Fugitive From Asteron (17 page)

I knew there would be a message,
sparing me the agony of suspense. I turned on the communicator, wondering where
Feran lurked and how close he was to finding me. I pressed the icon on the
screen to retrieve messages. Colored, jagged waves formed a frenetic pattern of
peaks and valleys across the monitor in cadence with Feran’s words.

“Traitor! While you hold my cargo,
your countrymen are dying in the streets from starvation! I command you to
surrender. If you do not, Coquet will tease you until you beg to die, but
eternity will come first! Phone me, you vile pig.” The vicious laughter was
gone, and in its place I detected a note of desperation. Then Feran’s voice
subsided, and a calm blue screen returned.

Only one thing was clear to me: I
would not give Feran the cargo. I would not give him a mysterious object to
play with on a planet that gave me a life. The rest was confusing. What did
Feran’s message mean? Why did he link the cargo I withheld from him to
starvation on Asteron? If I had given him the cargo, would Asteronians
not
be dying in the streets? To unravel Feran’s puzzle, I had two clues: the
possible spy at MAS and the secret of Project Z. I would have to learn more
about them. Quickly.

Chapter 13

“Hey, Alex, come on in.”

Frank Brennan, the young assistant
manager of Housekeeping, greeted me with a firm hand grip and a broad smile.
His short dark hair and plain white shirt gave him the neat appearance of
someone concerned more with work than with fashion. Entering Frank’s office on
the fourth floor of the Space Travel building, I was surprised by its
spaciousness and executive look. Its massive wooden desk and bookcases seemed
incongruent with the feather dusters, solvents, vacuum-cleaner parts, and other
janitorial supplies in the room.

The executive parking lot outside Frank’s
window was still almost empty, and most of the lights were off in Dr. Merrett’s
building across the way, including the ones in his office. While I waited a
moment for Frank, I slipped my jacket off and dropped it on a chair. Leaving it
here would give me an excuse to return after our ride, when more people would
have arrived for work—presumably Dr. Merrett among them—so I could observe his office
across the way with the lights on.

With the sun rising over the
mountains that Tuesday morning, Frank and I walked to the MAS airstrip. I took him
to the plane I had chosen for doing what he called “fancy stuff,” which also
had side-by-side seats for easy conversation. As I performed the preflight
inspection and assisted my passenger with his flight suit, I learned that Frank
was eager to transfer out of Housekeeping and into another job at MAS, one with
more opportunity for advancement. He liked robotics and thought Space Travel
might provide him a chance to pursue his interest.

Then, for a breathless moment,
there could be no words, because my plane was stretching high into a new blue
sky, pulling the sunrise west with it toward the ocean. Over the water, I began
my demonstration, confining myself to basic maneuvers that gave some thrills
while not risking a blackout for someone unaccustomed to aerobatics. After
performing a variety of rolls, inside loops, and horizontal spins, I flew level
for a while so that Frank could get his bearings.

“Have you been in Housekeeping the
whole time you worked for MAS?” I asked.

“Yeah, I have. Too long now. It’s
time for a change.”

“If you are thinking of
transferring to Space Travel, I must tell you that our offices are a  lot smaller
than yours, cramped in comparison.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything that
showy. The office you saw was Chuck Whitman’s. He was the last Housekeeping
manager we had.”

“And now Chuck has another job, no?”

Frank nodded. “When he was promoted
two months ago, I moved in, but only temporarily. I’m just the acting manager
until they hire somebody else.”

“Do you not want to be the
manager?”

“I wasn’t recommended for the job,”
he said, with a shortness I suspected was anger.

“And how long did Chuck have that
office?”

“For at least the three years that
I’ve been with MAS. Chuck interviewed me in that office.”

“So Chuck hired you?”

“Right.”

“And what was Chuck like to work
for?”

“The worst.” Anger was now clearly
sharpening his voice. “What’s his father, Mykroni, like to work for?”

“The best.”

“Really?” Frank seemed pleased with
my comment.

He stretched his neck to look at
the long, jagged coastline as we flew across it. “Wow, what a view! Say, Alex,
how long are you gonna fly this straight-and-narrow path? When do I get more
tricks?”

In a split second, I inverted the
plane with a 180-degree roll. “Does this please you more?” I asked him, as we
hung suspended from our harnesses. He grinned.

