Larry Niven & Steve Barnes - The Descent of Anansi

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THE DESCENT OF ANANSI

LARRY NIVEN AND STEVEN BARNES

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A TOR Book

First printing, September 1982

ISBN: 523-48542-5

Cover art by: Howard Chaykin

Printed in the United States of America

Distributed by:

Pinnacle Books, Inc.

1430 Broadway

New York, New York 10018

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1: HIGH FINANCE

2: GRAND THEFT

3: THE AUCTION

4: THE MAN WITH NO FRIENDS

5: THE PRESSURE COOKER

6: EARTHBOUND

7: COURSE CHANGE

8: DAMAGE REPORT

9: THE GOOD NEIGHBOR POLICY

10: DRAWING THE LINE

11: IN PLAIN VIEW

12: LOOSE ENDS

13: DOVE OF PREY

14: THE KILLING PLACE

15: PENDULUM

16: MANEUVERING

17: THIN EDGE

18: THE DESCENT OF ANANSI

19: TRANSITIONS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Members of the Brasil Techimetal Electromotores:

Jorge Xavier (Vice-President)

Lucio Giorgi (Engineering)

Edson da Silva (Finance)

Djalma Costa (Industrial Relations)

Luisa (receptionist, BTE building)

Castellon (President)

Eric Burgess (Captain, Brasilia)

Ricardo Diaz (Copilot, Brasilia)

Correro (Psychologist & Missions Specialist, Brasilia)

UMAF personnel:

Resa Mansur

Hassan Ali Hoveida

Falling Angels Enterprises personnel:

Fleming (President)

Miss Ellinshaw (Air Quality Control)

Janet De Camp (Pilot, Anansi)

Thomas De Camp (Ion drive technician, Gabriel)

Mrs. Kelly (Fleming’s personal secretary)

Marion Guiness (Copilot, Anansi)

Dr. Dexter Stonecypher (Metallurgist)

Tim Connors (Ion drive technician and pilot, Michael)

Oyama Construction personnel:

Takayuki Yamada

Retsudo Oyama

One

HIGH FINANCE

On October 16, 1970, the Comsat Board of Directors declared a dividend of 12.5 cents per

share. This was approximately one million dollars, and represented a milestone: they first money

made by the general public from a space enterprise. It took a little over six years for Comsat to

go from initial start-up to a dividend-paying operation.

The Brazil Techimetal-Electromotores building was the second tallest in all of Sao Paulo, a

glistening golden spire that sprouted from a cluster of drab five-story structures, an egotistical

giant among dwarves.

Xavier parked his Mercedes in the underground parking structure, and took Yamada up to the

thirty-first floor in a public elevator. There they changed to a security elevator.

Jorge Xavier stood perfectly erect, and nearly a foot taller than his companion. His face was

dark, his hair thick and fluffy and prematurely white; he was altogether a tailor’s dream. Now his

generous mouth was drawn into a slender line, his brows wrinkled in concentration. He asked—

in English; he had learned that Yamada’s Portuguese was poor—”You are sure of the amount?”

“Absolutely. Oyama Construction wants the cable at all costs. The Trans-Korea bridge will

make their reputation.”

Xavier slammed the edge of his palm into the elevator wall, swearing in Portuguese. “I know,

I know. It is why we must have it. With the Stonecypher Cable in our hands, we can force

Oyama construction into a merger. Such a merger would combine the raw materials and

manpower available to BTE with the technical resources and world respectability of Oyama

Construction. With terms favorable to beth sides, such a merger could be~—” he groped for

words. “I do not care what it takes. We will have that cable.”

“Your company president. Your Senhor Castellon. He will not match Oyama’s bid?”

“Castellon is a sick old man. He spends half of the year in Caxambu, drinking the waters to

heal a faulty liver. His problem is not in the liver—it is in the heart. He has no heart for a

gamble.”

An electric-eye scan of the BTE executive’s identification card admitted them to the fifty-

fourth floor. Yamada stepped out and smiled reflexively at the pleasant softness of the carpet. He

said, “And you do?”

