by Bova, Ben
Meanwhile, Professor James Colraine Wilmot was entertaining an unwelcome guest in his quarters.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening,” said Eberly, as he stepped into the professor’s sitting room.
“Yes, obviously,” Wilmot said with barely-concealed distaste.
Wilmot’s two-room suite was no larger than the standard apartments in the village of Athens: a sitting room and a bedroom, spacious by the standards of a spacecraft, yet as compact as an efficiency apartment in a major Earthside metropolis. It was as comfortable and unpretentious as Wilmot himself, though. The professor had furnished it just like his old digs in Cambridge; indeed, most of the warm, dark wooden furniture had been taken from his home there. He even had a section of one of the smart walls displaying a fireplace, complete with hypnotic crackling flames.
Wilmot himself was obviously dressed for an evening alone. He wore a deep burgundy dressing gown over rumpled, baggy tweed trousers. His feet were shod in comfortable old slippers. He was considerably bulkier than Eberly, a tall, thickset man with a bushy gray moustache and iron-gray hair, his face seamed and permanently tanned by long years in the field on anthropological expeditions.
Eberly was in his office attire: a light blue hip-length tunic over crisply creased charcoal slacks. Wilmot thought the tunic hid the man’s potbelly well. Strange creature, the professor said to himself, as he gestured Eberly to a worn old leather armchair. The man has obviously spent a great deal of effort to make his face look handsome, even commanding. Yet below the neck he’s soft as putty.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Wilmot asked, sinking into his favorite chair. A half-empty glass of whisky sat on the coffee table between them. Wilmot did not so much as glance at it, nor did he offer his visitor a drink.
Eberly’s sculpted face grew serious, almost grave. “I thought it best to discuss this face-to-face, and not in my office,” he began.
There he goes, thought Wilmot. Always some dire emergency. Always the need for secrecy. The man’s a born schemer.
“Some sort of problem?” he asked.
Nodding, Eberly said, “We need to amend the constitution.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. I can see now that calling for elections every year was a mistake. We need to change that.”
“Ah.” Wilmot smiled knowingly. “Now that you are in power you don’t want to run the risk of being voted out.”
“It’s not that,” Eberly protested.
“Then what?”
Eberly’s face twisted into a nervous grimace. Wilmot could see the wheels turning in his mind.
At last the younger man said, “Having elections every year means that whoever is in office must prepare for the coming election campaign. Every year! It distracts from his duties. I’m so busy trying to convince people I’m doing the best possible job for them that I don’t have the time to do the job they elected me to do.”
Wilmot considered this for a moment. “You could step down and allow someone else to take the job.”
“But I’m the best qualified!” Eberly cried. “I really am. You know the people of this habitat. They’re lazy. They don’t want the responsibilities of office. They’d rather let someone else do it.”
“They are averse to political responsibilities, true enough,” Wilmot admitted. “Perhaps we should institute a draft—”
“A draft?”
“It’s been suggested, you know. Pick our administrative officers by lot. Let the personnel department’s computer run the show. It might even generate some enthusiasm among the people, a lottery.”
“And whoever got picked would refuse to serve,” Eberly said, almost sullenly.
Wilmot realized he was tired of this tomfoolery. Besides, his drink was waiting for him. He rose to his feet. Eberly looked surprised, then slowly got up out of his chair.
“The real reason we have elections every year,” he said, gripping Eberly’s thin arm in one strong hand, “is to allow the people of this habitat to vent some political steam. Elections are a safety valve, you see. They give people the illusion that they have some degree of control over their government. Without elections, who knows what kind of protests and outright rebellions we might get—even from these lazy, noninvolved citizens. They’re slackers and noncomformists, no doubt, but if they feel the government is not sensitive to their needs, they will hunt for a way to change the government. Elections are better than revolts.”
Eberly stood there, looking decidedly unhappy. He’s trying to think of a rebuttal, Wilmot could see. I can smell the wood burning.