Streaks of sun painted a few wispy
clouds a light pink for a pleasing morning sky. I decided to smear the canvas
for Frank. We tumbled through the air in a succession of more spectacular
patterns. I explained the aircraft’s controls, answered Frank’s questions, and
let him get a feel for the stick and rudder, because the plane could also be
operated from his seat. Then I crossed the shoreline back to the gray blocks of
buildings dotted with trees and ribboned with roads in the sunny mix of colors
and shapes that was the city of Rising Tide.

“Why did you not like working for
Chuck Whitman?”

Perhaps it was my interest in the
subject, his anger at Chuck, or a combination of both that spurred Frank to
talk.

“Well, for one thing, Chuck, who
knew nothing about robotics, hired me, and I knew a lot. Although MAS had some
janitorial automation, it was nothing compared to what I installed. I bought used
robots dirt cheap at an auction. I refurbished them and programmed them for
office cleaning. I dramatically increased productivity and slashed payroll.
When robots work with eight arms and built-in vacuum cleaners, and without lunch
breaks or paid vacations, you’d be amazed at how economically the job can be
done. I called my mechanical staff the Clean Team, gave them human faces and
name badges, and programmed them to greet people when they cleaned their
offices. And the Clean Team responded—that is,
I
responded—to special
requests. So if Mary Jones wanted Dreamboat to water her plants every Wednesday
or if Bill Rogers wanted Speedy to dust knickknacks every Tuesday, I wrote the
code for Dreamboat and Speedy to comply. The project was a big success.”

“So this is very good for you, no?”

“You’d think so. But although Chuck
wasn’t too swift with robotics, there was one thing he excelled at, and that
was in keeping me as far in the background as he could. He presented my ideas
at meetings that he never invited me to attend. He had me working night shifts
and weekends, so none of the brass would see me. When the employee newsletter
did a story on what they called ‘Chuck’s Clean Team,’ my name was never
mentioned. I figured all of this was okay because Chuck was probably setting
himself up for a promotion. Then I’d get to be manager, so the sooner I got rid
of him, the better.”

“And he got his promotion. So what
about yours?”

“That’s the thing that eats at me.
Chuck gets a promotion out of sheer dumb luck, because he happens to be in the
right place at the right time and because he has my program to ride on. Then he
doesn’t even recommend me as his replacement. Instead of griping to management,
which I hate to do, I decided to transfer to another department. Human
Resources is on the lookout for a job that would be right for me, but having an
inside connection is always more helpful. That’s why I wanted to get to know
you and the other folks in Space Travel.”

“Why did Chuck not recommend you to
replace him?”

“You know, Alex, I can understand
why he wanted to keep me down when he was my boss, because maybe he figured I
could steal his job. But now, when I can’t possibly affect him, and when he
knows damn well I can do the job, why did he recommend to Human Resources that
they get somebody else for Housekeeping manager? When I asked him, he walked
away without answering.”

I had no reply, except to mirror
the puzzled look on Frank’s face with my own. “What do you mean that Chuck was
in the right place at the right time to get his promotion?”

“Hardly anyone’s around on Sundays,
so it’s a big cleaning day for us. Now, I was the one who worked every Sunday,
and Chuck was off. But on a Sunday two months ago, Chuck decided that he’d work
instead of me, because he wanted to reorganize the supply closet. Wouldn’t you
know it, that was the day that Dr. Merrett came in to dismantle this special
project he was working on in the adjacent building. No one knew Dr. Merrett
would be here. His memo to the staff about the project’s cancellation wasn’t
released until the next morning. That’s what I mean by dumb luck.”

“So what happened with Chuck and
Dr. Merrett?”

“Everyone thinks that particular
Sunday was a dismal day for Dr. Merrett because canceling the project caused
problems for the company. Now, who was here to help the top boss on the one day
of the week when the place is pretty empty, almost a ghost town, and at a very
trying moment, perhaps the worst moment of Dr. Merrett’s career? None other
than our corporate superstar, Chuck.” Frank looked at me uneasily. “Say, Alex,
how can you fly this thing when you’re staring at me like that?”

I softened my look and tried to
make my voice sound casual. “How did Chuck help Dr. Merrett on the day he
dismantled his special project?”

“According to my friend, who was
the security guard on duty at the Project Z building, Dr. Merrett allowed Chuck
to come in to help him. Then later, they carried the pieces of Project Z to the
compactor just outside the building.”

“You mean Chuck was in contact with
Project Z?”

