“Culver?” It was Rutherford who made the query. “Do we really need
Culver?”
“Yes,” Schenck answered, turning to the young man. “Someone has to provide security for this operation and I can’t trust our own internal forces. Ultimately they’re loyal to the Seven.”
Rutherford frowned, clearly uneasy. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. I thought you had Security in hand. I thought we could count on them.” “I do and we can. Normally. But this is different. From here on we take on the Seven, directly, unconditionally. And there are some officers in Security who’d balk at going that far, McEwen for one.” “And Culver?” Meng K’ai asked. “Are you certain we can trust him?” “Absolutely.” Schenck smiled reassuringly. “Culver’s my man. He does as I say. I’ve asked him to look into the question of creating a replacement force for Security. A force that would take its commands directly from us and not from some Council of Generals a billion li away on Chung Kuo. He has a small force already at HoloGen. That’ll form the basis of the new army. An independent army.”
Rutherford looked down. “I’m still not sure. I don’t know the man, but there’s something about him that worries me. He’s too reclusive for my taste. And then there’s all this business with the computer system he’s had shipped in from Chung Kuo. I mean, what’s all that about?” Schenck laughed. “You worry too much, Andreas. Look, Culver’s upgrading his plant, that’s all. As far as I see it, it makes good sense. The more we can get out of Chung Kuo before the break, the better.” “Maybe,” Rutherford answered, “but I still think he could have invested his money here, on Mars. Could have had CompTek build him a new system—one better suited to his needs.”
“And see the profits go back to Chung Kuo?” “Yes, but it would have employed Martian workmen and encouraged the development of Martian skills. As it is, Culver’s investment puts nothing into our economy. It merely sustains the old cycle of dependency. And I thought that that was the very thing we wanted to break.” “I see.” Schenck turned, looking directly at Meng K’ai. “And you, Meng K’ai? How do you feel about Culver?”
Meng K’ai shrugged. “Like Andreas I don’t know the man. He keeps himself very much to himself. But if you vouch for him . . . well, that’s good enough for me. Besides, I think you’re right. We should take what we can from them before the break comes. I hear this new system’s good. Better than anything CompTek could build. Maybe we could all use it, neh? Pool our resources.”
Schenck smiled broadly. “I’m certain Shih Culver would be more than willing to give over some of its capacity to us. And you, Tu Ch’en-shih?” “Meng K’ai has spoken for us both. I think we could work with him. If you guarantee him, that is.”
“Of course,” Schenck said. “Without hesitation. As I said, Culver’s my man. He’ll do as I say. As for his commitment to things Martian”— Schenck turned, looking back at Rutherford—“well, just think about it. Doesn’t he employ more than fifty thousand at his plants? No, don’t worry about Culver. He’s the least of our problems. Let’s worry about implementing our plan. About making Mars what it ought to be. What it should have been a hundred years ago, but for the Seven. Come, let’s drink to deliverance from our erstwhile masters. To deliverance, and to change.” He raised his bowl, looking about him at his three co-conspirators. “Pien Hua!” he said defiantly.
There was a moment’s hesitation, a brief meeting of eyes, then, lifting their bowls, they answered him. “Pien Hua!” their voices ringing loudly in the tiny maintenance dome. Change!
ikuro knelt down, staring into the back of the compact freezer, looking for something to cook. Ebert had gone on shift already, leaving a note for Ikuro to find when he woke.
The food in the freezer was simple. Cheese, wheatcakes, plastic tubs of noodles. In the narrow door-space were four small bulbs of ersatz fruit juice. Ikuro smiled. Not only did Ebert look like a poor man, he ate like one too. Shrugging, he took a tub of noodles and closed the door, then stood, looking about him at the tiny galley. Once off Chung Kuo things were much the same, wherever one went. Beside the small sink, the water tank, a small microwave oven, a pressure cooker, and the freezer, there was a canister of oxygen in a clip-frame on the wall to his left, and, beside it, in a clear-fronted hatch, a crumpled bright yellow pressure suit. Safety and efficiency, they were the priorities here, just as they were where he came from. Life was hard. That much was universal. He put the tub into the microwave, then turned, listening, hearing the faint hum of the dehumidifier. For some reason it reminded him of what he had been thinking earlier and he turned back, searching the galley for what he knew had to be there.
The microwave buzzed, the light inside went out. Ikuro stared at it, then laughed quietly. Of course. He removed the steaming tub and set it aside, then lifted the microwave, studying it.
He had been wondering for hours how Ebert had got the message out to his brothers. Now he knew. From the front it looked like an ordinary microwave, but at the back was a second set of controls. The touch pads and buttons of a comset.
He took his breakfast through and sat at Ebert’s desk, forgetting everything but his hunger momentarily as he wolfed down the noodles. Then, the empty tub pushed aside, he stared at the end wall, trying to make sense of things.
They had talked for hours. Or, rather, Ebert had talked and he had listened. At first he’d not been sure. After all, Ebert’s tale was unlikely enough—that was, if he really was Ebert. Yet as he’d gone on there was something about his manner, about the way he presented his life history, that had convinced Ikuro that it really was Hans Ebert, heir to the great GenSyn Company, and not some poor deluded madman. A madman, after all, would have bragged, wouldn’t he? Would have crowed about his “past” and boasted about what would yet be, once he was returned to his rightful place. But that wasn’t true of Ebert. No. He seemed to feel nothing but shame for what he’d done. Shame and a deeply held remorse. A prince he’d been, a king in waiting, but he had let himself be swayed from his destiny. Power had corrupted him, vanity warped his soul, and he had fallen.
Ikuro let out a long breath, remembering what had been said. Of the women Ebert had used, and the men he had had killed. Of the deals he had made and the betrayal of his master, the great T’ang, Li Yuan. Finally, of the fateful meeting with his father, Klaus, and the murder of the old man by the goat creature.
“What happened to the creature?” Ikuro had asked. “I killed it,” Ebert answered. “I vented it out of an air lock somewhere off Titan.”
“But it saved your life!”
“Yes. But it also killed my father.”
Ikuro had hesitated. “You loved your father, then?” Ebert had looked down, the lines of his face creased with pain. “Yes. I didn’t know it at the time. It was as if I had forgotten what he’d been to me. Forgotten all the love he’d shown me as a boy. And then”—the voice wavered, then came back strongly—“and then he was dead and I—I understood. I realized suddenly what I’d lost. What I’d thrown away so thoughtlessly.”
Remorse. Hans Ebert was filled with remorse. There was no doubting that. Unless the man was the finest actor the System had ever produced. And now he was here, on Mars, a poor man, a sweeper at the giant HoloGen complex, working for his once accomplice, DeVore.