Colony, page 25
“Peru,” David repeated. In his mind he saw Incas and conquistadores, golden temples set high in inaccessible mountains.
“Ever been there before?”
“No,” David said.
“High mountains. Some people have trouble with the breathing because the air is thin. I flew opium up there back in the Nineties.”
“Smuggling?”
“That’s what the policia called it,” he said with a slight shrug. “Somebody fly the stuff in from China or someplace and they process it up in the mountains. Had big factories up there in those days. Then somebody’d fly it north, to the gringos. I never flew that leg of it. Too dangerous. Those crazy gringos, they shoot you down with SAMs when you try to cross their border.”
“Surface-to-Air Missiles?”
“It was a big business then, the drugs. Lots of money for everybody. That was before the World Government came in and closed it all down.”
David nodded.
“They had big factories up in the mountains. Plenty of work for everybody—even fliers, like me. Goddamned World Government ruined it all. Put everybody out of work.”
He chattered on for hours as they flew northwestward. The ground below them changed from grassland to forest, from forest to matted jungle, and finally to high, craggy mountains. David could see snow on many of the peaks. But no signs of roads, towns, habitation.
“This is the tough part,” the pilot said, just as cheery as ever. “We fly low enough to get under the radars back where we started. But here in the mountains, in this season, you must fly higher—or say hello to the angels. Is she buckled in well?”
David checked Bahjat’s seat harness and then his own. The plane started bouncing around in the strong mountain air currents. The bare, jagged rock walls looked awfully close.
“Have no fears,” the pilot called as the plane lurched. “I have flown these mountains for longer than your years. They are my friends.”
A sudden drop made David glad his stomach was empty. Bahjat stirred and moaned in her sleep.
He said he'd have a doctor waiting for us, David repeated to himself for the hundredth time. He promised. “Oh-oh!”
David looked at the pilot, who was half-turned in his seat. “What’s wrong?”
The pilot pointed out the right side of the plane. David saw three swept-wing fighters cruising off their wingtip. David stared at the insignia on the fighters: the sky-blue globe of the World Government. And on their raked-back tails, a stylized sunburst of gold. The ancient Inca symbol. They're Peruvians.
The pilot had slipped on his earphones and was muttering into his throat mike in the clipped jargon of professional airmen.
Turning back toward David, he said, “They want us to land at their World Government airfield. They know the two of you are aboard.”
“That man back in Santa Rosa,” David said.
“There must be a large reward out for you. He is very trustworthy until money is available.”
“What will they do if we don’t follow their instructions?”
The pilot was no longer smiling. “They will shoot us down. Their leader says they carry both missiles and laser guns, so unless we can fly faster than light, we have no chance to outrun them.”
“Not much of a choice.”
The smile returned a little. “Not to fear, amigo. I know these mountains; they don’t. I’ll get you down safely. It won’t be where you are expected, but it won’t be at their damned airfield, either. They can kiss my ass before I’ll let them get their hands on my plane!”
“But they have missiles and...”
The pilot waved a carefree hand. “I have this.” He tapped an index finger against his temple. “And these.” He pointed downward. “Cojones”, he explained.
For fifteen minutes they flew along with the fighters, as straight and level as the tricky mountain winds would allow. The sleek supersonic jets had to throttle back constantly to stay close to the little turboprop. The pilot was back on the radio, chatting with the fighter pilots in Spanish, explaining that he was going as fast as he could.
“I’m not a rocketship, you know!” he yelled in English, for David’s benefit, as he eased his throttle back slowly.
Then came an argument over altitude. The mountains were still rising, growing higher and higher in front of them. The fighter pilots wanted to climb as far above the peaks as possible. David’s pilot shook his head and explained that his poor, tired little aircraft was already straining at its ceiling, and it could not climb any higher without stalling and crashing.
Soon they were maneuvering around snow-crusted peaks, flying in and out among the mountains. Below them was a hazy sea of clouds and mist, but up at this height the thin air was clear.
