A TENSE ATMOSPHERE HUNG OVER THE EMERGENCY MEETING THAT had been called in the Directors’ Conference Room on the top floor of the NASO Building in Washington, D.C. Samuel Dulaney, the NASO president, was sitting in the center on one side of the long, polished-mahogany table, with Walter Conlon and Warren Taylor from the North American Division on one side of him, and two European representatives on the other; facing them were Burton Ramelson and Gregory Buhl from GSEC, Robert Fairley—Ramelson’s nephew from the GSEC affiliate New York Merchant Bank, and two of the consultants who had been involved in negotiating the funding for the Orion mission. Phillip Berness, the U.S. secretary of state and Julius Gorsche from his department were sitting clustered around one end of the table with Kevin Whaley, the presidential aide, and an advisor on international relations from the European Parliament.
Walter Conlon held up the sheet of paper that constituted one of his most damning pieces of evidence, copies of which he had already circulated, and stabbed at it with a finger of his other hand. It was a reproduction of a document that had been faked on instructions from Caspar Lang for Thelma’s benefit; but Gerold Massey hadn’t known it was a fake when he prepared an urgent communication for transmission from the Orion, and neither did Conlon. “It says right here in black and white, item five—‘Antiaircraft missile, short-range, actively guided, infantry-launched. Model ILAAM-27 /F, Mark 4, “Banshee.” Quantity: 24...’ And items six and seven call for twelve dummy warheads, normally used for training, and twelve live ones.” Conlon lowered the paper and sent a challenging look round the table. “What could be clearer than that? Those weapons were shipped down to the Paduans at a time when it was known full well that Earthpeople were at large in a purloined surface lander, and likely to show up in the very area where those weapons would be deployed. The implications don’t have to be spelled out. This amounts to nothing less than attempted murder.”
Buhl looked along the table at Berness. “Something like this couldn’t have been agreed without Dan Leaherney knowing about it,” he insisted. “What in God’s name could have possessed him? I can’t afford to see GSEC’s name linked to this kind of thing if it ever becomes public knowledge.” In other words, the mission was technically under political direction, and the corporation men were already preparing themselves fireproof boxes to jump into.
Berness shook his head. “I can’t explain it, Greg. It goes beyond all the guidelines. I don’t know what in hell’s been going on out there.”
“You, er...you still haven’t told us how you come to have this document in your possession,” Robert Fairley said, hoping to ease the strain by sidetracking.
“How I got it doesn’t make any difference,” Conlon replied tightly. “It’s a reproduction of part of a loading manifest for one of the shuttles sent down to Padua base from the Orion. Why we should be shipping weapons down there to enable the Taloids to kill each other more effectively is a big enough question in itself, but the only purpose of the particular ones I’ve just indicated can be to kill people—our people.”
Dulaney, the NASO chief, gnawed at his knuckle for a few seconds longer, straightened up in his chair, then pushed himself back, looked up at the others, and shook his head decisively. “I thought we were just giving token support to the ruler of a small country that’s having insurgency problems.” He shook his head again and pointed at the sheet of paper still in Conlon’s hand. “But that? -- That’s enough to start a war! I mean, what in hell are our people there playing at? I can’t let NASO even be suspected of condoning anything like that. Our involvement covers getting the Orion to Saturn and back, and the scientific research programs that we’re committed to. We’re not responsible for the mission’s diplomatic and economic policies, and I can’t promise to be supportive of them in any official capacity or public statement.” What he meant was that if he didn’t back Conlon on this one, Conlon would go straight to the media and to hell with the consequences.
One of the European NASO representatives next to Dulaney nodded. “That would have to be our position also.”
“But what kind of policy are Leaherney’s people trying to carry out?” another European asked from the far end. “From what Conlon said it sounded as if they were equipping a full-scale Taloid invasion. That’s not token support. It’s blatant power-politicking—meddling in alien affairs. Who sanctioned anything like that?”
“Does it matter?” Julius Gorsche asked. “It seems they managed to turn the whole thing into a fiasco anyway.”
“It matters to me that the name of our government stands to be associated with whatever their next antic might be,” the European replied coldly.
