mead said.
"Hard on
"Nothing
"Should we be making decisions now?" Barbara
asked. "We're all pretty soused."
"Good point, sweetheart," Bonner said. He went to
her and took her hand. "Let's go home. Oh. Tony-"
"Yeah?"
"The LA cops will want you for questioning. I'd as
soon they didn't find you."
Delores came up and put her arm through Tony's. "That
answers one question," she said.
Tony frowned the question at her.
"My place or yours? We can't go to yours," she
said. "Mine will be safe enough. For a while." She marched him out of
the room.
They cannot commit treason, nor be outlawed nor
excommunicated, for they have no souls.
-Sir Edward Coke, Lord Chief Justice of
Sutton's Hospital
Case. 10 Report 32, 1628
Her position was odd, and she was cold. The sheets and
blankets were twisted all to hell. Delores untangled them enough to pull them
over her head.
Feeling nice ... feeling sleepy. Would she be able to get
back to sleep? They hadn't slept much last night.
Where was Tony?
She heard the ting of room service delivery, and smelled
coffee. Coffee and unidentifiable breakfast smells. Suddenly her hunger was
like teeth gnashing in her belly.
Shorted on sleep, they'd burned considerable energy last
night. The court magician had never before shown any such tendency toward
satyriasis. Being a hero must make a man horny, Delores thought.
She sat up and called, "What have we got?"
"All kinds of things." Tony sounded cheerful, and
well he might. "Melon. Blinis. Eggs Benedict.
Coffee and hot milk. Vodka right out of a freezer."
She came to see. So little time, so much to do-She tore
into a thick wedge of honey-dew melon, and for a time there was silence. Tony
seemed as hungry as she was. Even so-"Hombre, we'll never eat all this!
Which are blinis? The pancakes?"
"Right. Beluga caviar, sour cream and a splash of hot
butter between two buckwheat pancakes. The iced vodka goes with the blinis, if you've a mind. Who's gonna
question my expense account on a day like today?"
Her spoon stopped moving. Your last day. She looked up. Had
he guessed?
He had. "Lunan gave me too much publicity. The
Angelino cops are sure to guess who did it. Where do you think they'll send
me?"
She cut into a blini while she
considered. Art might send Tony out with Pres Sanders. They got along. Or ... it
hit her as she raised the fork to her mouth. The appointment with Sir George
Reedy. Art would try to sell him Tony's contract.
Then she tasted the magic of a blini.
"Tony, it's wonderfuL"
"Yeah. You'd have to own Todos Santos to eat like this
every day. I'm glad the Soviets are finally cleaning up their rivers. Hey,
Delores, I don't really care where they send me-"
She couldn't tell him. Art wouldn't like her jumping the
gun.
"-I just want to know you're coming with me."
In that moment she knew the answer. Guarding her boss's
secrets from her lover, automatically, reflexively, told her where her loyalty
lay. She said, "I'm not."
Tony said nothing, but the life went out of his face. He
swallowed, with difficulty. He started to say something, stopped.
She couldn't let him beg. In haste she said, "Tony,
I've got power and respect here. I'm the General Manager's secretary. It's an
important job-"
"I'd probably be moving to another arcology. Or
building one."
"And I'd be the court magician's old lady. Tony, I
didn't even settle for General Manager's mistress! That's an interchangeable
slot -- no pun intended-"
Tony's laugh was more of a bark, and Delores didn't smile.
"I want something permanent. I've got it here."
Now he looked up. "You know, the whole city wondered
why you and Art broke it up."
"No privacy in this place."
He poured a thimbleful of vodka into a chilled liqueur
glass. "You gave me one classic hero's welcome," he said. "I
won't ever forget."
"Pour me one too."
"You've gone insane," John Shapiro said.
"Absolutely bonkers."
Lieutenant Donovan nodded to himself. Right enough by me,
he thought. They've all gone nuts.
They stood at the main surface entrance to Todos Santos. An
enormous banner fluttered overhead: THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION.
They were surrounded by police and lawyers. Donovan could
see: uniformed Todos Santos guards to the rank of major; three FBI men; federal
marshals; scads of Los Angeles County Sheriff's deputies, some in uniform and
others in plain clothes; his own three LAPD cops; two United States Attorneys;
and four Los Angeles County Deputy District Attorneys, one of whom had just
served a paper on the Todos Santos General Manager.
Plus five Todos Santos attorneys including John Shapiro,
who had insisted on reading the warrant, aloud, from beginning to end.
Eventually he finished.
"You can't search an entire city," Shapiro said.
"Even if that were possible, you can't do it with a single warrant! If you
want to look somewhere, you have to get a warrant for that particular
place-"
"Impossible!" the Deputy D.A. said. "There
are too many places-"
"About a hundred thousand private apartments,"
Shapiro agreed. "And each one a separate dwelling.' ... and no warrants
shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and
particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to
be seized.' Sixth Amendment."
"I know that."
"I wondered," Shapiro said. "Because it
doesn't look as if you've read it lately. You've got some of the second part.
Persons to be seized, Preston Sanders and Anthony Rand - although I challenge
your proper cause for wanting to arrest Mr. Rand. But the rest of this document
is ridiculous. How ever did you get a judge to sign it?"
"It's signed," a sheriff's deputy said. "Now
let us in."
"And another thing. You name MILLIE as a 'place to be
searched.' Just how do you propose to search a computer?"
They were interrupted by a burst of laughter from the Todos
Santos manager. "He looks like he's got canary feathers in his
whiskers," Donovan muttered to his assistant.
"These papers are in order," the D.A.'s spokesman
said. "Now are you going to let us in or do we have to break in?"
Shapiro shrugged and looked to the General Manager.
"Mr. Bonner?"
"Admit them under protest. Get their names and badge
numbers. We'll want to sue." Bonner turned and stamped away.
Shapiro stood aside, and Donovan followed the horde of
police through the entryway and into the broad corridor.
"Where the hell do we start?" Sergeant Ortiz
asked.
Donovan shrugged. "Thank God I'm not in charge of this
farce. Cops sure can be stupid sometimes. I don't know what those guys will do,
but what we do is nothing. We're not going to find anything, and we all know
it. Why go through the motions?" He paused in thought. "For that
matter, I'm not so sure I want to find this
"Or City Hall."
"In there," Guard Lieutenant Blake said. He
indicated a low door. "I'll be here in the service tunnel, and Security is
watching all the corridors. If the Angelino cops get close, we'll hold them
up."
"Right," Tony Rand said. "Thanks."
The access door from the service corridor was low, and Tony
had to duck to get through into Art Bonner's temporary office. It nearly
matched the real thing. The desk and viewscreens were
almost identical, though the shelves were empty of the sailing memorabilia and
other clutter that Bonner kept.
The door outside claimed the suite was an apartment
occupied by a retired Marine colonel. Inside were Bonner, Barbara Churchward,
and Sir George Reedy.
"Come in, Tony," Bonner said. "We're just
putting the finishing touches on our agreement-"
Sir George didn't look very happy. Tony regarded the
Canadian's expression and asked, "How much are you getting for my
contract?"
"Oh, we're being quite reasonable," Barbara said
cheerfully.
"It's too much," Reedy protested. "He's a
wanted man. They'll extradite him and we'll have nothing for all that
money."
