F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (13 page)

           
Haas
snorted. “We’ve already considered all that and dismissed it. There will be an
initial flood of orders, no question about it. And when that comes in, we’ll be
able to produce subsequent gates at reduced cost due to increased production
scale.” Clasping his hands behind his neck, he leaned back in his chair with a
what-do-you-think-of-that? look on his face. “You see? We’ve taken everything
into account.”

           
“Have you?
What about
Star Ways
?”

           
“What about
it?”

           
“Competition.
You don’t–”

           
Haas’s
burst of harsh laughter cut Jo off. “Competition! The gate is unique! There is
no competition.”

           
“If you’d
let me finish what I was about to say,” Jo snapped with thinning patience, “you
might learn something. You don’t think that SW is going to sit still and let
you make its primary product obsolete, do you? It’s going to cut its prices on
the on-board warper and it’s going to keep those prices down – way down – until
you fold. And when you go out of business, SW will come and lease the rights to
the warp gate from you and sell it for you. The royalties you’ll receive in
return will net you enough money to buy a small planet, but your company will
be gone.” Her voice softened. “IBA can prevent that from happening. Or if not,
we’ll at least give that big conglomerate a battle the likes of which it’s
never seen.”

           
“No,” Haas
said in an intense, low voice as he leaned for rested his arms on the desk.
“That will never happen. Star Ways will never get the rights to the gate
because I own them completely! And I’ll never sell or lease or rent or trade no
matter what the price. It’s not the money any more…” His eyes seemed to glaze,
and though he was looking in Jo’s direction wasn’t seeing her. “It’s something
more than that. The warp gate is my life. I’ve worked on nothing else for as
long as I can remember. Only recently have I been able to devote my full time
to it, but its always been with me. I’ve worked as an engineer, a designer,
even a technician when times weren’t so good, but I’ve always come home to the
gate. It’s part of me now. I would no sooner lease the gate to another company
than I would lease my right arm to another man. The Haas Company will only
lease the rights from me; and if the Haas Company can’t sell the gate, no one
else will. That I promise you.”

           
Silence in
the room. Jo frowned and wondered if deBloise and his associates were aware of
Haas’s monomania. She could see nothing but financial ruin ahead.

           
Old Pete’s
thoughts ran along a different path. He’d been silent since they’d entered the
room, watching and admiring the way she handled herself. He’d also been
studying Haas and had been moved by the little man’s disturbed and revealing
statements. A little old man – younger than Pete, yes, but still old – with a
dream. His body and perhaps his mind, were becoming unreliable vehicles, but
still he drove them toward that dream. A dream! For a person in his or her
second or third decade it would be called a dream; for someone Denver Haas’s
age, it would no doubt be termed an obsession.

           
Old Pete
finally broke the silence. “I wonder what your backers would say if they
learned of your attitude.”

           
“They know
all about it,” Haas replied. “I’ve always leveled with potential backers.” A
thin smile briefly straightened the habitual downward curve of his lips.
“That’s why backers have been a rare species for me. But these fellows –
they’re with me 100 per cent.”

           
Jo was
stunned by the statement. It didn’t make sense. “They know, and they’re still
with you?”

           
Haas
nodded.

           
“Would you
mind telling us the names of your backers?” Old Pete asked.

           
“Not at
all. Be glad to tell you if I knew, but I don’t. Oh, I could tell you the names
they gave me, but I know they’re fronts. For some reason, they wish to remain
anonymous – strange, but none of my concern, really. I’ve searched long and
hard to find men with vision such as these. We’re in complete accord and
everything is legal, so I couldn’t care less if they want to remain anonymous.”

           
“They know
you want to put the gate on the market as is?” Jo repeated, bafflement
wrinkling her forehead.

           
“Know? They
not only know, they’ve encouraged me to move as quickly as possible. They see
no reason to let the gate languish in its present state when it could be
earning a good return on their investment while I perfect the modifications.”
He rose. “And now I must get back to my work. But I do want to thank you both
for stopping in: I’ve always had the utmost confidence in the gate, but you’ve
managed to boost it even higher.”

           
“That
wasn’t our intention, I assure you,” Jo said.

           
“Well,
that’s the net effect, no matter what you intended. I was shocked at first by
how much you knew about the gate, but then I realized that IBA has far-reaching
contacts. The fact that you’re interested enough in the gate to come this far
in person in order to get in on the kill, that’s proof enough for me that its
success is guaranteed. Everybody knows that IBA rarely takes on losers.”

           
Jo wanted
to say that most of her clients were losers before seeking out IBA’s help, but
realized the futility of further talk. IBA could have done a lot for him, but
under no circumstances could she work with a man like Denver Haas. Shrugging,
she rose to her feet and turned toward the door.

