Oath of Fealty Page 3

  "He's off the phone now," Delores said.

  "Thanks." Sanders went into the inner office.

  Art Bonner leaned back in the black leather chair and put his heels on the walnut desk. Despite the expensive furniture there was a junkyard look to the office: model sailboats; shelves full of bric-a-brac including the truly horrid souvenirs sold in stalls near the boat landings of a dozen tourist-trap cities; a couple of yachting trophies; and mixed with all the nautical stuff were expensive "executive toys" of every conceivable variety, most of them ridiculous. There were also books opened and left on the credenza, some piled two deep. No one would accuse Art Bonner of compulsive neatness.

  The TV screen on the wall showed a holographic view of Todos Santos in all its complexity.

  "Zurich problems again?" Sanders asked.

  "A few. OPEC's raising prices next month. Thank God we've got our own power sources," Bonner said.

  "If we can keep them. That's my top problem," Sanders said.

  Bonner sighed. "Yeah. Okay, unload the bag, Pres. But you'll have to make it fast. My visiting fireman is early for the cocktail hour." He frowned slightly, and the hologram faded from the TV screen, replaced by a view from the roof looking toward the Los Angeles City Hall. A dark speck came toward them.

  The building was a thousand feet in height rising starkly from a square base two miles on a side. It rested among green parklands and orange groves and low concrete structures so that it stood in total isolation, a glittering block of whites and flashing windows dotted with colors. The sheer bulk dwarfed everything else in view.

  "Magnificent!" Sir George Reedy crowded against the window of the Los Angeles Fire Department helicopter, then turned in wonder to his host. He had to shout above the thrum of the motor. "Mister Stevens, I've seen it on TV, of course, but I had no idea-"

  MacLean Stevens nodded. Todos Santos Independency affected everyone that way, and Stevens was long accustomed to the reaction. That didn't make him feel any better about it. Los Angeles was a great city too. "If you'll look out there beyond it, Sir George, you can see the Catalina Island development. Closer, on the mainland, the city marina is just off to our right. We think Del Rey and Catalina are significant developments in their own way."

  Sir George Reedy dutifully looked off toward the sea. "Ah, I was going to ask about that. I saw it when we flew in. The great white mass-"

  "The iceberg." I might have known, Stevens thought. Five hundred billion gallons worth of Antarctic iceberg had been towed into Santa Monica Bay. Los Angeles water had never tasted better; Arizona, San Francisco, and the sea gulls of Mono Lake had never been happier. The berg sat out there in a kind of tub. There were teams of climbers going up two faces, and a dozen Boy Scouts glissading down snow near the bottom. "Romulus Corporation tows the icebergs here. They're the ones who built Todos Santos, too."

  There was no way to get off the subject of Todos Santos. Stevens gave in gracefully and called the pilot. "Captain, if you'll just circle Todos Santos for Sir George-"

  The whine of the turbines changed subtly as the big red chopper curled in a tight circle. It traced the perimeter of the parks surrounding the huge building. To their left was Todos Santos and its outlying moat of orange groves and green parklands. Reedy peered down, then exclaimed, "Did I see deer?"

  "Likely enough," Stevens said.

  Directly below them, where they couldn't see, was a ring of shabby houses and decaying apartments.

  MacLean Stevens did not look down but he was acutely aware

  of what was below. Block after block, a mockery to city government and all of Stevens's hopes, houses filled with families without hope living on welfare-and on the leavings from Todos Santos.

  The turbine whines continually changed pitch as the pilot varied the speed, and Stevens hoped his visitor wouldn't notice. Eaters didn't usually shoot at the Fire Department anyway. Not anymore.

  "But what is that made of?" Sir George asked. "This is an earthquake area."

  "Yes. They tell me it's perfectly safe," Stevens answered. "The contracts require that the architect, contractors, and a lot of the work force have to live inside. They put a lot of design sweat into it."

  "As to what it's made of, just about everything. The supporting towers are steel trusses, mostly. The walls don't carry gravity loads, and they can be anything that resists the wind stress. Composites like fiberglass reinforced with carbon filaments. Some of the more advanced compote tuffies. Lot of concrete on the lower levels. See the gaps there? The apartment complexes are assembled down below and hoisted into place as units-"

  Sir George wasn't listening. He had lifted his binoculars and was busily staring at the monstrous building. Fifty levels rose out of the parklands and orange groves below. Balconies jutted at each level. At seemingly random intervals, yet with an overall pleasing pattern he couldn't have explained, extra-large balconies protruded, and these were covered with tables and chairs where groups of people in brightly colored clothing ate, or played cards, or did other things not noticeable even with binoculars from a mile away.

  "I say, some of those people are naked!"

  Stevens nodded. Not the diners and card players, of course. Sir George must be spying on individual apartment balconies. The inhabitants of Todos Santos were fond of sunbathing, and the balconies were completely private from one another. Only airborne peeping toms could watch them-as if anyone cared all that much in Southern California. Evidently, high-ranking Canadians had different standards.