“I would not have brought you here otherwise. I, and a few others in my company, we have

the heart. We are young, and strong. We will gamble.”

Yamada wondered, too late, if it had been wise to betray Oyama Construction to this man.

He was suddenly very aware of what he himself was gambling. Income, reputation, honor,

freedom...if he lost.

The BTE executive suite was as luxurious as practicality would allow. Muted music flowed

from the inner walls, and many of the outer walls were gold-tinted plastic. The tinting reduced

the glare without obstructing the view of the city. It was a view worthy of appreciation, a vista of

silver and red buildings sparkling in the sun almost as far as the eye could see.

The receptionist was alert and smiling a greeting as the elevator door slid open. “Boa tarde,

Senhor Xavier.”

“Boa tarde, Luisa. Apresento-lhe o Senhor…” he turned to Yamada apologetically.

“Excuse me. Luisa, this is Mr. Yamada. We will be in conference. Call Mr. da Silva, Mr.

Costa, and Mr. Giorgi. Have them come to my office. Obrigado. Mr. Yamada? This way,

please.”

Xavier led the slender Oriental down the hallway and steered him around a right corner. This

corridor ended in a huge oak-panelled door with the name J. Xavier centered on a rectangle of

brass. The door swung open without a sound, and they entered.

There was a large conference desk in the front part of the office with a setup for videophone

conferences. Yarnada doubted that Xavier would want the contents of this particular conference

broadcast over any line, no matter how secure.

“Please. Be seated. Drink?” Yamada shook his head no, accepting the invitation to sit. Xavier

busied himself at a small wetbar, coming back with a short glass of ice and clear liquid garnished

with a twisted slice of lime.

He sat across from Yamada, sipped his drink and gazed at him speculatively. Yamada felt

naked, stripped to the skin and then flensed to the bone. Xavier probed and examined and

weighed, finally laying the meat arid organs back in place, slipping the skin back onto the body.

No Japanese would have stared so. The room’s silence was oppressive, and Yamada fought

to escape that gaze, to break contact with those bottomless black eyes. He found a painting to

look at, a garish thing of oranges and blacks. Concentric rings of color surrounded plastic

bubbles that rose inches out from the canvas, sprays of yellow arcing through the black

background like comets through space.

A name clicked in his mind. “This is your Mr. Castellar’s work, is it not?”

Xavier smiled, some of the coolness leaving his face. “Yes. You know our painters? He was

one of the finest. Emilio Castellar dreamed of space when much of our country was trying

merely to enter the industrial age. A man of vision.”

The office door opened, and two men entered, followed a moment later by a third. One of

them was Xavier’s height, a fraction over six feet, but heavy in the stomach and thighs. He

nodded without speaking. Xavier filled the silence. “This is Mr. da Silva. Edson da Silva.”

The second was a small, neat man with a beard that had been trimmed to a razor point. His

hazel eyes seemed to be in constant quick movement. His skin was lighter than Xavier’s or da

Silva’s. He sized Yamada up in two intense seconds, then stretched out his hand. “Djalma

Costa,” he said. “Djalma with a D.”

“Takayuki Yamada.” Yamada turned to the third man, noting the limp, and the silver wolf’s

head cane that corrected it. “And of course you are Mr. Giorgi. Lucio Giorgi.”

Giorgi was as tall as da Silva, but much thinner. His eyes were hollow, and the skin on his

face was stretched taut over the bones, as if a long illness had stripped away the fat. Giorgi

nodded with satisfaction and spoke with excellent, though accented, English. “I see that news of

my accident precedes me.”

“We were interested in your work on the Parana Dam project. Of course, when the scaf-

folding collapsed, we knew that the famous Giorgi had been the only survivor.”

“I am perhaps too old to continue on-site inspections.”

“If this project is as successful as we hope, we will definitely desire your expertise.” They

shook hands, and all five men were seated.

