Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Oath of fealty

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Oath of

Fealty

Larry Niven

AND

Jerry Pournelle

Timescape Books

Distributed by

Simon and Schuster

New York

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the

product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or

locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Timescape Book

Published by Pocket Books,

A Simon & Schuster Division of Gulf & Western Corporation

Simon & Schuster Building

Rockefeller Center

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, New York 10020

SIMON AND SCHUSTER and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster Use of TIMESCAPE trademark

under exclusive license from trademark owner

Manufactured in the United States of America

For Robert A. Heinlein,

who showed us all how.

Table of Contents

Prologue The Invaders 1

The Watchers 3

II The Managers 16

III A Tour of Termite Hill 26

IV Kings and Wizards 36

V Command Decisions 53

VI Eye of the Storm 67

VII Night Meellngs 81

VIII Serendipity 92

IX The Furies 111

X Judgment 124

Xl Conspiracies 139

XII Visiting Hours 152

XIII Schemes 163

XIV Perceptions 174

XV Secrets 186

XVI Save the Minotour! 203

XVII (Aftermath} 214

XVIII Executive Action 223

XIX Retribution 239

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XX Persuasions 255

XXI Dilemmas 265

XXII Laws and Prophets 272

DRAMAT~S PERSONAE

Joe Dunhill Probationary Officer, Todos Santos Security

isaac Blake Lieutenant, Todos Santos Security Preston Sanders Deputy General Manager, Todos

Santos Independency

Tony Rand Chief Engineer, Todos Santos

Arthur Bonner General Manager, Todos Santos

Frank Mead Comptroller, Todos Santos

Delores Mart me Executive Assistant to the General Manager, Todos Santos

Barbara Churchward Director of Economic Development, Todos Santos

MacLean Stevens Executive Assistant to the Mayor of the City of Los Angeles

Sir George Reedy Deputy Minister of Internal Development, Canada

Genevieve Rand Tony Rand's former wife

A lice Marie Strahier Executive Assistant to Tony Rand

Allan Thompson Student

Sandra Wyatt Assistant General Manager, Todos Santos

James Planchet City Councilman, Los Angeles

Mrs. Eunice Planchet James Planchet's wife

George Harris Businessman and convicted tax evader

Thomas Lunan Newsman

Amos Cross Chief, Todos Santos Security

John Shapiro, LL.D. Counsel, Todos Santos

Samuel Finder, M.D. Medical Resident, Todos Santos

Hal Donovan Lieutenant, Robbery/Homicide, Los Angeles Police Department

Cheryl Drinkwater Todos Santos resident Armand Drinkwater Waldo Operator

Glenda Porter Tattoo Artist

Sidney Blackman District Attorney, County of Los

Angeles

Penelope Norton Judge, Superior Court, State of

California

Phil Lowry Newsman

Mark Levoy Publican; former Yippie

Ronald Wolfe General, American Ecology Army

Arnold Renn, Ph.D. Professor of Sociology, UCLA

Rachael Lief Bulldozer operator

Mrs. Carol Donovan Lt. Donovan's wife

Vito Hamilton Captain, Todos Santos Security

Vincent Thompson Subway mugger

Prologue:

The only thing necessary for the triumph of e~iI is for good

men to do nothing.

-Edmund Burke

THE INVADERS

Elsewhere in Los Angeles it was late afternoon, but here was only twilight. The three invaders

peering out of the orange grove were deep in shadow. The sky blazed behind them and sent chinks of

blue-white light through the trees to make the shadows darker.

There was a fresh smell of fertilizers and crushed orange peel carried on the warm Santa Mia wind.

Close ahead the eastern face of Todos Santos was a black wall across the world. Thousands

of balconies and windows in neat array showed in this light as no more than a faceless void seen

through gray leaves, a sharp-edged black rectangle blotting Out the sky.

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The invaders blinked as they searched through uncertain light, and froze at the thunder of

wings above. Nobody was about. They had watched the grounds tenders leave. They had seen no

guards.

"There." The girl pointed. Her voice was no louder than the leaves' rustle in the wind.

