by Ipomoea
He watched one of the girls, blonde and giggling, wriggle herself to be right under one slow-dropping pink globule, aim the straw up at it, and then break into helpless giggles just when she should have started sucking, so that the globe of wine broke and ran, syrupy-slow, along the straw, all over her chin, and then down her front. As she was wearing nothing but a wisp-sheer nylon allover, with a few embroidered flowers here and there, the pink stuff flowed and melted into a skin-gleam effect. Hutten looked away. And he had thought the hostess's outfit outrageous? This, he mused, was the modern equivalent of what had once been known as the jet-set. He believed they called themselves outers, but wasn't sure. That was the trouble with social history: you could never catch up on it. As fast as you learned your material, so it went twisting away in some other direction. He had a theory about all that, something nebulous at the moment but which he hoped to work up into a thesis someday.
For countless generations now, the pattern had always been that the older people deplored the decay of moral values in the young, using the term "decay" to mean "different." Philosophers had been ready and willing to point out that there could be no such thing as any absolute standard of moral behavior, that the whole structure of ethical-moral values emerged from the social environment, changing as it changed. It sounded rational, but Hutten had long had his suspicions about it. Why, he had asked himself, have a set of ethical-moral standards at all? The threefold answer was well known to freshman students of sociology. A value-code serves (a) to reassure the individual that he is doing "the right thing," (b) tp keep society functioning as a coherent system, and (c) to serve as protection against the irrational and mysterious section of the environment, the magical or supernatural side.
Which was fine, he mused, until you went on from there into a fully permissive outlook like today, where anything and everything was "right" so long as it didn't harm anyone else; where society was increasingly held together by mechanism rather than individual choice; and where there was diminishingly less of the magical element. In such circumstances the whole concept of right and proper was itself obsolete. He came out of his reverie with a start as Captain Bates halted by his table and sat.
"You were right about the suit," he said abruptly. "Sabotaged in exactly the same way. The pressure-sensor had been bollixed. It didn't come on when the outside pressure fell off, so you had no air-supply system at all. And in seven years experience I have never known that to happen before."
"That can only mean one thing, can't it?"
"Right. Same type of sabotage points to one man doing both, makes it a deliberate attempt against you, Mr. Hut-ten. The information has already been relayed back, and Earthside security will get on to it. With any luck they ought to be able to catch the guy who did it. If you want to notify your legal representatives . . . ?"
"What for? The thing is over and done with. I'm sure your security people will do a good job on it. In the meantime, what about my cabin arrangements?"
"That's all fixed. Your stuff has been transferred to one of the director suites, on the upper level by the bridge. That's the least we can do. Corinne will fix you up. That's Corinne Eklund, the Swedish ice-goddess type, looks statuesque and cold, but she's quite a girl when you get to know her. I'll ask her to come and collect you, show you where the suite is." Bates stood, his square-planed face struggling with unusual emotions. "Mr. Hutten, I don't know how to say this, but I hope this isn't going to bounce back on us. You know what I mean? Man like you is bound to have enemies, and you may be used to the notion, but in all the years I've been flying I've never had any cases of violence. High spirits, sure, but nothing to cause a stink. That's one kind of publicity we don't want."
"Publicity? Captain, I have not the slightest intention of making a public issue of this, believe me. And please understand something else. Rex Hutten. is my father, true, but I'm just a doctor of sociology, no financial tycoon. I have no enemies that I know of, and this whole business is a complete mystery to me. I haven't the ghost of a clue why anyone would want to kill me."
"You know your own business best, but if what you say is true then how do you explain this?" And he drew out a flimsy slip of paper from his tunic and handed it over. Hut-ten unfolded and read, wide-eyed:
Origin Interplanetary Security Bureau: Geneva: Via Bates. G. C/O Earth-Mars shuttle Martian Three: To Dr. Sam Hutten: Our agent meeting u Canalopolis. Will be responsible your safety. Code Ipomoea. Strongly advise utmost discretion. For signature, there was only the cryptic scribble Director, P/C. Hutten read it again, and it still didn't make sense.