           
“Oh, and
there’s one little factor you completely neglected in your assessment of the
gate’s chances on the market,” Haas said in a gloating tone.

           
Jo threw
him a questioning glance.

           
“Military
contracts! You forgot all about the military possibilities of the gate! It’s
perfect for supply and personnel transport on a large scale. He smiled
expansively. “Yes, I don’t think there’ll be any problem in getting those
initial orders. We’ll just sit back and let them roll in.”

           
“Good day,
Mr. Haas,” Jo said, continuing toward the door. “And good luck.”

           
Old Pete
followed he out, shaking his head sadly.

           
PREOCCUPIED
SILENCE FILLED the rented flitter as they headed back to the spaceport. Neither
of them noticed a man leave the Haas warehouse after them and enter his own
flitter. He was not far behind when they docked their craft in the rental
drop-off zone.

           
“Well,”
said Old Pete as they entered a lounge alcove to await seats on a shuttle up to
their orbiting ship, “I certainly don’t know what to make of it.”

           
“I’m in a
daze myself,” Jo replied. “Especially after his parting shot: military
contracts! The man’s mad!”

           
“Obsessed,
maybe. But not mad. At least not completely.”

           
“But
military contracts! The Federation Defense Force will, I’m sure, be glad to
know that such a thing as the warp gate is available, but the prospects of a
big order are nil.”

           
“I doubt if
the DF will buy a single unit.”

           
“Why do
people like Haas allow themselves to get involved in the business end of
things?” Jo mused. “He’s unquestionably a brilliant designer and theorist – the
existence of the gate proves that – but he has no idea of the economic forces
against him in the market. We could do a lot for him, you know. Right now I’ve
got a good half-dozen ideas that could possibly get him through the first few years
until he worked out the necessary modifications. But as it stands now, SW will
wipe him out in no time and deBloise and his crew will lose all their money.”

           
Old Pete
grunted. “That’s what bothers me: deBloise throwing away a fortune. I’ve never
met that man, Josephine, but I know him. I know him as well as his mother, his
father, and his wife know him. I probably know some things about him that even
he doesn’t know. And one thing’s certain: he’s not a fool. He’s crafty, he
covers all exits, and his involvement in this fiasco-to-be is totally out of
character.”

           
“Which
leaves us with only one possible conclusion,” Jo said, glancing at a man
leaning against a wall outside the lounge area. It almost seemed as if he were
watching them.

           
“I know,”
Old Pete replied in a breathy voice. “DeBloise knows something we don’t. And
that bothers me.”

           
Jo
dismissed the watcher as just another bored traveler; this conspiracy talk must
be getting to her. “What bothers me more is the thought that the warp gate
could be lost to us. I mean, what if Haas’s company folds and he really does
decide to withhold the gate from sale or lease or whatever. That could be
tragic.”

           
Old Pete
shrugged. “Tragic, yes. But he’d be perfectly within his rights. According to
Andy, the patents are good for at least another couple of decades. The human
race would just have to wait it out.”

           
The signal
for their shuttle flight flashed and they rode the belt out onto the field. The
man who had been standing across from the lounge area went up to the observation
deck and watched them enter the shuttle. Only after the craft was airborne did
he go below.

           
He headed
directly for the row of subspace transmission booths that are a feature at
every spaceport. Entering the first booth, he sealed himself in, opaqued the
glass, and began to transmit an urgent message to Fed Central.

           
THE BARROOM
WAS DONE entirely in wood, something you didn’t see much any more on Fed
Central. But this section of the club had originally been a tavern in the Imperium
days and had been preserved in the original state. The bar itself was the same
one patrons had leaned on nearly three centuries ago when the place had been
called the White Hart, its solid keerni wood preserved under a clear, thick,
high-gloss coating through which an idle drinker could still make out doodles
and initials scratched into the original finish.

           
It belonged
now to the Sentinel Club, the oldest, most respected, most exclusive club in
the outworlds. Membership was strictly male, and restricted to those who had
managed to achieve status in the financial, political, and artistic spheres.
Elson deBloise reveled in such a rarefied atmosphere, felt a real sense of
place and purpose here. He belonged here. There was no comparable establishment
on his homeworld where a man of his breeding and wealthy heritage could be
among his peers.

           
He was not
among his peers at the moment, however. The hour was a shade early and he was
alone at the bar, hunched over a delicate glassful of Derbian orchid wine. The
green-tinged fluid was a little too sweet for his taste but was all the rage on
Fed Central these days, so he ordered it whenever he was out. Had to keep up
with the times, be as modern as the next man, if not more so. Talk about
tomorrow, never about the old days.