"There."

The two boys stared until they made out a square outline, barely visible, at the base of

the towering wail. It seemed about man-sized. "The big door," she said. "We're still a good way

away. It doesn't look it, but that door is thirty feet high. The little one is to the left of it."

"I can't find it," said one of the boys. He giggled suddenly, and stopped as suddenly. He

said, "Nervous? Me?"

The other boy was lean and sketchily bearded, and he carried a black case on a strap. He

stared at tiny lights set on its top, then said, "Run for the big door until you see the little

one. On the count. Three, two, one, go."

He ran holding the case in front of himself to cushion against shock. The others lagged

behind. They were carrying a much larger box between them. The leader was already taking things

Out of the case when they came puffing up.

"This lousy light," he panted.

"Bad for the guards, too," said the girl. "It's late afternoon everywhere but here. At

night they'd know they couldn't see. They'd be watching harder."

The other boy grinned. "We'll give 'em a hell of a shock." There was a sign on the door.

Below a large death's head it said:

IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR,

YOU WILL BE KILLED.

It was repeated in Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, and Korean. "Subtle, aren't they?" the girl

said. She stiffened as the bearded boy pushed the door open. There was no sudden wail of alarms

and they grinned at each other for a moment of triumph.

They dodged through fast. The bearded boy closed the door behind them.

Life in the state of nature is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and

short.

-Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

THE WATCHERS

Joe Dunhill polished his badge on his sleeve and plucked imaginary lint from the crisp blue of his

uniform. The door was still there, still marked CENTRAL SECURITY: Authorized Personnel Only. He

took a deep breath and reached for the small button at one side. Before his finger could touch it,

there was a faint buzzing sound and the door opened.

The room inside gleamed with steel and chrome and Formica. A policeman with metal

sergeant's chevrons on his collar sat at a desk facing the door. There was nothing on the desk but

a small TV screen. "Yeah?"

"Officer Dunhill, reporting for duty."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "Bit early for the evening shift."

"Yes, sir. I thought there might be paper work, my first day and all."

The sergeant smiled faintly. "Computers take care of that. Dunhill?" He frowned. "Oh,

yeah, you're the new man from Seattle PD. Guess you had a pretty good record up there. Want some

coffee?" He turned to a machine on one side of the room.

"Uh, guess so. Light and sweet, please."

The sergeant pushed buttons. The machine thought for a moment, then whined faintly. The

sergeant held out a molded plastic mug. "Here you go."

Joe tasted experimentally. "Hey. That's good." The surprise was obvious in his voice.

"Well of course it's-Oh. You're new here. Look, all the coffee machines in Todos Santos

make good coffee. We wouldn't have 'em here if they didn't. Boss lady bought a thousand of these."

Even clichés die, Joe Dunhill thought.

"Why'd you leave Seattle?"

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The question sounded casual, and maybe, Joe thought, maybe it is. And maybe not. "Todos

Santos made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

The sergeant's smile was friendly, but knowing. "Dunhill, I wasn't on the board that

decided to hire you, but I've heard the story. I think you got a raw deal."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. But I wouldn't have hired you if it was left up to me."

"Oh." Joe didn't know what to say to that.

"Not because you shot that punk. I'd have done the same thing myself."

"Then why not?"

"Because I don't think you can do the job."

"I was a damned good policeman," Joe said.

"I know you were. And probably still are. And that's the trouble. We don't have police

here." The sergeant laughed at Joe's blank stare. "We look like police, right? Badges. Uniforms.

Guns, some of us. But we aren't police, Dunhill. We're security people, and there's a lot of

difference." He came over to put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Look, I hope you work out. Let's

go."

He led Joe out of the reception room and down a long hail to a closed door.

"Did they tell you about the locking system we use here?" the sergeant asked.

"Not really."

"Well, everybody in Todos Santos has an ID badge. There's some kind of electronic magic-

well, hell, it might as well be magic for all I know! It opens locks if you've got the right badge

for it. Residents' badges open their own doors, that kind of thing.