And then quite suddenly the pilot slammed his throttles forward, pulled a heavy left turn, and banked so steeply that David saw nothing but rock hurtling past his window. Engines roaring, the plane dove into the clouds and within an instant they were shrouded in gray mist, flying totally blind.
David wanted to yell, but his throat was constricted.
The pilot yanked the earphones from his head and smiled back at David. “Have no fears. I have the radar.” He tapped the tiny orange screen in the center of his control panel. It was jagged with return echoes from the mountains on all sides of them.
But you’re not looking at it! David screamed silently.
“They have radar, too,” the pilot said, still over his shoulder, “but they will be too frightened to take their very fast, shiny new aircraft down here to make love with the rocks. I know these mountains. I could fly through them blindfolded and kiss each one as I went by.”
David nodded and tried to smile.
After a bouncing, shuddering, ear-popping ride that seemed hours long, they dropped out below the cloud deck and David could see broad Alpine meadows sloping away beneath them. Sunlight slanted through the heavy gray clouds overhead. The grasslands looked bare and brown, treeless, strewn with boulders.
The pilot had no time for talking now. He ran the plane in low over a level patch of withered grass, circled the area once, then dropped wheels and flaps and flared down to a bouncing, dust-raising landing.
He never switched off the engines, just reached back and opened the hatch alongside David.
“Okay, you’re safe now.”
“Safe? Where are we?”
“About fifty kilometers from Ciudad Nuevo—that is where your friends are waiting for you.”
“But how will we get there?”
“I don’t know! And maybe your friends have already been picked up by the policia. You will be safer here for a few days.”
“What do you mean? There’s nothing here!”
“There’s an Indian village over that hill. You can stay there for a while.”
“But...”
“No time! I must get back to an airstrip where I can get some fuel before the shit-eating policia catch up with me. Go! Quickly!”
With barely a chance to think, David unstrapped Bahjat from her seat and lifted her out of the plane. The pilot gunned the engines, spraying them with a miniature hurricane of dust and pebbles as David held Bahjat in his arms.
The plane roared bumpily across the sloping meadow and lifted into the cloud-heavy sky. In a few minutes it disappeared into the gray clouds and even the sound of its engines was lost. David stood alone in the empty wilderness with the sick, unconscious girl.
~~~
It happened!
I went over to Ruth's dorm room to work on the electronics project we're doing together and her two roommates were both out for the afternoon, and, well, instead of the project we wound up in bed. She's wonderful. It was her first time, too.
I told her I want to marry her and I love her and she just giggled and said we shouldn't even think about marriage for a long time yet. Her family's Jewish, but they're not strict or anything, so they wouldn't mind her marrying me. But if we ever had any children, they'd be Jewish, she said. I don't really understand that; it doesn't seem to have anything to do with which church they're brought up in. They'd be Jewish even if we raised them as Lutherans. That's what Ruth told me.
Anyway, I'm going to work harder than ever on these damned classroom studies. Ruth's so bright that she's sure to pass the tests and go on to Island One, and I'm not going to let her go up there without me.
—The journal of William Pahnquist
~~~
TWENTY-FIVE
Let's face it, old girl, you've got to be a masochist:
Evelyn was sitting in the Vesuvio Bar, where the decorations consisted of three-dimensional holographic views of past eruptions of Mount Vesuvius. Turn one way and you could see red-hot lava crushing a village beneath its inexorable flow; turn another and you were treated to the sight of stones the size of schoolhouses being hurled from the volcano’s fiery cone.
Evelyn ignored all the views as she sipped her drink in the darkened, noisy bar. Most of the crowd was Italian, Neapolitans who preferred singing to talking and arguing to singing. The bartenders argued with the waiters, the waiters argued with the customers, and the customers argued with each other—all at the top of their lungs, accompanied by more eloquent gestures than a symphony conductor ever got to make. You could have your eye put out simply discussing the weather, Evelyn thought.
