by Allen Steele
DeWitt put down his wineglass and strode to his cherry-oak desk. He had been anticipating this; ugly rumors had been circulating through Boston’s financial community for the past few days that the feds were getting suspicious about some phony-stock transactions that had been originating from Beantown. No one knew who had been flooding the market with bogus stock, but it seemed apparent that someone, somewhere in one of Boston’s many brokerages, was using his or her company’s prospects lists to solicit customers under an assumed name, selling worthless securities, and hiding the proceeds in a network of dummy corporations and offshore bank accounts.
Realistically, it wasn’t a matter of who was selling crap stock, but which person the SEC was after. The Boston financial community was just as crooked as Tokyo or New York or London; there were no saints on State and Tremont Streets. Heads are about to roll, went the whispers downtown. Re-evaluate your friends and cancel your lunch dates with mere acquaintances. Take a long weekend off; now is a good time to visit the Vineyard or go out to the Berkshires to reopen your summer house. Destroy any notes you would rather not have read by a federal grand jury. Get out of town. Cover your ass.
None of this greatly bothered Willard. He was an expert at covering his ass.
The drawer contained a small stack of airline tickets: all for flights originating from Logan International, all purchased two weeks in advance through the net. They were registered under a variety of aliases: Harry Papp, John Fowler, Kent Llewellyn, Mario Bodini. Every day Willard had canceled the soon-to-expire tickets and purchased new ones, charging them to any one of a revolving number of bogus Visa or MasterCard accounts. He shuffled through the tickets and picked out a Pan Am Boston-to-Orlando ticket registered under Kent Llewellyn’s name, then opened his attaché case and thrust the rest of the tickets into a pocket, to be destroyed later.
The chosen ticket went into the inside pocket of the black leather jacket which he picked off the back of his desk chair, along with the packet of Amex traveler’s checks he had purchased a couple of days earlier: two thousand dollars in fifties and hundreds. He pulled on the jacket, closed the desk drawer-he had already cleaned out his desk, disposing of everything that was either incriminating or which could link Peter Jurgenson to Willard DeWitt—then picked up the folded Toshiba PC and headed for the foyer closet. At the bottom of the closet was his getaway bag, perpetually packed and ready to go. He had learned to keep a suitcase packed for such emergencies from his days at Yale. Who says you don’t learn anything in college?
Attaché case and Toshiba in his right hand, suitcase in his left, Willard DeWitt walked out of his condo, letting the door close and lock behind him. He barely looked back at the expensive furniture, clothes, toys and appliances he was abandoning; all that stuff belonged to Peter Jurgenson, and Jurgenson was now a ghost, an electronic specter haunting the mainframe at Geller Piperidge & Associates. Soon even that evil spirit would be exorcised. At this moment, a virus program contained in DeWitt’s secret file, activated by the intrusion of the SEC inspectors, would be running through the system like a cybernetic shaman casting a cleansing spell, eradicating all mention of Peter Jurgenson and the many other aliases and dummy corporations DeWitt had utilized. The virus would even clean out the SEC’s Cray-9, if it had already broken through his redundant defenses, before the virus destroyed all traces of itself. When it was done, all that would remain of Peter Jurgenson would be an empty desk at Geller Piperidge, some unpaid utility bills, and an unlisted telephone number.
Goodbye, Pete, Willard thought as he walked down the hall and took the stairs down to the front door. It was fun while it lasted, pal.…
He caught a cab on Newbury Street, just outside his building. The driver, a middle-aged Hispanic punkster wearing a studded leather vest which looked as if a cat had used it for claw-sharpening, was in the mood for conversation. He tried to initiate some small talk—“Sheeit, what do you think of this storm, man?”—but Willard answered his comments about the weather with monosyllables and grunts until the driver got the hint and left him alone to contemplate the streets through the cab’s chicken-wired back windows.