Security badges open a lot of doors." He waved his own badge at the door in front of them. Nothing

happened. "But not this one. Security Central's kind of special. What happeils is we alert the

inside duty officer."

They waited for a few moments, then the door opened into a small, dimly lit room the size

of a closet. The door behind them closed, then another door in front of them opened onto a much

larger and even more dimly lit room.

There were TV screens around all four walls, banks of them, with uniformed men seated in

front of each bank. In the center of the room was a huge circular console with dozens of dials and

buttons. More TV screens were built into the console. A uniformed captain wearing a tiny telephone

headset-microphone sprawled in a comfortable chair in the middle of the center console.

"Dunhill, Captain," the sergeant said. "First day. Assigned to Blake."

The captain nodded. "Thanks, Adler. Welcome aboard, Dunhill."

Isaac Blake had a square face with roundness shaping under the square chin, a square body

also turning round, black-andwhite hair with the white winning. He lolled at ease before the bank

of TV screens and sipped coffee. Every twenty seconds or so he touched a knob and the pictures

shifted.

There seemed no order to the flow of pictures. Now the camera looked down on the heads of

hundreds of shoppers strolling along a Mall, bright-colored clothing that looked strange because

the light was artificial but the scene was so large that you expected it to be sunlight. Now a

view of a big dining hail. Now a view through the orange groves, looking up at Todos Santos

standing a thousand feet tall.

"Whew-this is one big city. Even on a TV screen."

Blake nodded. "Yeah, it still gets to me, sometimes." His fingers moved, and the view

shifted to look along one side wall. Seen from that angle, the two-mile length seemed to stretch

on forever.

The kaleidoscope continued. Sparse traffic in a subway. Interior halls, stretching far

away; people on moving belts, people on es

calators, people in elevators. A dizzying view down onto a balcony, where a nude hairy man

sprawled in obscene comfort on an air mattress. Thirty men and women seated at a long bench

soldering tiny electronic parts onto circuit boards, chatting gaily and working almost without

looking at what they were doing.

The camera switched to the greensward beyond Todos Santos's perimeter, where a dozen

pickets lethargically marched about with signs. "END THE NEST BEFORE IT ENDS HUMAN1TY," said one.

Blake sniffed and touched buttons. The scene jumped to a pretty girl in a miniskirt carrying a bag

of groceries; the camera followed her down a long hall from an escalator, zooming along to keep

her in closeup as she walked into a small alcove. When she took her badge out of her purse, the

door opened, and she went inside, leaving the door standing open while she set the bag down on an

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Eames chair. For a moment the screen showed an expensive apartment, meticulously clean, thick

rugs, paintings on the walls. The girl was unbuttoning her blouse as she came to the door and

closed it.

"Like to watch the rest of that show," Blake muttered. He turned a lazy smile toward Joe

Dunhill.

"Of course we aren't supposed to do that," Dunhill said.

"Nope. Can't, either."

"Oh. I've noticed you haven't shown up the inside of any apartment. I guess I wouldn't

want cameras in my bathroom either."

"Oh, we've got them there," Blake said. "But they don't go on without authorization-

there's one now." He touched his headset. "Captain, I'll take that interior call."

"Right."

The TV screen ificked to show a kitchen. A small boy was pulling things out of cabinets,

scattering flour on the floor and carefully mixing in salt preparatory to pouring a bottle of

sherry across the mess. Blake reached forward to a button under the screen. He waited a moment,

then said into the tiny headset microphone, "Ma'am, this is Central Security. Somebody pushed the

panic button in the kitchen, and I think you'd better have a look out there. Yes, Ma'am, it's safe

but you ought to hurry."

He waited. On the screen above, a woman, mid-thirties, not very attractive at the moment

because her hair was partly in curlers and partly in wet strings, came into the kitchen, looked

down in horror, and shouted, "Peter!"

Then she looked up with a smile and moved closer to the camera. "Thank you, Officer," she

said. Blake smiled back, for no sane reason, and touched a dial. The picture faded.