There was a moment of uncomfortable tension. Then Xavier cleared his throat and slapped

his palms on the table. “Well, Mr. Yamada. If you would be so kind as to share your information

with us.”

“Certainly.” All hesitation had left him now. He swung his briefcase up to the table and

dialed its five-digit combination. There was a sharp click, and Yamada eased it open and re-

moved a thin folder of papers. He locked the case and set it on the floor.

Yamada thumbed through the folder, talking to himself in barely audible Japanese. “Ah, yes.

I trust that I do not have to fill you three gentlemen,” nodding in the direction of the newcomers,

“in on much, of the background material?”

“Skim through to today’s business,” Xavier suggested.

“Agreed. The item of interest is a cable recently extruded by Falling Angel Enterprises. Put

as simply as possible, the cable is a strand of single-crystal iron filaments locked in an epoxy

matrix.” He looked up at them with a distracted look on his face. “It is eight-tenths of a

millimeter thick and fourteen hundred kilometers long. All preliminary tests indicate that it is

much stronger than Kevlar, at least ten or twenty times stronger.”

His eyes slid over a page and a half of notes. “Suffice it to say that the. . . ah. . . delicate

situation existing between America’s National Aeronautics and Space Administration and

Falling Angel Enterprises has severely limited buyers for the cable.”

Da Silva nodded enthusiastically. “This is true. Pressure from the U. S. of A. has caused four

nations to drop out of the bidding, Great Britain just this morning.”

“Saving face,” Costa laughed. “They knew they would be outbid. Quitting now earns them a

few points in the eyes of the Americans.” There was a twist on the word “American,” as if he

was sharing a private joke. “No. We and the Japanese are the only ones remaining in the

bidding.”

“I think that I can guarantee, that Oyama Construction will win the bid. The Bridge project is

entirely too important.”

Xavier caught his breath. “How high is Oyama going?”

“One hundred and eighty million dollars.”

There was a hiss of exhaled breath, and * Costa cursed vividly. “He’s insane. . .”

“No,” Xavier said, his voice a solid weight in the room. “It is one of a kind. A thousand miles

of the strongest cable even produced by man. An option on the next five thousand to be

produced. Oyama is taking the kind of gamble that Castellon would have taken twenty years ago,

before he lost his ovos. Unlike any material ever produced on earth, now in orbit around the

Moon, waiting for someone with the will to defy the stockholders and the U. S. of A.”

“There is no hope that your Mr. Castellon will commit more funds to the project?”

“None. One hundred million is as high as he is prepared to go.”

“Then Oyama will win the bid.”

The five men looked at each other, saying nothing. Costa watched Xavier carefully, watched

him turn to Giorgi and measure his words before speaking. “Lucio. In your opinion, how

important is that cable to the construction of the Japan-South Korea bridge?”

Giorgi’s hollow, pale face took on some colon as he sat forward, fingers twining animatedly.

“Mr. Da Silva will correct me if I am wrong, but Oyama Construction is overextended

financially. If the project is successful, Oyama will be in an exceedingly advantageous position.

If it fails, or if the Bridge goes disastrously over budget, they will be in considerable difficulty.

Certainly the present administration of the company would undergo considerable upheaval.

Therefore, they need the cable. Even at the cost of one hundred and eighty million dollars, it is

cheap. They will save money, time, and establish a permanent advertisement for their most ad-

vanced engineering techniques. Oh, yes, they need it. Oh, yes.”

Xavier’s eyes were cold and calm. “Well, then. If it is certain that Oyama needs the Cable,

then we can proceed with Phase Two. Again, Mr. Yamada?”

The Japanese swallowed, stepping over the edge of a mental cliff, trusting that there was

water at the base. “I can supply you with course data for the Space Shuttle Anansi. With this

information, you will know where the vehicle is during every second of its descent to Kwanto

spaceport. If all the other elements are in readiness, interception will be possible.”

“Excellent.” Xavier took a thoughtful sip of his drink, eyes focused on the wall behind

Yamada. “Giorgi. You are sure of yours pilots?”

