Death Wave (20 page)

“It's so good of you to meet me personally,” Nordquist said, actually feeling impressed.

As they walked past the lines of other passengers filing through the immigration inspections, Stavenger smiled boyishly.

“I don't have much of a staff,” he explained. “I haven't been an official member of Selene's government for ages.”

Nordquist picked up his slight emphasis on the word “official.” Stavenger had been Selene's leader back in the early days, when the community was still known as Moonbase. He had led the short, sharp battle for independence against the old United Nations a century before Nordquist had been born. For all that time he had been the power behind the throne of Selene; he had no official position, he merely was the man who made the effective decisions.

“But you're a member of the World Council,” she said to him. “That's quite an honor.”

He smiled at her. “Anita Halleck's rubber stamp,” he said. The smile told her that he didn't mean for her to take the remark seriously. But still, she thought, he'd said it.

They rode the tram through the tunnel that linked the spaceport to the mostly underground community of Selene. Stavenger assumed—correctly—that Nordquist wasn't interested in the usual tourist attractions in the Grand Plaza. He knew she hadn't come to the Moon for low-
g
acrobatics or flying like a bird on rented wings with nothing but her own muscle power.

He took her directly to his home: a snug set of rooms nestled deep in Selene's warren of tunnels.

Stavenger ushered her into a smallish room furnished with comfortable chairs; its walls were covered with smartscreens that glowed softly. No desk, Nordquist noted. No signs of authority; he doesn't need to impress visitors, he's impressive on his own.

Once they had settled into padded chairs facing each other, Stavenger got straight to the subject. “I assume your visit here has to do with Jordan Kell.”

“You assume correctly,” Nordquist responded. “He's slipped away from the security team that was guarding him.”

Surprised, Stavenger blurted, “He did?”

“Yes. Apparently he spent last night with Professor Rudaki, but now he's gone.”

“You don't know where he is?”

“No, we don't.”

“Rudaki doesn't know where he's gone?”

“If he does, he's not admitting it.”

Stavenger fought down the urge to smile. Anita's security people can't run roughshod over a Council member the way they would over an ordinary citizen, he knew.

“And Kell's wife?” he asked.

Nordquist replied, “She's safely in the Council's communications complex. One of our research scientists is studying the communications device that's implanted in her brain.”

“Oh?”

Her face taut, Nordquist explained, “That's the device that allowed Kell to take over every broadcast station in the solar system.”

“Yes,” Stavenger said, nearly smiling. “Even our own system here in Selene carried Kell's little speech.”

“We'd like to know how they did that.”

“They? You mean Kell and his wife?”

“Yes. And, of course, that device in her skull can send and receive messages faster than light.”

Stavenger leaned back in his chair. “Anita must be very interested in that.”

“Indeed she is.”

“You know,” he said, “I was the one who got Anita active in public service, ages ago. She's come a long way since then.”

Nordquist started to reply, thought better of it, and merely nodded.

“She's very ambitious,” Stavenger said.

“She has enormous responsibilities.”

“And no intention of stepping down as head of the World Council.”

“She's facing reelection next year.”

“She'll win easily.” Suddenly Stavenger's eyes narrowed. “Unless Kell runs against her.”

Nordquist's jaw sagged open. “Run against her? He can't! He's a fugitive!”

“Has he been charged with a crime?”

“No … but he's escaped from protective custody.”

“And Anita's trying to get him back, keep him bottled up, prevent him from talking to the public.”

“It's
protective
custody,” Nordquist insisted. “There are plenty of fanatics out there who'd try to kill him.”

“Or use him for their own purposes.”

Nordquist sat up straight, stiff-backed. “Mr. Stavenger, I'm here to remind you that aiding a hunted fugitive is a breach of the law—even on the Moon.”

Strangely, Stavenger broke into a low chuckle. “We're not harboring Kell here in Selene. You can assure Anita of that.” Then he sobered and added, “Although, if he showed up here, I imagine our governing council would be tempted to grant him asylum.”

“You can't do that!”

“Selene is an independent nation, Ms. Nordquist. We make our own decisions.”

“You'd better not decide to harbor Kell. Or his wife. Make certain that your governing council understands that.”

“What would Anita do if we did harbor him?”

Nordquist hesitated only a heartbeat before answering, “The first thing she'd do is cut off all commerce between Earth and Selene. That's the
first
step. There would be more to follow, I assure you.”

Stavenger muttered, “Yes, I assume there would be.”

“Kell's not worth going to war.”

“Freedom is,” said Stavenger.

 

GRIFFIN AND OTERO

“Lester Youngeagle?” Vera Griffin was sitting in the cubicle that had been assigned to her as the new producer of the “Neighbors and Friends” segment of the evening news show.

As she had expected, her promotion meant she had to move to the network headquarters, in Boston. With a mixture of anticipation and reluctance she had made the move, and now she sat in her new cubicle, its partitions bare and impersonal, surprised that this young Native American she had met more than a year ago was calling her.

Griffin was wearing a stylish shifting-hued blouse and trim dark slacks: hardly a producer's outfit, she thought. She had simply grabbed the first clothes she could yank out of her travel bag this first morning in Boston and hurried from her new apartment to her new office.

Youngeagle's three-dimensional image hovered in front of her desk. In his shirtsleeves, he appeared to be sitting at a desk as well. Smaller than her own, she noted. It looked old, hard-used.

“Yes, I remember you,” Griffin said, checking her directory of names as she spoke. “The … uh, the conference last year in Spokane.”

“That's right,” said Youngeagle, obviously pleased that she remembered him. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. What's with you? Are you in Boston?”

Youngeagle shook his head. “No, I'm still in North Dakota.”

“So what are you calling about?”

Lowering his voice a notch, Youngeagle replied, “I've got a bombshell of a story for you.”