Joe Dunhill watched in concentration. Sergeant Adler had been right, this was no kind of

police work he'd ever seen. He turned to Blake. "I don't get it. You just skip around."

"Sort of. Of course there are exceptions, like when somebody asks us to keep an eye on

things. But mostly we watch what we feel like. After a while you get some judgment about the

feels."

"But wouldn't it be better to have assigned places? Instead of jumping around-"

"Bosses don't think so. They want us alert. Who can be alert just staring at one scene all

the time? The math boys worked it out, how many of us, how many TV screens each, probability of

trouble-over my head, but it seems to work."

Joe digested that. "Uh-seems to me I'd be more valuable out on the streets. Responding to

calls-"

Blake laughed. "After you've been here a year maybe they'll put you where you interact

with stockholders. If you work out." The kaleidoscope above continued. A moving beltway, with some

kids walking on a balcony above it. Blake touched controls, and the camera zoomed in on the kids.

After a moment the kaleidoscope started up again. "Think about it," Blake said. "In Seattle, you

were a cop, and out among the civilians. You worried about making good arrests, right? Best way to

get promoted."

"Sure-"

"Well, in here it's different." Blake suddenly frowned and set down his cup.

It took Joe Dunhill a moment to realize that Blake was no longer interested in the

conversation, and another to see why he was staring. It wasn't the screen at all. A blue light to

the side had lit up.

"On the roof," he said, with a question in his voice. Then, with more confidence,

"Visitor. How did he get up there?"

Blake played with the controls. The screen jumped with disconnected pictures, flashing

views of four square miles of roof: the curtained windows of the Sky Room night club; golfers on

the golf course; a view down onto one of the inverted-pyramid shapes

of an air well, plunging down in narrowing steps each one story high and lined with windows. Then

a forest of skeletal structures:

a children's playground, empty at the moment, then another jungle gym with a dozen kids hanging

like bats. The Olympic swimming pooi, with a wide, shallow children's wading pool just beyond.

Baseball diamond. Football field. On the Todos Santos roof was every kind of playground for child

or adult.

Then beyond a low fence, an empty area, bags of concrete and piles of wood for forms, cement mixer

idle at the moment. The camera zoomed to the mixer. "ID badge," Blake muttered. "Visitor badge,

must be stuffed into the cement mixer. What the hell for? And what's he doing up there?" The TV

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screen flowed across the roof again, searching- "There," cried Joe Dunhill.

"Yeah. I see him. Doesn't seem to be carrying anything. Might have been, though. We'll

have to search the roof. Detectors would have picked up anything metal, and there's not a lot

worth bombing up there, but we'll have to look anyway."

The figure moved rapidly along the twelve-foot fence between him and the edge. He was

hunched over, a caricature of a man sneaking. He found a gap in the fence, hesitated, and moved

into

it.

Blake grinned. "Hah! Maybe we won't have to send anyone up after alL He's found the diving

board."

"That's not the pool area."

"I know. Sometimes I wonder about Rand. You know about Tony Rand? He's the chief architect

for this place. Rand's high board isn't in the pool area."

"~ui?"

"Watch. If he's really a leaper, we won't have to call anyone." Blake touched another

button. "Captain, I have the bandit on the roof area. Looks like he's going to dive." Blake

fiddled with the knobs. The picture sharpened.

He had been following the fence for thirty minutes, looking for a way to reach the edge.

The fence seemed endless, and he wondered if he could climb it, and if there were alarms. Todos

Santos was said to be very Big Brother. .

Then he saw the opening. There was a cement mixer nearby and he pushed the visitor badge

into it. The badge wasn't his, and told nothing about him, but it was the last possible clue.

Maybe they'd find it and maybe not. He moved on, to the gap in the fence.

There was a big sign: WATCH YOUR STEP. He did not smile. His long, unhandsome face was

dead calm, as if he had never smiled and never would. He turned into the channel of fencing. It

was just wider than his shoulders.

The channel ended in a steel ladder. Through the steps he could see the orange groves and

parks far below, then beyond them the tiny shapes of city houses, some with the blue splash of a

swimming pool, all looking like miniatures. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal and

looked down . . . a fifth of a mile down to the green landscape around Todos Santos. A thousand

feet to oblivion.

