Stand on Zanzibar (13 page)

(NEGRO    Member of a subgroup of the human race who hails, or whose ancestors hailed, from a chunk of land nicknamed—not by its residents—Africa. Superior to the Caucasian in that negroes did not invent nuclear weapons, the automobile, Christianity, nerve gas, the concentration camp, military epidemics, or the megalopolis.

—
The Hipcrime Vocab
by Chad C. Mulligan)

“Old Zad’s been in that job for going on forty years and I can’t help wondering whether the reason he sticks it is because he wants to or whether there simply isn’t anyone else in the whole benighted country fit to take over his chair!”

continuity (5)

HEAR HEAR

Victoria came out of Norman’s bedroom wearing a white lei and Maxess lounging pants—two tight tubes of shimmering gold to thigh-height, ornamented behind with frills that were gathered into a bobbing rosette at her bottom, and a heavy gold fringe three layers deep hanging from a cord stretched hipbone to hipbone. It wasn’t, obviously, getting dressed that had taken her so long, but perfecting the rest of her appearance. Her almost white hair was spindled into the fashionable antenna style, her veins were traced with blue—what some wit had nicknamed “printed circuit-lation”—and her nails, nipples and contact lenses were chromed.

Glancing at the men only long enough to determine that they were deep in conversation, she crossed the room to the corner where her polyorgan was set up. Using the earphones so as not to disturb them with her pracising, she began for the uncountableth time to rehearse a simple exercise with three beats in the left hand and five in the right.

*   *   *

As always when someone asked him about a subject outside his speciality, Donald was embarrassingly aware of the extent of his ignorance. However, when he had summed up what he could recall of Beninia—privately wondering all the time why Norman didn’t simply go to the phone and punch for an encyclopedia connection—the Afram looked honestly impressed.

“Thanks. You’ve reminded me of several points I’d forgotten.”

“Why the sudden interest in such an insignificant country?” Donald probed.

Norman hesitated. He glanced at Victoria, decided that with the unheard booming of the organ in her ears she could not be eavesdropping, and gave a wry smile.

“You don’t have any in GT’s company secrets, do you?”

“Of course not,” Donald said with a trace of huffiness, and prepared to rise and collect another drink.

On the verge of anger—
trust a paleass to misunderstand me!
—Norman controlled himself.

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant.” He swallowed hard. “I meant: you don’t mind if I mention something which strictly I ought not to?”

“I promise it won’t go any further,” Donald assured him, settling into his chair again. What could all this be leading up to? Norman was unprecedentedly nervous, twisting his hands together as though he could wring out the sweat that moistened their palms.

“Tell me why you think Old GT, plus the corporation treasurer and the senior VP in charge of projects and planning, should invite Elihu Masters to lunch, put me on display like a—like a cabaret turn, and then discuss nothing repeat
nothing
but generalities.”

He uttered the words with a kind of fierceness, for they symbolised what might be an important breakthrough.

Donald was startled at being taken into Norman’s confidence after so long a period of mere mutual politeness—shading occasionally into acrimony. Careful to conceal his reaction, he mulled over the name.

“Elihu Masters?… Oh! He used to be our ambassador in Haiti, didn’t he? Then they sent him to Beninia, and there were a lot of rumours about a demotion—hints of some kind of scandal.”

Norman sighed. “We Aframs are as touchy as flayed skin, aren’t we? There were accusations of prejudice, too, and all sorts of sinister machinations. I doubted the rumours about a scandal, because I’d followed his career with some interest and everyone I knew who’d met him spoke very highly of his integrity, but as to the rest of it … Well, the idea of him being sent off to ferment in some quiet backwater didn’t fit.”

“You think there was a deeper reason behind the transfer?” Donald suggested. “I guess that’s possible, but—well, would it have anything to do with GT? I don’t see how, on the face of it, but of course you’re the one who’d be in a position to judge that.”

After a momentary hesitation, Norman said, “My first idea was that it might have a connection with MAMP.”

