Beyond the Blue Event Horizon (23 page)

“Certainly, Mrs. Broadhead,” Harriet said from the console at the head of Essie’s bed. Her image sputtered into blackness as quickly as it had appeared, and Essie put her arms around me.

“I will see that you have complete communications in Brasilia,” she promised, “and Harriet will be instructed to keep you posted on my condition at all times. Square count, Robin. If I need you, you will know at once.”

I said into her ear, “Well-“

She said into my shoulder, “Is no ‘well’. Is settled, and, Robin? I love you very much.”

Albert tells me that every radio message I send is actually a long, skinny string of photons, like a spear thrown into space. A thirty-second burst communication is a column nine million kilometers long, each photon zipping along at the speed of light, in perfect step all the way. But even that long, fast, skinny spear takes forever to go 5,000 A.U. The fever that had wounded my wife had taken twenty-five days to get here. The orders to stop fooling with the couch had gone only a fraction of the way before they passed the second fever, the one the girl Janine had laid on us. Lightly, to be sure. Our message congratulating the Herter-Halls on arriving at the Food Factory, out somewhere past Pluto’s orbit, had passed the one to tell us that most of them had gone skylarking off to Heechee Heaven. By now they were there; and our message telling them what to do about it was long since at the Food Factory for relay-for once two events had occurred at times close enough to have some meaning for each other.

But by the time we knew what meaning they had had, the event would again be twenty-five days in the past. What an annoyance! I wanted many things on the Food Factory, but what I wanted most of all at that moment was that faster-than-light radio. Astonishing that such a thing should be! But when I charged Albert with being caught flat-footed by it, he had smiled that gentle, humble smile and poked his pipestem at his ear and said, “Sure thing, Robin, if you mean the sort of surprise that one feels when an unlikely contingency turns out to be real. But it was always a contingency. Remember. The Heechee ships were able to navigate without error to moving targets. That suggests the possibility of communication at nearly instantaneous speeds over astronomical distances-ergo, a faster-than-light radio.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me about it?” I demanded.

He scratched one sneakered foot against the other sockless ankle. “It was only a possibility, Robin, estimated no more than point oh five. A sufficient condition, but not a necessary one. We simply didn’t have enough evidence, until now.”

I could have been chatting with Albert on the way down to Brasilia. But I was traveling commercial-the company aircraft aren’t fast enough for those distances-and I like having Albert where I can see him when we talk, so I spent my time voice-only with company business and Morton. And of course with Harriet, who was under orders to check in once an hour, except when I was asleep, with a quick status report on Essie.

Even hypersonic, a ten-thousand-kilometer flight takes a while, and I had time for a lot of business. Morton wanted as much of it as he could get, mostly to try to talk me out of meeting with Bover. “You have to take him seriously, Robin,” be whined through the plug in my ear. “Bover’s represented by Anjelos, Carpenter and Gutmann, and they’re high-powered people, with really good legal programs.”

“Better than you?”

Hesitation. “Well-I hope not, Robin.”

“Tell me something, Morton. If Bover didn’t have much of a case to begin with, why are these high-powered people bothering with him?”

Although I couldn’t see him, I knew that Morton would be assuming his defensive look, partly apologetic, partly you-laymen-wouldn’t-understand. “It’s not all that weak, Robin. And it hasn’t gone well for us so far. And it’s takking on some larger dimension than we originally estimated. And I assume that they thought their connections would patch up the weak spots-I also assume that they’re in for a son-of-a-bitching big contingency fee. You’d be better advised to patch up some of our own weak spots than take a chance with Bover, Robin. Your pal Senator Praggler is on this month’s oversight committee. Go see him first.”

“I’ll go see him, but not first,” I told Morton, and cut him off as we circled in for a landing. I could see the big Gateway Authority tower overshadowing the silly flat saucer over the House of Representatives, and off up the lake the bright reflections of tin roofs in the Free Town. I had cut it pretty close. My date with Trish Bover’s widower (or husband, depending on how you looked at it) was in less than an hour, and I didn’t really want to keep him waiting.