But she sat at the bar in a cone of silence. All the noise and action around her canceled itself out. She was lost in her own thoughts.
They've landed in Argentina. If I fly there, will they still be there by the time I arrive? Will the Argentinians allow me to see David? Or interview the PRU hijackers? And how will I get there? Borrow the money from Charles? He’ll expect payment.
She didn’t mind Sir Charles’ bisexuality. What he did with others was no concern of hers. But the man was a masochist, and he turned Evelyn off with his hot-breathed demands for punishment. Two masochists can't have fun together, she thought. Even though her masochism was strictly confined to her chosen profession. You've got to be a masochist to stick to journalism. There's no other explanation.
“May I buy you a drink?”
Startled, Evelyn looked up to see a thick-necked, swarthy young man standing next to her stool. He didn’t look quite Italian, even though he was dressed in the same casual slacks and sleeveless shirt as everyone else in the bar.
“I was just about to leave,” she said.
He rested a hand on her wrist, gently, lightly, but it was enough to keep her from getting up.
“You are the English reporter who wants to interview the hijackers, are you not?”
His accent isn't Italian. “What makes you think...”
“We have been watching you for the past several days. Please. We mean you no harm. Have a drink with me. Perhaps we can help you.” He signaled to the bartender, who was loudly debating the eventual fate of the hijackers with two of the waiters.
“Another of the same for the lady, and I will have iced coffee.”
Glaring disapprovingly at him, the bartender reached for a pair of glasses.
“You’re an Arab,” Evelyn said.
“Kurdish. You may call me Hamoud. I already know your name. It is Evelyn Hall.”
“Yes.”
“And you wish to interview Scheherazade and the others.”
“Yes.”
Hamoud nodded. “I will take you to them.”
“To Argentina?”
“She is no longer in Argentina. She and one of the passengers have escaped from the false revolutionary El Libertador.”
“Which other passenger?” Evelyn asked, feeling her heart race. “Where are they?”
“They are heading north. The man she is with apparently did not want to return to his home. He is from Island One, I believe.”
Reaching for her drink, Evelyn asked, “And you are going to meet them somewhere?”
“Eventually. Are you willing to come with us to meet her?”
“Yes!”
“You will have to do exactly as I tell you, and live with us. Not a word to anyone outside until I allow it.”
She nodded eagerly. “All right.”
“You will be in danger. And if you try to trick us, the PRU will destroy you.”
“I know,” she said. “I understand.” A masochists dream come true.
Jamil al-Hashimi felt as tense as a coiled panther as the helicopter fought its way through a stiff, gusty wind to land atop the Garrison Tower. The city of Houston sprawled beneath its smoggy blanket as far as the eye could see in every direction. The riches that had once come from cattle and then from oil were now flowing into Houston from space, where the Solar Power Satellites were converting sunlight into incredible wealth.
But why hasn't Garrison shared his wealth with his city? al-Hashimi wondered. Why does he allow them to continue burning coal? Cancerous stuff!
The copter touched down on the pad and its engines whined down to a lower pitch and shut off. The sheikh’s aide, clothed in dishdashi and turban, opened the passenger compartment’s hatch.
“Stay here,” al-Hashimi told him. “Do not go outside the aircraft. I shall not be long.”
Al-Hashimi stepped out of the air-conditioned cool of the helicopter into the muggy blaze of a Texas afternoon. He wore a European-style business suit, woven from a fabric that gave far more ventilation than traditional Arab robes.
Still he sweated. The wind on this rooftop was as humid as in a swamp. Al-Hashimi frowned with displeasure. Squinting against the sun’s glare, he saw that a tall, leggy, very American-looking woman was standing at the edge of the helicopter landing circle waiting for him. Two stone-faced men stood a few paces behind her.
“Sheikh al-Hashimi,” the woman said, with a slight Texas twang to her American English, “welcome to Houston.”
