Trojan Orbit

by Mack Reynolds

  The bluntness of that set him back momentarily, but he said, “Sweetheart,” and took her into his arms. Her teeth, slightly bucked, were a hindrance to his kissing technique.

  She said, “We can go to your house, darling.”

  He cleared his throat. “I think it’s better if we just went to your room.”

  Mary Beth pouted. “But I’d just love to see where you’re going to live for the next five years. If you’re important enough to be at this party, you must have a really scrumptious place.”

  “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said with a little laugh. “I’ll match you for it. I’ll take this coin and you call heads or tails…”

  Back at the party, Bruce Carter strolled up to where Ron Rich was listening in on a several-way discussion, an impatient and somewhat frustrated look on his usually open face.

  “Nice party,” Bruce told him, under his breath.

  Ron looked at him quickly and said, “Let’s go back to the bar and get another drink.”

  “I just got one,” Bruce told him. “And, besides, I’d like to listen in on this.”

  Ron wasn’t happy.

  One of the debaters was saying in a demanding voice, “Where in the devil does Sol expect to get qualified space colonists to fill up these future islands of his? Who’d be silly enough? The kind of people he needs have to be tops, in the best of physical health, well educated, experienced, highly trained. The very sort of people that hold down the best jobs on Earth. The unemployed need not apply. If they were the capable workers he needs, they wouldn’t be unemployed. In the depths of the worst depression the United States, or any other advanced country has ever had, the type of person needed for space colonization was not looking for work. There’s always work for that type of man who seeks affluence and security for himself and his family. Say he’s making 25,000 dollars a year and up, Earthside. How much would you have to pay him to leave his job behind and colonize space?”

  His opponent, a somewhat younger man who had “engineer” written all over him, broke in. “The adventurous type of man. The enthusiastic and dedicated. The type of men and women who explored, then conquered, then colonized the New World from Europe. The Columbuses.”

  The first one chuckled. “I can see that you’re no historian. Bob. It was the unemployed, the dregs of the ports of Southern Spain, that crewed Columbus’s ships. Most really competent sailors of the day wouldn’t have dreamed of going, in view of the dangers that lay out in the reaches of the Atlantic. Columbus himself was motivated by avarice. The contract he drew up with Queen Isobel made him Admiral of the Western Seas. His crew dragged their heels all the way. They even threatened mutiny at one point. And the Spanish Conquistadores? A bunch of cutthroats out for gold and silver. When they got it, most of them returned to Spain to live it up there.”

  One of the others cut in. “That didn’t apply to the North, to what later became the United States and Canada.”

  “Like hell it didn’t,” the other laughed. “There were a handful of gentlemen out to seek their fortunes, but mainly North America was settled by the dregs of Europe, by criminals on the lam, sometimes by convicts. The State of Georgia, in particular, was settled by convicted criminals, like Australia was. They were given their chance of being either executed, or imprisoned, or becoming colonists. The great waves of immigration later on weren’t brought about by much higher ideals. The blacks, of course, didn’t want to come at all. The poorest, most illiterate Irish came to escape the potato famine. The more successful Irish, the better educated and more prosperous, remained in Ireland. The Germans came to escape the anti-Social Democratic laws of Bismarck. The Italians immigrated from the poverty-stricken conditions of Sicily and southern Italy; the better educated, better adjusted, more highly trained Italians of the north largely remained at home. The Jews fled in escape from the pogroms in Poland and Russia and later the gas chambers of Hitler. The Puerto Ricans came to escape the poverty of their home island and the Chicanos to get jobs that couldn’t be found in Mexico. No, my friends, the New World wasn’t settled by the elite of the Old World, it was settled by those who couldn’t make the grade, for whatever reasons, including racial and religious ones in Europe. Even the pilgrims were malcontents who were indignant at not being allowed to inflict their religious beliefs on their neighbors.”

  Ron Rich said to Bruce, “Come along, I’ll introduce you to the more interesting personalities here tonight. It might be quite a while before you have a chance to meet some of them again. Possibly never. They’re usually pretty busy.”