Bemess spread his hands. “I don’t know. Maybe the strain of being in charge of a mission that big, for that long a time, that far from Earth, is greater than anyone thought,” he said. “But I can assure you, gentlemen, that the events that have been described are not compatible with any policy of the United States government. They must be a result either of some aberration involving the personnel delegated operational authority at Titan, or of a misinterpretation of our instructions. It goes without saying that further investigation of the matter will be initiated immediately.”
Lies, Burton Ramelson thought to himself as he listened. You knew what the policies were, and you allowed your tacit approval to be understood, just like the rest of us. Typically, everyone was surreptitiously sharpening the hatchets in anticipation of a possible bloodletting, and at the same time trying their rubber gloves for size to show all clean hands afterward. But Ramelson hadn’t yet been panicked into losing sight of the magnitude of what was at stake. He wondered if there might yet be a way of repairing the damage done and getting everything back on course. If so, it would best serve his purpose to see the Orion’s management exonerated and their reputability preserved, for despite whatever had gone wrong with the plan to assert Terran influence by aiding the Paduans—and Ramelson had suspicions that a lot more than met the eye could have been behind that—they were all loyal and capable, and would not be easily replaced. Ramelson needed more time to collect the facts on what had really happened at Titan, and was reluctant to commit himself to a hasty judgment. His response for now would therefore be neutral, he decided, but the circumstances would not allow any more bungling. One more miscalculation in the handling of the Paduan situation would be enough to lead him to conclude that Leaherney’s team was beyond redemption, and to embark on whatever course of action would best protect his own interests and keep his reputation intact.
Having clarified his thoughts on the matter, he began, “I have to agree that on the face of it, these are alarming allegations. But they are, when all is said and done, just that and no more—allegations. Before we allow ourselves to be stampeded into a witch-hunt, I would like to propose that—“ At that moment a tone sounded from the chairman’s console recessed into the table before Dulaney.
“Excuse me, Burton,” Dulaney said. “Calls aren’t supposed to be put through unless extremely urgent. I’d better take this.” He looked down and touched a button below the level of the table. “Yes, Bob?”
“Sorry to interrupt, Sam, but we’ve just had something through from Titan that I thought you’d want to hear about since it concerns the meeting. It came through from General Vantz about ten minutes ago, via his Communications Officer.”
“What is it, Bob?” Dulaney asked. He turned a knob to increase the volume, and the others in the room sat forward in their chairs to listen.
“There’s been some kind of god-awful commotion down in Padua city that culminated in Henry and a couple of hundred other Taloids’ getting so screaming mad that they went galloping off to take out the Terran base there with their bare hands. Nobody on the ship ever saw anything like it before.”
“Christ, that’s terrible!” Dulaney exclaimed. “What happened to them?”
“Oh, they’re okay,” Bob’s voice answered. “Our guys at the base saw them coming on the recce scopes and got the hell out. The base was evacuated—of personnel, anyhow—it seems they left a lot of equipment behind. Must have been a real panic.”
“Who was in charge down there?” Dulaney asked, dismayed.
“Caspar Lang and Giraud. They got away in one of the military landers with the last of the garrison, but they hadn’t arrived back at the Orion when the message was transmitted. Apparently they weren’t being very communicative, so no one was too sure exactly what had happened. We’re standing by for an update.”
Dulaney frowned to himself for a second or two. “If they’ve been kicked out of Padua and we don’t even have a base there anymore, it means the whole Paduan program just came apart at the seams.”
“I know—that’s why I thought you ought to hear about it,” Bob said.
“Any more?” Dulaney asked.
“Not for now. Shall I call through there again when we get the next bulletin?”
“Yes, do that. Thanks, Bob. I’ll talk to you later.” Dulaney cut the call and looked up at the numb faces across the table. “Well, I guess you all heard that. It sounds as if they’ve really screwed up this time. Let’s wait and see what comes through next...” His eyes came back to Ramelson. “Anyhow, in the meantime, where were we? You were just about to say something, I think, Burton.”
Ramelson emitted a long, remorseful sigh. “I agree with Phil,” he replied. “The most charitable view we can take is to attribute it all to psychological breakdown within the mission’s directorate, caused by a combination of high stress, excessive demands of responsibility, and totally unforeseen effects of the remote extraterrestrial environment. It’s imperative that the situation be remedied immediately, before we run into any further misadventures. My proposals are therefore as follows:...”