To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) (3 page)

His was an office to inspire confidence. The models and photos were near the entry door, where they would be seen first. Closer to his desk, on the walls and floor surrounding it, were more specific examples of his taste and signs of his prestige. The warm-toned walls were paneled in expensive real wood and were considerably more permanent than the walls of his outer lobby, which could be cosmetically changed for effect. On shelves were relics of the ancient world, as well as the modern and near-past. He prized a pair of Mesopotamian sculptures and a Babylonian tablet the Shah had given him. A Greek head and a magnificent Sioux headdress under glass. A Picasso plate, a Coe assemblage, an intricate breastplate for a ficticious Amazon mercenary by Caruthers. A brick from the Grand Hall ruin near Ares Center on Mars. A lunar opal floating in a cube of crystal ... The past, the present, and the future.

A painting by Otis Flu, an original photoprint by Coogan, a small Cilento sensatron repro cube, and an authentic Van Gogh paintbrush used in a collage by Powers all hung on the walls. Each had been carefully selected to impress and awe, either directly or subconsciously.

A polished cube of Tycho marble on his desk held a lighter, and a chip of stone stolen from the tomb of Cheops was fashioned into a tiny pyramid near it.

Confidence, awe, and admiration were the tools of the modem environmentalist's trade. "Trust me, I know best": the patois of the expert everywhere and every-when.

Blake Mason snorted, thumbed a stud on his desk, and turned toward the wall as a rosewood panel slid silently upward. An enormous screen lit up, on which a dusky brunette with skin the color of burnished copper was slithering through the ruins of Angkor Wat, hissing the message of her sponsor: "Buy the aphrodisiac of the ancient east, the jewel of great price in the handy purse size or in a generous boudoir flacon...”

Blake quickly punched another button.

A serious-faced newsreader was saying, "–esident DeVore was visibly delighted with the visit today at the Southern White House of the delegation from the International Association of Nudists." The scene changed to the pool area of the White House grounds, where a hundred nude men and women clustered respectfully around the small, smiling figure of the President. The newsreader's voice continued over the various cuts to the scene. "Although President DeVore did not disrobe, he did enjoy watching the delegation swim in the presidential pool." A pair of young girls came forward, moving awkwardly and obviously embarrassed by all the attention, to put a flower lei around the President's neck and to kiss him on each cheek. The President smiled and laughed, but Blake noticed that he did not ever touch the girls. "The Nudist Queen of the Americas and the Queen of European Nudism joined together to present President DeVore with a token of appreciation for signing the Free Beaches Act earlier today ... In Great Britain the bisexual scandal is still rocking London and today the Minister of Finance said–"

Blake snapped the set off and the panel slid back to cover the gray screen.

Can't people think of anything else? Can't they
do
something else?

We voted sex into legitimacy, and rightfully so; but somewhere we lost love,
Blake thought.
Or is it just
me
? Are all those couples and triples and foursomes in
love?
Are they even in
like?

Blake dialed the window to transparent and looked out. The City of the Queen of the Angels. The tops of fifty-story office buildings were only the floor for the tall arcologs that dominated the skyline. But below, and between, the buildings were the bars and porno houses, the pawnshops and stim fronts. Live sex shows and obscene sensatrons, with highly realistic women mating with patent impossibilities: urban pagans and beasts from the jungle, their matted hair showing through the rips in their thin layer of civilization.

I could go there and find a woman,
Blake thought.
Or a boy. Or a man. Or something that would go either way, be anything my money desired, whatever the situation demanded.
Momentarily, temptation tugged at his loins, a mindless search for something unknown, something different, but it quickly went away.

I've never done that. I've never bought a woman.

Sure you have, a
voice in his head told him. Not in cash, not with a credit card perhaps, but with a present, a service, a favor. That Degas sketch to Daniele had started off their relationship. The visit to the hanging gardens and the introduction to the Shah and his court had so impressed the countess.
You've bought it before,
his mind-voice reminded.

But buying sex is not my problem,
Blake argued with himself.
Getting laid is not the problem, it's
who
I'm laying.