           
Because
nobody around here thought of the old days as good. LaNague had seen to that:
his revolution had changed more than the power structure; it had reached into
the hearts and minds of his contemporaries and caused a fundamental alteration
in the way they viewed their society. Today, generations later, outworld
thinking was still influenced by the lesson of that revolution. So a
conservative image had to be avoided at all costs.

           
“Restructurist”
was much preferred as a label. It was neutral in emotional tone and had a
certain progressive ring to it. After all, that’s what they intended to do –
restructure the Federation. DeBloise smiled to himself. Restructure? They were
going to turn it upside down and twist it around.

           
He
continued to smile. It was fitting in a way that he should be sitting here in
this converted tavern plotting the scrapping of the LaNague Charter. It was
said that Peter LaNague and Den Broohnin had spent many an evening in this very
room when it was called the White Hart as they conspired to bring down the
Metep Imperium nearly three centuries ago.

           
And what a
conspiracy that had been! Despite the fact that deBloise publicly minimized
LaNague’s contribution to the revolution, despite the fact that the
Restructurist movement had for years been engaged in a clandestine campaign to
discredit the bizarre society that had spawned LaNague, thereby discrediting
the man himself. Despite the fact that the man’s ingenious wording of the charter
had frustrated Restructurists for generations, he had to grant LaNague grudging
admiration. His conspiracy had reached into every level of Imperial society,
had stretched from the deepest galactic probe to Earth itself. Utterly
masterful!

           
DeBloise
felt he could be generous in his praise. After all, he was the engineer of a
conspiracy of his own. True, it didn’t have the breadth and depth of LaNague’s,
and its flashpoint would be nowhere near as brilliant and dramatic, but its
outcome would eventually prove to be as crucial to the course of human history.
The Haas warp gate provided the key. And when that key was turned, there would
be furious protests in some quarters, but nothing that could not be soothed by
promises that the invocation of the emergency clause in the charter was merely
temporary. All would soon return to normal just as soon as we get this one
little matter settled, they would say.

           
But things
would never be the same. A single instance of forceful intervention in the
interstellar economy by the Federation was all that was necessary; thereafter,
the power of the charter to restrain the Restructurists would be effectively
broken. In a few standard years, the charter would be a revered but vestigial
document and the Federation would be under Restructurist control.

           
He could
almost picture himself on the high presidential dais after the next Assembly
elections. He deserved that seat. He’d worked for it. It had taken many years
of searching and planning to find the right issue – volatile enough to energize
the Assembly, and yet still manageable as to timing and discretion concerning
his involvement. Only he had seen the political potential of Haas’s invention;
only he had possessed the influence over his fellow Restructurists to convince
them to go along with his plan.

           
Yes, he
deserved the presidential seat. And he’d make good use of it once it was his.
All economic activity – and thereby all human activity – within the Federation
would come under his supervision. Bringing the larger corporations and trade
services to heel would be no easy matter but it could be done. First he’d start
singling out oddball planets like
Flint
and Tolive and bring them into line through trade sanctions – they’d never
willingly accept a Restructurist-dominated Federation. The corporations would
naturally protest since they didn’t like anyone to close a market to them. When
they did, he’d bring the full weight of a bolstered Federation Defense Force
against them. And when they tried to bribe him – as he knew they eventually
must – he would righteously expose them as the moneygrubbing leeches they were.

           
And soon…
soon humanity would shape itself into a cohesive unit, soon there would be true
harmony and equality among the planets, each sharing in the bounties of the
others, soon there would begin a new Golden Age for humanity, a Golden Age
designed and administered by Elson deBloise.

           
LaNague had
had an opportunity to take a similar course three centuries ago; he’d held the
outworlds in the palm of his hand but had refused to grasp them. Instead, he
presented them with his charter and hurled them free. Such an act remained far
beyond deBloise’s comprehension. The human race needed someone to guide it and
oversee its course. The great mass of humanity had no thought of destiny. Too
many individuals expended their energies in chase of puny, shortsighted goals.
They all needed direction – and deBloise was convinced he could provide it.

           
There
would, of course, be those who’d insist on choosing their own course and the
rest of humanity be damned. There would always be self-styled individuals who’d
selfishly insist on pursuing their own personal values. These would have to be
discouraged or weeded out from the vast body of the human race.

           
He’d also
have to contend with that other breed of nay-sayer: the ones who would point to
history and say that economies and societies controlled from the top have never
succeeded; that the impetus for a society must come from within, not from
above.

           
But he knew
that no society in history had ever had a man such as Elson deBloise at its
helm. Where others had failed, he could succeed.

           
A few years
ago such thoughts would have been idle fantasies, but now the actual means to
achieve them was in his grasp. It was all so exhilarating, almost intoxicating,
that even the prospect of today’s departure for his homeworld couldn’t take the
edge off his mood. He checked the chronometer on the wall: he had another hour
to kill before his orbital shuttle left the spaceport.

