Red Gold

By Ian J Miller

David Gill, an engineer, has trouble selling food to the hungry, but when, in the early summer of 2075, he arrives in Los Angeles to seal a deal with Robbie Newall, his troubles get very worse, very quickly. He is made an offer he cannot refuse: set up food production facilities in Hellas Planitia, supply a venture run by Robbie Newall, and come back wealthy, or have a contract taken out on him. He needs help from the mercurial Jacqui Tennant, a Space Corps pilot, but she associates Gill with the corporations she so desperately wants to keep off Mars. Gill finds that Newall wants everything: first his wife, then his land, then he discovers Newall is generating a massive stock fraud on Earth and he has to stop it. On Mars, that will be difficult, because Newall has the only guns on Mars, he has men to use them, and they have already killed. A story with crime, action, science, and the harsh Martian environment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian J Miller
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224541652

Ian J Miller

Ian J Miller was born 7th August 1942 to the son of a policeman sent to Hokitika (New Zealand) to fill vacancies due to the mass murderer Stanley Graham. Secondary education was at Ashburton High School, thence to University of Canterbury (BSc Hons1, PhD), followed by post-docs at Calgary, Southampton and Armidale. I returned to New Zealand to Chemistry Division, DSIR, to work first on lignin chemistry, then recycling, seaweed research, then hydrothermal wood liquefaction. In 1986 I left DSIR to set up Carina Chemical Laboratories Ltd, to carry out research to support the private half of a joint venture to make pyromellitates, the basis of high temperature resistant plastics. (When called to a TV program to discuss the danger of foam plastics in fires, I aimed a gas torch at the palm of my hand, protected only by a piece of foam plastic I had made shortly before. Fortunately, it worked, it glowed yellow hot, but held the heat for about half a minute.) This venture, and an associated seaweed processing venture collapsed during the late 1980s financial crisis, mostly for financial reasons. Current projects include the development of Nemidon gels (www.nemidon.co.nz/) and fuels and chemicals through the hydrothermal treatment of microalgae (www.aquaflowgroup.com/). I have written about 100 peer-reviewed scientific papers, about 35 other articles, and I was on the Editorial Board of Botanica Marina between about 1998-2008.In my first year University, following an argument with some Arts students, I was challenged to write a fictional book. I did in spare time: Gemina. I subsequently self-published a revised version, only to find publicity was forbidden as a condition of getting my finance for the pyromellitates project. Since then, I have written a few more science in fiction thriller-type novels that don't fit nicely in any category. These form a "future history", and Puppeteer is the first of one entry point.

Book preview

PART ONE

LOS ANGELES, SEPTEMBER-NOVEMBER 2075

Chapter One

Crime and pollution remained the greatest blights on Los Angeles. Crime was avoided by remaining in safe areas, by being very lucky, by being armed, or by moving fast. David Gill did not consider himself to be exceptionally lucky and although he was licensed to carry a gun, that gun was in a safe deposit box in the bank adjacent to the hotel. As it was forbidden to carry a gun onto an aircraft, passengers disembarking at Los Angeles airport were, perforce, unarmed. Fuel costs were so high that passengers disembarking at Los Angeles airport were, perforce, wealthy. It seemed reasonably obvious that the unarmed and wealthy made the most profitable targets for the terror-thieves.

He had now been standing on this lump of concrete for nearly an hour, and that could hardly be thought of as moving fast. The one saving grace was that his behaviour was so outrageous he probably seemed like the tethered goat, the bait for a police trap. Los Angeles airport was for the wealthy, the passengers were the rich, and thanks to the police they could live to enjoy their riches. At this airport, while criminals had their normal rights, they seldom complained about not receiving them. If a criminal were gunned down, the passengers would applaud before looking the other way. Decades of near-anarchy had hardened attitudes in such a way that the idea of giving a violent criminal another chance was viewed with all the enthusiasm given to an offer of a filthy apartment with no water, no electricity, a smell of putrefaction and an infestation of cockroaches. Something to be avoided!

* * *

He rubbed his eyes and immediately regretted it. Somehow rubbing only seemed to make his eyes more sensitive to the brew of pollutants the locals called air. Damn it! Where was Newall? He had seen off the parasites who fed on lost tourists, he had made no effort to find secure transport so now he must be standing out for what he was: an abandoned foreign businessman. He turned and slowly panned through his immediate environment. There was nothing that seemed particularly menacing. Yet! Just the usual collection of half-starved locals.

One had to be so careful. Thanks to the so-called limits to growth, exacerbated by the damage of The Troubles, there was insufficient of anything to go around. People at the top took what they could, people in the middle struggled, and people at the bottom were barely surviving. When disease swept through the poor, people kept their distance for more often than not antibiotics no longer worked. The growing mountain of problems seemed to have hypnotized the authorities into decades of somnolence, from which the monster continued to feed and strengthen its grip. There were too many poor, too many sick, too much debt, too much of the infrastructure requiring repair, too much crime, too much destruction and degradation of assets, too little taxation collected, in short, too many things to do and too little effort expended getting started.

