Privateers

by Ben Bova

  The damned puddle was growing into a miniature lake. And sending arms out toward his desk. Angrily, Dan leaned on the phone’s ON pad.

  “Where the hell’s the maintenance man?” he growled.

  “Maintenance reported six minutes ago that a service person is on the way to your office, Mr. Randolph,” the phone said.

  Dan thought briefly about talking directly to the maintenance supervisor, or his own secretary, or somebody human, anybody, just as long as he or she reacted with normal living emotions. The phone was fast and-smart and efficient. But it was absolutely useless as far as emotional satisfaction went. You could not seduce it, or bully it, or even annoy it.

  “Anything else, sir?” asked the phone, misinterpreting his silence.

  Admitting defeat, Dan said more gently, “Yes. Transmit a standard employment contract to Dr. Zachary Freiberg. His number is on file. Term of contract should be six weeks, with a one-year automatic renewal clause. Copies to legal and personnel.”

  He thought a moment, then added, “When Freiberg sends the contract back and legal and personnel approve it, notify personnel to contact Dr. Freiberg and initiate procedures to move him and his household here to Caracas.”

  The phone replied, “Contract transmitted as specified, sir. Legal and personnel notified as specified, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “No.”

  “It is three forty-three, Mr. Randolph,” the phone reminded. “You are due at Seńor Hernandez’s reception at five

  P.M.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Hernandez’s reception. To meet the new chief of the Russian space program. That ought to be interesting. It might even be fun.

  A meek tapping at the door to the outer office caught his attention. His secretary did not wait for an answer, but opened the door a crack and announced timidly, “The maintenance man is here?” She was a strikingly lovely redhead, a stunning decoration for the office, but she made every sentence into a question, as though begging permission to exist. “To see about the leak?”

  Dan nodded. “About time. Send him right in. I was just leaving anyway.”

  “The Hernandez reception?” the secretary said. “It starts at five?”

  “I know. The phone just reminded me.”

  A potbellied, swarthy Venezuelan in grease-stained green coveralls frowned his way past the secretary. He waddled across the carpeting and went straight to the window, gazed down at the growing puddle, then looked up at the top of the window. He heaved a great wheezing, grunting sigh.

  “I’m leaving,” Dan said to his secretary. He patted her rump as he went by her, and she smiled compliantly.

  “You’re going to dress for the party?” she asked.

  “Right.” Dan glanced at his wristwatch. More than enough time. “Want to help me?”

  She shrugged deliciously and wrinkled her nose for him. Without waiting to see if she were following, Dan headed for the private elevator that went down to his apartment, thinking happily of what the Russian’s face would look like if he knew that Astro Manufacturing had just taken the first step toward tapping the mineral resources of the asteroids, resources that were thousands of times richer than the ores the Russians could scrape from the powdery surface of the Moon.

  The secretary scampered after him and made it into the elevator just before the doors slid shut. She smiled sweetly for Dan. He wished he could remember her name. She had just started working for him a week ago. And she would be gone before long, he knew. Just like all the others.

  Chapter SIX

  Rafael Miguel de la Torre Hernandez was Venezuela’s Minister of Technology, a post of high importance and considerable delicacy. He felt himself in the grip of a powerful vise, constantly being squeezed by the boorish, imperious Russians on one side and, on the other, by the demanding, dangerous American expatriates led by Dan Randolph. But Hernandez recognized that, if he could survive this pressure, if he could successfully play the Yankee capitalists against the Communist bullies, he would one day be elected president of Venezuela.

  So he bore the travails of his position with patience and good grace. He was a tall, stately patrician who looked perfectly at ease in a formal dinner jacket and the bemedaled blue sash of his office. His cheekbones were high and his nose as thin and finely arched as any true Castilian’s. His hair was silver, although his trim mustache was still handsomely black. Only his eyes betrayed him. They were the color of mud, as flatly brown as a peasant’s or Indian’s, the eyes of a man whose schemes and calculations never rose further than his own personal ambitions.

