the future. “But—all right. So maybe you're right, we are sliding downhill to the end.… If there's nothing we can do to save ourselves, why worry about it? Just make the best of what we've got, while we've still got it.”
“But that's the point! There is something we can do—starting now, we can establish a colony here on Planet Two, against the time when technology fails and the Demarchy can't support us anymore.”
“I don't see the point.” Dartagnan shook his head. “It's even harder to stay alive here than out in space. Even in a suit, you'd freeze to death! The atmosphere sucks the warmth out of you, even now, when the sun's up. And the gravity—”
“Gravity here's only a quarter what the human body was built to withstand. As for the cold—our equipment wasn't designed to deal with it, but it'd be easy enough to adapt; all we need is better insulation. This's no worse than parts of old Earth. Antarctica, for instance. No warmer than this, and snow up to here; but they didn't mind. The greatest thing human beings have going for them is adaptability! If those dirt-siders could do it, a Belter can do it.” Olefin's hands leaped with emphasis, his eyes gleaming like agate, lit by an inner vision. “In fact, part of my idea for a media campaign would be to rename this planet Antarctica: ‘Return to nature, cast off the artificial environment; live the way man was meant to live’—”
“I don't know.…” Dartagnan's head moved again in negation. “You sure this place is no colder than Earth? Besides, the atmosphere's still unbreathable.”
“But it's not! That's one of the most crucial points the public has to be made aware of. One of the experimental projects here was a study of the atmospheric conditions—and it proved conclusively that the atmosphere of this world is denser than it was when we first came into the system. The way the various periodicities of its orbit add up right now is causing the polar caps to melt, freeing the gases. The atmosphere's thin and dry compared to what we're used to, but it's breathable. I know; I've tried it.”
“For how long?” Dartagnan felt a sudden constricted panic at the thought of trying to breathe an alien atmosphere; his hand rose to his throat. “How's that possible? How could there be enough free oxygen?”
“Don't know. But there is; I've been out two, three kilosecs at a time.”
Dartagnan looked down, polishing the polish on the worn vinyl of his boot. “You'd have to live underground, I suppose; help to conserve heat. But we do that anyhow. And solar power—it's a lot closer in to the sun.…”
“There, you see!” Olefin nodded eagerly. “You're starting to see the possibilities. It's the answer; we had to find an answer, and this is it. This can make your career! With the money I make off of this salvage sale, we can launch a media campaign that'll convert the entire Demarchy. What do you say, Dartagnan?”
Chaim stopped polishing, kept his face averted. “I want a chance to think over what you told me first, Demarch Sekka-Olefin. I still can't really see this place as the Garden of Allah.… I'll give you my answer before we lift off, all right?” He realized that the real question he needed an answer to was whether this was what he wanted to do with the rest of his life … or whether he really had any choice. But a kind of excitement rose in him like desire, filling the void Olefin's future had created, with the knowledge that if he sold himself to Sekka-Olefin, he might not be selling out at all.
“Fair enough.…” Olefin was saying, smiling, as though he already had his answer. “I expect my numerous blood-sucking relations are going to be prostrate with grief when they hear about my plans for this salvage money. They didn't appreciate my spending what was left of the family inheritance on this project; I didn't name that ship out there; they named it, after me.…” He laughed at his own joke. “And my mother-ship up there in orbit isn't called the
Dartagnan began a grin, heard footsteps in the hall, and felt his face lose all expression again. He drew his aching leg off of the cot, positioned it gingerly on the floor. He stood up, and was suddenly afraid to move.
Olefin leaned past him, pulled a long t-barred pole from under the cot, and held it out. Chaim saw that the ends were wrapped in rags. “Here,” Olefin said, “use my crutch. I fell down the goddamned steps in the dark when I first got here.”
Chaim finished the grin this time, as Siamang arrived in the doorway, his helmet under his arm. Dartagnan's eyes moved from Olefin's face to Siamang's. He realized suddenly that he had made his decision. He bowed.
