Beneath the Tree of Heaven

Dreams of Mars

CHENCK TAPPED THE THICKENED glass lightly with his fingernails, studying the long, oval-shaped depression they had had scooped out of the dark, lavatic rock, then turned, looking back into the room. The three men were watching him.

Andreas Rutherford stood to the left, beside the narrow desk. He was a handsome man in his mid-twenties—the image of his late father, Schenck’s friend and onetime sponsor, William Rutherford. To Schencks right were Tu Ch’en-shih and his partner, Meng K’ai. Though unrelated, the two Han looked like twins and played upon the fact by dressing identically. Short, balding, and ugly, as someone had once described them, and it wasn’t far from the truth. But sharp as well. As sharp as anyone in the Nineteen Colonies.

Just now all four wore protective suits, the collapsible helmets hanging

loose against their backs, attached by umbilicals to the rigid

neck-braces.

That’ll change one of these days, Schenck thought, conscious for once of all those things they were forced to take for granted here. But not while we’re still tethered. Not until we cut the link. “Well?” Meng K’ai asked impatiently. “What do you think?” Schenck smiled. “It looks good from up here, but have there been any problems? I mean, this has got to last. The new City will be totally dependent on it.”

I “It’ll last,” Rutherford said, pouring a bowl of wine and bringing it across. “I mean, it’s not like we’re building the thing back on Chung Kuo. We’ve not got to worry about volcanic activity or earthquakes. All we’ve got to make sure is that the thing doesn’t leak or get clogged with dust.” “And the plant itself? You’re certain this will work?” Rutherford looked to his fellow financiers, then back at Schenck, his smile broadening. “You’ve seen the engineers’ reports, Hung-li. It’ll work, don’t worry. As for lasting, it’ll still be here ten thousand years from now. Fifty, if we build it well enough.” Schenck hesitated, then nodded, taking the bowl from Rutherford and lifting it to toast the others. Yes, he had seen the engineers’ reports, and, just to make sure, had had his own experts go over them. The thing ought to work, and work well. That was, providing no corners were cut, no “economies” made. He turned, looking back across the site. The main excavation work had been completed. A coating of impermeable polymer, two ch’i thick, would now be poured into the depression, sealing and insulating the reservoir. Then, as an added precaution, a second layer would be placed on top of that, using a new, organically produced sealant that would not only guarantee minimal leakage but also reduce bacterial growth. Once in operation the whole thing would be covered with an airtight layer of “ice,” the same polymer-based material they used back on Chung Kuo to make the Cities. A dozen air locks would allow access for maintenance and, if necessary, repair.

But that was only half of it. The reservoir, while it used new construction techniques and new materials, was nothing new in itself. There were reservoirs already at Kang Feng and Hao Feng Shou. No, what was new about this scheme was the plant itself. For the first time they would not be tapping into Mars’s precious reserves of water— trapped in the permafrost, in underground lakes, and in the northern ice-cap—but making the stuff from scratch. Increasing the amount there was. Schenck smiled at the thought. Water and air. They were the two things that Mars needed badly, and for the past one hundred and sixty years Chung Kuo had kept Mars in a state of absolute dependency, ruling from afar on just how much air, how much water, the Martians could have; keeping those two basic necessities to the very minimum. And sometimes—as when that bastard Karr had been here—denying them even that much. Schenck shivered with indignation, remembering the day when the big Security man had burst into his office at Tien Men K’ou City and dragged him across his desk, threatening him. It was then that this had begun. Then that he’d started thinking of a Mars without Chung Kuo. A self-sufficient, independent Mars, strong and thriving. A green Mars with a tolerable atmosphere and reasonable temperature gradations. A Mars very different from the hellhole they currently inhabited. “Have you discussed the next stage with Dawson yet?”

Schenck turned back, facing Tu Ch’en-shih. “Not yet. I wanted to get the election out of the way first. But now we can go ahead. It’s time we let Dawson and a few others know what we’ve got planned.”

Tu Ch’en-shih frowned, his squat face crumpling like a rotten fruit. “Do you think that’s safe? I mean, Dawson’s fine. I trust him completely. But the others? Surely it’s best to keep this tight. The fewer who know, the less chance the Seven will hear of it.”

Schenck nodded. “Normally, I’d agree. But it’s time to move on this. Since the split in Council, the Seven are weak, indecisive. With the House reopened and the Above pressing for more power, they’ve problems enough at home without contemplating fighting a war out here. The logistics alone are beyond them.” He laughed. “Why, we have only to arm the satellites and Mars is ours. That’s why I’ve set up a meeting, two days from now, to discuss things and to take things farther. There’ll be eight of us in all. We four, Dawson, Endacott, Ch’en Li, and Culver.”

“Culver?” It was Rutherford who made the query. “Do we really need

Culver?”

“Yes,” Schenck answered, turning to the young man. “Someone has to provide security for this operation and I can’t trust our own internal forces. Ultimately they’re loyal to the Seven.”