  He stood tall and haughty at the head of the reception line as Dan stepped from his limousine, safe from the torrential rain under the protection of the Hernandez mansion’s marquee. He watched the American sprint up the front steps of the stately old house; no sense of dignity or refinement, the man had nothing in him except brashness and impatience.

  As he hurried up the steps, eager to get out of the musty chill of the rainstorm, Dan saw Hernandez at the head of the reception line. Next to him stood Vasily Malik, the new director of the Soviet Union’s space program. Malik broke all the stereotypes in Dan’s mind about Russians. Instead of being dumpy, dour and declasse, Malik was inches taller than Dan himself, glowing with robust good cheer, ice-blue eyes sparkling, longish golden hair curling slightly over his ears in the latest Western fashion. His dinner jacket fitted him perfectly and showed that Malik was keeping his broad-shouldered body in good trim. He was reputed to be something of an athlete and a martial arts buff. He was considerably younger than Dan had expected, several years younger than Dan himself. Quite a contrast to the usual Soviet octogenarian. Malik’s smile was bright and seemed sincere. He was enjoying himself as he shook hands with the arriving guests.

  Hernandez took Dan’s hand in his own slightly limp, long-fingered grip. “So glad that you could find the time to join us.” he said in English.

  “I’m delighted that you invited me.” Dan replied honestly.

  “Comrade Malik,” Hernandez said, turning slightly toward the Russian, “permit me to introduce you to Mr. Daniel Hamilton Randolph, the founder and chief operating officer of the Astro Manufacturing Corporation.”

  Before Hernandez could start the other half of the introduction, Malik grabbed at Dan’s hand. “Ah, the American capitalist!”

  “Ah,” replied Dan, “the Russian commissar.”

  Malik laughed heartily. He held a glass of champagne in his left hand, a cigarette between two of his fingers.

  “You have made Venezuela the leading space power among the nations of the Third World,” Malik said without a hint of mockery. His English was perfectly American, no trace of a European accent.

  Dan answered, “Seńor Hernandez and the people of Venezuela have accomplished that. I’ve merely helped them where I can.”

  Malik feigned shock. “A modest American? Can it be?”

  “It’s no more rare than a Russian who appreciates the finer things in life,” said Dan.

  “I can see that you two will get along well,” Hernandez said, his face pinched slightly with distaste, “despite your differences.” It was his way of moving Dan off so that the guests behind him could get through the reception line.

  Dan took the hint, gave Malik a slight nod and smile, then went down the line shaking hands with other Venezuelan and Soviet officials. At least the other Russians looked more like what Dan expected: squat, suspicious and ill at ease amid foreigners. Once he had finished the last one in the line, Dan shouldered through the chattering crowd and made his way to the bar.

  He downed half a glass of champagne with his first gulp, then began scanning the crowd for people he knew. Hernandez had chosen to hold the reception in his own home rather than the ministry’s sterile building, a good choice as far as Dan was concerned. The ministry was one of those modernistic architect’s conceptions, all sharp angles and recessed lighting, like a state-built co
llege campus hall. The Hernandez town house, on the other hand, had been built back in those gracious years before air conditioning, when labor was so cheap that individual peons were expendable, and a man could erect a gracious, high-ceilinged, ornately decorated monument to himself over the bodies of starving workers. Chandeliers dripping real crystal, hand-crafted draperies from Belgium, furniture of solid walnut and oak and mahogany. Nothing in this elaborate, crowded, noisy drawing room was less than a century old.

  Almost all of Caracas society was here, Dan saw, from ministers of government to the grande dames of the oldest families. The American ambassador stood gloomily by the tall windows, watching the rain while he knocked back straight rye whiskey. His wife, across the room, recognized Dan and waved at him. He smiled back but decided he was not in the mood for her. After a few drinks she became garrulous and indiscreet; Dan had no desire to participate in one of her scenes.

