The Time Stone (The Time Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert F Hays

  “Don’t the bacteria decompose and release all the gasses back into the atmosphere?”

  “It does, but by then the plant life is established. They use a particularly fast growing woody vine they plant in deep valleys. The thing only takes a few years to grow to a depth of over a kilometer then they cover it over with rock.”

  Jim reflected for a moment on the level of technology in his former time. “How did the first colonists do it?”

  “About the same. That’s where we learned the basics. It probably took longer then with a lot of mistakes. Trial and error method was about all they had.”

  “Couldn’t they have done that on Earth? The atmosphere now is similar to the one you describe.”

  “We can now, but not back then, too many heavy metals. Earth’s industry dug up the deposits that remain buried in an uninhabited planet and introduced them to the environment. They must’ve tried, but the organisms would’ve died off, plus the fact that during the time of the anaerobes the population would’ve had to be removed. The bacteria affect organic material.”

  Jim’s mind was playing with the idea of resurrecting the old planet. “You said we can now?”

  “Yes, in the past two thousand years the heavy metals have settled somewhat.”

  “Why don’t they do it?”

  This time it was Chris’ turn to explain. “Ghosts. Earth is looked on as a graveyard, not to be disturbed.”

  Jim remembered back to the controversy over the idea of raising the luxury liner Titanic. The same sentiment left it at the bottom of the ocean. “I understand.”

  * * *

  The suite had five bedrooms. The girls moved into two of them. Each day, as they awoke, La Raza grew larger until it filled their view from the observation deck. They were in orbit. Greenberg assisted them in packing. Jim had very little to pack. One small bag with a change of cloths and a few odds and ends.

  The plan, Jim and Carol were to take the executive cruiser to the surface, then a short express tube ride to Gato. Chris and Celia were to follow on the regular space tether. They were to meet in the city at a hotel.

  * * *

  Greenberg carefully orchestrated the crew’s work schedule so there was no one in the corridors on the way to the executive cruiser. Its only other passenger was a Mr. Radley Huber, Chairman of the board of directors of the Huber beverage company.

  Jim and Carol made themselves comfortable in the passenger cabin on the cruiser. It was as elegant as the suite they had just vacated. There was a second room with a lounge and a bar.

  A uniformed officer appeared at the door to the cabin and stood aside to allow a short, balding man to enter. His apparel more closely suited the décor.

  “Wow,” Carol exclaimed in a low voice. “That suit he’s wearing must have cost a bit.”

  “Us super wealthy guys like to dress well.”

  Jim looked down at his own outfit, inexpensive to start with and now looking quite shabby by current standards.

  Huber hesitated at the door. He looked both Jim and Carol up and down with a mild expression of repugnance then turned back to the officer.

  Jim tried to read lips, but all he could make out were the words ‘those people’. Whatever he was saying it was obvious that he was quite displeased. The man eventually walked straight to a seat, avoiding all eye contact with the passengers already there.

  Jim leaned in his direction and extended a hand. “Mr. Huber, Nelson’s the name, Ricky Nelson. Madoff Investments.”

  Huber didn’t look up from his pad. “Mr. Nelson.”

  “Call me Ricky, everyone does.” Jim’s hand was still extended. Huber ignored it and continued to read.

  “Jim,” Carol whispered.

  “Ricky,” Jim whispered, retracting his hand and leaning toward her.

  “Ricky then, you’re supposed to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

  “I’m just being friendly,” Jim protested.

  “I don’t like the look in your eye,” Carol insisted. She squeezed Jim’s forearm.

  “This guy’s pissing me off.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  “Look, I’ve been shoved around enough. I just feel like taking it out on someone.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Just sit and watch,” Jim said, turning to Huber and raising his voice to a speaking level. “Is that a news pad?”

  “Listen,” Huber said, putting down his pad and resting on one elbow. “I do not know how you people got yourselves on this flight, but I would appreciate it if you would keep to yourselves.” He then returned to reading.

  “Sorry, just wanted to check out the news. You know I used to own stock in your company,” Jim announced pridefully.

  “There’s a pad on the side of your chair,” Huber said, again without looking up from his own.

  Jim reached to the right side of his chair then sat with the news pad on his knee. “Not used to these fancy flights. My cousin works on the loading dock. He slipped us on.” Jim looked at the pad’s directory, then down to the stock market listing. “Hey look honey; we sold our ten shares in Huber beverage just in time. It’s crashed.” He then turned to Huber. “Hubie, you should go get a job with that Young Coca Cola Company. I heard they’re blasting off.”

  Huber slammed the pad down on his knee. “That Coca Cola stuff, when it does come out, will only be a passing fad. My research department has assured me that people always return to the drinks they grew up with. I give it a couple of years at the most.” He returned to reading with a facial expression of extreme hostility. “I do not think a simpleton like you could understand the complexities of the situation.”

  “A lot of kids are going to spend the next couple of years growing up with Coca Cola. I think you better see that Young fellah about a new job.”

  Huber jumped to his feet and stormed through the door into the next compartment.

  “Jim, I think you struck a nerve there.”