"I know there is an Interplanetary Security Bureau," he admitted; "I've heard of it. But why should they send some agent or other to meet me? And what's this at the bottom?"
"I don't know that one either." Bates shrugged. "But I have instructions to render all possible cooperation to anyone with authorization from that! I believe that is true of all ship captains. Anyway, that came for me personal and in code. Nobody else knows about it except you and whoever sent it. You say you don't understand it?"
"That's not strictly true," Sam murmured. "Obviously my father has stirred up some kind of agitation. He's in a position to do just that. And I'm involved, like it or not. And I do not like it. I don't get involved in things, dammit! I'm a scholar, not a secret agent! So I'm being mixed up in something—and my only hope is that this agent, whoever he is, will be able to explain. But please understand, Captain, this is none of my doing, and, if it is within my power, nothing of this will be used to create publicity about this ship, or the shipping line."
"All right." Bates sighed. "If you say so. Hah, there's Corinne now. If you've finished . . . ?"
"Ready whenever you like. I could do with somewhere quiet to sit and think for a while."
Bates made a signal and the hostess came swooping through the frolic of passengers. Hutten took one good look and realized that Bates had understated the facts. Miss Eklund was of a shape and design to make even the most blasé of the outer males turn and enjoy a second glance. Her silver suit fitted like a layer of paint over curves that stopped just a breath short of impossible. Silver-blonde hair hugged her head in a mass of curls. Ice-blue eyes looked incuriously at him and then at Bates.
"Corinne, this is Dr. Hutten, the chap who nearly blew it in P. thirty-eight. Will you show him to his new cabin, please?"
"That's D. three," she said, nodding. "I've just come from there. It's all ready for you, Dr. Hutten. This way."
She led him from the lounge and up two companioriways and to the top deck, then to a cabin-suite three times as large as the one he had originally been allocated. His minimum hand-luggage was already there. She waited for him to look around, then asked, "Is there anything I can get you, sir?"
"Not now, but you can explain something, perhaps. Captain Bates seems to be unduly sensitive in the matter of adverse publicity. Why?"
"That's very simple. Competition is fierce for shipping lines, and this line is one of the top five. Captain Bates has quite a lot of his savings invested in shares, and is in line for retirement from flying duties—hoping to be promoted to the directorial board. A black mark against our reputation could make all the difference to him."
"I see." He sat on the bunk and reflected. Miss Eklund came nearer.
"If there's anything you want, anything at all . . ."
He looked up, understood her meaning and looked away again. "All part of the service, I suppose?"
"Not quite, but one is supposed to make special efforts for special passengers. I have an hour." Her fingers moved to the hairline zipper at her throat, and he shook his head.
"No reflection on you, miss, but I have other things to think about. Tell me, why would anyone want to kill me? Why me?"
"That's simple too, basically. To stop you from getting to Verdan, of course. You will call me if you need me, won't you?"
No doubt the Dome-Cities of Canalopolis were worth the trip just to see, Sam Hutten reflected moodily,
as he sat at his solitary table, sipping a drink he didn't want and waiting for this mysterious agent to show up. In the academic sense he knew a great deal about this sprawling establishment of geodesic domes, vast insubstantial shells held in place by a few-ounce difference in air pressure between Earth-normal inside and Martian attenuation outside. He knew about the opportunities for vice and dissipation of all kinds which flourished here, outside the jurisdiction of any law, frowned on from afar by the outraged majority, but surviving simply because one had to be reasonably wealthy even to get this far, and wealthy people, always, are apt to take a poor view of legislators who get overly ambitious to cut down their pleasures.