“Their loyalty is to me. To us. They understand their reward for efficiency and discretion will

be handsome. We will need 48 hours start-up time.”

“Costa? Your friends in the UMAF?”

“Ready and eager. It has been a dry time for them, and a headline of such magnitude will do

much to revitalize the organization.”

“I try never to denegrate our...allies... but one would think that these people would forget the

Zionites and find themselves another war. It has been sixty years.”

Costa laughed loudly, the laughter dimming to chuckles, then a private smile as no one else

joined in. Xavier drummed his fingers on the table. He said, “It is a holy war. Soldiers in a holy

war win or die. They do not seek new wars. Mr. da Silva?”

“As of today, for a short operation, I believe that we can divert nearly eight million dollars

from the central computer without any danger until the July audit.” Da Silva twisted slightly in

his chair and wiped a thin sheen of perspiration from his forehead. Yamada noted that it wasn’t

warm in the conference room.

“Today is November the Seventeenth. That gives us almost seven months. By that time, it

will all be over, one way on the other. Well, gentlemen...there is the gamble: Disgrace and

prosecution, or control of Brasil Tecimetal-Electromotores.”

Again, there was no sound in the room, except for the subdued hum of the air conditioner.

Then Giorgi cleared his throat and spoke. “I myself have always been a gambling man.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and Yamada joined in quietly.

“Good,” said Xavier. “Then, gentlemen: let us drink to our venture.” He rose halfway from

the table, then turned back, his expression of content tinged with doubt. “Lucio,” he asked, “Are

you quite certain about the missile? We can trust the UMAF to operate it properly?”

“We will have our own man on hand to supervise.”

“Good, good. It is best not to take chances.” He dusted his hands against each other. “Well.

That drink, eh?”

Two

GRAND THEFT

A dull murmur wound its way through the audience, a murmur which could erupt into a roar at any moment.

Thomas De Camp shifted uncomfortably and whispered, “1 don’t like this.” His small dark eyes flickered

around the room. “I really don’t need to be here. All they need from me is my vote.”

Janet De Camp squeezed his hand, brought her lips close to his ear. “Look at these people. Most of them

don’t want to be here, either. They just want it to be over, one way or the other. We need you here, Tommy.”

He looked down at their locked hands, her pale fingers forming a crisscross pattern against his dark brown

skin, and sighed, knowing she was right. Someone had to be here, someone who cared. He just wished that it

didn’t have to be him. Janet pressed his hand again, then released it. Her ice-blue eyes were alive with

eagerness, and the contrast to his own feelings was as marked as their physical contrast: her Nordic blood

against his African and Oriental features, her five foot eight against his five and a half. The differences went

deeper, deeper than he wanted to think about now.

A circular magnification screen glowed at one end of the Space Shuttle external tank that served as a

meeting hail. Nobody had used chairs for free fall since Skylab. The hundred and fifty foot tank was a maze of

netting. One hundred and eighty barefoot audience members clung to the lines by fingers and toes, like flies in a

spiderweb, with this one difference: their feet all pointed in one direction, a tacitly agreed-upon “down.”

The magnification screen was still blank: Fleming, the head of Falling Angel Enterprises, had yet to mount

the podium.

There was a trickle of excitement from the back of the meeting hall, and De Camp turned his head in time to

see Fleming and one of his aides gliding up the center safety line. He might have been going hand-over-hand up

a rope, but no Marine fitness instructor ever floated “up” a line so effortlessly. Reaching the screen, Fleming

unhooked his safety— and nudged himself into position, refastening himself to the podium. His aide fastened

herself to a nearby strand and handed him his briefcase.

Fleming cleaned his glasses, his gently humorous face seeming too long until he slipped them on again.

“Good afternoon. I know that seems a cruel joke to those of you on the 2200 shift, but bear with an old man,

eh?”