He climbed the steps. The situation was strange. The steps ended in a long, narrow

rectangle. He tested it with his foot. Wood padded with burlap. . . and it shook slightly.

A high-diving board.

He walked out on the board and looked down.

The balconies receded in perspective until they merged with blank wall. The parkiand below

was a green blur. A view more mathematical than real, parallel lines meeting at infinity. So here

was the end of a dull and thwarted life. He was carrying no identification. After a fall like that

they would never know who he was. Let them wonder.

The board bounced as he shifted his weight.

"But-but suppose he jumps?" Joe Dunhill asked.

"Well, we don't advertise it, but there's a net that comes out when he passes the spy-

eyes. Then we just collect him and eject him. Let him give his bad publicity to someone else,"

Blake told him.

"Does this happen all the time? You don't look particularly interested."

"Oh, I'm interested. I've got five bucks in the pool. See that chart?" Blake waved at the

far wall, where chalk marks said:

LAUGHING 3

BACKED OUT JUMPED 8

TERRIFIED 7

"That's this quarter's talley. Work it out," said Blake. "The roof of this place is eight

miles of sheer cliff. We get every wouldbe suicide west of the Rockies and some from New England

and Japan. But the high-diving board is the only access to the edge, and it does have a funny

effect on people." Blake frowned and scratched his neck. "He sure looks like a jumper. If he backs

out I stand a fair chance to win."

The man stood straddle-legged at the end of the board, brooding above a thousand-foot

drop. The picture of melancholy .

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until a gust of wind slapped across him, and suddenly he was dancing on one leg and waving his

arms.

"Maybe not," Blake said. The jumper was reflexively fighting for his life. The gust died

suddenly, and he almost went off the other side of the board. He wound up on hands and knees. He

stayed there, gripping the board. Presently he began backing toward the ladder. When he reached

the steps he stayed stooped and backed down, placing his feet very carefully.

"Leaper's off, Captain," Blake called.

"Right. Got a detail going after him."

Joe asked, "Some of them laugh?"

"Yeah. It's a funny picture, isn't it? You're going to kill yourself. It's the most

powerful statement you can make about the way the world has treated you. That's what Rand says,

anyway. And when you finally get there, there's a high-diving board to add ten feet to the drop!"

Joe shook his head, grinning.

"They don't all back out. Once I watched a woman stand up there, take off her overcoat-she

wasn't wearing anything under it

-bounce once, and take off in a really gorgeous swan dive." He smiled, then shook himself. "But

the board turns off a lot of them. Rand isn't any dummy. He built Todos Santos, and he's still

building it, if you know what I mean. He's always tinkering around."

"I'd like to meet him."

"You will."

Fat chance, Joe thought. "What happens to the leaper?"

"One of the bosses will talk to him. Standing orders. Rand wants to know what makes them

tick. Maybe ~think of ways to discourage them." Blake looked at his watch. "This one may have a

wait. There's a bigwig from Canada coming in for a visit and all the brass will be busy."

"Can we hold him?" Joe asked. "I mean, civil rights and all-"

"Sure. Some of us are real live cops," Blake said. "It's a legal thing. Todos Santos is

legally a city. Sort of. But the insurance is cheaper if most of us are security officers rather

than peace officers. But we are a city. We even have a jail. Judges, too, but they don't get much

work. Corporation people take care of civil matters, and felonies go to the LA County District

Attorney."

"It sure is different here-" Joe blinked and leaned closer to the screen. "Hey-"

"What?"

"I saw a light flash. That one."

"Urn. Tunnel area. We better check, that's critical territory-" He did things to the

console, and a row of lights flashed green. "Nobody there who doesn't belong there. You sure you

saw sornething?"

"Almost sure."

"Probably some maintenance troop had his badge inside a tool box." Blake yawned. "Get me

another coffee?"

"Sure."