"No, you can give him political asylum," Bonner
said. "If it comes to that, which I doubt. I doubt they'll even try on a
federal level. If they do, Shapiro can keep the State Department tied in knots
for years. It isn't as if they had any real evidence that Tony was involved in
their jailbreak. Our problem is that they can keep him in courtrooms
forever."
"Do I get a say in this?" Tony asked.
"Sure, Tony," Bonner said. "It's this way.
You have a contract with Romulus Corporation.
"What are the others?"
"You can go to
Tony Rand frowned. "
"It used to be called '
"Why would Pres want to go to
Sir George's eyebrows lifted.
Barbara laughed. "He really doesn't know, Sir George.
He never pays attention to anything outside Todos Santos.
Tony nodded. Pres would like it. A good promotion, with a
chance to run his own show. Would he resent getting this promotion because he
was black? Or find that amusing? Have to ask him...
"So you could go with him," Bonner was saying.
"You work well with Sanders, and
Reedy chuckled. "You needn't bring out the
sandbags." He looked thoughtful. "But there's the general strike that
Councilman Planchet has called against Todos Santos. I'm not certain I want
economic reprisals taken against me-and there would be for hiring Mr.
Rand."
"Well, they might try it, but what can they really do
to you?" Bonner asked. "They're too far away."
They're too far from
"Both of us?" Barbara asked.
"Certainly," Reedy said.
Bonner looked thoughtful. So did Churchward and Reedy. Now
they're doing it again, Tony thought. Consulting. From the look on Sir George's
face, they've cut him out-now they've let him overhear something-damn, what
must that be like? I've got to find out. And maybe- Tony cleared his throat.
"I've never been to
Nobody paid any attention to him for a moment. Then Barbara
smiled, slightly. "Oh, come on, Tony."
"We can at least consider it."
Bonner shook his head. His look was decisive. All right,
Tony thought. I'll shut up. But just for now. You've not heard the last of
this!
There was more silence. Then all three, Bonner, Churchward,
and Reedy, were smiling. "Eight hours a month and ten days a year,"
Art Bonner said. "Excellent."
"Agreed," Sir George said. He extended his hand,
then withdrew it slightly. "Mind you, I'll not aid in helping either of
them escape."
"No need," Bonner said. "You'll take care of
sending Sanders on to
"Quite. Very well." He extended his hand again.
Bonner took it, and after a moment Barbara put hers atop the other two.
Leaving me out, Tony thought. Taking me for granted. We'll
show them, we will-
Bonner stood. "A moment." He stood silently for a
moment. Sir George joined him in the pose. They waited nearly a minute, then
Bonner opened the outer office door. A uniformed Todos Santos guard stood
outside.
"Sir George will be leaving this afternoon,"
Bonner said. "I expect he'd like to pack now."
"Right," the guard said. He led Reedy away.
Bonner came back and closed the door.
"OK, sweets, what does Tony think he's
doing?"
"0 come on, Art, It's obvious what he
wants."
"Tee hee. You'll see
it in a second. I'm surprised at you."
THE POLICE HAVE REQUESTED ALL FILES UNDER DIRECTORY TITLE
"Dump it for them at 300 baud."
"Art! Are you sure?"
"We cleaned
23,567,892 BYTES
"Good Lord. Art, that will take hours to print
out-"
"Yeah,
that gives the cops a hobby. Now what is it
"No, no,
Delores won't go. But that's not his primary want anyway. Come on, use your
head."
"Oh I" Bonner grinned. "All right, Tony, why
the sudden interest in trips to
"Well, I always did get along with Pres, and-"
"But you could be talked into going to
"Well, yes, but it would be expensive. I want-"
"Oh, never mind, Tony," Bonner said wickedly. He
made his voice sound resigned. "We'll lose money on the Canadian deal, but
if you really want to go to
Whatever
"Art, you are really cruel."
"Maybe
once in a while." "Tony, it's going
to cost you."
"The implant. That's what you're holding out for,
isn't it? Jesus, I never saw a worse negotiator. Fortunately, your interest is
our interest ... "
"Of course we'll want an exclusive contract for your
services, with veto power over any outside jobs and the right to reassign you
at our convenience-"
"Yipe. That's slavery!"
"Yup. We'll also want you here part of the time. Not
in person, of course, but we'll let you roam around Todos Santos by robot, and
set up regular holographic conferences, with us and with your
replacement."
"What do you intend to do, work me to death?"
"Not quite. Of course you always have the option of
quitting on half pay-you won't be able to work for anyone else, but half what
we pay you is plenty."
"So what's to keep me from taking your implant and
your money and going off to grow petunias?"
"We'll chance it." "About as much
chance of that as I have of turning into a werewolf. Keep him idle for six
months and he'd be a raving maniac."
"There are those who say he-skip it." "That's settled, then," Barbara said.
"Smile, Tony, you win. You'll get your implant." She paused.
"You don't look very happy about it."
"No, no, that's fine." But Tony still wasn't
smiling.
"For a man who's about to go off alone, he
really is putting a good face on disaster."
"Yeah.
Too good. I don't like it."
"There is a problem with this," Barbara said. "You
won't be able to come back to the States. Not for a while, anyway. You might
have difficulty seeing your son."
"It isn't Zach he's going to miss, it's getting
laid regularly."
"Both,
I'd say. And don't be narsty." "Is there a chance Genevieve might be
persuaded to go with you?"
"Which is just the point," Barbara said. "If
she'd come with you, you'd know it's because she believes in you. It wouldn't
be just for the status. She'd earn her way, just as you will-"
"Aren't you laying it on thick?"
"With
"But will
Genevieve believe any of that?"
"Who
cares? So long as she'll go. And I think she will. From everything I've heard,
she's pretty sharp."
"Why do
you want Genevieve to go with him anyway, pet?"
"Come on,
haven't you seen him when he talks about her? He's still in love with her.
Delores knows, everyone else knows, except maybe Tony."
"I liked
seeing Tony happy, and he was for the few days he had Delores."
"He'd be
happy with Genevieve. Believe me."
"She'd never do it," Tony said.
"You'll never know until you ask her."
"How do I ask her? The cops will be watching her all
the time. Probably have her phone tapped."
Barbara nodded. "That's true. But I can talk to her
for you, Tony. Find out what she thinks. If it sounds good I'll bring her here.
They'll never be able to follow me inside Todos Santos!"
I AM PRINTING THE REQUESTED FILES.
You will not answer any other requests from the police
until that printout is completed.
ACKNOWLEDGED. THE POLICE ARE NOW ENTERING YOUR MAIN OFFICE.
SANDRA WYATT IS WITH THEM.
"I'd appreciate that, Barbara," Tony said.
"I-I guess I really would like it if Djinn came
with me. Not that I think she will."
"We'll see."
"BOSS THIS IS SANDRA. I'M TALKING INTO A HUSH PHONE.
THERE'S NO WAY YOU CAN ANSWER ME. THE COPS HAVE BROUGHT ALICE STRAHLER UP HERE.
THEY'RE TRYING TO TALK HER INTO GUIDING THEIR SEARCH. THEY'RE PROMISING HER
IMMUNITY. HAVE MILLIE BLINK YOUR OFFICE LIGHTS IF YOU UNDERSTAND."
"Holy shit," Bonner said aloud. "MILLIE,
blink my office lights. Tony, they've brought
"Maybe,"
"I did a few that weren't so obvious," Bonner
said. "Such as erasing your access logs, and taking your name off all the
accession records for the City Hall and
"But we still could have missed something,"
"What?"
