Trojan Orbit (UC), page 12
part #4 of Lagrange Series
Both Rick and Tony Black had finished eating. They got up together and the new acquaintance led Rick into the assembly room and to an isolated corner of it where they took chairs facing each other.
Rick said, "Now then, what's all this jetsam about being my contact?"
The other smiled and said, "It was a three-way operation, Rocks. The Penman, down in Mexico, Monk Ravelle at the New Albuquerque shuttleport, and me up here. It had to be handled all the way along the line."
"What do you mean, it was a three way operation?"
"The Penman's dead, Rocks. So is Monk Ravelle."
Rick fixed his eyes on him, they were pale and cold. "Who killed them?"
"I don't know," the other said. "Somebody Earthside evidently took a dim view of our little operation. It couldn't have been something else because that was the only scam the two of them were involved in together."
"Holy Zoroaster," Rick snorted. "And on top of everything else, there's a damn IABI man came up with me on the shuttle and then the freight passenger spacecraft. Guess who he's looking for? Rocks Weil. Thank sweet Jesus he didn't make me."
Tony Black looked less than happy. "You're going to need a contact up here, Rocks. By the way, you owe me five thousand dollars."
The other eyed him. "Why?"
"It's my share of the deal."
"Pavel Meer said the tab was ten thousand. I gave it to him."
Black shook his head. "That doesn't count me. I take care of this end for five thousand."
"I haven't got that much left."
The other looked at him unbelievingly. "What was the score of that last romp of yours, Rocks?"
"It's stashed. I haven't fenced the stones yet. I planned to lay doggo for five years before trying."
"There's no hurry. You're making ten thousand a year up here, not counting the twenty thousand a year bonus payable in LFC stock when your five years are up. I can wait."
"What good can you do me?" Rick said coldly.
The other grinned his sly grin. "You'd be surprised." He motioned with his head toward the dining room. "How'd you like to eat that slop for the next five years? And sleep in a bunk like they assigned you?"
"I wouldn't."
"Wizard. Get your things. I've got a two-person house. You're moving in with me."
"Why?"
"My former housemate found himself a mopsy working in Commissary and moved in with her. I've got to find another guy to take his place or move into either smaller quarters or into a dormitory. No thanks. You'd better take the offer. It's more comfortable than most pads."
Rick eyed him suspiciously. "You must know other people better than you do me. Why give me the break?"
Tony Black grinned his weasel grin again. "Because you're Rocks Weil, one of the smartest operators to come down the track for years. And there're various profitable operations in this island. Now that my deal with the Penman is off, I'm going to have to go even further into them. I wouldn't mind a helping hand from a talent such as yourself." He grinned wider. "Besides, I've got to protect my investment. You owe me five grand."
Rick thought about it. He said, "Look, I'll tell you what I'll do. The Penman didn't tell me about five thousand for you. The deal was for a flat ten thou. But I'll match you for it. Double or nothing."
Tony Black laughed in open admiration. "By Christ, Rocks, you're a card. Why do you think I want you in with me? Paul Lund, in Tangier, gave me a rundown on your career once. You must've been no more than ten years old when you started off, conning the kids in the neighborhood out of their lunch money. Before you got into heists, you were a pro gambler, then a grifter specializing in the big score. Then you worked out your own system of putting the snatch on important stones and flogging them to offbeat millionaire winchells. That's where you got the moniker Rocks. Well, Rocks, I wouldn't match pennies with you."
Rick had to grin back at him. "I'll get my things," he said.
He went back to his bunk and began reassembling his belongings.
The Texan came over and said, "Y'all leaving already?"
"That's right. So the bunk's yours after all. Be seeing you around, Tex."
"Probably not," the other said gloomily. "They'll be sending me over to that there moon base the boys was telling us about."
Rick took up his bag. "They were probably exaggerating," he said, with an attempt at comfort.
As they walked along the narrow street, Rick said to his newfound house companion, "Your place very far?"
The other grunted. "Nothing's very far in Island One," he said. "The length of the whole cylinder is less than a mile. You get used to it after a while." He thought about that, then said, "Like shit you do."
Rick had been eyeing the buildings they passed and decided that the only word was grim. Come to think of it, so were the expressions on most of the pedestrians they passed.
He said, "Been here long?"
"Three years."
"Pretty rugged?"
The other looked over at him. "Rugged enough, Rocks. But there're always angles. And there're always people like us to find them."
Rick inwardly accepted that. It had been his own experience.
Tony Black came up on a small, two-story house. "This is us," he said, in deprecation. "The Maison Black." . They entered, Rick noting that there was no lock on the door. The whole ground floor was taken up by a living room, rather sparsely furnished. There was a dark blue rug covering most of the floor, of a material the newcomer had never seen before.
Black saw the direction of his eyes. "Beta-cloth," he said. "They make it out of woven glass fiber. It was originally used by the Apollo astronauts because it's fireproof. We're beginning to make it up here now. Not much, though. Can't spare the time and labor."
"How'd you get some, then?"
Black grinned. Rick was beginning to dislike the other's version of a smile. It had too much of a sly, furtive quality.
