“Even intelligent creatures,” Molina jabbed.
“If you mean those extinct beings on Mars, they might have been connected in some way with us, mightn’t they?”
“At the cellular level, maybe. The DNA of the extant Martian microbial life is different from ours, though, even though it has a similar helical structure.”
Danvers wasn’t entirely sure of what his luncheon companion was saying, but that didn’t matter. He said, “It doesn’t seem likely that God would create an intelligent species and then destroy it.”
“That’s what happened.”
“Don’t you think that the Martians were a branch of ourselves? After all, the two planets are—”
“About sixty million kilometers apart, at their closest,” Molina snapped.
“Yes, but Martian meteorites have been found on Earth.”
“So?”
“So Mars and Earth have had exchanges in the past. Perhaps the human race began on Mars and moved to Earth.”
Molina guffawed so loudly that people at other tables turned toward them. Danvers sat silently, trying to keep a pleasant face.
“Is that what you believe?” Molina asked at last, between chuckles.
“Isn’t it possible?” Danvers asked softly.
“Possible for creatures with a stone age culture to build spacecraft to take them from Mars to Earth? No way!”
Molina was still chuckling when they left the restaurant. No matter, Danvers thought. Let him laugh. I’m winning his trust. Soon he’ll be unburdening his soul to me.
As the weeks flowed into one another, Danvers began to understand that winning Molina’s trust would not be that easy. Beneath his smug exterior Victor Molina was a desperately unhappy man. Despite his high standing in the skytower project, he was worried about his career, his future. And something else. Something he never spoke of. Danvers thought he knew what it was: Lara Tierney, the woman who was living with Bracknell.
Danvers felt truly sorry for Molina. By this time he regarded the biologist as a friend, the only friend he had in this den of idolaters and atheists. Their relationship was adversarial, to be sure, but he was certain that Molina enjoyed their barbed exchanges as much as he himself did. Sooner or later he’ll break down and tell me what’s truly troubling him.
Many, many weeks passed before Danvers realized there was something about Molina that was jarringly out of place. What’s Victor doing here, on this damnable project? Why is a biologist involved in building the skytower?
NEW KYOTO
Nobuhiko Yamagata stood at his office window gazing out at the city spread out far below him. Lake Biwa glittered in the distance. A flock of large birds flapped by, so close that Nobu inadvertently twitched back, away from the window.
He was glad no one was in the office to see his momentary reaction. It might look like cowardice to someone; unworthy weakness, at least.
The birds were black gulls, returning from their summer grounds far to the north. A sign that winter is approaching, Nobuhiko knew. Winter. He grunted to himself. There hasn’t been enough natural snow to ski on since my father died.
Nobu looked almost like a clone of his illustrious father: a few centimeters taller than Saito, but stocky, short-limbed, his face round and flat, his brown eyes hooded, unfathomable. The main difference between father and son was that while Saito’s face was lined from frequent laughter, the lines on Nobu’s face came from worry.
He hadn’t heard from his father for more than a year now. The elder Yamagata had gone into a fit of regret over the killings out in the Asteroid Belt and become a true lama, full of holy remorse and repentance. It’s as if he’s died again, Nobu thought. He’s cut off all contact with the world outside his lamasery, even with his only son.
The clock chimed once. No matter, Nobuhiko thought as he turned from the window. I can carry my burdens without Father’s help. Squaring his shoulders, he said to the phone on his desk, “Call them in.”
The double doors to his office swung inward and a half-dozen men in nearly identical dark business suits came in, each bearing a tiny gold flying crane pin in his lapel, each bowing respectfully to the head of Yamagata Corporation. They took their places at the long table abutting Nobu’s desk like the stem of the letter T. No women served on this committee. There were several women on Yamagata’s board of directors, but the executive committee was a completely male domain.
There was only one item on their agenda: the skytower.
Nobuhiko sat in his high-backed leather desk chair and called the meeting to order. They swiftly dispensed with formalities such as reading the minutes of the previous meeting. They all knew why they were here.
Swiveling slightly to his right, Nobu nodded to the committee’s chairman. Officially, Nobuhiko was an ex-officio member of the executive committee, present at their meetings but without a vote in their deliberations. It was a necessary arrangement, to keep outsiders from accusing that Yamagata Corporation was a one-man dictatorship. Which it very nearly was. Nobu might not have had a vote on this committee, but the committee never voted against his known wishes.
“We are here to decide what to do about the skytower project,” said the chairman, his eyes on Nobuhiko.
“It is progressing satisfactorily?” Nobu asked, knowing full well the answer.
“They are ahead of schedule,” said the youngest member of the committee, down at the end of the conference table.
Nobuhiko let out a patient sigh.
“When that tower goes into operation,” fumed one of the older men, “it will knock the bottom out of the launch services market.”
One of Nobu’s coups, once he took the reigns of the corporation from his father, had been to acquire the American firm Masterson Aerospace Corporation. Masterson had developed the Clippership launch vehicle, the rocket that reduced launch costs from thousands of dollars per pound to hundreds, the doughty little, completely reusable vehicle that not only opened up orbital space to industrial development, but also served—in a modified version—as a hypersonic transport that carried passengers to any destination on Earth in less than an hour.
By acquiring Masterson, Yamagata gained a major share not only of the world’s space launching market, but of long-distance air travel, as well.
“One tower?” scoffed one of the other elder members from across the conference table. “How badly can one tower cut into the launch services market? How much capacity can it have?”
The other man closed his eyes briefly, as if seeking strength to deal with a fool. “It is not merely the one tower. It is the first skytower. If it succeeds, there will be others.”
Nobu agreed. “And why pay for Clipperships to go into orbit when you can ride a skytower for a fraction of the cost?”
“Exactly so, sir.”
“The skytower is a threat, then?”
“Not an immediate threat. But if it is successful, within a few years such towers will spring up all along the equator.”
“Fortunate for us,” said another, smiling, “that most of the equator is over deep ocean instead of land.”
No one laughed.
“How much of our profit comes from Clippership operations?” Nobuhiko asked.
“Not as much from space launch services as from air transportation here on Earth,” said the comptroller, seated on Yamagata’s left.
Nobu said softly, “The numbers, please.”
The comptroller tapped hurriedly on the palmcomp in his hand. “It’s about eight percent. Eight point four, so far this year. Last fiscal year, eight point two.”
“It’s pretty constant.”