“The Mid-Atlantic Mining Project?” Donald thought that over for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I did hear on the grapevine that GT was getting frustrated about having tapped a mineral treasure-trove which it can’t afford to exploit—is that the case, in fact?”

“Pretty well,” Norman admitted. “The point is, it would cost just about as much to bring usable ore to the surface from MAMP as it does to produce it from more conventional sources; they’ve tried and tried and they’ve failed to figure out a way of cheapening their methods. Current prices represent irreducible rock-bottom for anything from MAMP, but competing producers would cheerfully slice their profits to make GT look silly by undercutting them. GT would have to compete at a loss, and that’s a crazy way to exploit a rich strike of ore, isn’t it?”

“So what connection could Beninia have with MAMP?”

“None that I can see. It’s not a market. It’s too poor to buy even at a discount. Which leaves GT out of the picture and apparently brings in State.”

Donald rubbed his chin. “How? Of course, it’s an open secret that both the Dahomalians and the RUNGs are after Port Mey. It has potentially one of the finest harbours on the Bight of Benin. Right now, I gather, it’s not much more than a fishing-port, but if it were properly dredged … Hmmm! Yes, I suppose State
might
have an interest in maintaining Beninian independence.”

“What’s in it for State, though—Port Mey as a naval base?”

“We have our—uh—pocket republic of Liberia just around the corner. In any case, it’s too vulnerable; a well-trained army could isolate the city in half a day, and occupy the whole country in forty-eight hours.”

“On the general principle of the thing, to keep it out of the hands of its expansionist neighbours?”

“I doubt if State would meddle to that extent even if President Obomi came and begged them on bended knee. Look what happened over Isola! That was twenty years ago and the storm of protest still throws up ripples occasionally, even though the union was made on the basis of a plebiscite.”

Norman’s jaw dropped suddenly, as though inspiration had struck him. Donald waited to see if he was going to voice it, then ventured a guess of his own.

“Are you wondering whether Masters approached GT, rather than the other way around?”

“Prophet’s beard, Donald, are you developing a latent psi faculty? That is
precisely
what I was wondering! You wouldn’t expect a man like Masters to be thinking of leaving the diplomatic service for a luxy boardroom job with more prestige than honest work. He’s a good deal too young to retire, and a good deal too successful to be bought out of his chosen career. Nothing was said during lunch, either, to suggest GT was trying to recruit him—though actually, like I told you, nothing much was said about anything.”

Silence fell anew. Donald’s mind was busy with the implications of what Norman had told him, and he was prepared to wait for more to follow rather than risk diverting the conversation by making a remark of his own. However, Norman had fallen to staring at his own left hand, swivelling it back and forth on the wrist as though he had never seen it before. If he did propose to say something else, it was taking him a long while to put it into words.

And when at last he did seem about to speak, Victoria forestalled him, tugging off her earphones and swinging to face him.

“Norman! Are we going to do anything this evening?”

Norman started and checked his watch. He jumped to his feet. “Excuse me! I’m overdue for evening prayers. I’ll be back in a moment, Donald.”

“I don’t get an answer?” Victoria prompted.

“Hm? Oh—no, I don’t feel in the mood. Ask Donald.”

She did so with a cock of one cycloidally arched eyebrow. He hesitated before replying; not having a shiggy of his own to offer Norman at the moment, he had enjoyed little of Victoria’s company these past two weeks. But the sight of her flawless artificial perfection irritated him by reminding him of Guinevere Steel and the products of her celebrated Beautique.

“No, thanks,” he muttered, and went to collect the drink he’d set out for several minutes ago.

“In that case you won’t mind if I go out for a while,” Victoria said pettishly, opening the door.

“Stay out as long as you like,” Norman said over his shoulder, heading for his bedroom and the prayermat laid out facing Mecca.

The door slammed.

Left to himself, already half-regretting the fact that he had declined Norman’s offer, Donald wandered about the wide living-room. Only part of his attention was on his surroundings; the rest of his mind was taken up with puzzled reflection on Norman’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

Shortly, his random strolling brought him to the polyorgan. He had never inspected it closely since Victoria moved in. Of the very latest design, it folded up seat and all to the size of a suitcase and was light enough to lift on two fingers.