His hands moved to rub his eyes again. He was tired and on this flight sleep had been particularly difficult. Relations within his rather brief marriage to Trudie had now crashed to an all-time low and he could not explain why. He had tried to be attentive, at least when he was there. He had rescued her family's business that had been teetering on the brink, even though at the beginning he had known next to nothing about either farming or food. He had quickly identified several ways to remove inefficiencies, not that he had been thanked for those efforts. Then, since he had lived in North America for a couple of years previously, he had known that residue-free food would sell very well. So, with some bravado, and with the first of the sequence of scathing comments from Trudie ringing in his ears, he had set off, using his own money, on a sales expedition.

To his dismay, his initial efforts met with the response Trudie had predicted. Somehow, nothing went right, and it was only when he was coming to the conclusion that he must be the world’s worst salesman that he found some luck, or so it seemed. Somehow fate had intervened, through being stuck on an aircraft at Denver for two hours. The airline seemed reluctant to admit they would have to cancel the flight when the motors would not start, preferring instead to rely on a miracle. Fortunately no miracle had occurred, for while Gill had no fear of flying, he had been terrified that they might take to the air with motors that would work for some short but otherwise unspecified time.

Robbie Newall had been sitting beside him. They began talking, something that, Gill reflected later, was unusual because he often had difficulty talking to strangers. At first they discussed the callous disregard of passenger's interests, but the conversation soon moved on to why they were there. Gill mentioned that he was trying to find an outlet for residue-free food; Newall responded by announcing that he was setting up a chain of nightclubs and restaurants for the wealthy of Los Angeles, and by the time they disembarked, Gill had a surprisingly prosperous deal. In return for Moonbeam's exclusive right to purchase, Gill was given a minority interest and the exclusive right to supply.

He returned home in triumph, or so he thought, but Trudie's response, when it came, was a shock. First, she refused to believe the size of the orders. Gill shrugged, and informed her that Los Angeles was somewhat bigger than their little village. The point was so patently true, but for some reason that Gill could not perceive, it hurt Trudie.

A screaming session followed when she discovered he held the shares in Moonbeam. He tried to explain that Newall had written that into the initial documentation. He had started to suggest . . . The fact was, Newall wasn't interested.

Jeez, man, talk about ungrateful! Just for the record, have you any idea how hard I had to talk to persuade the others? Make no bones about it, this is generous to the extreme and I tell you, the others weren't the slightest bit enthusiastic. They thought you got far too much. Right now they'll be stewing over this, so I'm telling you, they won't sign another version. You'd better sign or this's last weeks take-outs!

He had accepted without another murmur. What else could he do? This was a deal he could not afford to lose, so he signed before this godsend evaporated. Trudie had screamed the shares should go to their company, and she was probably right, but her language had so shocked him he simply stood there, at which point Trudie stormed out. He decided to leave her get over it and accept that he had done his best.

The next argument arrived the following morning, when she had accused him of not liking her brother, Stan.

And what makes you think that?

You never go out of your way to talk to him.

I'm often talking to him! I've never kept anything back . . .

I mean socially. You don't go down to the pub with the rest of them, and you won't join the football club.

I don't want to play that stupid game, he spluttered, as a crumb of toast went the wrong way. When he finished coughing, he added, I'm not interested in it, and those guzzlers won't talk about anything else.

Truth is, you don't like Stan. Admit it!

He's OK but remember, the reason we're in this mess is that we're busy paying off Stan's mistakes.

That's not fair! She stormed away to sulk, and once again he had left her to do just that. As for fair, maybe not, but it was close to the truth. Unfortunately, the truth had just about blown their marriage apart.

* * *

Still no sign of Newall! Finally, it struck him that Newall was not coming. He had made another one of those less than scintillating choices. He scanned the roads, and noticed there was a regular stream of buses to the most popular hotels. He should sit down, have a coffee, and watch for hotel buses in comfort and security.

He sat down, took a sip of coffee, and brought up the news on his reader. The main articles explained what the coming Federation would mean for the average citizen (better security, otherwise not much) and what corporatization would mean for the average citizen (guaranteed jobs, cheaper goods, better quality, less pollution . . .). America was uniformly behind the coming political change. Back home, the issue was so confused that New Zealand might remain an independent state. That could be expensive!

The world was about to divide into two and a bit: the Federation, which comprised North America, Europe, Asia other than the Muslim countries, and Australia; the second bloc comprised most of the rest. This second bloc would operate as a resource-rich but technically poor cousin to the Federation and comprised those countries that wished to avoid having their resources controlled by rich countries' corporations. The position of New Zealand remained infuriatingly unclear: it intended, maybe, to join the Federation, one day . . .

The news contained a number of good luck stories where considerable wealth was made through the sales of key assets to emerging corporations. If someone acquired Moonbeam, he could do well, not that Moonbeam was worth much. Thoughts of riches were daydreams; pleasant dreams but still dreams, and he would be ignored by the moneymen.

