The Precipice (12 page)

Pancho took the handset and saw on the phone's tiny console screen that the caller was Martin Humphries. Rather than activate
the speaker, Pancho put the handset to her ear.

“Pancho, is that you?” Humphries's voice said, sounding annoyed. “You're standing outside the camera view.”

She stepped between the beds and swiveled the phone console. “It's me,” she said, sitting on the bed opposite the one Mandy
lay upon.

“I heard that Randolph sent you up here,” Humphries said. “But I had to learn it from another source. I haven't heard a peep
from you in months.”

With a glance at Mandy, who was watching her with intense
curiosity, Pancho replied guardedly. “Well, I'm here now.”

“Who answered the phone? You're not alone, are you?”

“Nope, I'm here with Mandy Cunningham.”

“She's an Astro employee too?”

“That's right.”

Mandy was straining to see Humphries's face, but Pancho kept the phone turned away from her.

“Well, I've got to talk to you. I've been paying you for information but so far I've gotten nothing from you but a big, fat
silence.”

Pancho made a smile. “I'd love to see you, too. I've got a lot to tell you.”

Humphries snapped, “All right, get down here right away.”

“You want me to come to dinner?” Pancho replied pleasantly.

“Dinner?” Humphries glanced at his wrist. “All right. In two hours.”

“Tonight?” Pancho cooed. “That'll be just fine. I'll see you at nineteen hundred. Okay?”

“Seven o'clock,” Humphries said. “Sharp.”

“I'll be there.”

Pancho hung up the phone and said to Amanda, “I'll use the shower first, Mandy. I've got a dinner date.”

She left Mandy standing by the bed, staring at her with wide-eyed astonishment.

Martin Humphries clicked his phone off and stretched back in his recliner. Maybe she's smarter than I gave her credit for.
She hasn't gotten in touch with me before this because she doesn't want to get caught. Okay, that's reasonable. She's being
cautious. She's been surrounded by Randolph's people all the time. There's even somebody in her quarters with her.

Humphries broke into a satisfied grin. Randolph's making his people double up, to save money. He's on the ropes, and he thinks
I'm
going to save him from bankruptcy.

He laughed aloud. “Me! The savior of Dan Randolph!”

He was still giggling when he put through his call to Nobuhiko Yamagata.

The head of Yamagata Industries was in his Tokyo office, from the looks of it. Humphries could see through the window behind
Yamagata several construction cranes and the spidery steelwork of new towers going up. Rebuilding from the last earthquake.
They'd better build stronger, he thought grimly. A lot stronger.

“Mr. Yamagata,” Humphries said, nodding his head once in imitation of a polite bow. “It's good of you to take the time to
talk with me.”

He thought about putting Yamagata's image on the wallscreen, but that would make the Japanese look too big. He preferred the
smaller desktop screen.

“Mr. Humphries,” said Nobo, nearly three seconds later, barely dipping his chin. “It is always a pleasure to converse with
you.”

Blasted bullshit, Humphries thought. You can't come right out and say what you want with these Japs. You have to make polite
fucking conversation for half an hour before you can get down to business.

To his surprise, though, Yamagata said, “Dan Randolph has asked me to invest in a new venture.”

“Let me guess,” Humphries said. “He wants to build a fusion rocket system.”

Again the wait for the microwaves to reach Tokyo and return. “Yes, to go out to the Asteroid Belt and begin developing the
resources there.”

“And what will your answer be?”

Once Yamagata heard Humphries's question, his normally impassive face showed a tic of annoyance.

“I will be forced to tell him that Yamagata Industries is
fully committed to rebuilding the cities that were damaged so heavily by the tsunamis and earthquakes. We have no funds to
spare on space developments.”

“Good,” said Humphries.

Yamagata seemed to freeze into stone. At last he murmured, “It will be as we agreed.”

“You'd like to help him, wouldn't you?”

The seconds stretched. At last Yamagata said, “He is an old friend.”

“You two were competitors at one time.”