I didn’t have to. I was already sitting at a table in the courtyard dining room of the Brasilia Palace hotel when he came in. Skinny. Tall. Balding. He sat down nervously, as if he were in a desperate hurry, or desperately eager to be somewhere else. But when I offered him lunch he took ten minutes to study the menu and wound up ordering all of it. Fresh hearts of palm salad, little fresh-water shrimp from the lake, all the way down to that wonderful raw pineapple flown up from Rio. “This is my favorite hotel in Brasilia,” I informed him genially, hostfully, as he poured dressing on the hearts of palm. “Old. But good. I suppose you’ve seen all the sights?”

“I’ve lived here for eight years, Mr. Broadhead.”

“Oh, I see.” I hadn’t known where the hell the son of a bitch lived, he was just a name and a nuisance. So much for travelog. I tried common interests. “I got a flash synoptic from the Food Factory on the way down here. The Herter-Hall party is doing well, finding out some marvelous things. Did you know that we’ve identified four of the Dead Men as actual Gateway prospectors?”

“I saw something about that on the PV, yes, Mr. Broadhead. It’s quite exciting.”

“More than that, Bover. It can change this whole world around-and make us all filthy rich, too.” He nodded, his mouth full of salad. He kept on keeping his mouth full, too; I wasn’t doing much good trying to draw him out. “All right,” I said, “why don’t we get down to business? I want you to drop that injunction.”

He chewed and swallowed. With the next forkful of shrimp poised at his mouth he said, “I know you do, Mr. Broadhead,” and refilled the mouth.

I took a long, slow sip of my wine and seltzer and said, with complete control of my voice and manner, “Mr. Bover, I don’t think you understand what the issues are. I don’t mean to put you down. I just can’t believe you have all the facts. We’re both going to lose if you keep that injunction in force.” I went over the whole case with him, with care, exactly as Morton had spelled it out to me: Gateway Corp’s intervention, eminent domain, the problem of complying with a court order when your compliance doesn’t get to the people it affects until a month and a half after they’ve gone and done whatever they were going to do, the opportunity for a negotiated settlement. “What I’m trying to say,” I said, “is that this is really big. Too big for us to be divided. They won’t fuck around with us, Bover. They’ll just go ahead and expropriate us.”

He didn’t stop chewing, just listened, and then when he had nothing more to chew he took a sip from his demitasse and said, “We really don’t have anything to discuss, Mr. Broadhead.”

“Of course we do!”

“Not unless we both think so,” he pointed out, “and I don’t. You’re a little mistaken in some of the things you say. I don’t have an injunction any more. I have a judgment.”

“Which I can get reversed in a hot-“

“Yes, maybe you can. But not in a hot anything. The law will take its course, and it will take time. I won’t make any deal Trish paid for whatever comes out of this. Since she isn’t around to protect her rights I guess I have to.”

“But it’s going to cost both of us!”

“That’s as may be. As my lawyer says. He advised me against this meeting.”

“Then why did you come?”

He looked at the remains of his lunch, then out at the fountains in the courtyard. Three returned Gateway prospectors were sitting on the edge of a reflecting pool with a slightly drunk Varig stewardess, singing and tossing crumbs of French pastry to the goldfish. They had struck it rich. “It makes a nice change for me, Mr. Broadhead,” he said.

Out of the window of my suite, high up in the new Palace Tower, I could see the crown-of-thorns of the cathedral glinting in the sun. It was better than looking at my legal program on the full-service monitor, because he was eating me out. “You may have prejudiced our whole case, Robin. I don’t think you understand how big this is getting.”

“That’s what I told Bover.”

“No, really, Robin. Not just Robin Broadhead, Inc., not even just the Gateway Corporation. Government’s getting into it. And not just the signatories to the Gateway Convention either. This may wind up a U.N. matter.”

“Oh, come on, Morton! Can they do that?”