Or would he? Either something was going on or that strange phone call he had received was to the wrong guy, which was unlikely because the call had come from Dallas, and the caller had asked him to confirm that he was David Gill. Following that had come a puzzler.

What do you know about Starlight Holdings? The accent could well be Texan.

Absolutely nothing, he had replied, and I'm not the slightest it interested in stock purchases, options, deals of the century, or anything like that. Good evening, and with that he hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang again, with the same voice.

Please don't hang up! This time more a plea.

Why not? I'm simply not interested.

It's an LA company and I want your advice.

Why me? This was so outrageous.

Because you know about mining and I value your opinion.

Well, I've no idea who the hell you are and . . .

Don't hang up! It's important, and more so for you.

OK. I suppose this's on your nickel, anyway. The situation was incomprehensible, but it was true that he was not exactly busy and the other guy was paying for the call.

There's a company called Starlight Holdings which is trying to sell me shares in a company called P.I. Rights, which has been carrying out mineral exploration. Are you with me?

Yes, but I'm not sure why.

They've been drilling near the Elbow . . .

Of course. Look, I've had enough of this crap . . .

Don't hang up! The Elbow's a river in Alberta, Canada. It meets the Bow River in Calgary. This is not a joke. Check it in an atlas.

All right. Go on. he said, as much as anything to get this call finished. He had realized that if he hung up he would get incessant phone calls until he did listen.

The P.I. Rights shares were worth thirty cents two weeks ago. They have announced that their drill cores have turned up metal sulphides, and there may be a strike. Starlight is trying to sell me these at ninety dollars. What should I do?

Don't buy, but you know that, he had said scathingly.

What's that supposed to mean? Funnily enough, the caller had seemed to be almost pleased with Gill. Why?

There won't be metal sulphides under the prairies, at least not in any reasonable amounts. Then there's the name. P.I. Rights. Try pyrites. Fools gold.

Hey, thanks, came the voice. For some reason he felt the speaker was pleased, and it had nothing to do with the shares. Whatever that was all about, Gill was certain the caller knew everything there was to know about Starlight Holdings, whatever that was. Believe me, you won't regret spending this time.

Then came the inevitable clash with Trudie, who had heard part of the conversation.

And he rang you? she asked incredulously. What would you know about it?

Well, I am a trained mining engineer, he had protested.

And there aren't any others closer or better!

That was perfectly true, which left the question, why the call? Could Starlight be confused with Moonbeam? Was it a coincidence that the call had come the day before his departure? An extensive computer search failed to find any sign of a P.I. Rights.

However, subsequent investigation revealed a scam starting in Alberta. A small company had produced a laboratory analysis indicating the discovery of iron and nickel sulphides in Alberta, following which the company shares skyrocketed. After a few days the claim reverted to oxides, and the shares declined a little. Later still, the cores were re-examined and were found to contain rust and some green stuff that was probably nickel chloride from a bottle, whereupon there were some very angry recent share purchasers. The company had found some old drilling equipment and had drilled on Indian land, well away from public view. They had sent the cores to a small analyst, presumably with exciting visions of what they were sure they would find one day, and the analyst, caught up in the enthusiasm, took a short cut and found the presence of metals. His report started a feeding frenzy amongst the share-market sharks.

That might have inspired the caller, who had invented this company P.I. Rights, but why? A slightly chilling thought, though, was that a Starlight Holdings had a registered office at a familiar sounding address in Ventura Boulevard. Perhaps that needed investigation. But that could wait, because there was his hotel's courtesy minibus heading his way.

He flagged down the minibus, boarded, and sat down for yet another bone-shattering ride. Another consequence of the critical shortage of oil was the shortage of bitumen and heating fuel. Enterprising souls were now stealing chunks of road surface in the middle of the night, refining them and selling the bitumen as a heating fuel. Resurfacing the road with concrete required enormous amounts of precious fuel, so the road system was reverting to something from the Dark Ages.

The bus bumped along through a burnt-out section of town that had been abandoned for two decades following riot damage. All that remained to represent the then commercial strength of the most powerful nation on the planet were the skeletal frames of buildings, the Keep Out signs, and the occasional smoke coming from behind gutted walls. This was one of the many no-go areas of Los Angeles. National Guardsmen regularly patrolled this road; off this road you were on your own. Suddenly, the bus graunched to a halt.

Oh shit! the driver cursed. One of our bus's been salted! Salting involved spraying a high-powered jet of salty water from underneath the vehicle, hoping to short out the electrics. As he peered through the front window, David could see a dozen ragged gun-waving thieves scrambling down from a heap of rubble towards a stationary bus. Behind the bus, a telltale small river of water was trickling towards the remains of the storm-water system. Gill could see a young woman's face staring out the back window. She should be terrified, but that was not the face of panic. Despair, perhaps, but not panic.

The driver stared at Gill and said, They can propel a towing line. I can get close enough for it to be attached, but I need someone to go outside to drop the hook into a slot. Would you do it?

Gill stared back in dismay. Why him?

If you don't, those in the bus'll be killed.