  “So do I,” Jim chuckled to himself. “I think my competition’s in trouble.”

  Chapter 14

  Playing the married couple, Jim and Carol arrived at the Gato shuttle port. They inquired at city information for recommendations on a good but inexpensive hotel.

  The city catered to the wealthy. The cost of a two bedroom suite at the Sierra, a reasonably priced hotel, was five hundred G per week. Jim estimated that within three weeks he’d be out of cash. The expense would be classified as petty cash if he had access to his rapidly increasing fortune.

  They waited for the arrival of Chris and Celia. The bedroom arrangements were women in one, men in the other. They didn’t think that the hotel’s cleaning autoserves had the capability to consider this unusual for two married couples.

  Carol looked out the main window which covered one wall of the living room. “So this is where the wealthy play,” It looked down on La Placita Way, one of the four main streets that made up the city center. “Oh my, look at the fashions. There must be a million G just walking around down there.”

  Jim wandered over and looked down. The first thing that caught his attention was the pant legs on the men. They were flared, almost to the point of being bell bottoms. Even the most fashion conscious people he knew on Batalavia wore straight legged pants. The light shirts they wore were highly pleated with billowing sleeves and lace at the cuffs. The colors were brighter than the fashions he had seen so far. “They are different.”

  “Jim, in Gato they make the fashion, not follow it. Within a few weeks, the whole galaxy will be following what you see here today.”

  “When I get access to my cash I’ll get you something suitable. I kind of like that pink one,” Jim said, pointing at a tall young lady dressed in an ankle length skirt.

  “Ech.” Carol made a sour face. “I like to look at them, I couldn’t wear any. I’d be petrified of getting it dirty or torn.”

  Jim turned in the direction of the suite’s communications
panel. “Time to make a phone call.”

  “Jim, would you let me in on what you’re doing?”

  “The less you know, the less trouble you’ll get into. If I get into a jam I don’t want you all rushing to my rescue. Just leave and go home.”

  Jim walked to the communications panel and beckoned Carol. She joined him, touched the call control and read the series of numbers Jim had given her.

  Jim sat and waited as Carol wandered back toward the window and returned to watching the people below.

  A household computer answered the call. “Montoya residence. State your name and purpose of call.”

  Carol swung around facing Jim again. With a look of horror on her face she mouthed the words ‘Are you crazy?’

  “My name is Lawrence Welk,” Jim said into the device while raising a finger to warn Carol to silence. “I’m a dealer in early colonial artifacts. I understand that Mr. Santiago Montoya is a collector of early fine china. I have a few pieces he may be interested in. Thank you.” He bent down and touched the return call paid control then turned back to Carol with a grin.

  Carol’s horrified look continued. “The Montoyas are killers. For the last four hundred years they’ve been involved in every form of crime and perversion you can imagine.”

  “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

  “Have you heard of the Zapata massacre?”

  “Read about it on the space liner. That was one hundred and thirty years ago. Has anything happened more recently?”

  “Well... no... but...” she muttered in frustration.

  “See, they’re probably a bunch of nice guys now.”

  “In a way you can be at ease. I’ll not run in there and try to rescue you. You’ll probably be chopped up and mailed to five different planets at once before I leave the room,”

  The phone twittered. Jim turned in his chair and touched the answer control.

  “Lawrence Welk here.”

  A male voice answered. “Mr Welk, this is Mr. Montoya’s private secretary. I understand you are a dealer in antiquities?”

  “Yes I am,” Jim replied in the most professional voice he could muster.

  “I could not find your name in the registry.”

  Jim turned to Carol with a querying look and mouthed the word Registry. She shrugged. “Ah... the fact is I’m not registered.”

  “Then you are free-lance I take it.”

  Jim exhaled and wiped his face. “Yes, I’m free-lance.”

  “Mr. Montoya is only interested in items from the early Montoya Company.”

  “I have one piece. It has been authenticated by two experts.”

  Jim thought to himself that he should have said three experts.

  “Mr. Montoya is interested in viewing the piece. Would you be available this afternoon?”

  Jim listened carefully to the man’s voice for any hint of a tone other than that of a straight forward business call. “I have no appointments today.”

  “Then I will send a transit for you at two.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  The phone disconnected. Jim jumped to his feet and did a dance across the room.

  “Don’t know what you’re so happy about. I have images of you with an apple in your mouth being shoved into an ultrasonic oven.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Carol sat heavily in an armchair and rested her chin on her hand. “I won’t. If you’re not back by this evening, I’m headed for the spaceport.”

  Carol called room service. Within minutes, an autoserve appeared at the door with lunch. They ate in silence, Jim grinning, Carol frowning.

  Two o’clock arrived. Jim groomed himself in front of the traditional 3D mirror, picked up his carry bag and prepared to leave. Carol was still upset.

  “Go get yourself killed,” she said.

  Jim headed toward the door. He paused for a moment, it bothered him that Carol was distressed over his venture, but it couldn’t be helped. “If I don’t go I’m going to be killed sooner or later anyway. Why not take the chance? Things may work out.”