Rutherford frowned, clearly uneasy. “I didn’t realize you felt that way. I thought you had Security in hand. I thought we could count on them.” “I do and we can. Normally. But this is different. From here on we take on the Seven, directly, unconditionally. And there are some officers in Security who’d balk at going that far, McEwen for one.” “And Culver?” Meng K’ai asked. “Are you certain we can trust him?” “Absolutely.” Schenck smiled reassuringly. “Culver’s my man. He does as I say. I’ve asked him to look into the question of creating a replacement force for Security. A force that would take its commands directly from us and not from some Council of Generals a billion li away on Chung Kuo. He has a small force already at HoloGen. That’ll form the basis of the new army. An independent army.”

Rutherford looked down. “I’m still not sure. I don’t know the man, but there’s something about him that worries me. He’s too reclusive for my taste. And then there’s all this business with the computer system he’s had shipped in from Chung Kuo. I mean, what’s all that about?” Schenck laughed. “You worry too much, Andreas. Look, Culver’s upgrading his plant, that’s all. As far as I see it, it makes good sense. The more we can get out of Chung Kuo before the break, the better.” “Maybe,” Rutherford answered, “but I still think he could have invested his money here, on Mars. Could have had CompTek build him a new system—one better suited to his needs.”

“And see the profits go back to Chung Kuo?” “Yes, but it would have employed Martian workmen and encouraged the development of Martian skills. As it is, Culver’s investment puts nothing into our economy. It merely sustains the old cycle of dependency. And I thought that that was the very thing we wanted to break.” “I see.” Schenck turned, looking directly at Meng K’ai. “And you, Meng K’ai? How do you feel about Culver?”

Meng K’ai shrugged. “Like Andreas I don’t know the man. He keeps himself very much to himself. But if you vouch for him . . . well, that’s good enough for me. Besides, I think you’re right. We should take what we can from them before the break comes. I hear this new system’s good. Better than anything CompTek could build. Maybe we could all use it, neh? Pool our resources.”

Schenck smiled broadly. “I’m certain Shih Culver would be more than willing to give over some of its capacity to us. And you, Tu Ch’en-shih?” “Meng K’ai has spoken for us both. I think we could work with him. If you guarantee him, that is.”

“Of course,” Schenck said. “Without hesitation. As I said, Culver’s my man. He’ll do as I say. As for his commitment to things Martian”— Schenck turned, looking back at Rutherford—“well, just think about it. Doesn’t he employ more than fifty thousand at his plants? No, don’t worry about Culver. He’s the least of our problems. Let’s worry about implementing our plan. About making Mars what it ought to be. What it should have been a hundred years ago, but for the Seven. Come, let’s drink to deliverance from our erstwhile masters. To deliverance, and to change.” He raised his bowl, looking about him at his three co-conspirators. “Pien Hua!” he said defiantly.

There was a moment’s hesitation, a brief meeting of eyes, then, lifting their bowls, they answered him. “Pien Hua!” their voices ringing loudly in the tiny maintenance dome. Change!

ikuro knelt down, staring into the back of the compact freezer, looking for something to cook. Ebert had gone on shift already, leaving a note for Ikuro to find when he woke.

The food in the freezer was simple. Cheese, wheatcakes, plastic tubs of noodles. In the narrow door-space were four small bulbs of ersatz fruit juice. Ikuro smiled. Not only did Ebert look like a poor man, he ate like one too. Shrugging, he took a tub of noodles and closed the door, then stood, looking about him at the tiny galley. Once off Chung Kuo things were much the same, wherever one went. Beside the small sink, the water tank, a small microwave oven, a pressure cooker, and the freezer, there was a canister of oxygen in a clip-frame on the wall to his left, and, beside it, in a clear-fronted hatch, a crumpled bright yellow pressure suit. Safety and efficiency, they were the priorities here, just as they were where he came from. Life was hard. That much was universal. He put the tub into the microwave, then turned, listening, hearing the faint hum of the dehumidifier. For some reason it reminded him of what he had been thinking earlier and he turned back, searching the galley for what he knew had to be there.

The microwave buzzed, the light inside went out. Ikuro stared at it, then laughed quietly. Of course. He removed the steaming tub and set it aside, then lifted the microwave, studying it.

He had been wondering for hours how Ebert had got the message out to his brothers. Now he knew. From the front it looked like an ordinary microwave, but at the back was a second set of controls. The touch pads and buttons of a comset.

He took his breakfast through and sat at Ebert’s desk, forgetting everything but his hunger momentarily as he wolfed down the noodles. Then, the empty tub pushed aside, he stared at the end wall, trying to make sense of things.

They had talked for hours. Or, rather, Ebert had talked and he had listened. At first he’d not been sure. After all, Ebert’s tale was unlikely enough—that was, if he really was Ebert. Yet as he’d gone on there was something about his manner, about the way he presented his life history, that had convinced Ikuro that it really was Hans Ebert, heir to the great GenSyn Company, and not some poor deluded madman. A madman, after all, would have bragged, wouldn’t he? Would have crowed about his “past” and boasted about what would yet be, once he was returned to his rightful place. But that wasn’t true of Ebert. No. He seemed to feel nothing but shame for what he’d done. Shame and a deeply held remorse. A prince he’d been, a king in waiting, but he had let himself be swayed from his destiny. Power had corrupted him, vanity warped his soul, and he had fallen.

