“All right,” the President sighed. “You have my go-ahead. See John and tell him the whole story.” He looked at the desk chronometer and sighed again. “My whole meditation period has elapsed.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” his gaunt aide murmured under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Roy Thomas pushed himself to his feet. Paul Corcoran said hopefully, “Do you think it would be possible for me to deal directly with my broker? That is, to instruct him to sell my…”
“No,” Thomas said. “I’ll keep you informed, Paul.”
* * * *
If the President’s chief assistant had duplicated his last call on his superior, the duplication continued in the upper floor offices of the Director of the IABI in the soaring Inter-American Bureau of Investigation Building.
The small eyes of John Edward Wilson glared at him. He said, “You’ve got to be off the wall, Thomas.”
“I wish the hell I was,” Roy said flatly. “Frankly, I haven’t the vaguest idea what to do next, except dig out some more information; something we can work with. There has to be some answer, but at this stage, God only knows what it is.”
“You put a couple of hundred men on this, digging into the LFC, and you’ll have leaks.”
Roy Thomas eyed him unblinkingly. “There’d better not be, John. This is supposedly your field. Figure out some way where security is tighter than the Manhattan Project.”
John Edward Wilson closed his porcine eyes and took a deep breath.
The presidential aide had turned to leave, but now he hesitated for a moment and said, “By the way, I’ve had just three men working on this, José Sanchez, Tom Finklestein, and Lenny Robinson.” He twisted his mouth. “In your time, you’ve come in contact with all three, usually when you and I haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye. Now, things are different. I’d like you to put guards on them, around the clock. At least two men on a shift.”
Roy Thomas didn’t know it, but he had just condemned his three closest friends. When he was gone, John Edward Wilson opened his desk drawer and brought forth his special transceiver.
Roy Thomas, despite his intellect, also didn’t know that in the past two hours of conversation he had condemned himself. He rode to his Alexandria home, dismissed his chauffeur, and strode up to the porch of his home, to the expected greeting by his overly plump wife. They were cut down together by thirty rounds of Gyrojet rocket slugs fired from a silenced submachine gun from the window of a slow, cruising hovervehicle.
For himself, Thomas did not rage with his namesake against the dying of the light.
He hadn’t been particularly fond of living. But just before the blackness moved in, he found time to rage for Pat. Patricia had always liked living.
At almost the same time this was happening, John Edward Wilson was in the Oval Office. He’d had as little trouble getting an immediate audience with Corcoran, supposedly the most difficult man in the world with whom to get an appointment, as had Roy Thomas earlier in the day. Gertrude, the ultimate in appointment secretaries, hustled him through, beaming. It wasn’t as though the nattily attired director was the same element as sourpussed Roy Thomas. She had never figured out how the gaunt, thin, unlovable Thomas had ingratiated himself with her lifelong boss. Nor had she ever been able to figure out why Paulie Corcoran had chosen Molly in preference to her. Surely not because Molly was a reasonably close relative to the Duponts, or Dodges, or whoever her wealthy relatives were. He never even came anymore to Gertrude’s apartment for their formerly refreshing debauch every Tuesday. These days he meditated instead.
Not that she had any objections to anything the great man desired.
The director was saying, “Mr. President, for a long time I’ve been suspecting Roy Thomas was losing his grip. This ties it. From what you say, this ridiculous investigation was his idea from the first. The way he represented it to me, it was your project. In fact, he gave me to believe that you ha4 a bug in your bonnet, as he put it.”
“Why, that’s tomfoolery.”
“The whole thing is, Mr. President.”
“But the fact is, John, his investigations, though only preliminary, have turned up some devastating facts.”
“I doubt it, sir. Can you be specific?”
“Among other things, persons high in the administration of New Kingston, including President Cyprus and Solomon Ryan, have changed their names from Italian to more, ah, American ones.”
John Wilson let air out of his lungs in disgust and worked his heavyset face into a grimace. He said, “I would wager that half the Jews and Middle Europeans who have emigrated to the United States have Americanized their names. Why, most of us couldn’t even pronounce the majority of Polish or Hungarian ones. The fact that an Italian has Americanized his name doesn’t mean he’s a member of the legendary Mafia. There are tens of thousands of Ciprios and Tramuntis in Italy, most of whom have probably never even heard of the Mafia. I imagine that there are thousands of Capones in Italy who have never heard of the infamous Scarface Al.”
Paul Corcoran said, “But the fact is that the Lagrange Five Corporation is granting its lushest contracts to obscure firms, rather than to our long-established aerospace corporations. Why should that be?”
Wilson sighed, “How should I know? I’m no engineer. But I’m sure that the LFC has some of the most competent administrators on Earth supervising its purchases. Perhaps these newer companies are underbidding the older ones. It’s no secret how often in the past our industries have defrauded the government with inflated estimates and bids and even then run into monstrous overcharges.”
The President took his lower lip in his mouth and pouted.