  “From what I’ve heard, the Montoyas live in a fortress. Is that what you’re doing, getting ideas on security?”

  “No, I refuse to live that way. Plus the fact they have worked on their security for hundreds of years, mostly family involved. Who can I trust to set something up like that for me?”

  “I guess you’re right, but I still don’t like the idea,” Carol slumped into a chair.

  “Can you suggest anything else?”

  “No.” She beckoned Jim who leaned over to receive a kiss on the cheek. “Do what you have to do; I’ll be here when you’re done. I only hope you will be.”

  Jim took the lift tube to the lobby and found the waiting lounge next to the main door.

  He watched through the window. An empty transit arrived. A computer voice in the lounge called, “Mr. Lawrence Welk. Your transportation is waiting.”

  Jim walked through the glass doors and approached the transit.

  “Mr. Welk?” it asked.

  “Yes.”

  The door opened and Jim entered.

  It was an exceptionally elegant model, a Whitney. Twice the size of his, but made to convey only two people. The transit made its way down Chaco Street and to the throughway onramp.

  Gato was a city of night clubs and casinos, but it didn’t have the ostentatious look of Las Vegas. It was more like the old world charm of Monte Carlo. Moving sidewalks passed high fashion stores where luxuriously dressed people browsed. The graceful facades of the casinos and hotels supported the customary greenery and hanging gardens. The buildings seemed to be older than those on Batalavia, but in this society he couldn’t tell. Age back on Earth was usually estimated by the style of the structure. Here Jim had no knowledge of the different fashions over the past few hundred years, so it was impossible for him to know for sure.

  “Care for a drink Mr. Welk?”

  Jim hesitated. The computer voice had a different tone to the one used for the main and it was not asking a direction. He assumed it was not connected to the city’s system.

  “Yes, got a beer?”

  Seconds later a hatch opened by his elbow and a beer appeared. He took it. “Thanks.” Jim had never broken the habit of thanking nonliving objects. He couldn’t help himself, they all sounded so friendly.

  The transit exited the throughway and went underground into an express tube. He felt the subtle force as the transit accelerated to four hundred k.p.h.. He wanted to ask the estimated travel time, but thought better of it.

  The transit eventually returned to the surface, then along what appeared to be a country road. In the distance he could occasionally see the gigantic residences of the super wealthy. What he could see reminded him of old English country manors.

  The vehicle slowed. It entered a private driveway. Poles with small cubes on top could be seen at regular intervals. Jim presumed them to be security devices. At a distance were two children riding a pair of the most beautiful horses he had ever seen. The lawns and frequent gardens of the expansive grounds were superbly maintained. Back in his house in Texas, he had problems keeping up with a small yard. It still amazed him that such a large expanse could be worked with so little direct human effort.

  It was over a kilometer to the main house. Its style seemed to be a cross between Elizabethan and current modern. The transit came to a halt in front of one of four front doors.

  The transit door opened and a mechanical arm extended from a post. It entered the door and seemed to scan the interior, Jim included.

  “Mr. Welk,” said a voice from the rounded tip of the arm, “enter the house by the closest door.”

  “On my way.”

  Jim climbed out. The door opened as he approached. Inside was a small entry room.

  “Mr. Welk, this is a security check. Would you raise your arms and turn around.”

  Jim complied.

  The door at the other end of the room opened revealing a
tall dark man in a currently fashionable business suit.

  “Mr. Welk, we apologize for the scan. Mr. Montoya is a very wealthy man and as such has numerous enemies in the business world. I hope you understand.”

  “I know how he feels,” Jim said with a smile.

  “Follow me,” the man said and turned and walked through a large side door. “Mr. Montoya is waiting for you in the art and collections wing,”

  They walked through an ornate entry hall with a pseudo marble floor and abundant statuary. Some were either very old or artificially aged. A genuine marble fountain stood in the middle. Murals decorated the ceiling three stories above and paintings adorned balconies on each floor. A side entrance led to a long hallway with a two way moving floor. More paintings, probably originals, lined the walls.

  A door at the end of the hall opened into a large office. Behind a brown marble desk sat a gray haired man in his sixties.

  “Have a seat Mr. Young,” the man said, looking up with a congenial smile.

  Jim took one of the two seats in front of the desk. “Let me guess. Voice print?”

  The man nodded. “Now, what can I do for you today? It’s obviously nothing to do with china,” he said in a slow, eloquent manner with just a hint of a Hispanic accent.

  “I may have a surprise for you in that field, but first to get something out of the way. If you’re part of the plot to kill me, would you please do it now? The suspense is killing me anyway.”

  Mr. Montoya laughed. “I can assure you that we’re not part of the plot. My family gave up that method of doing business a century ago. You’re perfectly safe here.”

  “What do you do if you have a problem like an intruder or something? Do you have a security company handle it?”

  “No, just like everyone else, I call the police.”

  “Were too many of your family getting whacked to do it yourselves?”

  “Getting what?... Oh yes, I did see the video about that Italian family, most violent, quite distasteful. I say again, we are not the ones trying to kill you.”