Ikuro let out a long breath, remembering what had been said. Of the women Ebert had used, and the men he had had killed. Of the deals he had made and the betrayal of his master, the great T’ang, Li Yuan. Finally, of the fateful meeting with his father, Klaus, and the murder of the old man by the goat creature.

“What happened to the creature?” Ikuro had asked. “I killed it,” Ebert answered. “I vented it out of an air lock somewhere off Titan.”

“But it saved your life!”

“Yes. But it also killed my father.”

Ikuro had hesitated. “You loved your father, then?” Ebert had looked down, the lines of his face creased with pain. “Yes. I didn’t know it at the time. It was as if I had forgotten what he’d been to me. Forgotten all the love he’d shown me as a boy. And then”—the voice wavered, then came back strongly—“and then he was dead and I—I understood. I realized suddenly what I’d lost. What I’d thrown away so thoughtlessly.”

Remorse. Hans Ebert was filled with remorse. There was no doubting that. Unless the man was the finest actor the System had ever produced. And now he was here, on Mars, a poor man, a sweeper at the giant HoloGen complex, working for his once accomplice, DeVore.

Yes. But how did the hidden comset fit in with all of that? Unless Ebert had been keeping something back from him. Unless he was still working for DeVore in some other role than factory sweeper. Ikuro stood, wondering, not for the first time, whether he shouldn’t just go; whether Bates and his friends really were out there waiting for him, or whether that, too, had been made up.

He huffed, angry with himself, disturbed by the uncertainty he felt. Why should Ebert lie? Why should he expose himself so thoroughly if his motives were not honorable? Besides which, even if he had not revealed to Ikuro why he had the comset, he had made no attempt to conceal the fact of its existence. Any fool would have realized it was there in the apartment somewhere.

So what was the truth? Just what was Hans Ebert doing on Mars? He stopped, the title on the spine of one of Ebert’s books catching his eye. Taking it from the shelf he sat again, letting his thoughts grow still. It was a slim, soft-covered edition of Kan Jiang’s Poems, printed on flimsy onion-paper. Opening a page at random he began to read. On Patrolling the Course of the Proposed Western Pipeline A broken chain Lies shattered in the dry bed of an ancient stream. Our Corps Commander makes his slow way down, Weightless, it seems, in the pale earthlight.

The long shadows of his limbs

Dance like puppets on the red earth.

He crouches and the power-torch flares green, Cupped like a cat’s eye in his white-gloved hands.

Sparks scatter like fireflies,

As the iron glows red.

Ten thousand years our fathers labored,

Tilling the black earth of our home.

Flood, famine, and disease they suffered,

And survived, the chain unbroken,

Knowing the day would come,

The harvest time,

That single day of sun and ease.

The workday ends.

Back in my bunk I cast the yarrow stalks

And read the sage’s words.

Six in the fifth place.

“Work on what has been spoiled.

Afterward there is order.”

Work, it urges, yet what tool exists

To weld us to our past?

The bridge between the worlds is down.

Here, in this dry land,

I am my father and my own dear son,

Born out of nothing.

I am the broken chain.

In this land without ghosts,

Who will sweep the graves

And light the paper offerings?

Ikuro shivered, moved deeply by the words. So it was. For himself, Ishida Ikuro, just as much as for the noble Kan Jiang. And Ebert? Yes. In fact, for him, perhaps, more than for any of them, because for Ebert there was no home, was no returning.

Ikuro set the book down, his decision made. He would wait here until Ebert returned from his shift. Then, when Ebert was back, he would ask him what the comset meant, and if the answer satisfied he would tell Ebert about himself, exchanging one confidence for another. Trusting Ebert just as Ebert had trusted him.

And then? Ikuro shook his head. Who knew what would happen then? Only the gods. Yet he was certain of one thing now: the gods had sent him here for a purpose, and whatever that purpose was—whatever it entailed—he would see it through. For the honor of his family.

And because he was Ikuro, grandson of Miyamoto, the youngest son of Nagahara, who had run away and had adventures and returned to tell the tale and add a new branch to the family.

Smiling, he picked up the book again and opened it at the beginning, then settled back in the chair, starting to read.

ebert stood on the narrow balcony, looking out across the vastness of the workfloor. It was between shifts and the rows between the vats were empty, the machines still, the hangar echoing silent. A cool blue light made the workfloor seem like a giant pool from which, ob-elisklike, the vats thrust up, huge and square, the glistening life-forms lying inert in their sterilized troughs like huge grubs, the opaque walls lit from below. He raised his eyes. Overhead a grid of enclosed walkways crisscrossed the hangar roof. Beneath them one-man observation pods moved slowly back and forth, gliding smoothly on electric tracks. Below and to the far left of the workfloor, beside a brightly lit opening, a gang of supervisors in bright green pressure suits talked quietly among themselves while close at hand a larger group in red waited silently. Ebert scratched at his neck beneath the mask, then turned and made his way toward the steps. His skin tingled beneath the body-hugging suit and his eyes smarted from the disinfectants in the shower, but that was normal at the start of a shift. The suit was1 disposable and would be burned once the shift was over. One of the men had once quipped that Culver would have had them all burned, too, if it made economic sense, and had been sacked on the spot for saying it. But the point was well made. HoloGen went to extraordinary lengths to prevent infection on the workfloor. In fact anything that threatened HoloGen’s “babies” was not merely frowned on but actively discouraged.