  Bruce whispered back, “Maybe later. I want to hear this.”

  The debater named Bob snagged a drink from a passing Security man’s tray and said, “It’ll be different in space. Why, that secretary of the Friends of Lagrange Five was telling me a little while ago that every member of her organization wants to sign up as a space colonist. Along with the so-called spacists, they must number into the millions.”

  “Sure,” the other said sarcastically. “A bunch of kids who were weaned on Star Trek and Space War and the comic strip Star Hawks. All raring to go. But, once again, the need is for highly educated, trained, and experienced persons. And you don’t achieve those qualities while you’re still in your teens or twenties. You’re well into your thirties or even forties before you have such qualifications. And by that time you’re settled down with family and job and adventure isn’t so high on your list. The good life and security have taken its place.”

  Ron Rich got into the act, as though reluctantly. “You’ve got to keep the population explosion in mind. There’s room for millions, eventually, in the islands. Even billions in the farther future.”

  But the other was shaking his head in rejection. “Ron,” he said, “you’re always in there pitching, but in this case, it doesn’t wash. For one thing, what population explosion? In the advanced countries it began petering out in 1976 when Germany was the first to lose population. She lost some 22,000 that year, and the next year it was even more. She was soon followed by Switzerland, the Netherlands, the Scandinavian countries. Even the United States by the end of the 70s had a birth rate, among women of childbearing age, that’s less than it takes to maintain population. Sure, the populations continued to increase in India, Indonesia, Africa, and Latin America, although the rate has been slowing for some time. But those are exactly the people not needed in the space colonies. Usually, they’re even in bad health, as a result of diet and so forth. And, most certainly, they do not have education, training, and experience. They usually don’t even have an average I.Q., due to protein deficiency during the mother’s pregnancy and during childhood. That minority in India, Africa, and the other underdeveloped areas who do have the qualifications needed for space, wouldn’t want to go, population explosion or nay. They’re already happy. But suppose you did get them to Island Three or Four, or whatever. Then that’d rob their home nations of the people they need the most, a type of brain-drain that would be disastrous.”

  One of the others of the group, who hadn’t spoken as yet, said glumly, “There are other elements that are going to be involved that will discourage space colonization. There are millions of well-educated, well-to-do folks on Earth now who won’t even get into an airplane because they’re afraid to fly. How many others, even those qualified, will be leery of coming into space?”

  Ron said to Bruce Carter, “Look, see that girl over there? The redhead? She’s been telling me she’d like to be introduced. You know, she’s hot to meet such a famous writer. To tell you the truth, I can recommend her. She fucks with her underwear on.”

  Bruce had to laugh. He hadn’t heard that expression since he’d been in high school. And even then he hadn’t been sure of what it meant.

  The PR man took him over to the girl, who smiled expectantly at their approach.

  “Bunny Bahr,” Ron said. “This is Bruce Carter, the freelancer you were asking about.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said brightly.

  Sh
e was stacked, as the expression went, like a brick Kremlin, Bruce told himself. A lifelong bachelor, Bruce Carter just loved girls who were red of hair and stacked.

  He smiled and said, “It’s nice to meet you. How long have you been up here?”

  She smiled a smile that would have given an erection to a eunuch and said, “About a year, Bruce. What do you write? I just love comic strips. I was simply raised on Flash Gordon.”

  Bruce glowered at the flack. “My chum-pal,” he said.

  Ron said defensively, “Well, she’s a redhead. I didn’t say she could read.”

  * * * *

  Solomon Ryan, Prince Abel, Al Moore, and Annette Casey entertained in Ryan’s library. The Prince and Ryan were talking even as they sought comfortable seats.

  The Prince was saying, “The Arab Union is willing to continue on the present basis. That is, we will continue to contribute five billion a year, secretly deposited to your unnumbered account in Berne.”