"If we knew, we wouldn't have missed it," Barbara
said impatiently.
"And we probably did miss something,"
"She didn't know about anything illegal, did
she?" Bonner demanded.
"No, but she might embarrass us."
"Meanwhile, the economic harassments continue,"
Barbara said. "That strike can hurt us-"
"It's already hurting us," Bonner said.
"Right. So." Barbara stood suddenly. "Art,
it's time to call off this war. I think we should have a peace
conference."
"Think we're ready?"
"We can get ready."
More data whispered against his mastoid bone. "Holy
cow. Sweetheart, you're a mean broad."
"Economic
warfare is my specialty." "So,"
she said. "You call MacLean Stevens and invite him to bring Councilman
Planchet out. Tony, we'll have an hour or so to talk. How would Todos Santos go
about putting pressure on
* * *
Art Bonner looked at the wreckage of his office and cursed.
The place was a mess, with holes in the wall, chipped plaster, ripped
upholstery; there were books scattered everywhere.
"I tried to get it cleaned up," Delores said. She
spat. "Cops! I can get the worst taken care of before your
appointment-"
"Leave it," Bonner said. "The main thing is
to be sure their bugs are gone and our cameras are working."
"We did that first off," Delores said. "Of
course that made some of the mess-"
"It's all right." Art sat behind his desk and
looked at the readout screens. "Tony, you there?"
SURE AM. The letters flowed across one desk console screen.
VISUAL AND AUDIO PICKUPS WORKING FINE.
"Good."
MACLEAN STEVENS AND COUNCILMAN PLANCHET HAVE ARRIVED AT THE
SOUTHEAST HELIPORT.
Thank you. Link to Barbara Churchward. "You
there, sweetheart?"
"Right here. Tony had some ideas too."
"This is it, kids. Payoff time."
Big Jim Planchet held his lips to a tight line as he
entered the big office. It was here, he thought. Right here. They gave the
orders and my boy died. Right here.
He followed MacLean Stevens in, not really hearing the
introductions and greetings, not seeing anything at first. Then he looked
around, seeing the destruction. Holes in the walls and ceiling. Books thrown to
the floor, covered with plaster dust, then walked on. Some of them looked to be
expensive books, art volumes. Furniture had been ripped open, rugs slashed.
"Your cops were thorough enough," Bonner said.
"They didn't find anything, but then I doubt they expected to."
"Not my cops," Stevens answered. "Sheriff's
people, not mine."
"Balls. You could call them off anytime you
wanted," Bonner said.
"You lost an office. I lost a son," Planchet said
coldly.
"I'm sorry about your son," Bonner said. "If
we'd known any way to save him, we would have, but he was just too damned
convincing! We were betrayed ourselves. Alice Strahler-the one who told Renn how to get your kid in here? The Sheriff's men were
talking about giving her immunity."
Planchet started to say something, but held back.
"If you'd been a bit more cooperative, I doubt the
deputies would have trashed your office," Stevens said.
"Cooperative how?"
"That goddam computer,
printing out page after page of TV show ratings!"
"They asked for it," Bonner said. "I can't
help it if you've got a bunch of stupid cops trying to talk to a smart
computer."
"Look, Bonner, this isn't a game," Planchet said.
"I couldn't agree more," Bonner said. "So.
Shall we be serious? If you want a drink I can send for anything you'd like. My
delivery system got broken this afternoon when one of your cretins thought he'd
found the secret compartment we hide engineers in."
"That's serious?" Stevens asked.
Bonner couldn't help it. He laughed. "The cop sure
thought it was. You should have seen him, with his head stuck in the conveyor,
which picked just that time to deliver a royal gin fizz ... "
That got a grin from Stevens. "We'll pass the drinks
for the moment. All right, you called the conference. Your turn."
"Sure," Bonner said. "I want to negotiate a
peace settlement."
"No deal without Sanders and Rand," Planchet
said.
"Then no deals at all," Bonner said. "Sorry to
have wasted your time, gentlemen." He stood up. "I'll get you an
escort back to your helicopter."
"Hell, we just got here," Stevens said. He looked
at Planchet. "You know damned well they're not going to turn Sanders over
to us."
"Then we hurt them until they do," Planchet said.
"You think the strike hurts now? Wait 'till we have a real strike. Nothing
will go in or out of this building. Nothing."
"Sure," Bonner said. "And we counter with a
boycott. Miss Churchward starts making purchases from
"Then there are our waldo operators. They've elected a
spokesman." Bonner touched a switch on his desk console.
Armand Drinkwater's apartment
appeared on the screen. Drinkwater sat idly, his tools neatly stowed away.
"Just can't work this way," he said. "How can I work when an
Angelino cop could break in my door anytime he wants to? I'm used to knowing
who's going to visit me. The rest of us all feel the same way."
Stevens nodded grimly, and he and Planchet exchanged
glances.
Aha, Bonner thought. They've already heard about that one.
Wonder who called? Might be the Secretary of State. Those medical gizmos
Drinkwater was making were pretty important, and the orbital work even more so.
So let's rub it in ... He touched buttons.
Rachael Lief came onto the
screen. Behind her, in her screen, was a lunar landscape complete with irate
astronaut. "I can't tell you when I can get back to work," Rachael
said. "When things are settled here. You could get someone else-"
The astronaut cursed again. Bonner cut him off and looked
expectantly at Planchet. Your move, Bonner's look said.
"How are shipments going to get here from
"Not even food?" Bonner asked innocently.
"I'm not certain, but I think the Constitution prevents
"Don't be silly," Stevens said.
"Me, silly? Come on, now, who was it threatened to
leave us besieged in the castle? You're more medieval than we are. Private
wars, yet."
"Damn you, this is no joke!" Planchet shouted.
"And just to be sure you understand that-"
Bonner's hand hesitated above the keyboard, then withdrew. "Councilman,
I've already told you we regret what happened. You can't possibly believe we
wanted to kill innocent kids-and you've seen all the warnings we gave, the
signs those kids went past, the locked doors they went through. You're an
intelligent man. You know damned well there wasn't another thing we could have
done. And either you or Stevens would have done the same thing if you'd been
sitting in Preston Sanders's chair, too!"
Bonner paused for a moment. "You don't have to respond
to that. But think about it. While you're thinking, let me show you another
one."
The TV screen showed the iceberg resting in
YES.
Have
Nothing happened for a moment. Then the floating plastic
liner which trapped melted icewater and kept it
separated from the salt water of the Bay rippled along its entire length. The
iceberg itself seemed to move, slowly, majestically. On the windward side of
the berg, thousands of gallons of salt water slopped in.
"Hey, for God's sake!" Planchet protested.
"So far your constituents can drink brackish
water," Bonner said. "I don't expect they'll like it much, but it
won't hurt them. Would you like to try for straight salt water?"
"You need that water as much as we do," Stevens
said.
"Watch again," Bonner said.
The TV screen shifted to a personable young lady. The
legend underneath said "Sandra Wyatt, Deputy General Manager." A male
voice-over said "We interrupt regularly scheduled programming for an
important announcement."
"This is a Stage Two water conservation notice,"
Wyatt said. "We have reason to believe that the city of
The screen went back to a view of the iceberg, which was still
in motion but no longer shipping water into the plastic liner. "Want to
bet your people will conserve better than mine?" Bonner asked. "You
won't run out of drinking water, but you'll shut down more industries than I
will. .