At the bottom of the steps he turned right, making his way toward his workpoint. From this level you got a sense of the scale of the workfloor. The obelisks in which the vats rested were twice the height of a man, and their shadowed flanks—which from above seemed featureless—were covered in controls and screens which monitored and regulated the troughs. He walked unhurriedly along the narrow, slatted walkway, the polished double runners of the broad maintenance track to his left, the blank wall of the hangar to his right. Every twenty paces or so he would see, to his left, the great rows of vats, stretching away, it seemed, into infinity, their size and the regularity of their spacing making it seem more like a tomb—a vast mausoleum—than a place where living things were made. He paused briefly, staring along the row. As he did, a cloud of disinfectant sprayed over his booted feet, as a busy little cleaning machine went by beneath the slats.

He had wondered at first why DeVore bothered employing men to do the cleaning at the plant, when it could all have been done so much more easily—so much more efficiently—by machines. But now he understood. It was all political. By employing men in such menial positions he not only enhanced his position as a great Martian benefactor, but also kept the guilds quiet.

Guilds. He still found the idea strange. Back on Chung Kuo there had been no guilds. Organizations of workingmen had been banned and anyone who had tried to organize had been dealt with severely. But here, while they were still illegal—for the laws of Chung Kuo applied as much here as they did on the home planet—they did exist. It was another of those hangovers from Mars’s early history. The first settlers had formed guilds to preserve basic skills among the new colonists, and even after the two Colonial Wars those guilds, though driven underground, had survived. He walked on. It was almost half a li from one end of the hangar to the other, but he preferred to walk than to ride the shuttle, crammed in with a hundred other men. It had been hard, adjusting to this life. Harder still to fit in with the mindless chatter of his fellow workers. From early on he had got the reputation of being a loner, and he had embraced that, welcoming the space, the distance, it gave him from it all. As ever, he found himself thinking back, recalling, as if from a dream, those memories he had of visiting his father’s plants. Never once, in all those times, had he stepped down onto the workfloor. Never once had he stopped to speak to one of those faceless millions his father had employed throughout Chung Kuo. GenSyn . . .

GenSyn had been a hundred times bigger than HoloGen, a thousand times more powerful, and it had all been his. He had only had to wait. But he had been greedy. Greedy and impatient. Like a child he had squandered his gift. Had let it fall through his fingers like dust. The thought made him smile beneath the mask. And what would he have done with it that he hadn’t done already? No, only by losing it had he come to recognize its value. If he had kept it he would never have seen its worth, nor would he have walked these narrow pathways, his eyes opened to the world. But was that always so? Did a man need to have lost all he loved before he could see what it was really worth to him? Or was it only he, Hans Ebert, who had needed to be taught that lesson?

He slowed, remembering suddenly what he had told the Han. Now, why had he done that? What was it about the man that had made him trust him? It was hard to say. Call it gut instinct. All he had really known was that it seemed somehow right. He shivered, recalling how it had felt to unburden himself—how much better he had felt afterward. As if... well, as if he had been waiting for someone like the Han to come along. As if the gods had sent the man to him.

He smiled, amused by the absurdity of the thought. As if such things as gods existed in the first place! And if they did, they would be laughing at him for his foolishness, not sending him a friend. Even so, he felt better today. Cleaner, somehow. Clearer in his mind. As if he had taken the first step.

He stopped. Up ahead, to his right, was an opening in the wall. Light from within spilled out over the entrance ramp and onto the walkway and the broader track. Above the opening an illuminated sign read workpoint 5. The past was the past. This was his life now, this narrow, predetermined track. And maybe it was better. Maybe this, in the end, was his destiny. To be fallen. To be cast down out of the blazing light. Maybe. And yet something in him still kicked against that fate. In the depths of him that light, transformed, still burned. It was not that he wanted it all back. No, for he had come to hate his past, to despise the person he had been. It was something else. Something which he would know only when he came face-to-face with it. Even so, it was true. He had taken the first step.

Ebert turned, looking back into the blue-black shadows of the walkway, and nodded to himself. If he had learned one thing these past few years, it was patience. Patience and a strange humility. It was as the sage Lao Tzu had said: When those who understand me are few, then I am of great value. The sage wears coarse wool, but inside it he holds on to jade. He smiled, then turned back, the smile remaining on his narrow lips as he crossed the ramp and stepped up into the glare of Work-point 5.

devore walked around the table a second time and then turned, looking back at the merchant.

“Is this it?”

The Han spread his hands and made a vague shrugging motion. “That’s it.

You thought it would be bigger?”