Is it?

Yes, it has always been the
who,
not the what. Not whether she was rich or famous or black or yellow or talented or anything. It's the
who,
the woman inside, the
person.

Blake Mason pressed his forehead against the cool glass and stared out at the Southern California cityscape.

"I want to fall in love," he said in a whisper.
With someone who is not an animal, with someone who is a person first and a sex machine second.
With his fingertip, he drew a heart in the condensation on the window and slumped back into his chair.

If wishes were pennies, I'd be rich!

"Anything else, Elaine?" Blake asked his secretary, handing over a folio of signed mail and a Null-Edit tape to his accountant.

"Just your afternoon appointments, Mr. Mason. You want them now?" The trim, middle-aged woman flipped open her stenochart and looked at Mason, who nodded wearily.

"Two o'clock, Mrs. Barrows from the Landau wants to show you some holos of a gallery in Naples that used sensatronics."

"Call her back and tell her I've seen Santino's and that it is marvelous but will date very, very quickly. The impact of the sensatron is too strong for the use to which they have put it. If she still wants to come in, shift her to Aaron."

"Three o'clock, someone from Hughes wants to come check the progress on your first-draft sketches for Xanadu."

"Head him off. We're not ready yet. Never show a customer anything that isn't at least 75 percent finished."

"Three-thirty – and I'm saving the best for last – none other than Jean-Michel Voss."

"The
Jean-Michel Voss?"

"Mr. Money himself. In person, no less. Shawna Hilton called, herself, to make the appointment."

Blake was a little amazed. "He's coming
here?"

"Three-thirty. I guess he wants to see you in your natural habitat. Want me to deliver a dossier? He's Voss Oil, Voss Electronics, Voss Investments, Carbocon, Lunaport III, Martian Land Development – and God only knows what else."

"All right, thanks. And, Elaine, cancel all my other appointments."

"Yes, sir," Elaine said as she turned and left the room.

Blake settled back in his chair.
Jean-Michel Voss. What could he want with me? I did that Lunarport job for him years ago, but we never met.
Blake looked at the rosewood panels of his office, his eyes following a pattern in the grain.
Voss Investments are rumored to be behind the Poseidon project in the Bahamas, the biggest undersea dome cluster yet considered. Could he want me for that? What sort of environment would those submariners like? What would be right?

Blake's mind went wandering along the path of visual and sensory associations that typified his approach to preliminary environmental concepts.

Poseidon. Sea god. Water. Domes. Fish. Fish tank, air tank. What would people like to see undersea? Too much water. Maybe land, hot tropical land instead of cold sea?
He made a mental note to have Libby check on mean temperature in Bahama waters.
Desert environment. Contrast. Maybe cubist theme; flat, hot, textured surfaces opposing cool, fluid water.

Voss was lnterport Transfers, too, wasn't he? And didn't he own a piece of Station Three? Or was that Brian Thorne?

A space-station environment? Vast, black space. Stars. Airless. Cold. Faraway. High. Something lush and thick, rich and soft. Contrast again. A touch of luxury. All six walls padded, but with decorator fabrics. Maybe Astro Membranes could develop something more attractive than their standard gray, blue, and oyster.

Damn!

Blake leaned forward and thumbed the stud to Elaine's commline. "What is it'?" he snapped.

"It's Mrs. Shure on One. Sorry, boss."

"Yeah, I know how she is. Okay, I'll take it," Blake said  wearily.

He swung to face the visionphone lens and tried to get a smile on his face. He failed. He tried again for a neutral expression tending toward somber, then picked up a sketchpad to be a busy-busy prop and a subtle indicator of his business. Then he punched her in.

"Ah, Mrs. Shure..."

"Mr. Mason, how nice to see you. Are you feeling well? The last time I saw you, you had a bit of a cold. The Andes, didn't you get it in the Andes?"

"No, in. Canada, and that was a year ago, Mrs. Shure." He looked at the woman as she giggled in her prissy way, and wondered if she had ever received an obscene phone call. Ever since visionphones had become standard, the number of obscene phone calls had skyrocketed. "How may I help you?" Blake asked pleasantly.