  Al Moore, idly, and as though automatically, had taken what looked to be a pen from his breast pocket. He flicked a stud on its side and began to stroll about the room. Annette went over to the library’s bar, took stock of the offerings, and began to reach for glasses.

  Al Moore came to a sudden halt. His face went empty. For a moment he stood stock-still, as though unbelieving. Then his forefinger went to his lips. The other two men and Annette stared at him, shocked. He continued around the room, pointing his device here, there, and everywhere. He shook his head in lack of understanding. Finally, he approached Annette, who was continuing to bug-eye him. Then he turned to the two men who had resumed their feet. He pointed the device at each of them in turn.

  A faint humming, which all could hear now, became louder as he pointed the gismo at the Arab. He came closer still, going over the Prince’s whole body until finally the electronic mop was directed at the other’s sash. His eyes narrow, Al Moore dipped his left hand into the sash before Abou ben Abel could step back. The Security head came up with a small black metallic object, no larger than a button. His expression flat, he held it out in his open hand for all to see.

  “God damn,” Sol Ryan blurted. He reached out and grabbed the thing, dropped it to the floor and ground it beneath his heel.

  The Security man was staring at the Prince. He rasped, “Were you taping this conversation?”

  “What?” the Arab said, surprise and a bit of indignation at being so molested. “I say, what in the bloody hell is going on?”

  Al Moore pointed at the floor. “A bug. You had an electronic bug in your sash. Somebody’s listening in, or were, on everything we’ve been saying.”

  The Prince was indignant. “Don’t be ridiculous, old chap. Certainly nothing to do with me. I already know what is being said, wouldn’t you know? I’m here and I need no record. If anybody should be accused of taping the conversation, it might be you chaps, though for the life of me I can’t see a reason for it.”

  Ryan, still looking aghast, said, “No. No, we have no reason for wishing such a recording. We’ve got just as much or more desire to keep our transactions with the Arab Union a secret as you have.” His eyes went to Annette’s and then to Al Moore’s. “But who?”

  The Security chief shook his head. “Let me think, dammit. It had to be planted at the party. Earlier, when we were all together in your office, I automatically used the mop. I always do when entering a room where something offbeat might be said. There was no bug then.”

  Annette said, or, at least, began to say, “But there’s nobody at the party…” And then she stopped.

  Al Moore looked at the Prince, all but glowering. “Damn it, who got near enough to you to plant that bug in your sash?”

  Abou ben Abel shook his head in turn, obviously at a complete loss. “But at a party of this type one meets just about everybody present, especially the guest of honor.”

  Annette said, “You attempt to avoid being touched. I noticed that when I introduced you to Bruce Carter.”

  “Bruce Carter!” the Security man spat out. “That damned prying writer. The busybody to end all snoops! The goddamned muckraker!” He glared at the Arab, “Could he have planted the bug?”

  “I…I couldn’t say, old chap. I…I wouldn’t think so, you know. I didn’t even shake hands with him, as Miss Carter just pointed out. Oh! Half a moment, now. That other chap he introduced me to, the uh, what did I call him? The G-Man. I’m afraid I have forgotten his name. An uncouth type, you know.”

  “Kapitz,” Moore growled. “Peter Kapitz, of the IABI.”

  “That’s the fellow, I’m quite sure.”

  “Could he have planted it?”

  “I’m not really sure, don’t you know. But he’s the only chap I recall shaking hands with. A ridiculous custom. Two total strangers pawing each other.”

  “It had to be one of them,” Moore muttered. He glowered in turn at Sol Ryan. “You were a fool, inviting that writer up here.”

  “Sorry, Al,” Ryan said uncomfortably, his cheerfulness for once gone.

  The Security head looked at Annette. “Get out into that party and see if they’re both here. Get close to Carter and stay close from now on.”

  “What do you mean, get close, Uncle Al?”

  “As close as possible, for Christ’s sake. Into bed with him at night. In his pocket as much as possible during the day. Don’t bother to search his things. I’ll have some of the boys, who know more about it, do that. Meanwhile, I’ll check out that damn federal cop. We’ll put somebody else on him.”

