Fugitive From Asteron Page 15

  After leaving Kristin’s house, I walked to the field across the road, then pushed through the tall bushes that hid Feran’s spacecraft. That Monday night marked three days since Feran had demanded his cargo for my life. Of course, I had not delivered into Feran’s bloody hands an object whose nature I did not understand. I knew Feran’s nature too well. What was his business on a planet where people hit home runs? Why had Feran kept a video of something as clean as baseball? I slammed my fist against the wall as I entered the flight deck, vowing not to let Feran touch Alexander, my hero, or the promise he held for me.

  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 mor
e 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?”

  “Never.”

  I took a note pad and pen from my pocket and drew a picture of Feran’s cargo. “Have you ever seen a metal box like this, about two feet high, closed on all sides, with no visible controls except for a large pin on the side near the top?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea what such an object might be?”

  “None at all.”

  I slipped the pad back in my pocket, then put my jacket on. Frank thanked me for the ride, and I thanked him for the information.

  Before I left, I asked him about another matter that confused me: “I am unfamiliar with some of the words you use here. Could you tell me what term you would use to describe a female who looked, say, like Kristin Merrett?”

  He smiled. “Kristin’s beautiful. Definitely beautiful.”

  When I asked what ugly referred to, h
is reply made me realize why Kristin was angry. So many things seemed upside down on Earth, or were they inverted on Asteron? Good and evil, beautiful and ugly. Why had the meaning of words from the same language been flipped over on Asteron, like a plane rotated 180 degrees?

  “And we call only animals males and females, not people, unless we’re in a biology class,” Frank added. “Humans are women and men, or ladies and gentlemen. And the ladies are more touchy about that than we are.”

  Again I saw that Earthlings distinguished themselves from the animals in the names they reserved for humans only. Their beings went beyond the mere physical references of a biology class to deserve new titles, ones that were fading from the same language spoken across the galaxy.

  “What would you do, Frank, if you mistakenly told a woman that she was ugly when you really meant the opposite?”

  “Apologize. Apologize profusely. Ask for her forgiveness, and hope you get it.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, and by the way, Alex, if you’ve got any designs on Kristin, don’t be too disappointed if they don’t pan out. Every guy here tries to date her, but she ignores all of us.”

  A few more inquiries that day taught me something about the thing Kristin told me I lacked—manners. I found that when Earthlings dealt with one another, they used manners as a sign of respect. Animals growled and clawed, but men and women said please and thank you. Animals devoured each other, but men and women apologized for so much as stepping on someone’s toe. There was little use for manners on Asteron. The guards there never said please or thank you when they shoved us around. Their violence seemed as jarringly out of tune with life on Earth as manners were with life on Asteron. But the way of the Earthlings was supposed to be the rule of the jungle, whereas the way of Asteron, I was taught, was supposed to be humane. Why, then, were the guards without manners over there?

  I had an opportunity later that Tuesday to use some of my new information. With Reckoning Day fast approaching on Friday, Kristin and I had scheduled another practice session to rehearse our two-plane demonstration. As we performed our preflight checks, with our crafts facing each other on the airstrip, she did not wave to me, as was her habit. After strapping my harness and putting on my helmet, I looked at her in the cockpit across from mine.