Siamang bowed to them in return, his gaze shielded by propriety. “I trust I haven't inconvenienced you, Demarch Sekka-Olefin. I'm sure you want to make your repairs and get off of this miserable planet as soon as possible.” He chafed his arms through his suit. “My pilot tells me we'll have to lift off before sunset, ourselves; our storage batteries are getting low from trying to maintain temperatures in the ship. But I've got good news— permission to do whatever' s necessary to reach an agreement with you about that software.” A gleam like a splinter of ice escaped his eyes. Dartagnan tried to see whether his pupils were dilated, couldn't.
“Good, then.” Olefin nodded. “Maybe we can discuss business matters further, after all.”
“My hope as well. But first—if you don't mind—I would like to take a look at what we're going to be bargaining for.”
Olefin looked vaguely surprised; Dartagnan wondered what Siamang thought he could tell simply by looking at program spools. Olefin shrugged. “If
Siamang grimaced. “That's what I was afraid of. But yes, I'd still like to see them.”
They made their way across the shifting, slatey dust to the base of Olefin's landing craft. Dartagnan stopped, staring at the ladder that climbed the mass of the solid-fuel module between jutting pod-feet. His muscles twitched with fatigue, his ankle screamed abuse along the corridors of his nerves.
Siamang looked at his upturned faceplate. “You'll never make it up there, Red.” Siamang's voice inside his helmet was oddly unperturbed, and slurred, very slightly. “Don't worry about it, you've got plenty of film footage. Just record the audio… and worry about how you'll get back on board our own ship.” Siamang's glove closed lightly on his shoulder, good-humoredly, unexpectedly. Startled, he watched them climb the ladder and disappear through the lock.
Dartagnan settled on a rung of the ladder, grateful that for now at least the atmosphere was at rest, and kept its own invisible hands off of him. The sun was dropping down from its zenith in the ultramarine shell of the sky; he noticed tiny flecks of gauzy white sticking to the flawless, sapphire purity of blue, very high up. He realized he was seeing clouds from below. He began to shiver, wondering when the others would finish their business, and whether it would be before he froze to death. Their cautious haggling droned on, filling his ears; he began to feel sleepy under the anesthetic of cold.…
He shook his head abruptly, stood up, waking himself with pain. He realized then that the ghost-conversation inside his helmet was no longer either droning or polite; heard Siamang threatening: “This's my last offer. Olefin. I advise you to take it, or I'll have to—”
“Put it away, Siamang. Threats don't work with me. I've been around too long—”
Dartagnan heard vague, disassociated noises, a cry, a
Siamang appeared, dragging Olefin's limp, suited form. He gave it a push; Dartagnan stumbled back as it dropped like a projectile to the dust in front of him, to lie twisted, unmoving. Dumbfounded, he went on filming: the corpse, Siamang's descent of the ladder; the Death of a Dream.
Siamang came toward him across the fire-fused dust, took the camera out of his nerveless hands. He pried the thumb-sized film cassette loose and threw it away. Dartagnan saw it arc downward, disappear somewhere out in the endless blue-gray silt of the plain: His own future, mankind's future, Sekka-Olefin's last will and testament, lost to his heirs—lost to mankind, forever. “That wouldn't have made very good copy, now, would it?” Siamang dropped the camera, stepped on the fragile lens aperture with his booted foot. He picked it up again, handed it back. “Too bad your camera broke when you took that fall. But we don't hold bad luck against a man, as long as he cooperates. I'm sure I can depend on you to cooperate, in return for the proper incentive?”
Dartagnan struggled to reach his voice. “He—he's really dead?”
Siamang nodded; his hand moved slightly. Dartagnan saw the dark sheen of metal. Siamang was armed. A dart-gun; untraceable poison. “I
“I'm your man, boss … body and soul,” Dartagnan whispered. Thinking,
