Trojan Orbit (UC), page 16
part #4 of Lagrange Series
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, AI 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?"
Ai 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 AI 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.
AI 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 muckracker!" 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, Ai," 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 AI?"
"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, AI." 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 Ai 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 circumsised."
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.
Just 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."
"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.
Chapter Ten
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.
There was a green-coveralled girl at a desk near he door. Pal waved his papers at her triumphantly and chortled, "Where do I get my discharge, sweetie? I've served my ever-loving time."
She looked up from the booster screen she had been scanning and said, "That'll be Captain Borgia. Room 4, down that hall."
"Borgia?" he said. "Jesus, if I had a name like that I'd change it to Brown."
She didn't bother to smile.
Humming again, he made his way down the indicated hall to Room 4. The door was open. Inside, behind a metal desk, was obviously Captain Borgia and, Pal Barack decided, he looked the name. He was dark of complexion, flat of eye, and had mustaches been currently in vogue, and had he sported a flowing black one, he could have passed neatly as a pirate.
The captain was talking to a blue-coverall-clad construction worker who looked sullen. Pal Barack took one of several straight chairs that sat near the door, crossed his legs, and waited patiently for his turn.
The construction worker was saying disgustedly, "Wizard. I give up, damn it. Where do I see about the new contract?"
The captain scribbled on a note pad, ripped the paper off, and handed it over. "Room 7, Miller. And congratulations."
Miller took the paper, grunted contempt, got up and left.
As he passed the Hungarian, Pal said, "You must be out of your mind, chum-pal." He vaguely remembered having seen the man once or twice before. A deep-space construction worker.
"Yeah," Miller growled ungraciously.
Pal Barack got up, went to the desk, and put his sheaf of papers before the Security officer. "Pal Barack," he said. "Five-year man. The contract is up, as of three-and-a-half minutes ago."
"Sit down, Barack," the other told him. He scanned the contract. "Landscaping, eh?"
"If you can call it that," Pal said. "For five years there's been no land to scape. I used to specialize in golf courses back Earthside." He laughed bitterly. "They used to say we Hungarians were the only people in the world who could put a dime in a pay toilet and hit the jackpot,
but not even a Hungarian is going to landscape a golf course, or anything else, starting with lava dust."
The captain ignored that, switched on a desk screen, and read Pal's name and serial number into it. He looked at whatever came onto the screen contemplatively. Finally, he switched it off.
He looked up and said, "Figure on signing over for another five years?"
Pal looked back at him. "No."
"We've got a new policy," the other told him. "You're due for a special re-enlistment bonus of twenty-five-thousand dollars. And your base salary is upped five thousand a year. Both payable in LFC stock, of course, when the contract is terminated."
"I want to go home."
"We're short of your type of worker."
The Hungarian snorted at that. "So far as I can see, you're short of all types of workers. Tough shit. I'm heading Earthside on the first passenger freighter and that's the Armstrong and it's scheduled for tomorrow."
The captain sized him up, weariness there. He said, "You should know better than that, Barack. Haven't you read your contract? When your five years are up you are given transport back to Earth on a standby, space-available basis."
The feisty Hungarian gypsy eyed him coldly. He said, just as coldly, "What is that supposed to mean?"
The captain leaned back in his swivel chair and sighed. "Barack, if you've been here five years, you should know the facts of life as pertaining to the Lagrange Five Project. Travel between Earth and Island One is largely a oneway thing. Except for a few shuttles, almost everything sent up from New Albuquerque is in unmanned, heavylift launches. They take everything we've got to have into Earth orbit to the Goddard space platform. From there, it's sent in the passenger freighters, such as the Armstrong, either here to Island One, or to Luna orbit, where it's transferred down to the moon base."
"What the hell's that got to do with my going back to Earth now that my contract's up?" Pal Barack said, his voice ominously low.
"Don't you see? Sending you back by passenger freighter to the Goddard in Earth orbit is no problem at all. There's lots of room. But getting you down from there, the last 0.1 percent of the return trip, is the thing. The only human transport from the Goddard to New Albuquerque are the shuttles, there aren't that many of them, and they can take only a few passengers apiece."
"Okay. I'll be one of the few."
The captain nodded agreeably. "You'll be placed on standby, space-available. Unless, of course, you change your mind and sign up again/'
"I won't change it. How long do I have to wait?"
The captain smiled a smile devoid of humor. "That's up for grabs. You've just got to wait until there's room for you. I suggest you sign up again. By the time you've put in another five years, you'll be rich."
