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  Chapter NINE

  When he was angry, really angry, Dan took a shower. It was a trick he had learned the hard way, back in the years when he had been an astronaut working on the earliest primitive space platforms, where water was so precious that even a sponge bath was something worth fighting over.

  He had cut short the tour with Malik as gracefully as he could and turned the Russian group over to one of his assistants, who headed them off toward the airfield. Dan’s smile evaporated as he went by helicopter to the roof of his office tower in Caracas and rode down the elevator to his apartment. Stalking past the robot butler before it could finish reading off the messages waiting for his attention, Dan went straight to the bathroom and stepped into the shower stall still fully clothed. The household computer sensed the presence of his body in the shower and turned on the water at precisely the mixture that Dan preferred.

  For long minutes Dan stood unmoving and let the steaming hot water bake the knots out of his tensed shoulders and neck. He kicked off his sodden loafers, then slowly stripped off his soaked coveralls and underwear. Alone in the shower he could shout, bellow, curse until he got his equilibrium back. He could pound the marble walls if he wanted to. Instead, he found himself laughing sardonically at the madness of it all. The world and everybody in it was crazy, and he was the craziest one of them all. He nudged the pile of soaked clothing to a corner of the shower stall with a bare toe, then stood luxuriating in the fact that he could have all the hot water he wanted, for as long as he wanted it.

  Finally he felt calm enough, in control of himself enough, to step out of the shower and begin toweling himself dry. The water turned off automatically; the heat lamp in the ceiling glowed as long as he stood on the floor plate beneath it.

  Freshly shaved and dressed in a pair of light slacks and an open-neck shirt, Dan went to the desk in his study, followed at a respectful distance by the butler robot. It was a squat fireplug of a machine that rolled across the thickly carpeted floor on noiseless trunnions. As a butler it was more of a curiosity than a servant: it could carry a tray of drinks or hors d’oeuvres, it could gather up empty glasses and take them back to the kitchen, but it was useless as a dresser or housecleaner.

  “There have been several phone messages, sir,” it said in the cultured voice of a distinguished British actor, long deceased. The robot’s inner computer was electronically linked, of course, to the phone and the household computer.

  “Hold them,” Dan commanded, “and get me a glass of sherry.”

  One good thing about a robot: it never argued, never insisted. “The amontillado, sir?”

  “Right. Straight up. Make it a double.”

  “Yes, sir.” The machine trundled off toward the bar.

  “Phone!” Dan called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get me Saito Yamagata, wherever he is.”

  The phone was silent for the flicker of a second, then said, “Sir, it is six-ten in the morning in Tokyo.”

  “Sai’s an early riser. Get him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dan’s apartment was the home of a man who could buy anything that struck his wide-ranging fancy. It was filled with electronic gadgetry and so highly automated that he could live in it for weeks without allowing another human being to intrude on his privacy. His office was little more than an alcove off the spacious living room, but he could screen it off at the touch of a button on his desk. The living room itself was built for meetings and parties, dramatically designed with slashing diagonal beams framing the windows and forming intimate alcoves. Small sofas and comfortable chairs dotted the carpeted floor, and a large round polished teak conference table dominated one comer of the huge room. The windows gave a panoramic view of Caracas, and there was a marble fireplace that was utterly useless in the climate-controlled building, but which Dan had insisted on. Another, smaller fireplace was in his bedroom. He slept on a waterbed because it was as close to sleeping in weightlessness as he could find on Earth. The big mirror over the bed was also a television screen. There were cameras behind the mirror, too, in case Dan got the urge to watch an instant replay.

  He could have virtually any woman he wanted, and he chose many of them. But they seldom lasted more than a few weeks, at most. The apartment was often filled with visitors, businessmen, friends, people seeking help or interviews or jobs or money or advice or influence. The long marble-topped dining room table was frequently lined with glittering guests, powerful and famous men, beautiful and willing women. Yet Dan actually shared his home with no one. He treasured solitude, although he knew the uses of society. He shared his life with no one, not since he had left the States, not since Morgan Scanwell had died and he had fled from the wife of his best friend because she was too needing, too vulnerable, too strong a temptation.