She extended her hand. He touched it briefly. Americans, he sniffed to himself, all informality and no manners. This woman was taller than he was, very attractive in a showgirl kind of way: thick, long red hair, strong white teeth, full bosom and hips.
“I’m Arlene Lee,” she said, her voice rising half a note at the end of the statement. “Mr. Garrison asked me to meet you and bring you down to his office.”
“Very kind of Mr. Garrison to provide such a lovely welcome for me.”
“Why, thank you! You’re very sweet.”
Sweet! Al-Hashimi fumed.
He allowed her to lead him to the elevator and they descended two flights. The doors slid open onto a single room that spanned the entire floor of the building.
It was part office, part Western ranchhouse living room, part garden. Impressive modern desks of real wood stood nearest the elevator where the sheikh stood. To his left was a row of blue-gray communications consoles that seemed intricate enough to reach any corner of the Solar System. Arlene guided the sheikh past the desks, into an area of pine-paneled walls, animal-skin rugs, and hide-covered chairs. A long redwood table was heaped with dishes of food, bottles of refreshments, and a glowing copper ghoum-ghoum surrounded by silver-inlaid cups.
“Would you care for something to eat or drink?” Arlene asked, gesturing toward the waiting feast.
Al-Hashimi checked his first impulse to refuse. “Some coffee, perhaps,” he said, inclining his head slightly toward the copper vat. “It is Arabic-style coffee, is it not?”
“Oh, sure,” Arlene answered offhandedly.
She poured him a cup and he sipped the strong, hot brew.
“Where is Mr. Garrison?”
“He’ll be here directly, I’m sure. He knew your helicopter had landed.”
“In my land,” al-Hashimi said without a smile, “it is often the custom to make a visitor wait to impress upon him that he is inferior in importance to the host.”
“Oh, that’s not it at all!” she said, looking genuinely shocked at the idea.
“’Course it is!” Garrison snapped.
Al-Hashimi turned to see the old man cruising down a lane between exotic shrubbery in the garden area of the immense room. Garrison rode his chair up to the sheikh and grinned crookedly at him.
“Mr. Garrison,” al-Hashimi said.
“Sheikh al-Hashimi,” replied Garrison.
“It is kind of you to receive me on such short notice,” al-Hashimi said, feeling anything but grateful.
“Ya got me curious,” said Garrison, his voice a corduroy-rough wheeze. “What’s so hell-fired important that we couldn’t talk on the phone about it?”
Al-Hashimi glanced at Arlene. “I wanted to speak to you personally, in private.”
Garrison said, “I got no secrets from my right-hand lady, here.”
“But I do.” Al-Hashimi tried to control his temper. This old man is toying with me. He knows I need his help.
“I’ll leave,” Arlene said. “Y’all call me when you want me.”
“No,” Garrison snapped, and for an instant al-Hashimi tensed, ready to stalk out of the place and go back to his waiting helicopter.
But Garrison went on. “I got a better idea. You come with me, Sheikh. Arlene, you stay here and get back t’work on those travel arrangements.”
Garrison pivoted his powerchair and started off back into the greenery. Al-Hashimi, seething, had no choice but to follow him.
He doesn't really need that chair, the sheikh thought. He's old but he's not crippled. It's merely an excuse for remaining seated, for humiliating me, for showing me who is master in this house and who is supplicant.
“Gonna let you see something that only six other people in the world’ve seen,” Garrison said. “And two of ’em are dead!” He chuckled and coughed.
“I wanted to speak with you about finding this escaped hijacker,” al-Hashimi said, following the powered chair through rows of exotic ferns and flowering shrubs.
“This Scheherazade girl? The one who’s run out from under El Libertador’s nose with one of my people?”
“Yes. Scheherazade, she calls herself.”
They reached a moss-covered wall. Garrison snapped his bony fingers and a door slid open, revealing another elevator cab. He drove the chair into the elevator and spun himself around to face forward. Al-Hashimi stepped in beside him and the door slid silently shut.
