Standing erect beside his brother, Lutt saw that Morey was only about six centimeters taller. The difference had been twice that before the collision.
The guard stood aside as the tube exit opened. “Your father is expecting you.”
“We mustn’t keep him waiting,” Lutt said, leading the way.
“You sound almost eager,” Morey said, following Lutt into the tube. “I’m never eager for a scolding.”
“You think he’s just going to scold me?”
“You may be his favorite, Lutt, but he has a place for me, too. You’d better know he’s just made me vice-president for far planet affairs.”
“I know all about it, Morey, I know everything you do.”
“You’re just as bad as Father,” Morey complained,
“Why, Morey! And after Father has just promoted you to a position of power and affluence. You’re such an ingrate.”
“I hate it when you take that smarmy tone!”
“I learned it from you, Morey. Come on! L.H. is waiting and we both know he hates to wait.”
As Lutt moved his Dreen-shared body up the exit tube, Ryll mulled private thoughts: I’ve linked myself to a wild animal. What can I do to tame him? Is it possible to bring even a small degree of civilization to such a creature?
***
Who spies on the spies?
—Watchword of Hanson Security
Lutt Hanson Senior looked down on the MX cavern’s arrival area with mixed emotions, watching his sons emerge.
My sons . . . my enemies.
Every word Lutt Junior and Morey had exchanged as they moved through the maze of tunnels had been heard by the senior Hanson here in his office at the peak of the corporation’s hidden tower.
How do I make up for the mistakes of a lifetime?
He felt both guilty and thankful for the precaution that allowed him to eavesdrop on the pair. Precaution? Had he somehow been able to foresee what Morey would become? Or Lutt Junior?
But something had inspired him to program a robosurgeon to implant a tiny electrodot transmitter in the neck of the newborn Morey twenty-nine years ago, just as he had done earlier with Lutt Junior, The spy instruments of his own invention were robotically manufactured, as were his other security devices. No other human knew of their existence. But the spydot in Lutt Junior’s neck no longer functioned.
I expected them to last a lifetime but now . . . something has gone wrong. What has happened to my firstborn?
Lutt Junior’s spydot had been silent since the Vortraveler crash. And now their father could eavesdrop on both only when the sons were together.
What happened to him out there in space?
The information remained tantalizingly sparse—bizarre talk about an alien in his body. And Number-One Son’s words projected fascinating possibilities in communication . . . if this Spiral News Service idea proved true.
The aging L.H. hobbled on automated canes along a one-way window wall, attention directed downward to where his offspring were undergoing the security check all people underwent on arrival. Human and robot guards scanned and probed the pair before passing them to another maze that would bring them to the top of the tower.
It was difficult to move and still look down at the arrival platform. Elaborate motile amplifying lenses of his own design—contacting the corneal surfaces—projected from his failing eyes like the antennae of a mechanical insect. While he wore them, he could not blink or move his eyes. The system lubricated the eye surfaces and controlled the wearing time, blacking out and forcing him to remove the lenses at a calibrated fatigue point. The lenses forced him to turn his head to adjust the line of sight.
Leaning on his automated walking sticks, the senior Hanson hobbled back and forth, impatient for the arrival of his sons, yet dreading it.
The young Hansons passed through Security and vanished from sight into the lower levels of the mobile tower.
The senior Hanson touched a button on one of his sticks and sent the tower rumbling deeper into the maze of the ancient MX complex. He turned his head and focused on a multicolored hologram projected from the opposite wall—a three-dimensional schematic depicting Hanson Industries’ divisions and wholly owned companies.
Biggest damn conglomerate in the solar system!
More assets than those of most nations, an octopus with arms reaching into monopolistic market dominance in places where few suspected his presence.
And who will inherit when I die?
A fit of coughing shook him, dropping his emotions to a new low. He had been feeling markedly worse of late and admitted an anxiety to get better or be done with life.
But how do I pass along the power?
He felt singularly unfortunate. Both sons were thieves and undeserving. They opposed their father in devious ways.
What did I do wrong?
He felt at least partly to blame for the aberrant natures of his sons—either by genetic transmission or in the way he had raised them. Their lives now seemed indelible and this struck him as ironic. He had long been accustomed to reshaping the universe around him according to his personal desires—molding the animate and inanimate as he wished.
And now I seem unable to change my sons.
Security devices in the outer corridor alerted him to the imminent arrival of Lutt Junior and Morey.
Time to make another stab at correcting my mistakes. And this time I’m going to be even more devious than they are!
***
Try to control everything and you’re soon juggling too many forces that have their own momentum. It’s like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice problem. When things break down into chaos, you don’t have the right spell to keep control.
—Wisdom of the Raj Dood
Osceola looked out the inceram window at the Venusian landscape on the rim of Gorontium City—ruddy flames, rivers of molten sulfur, cascades of fiery magma sparkling like a July Fourth display, orange light dancing on the poisonous clouds.
Her watch said it was early morning here but you could seldom tell by the variations in light.
She could hear Dudley in the lock of the entrance anteroom getting out of his inceram armor. Clumsy. He sounded like a bull alligator rubbing against a log.