The other failed to be charmed. He said softly, “So far as that changing of names is concerned, Mr. President, my own grandfather legally changed ours shortly after the First World War.”
Paul Corcoran had a stubborn streak in him, besides which, he dreaded going against the man whose wits had served him so well in the past. He said, “Well, I see no reason why we can’t go along with Roy. If he’s making a mistake, we’ll soon find out. And, if we’re very discreet, no one will ever be the wiser.”
Wilson shook his head at him. “Mr. President, there are very powerful elements connected with the LFC, some of them quite ruthless. Big money is almost always ruthless. What I am especially afraid of is that if it gets out that you are investigating them, they might in turn seek revenge by investigating you.”
“Me? Have you gone around the bend, John? My life is an open book.”
The LABI head narrowed already small eyes. “Nobody’s life lacks some fine print, Mr. President. Suppose, for instance, that they tracked down that Burroughs, Ten Cyck and Burroughs real estate deal made when you were still a State Senator?”
The other’s face went gray. “What…what do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about, John Wilson.”
The police official said, his voice cold, “I believe you do, Mr. President. And there are other things they might stumble upon. Take your wife’s investments, through Switzerland, at the time the Nicaragua canal was being negotiated with so much support from your administration?”
Paul Corcoran’s eyes bugged. “Are you…are you threatening me?”
John Wilson was horrified, his expression aghast. He said urgently, “Certainly not, sir. I was simply pointing out your vulnerability, given a vengeful attempt to expose any innocent examples of questionable judgment you might have exercised in years now long past.”
The President’s shoulders slumped. “Damn it to Goshen,” he complained. “I wish Roy had never got off on this bent. It’s damn inconsiderate of him. And he won’t even allow me to dispose of my thirty thousand worth of LFC shares.”
The other’s voice was smooth. “Why, I’d be glad to take them off your hands, sir. I’ve been planning to increase my portfolio.”
“You would?” The President’s eye took on a wary slyness. “As a matter of fact
, I believe Molly has some as well.”
His visitor puffed out already plump cheeks. “I’ll be happy to take them over as well. As a matter of fact, I have recently come into a generous legacy and was expecting to invest further in LFC shares. You see, Mr. President, I have full faith in the organization.”
“So I see. I hope that you are correct. But now, the question is, how are we going to put this to Roy? He doesn’t take kindly to being thwarted and he’s too good a man for me to risk losing.” There was a touch of apology in the presidential voice.
Before the IABI man could answer, one of the President’s desk screens buzzed. He answered it in irritation and the voice of Gertrude Steiner came through. Her words were indistinguishable to the President’s visitor, but the shock in her tone was there. The President’s face was empty after he had flicked off the box. He turned back to Wilson, his eyes unseeing.
“Roy Thomas,” he got out. “He and his wife have been shot to death in front of his own house.”
“How terrible,” the other said, shaking his head in utter disbelief and in sympathy. “But it’s like I said, Mr. President. There are some ruthless elements who have invested deeply in the Lagrange Five Corporation. Undoubtedly, they received news of his investigation and, afraid it would rock the boat, took this drastic measure. I’ll put the full resources of my department into hunting down the infamous assassins.” He came immediately to his feet.
After he was gone, the President’s eyes were sick. “I’ll bet you will,” he muttered under his breath. “I wonder what your family’s name was before your grandfather changed it…”
Chapter Sixteen
“In the long run, it may well be that the people working at the orbital manufacturing facilities may build very comfortable and earthlike habitats.... In the early days, though, it seems almost certain for economic reasons that the orbital facilities will house a selected, highly qualified, highly motivated population, nearly all of whom will be working, and working hard. They will not be in a utopian paradise or a laboratory for sociological experiments. The orbital facility will be much more like a Texas tower oil rig, or a construction camp on the Alaska pipeline, or like Virginia City, Nevada, in about the year 1875.”
—Gerard K. O’Neill, before the Senate
Subcommittee on Aerospace Technology
and National Needs, January 19, 1976.
*
Annette Casey awoke to find Bruce Carter on the pillow beside her, on his back, his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. They were in his room.
She ran her hands through her short, black curls in a wake-up gesture and said, “Top of the morning, comrade.”
He looked over at her, taking in her brunette beauty. “Where’d you ever get a name like Casey?” he said. “I’d taken you for Spanish, or possibly French.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the Black Irish?” she said, yawning. “After the Spanish Armada got its ass whipped by Francis Drake and the boys, it couldn’t return directly home because the British fleet was between them and Spain. So they continued north, rounded the top of Scotland, and sailed down past Ireland. But some of the ships had taken a few holes in the fracas and sank, leaving their crews to make their way to land as best they could.”
She yawned again and wound it up. “The Irish colleens of the time were hospitable. Ergo, the Black Irish.”
“A likely story,” he told her.
She took him in. “What were you looking so pensive about, just now? Figuring out something else that’s wrong with the way Sol’s muddling through on the L5 Project?”