“Ever been there before?”
“No,” David said.
“High mountains. Some people have trouble with the breathing because the air is thin. I flew opium up there back in the Nineties.”
“Smuggling?”
“That’s what the policia called it,” he said with a slight shrug. “Somebody fly the stuff in from China or someplace and they process it up in the mountains. Had big factories up there in those days. Then somebody’d fly it north, to the gringos. I never flew that leg of it. Too dangerous. Those crazy gringos, they shoot you down with SAMs when you try to cross their border.”
“Surface-to-Air Missiles?”
“It was a big business then, the drugs. Lots of money for everybody. That was before the World Government came in and closed it all down.”
David nodded.
“They had big factories up in the mountains. Plenty of work for everybody—even fliers, like me. Goddamned World Government ruined it all. Put everybody out of work.”
He chattered on for hours as they flew northwestward. The ground below them changed from grassland to forest, from forest to matted jungle, and finally to high, craggy mountains. David could see snow on many of the peaks. But no signs of roads, towns, habitation.
“This is the tough part,” the pilot said, just as cheery as ever. “We fly low enough to get under the radars back where we started. But here in the mountains, in this season, you must fly higher—or say hello to the angels. Is she buckled in well?”
David checked Bahjat’s seat harness and then his own. The plane started bouncing around in the strong mountain air currents. The bare, jagged rock walls looked awfully close.
“Have no fears,” the pilot called as the plane lurched. “I have flown these mountains for longer than your years. They are my friends.”
A sudden drop made David glad his stomach was empty. Bahjat stirred and moaned in her sleep.
He said he'd have a doctor waiting for us, David repeated to himself for the hundredth time. He promised. “Oh-oh!”
David looked at the pilot, who was half-turned in his seat. “What’s wrong?”
The pilot pointed out the right side of the plane. David saw three swept-wing fighters cruising off their wingtip. David stared at the insignia on the fighters: the sky-blue globe of the World Government. And on their raked-back tails, a stylized sunburst of gold. The ancient Inca symbol. They're Peruvians.
The pilot had slipped on his earphones and was muttering into his throat mike in the clipped jargon of professional airmen.
Turning back toward David, he said, “They want us to land at their World Government airfield. They know the two of you are aboard.”
“That man back in Santa Rosa,” David said.
“There must be a large reward out for you. He is very trustworthy until money is available.”
“What will they do if we don’t follow their instructions?”
The pilot was no longer smiling. “They will shoot us down. Their leader says they carry both missiles and laser guns, so unless we can fly faster than light, we have no chance to outrun them.”
“Not much of a choice.”
The smile returned a little. “Not to fear, amigo. I know these mountains; they don’t. I’ll get you down safely. It won’t be where you are expected, but it won’t be at their damned airfield, either. They can kiss my ass before I’ll let them get their hands on my plane!”
“But they have missiles and...”
The pilot waved a carefree hand. “I have this.” He tapped an index finger against his temple. “And these.” He pointed downward. “Cojones”, he explained.
For fifteen minutes they flew along with the fighters, as straight and level as the tricky mountain winds would allow. The sleek supersonic jets had to throttle back constantly to stay close to the little turboprop. The pilot was back on the radio, chatting with the fighter pilots in Spanish, explaining that he was going as fast as he could.
“I’m not a rocketship, you know!” he yelled in English, for David’s benefit, as he eased his throttle back slowly.
Then came an argument over altitude. The mountains were still rising, growing higher and higher in front of them. The fighter pilots wanted to climb as far above the peaks as possible. David’s pilot shook his head and explained that his poor, tired little aircraft was already straining at its ceiling, and it could not climb any higher without stalling and crashing.
Soon they were maneuvering around snow-crusted peaks, flying in and out among the mountains. Below them was a hazy sea of clouds and mist, but up at this height the thin air was clear.