Many legislative bodies of many countries had tried, often, to bring Mars within some standard frame of jurisdiction, and had failed. The planet was just not worth the time, trouble and money it would have cost to remake it into a living area for ordinary people. It was chilly, arid, storm-scraped and devoid of almost anything of commercial value. The soil, if you could call it that, wouldn't grow anything worth planting. There was water, if you cared to dig deep enough, or had power to waste in blasting it out of composition. A long drawn-out and much haggled over scheme was in operation, and had been operational for ten years, on a shoestring budget, to peel off the unlimited store of iceberg asteroids to be found in the Belt, and to send them plummeting down, one at a time, into the dusty atmosphere of the Red Planet. In another two decades, perhaps, the effect would be visible. In a century, possibly, the planet might begin to bloom. If the Rainmaker Project kept going that long.
Meanwhile Mars was dusty, drab and dead, useful only for the ideal Star-Jump Base. Sam knew the factors involved in that, too. Lesser gravity pull counted, of course, but had that been the only consideration, Luna would have served.
Unfortunately, Earth's moon, like Earth herself, was too deep within the solar plasma to make it practical. To twist any object as massive as a ship into the uniqueness of the Yashi-Matsu subspace state involved not only an immense number of highly delicate calculations, but an enormous investment of energy. To try it within the swirling storm of high-energy particles and fields of the solar plasma wind was asking for disaster, and several test-objects had met just that in the early experimental days. It needed somewhere sufficiently free of stray energies, yet not unpractically distant, somewhere solid to form a base, somewhere reachable, where a base could be established. It needed Mars.
So Star-Jump Base itself had been forced into being by hard necessity, and was kept in being by economic need. Ships came here from Earth to drop passengers and to take them back. Ships leaped off from here to all parts of the explored galaxy. The base itself was interplanetary territory. But there had been astute people only too quick to see other possibilities. People in transit need something to entertain them while waiting. People who travel to the stars have money in quantity. Ships have crews. Crews have money too, and entertainment needs, diversions, something to amuse them. Sam knew all this, and, in any other circumstances, he would have welcomed this opportunity to exercise his favorite pastime, observing other people with their hair down. But somebody had tried to kill him, and that thought made a difference. It made all the difference, now that it had had time to grow.
He was angry as well as fearful. The situation was unfair. He had spent most of his adult life steadfastly refusing to get involved in any power-play, denying his father's heritage, devoting himself simply to the peaceful pursuit of his chosen profession. And now! He watched a stubby cylindrical robot trundle past and disappear into the base of a nearby upright column. It carried food and drinks at the bidding of some party or other up there at a balcony table. The interior of this dome was full of towering tubes, with balcony-rings arranged at fifteen-foot intervals all the way up to the curved roof. People rode up the center elevator to whichever table-floor they had chosen, the service-robots shot up by one or other of the hoist-tubes which ringed the center, and the place buzzed with activity, with chatter, with the hum of the little trundling things.
Anthill, he mused. All dashing to and fro in pursuit of something they can't define, to satisfy some appetite or other.
Robots all, just a lot of stimulus-response mechanisms, wnere the devil was that agent? Was this the right dome, anyway? There were others, offering more exotic ways of passing the time, possibly more interesting but hopeless from the point of view of being singled out and met. He drained his glass, an unimaginative vodka-and-lime, and wondered whether to order again. Here, on the ground-level and quite close to the beltway from the base, he could see people coming and going, but it would have made more sense had he known whom to look for, "Dr. Hutten?"
Sam looked up, startled, to see a tall, smooth-faced man standing by his table. A big man. A man totally devoid of any expression, like a flesh-colored statue, all in black well-fitting plastic.
Tm Dr. Hutten, yes. Who're you?"
"Will you come with me, please. My master wishes to speak to you."
"Your what?" Sam stared. "Master? Who's he?"
"Dr. Orbert Venner. Column three, second level. Will you follow me, please." The imperturbable giant wheeled and paced away, managing to be very steady and sure over the expanded-foam floor. Sam scrambled to his feet and followed not nearly so gracefully. One-third-G and an eight-een-inch thick layer of resilient foam made a treacherous combination for walking, but most of the confusion was in his mind. He had heard of Venner, presiding genius of Venelec, one of the biggest electronic specialists of the Northern Hemisphere. It was said that Venelec had either originated or contributed to every major advance in solid-state physics in the past ten years, and that to work for Venner was a full order of magnitude more imposing than any parchment degree. Once in the elevator compartment, Sam scowled at his guide and wanted to ask questions but was deterred by the utter indifference of this big man. Some kind of valet, possibly. Or bodyguard. Six foot six, solidly made, machine-like calm, and handsome as the devil, if you admired stone-carving styles. And the suit, a simple blouse-and-pants combination,' never came from any auto-fab clothier, but had been cut and built by a master-craftsman. But who, in this day and age, called any other man master?