“I doubt that you have anything to worry about, my boy,” Wilmot said jovially, clapping Eberly on the shoulder and steering him to the door. “As you say, the good citizens of this habitat are woefully apathetic. Most of ’em don’t even bother to vote—as long as there are elections. But take away the elections and you’ll have trouble on your hands. Remember, as the incumbent, you have a powerful advantage. I doubt that you have anything to fear. Really I do.”
Eberly looked far from reassured as he said good night and Wilmot closed the door on him.
Damned schemer, Wilmot thought, as he headed back to his drink. Blackmailer. He’d do anything to hold on to power.
He sat heavily and took a long sip of the whisky. Feeling its warmth working its way through him, Wilmot relaxed somewhat. I’m out of it, he said to himself. I’m merely an observer now, nothing more.
He took another sip, then leaned his head back. It’s damned interesting, though. Ten thousand men and women locked inside this oversized sardine tin. The ideal anthropological experiment. Despite it all, I’m quite a lucky man.
Eberly, meanwhile, was walking along the corridor to his own apartment. There were plenty of people coming up in the other direction. Eberly was surprised to see that most of them looked tanned, even golden. What is this? he asked himself. A new fad that I haven’t caught onto?
Everyone who passed him recognized Eberly, of course, and greeted him with smiles and hellos. That made him feel better. They know me. They like me. They even admire me, most of them.
Wilmot’s not going to offer any support for amending the constitution, he realized. But then he brightened. Still and all, the old man won’t offer any opposition, either. His moral power in this habitat is nil. I’ve seen to that.
He quickened his stride as he headed for his apartment.
28 DECEMBER 2095: BREAKFAST
“So how serious are you about this bodyguard of yours?” Holly asked her sister.
The two women were sitting in Holly’s kitchen. She had invited Pancho for breakfast and a one-on-one talk. There were no eggs in the habitat, no chickens. Most of the protein came from aquaculture fish, frogs or shellfish, or from the genetically engineered protein the inhabitants of Goddard fondly called “McGlop.” Holly had microwaved a plate of the processed protein for them and added sliced fruits from the habitat’s orchards.
Pancho shrugged her slim shoulders. “We been livin’ together for a few months now. We get along real well.”
“In bed?”
“That’s none of your business, girl,” Pancho said. But she grinned widely as she said it.
Holly grew more serious. “You know I’m in charge of human resources here.”
“Very responsible position.”
“If you and Jake are going to apply for permanent residency, I’ve got to know as soon as possible.”
“Permanent residency?” Pancho’s face clearly showed surprise. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”
“You mean you just came out here to visit me?” Holly realized that she was surprised, too.
“Yep. I told you that, didn’t I?”
“You did. But I thought—”
“You thought I was bullshitting you?”
“Well …” Holly felt her cheeks burning. “Yeah, I guess I did. A little.”
Pancho glanced down at the protein slices on her plate. “I dunno, maybe I
was. A little. Truth is, I don’t know what I want to do.”
“Malcolm’s afraid you’ll become a citizen and then run for his job.”
“Me? Hell no! I’ve had enough sittin’ behind a desk. I’ve made all the executive decisions I’m ever gonna make. Never again!”
She said it with such fervor that Holly wondered what was behind her sister’s outburst.
“Anyway,” Pancho went on, “I want you to get to know Jake. And I want to see more of this guy of yours.”
“Raoul?”
“Yeah, Raoul. Sounds like a flamenco dancer.”
Holly smiled. “He’s an engineer. From New Jersey.”
“Raoul,” Pancho repeated. “He looks like a real downer, you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask,” Holly said pointedly. “And he’s not a downer. He’s just—well, Raoul wasn’t one of our original people. He was an engineer at the Jupiter station. He came aboard when he had an accident while we were refueling at Jupiter on the way out here. Applied for citizenship after … after the trouble we had with those religious fanatics. They beat him up, too.”