           
He flagged
the bored bartender and indicated his need for a refill. The man dutifully
complied and then returned to the far end of the bar. He had tried in the past
to strike up a friendly conversation with deBloise – the Sentinel Club paid him
well to add the human touch to bar service – but had been ignored each time. So
now he kept his distance from Mr. deBloise. And deBloise in turn studied his
fingernails as the glass was filled; if he’d been interested in socializing
with the likes of the bartender, he would have had his drinks out at the
spaceport bar.

           
He didn’t
need the extra drink – he’d already had two before leaving Anni’s – but decided
to have it anyway. The next few days would be spent aboard a Federation liner.
The passenger list would contain the names of many elite and no doubt
interesting people, some of whom would surely be from his homeworld. And thus
he’d be duty bound to play his role of Elson deBloise, sector representative
and leader of the Restructurist movement, to the hilt.

           
The role
became trying after a while. That’s when he would miss Anni. She was an
excellent mistress, socially and sexually skilled, he could let down his guard
with her. Yes, he’d miss her the most. Not sexually, however. With the final
stages of the Haas plan fast approaching, he’d found himself unable to perform
without the use of drugs. The plan dominated his thoughts every hour of the
day, sapping his strength and sorely trying his patience.

           
He smiled
again, wondering what the reaction would be if it became generally known that
he kept a mistress on Fed Central. A respected sector representative… and a
family man, too! It was a common practice in the Assembly and no one paid it
too much mind in the cosmopolitan atmosphere here. But it would be difficult
for those provincial clods at home to swallow; they were all firm believers in
faithful monogamy, or at least pretended to be.

           
If it came
out, someone would no doubt try to score some political points with it on the
local level, and his home life would be disrupted for a while; he’d deny it
all, of course, and before too long it would all be forgotten. Voters have
always had short memories.

           
No, there
wasn’t much he could do short of a violent crime or a public obscenity that
would significantly erode his support among the yokels back home. He had led
the sector into the Restructurist fold with promises of economic rebirth; they
expected him to deliver on those promises… someday. Until then, he was the
local boy who’d made good and they would follow him anywhere.

           
But there
were always dues to pay. His wife and children remained at home; he wanted it
that way. There was, after all, the children’s education to think of – it
wouldn’t do to have them hopping back and forth between worlds – and besides,
his wife would help to keep his presence felt on the homeworld when he was off
on Federation business. Still, he had to return on a regular basis. The yokels
expected it. He had to be seen among them, had to appear at certain local
functions, had to play ombudsman for the sector.

           
And it was
all such a bore, really, listening to their petty complaints and trivial
problems when there were so very many much more important things that required
his attention… like the Haas plan. But, noblesse oblige.

           
There was
another reason he disliked going home: a little man named Cando Proska. By the
Core, how that monster of a human being frightened him! And as sure as Fed
Central circled its primary, he’d be calling at the deBloise office with a new
demand. But enough of that! Such thoughts were disturbing.

           
Another glance
at the chronometer showed that it was time to go. He pulled a rectangular disk
from his pocket, tapped in a code, and his secretary’s face appeared. After
telling her to send a flitter to the Sentinel Club to take him to the
spaceport, he was about to blank the screen when he noticed that she seemed to
be disturbed.

           
“Something
wrong, Jenna?” he asked.

           
She
shrugged. “One of the girls on the second floor came down with the horrors at
lunch.”

           
DeBloise
muttered his condolences and faded her out. The horrors – he’d almost forgotten
about that. The plague of random insanity that had started before he was born
and continued to this day was something that everyone in Occupied Space had
learned to live with, but it was something that was rarely forgotten. New cases
popped up daily on every planet. Yet the Haas plan had pushed it almost
entirely from his mind.

           
He rose to
his feet and quickly downed the rest of the wine. The juxtaposition of Haas and
the horrors in his thoughts was unsettling. What if Haas got hit by the
horrors? The whole plan would have to be scuttled. Worse yet: what if he
himself were struck down?

           
He didn’t
dare think about that too much, especially since The Healer, the only man thus
far able to do anything about the horrors, had seemingly vanished a few years
ago. And as each succeeding year passed, deBloise became more firmly convinced
that he had been responsible for precipitating The Healer’s disappearance.

           
It had
happened on Tolive. DeBloise had traveled all the way to IMC headquarters to
talk to the man, to convince him gently to see things in a light more favorable
to Restructurism, and had wound up threatening him. The Healer had only smiled
– an icy smile that deBloise remembered vividly to this day – and departed. No
one had seen or heard from him since. He was probably dead, but there was still
this nagging suspicion.