“Well, yes and no. According to my
friend, the project was in pieces inside a couple of large cartons, and Chuck
helped Dr. Merrett carry them out for trash compacting. No doubt Chuck lent a
sympathetic ear, as well as his assistance, because right after that, he was
promoted to be special assistant to the president for new project development.”

While I pondered the matter, Frank
pointed out the window. “Hey, Alex, those fields we’re flying over now are MAS
property, aren’t they? Is the ride over so soon?”

“Not before I give you something to
remember.” Although we had been flying well over an hour, I had the impression
that an entire day would be too short for Frank. To be sure he got the exciting
ride he wanted, I decided to do a stall spin. I pulled up to zero air speed over
an empty field, then fell into a stall. The high-performance plane I was flying
did not recover easily, because in order to turn as superbly as it did, the
craft was designed to be somewhat unstable. This meant that we would have to
drop thousands of feet before I could stabilize. In the meantime, the view from
the windshield was a whirling green field that seemed to be crashing in on us.

“Do you feel fulfilled now?” I said
to the flushed face and shaking knees beside me, after I finally stabilized the
aircraft.

Frank swallowed hard and made a few
attempts to find his voice. “If fulfilled means dizzy and queasy . . . and
scared . . . I’m very fulfilled, thank you!”

On landing, my efforts to apply
subtle adjustments were rewarded when the wheels of my craft met the runway in
a touch as soft as a kiss. As I headed back to Frank’s office to pick up my jacket,
he went on about how thrilling the ride was, while my mind drifted to other
thoughts. Did Chuck Whitman know what Project Z was all about? When Dr. Merrett
dismantled the project, was Chuck’s unexpected appearance not an accident at
all? Did Chuck know that Dr. Merrett intended to disassemble Project Z before
anyone else knew it? My thoughts balanced precariously on one fulcrum: Could
Chuck read Dr. Merrett’s computer screen? In a moment I would know.

When we returned to Frank’s office,
and I looked out the window, I could see people and objects in many offices in
the building across the way. However, in the room directly aligned with Frank’s
and one floor down—Dr. Merrett’s office—I saw nothing but the reflection of the
sky and our building, as if those particular windows were a mirrored surface.

“Is that Dr. Merrett’s office?” I
asked, pointing.

“It is,” Frank replied.

“Why are his windows different from
the others?”

“They’re one-way mirrors. Dr.
Merrett can look out, but no one can look in. That way no one can see his
computer screen or his papers. It’s a security screen.”

“Do you know when these special
windows were installed?”

“Not too long after I started
working here. Why?”

“Because . . . well,
security interests me.”

“What? You mean
you’re
thinking
of transferring departments too? But you
can’t
give up flying!”

“We shall see. Now, were the
special windows installed before or after Project Z was started?”

“Does that matter to you, Alex?”

“I am curious.”

“Okay, let’s check it out.” Frank
sat at his desk, alternately talking to his computer and tapping icons on the
monitor. Standing behind him, I saw a calendar appear on the screen. “Chuck
hired me in October, so this month makes three years that I’m here. Now, the
robot that cleans Dr. Merrett’s office, Dustin, was the first one I launched,
so Chuck could impress the brass. Dustin started . . . let’s
see . . . the following January.” Frank turned to me. “I
revised Dustin’s code to reflect a change in cleaning procedures when the new
windows were installed. You see, they’re cleaned on the inside with a special
solvent.” He tapped his monitor again. “That was the following month in
February. Now, Project Z began in . . . let me check. . . . I
was planning to provide a robot for cleaning that facility, but the group
decided to do its own cleaning. Here it is. My notes say April. Project Z
started two-and-a-half years ago, in April, two months
after
Dr.
Merrett’s windows went up.”

“Have the security windows been up
the entire time of Project Z, without interruption?”

“That’s right.” He looked at me
curiously, then smiled. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at. You thought Chuck
knew Dr. Merrett was coming in that Sunday to ax Project Z because Chuck snooped.
So he arranged to be here to help, to bend the boss’s ear, and to con Dr.
Merrett into giving him a fancy title for drumming up new projects to fill the
gap left by Project Z. It would have been a perfect way to hustle Dr. Merrett
for a promotion.”

“A . . . related
thought . . . had occurred to me.”

“Maybe you
do
have a knack
for security, Alex. Except that no one could snoop through those windows. They
went up two months before Project Z ever started and have remained up ever
since.”

“I see. And have you or your robots
ever been inside the Project Z area?”