He admired the sleek changeochrome finish of the exterior, within the millimetre thickness of which light was split into its spectral components, making the material seem to have been dipped in rainbow paint. Idly, he put one of the headphones to his ear and tapped the keyboard.

A blasting discord threatened to shatter his eardrum.

He withdrew his hand as though the instrument had burned him and looked along the ranked controls for a volume switch. One instant before adjusting it, he was struck by a thought.

Victoria couldn’t have been playing with the volume at that level. She’d have been deafened. Why would she have set the volume to maximum before leaving the instrument to go out?

For no better reason than that this sort of petty inconsistency in his environment always piqued him—for the same reason, in fact, that he had been sufficiently dissatisfied with his education to attract the Dilettante Dept—he sat down at the console and began to explore the operation of the instrument.

It was less than five minutes before he discovered the spring-loaded switch activated by a little more pressure than the player would normally apply to the vibrato control lever resting against his right knee.

*   *   *

Wondering what he ought to do, he sat quite still until Norman emerged from the bedroom. As usual, his few minutes of ritual obeisance seemed to have restored his calm and good humour.

“You can’t play that thing, can you?” he inquired, as though perfectly prepared to discover Donald had been keeping the secret of his musical talent ever since his arrival in the apartment.

Donald came to a decision. There was something underlying Norman’s earlier unprecedented desire to confide in his roomie. One more slight shock might shake loose the last of his defensive barriers and open him up completely.

“I think you’d better come here and listen to this,” he said.

Puzzled, Norman complied, accepting the headphones Donald handed him.

“You want me to put them on?”

“No, just hold one to your ear. Now listen.” Donald pressed down a single key and a pure musical tone sounded.

“That seems to be—”

“Wait a second.” Donald pushed his knee hard against the vibrato control. The pure tone began to waver frantically until it was cycling a semitone up and down from its basic pitch. Harder still—

The musical tone ceased. A voice said, faintly but distinctly, “—precisely what I was wondering! You wouldn’t expect a man like Masters to be thinking of—”

Donald released the secret switch and the wavering tone returned, continuing until he took his finger off the key.

For long seconds Norman remained statue-still. Then, beginning with his hands, his whole frame began to tremble, more and more violently until he could barely stand upright. Donald rescued the headphones from his nerveless grasp one moment before he let them fall, and guided him sympathetically to a chair.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But I thought you should know right away. Let me get you a trank, shall I?”

Eyes wide, fixed on nothing, Norman gave an abbreviated nod.

Donald fetched the pill and a cup of water to wash it down. He stood by until, from the cessation of the trembling, it was clear the drug had taken effect. Then he said, “Come now—they’re not going to hold it against you at GT, surely! They must know that anyone in your position is a prime target for indesp, and a gadget that clever isn’t something you’d stumble on except by accident, the way I did it.”

“I’m not worried about GT,” Norman said stonily. “GT is big enough and bastardly enough to look after its sheeting self. Leave me alone, will you?”

Warily Donald drew back, watching Norman with taut concentration. He ventured, “Two major shocks in the same day is—”

“Is none of your drecky business!” Norman snapped, and jumped to his feet. He had taken three strides towards the door before Donald found his voice again.

“Norman, you’re not going after Victoria, for goodness’ sake! There’s no point in—”

“Oh, shut up,” Norman said over his shoulder. “Of course I’m not going after that sheeting shiggy. If she has the gall to show her face here again I can shop her for industrial espionage, can’t I? And it’ll do my heart good, believe
me.
”

“Where
are
you going, then?”

On the threshold, Norman spun around to face Donald squarely. “What’s it to you? You’re a bloodless featureless zombie, as measured as a yardstick and colder than liquid air! You’ve never bought the right to know what I’m doing—with your dilettante’s detachment and your nonstop paleass politeness!” He was breathing in violent gasps despite the impact of the tranquilliser he had swallowed.

“But I’ll tell you anyway—I’m going to try and track down Masters so I can put right some of the damage I’ve done today!”