Birthright

Even before the ship entered the atmosphere, the building stood out. Though he had never been to

Earth, he didn't see how it could possibly house any structure larger than the Big C. It stretched some sixty miles by forty miles, its solid shining steel reflecting the reddish-yellow rays of the sun, a silver iceberg with well over nine-tenths of its bulk beneath the ground, even though it rose some six thousand feet above the surface.

Yes, vast was an understatement, but then, the word hadn't yet been created that would do the Big C justice. The Big C wasn't its real name, of course; but somehow, the Department of Cartography just didn't conjure up enough grandeur, and so the Pioneers had come up with their own term for it. Nelson had never seen the Big C before, though he had heard a great deal about it. Any structure that cost more than ten trillion dollars and housed half a million full-time staffers was bound to receive more than casual attention from the media. Parts of it were open to anyone with minimal security clearance, but not too many people bothered taking the tour. For one thing, the planet Caliban was well off the beaten track in a galaxy that was quite underpopulated in terms of humanity; for another, it would require a minimum of two days just to walk from one end of one level of the Big C to the other. As for learning exactly what went on there, it would take considerably more than a lifetime. Not that each of the Big C's levels were open for walking all that easily. Nelson had complete clearance and was there by invitation from Landon himself, and it still took him the better part of three hours to be admitted to the Director's outer office, and another hour before Landon was able to greet him. He'd never seen the Director in the flesh, but the man's visage was as familiar to the public as was the complex that he ran with an iron hand. Landon was middle-aged—Nelson guessed he was in his late forties—and had a somewhat unkempt curly brown beard. If the men of his family had ever possessed a humorous or kindly twinkle in their eye, it had been bred out of the line before Landon was born. Nor did Landon look haggard or worn, as one might expect of a man with his responsibilities. If there was one intangible quality about the man, the hard-set line of his jaw, the precise measured movement of his hands, it was total self-confidence.

“Nelson?'’ The Director extended his hand in greeting. “I'm Landon.” “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Nelson. “Shall I call you Doctor, or Mister, or ... ?” “Just Landon will do,” said the Director. “Come on into my office and have a seat.” Nelson followed him into a room that was almost Spartan in its austerity. He hadn't known quite what to expect, but this certainly wasn't it: a plain wood desk, three chairs, two intercom devices, a small bookcase, a couple of rather common pastoral paintings which he suspected were prints, and a tray containing a pitcher of water and four glasses. The floor was badly scuffed, and made of a type of wood with which he was unfamiliar.

Landon activated a holo screen and began reading it, glancing at Nelson from time to time. “Bartholomew Nelson,” he said, half reading, half musing. “Seventeen years of service with the Pioneer Corps, degrees in geology, chemistry and sociology. Given twenty-four contracts, fulfilled sixteen, forfeited seven, one being processed in the courts.” He looked up. “Not a bad record, given some of those planets. You any relation to the Nelson who helped open up Bowman 29?” “He was my grandfather, sir,” said Nelson.