Hidden Variables (3 page)

"Don't let this mislead you." Garry took his arm and began to draw him into the protected area. "This launch will look great—they always do. But we're down again by another twenty percent from last year. The Shuttle works like a dream now—whenever we can get approval to do anything useful with it. We've done all the easy stuff"—he waved his arm with its wrist radio—"but there's nothing new about antenna farms. Dammit, they've been around for fifteen years now. We
have
to see some new starts."

The siren had changed to a more urgent, high pitched note as they entered the blockhouse. Len went at once over to the display screen. The silver Orbiter with its solid boosters and external tank looked fat and clumsy, too squat and awkward ever to leave the ground.

"Two minutes," said Garry, sitting down next to him.

"So it's the way we figured it." Len didn't take his eyes from the screen. "We're going to lose out to the other countries—we won't even come in second."

"Maybe not that bad." Garry's voice was baffled."I thought the way you did, until I went over to Geneva for the last joint meeting. Now, I'm not so sure. Hold it, now, we're on the final thirty seconds."

They sat silent as the last seconds of the countdown ticked away. On cue, the swell of flame appeared at the base of the rocket and the assembly began its first stately lift-off. Inside the concrete block-house, four miles from launch, the noise was still deafening.

Garry flicked in the tracking monitor, split-screen from the rising Shuttle and the down-range cameras. "She's away. Watch that status display, any second now we'll get solid booster separation. We'll have an accurate trajectory back here in a couple more minutes, but from the look of it she's going to orbit with no problems."

He turned away from the screen, swinging his chair to face Len. "That's what makes me sick. See those boosters? Ten years, and we still use solids. We should have had liquid reuseables years ago. The Space Tug's still on the drawing boards, and we're further from nuclear propulsion than we were in 1960. The International Affairs people in Washington are so sensitive about Test Ban agreements that we can't even
mention
nuclear any more, not even for comparative studies."

Len was still hungrily drinking in the displays.
This was the real thing—the action was here, not back in New York fiddling with precedent, regulation, and who won in Soriba versus Rockwell, 1982. What was the point of all that legal effort, if it didn't lead to this?
He watched until the final sign of the ascending Obiter was gone from all the displays, then turned at last to Garry.

"We
must
be losing out. I've been looking at the patents filed, things are going slower than ever. Our own system is killing us—strangling us. Remember our oath? At this rate we'll never do it."

"I know. But Len, you're wrong on one thing. We're not losing out. Everybody seems to be in the same boat."

"Slowing down?" Len's attention was suddenly all on Garry.

"And how. China, Russia, Japan, Europe, Australia—all over. Everybody has a space program in trouble. We keep trying to move ahead, but there's more and more red tape and bureaucratic bumscratching. You'll find this hard to believe, but we're not doing at all badly here."

"Everyone's strangling? What about the Brazilians?"

"Just as bad. Hell, if there were any place better, I'd go there, but I can't find a cure anywhere in the world."

Len turned back to the displays. On the one showing the launch area, a large black automobile was crawling slowly towards the pad. Windows of tinted glass made it impossible to see the interior, but it looked like a great hearse moving across the concrete. Len stared at it, a sudden speculation showing on his face.

"Maybe there is an answer. Garry, remember the oath? Meet on the Moon, July 20th, 1999, and drink a toast."

"We weren't the only ones that made it, I'll tell you that. Lots of the guys here did the same thing when they were kids. Better face it, Len, something took a wrong turn. A lot of us want space—millions of us, if NASA's mail means anything—but there's no
mechanism
any more. We've got technology, all we need. But we'll never make it through all the control and half-assed regulations. You ought to recognize that, too. Come on down here, there's still a job for you."

"Yeah." Len's eyes were still fixed on the black limousine. "Maybe, if all else fails . . ."

"All else
has
failed. The bureaucrats are in charge, all over the world."

"Not quite. I haven't given up the idea of legal loopholes completely. But if it doesn't work, I have another thought. What's that limo out there make you think of?"