The rainstorm had diminished to a thin drizzle; out on the sidewalks, people were emerging from alleys and expensive hangouts to resume their nocturnal prowling: Here, a group of college kids slumming tonight outside the safe, walled confines of the BU or Harvard or MIT campuses, loitering outside a rock club as they waited for girls, dope, or whatever other extracurricular activity might pass their way. There, two representatives of Boston’s ubiquitous homeless population, squatting under the neon sign of an art gallery showing a collection of Dillon prints, hugging their damp sleeping bags to their chests and watchful for the next police cruiser. A trio of wealthy young businesswomen emerged from an Italian café, chatting gaily amongst themselves, escorted by a well-dressed gorilla from a bodyguard service. A black Cadillac nosed-dived into a rare vacant parking place, cutting off a beat-up Ford Slipstream which had been angling for the same precious spot.
The cab turned right onto Essex, then swung left through a red light onto Boylston. DeWitt pulled the Toshiba into his lap, opened the clamshell screen and switched it on. It was time for him to assume a new identity, but which one? Where to go now? Kent Llewellyn was only a getaway alias, devised solely for the purpose of making quick escapes. Beyond the plane ticket and a single credit account, there was no extensive background for this disposable persona: He was a name and some conjured numbers, that was all. Now DeWitt had to assume another verifiable, flesh-and-blood alias.
The documents crèche of the menu had a file marked ADDRESSES. DeWitt moved the cursor to that column, tapped ENTER, then entered the password. There were three names in the new column: Dwight LaCosta, Phillip Carson, and Jeremy Schneider.
Creating new aliases had become a necessity for DeWitt, but it was also a kind of hobby: the complete invention of new men, identities which he could slip into at a moment’s notice. He had learned the knack in the rehab school in Ithaca where he had spent his wonder years, when he had participated with the other kids in fantasy role-playing games during their nightly recreation hour before lights-out. Dungeons and Dragons, James Bond, Traveler, Gurps—RP games had taught him how to concoct three-dimensional shadows of himself, complete with all the obligatory background, assets, and quirks. The lessons he had learned had been some of DeWitt’s best-kept trade secrets; the well-meaning psychologists and social workers had not been able to ferret out that aspect of his profession.
DeWitt was a professional imposter; this was how he viewed his job description. As a pro, he knew the primary rules of real-life RP. A false identity must be complete—researched and documented—for it to operate faultlessly. The new persona also must be intimately assumed, much as a chameleon instinctively takes on a new color to blend into its new environment. Taking on the wrong identity, and its attendant scam, could be perilous; DeWitt had learned that lesson when he’d attempted to use the Yale scam at Everett College. What worked beautifully in one place could spell disaster in another.
The three names on his screen presented a range of possibilities. Dwight LaCosta had the background for a Connecticut real estate agent: His social and academic records were on file with the appropriate state and federal agencies, and he even had a broker’s license on record with the state board in Hartford. The sixteen-year-old kid in Groton whose life had ended in 2002 when he had wrapped his ancient LeBaron around a tree would never miss his fingerprints, birth record, or Social Security number; he had been reincarnated as a young, ambitious, once-divorced realtor.
It was tempting—but, studying the file, DeWitt shook his head. He was running too hot in New England at the moment; news would be soon getting out about a fraud case at Geller Piperidge, and now was not the time to assume an identity that too closely resembled the late Mr. Jurgenson’s.
Phillip Carson’s persona was also unsuitable, although for entirely different reasons: Carson was still an incomplete identity.
He had the makings of a publishing entrepreneur—DeWitt had tinkered with the idea of assuming Carson’s role in order to buy a small newspaper somewhere out West—but his background was still too sketchy. The birth records and Social Security number were there, but the academic record and past work experience had yet to be created and inserted into the national data matrix, where would-be investors could study Carson’s past accomplishments. Which was too bad; DeWitt was looking forward to an excursion into the realm of publishing. But not now, alas …
The cab moved up the ramp onto the Fitzgerald Expressway, hurtling through traffic toward the Callahan Tunnel entrance. The driver was taking a roundabout way to the airport, adding an unnecessary mile or two to his meter, but DeWitt barely noticed or cared. Small scams like that were hardly worth his attention; let the driver make off with a couple of bucks if it made him happy. He moved the cursor to Jeremy Schneider’s name and punched up the file.
