“I know that, but we must. Rest assured, Martin, that I will keep you apprised of any developments in the matter.’
“All right. What special security measures do you want implemented?”
“None. Insofar as I have been able to surmise, this assault will not be made on my … person.” The Colligatarch had been programmed with more than a rudimentary sense of humor.
“None?”
“None. To do so might alarm those who intend us harm. They might take care to conceal their intentions even more thoroughly. That could be fatal."
“I understand. It’s going to be hard for me to come and go normally knowing what you’ve told me.”
“It’s nearly winter,” said the machine. “I could predict severe early storms for central Europe. That would give you an excuse to move into your winter quarters here early, at least until the threat has been eliminated.”
Oristano couldn’t repress a slight smile. “But you’ve already predicted a milder than usual winter for this portion of the continent.”
“True. I am better at truths than prevarications. That is a human speciality. It will be up to you, then, to create a suitable excuse.”
“I’ll think of something.” Martha would be disappointed if he missed the dinner with the Italian ambassador. A shame. That, and an evening with the ambassador’s pretty wife, would have to wait.
“I’ll see to it. Given the seriousness of the threat, I agree that it would be better if I were available here round the clock.”
“That will be comforting,” said the machine, though whether it did so to please him or relax him Oristano could not say. As a daily practitioner of international diplomacy, the Colligatarch had become a superb flatterer.
“We will wait and I will pursue the problem. We will give no hint that anything out of the ordinary is occurring. Not until it is time to take action.”
“You won’t hold off until the proverbial last minute, I hope?”
“I do not plan to, Martin. Self-preservation is strongly programmed. I am here to insure the collective wellbeing of mankind, and I take that work with the utmost seriousness. I assure you I will take whatever steps are necessary to preserve my ability to carry out my assignments. It is my life’s work.”
Oristano smiled at that, nodded.
“I note your empathy, Martir It is what makes you so special, this ability to get along with me as well as your own kind. We will not come to harm, you or I or, insofar as I can manage it, any human being.
“But I must tell you, Martin, that I cannot promise the latter, since this danger is unlike any I have encountered previously.”
Oristano sat quietly until the brewer announced that his coffee was ready. As he picked up the mug, he was startled to find that his fingers were shaking. That was extraordinary. As Chief of Operations his nerves had to be as steady as those of brain surgeons, soccer goalies, and Tibetan lamas.
The Colligatarch did not remark on it, and in seconds Oristano had stopped the shaking.
But only in his fingers.
II
Eric Abbott contemplated his hamburger and wondered how much Jupiter was in it. Ever since the World Space Authority had started mining Titan for organic compounds to supplement the shortfall in terrestrial proteins, there had been rumors that the real organics were puffed up with artificials made from methane derivatives. A few opto wags had begun calling the result air burgers, sometimes non-air burgers.
Exactly how much of the thick, juicy patty that rested between the twin buns was meat, how much soy protein, how much plankton, how much methane, and how much Titan organics, only a competent chemist could say for sure. It gave a man pause.
He was sitting with Charlie, Adrienne, and Gabriella. They’d taken off work a few minutes early. Gabriella had mastered the trick of using the mirror in her compact to fool the laser recog eye on the time clock. When she reflected the laser back toward the source, they could feed false time-signals to the clock computer and punch out early. It would insist they’d left their offices on schedule. She kept the trick to herself. If all the girls in the office started doing it, before long the whole company would be letting out five minutes early. It wouldn’t take internal security very long to track down the original culprit.
So she employed it only once in a while. It enabled them to get a good table at El Palacio.
Across the room, past the bar, an opto filled one wall. Someone had turned it to the local news channel. Anchor Maryann Marshall was smilingly running through the list of the day’s disasters. No one paid much attention and the channel was soon shifted. Thursday Night Football would be on soon.
Eric idly reached for his beer, hastily pulled his fingers away. He’d accidentally touched the superchilled metallic glass. He picked it up by the special handle, sipped.
His friends were deep into a discussion of the East African situation. While he found the chatter interesting, he didn’t jump in. Eric rarely spoke unless he had something to say. His inability to make small talk had always bothered him. Despite that, he was no introvert. He simply found it hard to manufacture words without purpose.
They had the best table in El Palacio, and he let his gaze wander to the sweeping, curved window. Off to the west, the sun was dipping into California, frying the hills above the distant sliver of silver that was the Colorado. The restaurant sat on the 104th floor of the Selvem Building and the view was spectacular. Unless you were a desert hater, in which case it was merely monotonous.
Eric liked it, appreciated the distant desolation. There was no desolation, no emptiness left in Phoenix. As the upper five stories of the skyscraper slowly rotated, the western hills gave way to the bright lights of the Casa Grande Corridor. At its southern terminus the city lights merged with metropolitan Tucson.
The moon was rising, nearly full tonight, shedding its light on the Valley of the Sun. Excepting the central business corridor, Phoenix had remained flat during its urban expansion. A nice place to live. You could enjoy a view like tonight’s and not feel buried once you emerged on the streets outside the corridor. There weren’t too many buildings that toppped a hundred stories. A man didn’t feel cramped here the way he did in Nueva York or Chicago or Atlanta.
At least, that’s what he’d been told. Except for a couple of vacations in Colombia and business trips to the Orient, he’d never been farther east than Albuquerque.
“… and I’m telling you,” Adrienne was saying importantly, trying to make her high, reedy voice sound imposing, “that they’ll never get that business resolved until the Federation drops its claim to all territory south of the Zambezi.”
“Ah, come on,” Gabriella countered, “you know the South Afs don’t care about that. There’s nothing there but a bunch of old diamond mines.”
“I know,” said Adrienne, “but it’s the principle of the thing.”
“And you both know,” said Charlie, sounding male and authoritative, “that it doesn’t matter what either side wants. The word’s going to come down out of Switzerland and both groups will have to shut up.”
“I don’t know.” Gabriella played with her drink. “The Federation’s getting pretty damned belligerent lately. If the decision goes against them, it wouldn’t surprise me if they up and march south into the disputed land and take it.” Adrienne looked shocked. She was easily shocked.
“I’ve heard more than one Federation speaker say to hell with the Colligatarch in public,” the darker woman continued. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“It’d sure surprise me.” Charlie stubbed out the remnant of his cigarette. “They’ll never let it happen. You wait and see.”