"Eh?" Garry turned to the screen. "The VIP tour car? Beats me. Funeral parlors? Al Capone and Lucky Luciano? Henry Ford?"

"Pretty close with one of those. Look, Garry, I need to bounce something off you. Can we go for another beer?"

Garry looked doubtful. "I told Jennie we'd be home early for dinner."

"Still interested in drinking that toast?"

"All right." Garry sighed. "I'll call and tell her we'll be late. I know a bar where they don't blast muzak down your ear. If we don't get through by eight, though, you'll have to tell me the rest of it over at the house."

* * *

The winter storm had surprised everyone with its ferocity. After three days at a standstill, the ploughs were finally beginning to make an impression on the Dayton suburbs. Len stood inside the bitterly cold garage and looked out through grime-coated windows at the blown snow drifts. He had been waiting for almost half an hour in the unheated building.

"All right." The big man had slipped through from the inner office so quietly that Len had not heard him arrive. "You can come in now. But hold still while I check you over."

"Somebody already did that."

"Yeah." There was a gruff chuckle in the darkness. "But that was twenty minutes ago. Meyer likes people who are thorough. O.K., you're clean. Keep your hands behind you and go on in."

Inside there was more light but no heat. Len shivered and walked forward to the old table. A little man with thick grey hair, carefully styled, sat behind it. Len received a long, measured stare before Sal Meyer again bent his head to the papers spread out in front of him.

"So all right." Meyer was wearing thick woollen gloves with just the fingertips cut away. "So you're Seth's nephew. Yeah, I can maybe see his look there. You're a Martello, you got the nose."

Dark eyes flashed up from their inspection of the papers and fixed again on Len's face. "You got fancy degrees, one in engineering and one in law. Now, you tell me what you want a job with us for. There's lots of other places you could work, no sweat for finding a job for yourself."

Len took a deep breath. "Money. I want to make a lot of it."

"You could do that in a law practice just as easy. Crooks, all of 'em, but you never see one in jail."

"But I don't see why I should work eighty hours a week, just to pay it in taxes."

That produced the first trace of a smile from Meyer. "You got me there. That's what I hated worst of all when I worked in City Transport. The big gouge, I call it." The smile was suddenly gone. "All right, you want a job with us. Now tell me what you got that I can't get better from Jake and Rocky behind you. Do it quick, before we all freeze to death here."

"I've talked to Uncle Seth. He wouldn't tell me much—"

"Bet your ass he wouldn't—not if he wanted to stay well."

"—but he made me think you've probably got problems with distribution, and maybe with quality control. I think I can help with both. I've controlled a fractional distillation line, I know how to check for fusel oils."

Sal Meyer held up his hand. "I talked to Seth, too. Look, I don't care about the quality end of it. If people are willing to drink it, or run their buggies on it, that's not my problem. Distribution is—specially with the way the pay-offs have been screwed up with the new Chief of Police. How greedy are you?"

"Try me and see."

Meyer grinned again. "Let me tell you the rules. I don't care where you make your money, how you spend it—except when it's in my area. I've got drugs, and I've got gambling. Anything that you make in that area, I take a third. If you want to get into booze and pimping, that's up to you. I don't ask for a piece. But remember, you get in trouble in those areas and you're on your own. I won't make one phone call to help you. If it's trouble you get into on my business, you'll have the best lawyers money can buy. You married?"

"No."

"Kids?"

"No."

"All right. For a married man, I look after the wife and kids if he goes inside." Meyer looked at Len curiously. "What do you do for fun?"

"I keep busy." Len cleared his throat. "I gather you're offering me a job, then?"

"I got an opening in Cleveland. Just so you know what's happening, the number two man over there got too greedy, started moving in on the hard drugs action. We've not heard from him for two weeks, and somehow I figure we're not going to. You'd go in as Number Three, and if you do anything decent you can move up fast. You want to ask me about money?"

"Not at the moment."

"O.K. That's the right answer." Meyer stood up and came around the table. He moved to within a few inches of Len and peered closely at his face. "How'd you get that lip?"

"Played ice hockey without a mask, back in high school." Len realized that Sal Meyer preferred short answers—something to file away for future reference.