And if he went outside, there was a good chance he would be killed. Were there any options?

I'll do it! came a voice from the rear.

Gill turned to see an elderly woman, who was having difficulty even getting out of her seat. It was quite clear she would never be able to handle the hook, let alone move fast enough to survive.

No, sit down, Gill muttered as it was clear that he was the only passenger who had any chance at all. He got up and walked towards the door.

Take the right vest and helmet! the driver said, pointing to the suits hanging beside the front left passenger's seat.

Gill slid into a pair of overtrousers, quickly slid into the anorak, and pressed down the tabs. This was impressive body armour that should absorb most pistol or assault rifle bullets. As the bus slowly moved forward and the door began to open, he put the helmet on, pulled on the strap, and pulled the visor down.

I won't drive off and leave you, the driver assured him.

Right, Gill muttered. With no choice now, he moved to the door, and when he saw the rope propelled from the rear of the other bus, he leaped out. His bus continued for about twenty meters, then spun around. Gill watched the hook curve out, to land past him, on his left. Behind the turning bus he could see half a dozen men sprinting towards him, and in the rear window of the front bus he thought he saw hope on the woman's face.

Gill caught the rope and pulled the hook towards him. All now depended on the driver. He came in close, but not too fast. Gill knew the mob were close, but he kept his eyes fixed on the back of his bus, and as it drew level with him he dropped the hook into the steel ring, jumped on the small steel platform and thumped the back of the bus. The driver was already in towing gear and when the rope tightened, he poured on the amps.

Gill could hear feet. He grasped the rail at the top of the bus, then glanced around to see the bus being pulled from the mob over two of those who had slipped. There was concern on the woman's face. Bullets began firing, but he was more or less protected by the pursuers. The leading gangster had almost reached him, and Gill could see the strain on his face as he was squeezing every last bit of energy to catch up. Although the bus was now at about top towing speed, the man was slowly gaining. Gill grasped the rail more firmly and curled his legs up, then, just as the man was about to reach him, he unleashed both feet into the face of his pursuer. The man fell, but three others were nearly there. As Gill's feet hit the steel, there were a series of bangs against the armour, then he felt a sharp thud about his right rib cage. Then the bus began to slow.

For an instant, he felt panic, then he realized why the bus was stopping. A small Guard's armoured personnel carrier had drawn level. The three chasing him had been dropped in a small burst of machine gun fire, then a loud warning told everyone to lie face down on the road or be shot. The warning was greeted with a hail of bullets from a mound to the right of the bus, where more of the mob were under cover, and quite happy to sacrifice the lives of the others. As the mob began to run for cover, machine gun fire cut them down. Gill felt sick.

There was the noise of a helicopter, then another thump in the ribs, then his visor went opaque. He could hear another burst of machine gun fire, then he felt a hand touch his arm.

You can get down, sir! Raise your visor and get back into the bus!

Gill looked under the visor to see a battle clad Guardsman, armoured and gas protected. He nodded, jumped down, and ran to the door. The driver pulled him in, then the door was shut and the ventilation system closed. As the bus began to move off, Gill looked out the window. The helicopter was raining phosphorus shells onto the mound, and already the dense white smoke of phosphorus pentoxide was pouring down the street. The would-be thieves ran out, choking, screaming, some with yellow flame pouring off them, the yellow tinged hideous white smoke billowing upwards. Two dived onto the ground and rolled, but that was futile. The phosphorus kept burning and the victims writhed in the searing pain. There were few worse ways to die. One of them was to survive the initial fire.

It was an irony, Gill thought, that although liquid fuels were hideously expensive, thanks to fusion power phosphorus had never been cheaper. While there was never enough food or clothing, the killing machine never starved. Another result of the limits to growth. First, The Troubles, and if anything was left over from The Troubles, apart from the burnt out parts of the cities, it was the means to kill, painfully.

The face was now gone from the bus window. He wondered whether he would see her at the hotel, and he wondered idly who she was, and why she wished to visit such an angelic city.

* * *

When Gill checked into his room he flopped down onto the bed, where he lay and began shaking. He closed his eyes but the images of burning phosphorus dripping off screaming people running to get away from the choking smoke filled his mind. There had to be a better way to relax. He would try the swimming pool.

He had been lolling about in the water for almost a quarter of an hour and was beginning to feel more relaxed when he saw a rather attractive young woman walk up to the edge of the pool. She seemed to be in her mid to late twenties, she was tallish with light brown hair, and she was wearing one of the most striking swimsuits he had ever seen. In cold analysis it was a rather conservative affair in terms of the amount of body it covered, but somehow it seemed to make far more of the figure than any of the more skimpy ones ever could. She put her toe in the water, and swished it around, and as he hauled himself from the water he got a better look at her face. The face from the back of the bus! He grabbed his towel, muttered Hello, and began walking back to his room. In the background he heard the splash.