"I can get an injunction," Planchet protested.
Bonner laughed. "Go ahead. There's the phone. With
luck you might get a court order in the next hour. We won't even oppose it-,'
MILLIE, I want about half that much water sloppage again.
"Are you watching? Incidentally, my chief engineer
tells-uh, excuse me, told me that it takes three full days to flush the system
once it's been thoroughly contaminated with salt. That's assuming our people do
it. Doing it without the computer and using outside work crews can take from
two weeks to forever, depending. Just thought you'd like to know."
That got to them, Bonner thought. "Of course, you
could go back to pumping water from the
Still no answer.
Data rippled into his mind. He grinned. "Now here's
something interesting. There's a large shipload of cement about to leave
"That'll cost you a lot," Stevens observed.
"Not so very much. We got the cement at a good
price." He cocked his head to one side and looked thoughtful.
"Actually, we might even save money."
Planchet turned to Stevens. "Do you believe
that?"
Stevens shrugged.
"I could let your investigators find that file,"
Bonner said. "Or show it to you here. Want to see for yourself?"
"All right, I'll just call that bluff," Planchet
said. "How much-"
He stopped because MacLean Stevens was laughing so hard it
was hard to hear anyone else speak. "He really got you," Stevens
said. "What difference does it make whether he tells you a story or has
MILLIE tell you? You think the computer won't lie for him?"
"He can't have made up that many stories in
advance-"
"He doesn't have to make up anything in advance,"
Stevens said. "Don't you understand, he's talking to that goddam computer every second. The computer's in his head,
Councilman!"
"Christ. And that's what my kid was up against ... "
"He almost beat us," Art Bonner said. "If
that makes you feel any better."
"It doesn't."
"He did beat us," Art said almost musingly.
"Our goal was a capture ... Mr. Planchet, what can I say? Nothing we do
will bring Jimmy back. But you, you're helping the people who really killed
him! The Fromates. And I can't believe you're
actually on their side."
Planchet sat heavily. "I thought about that
already," he said carefully. "I thought about it a lot. Damn it, I
don't know what to do." He pounded his big fist into a bigger hand.
"All right, Bonner, what is it you want?"
"I want this strike ended," Bonner said. "I
want your cops out of my city, and my people back to work. I want things the
way they were before-"
"Before," Planchet said. "We can't do that.
But I guess we can stop hurting each other. Anyone tries that, it'll be
political suicide. But Sanders and Rand are wanted, and they'll stay
wanted."
"Done. You'll never see either one of them again. Mac,
take your police and go. Mr. Planchet, call off your strike and I'll start
flushing the iceberg tub. And put my people back to work. All right?"
Planchet's lips tightened. He
looked from Bonner to Stevens, then at the iceberg on the screen; and slowly he
nodded.
Done. Break out the champagne.
Successful and fortunate crime is called virtue.
-Seneca
"Sure you don't want a driver, Miss Churchward?"
"Thank you, no, Sergeant. I don't have far to
go." She smiled warmly and climbed into the roadster. Like all cars in
Todos Santos, it was company property; individually owned cars didn't make
sense. It was cheaper to keep a fleet and lend them to residents.
In theory, no car was reserved for any particular person.
In practice, certain specially equipped cars were used by a very few top
executives, and Barbara considered the little Alfa Romeo "hers." She
got in and adjusted the seats and mirrors carefully, then touched a switch
inside the glove compartment. Testing relay. MILLIE?
ACKNOWLEDGED. RELAY OPERATIVE.
Her implanted transceiver's range was fairly short, but the
car had a powerful relay system, good anywhere in line of sight to the large
antenna on top of Todos Santos. She nodded in satisfaction, then checked each
gauge. She started the car and listened attentively to the engine. Eventually
she felt ready to face
She spiraled up and up to the top of the ramp and out into
the greensward around Todos Santos, choosing a route that led through a wild
area. It wasn't actually wilderness: the native chaparral of
The city's walls towered high above her. When she reached
the edge of the park, she saw that the picketing Angelinos were gone. Stevens
and Planchet had acted swiftly once they made the basic agreement. Up above,
though, the Todos Santos residents hadn't removed their banners. THINK OF IT AS
EVOLUTION IN ACTION.
Link to Bonner.
"Here I am. Pretty busy."
"Just a note. That banner has to go. It can't
be helping our relations with the Angelinos."
"Guess
you're right. I'll take care of it. Anything else?"
"Not
right now. Bye."
The apartment building was modern Spanish, mostly concrete
and tile, built over an underground parking structure and around a bricked
patio. There was a parking place right in front, sparing her the drive down a
narrow ramp.
A thick arched passage led to the interior court. Unlike
most such apartment buildings, the swimming pool was in a separate area so that
the brick-floored inside patio seemed cool and inviting, rather than being a
glare of concrete deck and chlorined water. Genevieve
Rand's apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs and along an
iron-railed balcony.
Barbara rang the bell, and was annoyed when there was no
answer. Confirm time of appointment.
MILLIE didn't answer either.
Blast. Out of range. Too much concrete between me and the
car. Oh, well. I'll keep ringing, I know- The door opened, Barbara and
Genevieve eyed each appraisingly. She's not bad at all, Barbara thought. Kept
her looks and figure. Maybe just a touch plump, but so is Delores. Tony must
like them that way. "Barbara Churchward. We had an appointment-"
"Yes. I-I'm not sure we have much to talk about."
"I've come this far. You may as well hear what I have
to say." She's certainly nervous. Because Tony's wanted? Are the police
inside? That could be it, better watch what I say- "Yes, won't you come
in?" Genevieve stood out of the way, then closed the door behind when they
were inside.
The apartment was neat. Expensive furniture. Plants. Little
touches of color here and there, all very tasteful. A door was open to a
hallway and at the end of that was another room, larger but not so trimly kept,
with books and toys and a sewing basket visible on a big smooth-topped table.
"Very nice," Barbara said.
"Would you like anything? Sherry? Coffee?"
"Nothing, thank you."
Genevieve indicated a chair. She hovered nervously until
Barbara sat. "What can I do for you?"
Barbara made a snap decision. She couldn't talk here; not
until she knew what was wrong. "I'd like to take you out to Todos
Santos."
"Oh. Is-is Tony there?"
"I couldn't say. But just before he disappeared, he
made an appointment with you-"
"Yes, that's right."
"Actually, he wanted me to keep it for him, even
before the big flap with the police."
"Oh. Then you're-"
Barbara laughed. "Great heavens no! Oh, I like Tony,
but no, we're not involved. No, Mrs. Rand, it's just that he asked me to, well,
to negotiate with you. It seems he didn't trust himself."
"Negotiate? But to do-"
"For you to join Tony, if that's what you want. Of
course there are problems just now. We could discuss all this better out
there-"
Genevieve didn't say anything.
Ha, Barbara thought, you still want to live with Tony if
I'm any judge of expressions. I'm also certain we're not alone. If we're going
to talk, we'll have to get out of here. "I really wish you'd come with me.
We could be back in an hour, and there's a lot to talk about." Barbara
stood and went toward the door. "Please-"
"That'll do it."
It was a man's voice. He was just stepping out of a closet.
Barbara turned toward him. "My, officer, wasn't it uncomfortable in
there?"
Genevieve laughed hysterically. "Officer! He's no
policeman, he's-"
"Shut up."