A tension-easing chuckle warmed the room as Fleming inserted a cartridge into the podium and flashed

through his notes. A brawny Solar Satellite tech in front of the De Camps unhooked his fingers from the web

and stretched his arms. “This isn’t going to be good,” he said to no one in particular. “Fleming is smiling.”

“Give him a chance,” Thomas said, before he realized he was speaking aloud. The tech turned and looked at

him with a bemused smile.

Fleming took his usual position at the mike, hands braced at the side of the podium, pulling down to make

his own gravity. “Can all of you hear me? Good, good.” He arched his back, and long muscles flexed. He spent

more time in the centrifugal gravity of the administrative offices than anyone in Falling Angel. He looked every

inch the patriarch, and the fatigue lines in his face only strengthened the image. “Well, I have just finished a

short conversation with our friends in NASA.” He let the ripple of laughter run its course. “Not totally to my

surprise, they still refuse to deal with us. I believe that the most popular term being applied to us is ‘lunatic

pirates.’”

A thin woman—her name escaped Thomas, although he knew she worked in Air Quality— raised her hand.

“And why shouldn’t they call us pirates?” she asked testily. “Everything that we have up here was paid for by

the taxpayers of the United States. As far as they’re concerned, we’re robbing them.”

“Miss Ellinshaw,” Fleming said, adjusting his glasses, “the last thing in this world I intend is to turn my

back on the American people. You must understand that the incorporation of Falling Angel was a matter of

much debate and controversy before any announcement was made.”

“You’re still stealing.” Her words were set in concrete, beyond argument, and De Camp was suddenly glad

he had never had to requisition a recycler filter from her.

Fleming’s face reddened when she said that, and his teeth were set tightly, little muscles at the hinge of the

jaw twitching. He had risked health and reputation to build Falling Angel from a single spacecraft in close orbit

around the Moon, to a collection of clumped space junk, to one of the finest laboratory complexes in the world.

He had supervised the expansion personally, scuffling and battling every inch of the way with the Earthlocked

NASA honchos. Balding now, eyes weakened from long hours pouring over computer displays, Fleming had

personally suited up and led rescue operations, supervised the construction of the big mass driver in Mare

Crisium, and for the past twelve years had poured his life and organizational genius into Falling Angel. At

another time, this same roomful of people might have soberly discussed spacing Ellenshaw for those words.

Today, there was merely a whisper of assent.

“Stealing?” Fleming asked softly. “I think not. In the twelve years that Falling Angel has been in existence,

we have repaid the original investment in our facility one and one half times. Adjusting for inflation and interest

on the original ‘loan,’ it is arguable that we still owe the United States a few million dollars. Believe me—every

effort will be made to set this right. The truth of the situation is that unless we are freed from the present

crippling bureaucracy, we will soon be unable to operate at all.

“Friends, we are a quarter of a million miles from the folks who do most of the voting. To us—to each

other, here—Falling Angel is our whole world. To America, we are a few hundred people engaged in an exotic

operation which has taken twelve years to break even. When the next budget cutback comes down the pipe,

most voters will vote for something they can see and touch and understand. And one day, without any noise,

Falling Angel will die, like so much of our space program.” He paused, and it was easy now to feel the

weariness in him. Thomas chewed at the inside of his cheek, finding it difficult to watch. “And like so many

other noble efforts, so many other dreams, one day we’ll all pack up and go home.”

Fleming gripped the side of the lecturn and leaned forward, auger-alive in his voice. “I’m an old man, and

I’ve given my life to Falling Angel and the technology that build her. I’m too damned old to start over, and too

damned mean to take this thing gracefully. We’re going to show the American people that we can survive as a

business, that we can make money—for them. If we can’t appeal to their hearts, we’ll try their wallets, but

we’re not going to lose. We need things that only Earth has, and Earth needs things that only we can make.

We’re Americans here, but we’re something else, too. We’re the future. If America doesn’t believe in her future

anymore, then maybe it’s up to us to show her we’re not dead yet.”