  More and more, lately, Dan ate alone in his sumptuous dining room and kept the apartment empty of other people. He did not even like the presence of human servants; only the unavoidable cleaning crew, and they worked under the strictest of rules never to be present when he was in the apartment. Sometimes, when Dan remained in his rooms for several days on end, the clutter accumulated to the point where it drove him out so that the crew could set things right again. He paraded a succession of exquisite women through his bedroom, but even sex was becoming meaningless to him; he had not bothered with the video camera above the bed for months.

  Now, as he sat at his desk and drummed his fingers, impatiently waiting for the phone to connect him with his old Japanese friend, Dan realized that his insistence on privacy was slowly turning him into a recluse. Solitude is one thing, he thought; loneliness is very different. You’re going to end up as crackers as Howard Hughes was, if you’re not careful.

  “Mr. Yamagata, sir,” the phone’s soft voice announced.

  Dan touched the ON pad on the phone keyboard and Saito Yamagata’s image appeared before his desk. His round face, usually as jovial as a chubby Buddha’s, looked puffy and still half-asleep. Sitting on his heels, he was wrapped in a midnight-blue kimono decorated with white herons, the family symbol. Sai’s getting old, Dan thought, remembering when the two of them worked as construction engineers on the first solar power satellite project, back at the turn of the century. Sai had been whipcord lean in those days and as agile as a kung fu master. But the years of easy living had fattened him, softened him.

  “Did I wake you?” Dan asked.

  Sai’s old grin snaked across his jowly face. “Does the sun rise in the east?”

  “You used to be up and around before the sun,” Dan said.

  “And you, old friend, were once a penniless engineer.”

  They both laughed. Their friendship went back to the days when Dan had to use his fists as well as his wits to gain the grudging respect of the Japanese construction crew. Americans had not been welcome on the solar power satellite project; Dan earned their respect by working harder, taking more chances and fighting better than any of the Japanese.

  “Times have changed,” Dan said.

  “They have and they have not,” replied Yamagata. “You always had more than your share of audacity. Calling me before six-thirty in the morning! I’d have the head of any employee of mine who dared to disturb me at this hour!”

  “I hope I haven’t disturbed anyone else.” Dan knew that Sai’s wife, the eldest daughter of a very ancient and noble family, slept in her own quarters. And that Sai seldom slept alone.

  Yamagata made an elaborate shrug. “That is of no consequence.”

  “Your son is well?” Dan asked.

  “Nobuhiko has risen to the position of foreman in our oldest and biggest factory.”

  “So? You must be very proud of him.” Unconsciously, Dan slipped into his quasi-Japanese mode of speaking, even though the two of them were conversing in English. He could speak Japanese well enough, although Yamagata’s English was much better than Dan’s Japanese.

  “He is a good son. One day he will take my place at the head of Yama
gata Industries.”

  “Not for many years.”

  Yamagata nodded and shrugged, as if to say. / will be content, whenever the time comes. Aloud, he asked Dan, “Your solicitude for my family is gratifying, but is it the only reason for calling me at this early hour?”

  Dan started to grin, but the recollection of Malik’s smug ultimatum soured him. “I’ve just had a chat with the new head of the Russian space program.”

  “Comrade Malik,” said Yamagata. “I have not yet had the honor of meeting him.”

  “He’s raising the price of lunar ores-”

  “Twenty-five percent. Yes, I know.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Dan asked.

  Yamagata smiled amiably. “Do? What is there to do? We must pay their price or close down our factories.”

  “There’s got to be something else.”

  Clasping his hands over his round belly, Yamagata lapsed into silence.

  “Now don’t go inscrutable on me, Sai,” Dan growled. “There’s got to be something we can do to get around this … this … highway robbery.”