Black said, "Like I said, I've got angles. Come on upstairs. I'll show you your room." __
They went up the stairs. On the second floor there were two rather small bedrooms. Rick was led into one of them. It was austerely furnished. There was a bed, admittedly with more comfortable-looking bedding than the dormitories boasted, and obviously brought up from Earthside. There were a table, one straight chair, one more comfortable chair, a bedstand with a lamp on it, a small chest of drawers. There was also a small closet.
Black said, apologetically, "Roony took most of his things with him. We'll get you fixed up as time goes by."
Rick said, "No TV or Tri-Di?" He hadn't seen any such equipment down in the living room either.
"Are you kidding?" Black snorted. "They have them over in the L5 Hilton and in some of the community recreation halls, but private sets aren't for such as us. These items have to be lobbed up from Earth. Plenty expensive."
"Where's the bathroom?"
"What bathroom? There's a community bathhouse down the street—toilets and showers."
Rick took him in. "Where's the kitchen?"
"What kitchen? We eat at one of the community dining halls. Smarten up, Rocks. They can't ship in thousands of flush toilets, bathtubs, kitchen stoves, refrigerators, kitchen sinks, and all the rest of such items as go into bathrooms and kitchens. And we sure as hell can't tool up to make them here; not yet. The only places they've got such things, in private quarters, is in the hotel and in some of the homes of the big shots who keep their own places, rather than living there."
Rick whistled softly. He put his bag on the bed. "Five years, eh? I suspect I'd rather serve it in New Alcatraz."
"You shoulda thought of that before you signed up, Rocks."
Rick sat on the bed and eyed the other. He said, "Yeu better start remembering to call me Rick. Rick Venner. Especially with that IABI man pussyfooting around looking for me. What's this about the L5 Hilton?"
His newfound companion sat in the more comfortable chair. "It's the showplace. It's where the Lagrange Five Corporation has its headquarters and where Ryan and the top executives live. It's where all the politicians and the other big shots stay when they come up from Earthside. It's got everything—mopsies and all. From what I hear, they're going to have a big party tonight, undoubtedly with champagne and such. Some Arab sheik or something came up on the same passenger freighter you did. I don't know why. And some big shot Russian scientist."
"How do you get an invite?" Rick said.
"You don't." Tony Black grinned his sly grin. "And you don't sneak in, either. Not in those space coveralls. In the Hilton, they dress like they were down Earthside, in some swanky resort. You'd stand out like a hard-on in the showers. Look, I got some things to do. They'll keep me out until late. The community dining hall is down the street about eight houses. Turn right when you leave the house. We'll get together in the morning and work this all out—get you registered as living here and all."
He stood and nodded to Rick. "Make yourself to home, Rocks… uh, Rick."
After he had left, Rick looked about the sparse room again. He muttered, "And the Waldorf Towers was never like this, either."
He waited ten minutes, then came to his feet, went out into the hall, and let himself into the other bedroom.
It was considerably different from his own, to his surprise. There were drapes at the windows that must have come up from Earthside. There was carpeting on the floor. There was also more, and more comfortable, furniture—including a chest of drawers that doubled as a bar, with several bottles on its top. The liquor represented was the best. Rick poured himself a double Scotch and knocked it back.
He whistled softly to himself and then went to the closet. Inside were three Earthside suits that looked as though they had been tailored in London. Rick Venner knew London styles and London labels. In his time, he had been flush often enough to invest in them. He ran his tongue across his upper lip. Come to think of it, they'd fit him very neatly. Friend Tony was almost his size. There was also a considerable colleption of packaged, canned, and bottled food, obviously Earthside. He thoughtfully peeled a bar of chocolate and almonds and munched on it as he pried around.
He turned back to the bedroom and investigated his host's dresser drawers. There were shirts, socks, silk underwear, and dress shoes. There were even some of the currently faddish Byron revival cravats.
Rick Venner's eyes went easy. "You know," he said softly, aloud. "It looks as though there's going to be an additional guest at that party tonight."
"My impression is that there are cheaper ways, ways less demanding of capital, to satisfy any goal put forward by the L5 effort—to do that on Earth rather than to do it in space… What are needed to solve these problems on Earth are different values and institutions—a better attitude toward equity, a loss of the growth ethic, and so forth. I would rather work at the root of the problem here."
—Dennis Meadows, co-author of The Limits of Growth;
Dynamics of Growth in a Finite World.
Chapter Eight
Carl Gatena was awaiting Bruce Carter when the freelance writer returned to the L5 Hilton with the Security man who had found him in the park talking with Pal Barack. In fact, the flack was pacing up and down in agitation.
When Bruce entered, the other came up and said, "My chum-pal, I turn my back for a few minutes and you disappear."
"I got bored," Bruce shrugged. "And I guess I was anxious to get my first look at the island."
The other scowled puzzlement at him. "But the guards. How the hell did you get out without a pass or anybody to go with you?"
Bruce in turn seemed surprised. "I just walked out," he said in all innocence.
Carl Gatena closed his eyes wearily, opened them again, and looked at the Security man who had found the missing writer.
The Security officer said, "I found him in the park, talking with one of the workers."
Gatena said to Bruce, "What did he have to say?"