It was only as he entered the hotel building he realized that he could have struck up a conversation. Just what he needed, he thought to himself, was yet another demonstration of his inability to make quick social contact. He seemed to have this natural flair for working out what should be said just after it was too late to say it, which was probably what made him such a scintillatingly indifferent salesman. He had trouble selling food to the rich but hungry and he could not even open up a conversation with an attractive girl whose life he had just saved. Somehow, he knew that soon this social ineptitude would strike again.

* * *

Sleep refused to come. He should have felt triumphant, but he did not. He had watched the news, where some of the rescued passengers gave glowing thanks; a passenger from his bus was quoted as saying she hadn't a clue who the passenger was and that was that: a brave anonymous hero had saved the lives of several passengers. They also played a grainy video of his actions. His grasping of the hook looked clumsy to him now, the kicking away of the first chaser looked to be what it had been: desperate. Then he had watched the remaining chasers desperately throwing stones at his body, trying to dislodge him. They would have done better, he realized, to throw at his hands. It would have been very difficult to hold onto a rail with rocks belting onto a lightly gloved hand. Nevertheless he had survived and the media had honoured his request to keep his identity secret. He could not have asked for more, except perhaps for the girl from the swimming pool being recorded as thanking him, but either she had not, or they had not bothered to broadcast what she had said.

Robbie's absence annoyed him. Not even a message! That suggested he was becoming irrelevant to Robbie, but why? Perhaps Moonbeam had become a target in the current rash of takeovers and if so, Robbie would be all over the new owners, protecting his own position. But why would it be a target? Moonbeam was privately owned and the shares were never traded. Gill owned five per cent, a small holding, but its value lay in the contractual right to veto any substantial change of purpose or ownership that could subvert his right to supply contaminant free food to Moonbeam restaurants. Moonbeam never paid dividends but it did buy huge volumes of food. Since contractual obligations are unaffected by actual ownership, this supply right would remain even in the event of a takeover, unless the right was bought out. He could end up being better off!

Yes, and pigs might fly, he might win the lottery and Trudie might become an angel and they might all live happily ever after. More likely Moonbeam would be taken over and closed down, in which case the exclusive right to sell nothing to nobody lacked a certain amount of value. It was all very troubling.

Rather belatedly, he was beginning to wonder about the very nature of Moonbeam. There was only one certain fact: none of the owners of Moonbeam had any real expertise or interest in restaurants. Moonbeam was certainly a restaurant chain to the general public but it had to be something else to the other owners. He was the only supplier of contaminant-free food, and as far as he could tell, the other shareholders supplied nothing. The restaurants were always overcrowded with the rich and famous but the company never paid dividends. The financial statements were always unusual, and often involved the purchase of lots of shares that seemed to carry with them interesting losses that could be used to write off Moonbeam's tax liabilities. He had always assumed that the other shareholders owned these losses, and this was how they got their money out of Moonbeam. He did not care; as long as he sold his food, they could take what they wanted. No, that was not quite correct. He had not cared until he had received that phone call. Perhaps Starlight was one of these strange losses. If so, how had they got involved in a mining scam, and more importantly, who was liable?

One of the less attractive aspects of his current problem, Gill realized, was that if any liability fell on him, he would probably be the last to know. Not that there was much he could do about it now.

Chapter Two

As he waited for a rather large pile of engineering documents to be delivered to him, Gill once again contemplated the effects resulting from his social ineptitude, or at least his inability to fit smoothly into a groove. He had come to Los Angeles to sell meat; three days later, here he was, sitting in the Office for Prospective Martian Settlers, preparing to go to Mars.

If nothing else, his eyes had been opened. Firstly, Robbie Newall finally arrived, as plump as ever. Plump was fashionable; it proved to the world you could afford to consume conspicuously, and Newall was nothing if not fashionable.

You should have phoned me. I left a message.

Except that I didn't get it until late at night. On reaching his room he had thrown his jacket; it landed on the phone, hiding the blinking light until he decided to ring Trudie. I needed an early night, Gill replied without enthusiasm.

Great party! Pity you couldn't make it. Nice plump girls with tits like you've never seen, Newall went on, almost oblivious of Gill's reaction. All cuddly, all willing and able, and here's you, thousands of miles from your wife's eye.

Can't have everything, Gill shrugged vacuously, as he felt he had to fill the pause.

And how's Trudie these days?

She's fine. There was no need to tell Newall that his marriage was something of a sham.

You don't know how lucky you are. She's a real peach that one. Mmmm!

You should get married yourself. Preferably to Trudie! A good wife'd do you the world of good. And anyone taking Trudie off my hands would do me the world of good!

Yeah, well, you know me.

Do I? Do I really know you? Gill asked himself, then he brushed the thought aside and asked the question, as usual unnecessarily tentatively, that had to be asked. Anyway, how's Moonbeam?

We've had a great quarter. Here, I've got the quarterly report and accounts. He smiled broadly as he handed Gill a sheaf of papers.

Gill glanced through them, then put them to one side. I'll look at them later, he shrugged. However, he had already seen enough. As usual, turnover was high, the very high profits occurred as a welter of unusual assets, and there was the usual shortage of cash. He quickly thumbed through Appendix Two, where one of these assets, Ventura Holdings, caught his eye. Yes, the address! Its registered office was in the same place as Starlight, wasn't it?