And then quite suddenly the pilot slammed his throttles forward, pulled a heavy left turn, and banked so steeply that David saw nothing but rock hurtling past his window. Engines roaring, the plane dove into the clouds and within an instant they were shrouded in gray mist, flying totally blind.
David wanted to yell, but his throat was constricted.
The pilot yanked the earphones from his head and smiled back at David. “Have no fears. I have the radar.” He tapped the tiny orange screen in the center of his control panel. It was jagged with return echoes from the mountains on all sides of them.
But you’re not looking at it! David screamed silently.
“They have radar, too,” the pilot said, still over his shoulder, “but they will be too frightened to take their very fast, shiny new aircraft down here to make love with the rocks. I know these mountains. I could fly through them blindfolded and kiss each one as I went by.”
David nodded and tried to smile.
After a bouncing, shuddering, ear-popping ride that seemed hours long, they dropped out below the cloud deck and David could see broad Alpine meadows sloping away beneath them. Sunlight slanted through the heavy gray clouds overhead. The grasslands looked bare and brown, treeless, strewn with boulders.
The pilot had no time for talking now. He ran the plane in low over a level patch of withered grass, circled the area once, then dropped wheels and flaps and flared down to a bouncing, dust-raising landing.
He never switched off the engines, just reached back and opened the hatch alongside David.
“Okay, you’re safe now.”
“Safe? Where are we?”
“About fifty kilometers from Ciudad Nuevo—that is where your friends are waiting for you.”
“But how will we get there?”
“I don’t know! And maybe your friends have already been picked up by the policia. You will be safer here for a few days.”
“What do you mean? There’s nothing here!”
“There’s an Indian village over that hill. You can stay there for a while.”
“But...”
“No time! I must get back to an airstrip where I can get some fuel before the shit-eating policia catch up with me. Go! Quickly!”
With barely a chance to think, David unstrapped Bahjat from her seat and lifted her out of the plane. The pilot gunned the engines, spraying them with a miniature hurricane of dust and pebbles as David held Bahjat in his arms.
The plane roared bumpily across the sloping meadow and lifted into the cloud-heavy sky. In a few minutes it disappeared into the gray clouds and even the sound of its engines was lost. David stood alone in the empty wilderness with the sick, unconscious girl.
~~~
It happened!
I went over to Ruth's dorm room to work on the electronics project we're doing together and her two roommates were both out for the afternoon, and, well, instead of the project we wound up in bed. She's wonderful. It was her first time, too.
I told her I want to marry her and I love her and she just giggled and said we shouldn't even think about marriage for a long time yet. Her family's Jewish, but they're not strict or anything, so they wouldn't mind her marrying me. But if we ever had any children, they'd be Jewish, she said. I don't really understand that; it doesn't seem to have anything to do with which church they're brought up in. They'd be Jewish even if we raised them as Lutherans. That's what Ruth told me.
Anyway, I'm going to work harder than ever on these damned classroom studies. Ruth's so bright that she's sure to pass the tests and go on to Island One, and I'm not going to let her go up there without me.
—The journal of William Pahnquist
~~~
TWENTY-FIVE
Let's face it, old girl, you've got to be a masochist:
Evelyn was sitting in the Vesuvio Bar, where the decorations consisted of three-dimensional holographic views of past eruptions of Mount Vesuvius. Turn one way and you could see red-hot lava crushing a village beneath its inexorable flow; turn another and you were treated to the sight of stones the size of schoolhouses being hurled from the volcano’s fiery cone.
Evelyn ignored all the views as she sipped her drink in the darkened, noisy bar. Most of the crowd was Italian, Neapolitans who preferred singing to talking and arguing to singing. The bartenders argued with the waiters, the waiters argued with the customers, and the customers argued with each other—all at the top of their lungs, accompanied by more eloquent gestures than a symphony conductor ever got to make. You could have your eye put out simply discussing the weather, Evelyn thought.
