Trojan Orbit

by Mack Reynolds

  “That’s me. I’ve got permission to come up to do some freelance articles on the workings of Island One.”

  “Well, Bruce, you sure as hell aren’t going to get any straight material from that gang at the hotel. What you ought to do is attend the meeting of the WITH-AW-DOH Club tomorrow night.”

  “The what club?”

  “WITH-AW-DOH. It consists of persons who have the WITH-AW-DOH syndrome. The letters stand for What In the Hell Are We Doing Out Here? We’ll give you something to write about.”

  Bruce laughed still again. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try to make it. Where is it held?”

  His new acquaintance turned and pointed down the street from which Bruce had entered the park. “See that big grayish building? It’s the auditorium. We meet at nine. Watch out for the Security funkers. I doubt if they’d want you to come. In fact, I know God-damned well they wouldn’t.”

  A voice from behind them said, “Mr. Carter?”

  They turned. It was one of the green-coveralled Security men.

  Bruce said, “That’s right.”

  The other said, politely enough, “Would you mind returning to the hotel with me? Mr. Rich is looking for you.”

  Bruce stood and said to the Hungarian, “Nice meeting you. Hope to see you again.”

  The other nodded, looking a bit apprehensively at the Security man. “Likewise,” he said.

  The Security man looked at the gardener’s name on his pocket before turning to go with Bruce back to the L5 Hilton.

  Chapter Six

  “My negative feeling about such a project revolves around the kind of ‘Pie in the Sky’ vibration which I feel. Given the problems we are facing from population overload and its attendant horrors—famine, land rape, water pollution, dwindling resources, etc.—I wonder at the wisdom of putting before the people the idea of ‘getting out of here,’ when here is where the work is, here is where the problem is. At that level it seems like escapism, and as such the last place where we should put our energies.”

  —Steve Durkee, Artist

  *

  The introduction of Peter Kapitz to Island One was almost identical to that of Bruce Carter. He was met at the docking bay by a young fellow wearing a dark green space coverall with the name “Mark Donald” stitched on the left breast pocket. It sounded like a Scottish name but there must have been others besides Scots in the family woodpile. Either that or he was a fanatic on sunbathing. He was friendly enough and boasted a beautiful set of very white teeth when he smiled.

  He smiled and said, “Mr. Kapitz?” then frowned a little, as though perhaps he’d made a mistake. This wasn’t exactly what he’d expected Mr. Kapitz to look like. Mr. Kapitz was supposed to be a topnotch IABI operative.

  Pete was used to the reaction. He said, “That’s right. Peter Kapitz.”

  “My name’s Donald, sir. Mark Donald. Mr. Moore sent me to meet you.”

  “Wizard,” Pete said. “Who’s Mr. Moore?”

  The other made a rueful mouth, as though Pete should have known. “Alfred Moore. He’s the Lagrange Five Security Commissioner. We’ve been expecting you. I assume you’ve had a little experience in free fall by this time. If you’ll just follow along behind me on this rail, we’ll get down to gravity.”

  “How about my bag?”

  “I’ve made arrangements to have it sent to the hotel.” Mark Donald began expertly to pull himself along the guide rail and in the direction of the monorail cars.

  “You have hotels up here?” Pete said, following along as best he could.

  “One hotel,” the other told him over his shoulder. “We’re not exactly ass-deep in traveling salesmen and such. It also kind of doubles as city hall and the headquarters of the Lagrange Five Project. It’s the biggest building in the island.”

  They reached the monorail and shared a four-seater with a couple of docking bay workers going off shift. Pete Kapitz half listened to them as the little vehicle headed inward. They were bitching about the food at the community mess hall. Evidently, they were tired of rabbit and chicken to the point that, in spite of the fact that it was the only fresh meat available, they sometimes refused to eat it.

  One of the space colonists at least had a sense of humor. Pete heard him say, “That poor French chef cloddy. Here he is, one of the best cooks in France, and they lure him up here with the best pay he’s ever heard of. And what happens? Everybody hates him because the food is so shitty.”