You can look at them. There's nothing to hide! Newall said in what Gill took to be a rather condescending tone.

I wasn't suggesting there was. It's just that there's not much fun looking at someone reading reports. Why am I so defensive? I never accused him of anything!

Please yourself. Still smiling. He's obviously pleased with something.

And how's Moonbeam Restaurants? Gill tried to make this seem off-hand, but this was the crunch question. The others could bleed Moonbeam Enterprises however they liked as long as the restaurant turnover was high, for that was how Gill made his money.

Pretty good, Newall shrugged, then he burst into a grin. Venison's going like hot cakes. Can't get enough of it!

Have to do something about that, Gill grinned back. The tension was eased.

This city never stops eating, Newall reflected. Did you know that?

What a strange comment! The usual ritual was that now Newall would wave his arms around and tell Gill what a great guy he was, how the restaurants were doing really well, and roughly how much Gill could expect to sell in the next quarter. He would wax on effusively about how great a deal this was, mention in passing how Gill was expected to vote on what key issues the next day, then they would go to lunch. Gill would be left to his own devices for the afternoon, then there would be a pre-meeting dinner during which Gill would make some suggestions that Newall had primed him to make, then they'd all go and get drunk, have the meeting, and Gill would go home with another large order. Boringly predictable, but the sort of predictability the company bank manager loved.

Never thought about it like that, Gill said, as he pulled himself together. No need to bring up the issue of the millions of citizens who were nearly starving.

That's because there's just so much wealth in this city.

They can afford to consume, Gill added vacuously.

That's the interesting part. Do you realize they could never consume even five per cent of their wealth?

Those that have it, that is, Gill added dryly. Over half the population could consume five hundred per cent of their wealth and not notice much difference.

Good point! Newall agreed. Focus! Keep the eye on the ball, so to speak.

Gill stared at him, stunned. To Newall, a cliché was like his use of underlining in his memos, to be used liberally, and occasionally when he was trying to say something important. You've got something, haven't you? Gill guessed, as he realized that this was probably one of those times.

Hey, you're quick. How'd you tell?

It sort of shows, Gill shrugged, then he went on, more reflectively. Actually, I've never known anyone to come up with so many really, well, imaginative ideas.

Flattery'll get you everywhere!

I mean it, Gill protested. But it was true; he had been a little negative, and a bit of flattery was needed right now. Also . . .

Also?

You seem so pleased with yourself. It must be something really big.

Pretty big, if you're big enough to grasp it.

What's that supposed to mean?

Would you like to get rich? Newall leaned back, with the appearance of a cat that had discovered a cream fountain.

Who wouldn't? Gill countered, trying to force as much enthusiasm forward as he could. If there was one thing he had come to understand about Newall, it was that at moments such as this he had to massage Newall's ego.

Say, what d'ya know about Rockefeller? This was typical Newall. Never get straight to the point when any irrelevancies remained unexplored.

He was rich, Gill agreed. Probably, in real terms, the richest man ever. I assume you mean John D, he added, as an afterthought.

I wasn't thinking about Peter Q, that's for sure, came the slightly caustic response. The thing is, do you know how he got so rich?

Not really. Oil? One of the problems with Newall in this mood was that no guess at all merely sent him off on another fruitless trail.

Oil! That's how he did it. Newall was pleased, as if he had finally got a pupil to work something out. Now, what d'ya know about Bill Gates?

Very very rich, from computer programming. The addition was to try to get Newall to the point.

Think about it, Newall sat back. Lot's of other people have got into oil, lots of others have got into programming, but they didn't do nearly as well. Why not?

They didn't have the horsepower, Gill guessed.

Why did Rockefeller? Why did Gates? What was so special about them? What did they have that the rest didn't have?

Lots of luck?

You make your luck. Come on! This's a test of your entrepreneurial spirit! Newall was really enjoying himself.

Well, they got there first, Gill said hesitantly. Where was all this going?

Warm! Newall said in an encouraging tone, but not quite right. People knew about oil before Rockefeller, and there were programs before Gates.

They got to the key first that opened . . . Gill paused. Opened what?

Exactly right! Newall interrupted triumphantly. Rockefeller just happened to know someone who'd discovered how to refine oil about the same time as the industrial revolution was really starting to kick along. Gates just happened to be the first to really kick in with a good enough product to get a key deal with the biggest computer group of the time, and once his systems became adopted, there was no stopping him.

So?

So have I got the deal of the century for you. This's the sort of thing that just doesn't turn up for guys our size.

So what d'you know that I don't?

I've met someone, Newall said triumphantly, who's got the key that'll let us make bowcoops... bowcoops of bowcoops, and his expression glazed slightly as he savoured the thought, of bucks. What d'ya say to that?

What on Earth are you talking about? Gill asked, with a somewhat dazed feeling.

Nothing! came the triumphant response.

Nothing? But… This time, Gill was lost for words.