He looked over at her. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “it had just come to me how little there’s been published, Earthside, in the way of letters from colonists and contract workers; or, say, short articles for the home-town newspaper, or whatever. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything of that type, anywhere.”
On Annette Casey, a frown looked good. She said, “These construction workers aren’t the letter-writing kind.”
“Come on, come on. With ten thousand people up here, there’s going to have to be one hell of a lot of mail. If each one wrote only one letter, or even a postcard, a month, that’d be 120,000 pieces of mail a year. Surely, some of the more interesting letters, describing some extraordinary element of building Island One, or the SPSs, would wind up being published.”
She snorted at him. “Holy Zoroaster, comrade, did you think we utilized old-fashioned mail, sheets of paper stuck in envelopes? If we did, the postal rates would have to be as high as the Pony Express of old. Something like five dollars an ounce. And, even then, think of the space that’d be taken up.”
It was the freelancer’s turn to frown. “Well, what do you do?”
“Radio and telex, going both ways. A colonist writes his letter and brings it in to Communications. They radio it down. At the New Albuquerque shuttleport it’s typed out and sent on its way to the addressee. Very simple. No charge.”
“Wizard,” he told her, his expression letting it be known that he was less than satisfied. “But suppose somebody did want to send an ordinary letter. Possibly, he or she didn’t want anybody, not even a radio engineer, to see the contents.”
She shrugged shapely shoulders. “No way. Oh, I suppose what you could do would be to give your letter to somebody returning to Earth and let him mail it for you.”
His eyes went up to the ceiling again, thoughtfully. “And I suppose that between the time the colonist turns over his letter and it’s radioed down, each letter is thoroughly read—and” censored.”
“Oh, fercrissakes, darling.”
“Otherwise your malcontents, such as Adam Bloch and his club, would be sending down a stream of letters and even articles, beefing about the things they see wrong about the project. The fact that I’ve never seen such letters or articles published is rather definite proof that efficient censorship is utilized.”
She sighed in disgust. “All right! What would you expect? For the same reason we don’t ordinarily welcome freelance writers such as yourself up here, we don’t allow material to go out that hasn’t been checked. One crackpot like Bloch writing a stream of letters to the editor could cause more stink than an epidemic of crotch rot.”
“Wizard,” he said in resignation. “Given your viewpoint, I suppose it makes sense. It’s just that I don’t like censorship in any form. I’m a devoted freedom-of-speech man.”
“But there are limits,” she said snappishly. “Who was it who said that you can’t allow someone in a crowded theater to jump up and yell, ‘FIRE!’”
“Why not?” he growled. “Freedom of speech is more important than a few theaters full of people. Particularly the type of people who are attracted by the sort of entertainment available in theaters today. Besides, the guy sitting behind him has just as much right to jump up and yell, ‘HE’S CRAZY! THERE IS NO FIRE!’”
“Oh, you’re impossible.”
He grinned at her. “Practically nothing is impossible.”
“Well, then, you’re damned improbable.”
He looked at his watch. “Darn it,” he said. “We’ve really slept in this morning, after that workout last night. What are you, some kind of barracuda?”
“Look who’s talking. Doesn’t that thing of yours ever get soft?”
“Oh, it’s like that all the time. You ought to see it when I get horny.”
“Braggart.”
He threw the sheet back and swung his legs out to the floor. “I wanted to see Academician Suvorov this morning. Coming up from Earth, he promised me an interview after he’d had a couple of days to get oriented.”
She said, “He’s right here in the hotel. We moved him into the former office of Nils Petersen, two floors up. Petersen’s name is still on the door, so you can’t miss it. Kind of a grumpy old duck, isn’t he? The Russian, I mean.”
They were both nude. He headed for his clothes which, in their mutual hurry the night before, he had thrown over a chair. He
reminded himself to get fresh ones from Carl Gatena.
“You’re lucky to have him with you up here,” he told her. “He’s probably the most celebrated ecologist alive.”
“Could I come along? I’d like to see how you operate. How you go about interviewing somebody.”
He was climbing into his pants. “No, you can’t. You’d inhibit him. As Ryan’s secretary, before you he’d pull his punches on anything that wasn’t upbeat.”
“You expect him to be critical?”
“Frankly, yes,” he said, picking up his shirt. “Even when I talked to him in Goddard, he had his doubts about the feasibility of a closed ecosystem.”
She said, “You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who puts his pants on before his shirt. It’s impractical. How about meeting me for breakfast in about an hour, in the dining room?”
“It’s because I’m shy dressing in front of a lady. I want to get covered up as soon as possible.” He thought about breakfast. “See here, sweetie, I love you dearly. In fact, I’ve already been considering asking you to marry me. As you put it once, we could make such beautiful music raking some muck together. But aren’t we overdoing this? We’ve never been out of sight of each other for more than minutes at a time. I thought that you were up to your ears in work as Sol Ryan’s Person Friday.”
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