  “Yeah,” the other one chuckled sourly. “It never occurred to him that you could cook without such little items as butter and cream. I’ll bet he can hardly eat his own food himself.”

  Pete looked over at his guide from the side of his eyes. He said lowly, so the two workers seated behind couldn’t hear, “Surely the meals can’t be that bad.”

  Mark Donald grunted. “Did you ever hear of construction workers out in the boondocks, or soldiers, or sailors, who didn’t spend half their time complaining about the chow?” He turned in his seat and looked back at the two. They went silent.

  At the terminal, they had adequate gravity and the Security man led the way. Pete Kapitz recognized several of those who had accompanied him on the passenger freighter over from the Goddard, including Rick Venner; but everybody seemed in a hurry and there was no opportunity to say anything.

  Pete continued to duplicate the experiences of Bruce Carter, who had come this way only a few minutes before him, though Pete, of course, had no way of knowing that. They passed by Joe, the Security man, at the entry to the L5 Hilton and crossed the lobby to Maggie’s reception desk. Pete even got almost identical reactions to the hotel as had his predecessor; sterile, hospital-like, colorless, naked of decoration.

  Maggie was her bright self and gave him his room number, 116. Once again, he couldn’t know it, but he was quartered next door to the freelancer, Bruce Carter.

  The interior of the room was bleak. Mark Donald sat in one of the unupholstered chairs and watched him, faint amusement in the back of his eyes, as the space tyro checked out the accommodations.

  The IABI operative looked out the window down the long cylinder which was Island One for minutes before saying, “I thought it’d be bigger than that.”

  “Yeah,” Donald said. “So did I when I first saw it.” Pete turned and looked at him. “How long have you been up here now?”

  “A few years. Since just after they pressurized it and had enough living accommodations to move in.”

  “How do you like it?”

  The other wasn’t thoroughly comfortable at the questioning, but he shrugged and said, “It’s a job.” That didn’t seem to be enough so he added, “I like the money piling up.”

  Pete frowned at him. “But if you’re a colonist, how are you going to spend it? What is there up here you can spend it on? I suppose that if you were Earthside you could do the usual with all the pay you’re undoubtedly accumulating. That is, a bigger house, complete with servants, a bigger car or two, perhaps a boat. Or possibly you like to travel. But suppose you accumulate a quarter of a million, or whatever it amounts to, up here. What do you blow it on?”

  The other still seemed uncomfortable, as though they were in a forbidden field. He said, grudgingly, “I can always go Earthside and spend it.” He showed his white teeth in a quick smile. “A quarter of a million makes quite a splash in a place like, say, the Bahamas.”

  Pete looked at him strangely. He said, “It sounds something like those Rocky Mountain men, the fur trappers who in the early 19th Century would go out after beaver for a couple of years at a stretch and then come back to the rendezvous with their catch and blow everything in a three day binge.” He thought about it and scowled. “It doesn’t seem like much of a motivation to come out into space. If all the things you want to spend your money on are down Earthside, why come up at all? Why not just stay down there?”

  The other shrugged it off, as though he took it that Pete was kidding.

  But the IABI man pursued it. “Does ev
erybody else feel the same way?” And then, thinking it through a little further, “I thought most of you up here had the space dream. That you were colonists, here for good. That the money part of it wasn’t particularly important.”

  The Security man seemed to be on happier ground. He said, “I suppose different people look at it different ways. Most of those who’ve signed up are here for good. Colonists. But some signed contracts for only ten years, some only five. They can always extend their contracts, of course, and stay on. But some figure on making their piles and returning and retiring down below.” Donald cleared his throat and made a motion toward the small bar. “How about a drink?”

  The IABI agent shook his head, saying, “It’s a little early for me,” but he walked over to the little bar and inspected its offerings.

  “Holy smog,” he said. “This is the most expensive collection of guzzle I think I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t afford this kind of scotch and cognac if I were the director of the Bureau himself, John Wilson.”