Come on! Think! Newall grinned enthusiastically. Think about Rockefeller. Think about Gates!

I'm lost, Gill shrugged.

They got there first!

Well?

Virgin territory, that's what we're looking for. Virgin territory! He said this almost as if he had been invited into a virgin's bedroom, Gill thought. Where's the most virgin territory you can get your hands on?

I don't know, Gill said slowly. A glimmer of the future was beginning to form in his mind, and that future was black. Newall wanted to sell Moonbeam, and send the lot on one glorious gamble.

Your thinking's too narrow, you know. You asked the wrong question. He oozed superiority.

And the right one?

Not 'what on Earth . . .' but try what on Mars?

Mars? Gill was dumbfounded.

You got it! You do have news down in your tiny part of the world?

Well, I have heard something of a possible attempt at colonizing Mars, but . . .

The countries that took most of the brunt of the war on terror are determined not to let that happen again. We're really only getting over it properly now.

I know, Gill said quietly, that's why my stuff goes down so well, but I wouldn't want . . .

Nobody does, and nobody blames you for taking advantage. People want to buy residue-free food, you've got it, so why not sell it? Hey, I agree! I'm on your side. We're partners, right?

Right! Gill said with the peculiar flatness of forced enthusiasm.

The point is, these countries have finally realized that the only way to stop this sort of thing happening again is to form a Federation with uniform law and order.

Which they're doing. Gill felt he had to show he knew something, if only to get Newall to the point.

And the Federation needs something to wave the flag with, to do something really worth while to prove they mean something, and they've picked on colonizing Mars.

I had heard a bit about it, Gill admitted. By some strange fluke, it appeared that Robbie was getting to the point at last.

It's too big for any country, Newall went on, so every country and corporation contributes, and receives credits in thaler. That's the new Mars currency, he added.

I'd heard that. Some historic currency.

They settled on that, so it wouldn't offend anyone, Newall explained. Now, suppose you've got a huge pile of thaler?

That's a problem? Gill, having struggled all his life, found it difficult to see how having a huge pile of any money could be an acute problem.

It is when you ask yourself what you do with them, Newall countered. You can't use them on Earth, you can't sell them for Earth currencies because nobody else can spend them either, and there's no mail-order shops on Mars, but you've been forced to buy them. Billions of them!

A Mars tax, Gill said slowly.

Now, suppose in addition you can't get to Mars?

That's an interesting tax, Gill smiled wryly.

They can only be used on Mars, Newall said, but settlers can spend thaler on goods to be shipped to Mars, with trivial transport costs.

And you propose we cash out and buy these thaler? Gill was dumbfounded. Going to Mars seemed on a par with opting to live in hell, yet that was in essence why Newall's line made sense. For the first pioneers, the man at the lower end of the social scale could own assets on a scale that was unthinkable, as long as they were on Mars. The early settlers in America, or for that matter, New Zealand, owned tracts of land that would have made them Lords in England. The problem with those tracts of land was that you had to develop them, and that took time. The grandchildren of the first settlers became influential.

That's it. With Moonbeam Enterprises, we can buy enormous amounts of thaler, and there's better. After five years we can cash out, come home, and live like kings. You want to loll about on your own South Pacific Island? Well, then you'll be able to do that. You can do whatever you like. Just think about it!

Hold on a minute, Gill protested. This was the obvious weakness. Maybe we won't be able to sell. Maybe nobody'll want to buy stuff on Mars. Or if they did, they would pay next to nothing. Early settlers might own huge areas of land, but there had never been a stream of rich early settlers returning to live a life of idle luxury.

But that's the beauty of this deal, Newall laughed. He was so totally pleased with himself. The sale's guaranteed. The buyer's got an enormous number of thaler they can't use, they're not allowed to go there yet, so they're ready to pay a lot to get rid of this roadblock. Now, isn't that the deal of the century?

I've got to confess I've never heard anything quite like it before, Gill replied. Inwardly, he realized he had not heard it at all. Something very significant had to be missing.

Damned with faint praise, Newall retorted. Come on! Aren't I the greatest deal-maker you've ever met?

Certainly the most imaginative, Gill agreed. There had to be something wrong with this deal, but what could it be, other than being forced to go to Mars? The obvious answer was the sale at the end. This so-called guarantee would be unenforceable. In his heart, he knew this proposal had to be wrong, but it had a certain logic behind it, which brought him back to Moonbeam Enterprises. While he did have a right of veto, did that give him the right to stop the other shareholders, just because he was uncomfortable?

This's just too much, Gill muttered.

Hey, You're right, Newall patted his back effusively. I know. You shoulda had more warning, but this's just come up and . . . Hey, at least come to the meeting. Then, if you're still doubtful, hey, we can wait a day or so.

They drove through an area of Los Angeles that was unfamiliar to Gill, but he never saw it. Everything was a blur. What was he going to do? What was going to happen to his supply right? Could he hope to pass it on to the new owners? What if they did not want it? He could exercise his power of veto, but then he would get bogged down in court. That would be a court case he was unlikely to win because he would not have the resources to fight it. Contingency was pointless when they were suing him. He would need to see a lawyer before he signed anything.