The bubble of Barbara's amusement popped and was gone. Not
police?
There were more people now. A not unattractive but
certainly large woman came out of the playroom. Another man came from a side
door in the same hallway. This one carried some kind of two-handed firearm with
a fat barrel. Barbara had seen one like it before, but couldn't remember where.
One of Colonel Cross's men? It didn't matter. It was a submachine gun, and that
made these desperate people indeed.
MILLIE!
Nothing.
Damn these concrete walls! "What do you want?"
"We want you, Mizz
Churchward."
"Miss," she said automatically.
"Traitor," the woman said. She came over to stand
very close to Barbara. "Pig."
"Leona," the first man said. "That's
enough."
"Just how am I a traitor?" Barbara asked. If I
can keep them talking- The woman hit her hard across the mouth. Barbara stepped
back gasping. The woman hit her again, first with her fist, then slapped her,
forehand, backhand. "Now do you understand?" Leona demanded.
"You're nothing, pig. Nothing. You'll do what we want, and you'll talk
when we want you to, and you'll be polite. Understand?"
Barbara spat out pieces of a broken tooth, and felt bloody
saliva run down her chin.
The hard hand struck her again. "I asked you a
question, pig."
"I understand."
"All right. Let's get them both out of here," one
of the men ordered.
Leona was holding a black cloth hood. She put it over
Barbara's head, then took her arm and began pulling her. Barbara stumbled along
somehow. The whole side of her face throbbed, and it was hard to breathe inside
the bag. Her nose was stopped up, and she continually swallowed salt blood.
"And keep quiet, understand?"
"I understand."
Something seized her left breast and squeezed horribly.
Barbara gasped with pain.
"I didn't say you could talk. Now shut up and come
on." The hand squeezed again. Barbara stumbled and nearly fell. The woman
lifted her by her breast, and Barbara felt faint from the pain. She was half
dragged until she could recover her balance.
MILLIE? MILLIE
... MILLIE ... God where are you? MILLIE-
ACKNOWLEDGED.
O thank God. Record. Security alert. Link with
Bonner.
"What is
it?"
"I'm
being kidnapped. Present location Genevieve Rand apartment."
"I We're
on our way."
"Going
down some stairs now. Blindfolded. The stairs face north, we're turning right,
right again-I'm turned around, I don't know which way I'm going. We're going
down again, I suppose into the garage under the apartment. Art, I'm
scared."
Nothing.
"Art!"
"Get in the car and lie on the floor. That's it. Right
there."
MILLIE-Art--someone-
Nothing. 0 boy. Hang on, no panic, they'll find me. Art will take care of that.
And then it'll be my turn with that sadistic bitch. She's probably a Lesbian.
Wonder what she's afraid of most? Maybe rats. I can have her put in with a
whole cage full of rats. Spiders, too. Whatever she doesn't like. MILLIE- She heard the car motor start. The car began to
move. It seemed to be going slowly, turning slowly, moving slowly. It tilted
sharply and continued to move.
Up the parking ramp. MILLIE
ACKNOWLEDGED. "You faded on us, sweetheart.
Look, you keep trying."
"They
have me in a car. We'll be driving away. Away from my car. Away from the
relay."
"Keep
telling us which way you're going. Don't stop transmitting."
"I'm scared ... We turned left at the top of the ramp. Now we're moving, faster. There's no gear shift. Electric automobile. Running smoothly. Good springs and shocks I think. We're turning right -are you still there?"
"Still
hear you. Keep telling us."
"Now
we're going again. Turning right. Uphill. Uphill and turning. A freeway ramp!
Leveling off. Accelerating. We're on a freeway.
Art-"
Nothing.
O Lord.
MILLIE. MILLIE. MILLIE.
"The
"Only one on ramp there; and it goes south,"
Colonel Cross said. "They're headed toward us on I-5."
"We've got to find them," Bonner said.
Cross nodded crisply. "I want every car with an
implant relay out on that freeway. Cruise up and down and keep on Miss Churchward's frequency. MILLIE will tell you if she gets
anything."
"Right," Lieutenant Blake said. He spoke softly
into a telephone handset.
Bonner lifted his own telephone. "Sandra, locate every
portable transceiver we have and get them into cars that don't have relay
units. I want to blanket this city with relays. Let Security know when you've
got them ready to roll. If we get enough cars out there, one of them has to
hear her-"
"I already thought of that, Art," Wyatt said.
"It's being done. Anything else?"
"No, I have Colonel Cross with me and he's handling
it. We're taking a lot of your cops. You'd better cancel leaves and call in
some off-duty guards."
"Already on that, too, chief. Leave the routine to me.
I'll run the city. You find your lady."
"Yeah. Thanks." Bonner put down the telephone. MILLIE.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Anything from Miss Churchward?
NO NEW COMMUNICATION WITH CHURCHWARD.
Listen hard.
INSTRUCTION NOT UNDERSTOOD.
Tony Rand hurried past Delores without seeing her and
without waiting to be announced. He charged into Bonner's office. "Art, I
just heard-"
It hit him, then. Before he'd only been worried. Now he
felt a cold hand in his guts as he saw Bonner and Colonel Cross and Lieutenant
Blake sitting grim-faced, not doing anything.
Not doing anything. Which meant there was nothing to do.
They'd have thought of all the obvious stuff-"Is it certain they took Djinn?" Tony demanded.
Colonel Cross glanced at Bonner, then nodded. "Yes. We
have our people in Mrs. Rand's apartment now, and neither she nor the boy are
there."
"Zach's with his grandmother," Tony said. "I
talked to him on the telephone before the jailbreak and he said his mother was
sending him off for two weeks."
"That accounts for him, then," Cross said.
"And of course Mrs. Rand could have gone voluntarily with the
kidnappers-"
"Batshit," Tony said.
Cross shrugged.
"They got Barbara at Genevieve Rand's place,"
Bonner said. "They were obviously waiting for her. And Genevieve has been
fairly chummy with Professor Arnold Renn-"
"She wouldn't have helped them kidnap Barbara,"
Tony said. "She can be a screwball, but she's not that screwy."
Bonner spread his hands. "Makes no difference
anyway," he said. "Join the club. Sit down and wait."
"We should be doing something-"
"Agreed. What?" Bonner demanded. "Let me
tell you what we're doing now. Maybe you will think of something."
"Central, this is One Zed Niner.
We have a weak transmission from Sweetheart. I say again, we have a weak
transmission from Sweetheart. Our location is 18400 block of
"Stay out of sight, One Zed Niner.
Do not let Playmates see you. We do not wish Playmates to know we have means of
locating them. I say again, get your vehicle out of sight and stay there.
Continue to monitor transmissions from Sweetheart. We will attempt to focus an
antenna on your vehicle so that Sweetheart will be able to communicate directly
with us. Do you understand?"
"Understood. Will comply. One Zed Niner
out."
"What the hell are your troops doing?" Bonner
demanded.
"Take it easy," Colonel Cross said. "And
stop snapping at us. We're sending the cars out there, including hers. We had
contact with her, and she wasn't moving, and it's only a matter of time before
we get through to her again. For God's sake, boss, keep your shirt on."
"Yeah. All right. I'll try."
"Now about that other matter. Do I call in help?"
"No, Colonel. Not unless you think you have to. I'd
rather we did this ourselves," Art Bonner said.
Amos Cross grinned. "So would I. But I do warn you,
the LAPD SWAT team is one of the best in the world. They haven't lost a victim
yet."