Preston Sanders ranked high in the Todos Santos hierarchy; high enough to rate the

enormous office furnished as he liked it, with abstract paintings and maps of ski slopes. A teak-

bordered TV screen nearly covering one wall showed motion pictures of ski events. The ffickering

motions, shifting from third-person to over-the-shoulder views of an expert taking the world's

steepest slopes and jumps, generally drove his visitors to ask for something else, but Preston

loved them.

The furniture was mahogany and teak; even the panels of the desk console were covered with

teak, and there were dark wood borders on the TV screens on the desk and on the walls. When

Sanders had explained the decor he wanted, Tony Rand had characteristically remarked, "Matched

set, eh?"

Sanders thought of that sometimes. It was true enough. Sanders was the color of oiled

teak. And Tony Rand had meant the remark exactly as it sounded. Sanders looked up at Rand, who was

doing his best to ignore the gut-wrenching view of the Olympic jump. "I used to wonder about you,"

Preston said. "You don't have any racial prejudice."

Raised that suddenly by a black man, the subject would have jarred some whites. Rand said,

"Should I?" and still not looking at the TV screen with its instant vertigo finished pouring

coffee from the silver samovar. He tipped a dollop of Sanders's brandy

-Carlos Primero, and far too good to be put into coffee-into the coffee.

"Certainly. It's normal. So I wondered, and I finally got the answer. You still think of

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Todos Santos as practice for building a starship, don't you?"

"Sure, Pres. I built Todos Santos. Who should know better than me? We could start building

the ships right now. The design is straightforward. What we can't do is build a technological

society that's self-sufficient with only a few thousand members."

"Did the Directors know you thought that way? I'm surprised they even let you work on this

place. They could have picked someone who thought it was an end in itself."

"It isn't. I don't think the Directors think so. They think it's practice for better

arcologies. It is, too. We're too dependent on Los Angeles, but we'll learn what we didn't put in

the design and the next one will have it. Brandy?"

"Not just now. I've got to see Art before he gets tied up with a visiting fireman-

surprised you don't know about him." Sanders reached to the teak panel and turned a dial. The

Olympic scene vanished, to be replaced with a view of Los Angeles as seen from the top of Todos

Santos.

"I know about him. I convinced Bonner I'd be busy all day. What was your great

contribution to race relations?"

"Well, one day I said to myself, here I am, one of a couple of hundred black people in a

building the size of a city, and I'm Art Bonner's deputy. And here's Tony Rand, flying a starship

in his head, with a single black man in the bridge crew. Then it came to me. I'm the token alien,

and you're studying me."

Rand grinned slowly. "Token alien. On the bridge. Interesting

• . . listen, if you'll tell me your token skin color, I'll tell you the shape of your token

ears."

"Green."

"Pointed."

They grinned at each other. 'Rand said, "Tell you something. There are aliens on the

bridge, and you aren't either of them. And yes, I'm studying them. Will you grant me that Art

Bonner is a genius?"

"Sure," Preston said without hesitation. "I know what the top job in this place involves.

Nobody else could do it."

"Think you'd catch me trying? All right, is Barbara Churchward a genius?"

Sanders frowned for a moment. "I don't work the Economics department much. Art thinks so."

He frowned again. "Aha. I think I see what you're driving at."

"Right," Tony Rand said. "Now, they've both got those implants." Rand's face took on a

strange look; almost, Sanders thought, one of intense longing, like an exile looking across the

sea toward home. "Wonder what it's like to know anything you want to, just by asking? Anyway. We

can think of both of them as man-computer interfaces. What I have to decide is, just how important

is the computer link? They were both geniuses before the implant link went in."

The TV screen showed the phallic shape of the Los Angeles City Hall jutting up through the

smog. Sanders tuned the picture more sharply. "And the implants are hideously expensive," Preston

said. "I see. You have to decide if the officers of your starship need them anyway."

"Or of my next arcology. So you tell me: are those two just geniuses, or are they now

something more?"

"How the devil would I know?"

"Just on the odds, I thought you might be a genius yourself. I mean, the only black man in

the command staff of Todos Santos must have had something more than the usual going for him."