“Yamagata Industries no longer has any operations in space,” the Japanese said slowly. “All of our energies are devoted to
terrestrial developments.”

“So I understand.”

“But I agree with Dan. The resources from space can be of vital importance to our rebuilding efforts.”

“I think so, too.”

Yamagata seemed to be searching Humphries's eyes, trying to penetrate to his secret thoughts. “Then why do you insist that
I refuse to help him?”

“You misunderstand me,” Humphries said, putting on an expression of injured integrity. “I want Randolph to succeed. I intend
to fund his fusion rocket venture myself.”

“Yes, so I understand,” said Yamagata, once Humphries's answer reached him. “What I do not understand is why you pressured
me to refuse Dan.”

“Could you help him if you wish?”

Yamagata hesitated, but at last replied, “I could put together two billion for him.”

“Without hurting your rebuilding projects?”

The hesitation was longer this time. “There would be some… repercussions.”

“But I can provide the funding and you don't have to take a penny from your existing projects.”

Yamagata said nothing for many long moments. Then, “You have put considerable pressure on the banks to make
certain that I do not fund Dan Randolph. I want to know why.”

“Because I believe the same as you do,” Humphries replied, earnestly, “that all of Japan's resources of capital and manpower
should be devoted to rebuilding your nation. This fusion rocket venture is very speculative. Suppose it doesn't work? The
money will be wasted.”

“Yet you are willing to risk your own money.”

“I have the money to risk,” Humphries said.

After an even longer pause, Yamagata said, “You could invest that two billion in Japan. You could help to house the homeless
and feed the hungry. You could assist us to rebuild our cities.”

Humphries worked hard to avoid grinning. Now I've got the little bugger, he told himself. To Yamagata he said, “Yes, you're
right. Tell you what I'll do: I'll give Randolph one billion only, and invest the other billion in Yamagata Industries. How's
that?”

The Japanese industrialist's eyes flickered when he heard Humphries's words. He sucked in a deep, shrill breath.

“Would you be willing to invest your billion in the Renew Nippon Fund?”

“That's essentially a charity, isn't it?”

“It is a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping those who have been displaced by our natural disasters.”

This time Humphries hesitated, paused, let Yamagata believe that he was thinking it over before he came to a decision. The
damned fool. Thinks he's so fucking smart, keeping me from putting any money into his own corporation. Okay, keep me shut
out from your company. I'll get you sooner or later.

With as much of a show of concern as he could muster, Humphries said, “Mr. Yamagata, if you think that's the best way for
me to help Japan, then that's what I'll do. One billion for Randolph, and one billion for the Renew Nippon Fund.”

Yamagata was actually smiling as they ended their conversation. Once he had switched off the phone, Humphries burst into enormously
satisfied laughter.

They're all so dense! So blind! Yamagata wants to rebuild Japan. Randolph wants to save the whole fricking world. Damned fools!
None of them understand that the world is done for. Nothing's going to save them. The thing is to build a new civilization
off-Earth. Build a new society where it's safe, where only the best people are allowed to live. Build it… and rule it.

T
he Executive Board of the Global Economic Council met in a spacious conference room on the top floor of the undistinguished
neomodern glass-and-steel office tower that served as the GEC's headquarters. Originally, GEC's offices had been in Amsterdam,
but the rising sea level and pounding storms that raged through the North Sea made that city untenable. The Dutch struggled
in vain to hold back the Usselmeer, only to see their city's narrow streets and gabled houses flooded time and again as the
canals overflowed and the unrelenting sea took back the land that had been reclaimed by centuries of hard work. The GEC fled
to London.

Not that London itself was immune to the rampaging storms and flooding. But the Thames was easier to control than the North
Sea. And most of London was still above even the new, rising sea level.

Meetings of the Global Economic Council were usually restricted to the nine regular members and the privileged few
who were invited to explain their positions or plead their causes. The news media were barred from the meetings, and there
was no gallery for the public to attend.