"And you don't think our people can do it?"
"If I thought that, I'd insist we call in LAPD,"
Cross said. "We've got sharp troops. But of course they don't have the
kind of experience regular SWAT outfits get."
How could they? There hadn't been a
barricaded-with-hostages case in the history of Todos Santos. Am I right to
take chances? With Barbara and Genevieve? "Tony, you get a voice in this
decision. Should we call in LAPD?"
Putting it square on me as usual, Bonner thought. So be it.
"Art! MILLIE answered me! Art!"
"Thank
God. I'm here, babe. Are you all right?"
"Not too
bad. They're a little rough, but I can take it now. But I don't know where we
are-"
"We almost have you located. That's how you hear us, we have a relay unit near you. Soon as I get a couple more cars there we'll triangulate and locate you. One question. Should we call LAPD SWAT or take care of it ourselves?"
"Just us.
Please. I've stayed sane thinking what I can do to those – uh --O God-"
"Barbara!"
"Whew.
They do get -- I'll try to control that. You need me to keep transmitting so
you can locate me, don't you? I'll try. One. Two.
Three. Four. .
"Colonel, get our troops ready. That's a bad situation
there."
"What's happening?" Rand demanded. "Did you
hear something? Is Djinn all right?"
"Don't know, Tony," Bonner said. He held up his
hand, palm outward. "Don't distract me. Colonel, let me know when your
people are in position. They'll have to go in fast ... "
"Lie down, bitch."
0 God, not again. "You hurt me last time. I-"
"Shut up, or I'll give you to Leona."
Could that be worse? MILLIE. Have you located me? Uh. Thank God it's not my fertile time. Do they
all do this? They raped Patty Hearst. Maybe they think it will convert me. Oh
Lord that hurts- "It's the revolution. It's coming, and nothing you can do
about it. We'll end the
"Where are they now? Can you locate all of
them?"
"There
are four men and one female. One of the men is in the closet with me. I don't
think there are any weapons in here with us. I can take care of him if the
others won't interfere. I don't know where they have Genevieve."
"You're
sure Genevieve is not one of them."
"Yes.
Very sure. They-they hurt her. And I don't know where she is, or where the
others are. I-"
"What is
he doing in a closet with you?"
"Art,
what in hell do you think?"
"I'm
sorry. Stand by. We're about ready-"
Think of something else. Anything else. She remembered her
friend Jeanine who studied Zen. You handle pain by accepting it, attending to
it, thinking about it, make it a part of yourself until it's commonplace and
nothing special and then it isn't pain at all, only it's not working-
"Ha, you get interested too, don't you, honey? We can
do this a lot-"
There was a splintering sound from the next room.
"What in hell was that?"
"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE. MOVE ONE INCH AND I'LL BLOW YOUR
BALLS OFF."
"Shit-what is this?" He tried to scramble up.
Barbara reached up and seized his testicles. She clenched
her fist hard, pulled, twisted. He shrieked and flailed helplessly in the dark.
It was his screaming that brought the guards.
No one is fit to be trusted with power. ... No one.
... Any man who has lived at all knows the follies and wickedness he's capable
of. ... And if he does know it, he knows also that neither he nor any man ought
to be allowed to decide a single human fate.
-C. P. Snow, The Light and the Dark
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. No.
I've got a broken tooth, and a cut on my face. But mostly I feel dirty.
Sticky-dirty ... Art, I HATE them-Dr. Finder wants to give me a shot. I think
I'll let him."
"She says she's all right," Bonner said.
"Is Djinn all right?"
Tony demanded.
Bonner looked helpless. "Barbara hasn't said. Damn it,
Colonel, why can't you talk to your people-"
"I'm getting through now," Cross said. He spoke
into the telephone. "All right, Captain, I've got you on the speaker.
You're talking to Mr. Bonner, Mr. Rand, and myself. Report."
"Yes, sir. We are in complete control of the house.
Mrs. Rand is hysterical but otherwise physically unharmed. She may have been
sexually abused, but that isn't certain. Miss Churchward had a nosebleed and
has a cut on her left cheek which will require medical attention. She was-a man
was in the-" The guard stammered for a moment, then resumed in a dry
professional voice.
"Can you hear the policeman reporting to
us?"
"Yes."
"We have four prisoners, three male and one female.
One male prisoner was apprehended while committing rape. Miss Churchward
greatly assisted in his apprehension."
"You needn't put any of that in your report,"
Bonner said. "We'll edit that considerably."
"Thank
you. I'm going to sleep now, Dr. Finder gave me a shot - .I love you."
"Love
you."
"That's about all, sir. We broke in clean. The
Cross looked expectantly at Art Bonner.
"Bring them all here. And the fewer people who know
about this, the better."
"Right. What are you going to do with them?"
"That, Colonel, is one hell of a good question."
Genevieve Rand found the situation thoroughly ambiguous. On
the one hand, the Todos Santos guards had rescued her, and they couldn't have
been more polite. On the other-she didn't know where she was, and the polite
guards wouldn't let her leave.
She was in a comfortable room, the living room to a large
apartment somewhere in Todos Santos. She had use of a bathroom. All the other
doors were locked, and there were no windows. They'd left her a box that looked
like a radio; someone always answered if she talked into it. They'd had a
physician talk to her. And now they ignored her-but they wouldn't let her go.
At least I'm safe, she thought, and shuddered. She'd always
been a little afraid of Ron Wolfe, even when he'd been an aboveground member of
the movement. He was one of the intense ones, ready to sacrifice everything-and
everyone!-to the Cause. Including himself, except that his objective assessment
was that he was far too valuable to be sacrificed lightly.
That had been her first thought, once she knew that they
intended to kidnap Churchward: Ron Wolfe thinks he's too valuable to be
sacrificed, and I'm going to see him commit a capital crime.
She'd even tried to play along with them, pretend to join
them, but they weren't having any. Arnold Renn had
told them all about her attitudes and wants and wishes and desires, and they
weren't about to trust her; and when they'd taken her as well as Churchward
she'd felt relieved that they hadn't killed her on the spot, but she didn't
think she had very long to live. She remembered her terror when Wolfe
blindfolded Churchward-and didn't bother doing it to her.
So. Thanks to the Todos Santos people, I'm safe; but now
what? I'm still a witness, she thought. I wonder what that means?
The door opened and Tony came in.
Her first impulse was to run to him, but she was seated in
a deep, soft chair and she couldn't get up easily; by the time she could stand,
that moment had been lost.
But he looks worried, and relieved, and glad to see me, so
maybe it's right after all -"Hello, Tony. I thought you'd be out of the
country by now, what with the police after you and everything." And wow do
I sound calm and cool and collected, and is that the right way to handle this?
Competent. He likes competence. Not having to worry about people. So yes, it is
the right way if I can just keep it up.
"I was just leaving when they told me," Tony
said. "Are you all right?"
She tried to shrug, and flinched; it felt like she'd been
kicked under the shoulder blade. She'd hit a corner of something when the big
woman threw her across a room. "Some interesting bruises. Nothing
permanent."
"Good." He was looking into her eyes, as if he
really thought you could read minds that way. "I – uh - Miss Churchward
was going to talk to you. Did she tell you what-I mean, did she explain what
she wanted to see you about?"
"Some. We got interrupted."
