Chase opened his briefcase and took out three photocopied sheets stapled together. He passed them across the desk. 'That's why I'm here, Gene. This is a list of the people I intend to approach. Seventy-four names.' He had another thought, asked for the sheets back, and added another name. 'Seventy-five.' To Nick Power he said, 'Sorry about that. If I'd known you were here I'd have put you top of the list.'
Nick groaned. 'Please, Gav, just forget we ever knew each other. That kind of favor I can do without.'
Lucas glanced up. 'You've put Frank Hanamura down.'
'He's one of the top people in his field. That electrolysis idea of his might be the answer--or one of them.'
Lucas went back to the list with a noncommittal grunt. He didn't seem impressed. After a few moments he laid it aside. 'You want me to comment, Gavin? Your nucleus of scientists sounds all right: atmospheric physicists, oceanographers, climatologists, all good research people, strong on theory. But you're going to need a lot of practical help too. Engineers, lab technicians, computer staff, people with practical skills. The backup team is essential if this project isn't just going to turn into a seminar of abstract theories that never get off the blackboard. It's practical solutions you want, right?'
'The more practical the better,' Chase said. 'Any names you feel ought to be on the list, go ahead and put them down. I'd be grateful for your advice and help, Gene.'
Lucas nodded. 'Leave it with me and I'll get back to you. Where are you planning to be over the next couple of weeks?'
'I spoke to Prothero on the phone yesterday and he wants me to look over the Desert Range site at Wah Wah Springs. First I intend to get my son out of New York and then I'll fly out there.'
Nick's face lit up. 'Listen, he could stay with us. Our house is northwest of town, in the country, and the air is clean by New York standards. Sure, send him here, Gav. Jen and my daughter, Jo, will like that.'
Chase thanked him and turned to Lucas. 'There's something else you could help me with, a second opinion on the Desert Range site. If it's suitable Prothero believes we can take it over without the Defense Department being any the wiser. Anyone you could spare for a day or two?'
'Yes, we can fix that,' Lucas said promptly. 'Can't we, Nick?'
Nick Power gave Lucas the steely eye. His head fell back and he stared disconsolately at the ceiling. 'I
Chase reached out and gripped Nick's shoulder. 'That's the stuff,' he chuckled. 'Team spirit and unbridled enthusiasm. Aren't you glad I came?'
'Over the moon, Gav. Over the fucking moon.'
In the act of rekindling his pipe, Lucas looked at Chase over the curling blue bowl. 'You don't seem filled with enthusiasm yourself, Gavin, unbridled or otherwise. Don't you believe there's a chance?'
'I honestly don't know. Do you?'
Lucas blew smoke through a small tight smile. 'I'd say it has the ghost of a chance, which is better than none at all.'
'I've got the nasty feeling we're at least twenty years too late,' Chase said. 'We ought to have been doing something like this back in 1990.'
'It's a damn pity we didn't,' said Gene Lucas, and he wasn't smiling anymore.
Mara had no need of a mask. Even here in the foul canyons of New York City. His pitifully thin body demanded little; its low metabolic rate meant that he was able to survive where others would fall choking and retching and coughing up bloody tissue.
Still, it was necessary and wise to move slowly and carefully. He couldn't afford to expend energy that didn't contribute directly to his purpose. The low oxygen content was just barely sufficient, and his unprotected eyes streamed from the effect of the poisonous miasma that clung in streamers to the tall buildings and wallowed sluggishly in the streets.
For two days Mara had made his preparations. The situation was hopeful; the mission was Go. He had only to wait for three factors to achieve confluence:
Time.
Location.
Access.
His brief gave him the flexibility to choose the optimum moment. Time and location had hardened, had narrowed down from the available options. Given these, he had now to arrange access.
He experienced neither impatience nor anticipation. He had been trained as pure function. The purpose of function was achievement of the mission. The mission would bring the Faith one small step (but one giant leap for mankind) nearer to Optimum Orbital Trajectory.
Crouching in the shadows, Mara studied the brightly illuminated entrance of the building through stinging eyes. Inside the sealed bulletproof glass enclosure he could see the ring of armed security guards. Access not possible. But the building was huge and had many entrances. There would be a way in, somewhere, and he would find it.
Mara moved on, keeping in the shadows. The harness chafed his shoulders. The cylinder of propylene underneath his black robes rubbed the flesh of his back raw. The cylinder gave him the deformed appearance and lurching gait of a hunchback. Had there been anyone to observe him he would have thought Mara one of life's unfortunate victims. When in truth he was precisely the opposite.
The dimpled bronze doors slid open and Prothero emerged, turning the key in the panel that would send the elevator back to the ground floor. Until activated the elevator wouldn't budge, a necessary precaution to prevent any intruder gaining access to the upper floors from the lobby. He pocketed the key and strode on to suite 4002.
Using his second key, he let himself into the penthouse. Below the tiny balcony hallway, the main living area was a deep well of mellow light and purple shadow. Sketches by Picasso and woodcuts by Munch hung on the rough-cast walls. Like a fragrance, a Mozart serenade drifted 011 the air, seeming to be everywhere, emanating from no particular point. On the edge of a pool of light cast by a huge table lamp, Ingrid Van Dorn sat half-reclining 011 a curved couch reading from a sheaf of typed pages, clear-framed reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, an empty martini glass dangling absently in one hand. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the low rectangular table in front of her, and next to the ashtray was a stack of books, used to support an open dictionary that couldn't have weighed an ounce under four pounds.
Prothero hung his overcoat and scarf in the closet and came lithely down the parabolic staircase of open carpeted treads. In a single movement he kissed the top of her head and took the glass from her fingers. At the bar he filled two freshly chilled glasses from the silver shaker, speared two black olives, and set her drink down within reach. He leaned back along the broad arm of the couch, sipping his drink and watching her profile, content to wait.
'Is it better to say 'poor' or 'impoverished'?' Ingrid nibbled her lower lip, not looking up.
'Relating to what or whom?'
'Nations.'
' 'Poor,' ' Prothero said without hesitation. ' 'Impoverished' suggests a decline into poverty, whereas the nations you're referring to have always been poor.' He stretched out his long legs, leaning on one elbow. 'Are you going to let me read it?'
'Of course I am, Pro, darling.' Ingrid reached for her cigarette and drew on it deeply. 'I would like your opinion.'
This was probably the most important speech of her career, Prothero reflected--certainly during her term of office as secretary-general. It was to be given before a plenary session of the General Assembly, all 243 countries. The world's media would be there in force, beaming it live by satellite to every part of the globe. A potential audience of 6.2 billion people. Ingrid would be in direct touch with all those who didn't think the annual address of the UN secretary-general a classic nonevent, a gigantic yawn.
And that was pertinent, because it was precisely what most people