  With a slight shake of his head, the Japanese magnate said, “My old friend, there are some trees that not even the typhoon can blow down.”

  Dan gave him a disbelieving look.

  “Accept the inevitable,” Yamagata advised. “It is wiser than destroying oneself by trying to fight what cannot be altered.”

  “That sounds curiously like the ancient advice to a woman facing rape.”

  “Accept the inevitable,” Yamagata repeated.

  “Just let them screw me?” Dan snapped. “I’ll be double-damned to hell and gone before I let them get away with that!”

  Yamagata’s round face took on a sorrowful look. “Ah, Dan, my impetuous friend, in all these years that we have known each other, I have failed to teach you the wisdom of the Japanese outlook on the world. You remain hopelessly American.”

  “I accept the compliment.”

  With a small wave of one chubby hand, Yamagata suggested, “Accept, instead, an invitation. Come here to visit me.”

  “To Tokyo?”

  “To my country estate, in the mountains near Sapporo. You need a change of scenery, my friend.”

  Feeling suddenly annoyed, Dan answered, “I’m in the middle of-”

  “In the middle of a forest.” Yamagata raised his voice enough to make Dan silent. “You see one large tree, but you overlook the others. You need a change in perspective, a chance to relax, to be away from the cares and pressures of your office. Join me at Sapporo. The trip will be worth your while, I assure you.”

  Dan leaned back in his chair and studied his old friend’s eyes. Yamagata was trying to tell him something that he would not, or could not, put into words. Why not? Dan asked himself. Because he’s afraid of being overheard. Phone calls are relayed by communications satellites. They can be tapped easily enough. Especially by the government that operates most of the commsats.

  “I’ve never seen your place in Sapporo,” Dan said.

  Yamagata’s smile returned. “I acquired it only a few years ago, when Nobuhiko became a fanatic for skiing. After living for so many years in Texas and Venezuela, you will enjoy seeing snow once again, I’m sure. Very invigorating.”

  “I’ll come out for the weekend,” Dan said.

  Yamagata’s eyes shifted slightly away from Dan for a moment. “My computer tells me that I am obligated to appear at a family dinner this weekend. My in-laws.” He grimaced. “Come tomorrow! Spontaneity can be very rewarding.”

  “Tomorrow?” Dan echoed.

  “Yes! I will tell Nobuhiko to join us. You will enjoy two or three days in the fresh, crisp air of Sapporo, I promise you.”

  Within his own mind, Dan was trying to translate Yamagata’s words into their true meaning. Spontaneity. His estate all the way to hell up in the mountains of Hokkaido. He wants to talk to me in person, as far away from his office and mine as we can make it. And he wants to meet with me quickly, before anybody can arrange to bug our meeting place.

  “I’ll leave tonight,” Dan said, “and be there in time for lunch.”

  “Good!” Yamagata beamed happily. “I will make the necessary preparations and meet you at the airport.”

  His image faded into nothingness, leaving Dan sitting alone at his desk once more. For several moments he remained there, silent, unmoving. The butler robot trundled up to the desk.

  “Sir, messages for you are accumulating.”

  “I’ll look them over on the phone screen,” Dan said.

  “Seńorita Hernandez …”

  “She called?”

  “No, sir. She is here. She arrived eighteen minutes ago, while you were showering. She has been waiting in the solarium. …”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Dan snapped. He pushed out of the desk chair so quickly that it nearly tipped over and made his way through the big, empty living room toward the solarium. It had originally been a balcony running the length of the apartment, when the tower was first opened. But Dan had it enclosed with glass panels that could be polarized at the turn of a dial to go from complete transparency to a dark smokiness that kept the sun’s heat out of the room. The glass was all of the highest optical quality, so that Dan could use the squat little astronomical telescope he had set up at the solarium’s far end without opening the panels to let in the insects that hummed through the night air.