Still, Vasily Malik dreaded this meeting of the Executive Board. Dan Randolph had demanded a hearing, and Randolph always
made trouble.

Vasily Sergeivitch Malik was handsome enough to be a video star. He was tall for a Russian, slightly over one hundred eighty
centimeters, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled. About the same age as Dan Randolph, Malik kept his body in good trim through
a rigid schedule of daily exercise—and rejuvenation therapies that he kept secret from everyone except his doctors in Moscow.
Most people thought he dyed his once-graying hair; no one knew that injections of telomerase had returned youthful vigor to
him. Malik enjoyed his secret. His Arctic blue eyes sparkled with good humor.

Until he thought about Dan Randolph. Once they had been deadly enemies in politics, in business, even in romance. The catastrophic
greenhouse cliff had forced them into a reluctant alliance. The old enmities were buried; not forgotten, but put aside while
they each strove in their own way to save what remained of Earth's civilization.

We still don't think alike, Malik said to himself as he took his chair at the long committee table. He was serving as chairman
for this session, so he knew that Randolph's principal fire would be directed at him. It's nothing personal, Malik repeated
silently over and over. That was finished long ago. Our differences now are differences of attitude, differences of outlook
and expectation.

Still, his stomach knotted at the thought of tangling with Randolph again.

The conference room was comfortable without being ostentatious. The carpeting was neutral gray, although thick and expensive.
The sweeping windows that extended along one entire wall were discreetly curtained; a long sideboard
of polished mahogany stood there, bearing a variety of drinks from spring water to iced vodka, and trays of finger foods.
The table at which the board members sat was also mahogany; each place was set with a built-in computer and electronic stylus.
The chairs were high-backed, luxuriously padded and upholstered in matte black leather.

Randolph had insisted, however, that the room be sprayed with disinfectant before the meeting began. Malik had been assured
that the spray was necessary, and odorless. Still, his nose wrinkled as he took his chair in the exact middle of the table.
Once all nine Board members were comfortably seated at the long table, Malik nodded to the uniformed guard at the door to
admit the day's witnesses.

Dan Randolph came through the door and strode straight to the witness table. He looked firm and fit to Malik, dressed in a
respectable business suit of dark blue. Randolph's chin was sticking out pugnaciously. He expects a fight, Malik thought.

Behind Randolph came two others. One was a gnomish, dark-haired man, Randolph's technical expert. Malik glanced at the agenda
notes on the display screen built into the table before him: Lyall Duncan, an engineer. The other person was a tall blond
woman who looked too young to be an expert at anything, except perhaps warming Randolph's bed. A few keystrokes and the display
screen identified her as an electronics engineer from California.

Malik caught Randolph's eye as the American took his seat at the witness table. A slight crease across his face showed he
had been wearing a sanitary mask. Randolph's usual cocky grin was absent. He looked determined, and deadly serious.

Suppressing a groan, Malik called the meeting to order.

They went through the standard agenda items first, while Randolph sat tensely, watching them like a leopard sizing up a herd
of antelope. Finally they came to Randolph's item:
Request for funding new space propulsion system.

Malik formally introduced Randolph to the other Board members, most of whom already knew Dan. Then, wishing he were elsewhere,
Malik asked Dan to explain his proposal.

Randolph looked up at the Board and surveyed the long table from one end to the other. There were no notes before him, no
slides or videos. Nothing on the little table except a silver carafe of water and a single crystal tumbler beside it. Slowly,
he got to his feet.

“Ever since the greenhouse cliff hit,” he began, “and our world's climate began to shift so drastically—no, actually, even
before
the greenhouse cliff came—it's been clear that the people of Earth need the resources that exist off-planet. Energy, raw
materials, metals, minerals, all of the resources that Earth needs to rebuild its crippled economy lie in tremendous abundance
in interplanetary space.”

He paused for a heartbeat, then resumed. “In fact, if we have any hope of stabilizing the global climate and avoiding even
worse warming than we've experienced so far, then a significant portion of the Earth's heavy industries must be moved off-planet.”