He waved his hands around nervously. "Hell, I used to
be able to talk to you, why can't I now? Djinn, do
you want to come to
"Ah. She never got that far. Oh, sure, I should have
realized; you've got to leave, don't you?"
"Yeah. But Sir George Reedy has me signed up for
another ten years of inspired drudgery, thank God. Do you want in, you and
Zach?"
Genevieve almost laughed. What she wanted was out. Out of
She wanted that. Now how best to bargain with Tony?
"Uh-Djinn, I want to be
honest with you. This is a big job. My contract looks like they've reinvented
slavery! And it isn't something I can do by rote, either. This one won't be
anything like Todos Santos. I need a different design, it's a colder climate, there
are new materials I'd like to ... Djinn, what I'm
trying to say is, I won't have a lot of time for family life, not at
first-"
"I'll come." Jesus, he was about to talk himself
out of it! "We'll come. It's all right, Tony. I'm a big girl, and I'm used
to taking care of myself. I'll find plenty to do." Out of here, in a place
where nobody knows me.
"Then it's settled? You'll come with me?"
She remembered that TV documentary. Safety. You're safe in
Todos Santos. We can do that again, Tony and I. She nodded, and hugged him,
carefully. Feeling fragile.
There were five people at the conference table. They had
just taken their seats when Tony Rand brought Genevieve in. Art Bonner half
stood and bowed perfunctorily. "Art Bonner," he said. "And Frank
Mead, our comptroller. Colonel Cross of Security. John Shapiro, corporate
counsel. Preston Sanders, formerly my deputy. You already know Barbara Churchward.
I presume Tony told you why we're all here?"
"No." Genevieve seemed calm enough.
"Well, it's simple enough, and we thought you ought to
have a voice in the discussion. We're trying to decide what to do with the
kidnappers."
"But-" Genevieve looked puzzled. "But surely
you'll turn them over to the police ... "
"If we do that, you and I will both spend months in a
courtroom," Barbara said. Her voice was slurred, and a thick bandage
covered the left side of her face. "Which would mean that you could not go
to
"Yes, but what can we do with them?" Genevieve
demanded. "I mean, you can't just kill them-"
"I could," Barbara said. "Two of them,
anyway. Except that I'd want to do it slowly."
"If you really mean that, I'll arrange
it."
"I don't
know. It just popped out."
"So what do we do with them?"
"Don't know. I don't want to sit in courtrooms. But
I'm damned if I'll just let them go!"
Genevieve Rand looked shocked, then thoughtful; then she
looked disgusted with herself.
"Barbara, be serious," Preston Sanders said.
"You don't want blood on your hands. Believe me you don't!"
"Pres, I understand how you meant that-but I am
serious," Barbara said.
"Then there's Professor Renn,"
Bonner said. "Mrs. Rand, are you certain he arranged this
kidnapping?"
"I'm certain he tapped my telephone," Genevieve
said. "I saw him doing it-he said he'd dropped the phone and took it apart
to check it. And Ron Wolfe and those other people are Arnold's friends, and
they knew when Miss Churchward was coming."
"I'd say that's pretty certain," Barbara said.
"Certain enough for us. Not certain at all for the
D.A." Shapiro said. "For that matter, the way we've violated their
rights, we couldn't get any of them convicted now. Be more likely that we'd go
to jail."
"Another good reason to put them out the
airlock," Tony Rand said.
"No." Sanders's voice was low and determined.
"Tony, think how hard you tried not to kill anyone in the last break-in.
How hard I tried the first time. Did no good. We were forced to it. But this
time, this time we have them alive, we haven't had to kill anyone, and dammit, we can't do it in cold blood. They're human beings
too, just like us, and nobody appointed us judge and jury."
"I point out that the cost of putting them before a
proper judge and jury is unreasonably high for the victims," Bonner said.
"And we don't have jails and prisons here. But I just don't know what to
do." He looked around helplessly. "I suppose I should start by asking
the victims. Genevieve?"
"There's got to be a better way than murder."
"Barbara?"
She shrugged. "Three hours ago, I'd have cut their
throats myself. Now, I'm not so sure." She shook her head. "I
pass."
"Tony?"
"Put them out the airlock."
Bonner was surprised at how vicious
"Could any of them prove that we've held them?"
Art asked.
"What do you mean by proof?" Shapiro said.
"They might or might not recognize the guards who captured them. Otherwise
- what proof could there be?"
"And we can see that our guards have a hundred witnesses
each to swear blind they were on duty here," Bonner said. "So. They
can't complain to the LA cops ... not that they'd dare anyway, since they'd
have to say what they were doing when our guards grabbed them."
"So. You've proved that we can turn them loose,"
Frank Mead said. "I'm not sure I care much for that. They'd be right back
again, costing us-"
"With your permission," Amos Cross said.
"With your consent, I'll talk to each of them. I think I can get it across
that if we ever see or hear of any one of them again, we will declare open
season on them-and that if we have the slightest doubt about our own ability to
finish them, we can afford high-priced open contracts ... "
"Is that your recommendation, Colonel?" Bonner
asked. "That we turn them loose with a warning?"
Cross shook his head. "I pass on giving an opinion,
Mr. Bonner. When the police become judges, your society is in real
trouble."
"All right," Bonner said. 'We've got three
muggers we apprehended in the subway, and four kidnappers. We may as well take
the easy case first. I gather everyone is for letting the muggers loose?"
No one said anything.
"We've kept them fairly heavily drugged," Amos
Cross said. "And one of them babbled a lot. Enough to convince our guards
that he's a murderer."
"And you're going to turn them loose on
Frank Mead shrugged. "Who the hell cares about
Angelinos, as long as we're not bothered by them again?"
"Angelino laws left them loose to hurt our
people,"
"So. We've got three muggers, four kidnappers-and
Professor Renn."
"We don't have Renn."
"We can acquire him," Bonner said. "And the
question before the house is a simple one. What do we do with them?"
"Think of it as evolution in action," Barbara
Churchward said. There was no humor in her voice at all.
Injustice is relatively easy to bear; what stings
is justice.
-H. L. Mencken
Professor Arnold Renn threw
clothes into an Air Force B-4 bag. He worked clumsily, with almost frantic
haste. From time to time he glanced at the ornately engraved card that lay on
his bedroom table. "THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION."
Get out. Get away. It'll blow over. They can't really hurt
me. But- There had been a dozen of those cards. In his box at UCLA. At the
faculty club. Under the windshield wiper of his car, and another on the car
seat although there was no sign that the lock had been forced. In the refrigerator,
and now in the bedroom, and Tina had no idea how they had got into the house.
The threat seemed unmistakable. Best not ignore it, not
with the headlines about the jailbreak following the unsuccessful attack. And
worse. There wasn't anything in the papers, or on TV, about a Todos Santos
official being kidnapped, and there wasn't any answer at Genevieve's apartment,
or at the Fromate headquarters, or- Best get out of
town. Take a leave of absence until things blow over. Let a graduate assistant meet
the classes for a while. Get away. Let Tina follow later, if she wanted to. But
get away, get out, go now.
He finished packing and took the suitcase out to the
garage.
"Good afternoon."
Renn looked up, startled. The man
stood lazily against the garage door. He smiled slightly, but there wasn't
anything pleasant about the short-barreled shotgun he held. "Uh-"
"No need to say anything at all. I have a message for
you."
"What-"
"It's simple. Goodbye."
Renn had just enough time to
understand before the buckshot tore his chest apart.