"Ah ... well ... you know that lovely, lovely decor you did for my daughter Andrea's wedding reception? The psychedelic Aztec temple?"

It took Blake a moment to remember that he had never seen it.
Aaron handled that one, the crazy cackler. A psychedelic Aztec temple? Did something like that really come out of my office? I will really have to watch that sort of thing in the future.
After the famous financier and patron of the arts, Brian Thorne, had been married at the Temple of Magicians in Yucatan, a brief fad in Aztec and Mayan decor had followed. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said.
What the hell is her first name?

Even as he tried to remember, the tickler-file screen lit next to the visionphone, and Elaine was punching in the information: Carolyn Shure ... 48 ... 4th marriage . Daughter, Andrea, by #1, Darrell Clive, then president of Empire State Police Services ... #2 husband, MacNeil Busby, novelist ... #3, Chan Xuan Thu, holder of important patent on mass accelerator ... Daughter, Arden, by #4, George Shure, financier ... estimated annual income from combined sources -before taxes 7.4 million ... address, 10 Hightop Circle, Camelot.

"Why have you called?" Blake asked, hoping to get her back to the point. "Carolyn," he added.

"Well, now, my daughter Arden is about to become engaged to the most
charming
young man, the eldest son of the Von Arrows, and I was
hoping
you'd be free to do the party. It's the first week in August, which doesn't give you much time, I know, but would $25,000 be adequate? We spent fifty thousand on Andrea's wedding, I know; but after all, this is only an engagement."

Blake's eyes flicked to movement on the tickler screen. Elaine was holding up a hastily scrawled sign: SEBASTIAN FREE-DAUGHTER ELOPING-TRY FOR $40-$50.

Blake smiled and settled into his sales-talk patter to flatter her ego and to flatten her pocketbook. How could she, a pacesetter, the social leader in her ark, afford to commission anyone less than the best? The best, it was obvious and unstated, was Blake Mason. But, alas, his time was in such short supply that only a sufficiently high retainer could possibly get him to adjust his schedule. There was the Shah, of course, and the pleasure dome, and...

"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Shure, I'm certain that you will be pleased."

"Then you
will
come out this week?" He could see her trembling anxiety to score a triumph in having "Blake Mason," who dined with dynastic emperors and bedded vidstars, share her table.

"Yes, but I’m not certain just when. I'll have to give you a call."
Don't give her time to have more than a minimum of rich, but boring, friends waiting for me with their questions about the Shah and the others.
The tickler file flicked on again, and Blake gave it a quick scan. Money from soybeans, arcolog condominiums, a marina, a baseball team, an insurance company, garbage recyling.
God, the conversations I'll have to endure!

The screen changed to show Elaine holding up a sign: SAT THRU TUES FREE. "Perhaps this weekend, perhaps as late as Tuesday. I'm sorry to make this so indefinite, uh, Carolyn, but the Shah wants some minor changes and trusts only me to do them."
Let her know how valuable my time is.

"Oh, do tell that dear, dear monarch I said hello!"
You never met him in your life, lady,
Blake said to himself. "Yes, of course.
Au revoir, madame!"

"Good-bye, you dear man. I'm so happy we arranged this today. I can't wait to tell the girls!" She waggled her fingers as Mason cut the connection, then his forced smile.

Blake opened the intercom. "Elaine, my precious pearl, you have zero defects. Does that woman's husband really make that much?"

"Yup. Disgusting, isn't it? But she has part of that, too. As the man said, you can see the way the good Lord feels about money by the damn fools he gives it to."

"Steady there," Blake laughed. "I am not exactly a pauper, pet."

"I was hoping you'd say that, boss. How about a raise?"

"No raise, but a bonus if this job goes through. Knowing that her daughter was planning to elope cinched it and I could push hard enough to get the larger fee. She's just the kind of woman who likes an excuse to make a big splash and show off. But how do you know all these odd little things?"

"Society pages, boss. What do you think I fill up my time with out here?"