DeVore turned back, looking down at the slender black case that rested on the table’s surface. He had indeed thought it would be bigger. Why, it was no larger than—than a wei chi board! He laughed, surprised, he realized, for the third time in twenty-four hours. First Auden had arrived from nowhere with his news, then he had been beaten by the Program. And now this.

He glanced past the merchant at Auden, then met the man’s eyes again.

“There’s no more, then?”

The merchant shook his head. “That is it, Shih Culver. The core. All you have to do is attach it to your system and let your experts reprogram it. We sealed it back on Chung Kuo. It has been in isolation throughout its journey. I have had two men sitting guard on it around the clock. I can guarantee that there has been no opportunity to contaminate the core.” DeVore stared at the man a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. He turned, indicating to his assistant that he should settle with the man. The merchant hesitated, then, realizing he had been dismissed, bowed low and backed away, following the assistant from the room. When he was gone, Auden came across.

“What exactly is it, Howard?”

DeVore smiled. “It’s a key, Will. A key to our friend Ward. This, you see, is the computer system they used to have for the Recruitment Program—the place Ward was sent to when he first came up out of the Clay. It’s the place he got the information from for the Aristotle File. But, more important than that, the core holds more than a decades stored information on the boy. Intensive studies of him over long periods. The whole of his personality reconstruction is in here, for instance. If anything can give us a clue as to how Ward thinks, this will.” Auden whistled, impressed. He had heard of the Aristotle File. Everyone in Security had. It was the great unspoken secret of their age. From old information stored in this slender case the boy, Ward, had put together the true history of the world—a history that differed in almost every respect from that propagated by their Han masters and taught in every school throughout the System. A history in which, until a mere two centuries ago, the Hung Moo—the West—had been the masters. As for Ward, well, Auden knew only what others had told him— that the young man was a genius; perhaps the only true scientific genius in the System. And not yet twenty! Auden laughed. “You plan to duplicate him, then, Howard?”

DeVore looked at him strangely, then shook his head. “No. From what I’ve seen of him, I don’t think it could be done. That kind of creativity . . . well, it’s beyond duplication. But maybe we can learn what makes him tick in other ways. Maybe we can succeed where Old Man Lever failed and persuade him to come and work for us, neh?” “And the box will tell us all that?”

DeVore smiled and turned, caressing the surface of the case gently, almost tenderly, as if he were touching a living thing. “That and much more, Will. That and much, much more.”

ebert unclipped the harness at his waist and shrugged the canister off his back; then, holding the door of the locker open with one foot, he slid the squat canister in and snapped the thin wand of the spray hose into the two holding clips set into the wall. That done, he let the door spring back and turned, looking about him at the workpoint. After the cool silence of the workfloor the brightness, the bustling noise of this place, oppressed him. Given the choice he would have worked straight through, but the guild allowed no choice. Two breaks a shift, they said, so two breaks they took. He peeled off his gloves and threw them into the plastic bin, then went across to join the line at the ch’a trolley. It was just after two, more than halfway through the shift, and he was feeling weary—the way he always did at first when he switched to nights. It hadn’t helped that he’d only had four hours sleep in the last thirty-six, but he’d rectify that when he got back. Shen Li would understand.

He waited patiently as the men in front of him chose from the trolley, then took his turn, taking a bulb of ch’a and a heat-sealed packet of wheatcake biscuits.

A long, low bench was set against the wall at the far end of the workpoint. He went across and sat, at a slight distance from the dozen or so other sweepers. In eighteen months he had barely exchanged a word with them; even so, they had accepted him. Passing him in the rows, they would nod or grunt, and he would return the greeting silently. He was odd, sure, but then most of them were odd who did this work. Besides, there was the mask. That, more than anything, singled him out—explained, better than words, why he had to be alone.

He pulled the tab off the bulb and sipped. Despite the packaging the ch’a here was always good. It was HoloGens own brew, chosen, it was said, by the man himself. By Culver.

Culver. . . Ebert leaned forward, staring at the gridded floor between his feet. He alone here knew who Culver really was. He alone understood just what was happening at HoloGen. But the knowledge was worthless, because he himself was dead. Or as good as. Hadn’t the Seven said as much when they’d sentenced him in his absence? And Culver—DeVore—knew that. He sipped again, then set the bulb down between his feet and took the wheatcakes from his pocket, snapping the packet open with a strangely impatient gesture.

Walking the rows tonight he had felt a restlessness in his limbs—a restlessness which had reminded him of that night, four years before, when he had been appointed the T’ang’s General. Then he had felt like this, that same impatience, like a poison in the blood, that same dark feeling that all of this waiting was a barrier, a wall, surrounding him, preventing him from simply being. He shivered. Yes, and that same urge to be doing something—to be riding hard or breaking necks— had come on him again; that selfsame urge that once before had thrust him headlong into folly, almost destroying him.

Ebert stared at the wheatcake a moment, not recognizing it; then, with a shudder, he threw it down and stood. On the bench nearby the other men had stopped talking and were watching him. Then Ebert kicked the bulb away; a dark trail of ch’a snaked across the clean white floor. In the silent stillness Ebert looked about him, at the curious faces of the men, the surprised face of the ch’a woman. He was about to turn away, to fetch something to clean up the mess he had made, when he grew conscious of shadows in the doorway.