  "And what are all those below?" Sir George asked. He pointed to a series of low mounds, obviously the roofs of underground buildings; the mounds were covered with trees and shrubs, but concrete driveways led downward to doors at each one.

  Stevens shrugged. "Food factories, mostly. Dairies. Chicken ranches. Processing sheds for the citrus groves. Sir George, I'm not really an expert on Todos Santos. You'll get better information inside."

  "Yes, of course." Reedy turned away from his binoculared rubbernecking and looked at Stevens with sympathy. "I forgot, it's not really part of your city at all, is it? Aren't you a bit jealous?"

  Stevens controlled his face and the grimace he felt. The question reminded him of the ever-present sour pain he felt in his guts recently. "Of the wealth, yes. Of the money that flows into it and goes out of the country. Of the taxes it evades. I resent those, Sir George, but I am not jealous of the people who live in that termite hill."

  "I see."

  "No, sir, I doubt if you do." The bitterness was open now and Stevens rushed on, heedless of the consequences. "Termites. When you're inside, notice the similarities. Caste system remarkably well developed. Warriors, Kings, Queens, Workers, Drones, all represented. And a strong tendency toward identical units within each caste."

  He checked himself before saying more. It would be better to let this visiting dignitary see for himself. Sir George looked an overweight fool and might be one, but Stevens thought he probably was not. He ranked as a Deputy Minister, and Stevens had noticed that many English-Canadian officials feigned careless buffoonery.

  "I saw demonstrators," Reedy said.

  "Yeah," Stevens answered. "Several varieties, too. Todos Santos is not exactly popular with the younger generation."

  "Why not?"

  "Maybe you'll see for yourself." And maybe you won't, Stevens thought. Maybe-ah, to hell with it.

  The helicopter had turned again and now cruised above a well-marked flight path across the orange groves toward the building. As the chopper rose, the roof came into view.

  The enormous surface was cluttered. It was cut into areas by four huge light wells, each step-shaped with interior balconies.

  "They look like the box the Great Pyramid came in," Sir George quipped.

  Stevens laughed. "Actually, they're bigger."

  Even with the light wells, the remaining area was huge. There were parks, swimming pools, miniature golf and a driving range; heliports, playgrounds with running children; corner towers for pe
nthouse residents, the highest caste of all.

  "What powers it all?" Reedy asked.

  "Hydrogen," Stevens said. "They've got a complex of nuclear breeder plants in Mexico, with pipelines running up to Todos Santos."

  Reedy nodded approval. "Hydrogen. Todos Santos doesn't add much to your LA smog, then."

  "No. That was part of their contract with the federal government." Stevens paused. "Some environmentalists are still unhappy, though. They say Todos Santos is simply exporting its pollution-"

  He was interrupted by the roar of the helicopter as the pilot let the bright red machine settle gently onto a painted circle at one corner of the massive building. The roof was so large that it was difficult to realize they were hundreds of feet above ground level.

  Men waited for them. A brisk wind whipped across the building. The wind was cold in the late afternoon, and they were glad to get inside one of the low rooftop structures.

  The heliport reception area was not large. Most of the men in it wore uniforms and carried weapons. The guards very politely photographed them.

  "If you'll just put your hands on this identiplate, please, sir," a guard lieutenant prompted. The readout screen was hidden from view of visitors, making it impossible to know what the guard found out.

  Machinery hummed and spat out two thick plastic badges. MacLean Stevens, Executive Assistant to the Mayor of the City of Los Angeles; and Sir George Reedy, Deputy Minister for Internal Development and Urban Affairs, Dominion of Canada. Their photographs filled half the badges' faces, and VISITOR was printed in letters of fire across them.

  "Please wear these at all times while in the Independency," the lieutenant said. "That's very important."

  "What would happen if I lost the badge?" Sir George asked. His voice was very precise and clipped, perfect Oxbridge accent. It held just the right note of incredulity and contempt, and MacLean Stevens envied it.

  The guard didn't seem to notice that he had been insulted. "Sir, it would be very serious. Our detectors would indicate someone without identification in the Independency, and officers would be sent. It might be embarrassing to you."

  "Might be dangerous, too," Stevens said. "Lieutenant, how many people come in here and never come out?"

  "Sir?" The guard was frowning now.

  "Skip it." No point in harassing a rent-a-cop. The man might not know. Or, Stevens thought, I might be wrong. "Shall I take Sir George, or do we need an escort?"

  "As you choose, sir. Mister Bonner-" the lieutenant lowered his voice, as if in fear, or reverence, or both--"will be expecting you shortly. If you're planning any delay en route, please tell us so that we can notify him."

  "We'll probably take a quick tour through the Mall, thank you."

  "Very good, sir. I take it you will not need a routing slip."

  "No. I've been there before."

  "I know you have, Mr. Stevens." The guard glanced down at the invisible screen. "Have a pleasant stay in Todos Santos."