But she sat at the bar in a cone of silence. All the noise and action around her canceled itself out. She was lost in her own thoughts.
They've landed in Argentina. If I fly there, will they still be there by the time I arrive? Will the Argentinians allow me to see David? Or interview the PRU hijackers? And how will I get there? Borrow the money from Charles? He’ll expect payment.
She didn’t mind Sir Charles’ bisexuality. What he did with others was no concern of hers. But the man was a masochist, and he turned Evelyn off with his hot-breathed demands for punishment. Two masochists can't have fun together, she thought. Even though her masochism was strictly confined to her chosen profession. You've got to be a masochist to stick to journalism. There's no other explanation.
“May I buy you a drink?”
Startled, Evelyn looked up to see a thick-necked, swarthy young man standing next to her stool. He didn’t look quite Italian, even though he was dressed in the same casual slacks and sleeveless shirt as everyone else in the bar.
“I was just about to leave,” she said.
He rested a hand on her wrist, gently, lightly, but it was enough to keep her from getting up.
“You are the English reporter who wants to interview the hijackers, are you not?”
His accent isn't Italian. “What makes you think...”
“We have been watching you for the past several days. Please. We mean you no harm. Have a drink with me. Perhaps we can help you.” He signaled to the bartender, who was loudly debating the eventual fate of the hijackers with two of the waiters.
“Another of the same for the lady, and I will have iced coffee.”
Glaring disapprovingly at him, the bartender reached for a pair of glasses.
“You’re an Arab,” Evelyn said.
“Kurdish. You may call me Hamoud. I already know your name. It is Evelyn Hall.”
“Yes.”
“And you wish to interview Scheherazade and the others.”
“Yes.”
Hamoud nodded. “I will take you to them.”
“To Argentina?”
“She is no longer in Argentina. She and one of the passengers have escaped from the false revolutionary El Libertador.”
“Which other passenger?” Evelyn asked, feeling her heart race. “Where are they?”
“They are heading north. The man she is with apparently did not want to return to his home. He is from Island One, I believe.”
Reaching for her drink, Evelyn asked, “And you are going to meet them somewhere?”
“Eventually. Are you willing to come with us to meet her?”
“Yes!”
“You will have to do exactly as I tell you, and live with us. Not a word to anyone outside until I allow it.”
She nodded eagerly. “All right.”
“You will be in danger. And if you try to trick us, the PRU will destroy you.”
“I know,” she said. “I understand.” A masochists dream come true.
Jamil al-Hashimi felt as tense as a coiled panther as the helicopter fought its way through a stiff, gusty wind to land atop the Garrison Tower. The city of Houston sprawled beneath its smoggy blanket as far as the eye could see in every direction. The riches that had once come from cattle and then from oil were now flowing into Houston from space, where the Solar Power Satellites were converting sunlight into incredible wealth.
But why hasn't Garrison shared his wealth with his city? al-Hashimi wondered. Why does he allow them to continue burning coal? Cancerous stuff!
The copter touched down on the pad and its engines whined down to a lower pitch and shut off. The sheikh’s aide, clothed in dishdashi and turban, opened the passenger compartment’s hatch.
“Stay here,” al-Hashimi told him. “Do not go outside the aircraft. I shall not be long.”
Al-Hashimi stepped out of the air-conditioned cool of the helicopter into the muggy blaze of a Texas afternoon. He wore a European-style business suit, woven from a fabric that gave far more ventilation than traditional Arab robes.
Still he sweated. The wind on this rooftop was as humid as in a swamp. Al-Hashimi frowned with displeasure. Squinting against the sun’s glare, he saw that a tall, leggy, very American-looking woman was standing at the edge of the helicopter landing circle waiting for him. Two stone-faced men stood a few paces behind her.
“Sheikh al-Hashimi,” the woman said, with a slight Texas twang to her American English, “welcome to Houston.”