Vague sensations shaped themselves into a pattern. Cold.
Grass tickling cheek. A distant moaning nearby. Slowly Vinnie
came to awareness of them all, and more. Pain, sharpening, until it felt like
the left side of his face and neck had been smashed to bloody mush.
Like the long-faced creep with the empty pockets who'd
cursed them in the subway, several weeks ago. He'd looked like Vinnie felt, when Vinnie got
through with him. But Vinnie remembered his face, long
and sullen and hating ... and another face flashed vivid lii
his brain.
Styled curly blond hair; broad, smooth clean-shaven face;
new dark blue suit and vest, bas-relief tie in scarlet and dark brown; gold at
both wrists, gold ring ... walking money. Seen only for an instant, with a look
on his face such as Vinnie had never seen on a mark:
unearthly joy, as the mark cocked his fist for another blow. The big fist with
its big gold ring had just blasted Vinnie's neck to
pulp, and was set to do it again.
They hated him. Vinnie had never
felt that before. They cringed, they tried to reason with him, they handed him
wallet or watch or purse, they ran ... but they hated him. They would kill him
if they could.
He reached for another face, seen later through a haze of
some drug. A face out of a nightmare. Seen in close-up, a woman with impossibly
huge eyes, hair exploding around her head, fiendish grin ... and a tool in her
hand, a needle tearing curves across his belly. He tried to scream and another
needle jabbed his arm and it all went away.
Vinnie tried to curl himself
tighter; he moaned, and the moan became a yell as it tore his throat open.
He was sitting upright, naked as a peeled egg. There were
others around him, all naked, painted like so many Easter eggs. Six plus Vinnie. Some still sleeping; some staring about them in
terror.
Where are we? He sat up and looked around. Green shrubbery
to one side. On the other- On the other, Todos Santos was a wall across the
sky. The windows blazed like tens of thousands of eyes.
Run. He had to run. He sprang to his feet and everything
went blurry; he hardly felt the jar as he fell back. "How was I to
know?" he shouted. "How did I know it was you people in the
subway?"
A voice from the distance mocked him. "THINK OF IT AS
EVOLUTION IN ACTION," the voice called.
He looked behind him. There, across the field, over at the
city street that bounded the Todos Santos greensward, was a large TV truck,
with a cameraman standing on top. The camera, and other instruments, were
pointed at Vinnie.
What am I doing here? But there was no place to go. Not
really. And he wasn't alone.
Strangers ... no. That was Runner Carlos, clutching himself
tight to make himself smaller. A small, hard man who sometimes raided the subways,
whom Vinnie avoided when he could - very hard to
recognize with no hair, no moustache, his whole body painted bluish-white. The
great bulk of a man painted leaf green, sleeping peacefully on his side, would
be Gadge, who ran with the Runner and took his
orders. Vinnie had never seen him undressed. What he
had taken for muscle on Gadge seemed to be mostly
fat.
But who were the other four? And what did it say across
their chests? He strained to focus his eyes. THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN
ACTION.
Vinnie fought back a laugh. It
would tear his throat, and annoy Gadge and Runner
Carlos ... and Vinnie himself had been painted deep
rose. His belly bore the same cartoon as the rest. Like a trade mark. He rubbed
it, not understanding, and found a slight ridge, and understood.
Tattoo, just healing. Vinnie
remembered the woman with the needle-and, instantly, the man with the gold
ring. He understood, then, that he would never see his belly in a mirror
without remembering both: the huge-eyed woman with the needle, and the mark
cocking his gold-decorated fist, ready to pound him to death.
MacLean Stevens drove up to Lunan's camera truck.
"What's going on?" he demanded.
Thomas Lunan grinned. "Some sad people out there. All
dressed up and no place to go."
"Who are they?"
"I think you'll find three of them are from the
American Ecology Army. Underground types, wanted by the FBI. Three more are
common crooks your cops will recognize."
"You seem to know a lot-"
"Shield law," Lunan chanted. "Shield law, shield
law, shield law. No sources. But it's all true, and you really will want to
arrest the three Ecology Army types. I doubt if you can charge the
others."
"But-why?" Stevens demanded. "Why are they
there?"
"If I had to guess," Lunan said, "I'd guess
they annoyed Todos Santos."
Stevens set his lips in a grim line. In the field across
the street, the sleepers were stirring. They kept glancing nervously toward
Stevens and Lunan. Mac waved to the police who'd come out with him. "Round
them up. Indecent exposure will do to get them to the station house."
The police sergeant laughed. "Right. Okay, troops,
let's go ... "
"So it finally happened," Stevens said.
"What happened?" Lunan asked.
"Todos Santos cut itself loose. Now they're completely
above the law. They're judge and jury and executioner."
"But they're not," Lunan said. "Don't you
see, that's the whole message here." He lowered his voice. "I'm
prepared to deny I ever said this. Mr. Stevens, some of those people did more
than annoy the Saints. They kidnapped and abused one of their highest
officials. They had her for several hours before the Todos Santos guards
rescued her."
Stevens frowned.
Lunan nodded. "Exactly. They really could have been
judge and jury and executioner. Who'd know? Instead, they've chosen to stay
part of the human race. Oh sure, they're also protesting your brand of justice.
They want to see it changed. But they haven't cut loose from humanity."
"You can say that. You haven't just come from looking
at Professor Renn's body."
Lunan looked up sharply. "What?"
"Somebody blew him away with a shotgun. You didn't
know that, huh?"
"No. But it wasn't Todos Santos."
"Why is that, Lunan? Would they have used a death
ray?"
Lunan laughed. "They just didn't. Mac, you may want to
be careful investigating Renn's murder. You might
find your favorite City Councilman wasn't as sharp as he thinks he was."
"Planchet? Planchet ... yeah. God knows he had motive.
Lunan, do you know this?"
"No. Sounds like a hired kill, though, doesn't it?
That could be Planchet, or Diana Lauder's parents, or someone connected to the
Ecology Army types Renn sent in to die. But I know
what Todos Santos had in mind for Renn, and that
wasn't it. They wanted to scare him out of the country."
Stevens mulled that.
The LAPD officers had just finished rounding up the gaily
colored nudies. Stevens watched the last one loaded into a black and white.
Then he looked past the greensward, past the orange grove, on to the enormous
building beyond. Free society or termite hill? Or both?
Is this really the wave of the future? "For now,"
he told Lunan. "Just for now and for this moment they haven't quite cut
loose from the human race. But can you live in that and stay human
forever?" His arm swept expressively to indicate the enormous
city/building, its windows glaring orange-white in sunset light.
The great orange banner was still there. "THINK OF IT
AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION." As they watched, it rippled and moved. Someone
was lowering it.
"You could live there, Lunan. You'd be welcome,"
Stevens said. "When are you planning to move in?"
"No," said Lunan, and then he bellowed. "Aubry, get a camera sweep of those windows!" His voice
dropped again. "That'll go nice. A hundred thousand eyes, but they're all looking
inward. No privacy at all, and no interest in what goes on out here. No, that's
not my life style."
"Not mine either-"
"Why does it have to be? A Venice boatman would go
crazy in there. So would a Maori tribesman, but that doesn't make him right.
What would a Roman Legionnaire think of your life style? What would Thomas
Jefferson think of me? There are a lot of ways to be human."
"Maybe." Stevens turned, in time to see the great
banner flutter down from the battlements and settle gently to the ground.