  An exotic collection of flowering plants lined the solarium’s glass wall, except for the area around the telescope. Dan had originally ordered shrubs and small trees from his native Virginia, in the hope that at least this little slice of his living quarters would bear a reminder of home. But the plants could not face the fierce tropical sun, even through the polarized glass. They withered and browned. Dan had them removed, and a botanist from the University of Caracas installed a preciously contrived microcosm of local flora. It was breathtakingly gorgeous. Dan hardly ever noticed it.

  Lucita was sitting in one of the cushioned wicker chairs dotting the solarium’s tiled floor, watching the flaming sunset coloring the sky over the mountains southwest of the city.

  “Seńorita Hernandez,” Dan said as the glass doors to the solarium slid shut behind him. Like the airtight bulkhead hatches in a space station, the solarium doors were programmed to close automatically, sealing the air in the solarium from the cooled and dehumidified air of the rest of the apartment.

  She got to her feet and extended her hand. “I’m sorry to intrude. …”

  “Not at all,” he said. “The idiot robot shouldn’t have stuck you out here in this heat. Come inside.”

  “No, thank you. I prefer it here. I like to watch the sunset, and the heat does not bother me. I thrive in it.”

  “You certainly do.”

  She wore a simple sleeveless frock of butter yellow that made her look fresh and cool and lovely in the tropical air. Her thick dark hair was coiled and pinned up, off her neck. Dan noticed a single stubborn strand curling down just behind her ear, and wondered what she would do if he reached out to tuck it up where it belonged.

  But he kept his hands to himself and waited for her to speak. Finally Lucita said, “You must be wondering why I have come here, unannounced.”

  It was difficult for Dan to remind himself that she was merely a child, especially when he gazed into those wondrous eyes. “Just the fact that you’re here is enough for me. I’m delighted.”

  “You are very gallant.”

  “And you are very beautiful, Sefiorita Hernandez.”

  She smiled prettily. “You must call me Lucita.”

  “I will. And my friends call me Dan.”

  Her eyes flashed at that. “What do your enemies call you?”

  Laughing, “A young lady should not hear such words.”

  “Am I intruding?” she asked more seriously. “I realize that you must be very busy.”

  “No! Not at all.” He really was delighted that she had come, he reali
zed. “Can I offer you a drink? Do you have any plans for dinner?”

  “Something cold,” Lucita said. “I’m afraid I must be home within the hour.”

  “Hudson!” Dan called to the microphone hidden in the wall. “Champagne, please.”

  “Not champagne. …”

  Turning back to her, “Why not? It’s well chilled, and quite light.”

  Lucita wiggled a finger against the tip of her pert little nose. “It makes me giggle.”

  “Ah. I see. You’re much too dignified a lady to be seen giggling in public.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “You didn’t giggle at your father’s party yesterday, and you were drinking champagne.”

  “No, I did not giggle then.” Her face grew solemn and Dan cursed himself for breaking the mood they had created.

  The glass doors slid open and Dan felt a finger of cold air touch him as the robot butler trundled into the solarium carrying a tray that bore a bottle of champagne in a hammered silver ice bucket and two frosted crystal tulip glasses. Lucita watched in silence as Dan wormed the cork out of the bottle. It popped loudly and bounced off a glass overhead panel. She jumped at the noise.

  “Happy New Year,” Dan said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He poured the champagne and handed her a glass. “Salud, bella senorita.”

  “Gracias, seńor.”

  “De nada.”

  Lucita barely sipped at the champagne.

  “May I ask why you came to see me?”

  She looked up at him, her large dark eyes giving her waif’s face a look of mixed guilt and hope. “I want to leave Caracas, get away from Venezuela entirely. …”

  Dan saw the problem instantly. “But your father won’t permit it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t like the Russian?”

  “He has nothing to do with it,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “I will not have my father barter me off like some prize heifer!” Lucita said angrily.

  “And he will not allow you to leave Venezuela.”

  She turned to look out at the sunset. “You have private planes. You could fly me to Brazil or Europe or even to the United States.”