  The other said, smiling on a bias, “Sure, but it’d be stupid for it to be otherwise. The expense in Island One isn’t in what’s in the bottle. It’s the cost of bringing it up. It’ll go a couple of hundred dollars a fifth for transport. Why send up rotgut?”

  Pete picked up a bottle and looked at it. “As a matter of fact, I’m surprised to see it at all. I got the impression that such luxuries were practically unknown in Lagrange Five and at the moonbase. That the freight sent up was strictly limited to utilitarian items—fuel, machinery, raw materials you can’t get from the moon, such as copper, and so on.”

  Mark Donald was uncomfortable again and looked as though he wouldn’t have minded changing the subject, but he said, “It’s contraband. We seize it and then, of course, it’d be a crime to destroy such things, so we consume them here in the hotel.” He added apologetically, “There’s not enough to go around, so we keep it for visitors like yourself, or for VIPs on junkets up from Earthside. And, of course, for top ranking members of Doc Ryan’s staff, visiting scientists, and so forth.”

  Pete had turned back from the bar, staring at him. “Contraband?” he said. “You mean from smugglers?”

  “Well, sure, kind of. No matter where you are, given shortages, there’ll be characters who’ll take any risk to smuggle in contraband either for themselves or a black market—if the price is right.”

  “Black market!” Pete got out in his surprise. “You mean there’s a black market in Island One?”

  “Yeah, kind of. Not very big, of course, but one way or the other things are smuggled in. Hidden in pipes, in heavy machinery, that sort of thing. You’d be surprised at some of the ingenious places they figure out to run in guzzle, tobacco, cosmetics, food delicacies.”

  That brought back to Pete Kapitz the complaints of the two workers who had ridden in the monorail vehicle with them. He said, “You mean that the colonists will pay sky-high prices to supplement their diets?”

  Donald shifted in his chair, as though being put upon with this conversation. “That’s not exactly the way to put it; but say that somebody is fond of sardines. He builds up an absolute neurosis for sardines, which are, of course, not available at all—except here at the hotel, if we’ve intercepted some. So, figure it out for yourself. He’s making ten thousand a year with nothing to spend it on. Wizard, finally he gets to the point where he’s willing to pony up fifty dollars or so for a small can of sardines. Crazy as a bedbug.”

  The Security man looked relieved when his pocket transceiver buzzed. He took it out, flicked it on. Pete politely turned his back and went over to the window again and looked out over the streets of little Lagrange City with its sad attempts, here and there, at a bit of greenery.

  Behind him, Mark Donald said, “That was the Chief.

  He’s got some time open and can work you in now. Shall we go on up? Your bag will probably be here by the time we return. You can unpack and then we can have lunch.”

  It seemingly hadn’t occurred to the Security man that Pete Kapitz might wish to dine alone. Pete said, “Fine. Let’s go.”

  The offices of Alfred Moore were on the uppermost floor of the L5 Hotel. And Pete Kapitz had some surprises coming. The upper floor was a far cry from the one that embraced his room.

  They mounted the steps and Mark said to the green-clad Security man at their top, “Hi, Dean. This is Mr. Kapitz. AL is expecting us.”

  The guard touched a finger to his cap. “I’ve been notified. Go right on, Lieutenant.”

  The Security force seemed to have military ranks, Pete thought. He wondered how many of them there were. Surely, with labor up here at a premium, everyone involved in some sort of crucial effort, they couldn’t devote many to such unproductive tasks as whatever it was that Security did, besides intercepting contraband.

  He was vaguely surprised at the identity screen on the door before Alfred Moore’s quarters. The mechanism could hardly have been manufactured out here in space; too much bother. It would have had to be shipped up from Earthside. But then, so would the rug on the floor of the hallway. It was the first rug or carpeting of any sort he had seen thus far in the island.

  Donald stood before the screen and said, “Lieutenant Donald and Mr. Peter Kapitz to see Security Commissioner Moore.”

  The door opened and Pete followed the other in.

  The room beyond was a reception office with two girls at the desks. The place was considerably different from Pete’s hotel room. In fact, it differed only from an ultraswank Earthside corporation office in the view from the windows. Wall-to-wall carpeting, paintings hanging, and drapes at the windows. The desks were either wooden or very good imitations; they most certainly weren’t metal.