“And he decided to stay here?”
“I think it’s because of me,” Holly said.
“Well, well.”
Growing somber, Holly confessed, “Thing is, Panch, he’s given up his chance to go back home because of me. That’s a load.”
“You like him?”
Holly nodded, a little uncertainly.
“You get along well?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“In bed?”
Her chin went up. “Like you said, that’s none of your business.”
“But you’ve got no complaints.”
A hint of a smile sneaked across Holly’s face. “No complaints.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I think that sooner or later he’s going to want to go home.”
“To New Jersey?”
“It’s his home. His family, his friends, they’re all there. He misses them. He was at Jupiter station doing his two years of mandatory public service.”
“So you’re scared of him dumping you.”
“And that makes it tough to make a real commitment.”
“Which increases the chances of him dumping you.”
“Catch twenty-two,” said Holly unhappily.
“You could go back Earthside with him, you know.”
Holly’s eyes went wide. “And leave Goddard? I couldn’t do that, Panch. I’m somebody here. All my friends are here.”
“And all your family, too,” Pancho said gently. “Even though I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.”
“This is a good place, Panch,” Holly said earnestly. “It’s got everything a person could want.”
“Maybe,” Pancho said, a slight hint of wistfulness in her voice. “It’s a big solar system, though. Lots of places. They’ve rebuilt the Ceres habitat. Enlarging it, even. And they’re finding more on Mars every day, just about.”
Holly took a good long look at her sister as Pancho rambled on about the solar power stations being built on Mercury and the new cities being dug into the Moon’s battered regolith. She realized that Pancho had a wanderlust, a longing to see new places, to travel across the breadth of the solar system. That’s what’s brought her here to Saturn, Holly realized. She thinks it’s to visit me but it’s really that wanderlust of hers.
Holly found that she felt almost relieved about it.
Oswaldo Yañez felt almost delighted that the poor man had mashed his thumb so badly. His hours of duty at the habitat’s hospital were almost always so boringly quiet that he welcomed an opportunity to actually practice medicine. The habitat’s population was mostly young; even most of those whose calendar age was climbing up there took rejuvenation therapies that kept their bodies youthful.
Yañez was considering rejuve therapy for himself, although he had told no one about it yet, not even his wife of thirty-two years. He was still vigorous, his dark hair still thick and luxuriant, but he had added nearly ten kilos to his weight since joining this habitat and he worried about that. Too much easy living, he knew, but his determination to exercise and go on a diet always melted away in the presence of his wife’s cooking.
As he cleaned away the blood, he saw the technician’s thumb wasn’t all that badly mangled.
“I was working on the main water pump,” the younger man explained, “down in the underground. My power wrench went dead, poof! just like that. When I tried to figure out what was wrong with it, the damned thing snapped on again. Whacked my thumb real hard.”
“It’s not serious,” Yañez assured him. “I’m going to extract some stem cells from your bone marrow, culture them and then inject them back into you to rebuild the damaged tissue. You’ll be fine in a week or less.”
The technician nodded, but kept on muttering about his power wrench. “Shouldn’ta crapped out on me like that,” he insisted. “It was like it was tryin’ to mangle me, you know?”
Vernon Donkman frowned at his desktop screen. This shouldn’t be happening, he told himself.
Donkman was the chief financial officer of Goddard, a position that sounded impressive to the uninformed until they learned that he was the only financial officer in the habitat. Still, his was a very responsible position, despite the fact that virtually every financial transaction among the habitat’s citizens was done electronically. The bank’s computer handled all financial links with Earth and the other human settlements throughout the solar system, as well.
The frown that etched Donkman’s lean, almost gaunt face was engendered by the fact that the bank’s central accounting system showed an anomaly. The master account didn’t balance! It was off by only a few hundred credits, but it should not be off at all. Not by a single penny, Donkman told himself sternly.