Blake grinned. Elaine had often come up with the strangest information at just the right moment. "Okay, mark yourself down for a dollar and a half bonus as soon as we get the retainer."

"You are
too
kind. Monday would be a good day to go out. No weekend guests, and a business day gives you a good excuse to make it a quick trip."

"Make that two bucks even and tell Sebastian."

"He'll love all the froufrou and the fawning."

Blake, grunted and clicked off. Ravel was playing, but he wasn't listening to it now. His mind had gone back to the possibility of a Voss undersea project. In the
Atlantis
dome he had used a mermaid decor in one area; a seashell motif in another; a pagan throne room with gas torches; mosaics set with rocks, then laser-cut and polished and permafinished to look wet.

But he would have to come up with something different for Voss. Blake wanted to have at least one idea to throw out spontaneously when Voss brought the subject up. That always gave the client a feeling he was talking to a creative person. But the best idea, the final idea, should never be revealed quickly or casually. Although he might come up with the concept in a second, Blake liked to polish it in private, mainly to give the client the feeling that this was the best possible answer to his problem, and one not quickly or lightly reached. Blake remembered a senior environmentalist, one of the old breed who still called themselves decorators, who used the phrase "I was thinking last night," and then proceeded to improvise his thoughts of the moment. "Doing so gives greater weight to your words," he had told Blake in his student days, "And it gives you the reputation of being a thinker."

The intercom lit up. "Mr. Mason." Not "boss" – someone was there.

Blake hit the stud. "Yes, Elaine?"

"Mr. Voss is here."

"Please show him in."
Ritual and facade. Oh, what the hell!

Voss was tall, tanned, and ugly, with that beautiful sort of arrogant ugliness that seemed to devastate women satiated with pretty men. He was quick and sure as he came through the door. Everything about him radiated money and power.
He doesn't walk as if he owns the place,
Blake thought,
he enters as if he doesn't care
who
owns it.
Used to the rich and powerful and their often egocentric ways, Blake was nevertheless impressed.

Voss's handshake was firm and quick, his smile wide and friendly, his eyes steady and automatically appraising. Behind him two burly men eyed Blake and the room, but then left instantly at a flick of Voss's hand.

Voss sat down in a Life-style chair and fingered his Martian firestone cuff links as his gaze took in the room. "You have many lovely things," he said. "I believe I have a Coe assemblage of that period. Somewhere."

"Thank you."
A pitiful handful,
Blake thought.
You probably have more warehouses full than I have pieces.
"Would you like a drink?" As he spoke, he thumbed the bar stud and a panel slid upward.

Voss peered at the wine behind the cooler panels, then his dark eyes scanned the array of bottles, flasks, and vintage tubes. "Ah, a favorite," he smiled. "Benedictine and brandy, please." Blake selected two small Gral goblets and poured. He left Ravel playing, but turned down the volume.

"Shawna suggested you to me," Voss said without preamble. "Her home is very pleasant. Fits her beautifully. Nothing that
I
would want, of course, but very pleasing."

Blake was silent, smiling briefly and acknowledging the compliment with a salute of his glass.

"What I have in mind is ... unusual for our time, but very ancient, really. I want a tomb."

Blake was surprised. Voss seemed so young to be thinking of such things. "Yours?" Blake asked, just to be certain.

Voss smiled broadly. "But of course." He held up his hand warningly. "But, please
s
not some tacky little pillared tomb, all solemn and marble, a piece of ego sculpture. Nothing, ur, tricky. You did a lovely miniature Taj Majal in something transparent for Topaz."

"Magnaplastics."

"Yes, and that Moon-orbiting casket for Ron Bellingham is really quite beautiful. It's becoming something of a tourist attraction." Voss smiled again. "But I want something that is definitely
not
a tourist attraction. More like an Egyptian tomb, quite hidden. I have the site already picked out. We'll laser the whole thing right into the living rock."

Blake nodded as if tomb design was something he did every day.
Everyone has an ego,
he thought.
They leave foundations behind, nameplates on buildings, scholarships, trust funds to operate homes for wayward cats, stadiums, museums. Some commission art. Some want political power. Some are just egotists.