“My brothers . . .” he said, meeting the stranger’s eyes again. “You said you would get a message to my brothers.”
“Ah . . . Forgive me. Here.”
Ikuro took the paper Latimer held out to him and unfolded it. It was a copy of a transmission, addressed to his brothers at the spaceport. Ikuro read it through, then looked back at Latimer, astonished. But how? He had not left him for a second, except to make the ch’a! “Who are you, Shih Latimer? You seem to know so much. And yet. . .” Ikuro turned, looking about him at the simplicity of the room. “Well, it makes no sense.”
The blue eyes in the mask were watching him, serious now, conscious, it seemed, of his inner turmoil.
“You’ve heard of the GenSyn Corporation?”
Ikuro nodded. “Who has not?”
“And Klaus Ebert, its owner?”
Again, Ikuro nodded. “I have. Why, he is famous throughout the system. My grandfather says he was a genius in his day. They say he once designed a creature that could eat rock!”
“And if I was to tell you that he’s dead?” Ikuro frowned. “Then my grandfather would light a taper for his soul. He was a great man.”
“Then you hadn’t heard?”
Ikuro shook his head.
The man took a long breath—a breath that seemed almost a sigh. “Earlier on you asked me my name, Shen Li, and I told you what I am known as in these parts. But before I came here I was known by another name. It might seem a thing of little moment what a man is called, yet for me it is a matter of great importance. Before I tell you I must ask you one thing.” Ikuro lowered his head. “Anything, my friend.”
“Then let me ask you this. Can I trust you? Can I really trust you?” Ikuro looked up, astonished. In any other circumstances he would have been offended—deeply offended—by the question, yet there was such an earnestness in the man’s voice, such a sense of urgency in his eyes, that he could only nod. “With your life, ch’un tzu.” “Then I will tell you who I am.”
There was a moment’s stillness, a moment’s perfect silence, then, releasing the hardflesh clips beneath his chin, Hans Ebert removed the prosthetic mask from his face and placed it on the floor beside him.
CHAPTER TWO
Dreams of Mars
CHENCK TAPPED THE THICKENED glass lightly with his fingernails, studying the long, oval-shaped depression they had had scooped out of the dark, lavatic rock, then turned, looking back into the room. The three men were watching him.
Andreas Rutherford stood to the left, beside the narrow desk. He was a handsome man in his mid-twenties—the image of his late father, Schenck’s friend and onetime sponsor, William Rutherford. To Schencks right were Tu Ch’en-shih and his partner, Meng K’ai. Though unrelated, the two Han looked like twins and played upon the fact by dressing identically. Short, balding, and ugly, as someone had once described them, and it wasn’t far from the truth. But sharp as well. As sharp as anyone in the Nineteen Colonies.
Just now all four wore protective suits, the collapsible helmets hanging
loose against their backs, attached by umbilicals to the rigid
neck-braces.
That’ll change one of these days, Schenck thought, conscious for once of all those things they were forced to take for granted here. But not while we’re still tethered. Not until we cut the link. “Well?” Meng K’ai asked impatiently. “What do you think?” Schenck smiled. “It looks good from up here, but have there been any problems? I mean, this has got to last. The new City will be totally dependent on it.”
I “It’ll last,” Rutherford said, pouring a bowl of wine and bringing it across. “I mean, it’s not like we’re building the thing back on Chung Kuo. We’ve not got to worry about volcanic activity or earthquakes. All we’ve got to make sure is that the thing doesn’t leak or get clogged with dust.” “And the plant itself? You’re certain this will work?” Rutherford looked to his fellow financiers, then back at Schenck, his smile broadening. “You’ve seen the engineers’ reports, Hung-li. It’ll work, don’t worry. As for lasting, it’ll still be here ten thousand years from now. Fifty, if we build it well enough.” Schenck hesitated, then nodded, taking the bowl from Rutherford and lifting it to toast the others. Yes, he had seen the engineers’ reports, and, just to make sure, had had his own experts go over them. The thing ought to work, and work well. That was, providing no corners were cut, no “economies” made. He turned, looking back across the site. The main excavation work had been completed. A coating of impermeable polymer, two ch’i thick, would now be poured into the depression, sealing and insulating the reservoir. Then, as an added precaution, a second layer would be placed on top of that, using a new, organically produced sealant that would not only guarantee minimal leakage but also reduce bacterial growth. Once in operation the whole thing would be covered with an airtight layer of “ice,” the same polymer-based material they used back on Chung Kuo to make the Cities. A dozen air locks would allow access for maintenance and, if necessary, repair.
But that was only half of it. The reservoir, while it used new construction techniques and new materials, was nothing new in itself. There were reservoirs already at Kang Feng and Hao Feng Shou. No, what was new about this scheme was the plant itself. For the first time they would not be tapping into Mars’s precious reserves of water— trapped in the permafrost, in underground lakes, and in the northern ice-cap—but making the stuff from scratch. Increasing the amount there was. Schenck smiled at the thought. Water and air. They were the two things that Mars needed badly, and for the past one hundred and sixty years Chung Kuo had kept Mars in a state of absolute dependency, ruling from afar on just how much air, how much water, the Martians could have; keeping those two basic necessities to the very minimum. And sometimes—as when that bastard Karr had been here—denying them even that much. Schenck shivered with indignation, remembering the day when the big Security man had burst into his office at Tien Men K’ou City and dragged him across his desk, threatening him. It was then that this had begun. Then that he’d started thinking of a Mars without Chung Kuo. A self-sufficient, independent Mars, strong and thriving. A green Mars with a tolerable atmosphere and reasonable temperature gradations. A Mars very different from the hellhole they currently inhabited. “Have you discussed the next stage with Dawson yet?”
Schenck turned back, facing Tu Ch’en-shih. “Not yet. I wanted to get the election out of the way first. But now we can go ahead. It’s time we let Dawson and a few others know what we’ve got planned.”
Tu Ch’en-shih frowned, his squat face crumpling like a rotten fruit. “Do you think that’s safe? I mean, Dawson’s fine. I trust him completely. But the others? Surely it’s best to keep this tight. The fewer who know, the less chance the Seven will hear of it.”
Schenck nodded. “Normally, I’d agree. But it’s time to move on this. Since the split in Council, the Seven are weak, indecisive. With the House reopened and the Above pressing for more power, they’ve problems enough at home without contemplating fighting a war out here. The logistics alone are beyond them.” He laughed. “Why, we have only to arm the satellites and Mars is ours. That’s why I’ve set up a meeting, two days from now, to discuss things and to take things farther. There’ll be eight of us in all. We four, Dawson, Endacott, Ch’en Li, and Culver.”