The problem was easy enough to fix, he knew. Simply liquidate the unbalanced amount from the habitat’s internal account. That would balance the books. But the thought irked Donkman mightily. Accounts should balance without jiggering. It was his insistence on such purity that got him exiled from Amsterdam in the first place. Someone high up in the hierarchy of the Holy Disciples had been bleeding off cash from the church’s banking system. Donkman had tried to track down the embezzler and found himself accused of the crime and exiled to habitat Goddard.
The memory of that injustice rankled him, but this tiny misbalance in the habitat’s account aggravated him even more. The amount involved was too small for anyone to deliberately have stolen it. It was a mistake, somewhere in the accounting system, a simple mistake.
But try as he might, Donkman could not find where the mistake originated. At last his wristwatch alarm buzzed. With a reluctant sigh, Donkman pushed himself up from his desk and headed for the cosmetics clinic. Everyone was getting enzyme injections to turn their skin golden tan. He didn’t want to be the only one among his acquaintances to look like a palefaced mouth breather.
28 DECEMBER 2095: NANOLAB
Malcolm Eberly felt distinctly uneasy inside the nanotech laboratory. Not that he had any religious scruples against nanotechnology; he simply shared the same fear that most people had about an outbreak of uncontrollable nanomachines, mindless microscopic monsters chewing up everything in their path like an unstoppable swarm of soldier ants. The thought made him shudder inside.
He knew his fears were grounded in solid fact. Nanomachines had killed people in the past. Back when Dr. Cardenas had first joined the habitat, while Professor Wilmot was still in charge of the interim government, the old man had insisted on all kinds of safeguards before he’d allow Cardenas to set up this laboratory. Why, just getting into this lab was a major struggle: You had to pass through a double set of heavy doors, just like an airlock. Cardenas had to keep the air pressure inside her lab lower than the pressure in the rest of the habitat, just to make certain none of the virus-sized machines could waft out on a stray current of air.
Urbain seemed uneasy, too. He must be really
desperate, Eberly thought, if he’s considering using nanomachines to fix his probe down there on Titan.
If Kris Cardenas sensed their apprehensions, she gave no sign of it. Perched casually on a tall stool, one elbow leaning on the top of the lab bench, Cardenas was wearing a comfortable light, short-sleeved sweater of baby blue and denim jeans. Urbain, as usual, was in a jacket and carefully creased slacks. No tie, but he had knotted an ascot inside the collar of his shirt. Eberly himself wore a loose tunic over his slacks, as the dress code he had promulgated called for. Hardly anyone outside the habitat’s administrative staff paid much attention to his dress code.
“We’ve been working on nanos for self-repair and maintenance,” Cardenas was saying to Urbain. “That was what you asked for.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Urbain replied, running a nervous finger along his trim moustache. “But we are confronted by a new problem now.”
Eberly hadn’t actually been invited to this meeting, but once he heard that Urbain was going to Cardenas for help he decided he had to listen in. And Urbain was too ridiculously polite to tell the habitat’s chief administrator to keep his nose out of scientific matters. So Eberly sat in one of the folding chairs that Cardenas had provided for them while Urbain and the nanotech expert thrashed out their problems. Off at the far side of the lab, Cardenas’s lone assistant hovered among the gleaming metal equipment, intently listening. What’s his name? Eberly asked himself. Tavalera, came the answer. The engineer we picked up after the refueling accident at Jupiter.
“As I understand the problem,” Cardenas was saying, “the probe isn’t sending any data to you.”
Urbain touched his moustache again before answering. “Titan Alpha is not uplinking data from its sensors, that is true. We have reason to believe the sensors are working and gathering data. Alpha simply is not relaying the information to us.”
“Curious,” muttered Cardenas.
“Frustrating,” snapped Urbain. “We are receiving telemetry from Alpha’s maintenance program. All systems appear to be functioning properly—except for the sensor data uplink.”