He turned. Three men were standing in the entrance to the work-point. Big men, their pale red pressure suits tight over their broad chests. He recognized them at once. They were the three from the bar. The three who had wanted to shake down Shen Li. Beneath the mask Ebert smiled. It had not taken them long to find him.

“Latimer?” The biggest of them came forward two paces, squinting in the glare of the overhead lights. In one hand he held a metal rod—a lever arm from one of the maintenance machines, Ebert realized—his fingers gripped tightly about the handle. “Latimer? Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Ebert answered, feeling suddenly focused, hyperalert, the old,

familiar kick of adrenaline pumping through his system. “What do you

want?”

Bates gave an ugly laugh. “What do you think?”

Behind him the two others squared up.

“I think you made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Bates shook his head. “I don’t think so, creep. It was you made the mistake, sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted.” Ebert was silent. Without thinking he had gone into a fighting crouch. His breath hissed gently through his nostrils as he prepared himself, calming himself, controlling that inner fire, flexing and un-flexing his hands. Bates narrowed his eyes, then, half turning to his fellows, signaled to them. “Clear them out. All of them. All except him. Him I want.” The two men did as they were told, skirting round Ebert to herd the others out. There was a faint murmuring, but no one argued. In a moment they were gone, the gate to the workpoint pulled across on its runners. And still Ebert faced Bates across the center of the floor. “I warned you,” Bates said, more relaxed now that he was alone with Ebert.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you. But now you’re going to have to pay. Because I can’t have my authority undermined. You know what I’m saying? I can’t have creeps like you getting in the way all the time. Do you understand that?”

Ebert laughed. A cold, clear laugh. “You talk too much. Did you know that, Bates? Like an old woman. A toothless, gutless old hag.” Bates’s face seemed to convulse and change color. He changed his grip on the rod, taking a step toward Ebert. “Why, you faceless fucking creep ...” “You want to see my face, then, Bates? Well, come on then, big man, come and take the mask off. Come and try.”

The hesitation was telling. Bates wasn’t sure. He had fired himself up for this, but now that he was facing Ebert, he wasn’t quite so sure. But Ebert was. He wanted this. Needed it.

“What’s the matter, Bates? Scared, are we? Scared of a freak like me?” That did it. With a bellow Bates threw himself at Ebert, aiming a blow at his head. But as the rod came down, Ebert caught Bates’s wrist and twisted it, sending the rod spinning, clattering, across the floor, then followed up with his knee, bringing it up sharply into Bates’s stomach. Bates went down, groaning. As he did, Ebert stepped back and kicked, his heel connecting with the big man’s jaw, forcing it back with a loud, resounding crack.

Dead. He was dead. Even before the back of his head hit the floor. Ebert looked across. The two men were staring at him, unable to take in what they’d seen.

“And you?” Ebert said, beginning to walk toward them. But they had already gone. The gate rattled in its runners. Ebert went to the doorway and watched as they scuttled away down the dimly lit row, moving between the broad track and the walkway, then raced off to the right to avoid two Security guards who were making their way slowly toward the scene.

The others were crowding the doorway now, looking in, trying to make out what had happened. Ebert pushed through them and stood there, just outside, waiting for the guards. As they came up to him, he lifted his hands, offering them to be bound.

“1 killed a man,” he said simply. “He’s in there. Bates is his name. I broke his neck.”

The young guards eyes widened, then he jerked his head around, looking to his lieutenant for instructions.

“Bind him,” the lieutenant said, eyeing Ebert strangely, then edged around him to look into the room. “You’re sure he’s dead?” Then, when Ebert made no answer: “Look, what’s been going on here?” But Ebert wasn’t listening. “Culver,” he said. “Take me to Culver. I need to talk to him.”

there was a banging at the door, the sound of fists thudding against the outer lock. Ikuro sat up, frightened, looking about him at the darkness, as if for a way out. But these were not the tunnels of home. Here there was no escaping.

Shit, he thought, they’ve found me. And if they’ve found me, they won’t let a simple thing like an air lock get in their way. So what then? Could he fight them? Was there something here he could fight them with? The canister, perhaps. Or a knife. Was there a knife? He hadn’t looked, but maybe there was. He stood, calming himself, then went out to the galley, searching the drawers for something, anything, he could use as a weapon.

The banging came again. “Ikuro!” came a voice, faint through the double layer. “Ikuro, let me in!”

Ikuro ... He laughed with relief. It was his brother, Kano. “Kano?” he said, as his elder brother stepped through the inner lock a moment later. “How did you find me?”

Kano laughed, his big, well-padded body filling the tiny space beside the door. “I used my nose. I sniffed you out, little brother. I followed your scent down shafts and corridors until I found you here.” “You did?”

Kano laughed again, a warm, hearty belly-laugh that shook his body. “No. It cost me a few^uan, tracing your movements these past twenty-four hours, but it wasn’t that hard. You leave a lot of earth behind you when you move, neh, Ikuro-san?”

