crown. 'Mr. Doyle would have been very surprised if he knew that your beady eyes were watching him from the grave.'
Barrett laughed. 'What was your impression of Gant?'
'Brilliant. Arrogant. Psychopath. I was watching him after the foxhunt. He was gazing at the killing ground as if it were a shrine.'
'Gant always gave me the creeps. I could never figure out why Tris hooked up with him.'
'Evil doings make strange bedfellows, I guess. I didn't think he would go for my appeal to reason, but it gave me a chance to size him up, and plant a bug under the garden table before I left.'
'It's working fine, but hasn't picked up anything yet.'
'Do you think the Trouts will have any better luck with Margrave?' Austin said.
'I hope so, but I'm not very optimistic.'
Austin thought about his encounter with Gant. 'Neither am I,' he said.
Here's to Arthur C. Clarke,' Gant said, raising his glass high.
He was sitting in his study with three other foxhunters dressed in regulation red. One of them, a thickset man with a face like a bull, said, 'Who's Clarke?'
Gant's oily smile veiled his contempt. 'He is the British science fiction writer who first suggested back in 1945 putting three manned satellites in twenty-four-hour orbits over major landmasses to broadcast television signals. His vision is what brings us here today.'
'I'll drink to that,' said the thickset man in an English accent.
He raised his glass, and Gant and two other men in the study followed suit. One man was as gaunt as the bull- faced man was thick. The fourth man in the room was in his eighties. He had tried to stave off the inevitable advance of age and his decadent lifestyle through plastic surgery, chemicals and transplants. The effect was a hideous face that was more like the corpse of a young man.
Even Gant would admit that none of his partners would have won a competition on character, but they were incredibly shrewd and ruthless men who had become wealthy beyond belief with their multinational companies. And they would suit his needs. For now.
'I asked you to join me so I can bring you up to date on our project,' Gant said. 'Things are going well.'
'Hear! Hear!' said the other three men in chorus.
'As you know, the satellite business has grown incredibly fast in the last thirty years. There are dozens of satellites operated by many companies, used for television, communications, military, weather and telephone, with more service on the horizon. These satellites generate billions of dollars.' He paused. 'Soon, all this will be ours.'
'Are you sure there can be no foul-up?' said the old man.
'None at all. The polar shift will be a temporary disruption, but the satellite networks will all be exposed to an electronic mauling.'
'Except for ours,' the gaunt man said.
Gant nodded. 'Our lead-shielded satellites will be the only ones still operating. Our consortium will be in a position to dominate world communications, a position that we will solidify when we absorb existing networks and launch more of our own satellites.'
'Thus generating billions more,' the old man said.
'Yes,' Gant said. 'And the delicious irony is that we will use the anarchist forces to accomplish our goal. They're the ones who will readily take credit for causing the shift. And when the wrath of the world is unleashed against them, Margrave and his people will be destroyed.'
'All well and good,' the old man said. 'But remember, our main goal is the money.'
'And there will be plenty of that,' Gant said, although money was the least important thing to him. More important was the political power that would come when he had total control over the world's communications. No one would be able to make a move without his knowing about it. Millions of conversations would be monitored. Access to any records would give him ample tools for political blackmail. No army could move without his knowing about it. His television stations would channel public opinions. He would have the power to create riots and to quell them.
'Here's to that British chap,' the bull-faced man said. 'What was his bloody name?'
Gant told him. Then he raised his glass for another toast.
34
Trout reeled his FISHING line in and examined the empty hook. 'The fish aren't biting today,' he said with disgust.
Gamay lowered the binoculars she had been using to study Margrave's lighthouse island. 'Someone who grew up in a fisherman's family should know that fishhooks usually work much better if you stick a worm on them.'
'Catching a fish would defeat the whole purpose of this seagoing, theatrical production, which is simply to
Gamay glanced at her watch and looked up at the peppermint, red-and-white-striped lighthouse high on its bluff. 'We've been here for two hours. The folks who have been watching us from the island should be convinced by now that we're harmless. That little 'bow babe' show I did a while ago must have convinced them that we're but simple fisherfolk.'
'I was thinking that they'd been sucked in by my fisherman's outfit.'
Gamay eyed the miniature Budweiser can on the brim of Trout's rumpled hat and dropped her gaze to study the girly print on the cheap Hawaiian shirt that hung out over the red Bermuda shorts. 'How could anyone
'I detect an unseemly note of sarcasm, which I will ignore like the gentleman I am,' Trout said. 'The true test is about to begin.'
He stowed the fishing rod in a socket with several others and made a great show of trying to start the outboard engine. The fact that he had disconnected an ignition wire may have had something to do with his failure to get the engine going. Act 1. Then he and Gamay stood out on the deck and waved their arms in a convincing show of a heated argument. Act 2. Finally, they dug out a couple of oars, placed them in the boat's oarlocks, and began to row toward the island. Act 3.
The powerboat was not designed to be rowed, and they made slow headway, but eventually they came within a hundred feet of a long dock where a big powerboat and a bigger sailboat were tied up. The dock was festooned with no trespassing signs. Enforcing their message was a security guard dressed in camouflage, who casually made his way to the end of the dock.
He flicked the cigarette he was smoking into the water and waved them away. When the boat kept coming, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, 'Private property. You can't land here.'
Trout stood in the boat's stern and yelled back, 'We're out of gas.'
'We can't help you. Private property.' He pointed to a no trespassing sign.
Gamay said, 'Let me try, Mr. Budweiser man.'
'He's probably a Miller drinker,' Trout said. He stood aside to make room for Gamay. 'Please don't use the hapless husband routine. I'm getting an inferiority complex.'
'Okay, I'll use the hapless wife instead.' Gamay spread her arms as if imploring the guard. 'We don't know what to do. Our radio won't work.' She pointed to the gas pump on the dock. 'We'll pay for fuel.'
The guard ran his eyes up and down Gamay's lithe body, then grinned and waved the Trouts up to the dock.
They rowed erratically up to the dock until they were close enough to see that the guard had a pistol holster attached to his belt on one side and a radio clipped to the other. Trout passed an empty fuel tank up to the unsmiling guard, who took it over to the pump and filled it while they remained in the boat. When he brought it back, Gamay thanked him and asked what she owed. The guard gave her a knowing grin and said, 'Nothing.'
She gave the guard a thick envelope. 'Then please give this to Mr. Margrave in exchange for our fuel.'
The guard looked at the envelope and said, 'Wait here.' He walked out of earshot and spoke into his hand