  No one else from Astro Manufacturing had been invited. Aside from the ambassador and a few of his flunkies, Dan was the only American at the reception. He chatted politely with the people clustered around the bar, talking business with the men and fashions with the women. Everyone commented on the rain. Everyone drank ST. Hernandez’s excellent champagne. Off in the library, across the foyer, a quartet of musicians began playing dance music. Dan noticed that Malik, free of the reception line at last, attracted a crowd of admirers, including many of the younger women. He stood surrounded by them. No other Russians within twenty feet. That means either that he’s wired with a transmitter, Dan thought, or he’s so powerful inside the Kremlin that the KGB isn’t allowed to listen in on his casual conversations. As if a Soviet official of his stature has any casual conversations.

  The party was a bore. Dan had two options. Either he could make his farewells as graciously as possible and get back to his secretary, who was undoubtedly still luxuriating in his bed, or he could stroll across the room to join the crowd around Malik and start an argument. Dan thought it over for a few moments, came to the conclusion that he was not drunk enough to enjoy an argument with the Russian and made up his mind to make as inconspicuous an exit as possible.

  He put his champagne glass down on a marble-topped table and turned to find Hernandez, his host. There he was, holding court next to the mantelpiece, under the big portrait of his sainted wife. The crowd around him was almost as large as the one surrounding Malik, but a good deal older than the Russian’s admirers.

  Dan started off toward Hernandez, but stopped in his tracks when he saw a lovely young lady standing alone beside a splendid arrangement of tropical flowers. She was small, slight, with the large searching eyes of a waif. But the gown she wore was not the clothing of an urchin: it was a regal creation of gold and royal blue, modest yet splendid, the kind of gown worn by a princess in a fairy tale. And she was as beautiful as a princess should be, with midnight-black hair and full, tempting lips. Her expression was utterly serious, almost grave, as she scanned the room searching for-who? Dan wondered. Her eyes met his, hesitated a moment, then swept past. But in that moment Dan felt sparks flashing through him.

  I wonder what she looks like when she smiles? He decided to find out.

  He maneuvered past a pair of cigar-wielding old men who were pacing across the room locked deep in earnest debate, oblivious to the others around them. Seeing that the young lady held an empty champagne glass tightly in her two hands, Dan asked in Spanish:

  “May I have the honor of getting more champagne for you, senorita?”

  She looked surprised that he had spoken to her. “No, thank you very much,” she replied.

  “You really should move away from these flowers,” Dan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave her his best smile. “It’s not fair to them when someone so beautiful puts them in the shade. You make them look very plain and dull.”

  He expected perhaps a blush. Instead she smiled, and it was even more splendid than he had hoped for.

  “You are the Yanqui, are you not?” she asked.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Your accent, of course.”

  “Ah yes. I learned your beautiful language when I lived in Texas.”

  “So I can hear.”

  Dan said, “My name is Daniel Hamilton Randolph.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He started to ask her name, then realized that she would prefer to be formally introduced by a third party. Scanning the crowd quickly. Dan saw the American ambassador’s wife staring at them from only a few feet away. Before he could say or do anything, the woman advanced upon them.

  “Why, Dan, I haven’t seen you for weeks and weeks! Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  Millicent Andrews needed only a few drinks to transform herself from a docile diplomat’s wife into a raucous, raunchy refugee from the West Texas dustbowl. “Lucita.” she asked the young woman, “how’re you doing?”

  In English, Lucita replied. “I am very happy to see you again, Mrs. Andrews. Are you enjoying the reception?”

  “Call me Lissa, honey. All my friends do.”

  “Thank you. I am pleased that you think of me as one of your friends.”

  “Why sure! Why not?” She gave Dan a sidelong glance. “How long have you known this filthy rich rascal?”

  “We have just met. We have not even been properly introduced.”

  “Oh!” Lissa seemed to be weaving slightly, even though her feet were not moving from where she stood. “Guess I ought to do the honors, then, huh?”

  “Please do,” Dan said.

  Gesturing with her half-full champagne glass, Lissa said, “Lucita, may I introduce to you Mr. Daniel Randolph. Dan, Senorita Maria de la Luz Hernandez.”