She extended her hand. He touched it briefly. Americans, he sniffed to himself, all informality and no manners. This woman was taller than he was, very attractive in a showgirl kind of way: thick, long red hair, strong white teeth, full bosom and hips.
“I’m Arlene Lee,” she said, her voice rising half a note at the end of the statement. “Mr. Garrison asked me to meet you and bring you down to his office.”
“Very kind of Mr. Garrison to provide such a lovely welcome for me.”
“Why, thank you! You’re very sweet.”
Sweet! Al-Hashimi fumed.
He allowed her to lead him to the elevator and they descended two flights. The doors slid open onto a single room that spanned the entire floor of the building.
It was part office, part Western ranchhouse living room, part garden. Impressive modern desks of real wood stood nearest the elevator where the sheikh stood. To his left was a row of blue-gray communications consoles that seemed intricate enough to reach any corner of the Solar System. Arlene guided the sheikh past the desks, into an area of pine-paneled walls, animal-skin rugs, and hide-covered chairs. A long redwood table was heaped with dishes of food, bottles of refreshments, and a glowing copper ghoum-ghoum surrounded by silver-inlaid cups.
“Would you care for something to eat or drink?” Arlene asked, gesturing toward the waiting feast.
Al-Hashimi checked his first impulse to refuse. “Some coffee, perhaps,” he said, inclining his head slightly toward the copper vat. “It is Arabic-style coffee, is it not?”
“Oh, sure,” Arlene answered offhandedly.
She poured him a cup and he sipped the strong, hot brew.
“Where is Mr. Garrison?”
“He’ll be here directly, I’m sure. He knew your helicopter had landed.”
“In my land,” al-Hashimi said without a smile, “it is often the custom to make a visitor wait to impress upon him that he is inferior in importance to the host.”
“Oh, that’s not it at all!” she said, looking genuinely shocked at the idea.
“’Course it is!” Garrison snapped.
Al-Hashimi turned to see the old man cruising down a lane between exotic shrubbery in the garden area of the immense room. Garrison rode his chair up to the sheikh and grinned crookedly at him.
“Mr. Garrison,” al-Hashimi said.
“Sheikh al-Hashimi,” replied Garrison.
“It is kind of you to receive me on such short notice,” al-Hashimi said, feeling anything but grateful.
“Ya got me curious,” said Garrison, his voice a corduroy-rough wheeze. “What’s so hell-fired important that we couldn’t talk on the phone about it?”
Al-Hashimi glanced at Arlene. “I wanted to speak to you personally, in private.”
Garrison said, “I got no secrets from my right-hand lady, here.”
“But I do.” Al-Hashimi tried to control his temper. This old man is toying with me. He knows I need his help.
“I’ll leave,” Arlene said. “Y’all call me when you want me.”
“No,” Garrison snapped, and for an instant al-Hashimi tensed, ready to stalk out of the place and go back to his waiting helicopter.
But Garrison went on. “I got a better idea. You come with me, Sheikh. Arlene, you stay here and get back t’work on those travel arrangements.”
Garrison pivoted his powerchair and started off back into the greenery. Al-Hashimi, seething, had no choice but to follow him.
He doesn't really need that chair, the sheikh thought. He's old but he's not crippled. It's merely an excuse for remaining seated, for humiliating me, for showing me who is master in this house and who is supplicant.
“Gonna let you see something that only six other people in the world’ve seen,” Garrison said. “And two of ’em are dead!” He chuckled and coughed.
“I wanted to speak with you about finding this escaped hijacker,” al-Hashimi said, following the powered chair through rows of exotic ferns and flowering shrubs.
“This Scheherazade girl? The one who’s run out from under El Libertador’s nose with one of my people?”
“Yes. Scheherazade, she calls herself.”
They reached a moss-covered wall. Garrison snapped his bony fingers and a door slid open, revealing another elevator cab. He drove the chair into the elevator and spun himself around to face forward. Al-Hashimi stepped in beside him and the door slid silently shut.
