Privateers (4 page)

“But it’s not that simple,” Freiberg objected. “A lot of people think you just ran out because you could make more profits in Venezuela.”

Christ! Dan swore silently. Spare me this neoliberal twaddle!

“You left a lot of people without jobs here,” the scientist added.

Dan said carefully, “I brought as many people with me here to Caracas as I could. If I had allowed the American government to shut down Astro Manufacturing completely—as they were going to do—then 
all
 of Astro’s employees would have lost their jobs. I really had no other choice.”

“There’s still a lot of resentment here about you. A lot of hostility.”

“I’m sure there is. But are you going to let that kind of petty jealousy decide the future of your career?”

Freiberg started to reply, but hesitated.

“Look,” Dan said, as sweetly reasonable as he could manage to be, “the United States has agreed to halt all its operations in space. Washington turned over the American space station to the United Nations, and you know who runs the UN since they left New York.”

“There’s still the scientific exploration of the solar system,” Freiberg said, a little stiffly. “We still build the finest scientific probes in the world.”

“But you have to launch them on Russian boosters. You have to get approval from the Soviet Academy of Sciences or your beautiful hardware sits on the ground and rusts away. Right?”

“We work in cooperation with our Russian colleagues. Scientists don’t get involved with politics.”

And rain makes applesauce, Dan thought. He reached across his desk and touched the screen of his phone terminal once, twice, then once more.

“In the past four years,” he said, glancing from the screen to Freiberg’s solid image and back again, “your group has been allowed to place one vehicle aboard a Soviet shuttle. …”

“The Saturn Orbiter,” Freiberg murmured.

“Which is still at Kosmograd because the Soviets haven’t granted you the high-energy upper stage you need to get it to Saturn.”

“There’ve been some delays. …”

“I’ll bet there have. And your group’s proposals for Orbiters of Neptune and Uranus have been flatly rejected by the Soviet Academy. Your proposal for an automated prospecting mission through the asteroid belt was turned down. Your proposal for a Titan lander was turned down. …”

“I know, I know!” Freiberg admitted. “They’re squeezing the life out of us.”

That’s what Dan wanted to hear. “Dr. Freiberg-may I call you Zachary?”

“Zach. My friends call me Zach.”

“Thank you. And my friends call me Dan. I don’t have to tell you what my enemies call me.”

Freiberg grinned.

Feeling that he was thawing the youngster at last, Dan said, “Now listen, Zach. And think. Do you believe-I mean, really believe, down deep inside your guts-that the Russians are going to allow more of your scientific missions in the coming years, or fewer?”

“Well …”

“Don’t you really think that they’ve just been picking your brains, learning your technology, and by the time they let your Saturn Orbiter go on its way they’ll be ready to take over all future planetary missions for themselves?”

The scientist’s round face grew somber. “Where did you hear that?”

“I have sources of information,” Dan replied. “You’d be shocked at how easy some of these dedicated Communists are to bribe.”

“There”ve been rumors … I thought they were just the usual scare stories.”

“The future exploration of the cosmos will be done by Soviet spacecraft, lifted aboard Soviet boosters,” Dan warned. “When men go to Mars, and Jupiter, and Saturn and all their myriad moons, they will be Russians. That’s their intent.”

Freiberg said nothing.

“The Russians think they’ve got it all sewed up. They keep telling themselves that they represent the inexorable forces of history. Bullshit!”

The scientist blinked at Dan’s sudden vehemence.

“That’s just a load of Soviet tripe, that inexorable forces of history garbage. People make history, Zach. What I do, what you do, what each of us does is important. Calories don’t count, maybe, but people do. You’re an important man, Zach. A very important man.”

“But I’m just one person… .”

“Of course. But you’re not alone. There are others. I’m fighting as hard as I can,” Dan went on, earnestly, coaxingly, “to prevent the Russians from achieving a total monopoly on space operations. Even if the United States has been forced officially to abandon space, Americans can still carry on the fight, still explore the solar system.”

The scientist looked sharply at him. “And make profits from it.”

Dan had been waiting for that one. He grinned. “Zach … how do you think we pay for the research we do? How do you think we’re going to finance our missions to the asteroid belt?”

“You’re going to the belt?”

Now you’ve got him hooked, Dan knew. He’s easier than you thought he’d be. Just reel him in, nice and gently.

“We plan to. We want to. With the Russians monopolizing the Moon and setting their own prices for lunar ores, we’ve got to look elsewhere for raw materials. The asteroids are the obvious answer.”

“Yes. obviously.”

“We need you to head the program, Zach. You’re the only man who can do it for us.” Flattery. Dan knew, but not too far from the truth. “If you don’t come with us to head the team. I don’t think we’ll be able to pull it off.” Then he grinned again and added, “Unless we can get one of the Russians to defect.”

Freiberg visibly straightened in his chair, squared his pudgy shoulders, lifted his round chin.

“Will you help us, Zach? Will you help us to expand beyond the limits of the Earth-Moon system? If we wait for the Russians to do it, we’ll both be dead and in our graves before the first asteroid mission goes out.”

“I’ll … have to talk it over with my wife, of course.”

“Of course.”

“She’s a native Californian.”

A mental picture of a lank-haired vegetarian who believed in astrology and the mystical benefits of cocaine flashed through Dan’s mind. But he said, “Tell you what, Zach. You bring your wife down here for six weeks. Just to see how the two of you like living here and working with Astro Manufacturing. What does she do?”

“She’s a social worker.”

What else? Dan quipped to himself, thinking of the vast sea of unemployed and unemployable Californians. Half the state stood in welfare lines while the other half stood behind the desks ministering to them. Maybe they take turns at it, he thought, one week in line and one week running the system.

“She speaks fluent Spanish.” Freiberg added, brightening.

I’ll bet she does. Cautiously, Dan replied. “I wouldn’t be

surprised if we could find something useful for her to do here in Caracas.”

“That sounds good. I’ll tell her.”

“Fine. I’ll have my travel people get in touch with you. You won’t have to lift a finger. They’ll take care of everything.”

Freiberg nodded, smiling broadly now.

“I’ll get an employment contract off to you this afternoon,” Dan said.

“We haven’t talked salary.”

Waving an impatient hand in the air. Dan replied, “You fill in the salary number. If it’s too much, we can haggle over it.” Experience had shown Dan that most people, especially scientists, settled for far less than he was prepared to offer them.

“That’s … very generous of you.”

Time to bring him into the boat, Dan told himself. Hunching forward in his creaking leather chair, he said earnestly, “We need you, Zach. The exploration of the solar system needs you. Politics always snarls up the important things. But the exploration of the solar system is too important to let politics get in its way.”

“You’re entirely right,” Freiberg said firmly.

“Okay. I’m glad we had this chance to talk. You’ll get the contract form this afternoon. I’ll be looking forward to meeting you in the flesh. And your wife.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

“Thank you, Zach.”

The holographic image froze, then faded. Dan swiveled his chair and touched the phone terminal’s OFF key. Then he grinned. “A pound of ego for every ounce of brains. And his wife’s a social worker! She thinks she’s worked with poor people. Wait‘11 she sees those shacks up on the hills. She’ll puke!”

He glanced at the wide curve of windows to the right of his desk. The rain was still cascading down. If there are any shacks left after this deluge, he thought. But he knew that no matter how many were washed away, there would be new ones dotting the hillsides as soon as the sun came out again.

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.

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.