  He bent and picked up the crushed, electronic bug. His eyes went to Ryan in disgust. “I could have deactivated it without mashing it like this. I’ll see if the boys can figure out where it came from, if it’s police, military, or if any ordinary citizen could obtain one.”

  “Sorry, Al.” Sol Ryan shifted his eyes again.

  “Let’s get back to the party,” the other muttered. “I want to see if they’re both still there. If they are, that means whoever planted the bug has at least one accomplice in this island.”

  Ryan turned to the Prince, his smile inverted. “Your Highness, I’m truly sorry about this.”

  The other smiled, displaying a fine set of teeth. “Actually I enjoyed it immensely, old man. Very exciting, don’t you know? Right out of a thriller. But of course it’s most important that the chap be found. It wouldn’t do at all for the news to leak that the Arab Union is subsidizing the Lagrange Five Corporation.”

  To Al Moore’s surprise, both Pete Kapitz and Bruce Carter were still at the party. He gave quick orders to Mark Donald to search the rooms of both, on the off chance that one of the two had some sort of automatic recording device tuned in on the destroyed bug. He doubted that, though. Such equipment would of necessity be impractical to bring up from Earthside, particularly considering the luggage searches.

  Later in the evening, in her room, which was not quite so sterile as those of Carter and Kapitz, Mary Beth Houston was happily shucking her dress.

  She said enthusiastically to Rick Venner, who was climbing from his own clothes, “Don’t you just love fucking?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, I have since I was about thirteen.”

  “Oh, I didn’t start nearly as soon as that,” she admitted in sadness. “I must have been almost fifteen. I liked it fine the very first time I did it.” She dropped her panties and looked over at him. “Gosh, I’m glad you’re not circumcised.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. Was she anti-Semitic or something?

  She came over and, as they stood there, took him in hand and looked down, pushing his foreskin back and forth.

  His erection was already raging. “You know,” he said huskily. “You keep that up and the party’s going to be over before it ever gets underway. I’m a once-a-night man.”

  At that exact moment, Bruce Carter was beginning to climb into the bed that already held the nude Bunny Bahr; the redhead, he had decided, to end all redheads.

  Jus
t as he was making the preliminary grab for her, a knock came at the door. The freelancer looked up, scowling surprise. But before he could arise to answer it, the door opened and Annette Casey entered. She closed the door behind her and took in the scene.

  “Revolting,” she said, shaking her head. She fixed her eyes on Bunny. “Take it on the heel and toe, sister. He’s my date.”

  “Yes, Doctor Casey,” the redhead squealed. In record time, she had scrambled from the bed, zipped into her dress, and, carrying the rest of her clothes, had hurried through the door.

  “Good night,” Bruce called after her sadly.

  Annette Casey had her hands on her hips. “Some sadist you turned out to be,” she said nastily.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And well you should,” she told him, beginning to get out of her evening gown. “You told me earlier that if I was a masochist, you’d gladly play the sadist for me. Now, if that’s not a proposition, I’ve never heard one.”

  She climbed into the bed and rolled over on her stomach. “You can spank me a little, if you don’t do it too hard.”

  Chapter Ten

  “In addition to full disclosure prior to the onset of an experiment, there should be agreement concerning the conditions under which an experiment (space community) could be halted by the participant. Inherent in the community, there would have to be reserved freedom for the individual to change his mind... ‘Stop the extraterrestrial community—I want to get off!’”

  —Carl R. Vann, Extraterrestrial Communities—

  Cultural, Legal, Political, and Ethical Considerations.

  *

  Pal Barack, humming happily to himself, a small sheaf of papers in his right hand, entered the side door of the L5 Hilton, which led into the offices of the Security Division of the project. He had never been in them before, for which he was satisfied. Construction workers and Security didn’t exactly see eye to eye in various fields; besides which, the small Hungarian was noted for his volatile temper and being short-fused. And it certainly didn’t do you any good to get on Security’s shit list.