  * * *

  The holographic view of Todos Santos blinked a blue light, and two small blue dots appeared in the heliport reception area. "My visitors will be here pretty quick, Pres," Art Bonner said. "Anything you can't handle for me?"

  "No. But I want to say it again. That hydrogen delivery schedule is very tricky, Art. If the FROMATES manage to zap an input line this month, we're hip deep in trouble."

  "All right, already. You can have the overtime authorization for your cops." Bonner frowned.

  Bonner's pause was momentary, almost imperceptible, and Sanders wondered what his boss was listening to. Only it wouldn't exactly be listening, either. What would it be like to have data fed directly into your mind?

  "The comptroller won't like you much for it," Bonner said. "Mead was screaming about budget overruns just yesterday. But it's your decision."

  "He'll scream louder if those yippies shut down our power," Sanders said.

  "Right. Have no pity on me. I have to account to Zurich. You don't."

  Bonner's contract gave him complete authority within Todos Santos. He was responsible to the money people who'd built the city, but they had no right to interfere with how he ran it. Of course they could always fire him.

  "Take it as easy as you can," Bonner said. His voice became serious. "It isn't just Frank Mead. Zurich's going through cash flow problems just now. The orbital construction shack eats money like mad. But damn it, do what you have to do. It's my problem, and Barbara's. Maybe she can pass a money miracle." He turned to the TV screen and pointed. The blue dots were moving rapidly downward. "Here they come. Look, we've settled the labor situation in central air control. We've promoted three policemen. We've got your memo blowing smoke up that vendor's arse. You're authorized overtime for your patrolmen, which is what you came in here for in the first place. Enough, already. Back to the cotton mines, Rastus."

  "Yes, baas." It was easy to talk that way to Bonner. It hadn't always been-which was probably why Bonner did it, Pres thought. Art Bonner was damned if he'd have a thin-skinned deputy.

  "You know how to sort the crap," Bonner said. "Well, my people will be here shortly. Drinking and carousing at all hours, no doubt. The wild and happy life. So, guess who'll be on duty tonight?"

  "Yes, sir," Sanders said.

  Bonner eyed him critically. Then he thumbed a button in the arm of the big chair. "Delores."

  "Yes, sir," the intercom responded.

  "Dee, if Mac Stevens and that Canadian get here before I'm ready, give them the Number 2 Stall, will you?"

  "Yes, Mister Bonner."

  "Thanks." He cut the intercom. "Okay, Pres, what's eating you?"

  "Nothing-"

  "The hell there isn't. Talk."

  "All right. I don't like being in the worry seat, Chief." If you've got to know, he thought. "I like my job. It isn't the work, and it isn't the responsibility. You've never given me anything I can't handle-"

  "Precisely. So what's the problem?"

  "The people out there don't like me as Number One. Number Two to you, sure. I'm their black man because I'm your deputy. But not in that seat."

  Bonner frowned. "You been getting static? Who from? I'll-"

  "No." Sanders spread his hands hopelessly. "Don't you understand, Art, you'll only make it worse if you have one of your famous talks with-with anybody, about this. It's nobody in particular anyway. They all resent having me in tap charge. A lot of them may not even know they resent it. The ones that do work like hell at hiding it. But I can't make a mistake! Not even one."

  "Neither can I-"

  "Bull puckey. You can't make a big one. I can't make one at all."

  "You're telling me to replace you because you can't handle the job?"

  "If you think that, do it."

  "I do not think that. If I thought it, I'd have replaced you a long time ago." Bonner sighed and shook his head. "Okay. You know how to find me. But for God's sake, see if you can't buy me a couple of hours, anyway."

  "Sure. I can always do that," Sanders said. "And if the big one comes up and I can't reach you-"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm in charge, Art. I know that."

  "Good. Now can I see my visiting Canadian? We finished?"

  "Sure."

  "For now. We'll have lunch on this," Bonner said. "See Delores about when." He looked at the array of screens around him. They were all bordered nicely in green. "I'm giving you a clean board. Call me when you reach your office. As of then, you're in charge."

  As Sanders left, he noticed that the blue dots had moved to a level far below Executive Row.

  * * *

  "We can talk here if we keep it down." The bearded boy sounded uncertain, but there were no alarms, and he grinned.

  The others nodded and opened one of the boxes. The girl took out a gas mask. It was warm in the tunnel, and she wiped sweat from above her eyes before she put it on.

  III. A TOUR OF TERMITE HILL

  Custom reconciles us to everything.

  -Edmu
nd Burke

  The reception lobby opened onto a roomful of elevators.

  "The Executive Suites are below," Stevens told Sir George. "We can go straight down, or we can take a quick look at this anthill before they assign you a guide."

  "But I thought we were expected."

  "Don't worry about it. Bonner has plenty to keep him busy, and he knows exactly where we are."

  "Really? Then there is some means of tracking these badges." Stevens nodded. "We'll take a quick swing past some of the outside corridors. It wouldn't be fair to take you to the Mall first thing."