  Nor were the girls attired in space coveralls. They were done in the latest styles prevailing in such fashion centers of Earth as Paris, Copenhagen, or perhaps Budapest. They wore the first cosmetics Pete had seen in space and either of them could have been Tri-Di starlets. One was a brunette, one a redhead, and both were luscious. Pete Kapitz refrained from hissing appreciatively. The few women he had seen on the Goddard and here in Island One, thus far, had led him to believe that he was fated for less than pulchritude until he returned to mother Earth. But evidently all was not lost.

  The redhead looked up brightly, in the best tradition of the receptionist, and said, “Mr. Moore is expecting you, Lieutenant. Go right on in.”

  “Wizard, Marie,” Mark Donald told her, and led the way to the door set a few feet to the left of her desk.

  The two girls looked Pete up and down contemplatively as he smiled at them in passing. He got the impression that a new face was always in demand in the L5 Hilton. And, in thinking about it, wondered. With ten thousand people up here, surely most of them men, there could hardly be a man shortage so far as a couple of good-looking mopsies such as these were concerned.

  If he had thought the outer office was swank, it was nothing compared to that of the Security Commissioner’s sanctum sanctorum. Pete Kapitz was far from a connoisseur, but he strongly suspected that those Renaissance paintings on the walls were originals. And he winced at the thought of what it must have cost to transport the couple of thousand or so beautifully bound books that filled the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  The desk was immense, an antique, and even on Earth must have been worth thousands. If it cost a couple of hundred dollars to bring a fifth of liquor up from Earth, what would that desk be worth up here, after having been lifted by space shuttle to the Goddard and then freighted over to Lagrange Five?

  Behind the desk sat a high-echelon executive as sterotypical as Pete Kapitz could have asked for. Except that he wasn’t quite old enough, he could have been the chairman of the board of IBM, AT&T, or, say, Chrysler-Ford. His business suit was immaculate: his hair trim was such that surely he had stepped out of the barber’s chair but moments ago. And in the chair he’d had both a manicure and a massage, and possibly a sunlamp while he had been acquiring them. In short, Alfred Moore wa
s every inch of his five-foot-ten, one hundred-and-sixty-five pounds, the epitome of a prosperous business executive. To Pete Kapitz, he most certainly didn’t look like a head of Security. He had been expecting something more in the way of a Chief of Police, possibly complete with belly and florid Irish face.

  The charm went along with the appearance. Lagrange Five’s Security Commissioner came to his feet and extended his perfectly manicured, dry, firm hand across the desk to Pete Kapitz.

  Smiling, he said, “You must be our representative from the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Peter Kapitz,” Pete said, shaking and nodding acknowledgment.

  “Alfred Moore,” Mark Donald said in introduction, needlessly. He brought up a chair for the visitor and then took one further back for himself.

  When they were seated, the Security head beamed and said, “A drink, Mr. Kapitz?”

  Pete said, “Theoretically, it’s early for me. I haven’t had anything alcoholic since leaving the New Alburquerque shuttleport.” He twisted his mouth. “No alcohol in space. Actually, I thought that applied up here too.” Alfred Moore smiled again, this time in deprecation, and said, “They ban it in space because there’s nothing quite like a hangover in freefall. But here, inside the island, we don’t consider ourselves actually to be in space. This is our own Brave New World and we try to carry on as similarly to Earthside as possible. Mark, will you do the honors?”

  The lieutenant got up and went over to an elaborate bar up against a wall. It, too, was obviously of antique wood. He looked back at the seated men and raised his eyebrows. “Whiskey?” he said.

  “Scotch sounds good to me,” Pete told him.

  “Wizard,” Moore nodded.

  Pete said to the Security head, “More confiscated contraband?”

  The other frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  Donald said quickly, “I told Mr. Kapitz how we confiscated any products brought up surreptitiously and that rather than destroy them, in view of their value, we used them here in the hotel.”