Inwardly, Pal Barack was beginning to boil. "Rich with what?" he said. "With LFC stock? In five years that stock won't be worth its weight in toilet paper."
The Security man took him in for a long moment. Finally he said softly, "Your dossier lists the fact that you're a troublemaker, Barack. That you're inclined to sound off. Including talking to that Earthside freelance writer, Bruce Carter, yesterday. You know that island workers are supposed to steer clear of visitors at the L5 Hilton."
"You're damn right they are," the Hungarian snorted. "You're afraid we'll let them know some of the real facts."
"That's enough, Barack. I suggest that you sign a new contract. If not, then you're on standby and we'll advise you when there's a passenger freighter with room available."
"Don't worry about that," Pal told him with some heat. "I'll pop by here every day to check, until there is. Meanwhile, I'm short of funds. Like everybody else, I've spent my pay as fast as I could get my hands on it. Mostly in the Luxury PX, bar, and restaurant. I want an advance on the 100,000 dollars I've accumulated Earthside."
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Barack. You are issued that bonus when you return to Earth. Besides, it's in the form of stock, not cash credits. When you get it, you'll have to sell it if you want cash."
Pal Barack stared at him. "You mean to tell me I'm stranded up here, now that I'm off the payroll, with no funds at all?" /
The other said patiently, "You should have thought of that when you were blowing your pay, Barack. From what you say, you've gone through ten thousand a year just for frivolities. All your food, clothing, shelter, medical care, and entertainment are provided. It's sheer stupidity that you've left yourself short."
Pal was still goggling at the other, disgust in his eyes now. "Frivolities! Love of Jesus, do you think that there are any of us who could keep from going drivel-happy if we didn't have our occasional blowoffs? At the end of the month, when we get our pay credited to us, we make a beeline for the Luxury PX, the Luxury restaurant, and the bar. Three hundred dollars for a mediocre meal. But at least it's food. A hundred bucks for a couple ounces of raw alcohol. A couple of hundred for enough cheese or ham, or whatever, to make yourself a sandwich or two. And those of us who don't have a woman? All the single mopsies in the island are lined up with the higher echelons, the supervisors, the Corporation staff, the scientists, and you Security funkers…"
"Watch your language, Barack," the captain snapped dangerously.
"So what do we ordinary slobs do? We go to the Everleigh House and treat ourselves to a paid-for piece of ass. Frivolities! How I've remained sane for five years, I don't know."
The captain didn't bother to reply.
Pal Barack said, breathing deeply, "This standby routine. How come all of the bigwigs and you Security people all take trips back and forth to Earth every six months or so, and we contract men can't even get passage when we want it after we've served our time?"
The other said wearily, "Once again, you should've read your contract before you signed it, Barack. The more important employees of the Lagrange Five Corporation are guaranteed periodic rotation and rest leave. Due to space limitation, the same cannot be granted to others. There are thousands up here; if everyone wanted a two-week vacation Earthside every year, we wouldn't have the spaceships to bring up anything else. And, now, if you don't mind, I'm rather busy."
"What makes Security personnel important employees?" the Hungarian snarled, as he took up his papers. "They're the most useless people in the island. You haven't heard the last of me, Borgia." He turned and stormed out.
Captain Borgia looked after him thoughtfully. He finally flicked on one of his desk TV phone screens and said into it, "Pal Barack. Keep an eye on him. He looks like a potentially active malcontent."
Pal Barack, seething, left the Security offices and the hotel and crossed the street to a larger than average building, given Lagrange Five City standards. Island One's Luxury PX was in three sections; the PX proper, looking like a small Earthside supermarket, a restaurant that would possibly seat two hundred, and a bar that could handle about a hundred customers at a time.
The Hungarian made a beeline for the sole public drinkery in the island. At this time of the day and at this time of the month, there were few customers. Rather than taking a table, he went right to the bar and to one of the two bartenders. He climbed up onto a stool, ignoring the other customers next to him, and snarled at the bartender, "An ounce of straight and some cola to stick it in."
The bartender said, "Don't take it out on me, chum-pal. I only work here. Credit card?"
Pal handed over his credit card. The bartender put it in the payment slot, deducted the amount, then handed it back. He reached under the bar for an unlabeled quart bottle and carefully measured out an ounce of the colorless contents into a tall glass. He reached down again and came up with a bottle of cola mixer and put it before Pal to mix his own.
