manner by the registrar, Vanderveen followed Ralph out to the vehicle. Like all of the vehicles permitted inside the dome, it was powered by an electric motor.
The streets were laid out like spokes on a wheel and tied together by circular boulevards, each identified by a letter. Space was at a premium, so most of the structures shared walls with each other and were backed up to other buildings.
Because most of the dwellings were modular, they would have been boring to look at had it not been for the way they were painted. Pastel colors were most popular. And a plentitude of well-maintained plants and trees brought a much-needed touch of green to the community while throwing off additional oxygen as well.
The Confederacy’s consulate was located at the very center of the dome’s circular footprint along with the city hall, a medical facility, and some major stores, most of which were set up to serve the needs of the contract workers who were paid to service the greenhouse-gas factories. Dangerous jobs given the harsh working conditions-but ones they could depend on for a long time.
As Ralph guided the car into one of four parking spots in front of the two-story consulate building, Vanderveen saw that the windows were equipped with adjustable shutters. For privacy probably-since there wasn’t any weather to worry about. “So tell me what I’m looking at,” Vanderveen said. “What’s on the first floor?”
“Offices,” Ralph replied. “Living quarters are located above.”
“That will make for a short commute,” Vanderveen observed, as she followed the android through a pair of security doors. The lobby didn’t have a ceiling, and the furnishings were a bit shabby, but the floor was spotlessly clean. And there, positioned directly below the Confederacy seal, was a massive desk. The woman seated behind it appeared to be in her sixties. She had fluffy pink hair and was dressed in the sort of two-piece outfit that had been popular on Earth three years earlier. She smiled and stood. “Good morning, ma’am… And welcome to Trevia. I’m Nina Crosby.”
Vanderveen smiled and went forward to shake the receptionist’s hand. That was when the pistol caught her eye. It was sitting in Crosby’s in-box. “Are we expecting trouble?” she inquired mildly.
Crosby followed Vanderveen’s gaze. “Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “There used to be a sergeant and a squad of marines stationed here. But they were taken off Trevia three months ago to help with the war. So we’re on our own now. Dome City is a peaceful place for the most part. But we do get the occasional nutcase. I shot one three weeks ago. Just in the leg, mind you… There was no reason to kill the poor bastard.”
Having read Crosby’s P-1 file, Vanderveen knew the receptionist was a retired master chief. “We’re lucky to have you,” Vanderveen observed. “I will feel quite secure knowing you’re on the job.”
Crosby nodded. “Don’t worry, ma’am. There ain’t nobody that’s going to see you without an appointment.”
Vanderveen wondered if Crosby might do too good a job of keeping people at bay and resolved to keep an eye on that possibility. “Ralph tells me that the vice consul is indisposed?”
Crosby gave a snort of derision. “I guess you could call it that. But I’d say that flat-assed drunk is more like it.”
“Is that a common occurrence?”
“Yup,” Crosby answered cheerfully. “Fortunately, the place pretty much takes care of itself. No offense, ma’am.”
“And none taken,” Vanderveen assured her. Then she turned to give her helmet to Ralph. “Would you show me to Mr. Price’s office? And take my belongings up to my quarters?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ralph replied obediently. He led her past the desk and into a hallway. The vice consul’s office was the second one back and on the left. “This is it,” Ralph announced. “Your office is next door.”
Vanderveen looked inside. She saw the predictable wall seal, a desk, and two guest chairs, one of which was clearly intended for use by Ramanthians. As for the man himself, he was laid out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of booze on the coffee table beside him.
Vanderveen placed her carry-on on the cluttered desk before making her way over to the couch. Then, having pinched Price’s nostrils together, she waited for the natural reaction. He awoke with a splutter. “What the hell? Who are you?”
“I’m your new boss,” Vanderveen answered sweetly. “Now get up off that couch. This may be the ass end of nowhere-but you’re getting paid. And that means you’re going to work. Understand me?”
Price swung his feet over onto the floor, winced, and stood. He looked embarrassed. “Sorry about that… It isn’t the way it looks.”
“Oh, but I think it is,” Vanderveen countered, as she sat in a guest chair. “I read your P-1 file. And the previous consul rated you as ineffective-and ordered you to seek help for what he called ‘a serious drinking problem.’”
Price was seated behind his desk by then. He was in need of a haircut, had a bulbous nose, and there was at least two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. Resentment could be seen in his bloodshot eyes. “Consul Zachariah had it in for me. And, if you’re such a hotshot, how come you’re here?”
Vanderveen smiled grimly. “I’m in the official shithouse just like you are. The difference is that I’m sober. And planning to work for a living. Go to your quarters, get cleaned up, and come back. Or, if you prefer, submit your resignation. It’s all the same to me.”
There was a long moment of silence. Then Price stood and stalked out of the room. Vanderveen got up, went over to the desk, and pressed a button. “Nina?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please contact all of our people and inform them that there will be a staff meeting at 1500 hours. Do we have a conference room?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ll meet in the conference room then. And Nina…”
“Ma’am?”
“Please keep your pistol in a drawer.”
Vanderveen’s airtight trunks were in her residence when she arrived. The two-bedroom, two-bath suite was larger than she had expected or needed. And while a latticework of crisscrossing laths had been installed over the bedrooms and both baths in place of a ceiling, Vanderveen felt somewhat exposed as she struggled to peel the skinsuit off and took a shower. After toweling herself dry and donning a fresh set of clothes, it was time to go down and confront her staff.
The conference room was large enough to accommodate three times as many people. Ralph had been stationed at the front desk, so Crosby could attend. Price was present as well. He looked better. But Vanderveen could see the brooding hostility in his eyes.
There were only two other staff members. They included a technician named Hiram Wexel, who was responsible for keeping the consulate’s electromechanical systems running, and a very junior FSO-5 who had clearly been doing most of the vice consul’s work. Her name was Missy Sayers. She had dark shoulder-length hair, a pinched face, and all the hallmarks of a workaholic. A trait Vanderveen planned to take full advantage of.
The staff members were given an opportunity to introduce themselves, with Vanderveen going last. She made no mention of being in the State Department’s penalty box and knew she didn’t have to. That was obvious. The trick was to convince the men and women on her staff that they could accomplish something in spite of the circumstances they found themselves in.
So once the introductions were complete, Vanderveen asked each staff member to comment on their needs and activities. Price said Vanderveen should request more staff. Crosby said things were fine. Wexel was in dire need of spare parts. And Sayers wanted to know how her reports had been received at the State Department. Vanderveen replied by saying, “What reports?” and looked at Price.
The vice consul frowned. “The people on Algeron have enough to do without reading the drivel submitted by an FSO-5 on Trevia.”
Sayers, who had clearly been told that her reports were going in, looked crestfallen. Vanderveen made eye contact with her. “Do you have copies?”
Sayers nodded miserably.
“Please resubmit them to me by 0900 in the morning. I will read every one of them from beginning to end. And, if I think they have value, you can rest assured they will be sent to Algeron. Okay?”