"O.K." Meyer stepped back and gestured to the men behind Len. "Martello, don't tell the customers how you got that scar. It's worth money in your bank account. You'll have to organize a little enforcing once in a while—it helps a lot if you look as though you've seen action. If you need to reach me, do it through Seth or Jake here. You'll see me anyway, once a week. O.K. Jake."

"Thank you, Mr. Meyer." Len drew another deep breath as he was shepherded out into the main garage.

"Don't thank me, it's all business. So long, Lips, be seein' you next week. Oh, yeah, one other thing."

Len turned in the doorway. "What?"

"Tell your Uncle Seth he'll have an extra piece of change coming from me. And if you know any good people, let me know. Competence seems to get rarer and rarer."

He nodded, and the door closed.

"All right, Lips," said Jake. He shivered in the unlit garage. "Give this fucking snow a day or two to clear, and I'll show you round your area. You're part of the operation now. Remember one thing. Once you're in, you can't leave—so take my advice, and don't even think of it."

* * *

LUNAR AGREEMENT SIGNED. At a Special Session of the United Nations, marked by a parade of angry demonstrators along Fifth Avenue, the controversial Lunar Agreement was finally signed. All off-Earth resources of the Moon and all other natural celestial bodies become, under this Agreement, the common heritage of all mankind, and the common property of all mankind. No organization, group, or nation may exploit those resources without paying compensation to all member nations, on a scale to be decided by the General Assembly.

Industrial representatives have pointed out that this Treaty makes it impossible for any corporate enterprise to continue to invest in Lunar development, or to plan the use of Lunar resources, since the basis for compensation to other nations remains unresolved. The Agreement has been defended by the Administration as the natural next step in the peaceful uses of Outer Space. Opponents of the Agreement deride this view, since there is an admitted escalation in particle and laser weapon beam development for use in near-Earth orbit. However, with the signing of the Agreement further debate on the issue now appears of academic interest only . . .

—UN Correspondent, N.Y.

"Yes, I've got it right here." Len looked up from the video screen, where Garry Scanlon's earnest face showed as a diminutive black and white image. He winked at Sal Meyer, waved him to a seat and turned back to the screen. "I read it the same way that you do, Garry—it'll have a bad effect. Remember what the Law of the Sea Treaty did to the industrial investments in deep ocean development? This will be as bad as that, maybe worse. Look, I'll call you tonight and we can talk about it some more. How's Jennie?"

Garry shook his head. "No change."

Len sat silent for a moment. Since the loss of the baby, stillborn, he had a feeling that a thin curtain had come down between him and Garry—the barrier that separated those with families from those without. "Do they think it was the drugs?" he said at last.

Garry shrugged. "Who knows? The Government tests and tests, and still they don't know what's good and what's bad." His voice was bitter. "Len, I feel as though the whole world's going to hell. There's not a thing left working for."

"Stick with it, keep on working." Len's voice was gentle. "Remember the oath. I haven't given up hope, you know—and I may need help soon. Talk to you later."

While Len talked, Meyer had unabashedly been picking up and reading letters and notices that sat on top of Len's desk. That was something worth noting for future reference. Meyer had stopped at the Lunar Agreement article.

"What in hell's name is this doing here? You thinking of putting a few feds into orbit, Lips?"

"Wouldn't be a bad idea. You know they're walking all over our operations?" Len smiled. "It's hard to believe, but they suspect we're not paying all our taxes."

"Are the books all clean?"

"Trust me—
both
sets of them. They won't find a thing wrong. As for that article, don't ignore it. I think it might be very important to us."

Meyer picked it up again and took another look. "This? You're crazy. How could it have anything to do with us?"

"That depends on how good your contacts are. Look, Sal, you know the figures on the drug business a lot better than I do. How much will the new intercountry agreement on drug sources cost us? I don't mean local operations, I mean over the whole world, for us and others like us."

Meyer leaned back and squinted at the ceiling. Len knew what was going on inside that grey head. Figures were being recalled, summed, allocated and compared.