"Oh, you idiot."

"Query?"

"It doesn't take that. It takes a certain amount of intelligence, plus being willing to

take the responsibilities for the orders you give, and-" He stopped, ifinching at the word he had

been about to use; and he looked to see if Rand had guessed.

But his problem was just the opposite. Rand, without the faintest idea of what he was

talking about, was waiting for him to

"All right," Preston said. "We play the politics game here. It means a lot of

interpersonal friction, a lot of compromises, between one guy who thinks he's got the right answer

and another guy who thinks he does. I get caught in the middle a lot, maybe more than anyone,

because I'm more noticeable." Sanders shrugged. "So I put up with it. I give in a lot, even when I

know I'm right. There are people who would call that tomming."

"Tomming? Uncle Tom? But you give more orders than you take."

Rand would never understand. It was the trait that kept him out of Todos Santos's

micropolitics: you tried to manipulate him, and suddenly he was somewhere else, redesigning your

closet space while you were trying to get someone fired.

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Which was why Sanders generally felt comfortable with Rand. Tony Rand was no threat. Like

Art Bonner, he was someone you could trust all the way.

But if he ever does get involved, Sanders thought. If he ever does, he's going to be a

dangerous man. True, Maintenance was part of Operations-but the Maintenance supervisors would

probably side with the Chief Engineer if it came to a choice. Maybe not openly, but-. Sanders had

a mental image of someone trying to lever Rand and ending up with his sink connected to his toilet

while his air conditioning poured out eau d' skunk. His face split into a wide grin.

Rand said, "Something?"

"Do the name Sir George Reedy mean anything to you?"

"He's the chap you ducked out of meeting, the Canadian who's come to study Todos Santos.

I've been watching for his helicopter."

"I thought you'd changed the scene to be polite."

"And, Tony-Sir George has an implant."

"Uh. I guess he's worth talking to, then." Rand looked thoughtful.

"More than you know. He got the implant as a favor someone owed his family. I doubt that

he was a genius before the implant went in."

"Oh ho." Rand glanced at his new toy, a Bulova Dali watch, as thin and flexible as the

sleeve of his shirt. "Uh-I think I ought to see about some details," he said. "Maybe I can get

free for the

afternoon. Pres? Thanks." Rand left hurrying, followed by that white grin.

The grin slipped away as Sanders followed private thoughts.

His family had never been enslaved. Undoubtedly someone had been, somewhere; but from as

early as 1806, the furthest back anyone could trace, the Sanderses had been free Negroes working

for the United States government in Washington. His father had been a Public Health Service

physician. Sanders himself had gone to the best private schools.

where they were so liberal they wouldn't even think the word nigger. And how I hated those

snotty bastards, Sanders remembered. He looked down at his dark hands and wondered at himself. So

why don't I hate Mead and Letterman and the others, the ones who get nervous talking to me?

He straightened, remembering, and used the console controls to change the view on the TV

from eastward toward LA to westward toward the ocean. A joystick control moved the camera until he

saw a brightly colored shape in the afternoon sky, and he zoomed in on it. Frank Mead, shouting

happily as he hung from the double-winged hang glider. Mead wasn't overweight, he was just big,

and it took a specially designed glider to carry him. Mead was one of them; one who made no secret

that he thought Preston Sanders was going to blow it one day.

So why don't I hate him? Preston wondered. He makes me nervous, but I don't hate him. Why?

Because I don't share the black experience? That's what my roommate at Howard would have

said.

Or because we're all doing something we believe in? We're running a civilization,

something new in this world, and don't bother to tell me how small it is. It's a civilization. The

first one in a long time where people can feel safe.

If only they believed in me.

He got up from his desk. It was time for his interview with Art Bonner.

II

Management has been the success story of a century which

has not been one of the most successful centuries in human

history.

In the society which our history books describe, everybody worried constantly about rank

and precedence. Nobody today worries about precedence. What all these managers worry about is

talking to each other.

-Peter F. Drucker, "Management's New Role" in The

Future of the Corporation, Herman Kahn (Ed.)