He stared at the tiny screen, scrolling down the file and scanning its contents. Now here was an identity which was not only complete, but which had potential for adventure in it.…
Jeremy Schneider. Age: 25. Birthplace: Brooklyn, New York. Occupation: communications specialist. Education: B.A. in communications, Columbia University, with a minor in space sciences. Complete birth and credit records, natch. But the most interesting part was that Schneider had recently applied to Skycorp for employment in one of its off-world operations … and his application had been accepted. Here was a letter from the company’s personnel director, Kathleen Barry, inviting Schneider down to its Cape Canaveral office for interviews. If accepted, Schneider would be enrolled in Skycorp’s six-week training program, with a possible job at Descartes Station, the lunar mining facility. The letter was only a week old; Jeremy Schneider had not yet responded.
DeWitt absently rubbed his forefinger across his chin. To be truthful, to himself—the only person, in fact, to whom Willard DeWitt had probably ever told the truth—the Jeremy Schneider persona had been created as a last-ditch getaway plan. DeWitt had no genuine interest in space; the prospect of living on the Moon was as remote and unimaginable as taking up residence on Tierra del Fuego.
However, Schneider’s identity had been expressly created for a worst-case scenario: one of Willard’s scams blowing apart so thoroughly that the only sure escape lay in getting off Earth entirely. It was the ultimate bailout; Jeremy Schneider existed for the sole purpose of extracting Willard DeWitt from the reach of the law. In that sense, it was a perfect trapdoor: The feds could literally search to the ends of the earth without finding him.
But it was also a dangerous passage. Escaping to space was not like heading for some remote island with a suitcase full of cash. The Moon was, after all, still a frontier—and DeWitt knew that frontiers were not always the kindest of places.
He gazed out the window as the cab soared through the sleek, echoing tube of the Callahan Tunnel. But, he had to admit to himself, his present situation was more perilous than anything he had encountered before. Ripping off gullible pensioners and overeager investors was not in the same league as stealing from the Alpha Beta Epsilon beer-kitty. He had gone after big game with the phony-stock scam, and that had meant taking greater risks. Although much of his system of dummy corporations and spectral credit-files was still intact in other parts of the financial community’s computer network, the SEC might still be able to track him down if they were tenacious enough. Indeed, they might still be able to link Willard DeWitt to Peter Jurgenson.
And he still had his own face; the idea of undergoing cosmetic surgery was unnerving to him, and he viewed the prospect as a true act of desperation. Yet, on Earth, it was the face staring back at him from the cab window which might land him in prison. And the next time he went in, it wouldn’t be to a minimum-security country club like New Braintree.
DeWitt pulled Kent Llewellyn’s airline ticket out of his jacket pocket and stared at it. Perhaps he had subconsciously known where he was going, long before he had reached this loggerhead, when he had selected this particular ticket. Orlando was only a short drive from Cape Canaveral. By morning Kent Llewellyn would metamorphose into Jeremy Schneider, and Schneider would report to Skycorp’s Florida office for an interview with the hiring office. And in six weeks …
The cab emerged from Callahan Tunnel and raced past the toll booths, zipping up the causeway leading to the sprawling lights of Logan Airport. The driver cocked his head toward his passenger behind the bulletproof glass. “Which airline you going to?” he asked.
“Pan Am,” the man in the back seat replied. “Domestic terminal.”
“Pan Am domestic,” the driver repeated, swerving into the appropriate lane. His passenger had been silent the entire trip out of Boston, but there was still no reason why he couldn’t get a little talk out of him now. “Where you headed?”
“The Moon,” his passenger quietly responded.
“What?” The driver wasn’t sure he had heard him correctly.
The man in the back seat looked away from the window. “Monterey,” he said. “Little vacation.”
“Oh yeah,” replied the driver. “Monterey. Hear it’s nice down there. Hope you enjoy your vacation.”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy Schneider. “I’m sure I will.”