One thing that Griffin had learned in the few days since the network had announced that she would be a producer was that everyone had a story they wanted to get on the air.

“A bombshell?” she asked wearily.

“Jordan Kell,” whispered Youngeagle.

“The starman!”

“The guy who took over every broadcast outlet on Earth.”

And the rest of the solar system, Griffin added silently. Excitedly.

“You know where he is?” she asked.

Grinning like a successful conspirator, Youngeagle said, “He's right here on the reservation, with me.”

“That's in Nebraska?”

“North Dakota.”

“What's he doing there?”

“He wants to talk to a network executive. I figured you'd know more about that than I do.”

The image of Carlos Otero flashed through Griffin's mind. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

*   *   *

It took most of the day for Griffin to battle her way through the layers of Otero's protective staff. The Big Boss seldom made time for a newly promoted minor producer. But Griffin insisted that she had the inside track on a story that was so big she would only talk to Otero himself about it.

Where the staff flunkies she had argued with were hard-faced and sharp-voiced—even Otero's personal assistant had practically sneered at her—the Big Boss himself smiled genially as the assistant ushered Griffin into his airport-sized office.

“It's
Vera
Griffin, isn't it?” Otero asked as he got to his feet and came around his massive carved ironwood desk, extending a hand to her.

Griffin nodded and smiled back as she plowed across the thick carpet. You know damned well what my first name is, she was thinking. You've got my whole dossier on your desk screen.

Otero radiated power. He was much bigger than Griffin: taller and wider, looking splendid in a light gray suit that fitted him perfectly. His gleaming smile looked genuine, though, and his outstretched hand was big enough to swallow Griffin's diminutive one easily.

Gesturing to the pair of luxurious armchairs in the conversation corner of his office, Otero said, “Have a seat, Vera. And tell me what's so important that you can only speak about it to me.”

As they sat down, Griffin said, “The starman.”

Otero's eyes widened. “Jordan Kell? What about him?”

“I know where he is. And he wants to talk to you.”

The Big Boss eased back in his chair, his smile broader, more genuine. “Does he?”

“Yes. He's hiding out from the World Council's security agents. They're hunting for him.”

In a few swift moments, Griffin outlined what Lester Youngeagle had told her. Before she finished Otero had sprung out of his chair and started pacing excitedly.

“And Anita Halleck is holding his wife, too? Incommunicado?” Otero asked from halfway across the spacious office.

“Yes. In Barcelona. And she's got her people searching for Kell.”

“If we could get him on our network,” he enthused, “it'd be a coup for Otero Network. And a nice black eye for Halleck.”

“An exclusive for the network.”

Rubbing his swarthy jaw, Otero said, “This is dynamite. It's a hydrogen bomb, by god!”

“It will make an enemy of Anita Halleck,” Griffin warned.

Returning to his chair and perching on its front four inches, Otero said, “She's already our enemy. She's an enemy of freedom of the news media. Has been for a long time.”

“I suppose so. But … she's got a lot of power, doesn't she?”

“So do we,” Otero countered. “We can bring in all the major networks if she tries to muscle us. We could knock her off the World Council next year.”

“That means we won't have an exclusive about Kell.”

Otero shrugged his heavy shoulders. “His first appearance will be our exclusive. Then we'll graciously offer the other networks to share his future appearances. Halleck can't fight the whole news industry.”

“I suppose not,” Griffin said uncertainly.

“We'll insist that Halleck release Kell's wife. This alien from New Earth. We'll put her on the air with him! It'll be terrific!”

Griffin swallowed hard, then said, “And I could produce the show.”

Nodding happily, Otero consented. “I'll put you in tandem with one of our more experienced producers.” He gazed up at the smooth panels of the ceiling. “We'll hire a troop of armed guards to protect Kell. That'll erase Halleck's claim that he's got to be kept safe from possible fanatics and assassins.”

“It'll be good publicity for the network,” Griffin agreed.

“We'll twist Halleck's tail, but good!”

It took another quarter of an hour for Griffin to get the Big Boss to dictate a memo outlining their plans to meet Kell and set up an interview between him and their top news personality.

“No,” Otero said, his voice quivering with excitement. “
I'll
interview him. Me. Myself.”

Griffin clapped her hands together like a little girl. “That would be terrific! And I'll produce the show.”

After another few minutes of eager planning, Griffin got to her feet and hurried toward the door.

“I've got a lot to do, a lot to prepare,” she said, by way of taking her leave.

Otero watched the diminutive young woman leave his office, glowing with satisfaction. Like a little daughter, he thought. I'm like a father to her.

Once he was alone in his enormous office, he went back to his desk and called up his favorite quotation. It was from an ancient dramatic show from back in the days of radio, before three-dimensional broadcasting and even before flat television. Otero had run across it in a history class when he'd been a student in college. It was corny, but it had stuck in his mind all these years. Now he played the ancient recording, the closest thing he had to a credo:

In a scratchy old audio recording a crack-of-doom voice proclaimed,
“The freedom of the press is like a flaming sword. Hold it high. Use it wisely. Guard it well.”

Guard it well, Otero thought. If I go through with this Kell business, Anita Halleck's going to declare war on me.

Guard it well.

 

ALBUQUERQUE

Hamilton Cree felt strangely sentimental as he neatly folded his uniform and placed it into the box resting on the locker room bench.

The last time I'll wear it, he said to himself. For five years I've been a New Mexico Highway Patrol officer, and now it's all over.

A pair of his fellow officers were watching him from several lockers away, both wearing nothing but fuzzy white towels around their midsections.

“So where're you going, Ham?” asked one of them.

“Chicago,” Hamilton answered, hardly looking up at them. And he realized that in five years he had barely made any friends among the men and women he worked with. Five years, and he was still practically a stranger among them.