Their penthouse with its quintuple shielding afforded the best available protection against the planet’s searing heat—450 to 600 degrees Centigrade—but she always felt uneasy here and seldom ventured out. Best to come and go by Spiral.
The rooms were comfortable, though, even if they were Spartan and all the furnishings were made out of dull inceram.
Dudley came up beside her and sealed off the view.
“Don’t torture yourself, Osey,” he said. “You don’t have to look at it. You should’ve stayed in Florida this time.”
“Don’t like the secretive way you’re doin’ things. Sometimes, I think you need a guardian. What was so danged important you had to risk going out there in armor?”
“Lutt needs a good woman to bring him into line.”
“Your nephew’s on Earth, not Venus!”
“But there must be ten or twelve women here who fit the requirements for what he needs.”
“According to you! And how you gonna get him here to meet these answers to a young man’s wet dreams?”
“I think it’ll just happen naturally.”
“Natural, my foot! You’re interfering again!”
“A littlest. I kinda whispered to him across dimensions that Venus was the ideal place for his vorcamera demonstration . . . and for other things.”
“Oh you did, did you? Well why don’t you get him a pass to the Legion cat house? That’s what your Lutt would like.”
“No women for him there. He needs a wife who sets a good example.”
“Wife? He’s not the marryin’ kind, no more’n you are.”
“We might’s well be married. Must be thirty years now.”
“Seems like thirty centuries. Men! You think all it takes is the right woman and everyt
hing turns up smellin’ like magnolias.”
“It’s worth a try, Osey. He’s not the same Lutt, what with that Preen kid sharing his body.”
“I wish you’d drop this whole mess! You haven’t done anything right with the Hansons since you tied up L.H.’s automated limo factory so’s it can only make those rickshaws.”
“That was pretty good, wasn’t it? If he messes up the limo program, all of Hanson Industries shuts down and he knows it. Got his hands tied.”
“You were really getting back at your sister, weren’t
you? For marryin’ him?”
“That’s not true, Osey!”
“Then why’d you fix it so’s she has to say ‘Hung Far Low’ before the dang things’ll move?”
“Some of her posh friends think it’s amusing.”
“So does L.H. But you’re not answering my question.”
“It’s good therapy for my sister. Reminds her where she comes from.”
“Therapy, my ass! That prudish little belle still isn’t sure where her sons come from.”
“Osey, you stop that! I know you don’t like my sister and her family but you go too far sometimes.”
“Okay. So now you’re pandering for your nephew. What’s next?”
“I’m not really trying to control things, Osey. Just influencing them a little.”
“Lutt comes up here, he could get hisself killed.”
“I know that, but Venus puts a charge in you. He’s never been on the real edge of death. It’ll be good for him.”
“Yeah, I know—therapy. Sometimes I think you fancy yourself as shrink for the whole human race.”
“Just for those who need me, Osey.”
“Like me, I suppose?”
“It was not I who brought questions to the wise man.”
“That does it! We’re going home.”
“But this is also our home.” He gestured at the dull gray room.
“This ain’t home! This is a game you play. We’re leavin’! Every time you come here you turn into a swell-headed wise guy. ‘It is not I who questions the wise man’!”
“I’m sorry, Osey, but I have to stay for awhile.”
“Well I’m goin’ back! This place gives me the creeps. And it’s even worse when I see what it does to you.”
“I tried to get you to stay in Florida.”
“I’m goin’ home but I’ll still be watchin’ you, you dang old fool! Dammit, you try my patience sometimes!”
“I’m glad you’ll be keeping an eye on me, Osey. I’ll sing out if I need help.”
“And maybe I’ll answer and maybe I won’t!”
She went to an oblong panel inset into the wall beside the entrance lock. There she placed a palm against a dark spot and her body melted into the panel, vanishing in a twisted whirl of bright light.
“Maybe it’s time I retired,” Dudley muttered.
***
Perhaps we have an unconscious desire to enter Time and scatter our seeds. This might explain the existence of Latents. How else could we Dreens harbor such wildly unpredictable idmagers in hidden form?
—Habiba’s journal
Entering his father’s office suite, Lutt automatically paused just inside the doorway, blocking Morey. This was a requisite pause to survey obstacles ahead of him. Old L.H. was notorious for rearranging his office and placing booby traps in the path of the unwary. Lutt knew most of the pitfalls but Father was continually tinkering. Father warned family members never to enter the office when the senior Hanson was absent.
“It could be fatal.”
Lutt believed him.
The place was a multilevel throne room in Lutt’s eyes. The Lord Founder of Hanson Industries stood waiting, leaning on his automated walking sticks near the far windows at the top of a crimson-carpeted stairway. No throne there, though the setting called for one. The old man rarely sat down. There was a sense of forced activity about him lately, of a man fighting ill health and desperate to remain in motion. Phlebitis hobbled him and slowed trim but Father stubbornly remained on his feet, aiming those alarming lenses at you in an unwavering mechanical stare.
“Well, come in, both of you,” L.H. called, his voice cracking slightly. “You’ll probably make it safely.”