"Nothing much." Bruce shrugged it off, lacking interest. "I only spoke with him for a few minutes. He was one of the landscaping men. Largely, he told me his contract was up tomorrow and he was looking forward to returning to Earth."
"Didn't like it here, eh?"
The freelancer shrugged again. "He didn't seem to want to renew the contract."
The flack said, "Well, Ron's waiting for us. Shall we go on up?" He looked over at the Security man. "Be sure and check that other matter out."
"Yes, sir," the other said, touching the brim of his cap.
The publicity offices of Lagrange Five Project were on the second-to-the-top floor of the hotel. And they were on the extensive side. There must have been at least a dozen young men and women going about their business or seated at desks in the several rooms Bruce passed with his guide. Only two or three of them wore coveralls; the others were attired as they might have been in any office Earthside. At least there was some decoration here, the freelancer noted. It consisted largely of photographs and paintings pertaining to the Lagrange Five Project, including some depictions of the Luna base. As a matter of fact, Bruce had seen some of the color shots in Lagrange Five Corporation publicity down on Earth.
They wound up before a door a bit more ornate than usual. Gold lettering on it proclaimed simply, Ron Rich, Director. There was no identity screen. Carl Gatena knocked briskly and, without awaiting a response, took the knob in hand and opened the door, ushering Bruce through.
"Here he is, Chief," the flack said. "Elusive sonofagun."
Ron Rich was every inch the PR Man. He came to his feet, smiling broadly, absolutely beaming pleasure, and rounded his desk to shake hands. He was possibly five years older than Bruce and had the dynamic projection that the freelancer had long since come to associate with Madison Avenue publicity pros.
"So," the Chief of L5 Corporation's public relations happily said, "the famous Bruce Carter. I've been reading your stuff for years, Bruce. A real follower of yours."
"Thanks," Bruce told him. He smiled his slow smile, even as he took the extended hand. "Would you have told me if you hadn't liked it?"
"Hell, no," the other grinned. "I'm a flack by trade. We're all born liars. Sit down, Bruce. I recognize you from your book jacket covers, of course, and I've seen you from time to time on Tri-Di and TV panels. But it's a treat to meet you personally."
Bruce thanked him again and sat.
When the two publicity men had also taken seats he said, "It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to get up here. I've been trying to make it for years. It wasn't until I got next to Doctor Ryan himself, by phone, on one of his trips down Earthside, that I finally got permission."
The other nodded and looked very frank. "Yeah," he said. "And, to be truthful, it was no accident. We made every effort to keep you out—along with all other freelancers."
Bruce took him in, somewhat surprised at the admission. He said, "Why?"
"Because we can control most of the media. Among other things, we're big advertisers. Besides that, the same rich mucky-mucks who control the press and the airwaves are often big investors in the L5 Corporation. So just about all the coverage we get is upbeat. And that's a challenge to any freelance writer. If you could publish material really giving us the old boot, you'd hit the jackpot. So you come up with that in mind."
Bruce crossed his legs and said mildly, "By definition, a freelancer isn't necessarily a bastard. I don't make a practice of falsifying my material. If you've read as much of my stuff as you say, you would know that."
The publicity man sighed before answering. "You wouldn't have to falsify, Bruce. It would take precious little digging around for you to find material for a dozen anti-Lagrange Five Project pieces. Hell, you could do one of your famous muckraking books."
Bruce Carter felt his eyebrows go up in surprise. At least Ron Rich was pulling no punches.
"It's like this," the PR man went on. "To any layman, this project looks like a madhouse. For the pros—the scientists, the engineers, the technicians—sure, they have their problems every day, but they have the overall picture, and to them its just one hell of a big job that'll eventually be all wrapped up."
"I can see a certain amount of validity in that," Bruce admitted. "However, I'm not exactly green. I don't go dashing around throwing mud at things I don't understand."
Ron Rich pressed his point. "Suppose you were in an operating room, witnessing some long, complicated surgery—say, a heart transplant. There are a dozen doctors there and nurses and various medical technicians all over the place. It's a crazy bin. Everybody is scurrying around, there's blood all over. People are chanting out readings from all sorts of gismos. They all seem comparatively cool, but it's a madhouse from your viewpoint. Nurses slap gruesome-looking tools into the hands of doctors, other nurses swab the sweat off the foreheads of those surgeons in there with blood up to their elbows. Needles on dials up on gobbledygook devices keep swaying this way and that, and their readings are repeated by technicians watching them, flicking switches, pressing buttons. A real nut factory, so far as you're concerned."
Bruce began to say something but didn't.
"All right," the PR man said, "That's Island One of Lagrange Five. To you it looks like a lunatic asylum. Everything's going to pot. Everything looks like it came out of a science fiction horror Tri-Di show. But, you see, that's not the way it looks to Sol Ryan and the top technicians and engineers of the world. They know what's going on. They know when they do something wrong and it has to be rectified. And frankly, lots of things that go wrong, often through sheer stupidity on the part of somebody, can run into tens of millions of dollars. This is the biggest operation that the world has embarked upon. Ever. It makes the Great Wall of China look like a child playing with building blocks."