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THE MANAGERS

Preston Sanders walked briskly along the corridor called Executive Row, not really noticing the

thick carpets and the paneled walls dotted with paintings. He considered what he had to cover,

rank ordering priorities for Bonner-who had a million demands to fill, and couldn't possibly give

Sanders everything he wanted.

The anteroom to Bonner's office was a study in comfort, designed by psychologists to make•

waiting to see Bonner, if not pleasant, at least as minimally unpleasant as possible. Delores

Martine certainly contributed to that feeling. Sanders knew she was at least as busy as Bonner-

possibly even more so-but she always had time to chat with anyone waiting.

"Get your work done, Dee," Preston said. "I've got a couple of things to sort out anyway."

"All right. Mr. Bonner will be free in just a moment. He got a satellite call from Zurich-

"

From the big bosses, the money people who owned Todos Santos. "It's all right," Pres

assured her. "Really."

She nodded and began shuffling through papers, leaving Sanders to his reverie. He wanted

to think about the labor problem in Air Shaft 4, but his thoughts strayed to Delores-and Art

Banner. Wonder what happened to those two? They were obviously having an affair the year after

Art's wife left him. Who'd want a casual visitor for a husband and father of her children? But Dee

sees him all day. They were at it hot and heavy for a while, and then nothing. Wonder why?

"He's off the phone now," Delores said.

"Thanks." Sanders went into the inner office.

Art Banner leaned back in the black leather chair and put his heels on the walnut desk.

Despite the expensive furniture there was a junkyard look to the office: model sailboats; shelves

full of bric-a-brac including the truly horrid souvenirs sold in stalls near the boat landings of

a dozen tourist-trap cities; a couple of yachting trophies; and mixed with all the nautical stuff

were expensive "executive toys" of every conceivable variety, most of them ridiculous. There were

also books opened and left on the credenza, some piled two deep. No one would accuse Art Banner of

compulsive neatness.

The TV screen on the wall showed a holographic view of Todos Santos in all its complexity.

"Zurich problems again?" Sanders asked.

"A few. OPEC's raising prices next month. Thank God we've got our own power sources,"

Bonner said.

"If we can keep them. That's my top problem," Sanders said.

Bonner sighed. "Yeah. Okay, unload the bag, Pres. But you'll have to make it fast. My

visiting fireman is early for the cocktail hour." He frowned slightly, and the hologram faded from

the TV screen, replaced by a view from the roof looking toward the Los Angeles City Hall. A dark

speck came toward them.

The building was a thousand feet in height rising starkly from a square base two miles on

a side. It rested among green parklands and orange groves and low concrete structures so that it

stood in total isolation, a glittering block of whites and flashing windows

dotted with colors. The sheer bulk dwarfed everything else in view.

"Magnificent!" Sir George Reedy crowded against the window of the Los Angeles Fire

Department helicopter, then turned in wonder to his host. He had to shout above the thrum of the

motor. "Mister Stevens, I've seen it on TV, of course, but I had no idea-"

MacLean Stevens nodded. Todos Santos Independency affected everyone that way, and Stevens

was long accustomed to the reaction. That didn't make him feel any better about it. Los Angeles

was a great city too. "If you'll look out there beyond it, Sir George, you can see the Catalina

Island development. Closer, on the mainland, the city marina is just off to our right. We think

Del Rey and Catalina are significant developments in their own way."

Sir George Reedy dutifully looked off toward the sea. "Ah, I was going to ask about that.

I saw it when we flew in. The great white mass-"

"The iceberg." I might have known, Stevens thought. Five hundred billion gallons worth of

Antarctic iceberg had been towed into Santa Monica Bay. Los Angeles water had never tasted better;

Arizona, San Francisco, and the sea gulls of Mono Lake had never been happier. The berg sat out

there in a kind of tub. There were teams of climbers going up two faces, and a dozen Boy Scouts

glissading down snow near the bottom. "Romulus Corporation tows the icebergs here. They're the

ones who built Todos Santos, too."

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Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle - Oath of fealty

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