A cackle of laughter shook the old man’s body.
Lutt led the way, conscious of Morey close behind. Straight ahead toward the carpeted stairs and pedestal at the windows, both sons walked carefully through the center of the room. Lutt composed himself to show no fear but he could smell the acridity of Morey’s sweat,
Yeah, Brother. Stick close to me. We’ll probably survive.
The old man remained silent, watchful. He had been known to call out warnings: “Don’t step there. Don’t sit there.”
Lutt kept part of his attention on the wrinkled mouth.
Halfway across the room, the sons passed a standard desk on the right against a yellow and brown wooden wall covered with charts and displays of work in progress. Father seldom used it, preferring an adjacent chairless drafting table he could use while standing. That was where L.H. did whatever remained after his computers had danced to his commands. The computer terminals occupied a gray metal wall to the left—set at a distance that forced frequent walks back and forth.
As he passed the drafting table, Lutt scanned the wall display, noting some of the interests currently occupying L.H.—Solar Wind Farms, Property Management, Space Mining Ventures Ltd., Consumer Products Division, Military Manufactures, Inc.
The old man cares more about his business than about his family, Lutt thought. Anything solely from his own imagination is more important!
Like the gadgets L.H. invented and exhibited at prominent places around the Hanson empire, he could point to each of these accomplishments and say: “This is mine.”
Lutt had decided at an early age never to become one of Father’s exhibits. Morey, however, might still fall into that trap.
At the foot of the staircase, Lutt paused at a gesture from his father. Morey bumped into him, revealing that the younger brother had been looking elsewhere.
“Don’t tread on that third step,” L.H. said. “And stay in the middle, at least a half meter from either side.”
“What is it, Father?” Lutt asked as he skipped the third step. “Detonators? Trap door? An ejection mechanism?”
L.H. smiled. “I’ve forgotten.”
The words rang true to Lutt. The old man’s automated canes were another dangerous marvel with an array of buttons that activated concealed weaponry and other devices. Lutt worried that L.H.’s feebleness might accidentally trigger a weapon, killing anyone unlucky enough to be present.
At the top of the stairs, Lutt and Morey moved to a bench on the left—”the Visitors’ Hot Seat.” Silvery smooth and hard, the alloy surface had no back, making it almost impossible for visitors to relax. Lutt had once brought a padded, clamp-on back of his own design and, in Father’s presence, provided himself with a more comfortable seat. It had been planned as something of a joke but the old man showed no reaction.
Telling me it takes more than that to get his attention.
Lutt had left his contraption in place but it was gone at his next visit, probably relegated to a trash heap by this powerful, self-consumed man.
Using his canes for support, L.H. turned slowly as his sons seated themselves, but the mechanical eyes were focused on Lutt.
“Well, Father,” Morey said.
“Be still!” L.H. snapped.
Morey fell into abashed silence.
“You both may have noticed,” L.H. said, “that I have no newspaper exhibits here. The reason has been explained to you many times. The Seattle Enquirer is good for no more than a writeoff.”
The senior Hanson’s loose-throated voice fell off in a fit of coughing that troubled Lutt. When the spasm passed, L.H. spoke in a lower voice, droning through a recital of Lutt’s many failures that concluded with the crash of the experimental ship.
Lutt waited in silence, then: “I’m learning from my mistakes the same way you learned from yours. The Enquirer—”
“A writeoff! And now I’m told you are attempting to make it profitable.”
“True. I brought in new people at higher salaries, bought modern equipment, remodeled the building and improved morale.”
“With my money! You’re wasting my money on foolishness!”
“Haven’t I heard you say it takes money to make money?”
“It also takes good sense!”
“Father, I’ve made some choices that—”
“—are unacceptable! Newspapers are an anachronism. You’re doing foolish things—even making the offices smell like an old-time establishment! Next, you’ll probably toss out the electronics and print on paper!”
“That’d be stupid!” Lutt got to his feet as he spoke but noted that Morey remained seated as Father preferred during a lecture session. “I re-created the ambience of an old news office because that’s a proven think-tank. Competitors are copying me.”
“Ambience!” L.H. sneered.
“I’m a realist, Father. I use modern technology to the hilt. I want to blend the old and the new to best advantage.”
“Son, if you’d branch into satellite communications and intersolar networks, I’d provide all the funds you—”
“Father, I want to dominate the market. My way! And it’s what I’m going to do.”
After a disturbingly long silence, L.H. asked, “How?”
“With the fastest and most reliable interplanetary news service in history.”
“Then why’re you playing these games with the Enquirer?”
“I feel comfortable with the Enquirer. It’s—”
“Comfort? Comfort is for losers. You only get ahead by being uncomfortable. That’s why I never sit at a desk.”
“Fine for you, Father, but I have more ambition than you realize.”
“I hoped you’d grow out of this nonsense.”
“The Enquirer is not nonsense!”
“You’re actually getting worse. The paper is a scandal sheet. It’s embarrassing your mother. You can’t go around sensationalizing murder, rape and offworld warfare.”