stood in front of a massive stone house, a shotgun crooked in his arm. His free hand stroked an aviator’s flamboyant mus-taches.
“Rupert, Lord Kingman, heir to ancient St. Joseph’s Hall, director of a dozen firms—including Sadler’s Bank of Delhi—who has not been seen for three years . . .”
Next, a woman with sleek black hair and painted red lips glared at the camera from astride a sweating polo pony, its bridle held by a turbaned Sikh.
“Holly Singh, M.D., Ph.D., chief of neurophysiology at the Board of Space Control’s Biological Medicine Center, who disappeared at precisely the same time as Lord Kingman . . .”
Next the screen showed a tall, lugubrious man whose fine blond hair fell across his forehead.
“Professor Albers Merck, noted xeno-archaeologist, who attempted to murder his colleague, Professor J. Q. R. For-ster—and in the same attempt killed himself . He failed to kill Forster, of course; he succeeded , however, in destroying the unique Venusian fossils housed on Port Hesperus. . . .”
Next, a publicity still showed two strapping big blond young people in technicians’ smocks, smiling at the camera from their instrument consoles.
“Also on the same date, astronomers Piet Gress and Ka-trina Balakian both committed suicide after failing to destroy the radiotelescope facility at Farside Base on the moon. . . .”
Next, a square-built man with a sandy crewcut, wearing a pinstripe suit: he was caught scowling over his shoulder as he climbed into a helicopter on a Manhattan rooftop.
“And again on the same date, the Martian plaque dis-appeared from the town hall of Labyrinth City on Mars. Two men were killed. Later the plaque was recovered on the Mar-tian moon Phobos. Within hours, Mr. John Noble, founder and chief executive of Noble Water Works of Mars, whose space plane was used in the attempted theft, vanished and has been missing ever since. . . .”
The next image was not of a person but a spacecraft, the freighter Doradus . The camera slowly tracked the big white freighter where it lay impounded in the Space Board yards in Earth orbit.
“This is the Doradus , whose crew attempted to remove the Martian plaque from Phobos—it was called a pirate ship by the media, but I assert that the Doradus was in fact a Free Spirit warship—although the Space Board would have us believe the vessel’s true ownership has never been traced farther than a bank. Yes, Sadler’s Bank of Delhi . . .”
When the next image came on the screen, Ari put a hand on the commander’s arm—giving support, or seeking it.
“Inspector Ellen Troy of the Board of Space Control,” Mays reminded his audience, although there could have been few who did not recognize the woman’s picture. “Not long ago, a household name because of her extraordinary exploits. She it was who rescued Forster and Merck from certain death on the surface of Venus. She it was who prevented the destruction of Farside Base, and she who snatched the Martian plaque from the grasp of Doradus . Then she too vanished —to reappear, under circumstances that have never been explained, at the very moment of the Kon-Tiki mutiny—only to vanish again. Where is she now?”
The haunting image of Amalthea reappeared on the screen; in Jupiter’s reflected light, the moon was swathed in mist the color of buttermilk.
“The Space Board have declared an absolute quarantine within 50,000 kilometers of the orbit of Amalthea. The only exception granted is on behalf of this man, of whom we have already heard so much.”
The media had often described J. Q. R. Forster as a banty rooster, but the newsbite Mays showed of him made him look like a jaunty miniature astronaut, breezily bounding up the steps of the Council of Worlds headquarters in Man-hattan, ignoring the mediahounds who pursued him.
“Professor Forster is now on Ganymede Base, in the final stages of preparation for his expedition to Amalthea—an expedition approved by the Space
“Rupert, Lord Kingman, heir to ancient St. Joseph’s Hall, director of a dozen firms—including Sadler’s Bank of Delhi—who has not been seen for three years . . .”
Next, a woman with sleek black hair and painted red lips glared at the camera from astride a sweating polo pony, its bridle held by a turbaned Sikh.
“Holly Singh, M.D., Ph.D., chief of neurophysiology at the Board of Space Control’s Biological Medicine Center, who disappeared at precisely the same time as Lord Kingman . . .”
Next the screen showed a tall, lugubrious man whose fine blond hair fell across his forehead.
“Professor Albers Merck, noted xeno-archaeologist, who attempted to murder his colleague, Professor J. Q. R. For-ster—and in the same attempt killed himself . He failed to kill Forster, of course; he succeeded , however, in destroying the unique Venusian fossils housed on Port Hesperus. . . .”
Next, a publicity still showed two strapping big blond young people in technicians’ smocks, smiling at the camera from their instrument consoles.
“Also on the same date, astronomers Piet Gress and Ka-trina Balakian both committed suicide after failing to destroy the radiotelescope facility at Farside Base on the moon. . . .”
Next, a square-built man with a sandy crewcut, wearing a pinstripe suit: he was caught scowling over his shoulder as he climbed into a helicopter on a Manhattan rooftop.
“And again on the same date, the Martian plaque dis-appeared from the town hall of Labyrinth City on Mars. Two men were killed. Later the plaque was recovered on the Mar-tian moon Phobos. Within hours, Mr. John Noble, founder and chief executive of Noble Water Works of Mars, whose space plane was used in the attempted theft, vanished and has been missing ever since. . . .”
The next image was not of a person but a spacecraft, the freighter Doradus . The camera slowly tracked the big white freighter where it lay impounded in the Space Board yards in Earth orbit.
“This is the Doradus , whose crew attempted to remove the Martian plaque from Phobos—it was called a pirate ship by the media, but I assert that the Doradus was in fact a Free Spirit warship—although the Space Board would have us believe the vessel’s true ownership has never been traced farther than a bank. Yes, Sadler’s Bank of Delhi . . .”
When the next image came on the screen, Ari put a hand on the commander’s arm—giving support, or seeking it.
“Inspector Ellen Troy of the Board of Space Control,” Mays reminded his audience, although there could have been few who did not recognize the woman’s picture. “Not long ago, a household name because of her extraordinary exploits. She it was who rescued Forster and Merck from certain death on the surface of Venus. She it was who prevented the destruction of Farside Base, and she who snatched the Martian plaque from the grasp of Doradus . Then she too vanished —to reappear, under circumstances that have never been explained, at the very moment of the Kon-Tiki mutiny—only to vanish again. Where is she now?”
The haunting image of Amalthea reappeared on the screen; in Jupiter’s reflected light, the moon was swathed in mist the color of buttermilk.
“The Space Board have declared an absolute quarantine within 50,000 kilometers of the orbit of Amalthea. The only exception granted is on behalf of this man, of whom we have already heard so much.”
The media had often described J. Q. R. Forster as a banty rooster, but the newsbite Mays showed of him made him look like a jaunty miniature astronaut, breezily bounding up the steps of the Council of Worlds headquarters in Man-hattan, ignoring the mediahounds who pursued him.
“Professor Forster is now on Ganymede Base, in the final stages of preparation for his expedition to Amalthea—an expedition approved by the Space
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