Ikuro looked down, concerned and a little shamefaced. If Kano had managed to find him, it would not have been long before Bates and his friends would have found him—before his earlier fears had become a reality. “Was it really that easy?”

Kano grew more serious. “No. Let’s just say that I have ways of making men tell me what I want to know, especially when my little brother is missing, possibly in trouble. Now, tell me, what have you been doing, my little tunnel-worm? What holes have you been crawling into?” Ikuro laughed. If Kano had found him, then Kano already knew what trouble he’d been getting into. But that was not what Kano meant. Kano wanted him to admit to it; to confess that he’d been foolish and to apologize. But for once he felt that he had nothing to apologize for. “I did nothing wrong, elder brother. I merely had a drink, that’s all. And my friend, Latimer, he helped me. He stood up for me when it mattered. Like a brother. Like family.”

“Ahh . . .” Kano rubbed at his double chin, then moved past Ikuro, looking about him at the tiny apartment. “And this is how he lives, eh, your friend? I was told he wears a mask. Was that an accident?” Ikuro looked down, remembering what Ebert had said, and determined to keep his friend’s secret. “Yes,” he answered. “He is a poor man. A sweeper at the HoloGen complex. All I know is that he’s an honest man. A good man.” “And a killer too,” Kano said, turning to face Ikuro again. He nodded, seeing the disbelief in Ikuro’s face. “Oh, yes. It happened just after two this morning, so rumor has it. A man named Bates. He kicked him to death, it seems. Broke his neck.”

“Bates ...” He shuddered, seeing at once that Kano understood the significance of that name. “So what now?” “So now we get out of here. Back to the port. Before some of Bates’s friends put two and two together and come looking for us. I’ve spoken to your other friends, the merchants. It was a good deal you put together, Ikuro. A very good deal. But getting you off-planet is more important just now. We’ll have to leave things for another time.” “Leave things? Why?”

Kano leaned close, breathing the words into Ikuro’s face. “Because it’s all about to blow, that’s why. Time’s run out for Mars, little brother. Bates’s death may prove the spark that lights the whole tinderbox. Two hours from now this City will be waking. News of the incident will be going out, like a ripple in a pool. And when it does . . .” He made a small sound in his throat, like a charge going off, deep in the rock. “But Latimer . . . can’t we help him?”

Kano shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ikuro. If I could, I would. You know that. But we must save ourselves. We have a duty to the family. If we were to lose the ship ...”

Ikuro bowed, understanding, but inside he felt bad; inside he felt torn and unhappy. “Okay,” he said, after a moment. “But let me leave my friend a note. I would not have him think that I simply abandoned him.” Kano nodded. “Okay. But hurry now. There’s little time.”

“so how’s our friend?” DeVore asked, not looking at the young man. Rutherford came up beside him, looking past DeVore at the hologram model of Schenck’s planned new parliamentary building; at the broad dome and twin pinnacles, the grand atrium and marble walkways. “Schenck?” He laughed. “Oh, he’s spending other people’s money. As usual.”

“The new reservoir? You’re against that, Andreas?” Rutherford shook his head. “No. I can see the sense in that. It’s things like this that worry me. This absurd scheme for a building we don’t really need. Not yet, anyway. Schenck, and those that surround him, they’re such dreamers. They want to run before they can walk. Schenck has been talking about starting work on two new reservoirs and six new oxygen generators, and he has plans to reseed large areas of the planet—plans that include building not one but eight new Cities! I mean, if we were a rich planet I could understand, but we’re not, and it’s not even as if we’ve thrown off the yoke of Chung Kuo yet. Moreover, all of it has to be done in secret. In the past we were always cautious. We progressed slowly, one thing at a time, and covered our tracks carefully behind us. That was my father’s way. That’s how we’ve got to where we are now. But Schenck and his friends . . . they’ve abandoned all caution. They have big dreams for Mars, and their dreams could be the ruin of us all. I mean, the more that’s being done the more likely it is that word will get out. And when that happens, you can be sure they’ll send someone—someone like Karr, perhaps— to have a good close look at Mars.”

“And when they do, they’ll find out that Mars is much richer than they thought, neh? All those mineral deposits we’ve never told them about. All those underground factories, where no prying eyes can see. And a population fourteen times larger than that declared on the last census. It could be embarrassing, neh?” DeVore turned, facing the young businessman. “Is that why you’re here, Andreas, to try to put a brake on Governor Schenck’s ambitions? Or is there another reason?” Rutherford nodded. “It’s one reason, but not the only one. Mainly I wanted to see you. I’ve been meaning to for a long time now, but. . .” “But it was difficult, neh?” DeVore smiled and reached out to pat his arm. “I’m not, after all, a person to be seen in public with. Not since that business with the T’ang’s son, eh?”

Rutherford stared back at him, intently. “You were a good friend to my father, Howard, when you were Chief Security Officer here. I thought . . . well, I thought I could be a friend to you. It’s what my father would have wanted.”

“A friend?” DeVore’s smile hadn’t faded, not for a moment. “Why, you’ve always been my friend, Andreas. Since you were a boy of thirteen. Don’t you remember, that first time we met, at your house. How I came up to your room and talked to you.”