PART TWO
Return to the Moon
Getting There Is Half the Fun (Interview.2)
Ray Carroll: Skycorp LTV co-pilot, U.S.S. Michael Collins:
There’s an old saying up there—you only fly to the Moon once. Now, that’s technically not true, because even back in Apollo days, there were some of the old NASA flyboys—Gene Cernan, Jim Lovell, John Young—who made it to the Moon twice during the program. And since been I’ve assigned to the Collins, which has been about two years now, I’ve made the round trip at least once a month, which means that I’ve been to the Moon and back at least … (shrugs) What, at least thirty-six times now? That’s not even a record. Hell, I lost count long time ago.…
What they really mean is that, once you’re on the Moon, you’re there to stay until your contract runs out and you’re ready to go home. There’s practical reasons for that, of course. It costs too much to get a person to the Moon to let him take a vacation back home. Last time I checked, Skycorp’s overhead to send one person there is approximately two hundred fifty [dollars] per pound, which means that it costs the company about forty-five grand to send an average-size adult male to Descartes Station. That’s a lot cheaper than when NASA ran the railroad, but still not cheap. The company doesn’t want to spend that kind of money twice, so there’s no contract-guaranteed vacations to Earth. Even the people who work in the Earth-orbital operations, like the powersat beamjacks, finally got ASWI to stipulate a one-week vacation for the guys who signed two-year contracts. But not the moondogs. On the Moon, you’re there for keeps till the job is over or unless you’re fired.
The second reason you don’t go back is because it takes time for the body to acclimate, coming and going. The new workers tend to blunder around a lot in their first week or two at Descartes, so they also need time to readjust to normal gravity once they return to Earth. Now, I keep up on my exercise between flights, working out on the treadmill and the rowing machine to keep my heart and muscles copacetic, because one-sixth gravity is a pernicious thing, but even then I’ve got my mandatory retirement coming up in three months and, hell, I’m only thirty-five and I spend most of my time in Cocoa Beach. But if you’re a moondog … well, like I said, it can wear you out easy if you’re not careful.
So that’s an old saw that means something, y’know, if you’re a moondog. Doesn’t mean shit if you’re a pilot … (laughs) But I gotta tell you, since you happened to ask, Mr. Steele … you don’t want to fly to the Moon. Not in my ship, at least.
It takes three days to get from the Cape to Descartes Station, and for the most part, it’s a pretty boring trip. I mean, I love it when I read stuff about the euphoric glory of spaceflight … hope you’re not
like one of those writers … because whenever I see something like that, I know it was written by someone who’s never been to the Moon.
Hmm … (pause) Well, let me take that back. Launch and orbital insertion is pretty exciting, I’ll admit that. I still get a kick out of riding a shuttle into space. So’s looking out the window to see Earth from three hundred nautical miles. But let’s be honest about it. First time up, you’re liable to puke, and that’s it for wonder and majesty.…
Star Whoops … that’s space motion sickness, if you want to use NASA-speak … happens to about two thirds of the people who go up for the first time. Even some of the old hands get it. Nobody has figured out a sure-fire cure for it, though I know another pilot who drinks a pint of lemon juice and Tabasco sauce just before he goes out to the pad … (chuckles) I swear to God, I don’t know how it works, but it does, for him at least. For most people, though, the first time is the roughest, because … (snaps his fingers) it happens suddenly, just like that. No incipient nausea, no cold sweats or fever. You’re feeling just fine, and then you look out the window and see Africa hanging upside down, or you think you’re upside down, and then someone floats up next to you at a ninety-degree angle, and you lose your cookies. Then you’re the most godawful kind of sick you’ve ever been since you were a kid, and it doesn’t go away for a long, long time.
The flight crew tries to do their best to make you comfortable until the rendezvous is made with Phoenix Station, and they’re good old boys, but the truth is that they’re secretly disgusted with you and can’t wait to get your puke-face butt off their ship. Three or four hours after launch, your shuttle docks with the space station, and some nice person manages to tow you out of the shuttle and through the station to the OTV docks. It gets more embarrassing then, because you’re clutching your stomach with one hand and your vomit bag with the other, and if there’s anyone in the access tunnels, they’re quickly backing out of your way in case you explode again.…