* * *

The behaviour of the other shareholders confirmed his suspicions: they regarded him as an extraneous necessity and global warming had yet to reach their glances in his direction. The Chairman's introduction did not help. The restaurants had made record profits but somewhere they had made an astronomical loss . . . David stared at them. He had just received documents saying how good Moonbeam was and here they were going on as if they were going broke, or even worse. How was this possible? Moonbeam Restaurants were making money hand over fist. The rest of Moonbeam must be losing it faster. But how could that be? How could they all lose everything like that and sit there with those self-satisfied grins? Unless they had sent the lot on a big gamble, his Kalahari oilfields that were dry! A chill ran up his back. Trudie had been right. This single exclusive deal was now going to turn to custard. That meant . . . It meant she would rub it in, day and night.

Something had to be done. Maybe he had to get out and do some fast marketing. The good news was that Moonbeam Restaurants had an excellent reputation, at least for food quality. Then his stomach sank again. The exclusivity applied to him as well; he knew he was not very good at selling and he was fairly sure there would be very little time.

Now, fortunately we have a way out, the Chairman continued. "What will become FoodBund has proposed that if we send a small team and a large amount of equipment to Mars and achieve the goals set out in the documents you will shortly sign, then they will buy out our interest.

For David's benefit, the Chairman continued, as he looked towards David, we shall continue to operate Moonbeam restaurants under FoodBund ownership. The profits can be used to write off our losses, so it may be possible that we're still in the clear after six years even if we can't meet the Martian contractual obligations that trigger the big payout. I should also add, David, that you're excluded from having to repay these losses. As you've probably gathered, a wheel fell off one of the other operations, but as you don't even know what it was, the losses don't apply to you. You will automatically get credited with 5% of all Moonbeam profits over the next six years, if that puts you at ease.

Well, that's very generous, Gill said, but the meat sales will be OK, if you're in that big of a mess . . . What he meant to say was, he never received any profit anyway, so he could continue the same way.

That was generous of you, the Chairman nodded, but since FoodBund's going to be owning Moonbeam, they'll probably want to supply all the input. You'd be advised to hang onto your five per cent.

Gill was about to point out that if FoodBund supplied the food, they could raise the prices so that the profitability of the restaurants was reduced, but then he restrained himself. After all, he had been selling what he described as premium product at premium prices, indeed at higher prices than he could get anywhere else. Nobody had criticised, because everybody accepted that was how he got whatever was his from Moonbeam. But he could hardly object to someone else doing the same thing, and he could hardly object to a lower price supplier if everyone else would enjoy higher profits.

The proposition was that FoodBund would take the debt while the Moonbeam shareholders would personally guarantee a BankCorp advance of one million dollars per one per cent holding, which would give them two and a half million thaler. If they were to achieve certain performance goals, after approximately six Earth years they would sell Moonbeam and their Martian assets for twice the number of dollars needed to repay the bank advance and the debt would be written off. In the meantime, FoodBund would supply the restaurants but Moonbeam would operate them and keep any profits. Gill would be required to guarantee five million dollars for his share. The rest of the meeting passed by Gill; he had to sell meat, especially the meat already on the Los Angeles waterfront. What could he do?

The real jam, though, Newall explained, will come from a lot of undercapitalised settlers. With a major bucks deficit, they'll be floundering around like fish outta water, and that's where we come in. They'll take our folding stuff hook, line and sinker, and once we reel 'em in, we have ventures that can be floated back on Earth for bowcoops . . . He paused, and almost seemed to salivate, then continued, bowcoooops de bucks! Then, for icing on the cake, so to speak, we can also sell some operations to other corporations, and you know what? Everyone'll be buying on future hype, and nobody can check what it's really like because it's on another planet.

It's a bit like the early internet boom, Graeme Cherrington, an accountant, nodded. The original promoters can cash out for heaps. The ventures don't even have to make money, they only need potential, and don't forget, thanks to these takeovers, there're huge amounts of money floating around, looking for a home. Of course sooner or later there's a reality check and the losers get shaken out, but the Internet kept going, Mars'll keep going, and we'll be really rich.

The meeting was officially to decide whether to send a team to Mars, but Gill had this dull feeling that they had all decided. Needless to say, he was the last to hear of this plan. Presumably, Moonbeam thought that if they asked him he would say no, which was more or less what he said then, except that under their stares he faltered. He should have objected to their not fulfilling their side of the contract. He should have questioned them. Instead, he was so shocked all he could manage was a limp, I haven't got five million.

This produced a tirade from Newall: he did not need to have the actual money because FoodBund would double it, the plan was foolproof and anyway, if something went wrong, well, they would be on another planet so there was little the bank could do. However, Gill had woodenly stated he would not guarantee what he could not afford to lose, so he offered to trade out his shares. That was unacceptable, which surprised Gill until he asked who was actually going.

You mean, Robbie didn't tell you? the Chairman frowned, and