Rutherford nodded, his eyes looking back to that moment, fourteen years before. “Yes. I also remember that you gave me a gift that day. A first-meeting gift.”

“The ivory?” DeVore’s eyes widened. “You have that still?” The young man reached inside the neck of his pressure suit and withdrew the fine-linked golden chain. On the end of the chain a tiny ivory swayed: a perfect miniature of the planet Mars.

“You gave me a planet once, Howard. Now I’d like to give it back to you.”

DeVore laughed. “A planet? That’s a lot for one man to give another.”

Rutherford’s smile was youthful, enthusiastic, but his eyes were serious. “It’s not just me. There are others who think the same. Who’ve had enough of Schenck and his dreams. Who want someone stronger. Someone with the vision, the ability, the steel, to steer us through the troubled times to come.”

“And you think I’m that man?”

Rutherford nodded. “I’m sure of it. In fact, I’ve known it from the first moment I met you.”

when rutherford had gone, DeVore sat there, staring through the ghostly outlines of the hologram, considering what the young man had said. Did he really want what they were offering? Did he want to be King of Mars? The irony of it made him smile. Five years earlier his “copy”—the morph he had sent back to Chung Kuo to play himself—had made a similar offer to young Ebert. “King of the World,” he’d said. “That’s what you can be, Hans. T’ang of all Chung Kuo.” And the young man had succumbed. Had cast aside the reality of his inheritance to chase the dream. It hadn’t worked, of course. Not that it had been meant to. But that was not to say that, in different circumstances, it mightn’t work. After all, Mars was not Chung Kuo. And while the reach of the Seven was long, it was also weak. Mars was ripe for revolution. Ripe for independence. To have a King—a focus for all that ancient nationalistic feeling—made sense. Even so, it was not his way to be a figurehead. He had lived too long out of the glare of public life, had grown too used to secrecy, to change his ways.

Moreover, it was true what Rutherford had said. Schenck’s schemes—his dreams of Mars—were unreal, impractical; were the dreams of an impatient man. Oh, he might think that the common people wanted what he did, but he was wrong. They wanted independence, sure, but if Schenck increased taxes to the extent he proposed in the secret study document DeVore had seen, then there would be riots in all Nineteen Colonies. And where would they be then? Back to square one. Or worse.

So maybe Rutherford and his faction were right. Maybe they needed a

figurehead, a King. And if not him, then why not someone close to

him—someone he could control. Someone whose very existence depended on

him.

Someone like Ebert.

And not just a King, but a Queen, too, perhaps. Someone young and beautiful and aristocratic, like Jelka Tolonen. He laughed, delighted, seeing it clearly in his mind’s eye. How the Martians would love that pair! How they’d lap that up! Such a powerful image it would make. Such a strong focus for all that pent-up energy, that undirected fervor.

He sat back, thinking it through. He need change very little. In fact they could proceed much as before. They would take the Marshal’s daughter and hold her, and then, when the time was right, the circumstances auspicious for a break from the homeworld, he would give Hans what he’d promised all those years ago—the kingship of a world. The wrong world, perhaps, but a world all the same. And not just a world, but a bride too. The bride Tolonen and his father had pledged him.

He stood, clapping his hands together. At once a servant appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, Master?”

“I want you to send someone down to the workfloor. There’s a sweeper there, name of Latimer. I want him brought here at once. Understand?” The servant bowed low. “He is here already, Master. He came an hour back, under guard. He says he wants to see you.” “Here?” DeVore laughed. “How strange. Well, you’d best send him in, then. And bring Auden too. In fact don’t bring the sweeper in until Auden’s here. Bring Auden in through the back room. I don’t want the two meeting. All right?”

“Yes, Master.”

DeVore turned, looking back at his desk, at the brightness of the hologram, then went across and switched the thing off. How odd. How very odd that now, of all times, Ebert should be wanting to see him. And under guard too.

He blinked, understanding. Something had happened. Something to do with that incident in the bar. A repercussion of that.

Maybe he’s being victimized. Maybe he’s been attacked and wants

protection.

Leaning across the desk DeVore placed his hand on the contact pad. “Stock? Are you alone? Good. I want you to find out if something happened on the workfloor in the last hour or two. Something involving a sweeper by the name of Latimer. I want as full an account as you can get, but I want it on my desk ten minutes from now. Right? Good. Now get going.” He straightened up, then turned, hearing a movement in the doorway to his right. It was Auden. He stood there, his head bowed, waiting for DeVore to invite him into the room.

“Something’s happened,” DeVore said, waving him in. “Your old friend Hans Ebert’s outside and he wants to see me.”

Auden’s eyes widened, his surprise unfeigned. “Hans? Here?”

“Yes. But before he comes in, I want to tell you what I’ve got planned. And I don’t want a word of it getting out, you understand me? Not a breath.”

“I understand,” Auden answered, bowing his head, as a soldier bows to his superior officer. “Whatever you want, I’ll do. You know that.” DeVore smiled, watching him. “Yes. Now listen . . .”

CHAPTER THREE