“Of course they can, Robin. Eminent domain. Your friend Bover isn’t helping things any, either. He’s petitioning for a conservator to take over your personal and corporate holdings in this matter, in order to administer the exploration properly.”

The son of a bitch. He must have known that was happening while we were eating the lunch I bought him. “What’s this word ‘proper’? What have I done that was improper?”

“Short list, Robin?” He ticked off his fingers. “One, you exceeded your authority by giving the Hester-Hall party more freedom of action than was contemplated, which, two, led to their expedition to Heechee Heaven with all of its potential consequences and thus, three, brought about a situation of grave national peril. Strike that. Grave human peril.”

“That’s crap, Morton!”

“That’s the way he put it in the petition,” he nodded, “and, yes, we may persuade somebody it’s crap. Sooner or later. But right now it’s up to the Gateway Corp to act or not.”

“Which means I better see the Senator.” I got rid of Morton and called Harriet to ask about my appointment.

“I can give you the Senator’s secretarial program now,” she smiled, and faded to show a rather sketchy animation of a handsome young black girl. It was quite poor simulation, nothing like the programs Essie writes for me. But then Praggler was only a United States senator.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted me. “The Senator asks me to say that he’s in Rio de Janeiro on committee business this evening, but will be happy to see you whenever convenient tomorrow morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?”

“Let’s say nine,” I told her, somewhat relieved. I had been a little worried about Praggler’s failure to get back to me right away. But now I perceived he had a good reason: the fleshpots of Ipanema. “Harriet?” When she came back I asked, “How’s Mrs. Broadhead?”

“No change, Robin,” she smiled. “She’s awake and available now, if you’d like to speak to her.”

“Bet your sweet little electronic tooshy I do,” I told her. She nodded and drifted away. Harriet is a really good program; she doesn’t always understand the words, but she can make a yes-no decision from the tone of my voice, and so when Essie appeared I said, “S. Ya. Lavorovna, you do nice work.”

“To be sure, dear Robin,” she agreed, preening herself. She stood up and turned slowly around. “As do our doctors, you will observe.”

It took a moment for it to hit me. There were no life-support tubes! She wore flesh-form casts on her left side, but she was free of the machines! “My God, woman, what happened?”

“Perhaps healing has happened,” she said serenely. “Although it is only an experiment. The doctors have just left, and I am to try this for six hours. Then they will examine me again.”

“You look bloody marvelous.” We chatted fill-in talk for a few minutes; she told me about the doctors, I told her about Brasilia, while I studied her as carefully as I could in a PV tank. She kept getting up and stretching, delighting in her freedom, until she worried me. “Are you sure you’re supposed to do all that?”

“I have been told that I must not think of water skiing or dancing for a while. But perhaps not everything that is fun is prohibited.”

“Essie, you lewd lady, is that a lustful look I see in your eye? Are you feeling well enough for that?”

“Quite well, yes. Well. Not well,” she amplified, “but perhaps as though you and I had enjoyed a hard night’s drinking a day or two ago. A little fragile. But I do not think I would be harmed by a gentle lover.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“You will not be back tomorrow morning,” she said firmly. “You will be back when you are entirely through with your business in Brasilia and not one moment before or else, my boy, you will not find any willing partner for your debauched intentions here.”

I said good-bye in a rosy glow.

Which lasted all of twenty-five minutes, until I got around to double-checking with the doctor.

It took a little while, because she was just getting back to Columbia Medical when I called. “I’m sorry to be rushed, Mr. Broadhead,” she apologized, shrugging out of her gray tweed suit-coat. “I’ve got to show students how to suture nerve tissue in about ten minutes.”

“You usually call me Robin, Dr. Liederman,” I said, cooling off quickly.

“Yes, I do-Robin. Don’t get worried. I don’t have bad news.” While she was talking she was continuing to strip down, as far as brassiere level, before putting on a turtleneck and an operating-room gown. Wilma Liederman is a good-looking woman of a certain age, but I was not there to ogle her charms.

“But you don’t have good news, either?”