There was only one table on the semicircular balcony, and one man seated at it. Sam Hutten took a good look and stared again, for if this was the master he was just as eccentric, in a completely different way, as his massive servant.
An old man, small and rotund, with wild spikes of white hair fringing a bald pate, a jutting white goatee beard, and all the apple-cheek wrinkles to make him a goblin, but for the fact that, unlike any gnome Sam had ever heard of, this one chewed on a stump of cigar. And grinned with gleaming white teeth as he waved a hand.
"Dr. Hutten! Good of you to come. Sit. Joe, order up. What'll you have, Doctor?"
"Make mine orange. I don't hold much in the way of alcohol, and I have already had one."
"That's fine. Make that two, Joe, one for yourself. I'll stick with what I have here. Allow me, Dr. Hutten. I'm Orbert Vernier."
"So your man told me. Will you make this brief, Mr. Venner. I'm here to meet someone."
Venner chuckled, brought his hand out from a baggy pocket.and dropped three tiny black things on the polished tabletop. "Take a close look," he invited. "Know what they are?"
"Seeds of some kind?" Sam hazarded, and the old man chuckled again.
"Right. Seeds of a small flowering plant allied to the convolvulus family. If those seeds had come from the Earth-grown variety I would be in order to call them Morning Glory. But they didn't grow on Earth. I don't know—nor does anyone, yet—whether they are Earth natives transplanted, or a similar plant but native to where those were found. So, for the present, I'll use the scientific name, and call them Ipomoea."
"Hah?" Sam blinked as the word rang a faint bell. Then he remembered. It had been mentioned in that cryptic ethergram. Code Ipomoea. Venner, his bright old eyes not missing a thing, nodded slowly.
"That's right, Dr. Hutten. You've been
met."
"You—you are an agent of—"
"Don't say it. Let me." Venner was very quick. "You had an ethergram from I.S.B., and it mentioned an agent, me, and a code word. That ought to be enough to establish my identity, right? Ah, Joe. Just put them down here a moment. Now, pay attention, Joe. Don't look now, but there's a young woman on the second level of the next column, back of me, who is paying far too much attention to us to be honest. Vivid black hair and red cape. And she has what looks like a shotgun mike on us, too, or my eyes are failing me. Go get her, will you? Bring her here."
Speechless, Sam stared over the old man's shoulder and saw the woman in question. She was about fifteen feet away, leaning with apparent negligence on the balcony rail, one hand to her temple to prop up her head as if in reverie, but now that his attention had been called to it, there was something in that hand, something metallic. And she was, even at that long range, vividly attractive. Joe departed silently.
"If she is snooping," Sam pointed out, "then she just heard you, and can hear me, or read my lips, or something."
"Nobody can read lips at this distance without magnification, son. And her mike won't tell her a thing either. Soon as I suspected she was getting too interested I switched on a squealer. In my pocket here. You can't hear it, but that mike can, and all she hears is a scrambled buzz, just enough to be frustrating, but not enough to let her know she has been stymied. Routine precaution for me. You'd be surprised at the number of people who want to know what I'm talking about at times."
"She's getting a pair of micro-glasses now," Sam reported. "What do I do? I have a thousand questions to ask, but I don't want to say anything I shouldn't."
"You catch on fast. I like that. Helps. Joe will fix her in a minute or two. Meanwhile, I can talk freely enough. You ever hear of Happy Sugar?"
"Of course. I've heard of it, and what it's supposed to do, but I'm afraid I don't really know anything about it. Why?"