  Dan felt a slight jolt of surprise. “You’re related to the minister?”

  “His daughter,” Lissa blurted before Lucita could reply.

  Lucita extended her hand and Dan took it in his. Feeling a little awkward, he bent slightly and brought her hand to his lips. Her skin felt cool and smooth.

  “I am honored,” he said in Spanish.

  Sticking to English, Lucita replied, “And I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Randolph.”

  Lissa leaned toward the girl, spilling some of her champagne in the process, and said in a stage whisper, “Don’t let him get you in a corner, honey. He’s sneakier than an octopus.”

  “Mr. Randolph has a reputation for being a lover of women,” Lucita said, smiling amusedly at him.

  Dan smiled back. “How can a man resist being charmed by women as lovely as the two of you?”

  “Ya see?” Lissa crowed. “Didn’t I tell you? Smoother’n mayonnaise!”

  “Is it true that you are a billionaire, Mr. Randolph?” asked Lucita.

  “You better believe it,” the ambassador’s wife said.

  “My accountants tell me that the company’s assets are a little under nine billion,” Dan said, trying to make it sound modest. “That’s not my personal wealth, of course; it’s the assets of Astro Manufacturing Corporation.”

  “But you don’t go hungry, do you?” Lissa joked.

  With a shake of his head, Dan answered, “Not very often, these days. Lissa, your glass is empty. Can I get you a refill?”

  The ambassador’s wife looked from her long-stemmed glass to Dan, then glanced at Lucita. A shrewd expression came over her. “I guess I can find the bar for myself. See y’all later.”

  Dan felt a wave of relief as she sashayed off, leaving him alone with Hernandez’s daughter.

  “She is a little drunk, I think,” said Lucita.

  Laughing, Dan replied, “She’ll be drunker before the party ends.”

  “I believe she is not happy here.”

  “Lissa could be happy anywhere. It’s her husband. Andrews is the unhappy one. He’s dragging Lissa down with him.”

  “How so?” Lucita asked.

  Dan searched across the crowded room, marveling inwardly that he could be alone with this lovely y
oung woman in the midst of such a large crowd. Voices blurred into a general hubbub punctuated here and there by polite laughter, the clink of glasses and the rattle of ice cubes, an occasional roar of real merriment. He could barely hear the dance band; only the rhythmic thump of its Latin beat penetrated the party noise. The drawing room was getting hazy with smoke, despite the high ceiling and the air conditioning. Ambassador Andrews was still standing moodily by the windows, still staring out at the rain while he held a tumbler full of whiskey in his right hand. The rain continued to pour down as if it would never stop.

  “All his life,” Dan answered, “Andrews has wanted to be president of the United States. But he was beaten out of the job by a woman, and it’s done a lot of damage to his ego.”

  “But your La Presidenta appointed him ambassador to Venezuela, did she not? Isn’t that a very prestigious position?”

  “I think it is. But he doesn’t. He sees it as being exiled to some remote wilderness. He doesn’t realize that Venezuela is one of the most important countries in the Third World.”

  “The poor man,” Lucita murmured.

  Turning from the solitary figure of Andrews to the crowd of admirers still clustered around Malik, Dan shook his head in dismay. “No use feeling sorry for the ambassador. Feel sorry for the nation he represents. His job here in Caracas is to maintain good relations between the United States and Venezuela. But it looks to me as if the Soviet Union is scoring all the points.”

  Lucita followed his gaze. “The new chief of the Russian space program, you mean?”

  “Your father’s guest of honor.”

  “Yes. My father wants me to meet him. I was waiting here for my father to introduce him to me.”

  Dan turned his focus back to her. “Is that why you looked so unhappy?”

  Her eyes widened. “Did it show?”

  “You looked like a princess who needed to be rescued.” he said. “I just didn’t know what you needed to be rescued from.”

  “From a boring party that is merely an excuse for my father to introduce me to a prominent Russian who just happens to be unmarried and young enough to be a prospective husband for his only daughter.”