At least half of the audience applauded loudly as Fleming pushed himself back from the podium and

scanned them. Janet De Camp whispered to her husband: “Round one for the Good Guys.”

The floor was opened for discussion, and controversy raged. Could Falling Angel truly survive as an

independent? Could NASA or the American military retaliate?

The second question Fleming answered immediately. “If you ask that, you don’t understand the situation.

We aren’t sitting on top of a diamond mine up here. At present we are considered a marginal enterprise. While

we do have products we can sell, Congress will expect us to collapse without their support. When we don’t,

they may have some ideas about taking over, but remember: the real wealth of Falling Angel is its experienced

personnel. At worst they might make an example of me and a few of my most conspicuous officers. The rest of

you will be even more valuable to them than you are now.

“The American voter can see Falling Angel if he owns a telescope and knows enough to aim it right when

we’re rounding the edge of the Moon. That voter is fairly rare, and he’s on our side anyway, and what does he

see? A junkyard of expended Shuttle main tanks. Hardly something worth fighting over. What else? A fleet of

six antiquated Space Shuttles, two of which NASA has already confiscated because they were on the ground,

and three cesium-fueled ion drive tugs capable of moving them between Earth and Lunar orbit.”

There were a few more minutes of talk, then Ellinshaw raised her hand and stood again. “Mr. Fleming,” she

said, “I move that we put this to a vote now.”

He nodded. “All right. Seconded?”

The silence lasted too long for Thomas’ comfort, and he raised a stocky arm. “Seconded.”

“Then a vote it is. All in favor of independence for Falling Angel?”

For an instant there was no movement in the room, then hands began to rise like sprouted seedlings, until

just under half of the personnel had raised their arms. There was a quick count.

“Opposed?”

Fleming’s assistant counted again, and handed her tally up to the administrator. He looked it over with a

neutral expression. Janet’s face flattened with dismay. “We lost.” She sounded numb.

“Wait. It’s not over yet.”

Fleming handed the tally back, then addressed them. “All post-essential personnel and lunar personnel have

submitted proxies. The initialed-vote sheets have been tabulated, and are available for inspection in my office.

The official tally is: Independence, 147, Opposed, 142. The motion passes.”

There were a few cheers, but also a rumbling undercurrent of discontent Fleming raised his hand for

attention. “Those of you who voted to remain under control of NASA may leave Falling Angel if you wish. We

have made arrangements to ferry you back. This will relieve you of any fear of prosecution. Those of you who

stay, well, I hope you know how badly we need each and every one of you, now more than ever. Let it be a

matter between you and your conscience. Just remember—it’s your future we’re fighting for.”

Fleming left the lecturn to scattered applause, much of the audience already divided into percolating knots

of controversy.

Thomas turned to his wife, unhooking fingers and toes from the net. “Well, that’s that.”

“We did it, Tommy.” She grinned broadly. “Look at this. Are you sure you don’t want to stick around? You

won’t find action like this out in the Belt.” Her smile was a mask, her voice part wheedle and part sorrowful

acceptance.

“I need quiet. Makes it easier to do the job. Anyway, I’ll be wherever the ion drives are. I’ve done my part

here.”

Their eyes met and locked, and Janet tore hers away first. She tugged at him as he launched himself towards

the safety line. “See you for dinner?”

There was quiet humor in the dark mongol face, humor that rose to a smile. “Sure. I’ll be in the shop if you

need me.”

She nodded, watched him swim up the line with the smile fading from her lips. For a moment her vision

misted, then she shook her head clear. “No time for that,” she said fiercely, quietly. Then: “Damn it, there’s no

time for anything, anymore.” Janet flexed the cramp from her fingers and joined the exodus, dozens of

barefooted figures waiting for a place in line, heading for the locks.

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摘要：

THEDESCENTOFANANSILARRYNIVENANDSTEVENBARNESThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©1982byLarryNivenandStevenBarnesAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbook,orportionsthereofinany...

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Larry Niven & Steve Barnes - The Descent of Anansi

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