"Yes. Well, you might want to reconsider—"
"Get on the blower right now and tell your flunkies to obey orders!"
Baldwin says, "I regret to say I can't do that, sir. Not with the situation in such a critical state of flux. What... I presume you intend to do with the equipment is simply not expedient. Not in the best interests of the other Concern trading partners in the Haluk consortium."
"Damn you—what d'you think you're playing at?" Drum-mond roars. "Do as I say or you're finished! Terminated! Do you hear what I'm saying? Not only fired, but—"
The phone screen goes to standby. Tyler Baldwin has ended the transmission.
The other Concern trading partners?
Baffled and furious, Drummond sits frozen before the desk in his villa at the Biltmore. What does Baldwin mean? Has news of the imminent filing of the civil suit by Rampart leaked out? Or have the Big Seven conspirators learned of the Macrodur prospectus? Did that lot of stone-faced fuckers at Bodascon and Sheltok and Carnelian and Homerun think he, Alistair Drummond, was going to concede defeat?
The telephone chimes. If it's Baldwin again, with more insolence—
He stabs at the Open keypad. The face on the screen is that of Daniel Frost. The screen graphics indicate that he is calling from a hoppercraft in flight.
Dan says, "I have the proxies of Simon and Asa."
"Well, I'll be gormed!" murmurs Alistair Drummond.
"When we get to the ranch, I'll feed Eve a line of bullshit to explain the absence of Simon and Asa at the board meeting. She won't be able to do a thing about it. The CEO can't cancel or postpone the vote because I now hold the convening privilege of a majority stake. We're scheduled to meet at 1530 hours local time. I'll pick you up at the hotel half an hour before that and fly you to the ranch myself."
"Most satisfactory," Drummond says.
Damn near astounding!
He touches the End pad, sits back and closes his eyes. When he is once again in control of himself, he mulls over the new development, especially as it applies to his earlier frustrated request.
It occurs to him that someone else in the Galapharma organization, a local Concern executive not under the thumb of Tyler Baldwin, might be persuaded to furnish the piece of equipment he needs—or a reasonable substitute. In spite of the unexpected triumph of Daniel Frost, he still fully intends to carry out his own ultimate solution of the Rampart problem, a solution that particularly includes the egregious Daniel himself.
Smiling, he touches the phone's keypad and calls up a new number.
Simon and I briefly contemplated transferring to a speedier rented aircraft, but I was afraid that King Farley would have notified Dan of our escape by now. Wile E. Coyote wouldn't panic. He'd put out a credit-card-theft alert, ensuring that we'd be nabbed and detained if we tried to obtain any sort of commercial transport. Picking up a Rampart hopper in Toronto might have been a risky move for us, too, if Dan had spun some wild yarn to the corporate flight office.
So we stuck with bemused Willis and Leilani. Like most visitors to Coventry Blue, the Hawaiians had illegally suppressed their hopper registration to preserve their anonymity. There was no way King Farley or his biker buddy could identify our getaway vehicle to Dan, the Gala security forces, or anyone else.
We had effectively vanished.
As we flew southwest at over 1,500 kph, Simon wanted to contact Eve to tell her what had happened. I nixed the notion. It seemed to me there was a very real possibility that Dan had gone back to Rampart Tower after dumping us in Coventry and picked up Eve, Zed, and Gunter for the flight to Arizona. He might have told them that Simon and I had decided to fly down separately, or recited some other cock-and-bull story. If we tried to call Eve on her personal phone while she was aboard the Garrison-Laguna, Dan might somehow be alerted to the situation and panic. At worst, he might harm Eve and the others in some act of desperation. At best, he'd put off the vote.
I didn't want either thing to happen. I was counting on my brother being unwilling to confess the Silver Scybalum fiasco to Alistair Drummond. I wanted the Galapharma CEO to attend the board meeting at the Sky Ranch, to come out of his spider-hole of invulnerability.
His insane chutzpah deserved an appropriate reward. Perhaps I'd be the one to give it to him.
It was 1440 hours when Willis Kanakoa's Mitsubishi arrived at the Turkey Spring Guardhouse at the southeastern corner of the Frost family spread. It wasn't the main entrance to the ranch. That one, providing convenient access to the Phoenix Conurbation, was situated thirty-five crow-flight kilometers away on the western perimeter, near the Jakes Corner crossing on Tonto Creek. The only people who used the eastside gate were ranch employees who lived in Globe or in the remote little town of Pleasant Valley about twenty kilometers to the north.
August is monsoon season in Arizona, and masses of ominous purple thunderheads were building up south of Copper Mountain and Greenback Peak as we went into a holding hover.
Willis said, "Don't think I want to be flying around here when that weather arrives."
"Don't worry. This is where Simon and I get out." I instructed him to hail the guardhouse and ask if he could touch down for a minute or two and check out a possible malfunction in the hopper's throttle. The transponder ID was working again, so the Hawaiian registration of his aircraft was evident: just another tourist, snooping around the Sierra Ancha wilderness and getting into trouble.
Sky Ranch guards have standing orders to be reasonably polite to rubberneckers. They told Willis to come on down and they'd do what they could to help. He landed on the pad beside one of the small Saxon-15 hoppers that ExSec used to patrol the spread. There was also a Rampart Jeep parked there, and a couple of pickup trucks that probably belonged to the guards.
"Time for us to say goodbye, folks," Simon said to the Hawaiians. "Remember what I said: call me day after tomorrow. If Asa and I are still alive then, you're invited to the biggest goddamn barbecue this territory's ever seen. Now get outta here."
My father and I climbed out of the Mitsubishi and it took off at once. The heat was excruciating, even though we were at an altitude of over 1,800 meters, and the air was dead calm. We trudged to the guardhouse, a small building set among tall ponderosa pines. Not far away was the tall locked gate flanked by scanner masts, with a sign posted on it.
PRIVATE PROPERTY OF RAMPART 1C
ABSOLUTELY NO PUBLIC ACCESS
DANGER! CUIDADO! LETHAL DETERRENTS IN USE
A uniformed man with the holster of his sidearm unfastened was standing at the open guardhouse door regarding us warily.
"That you, Pete Halvorsen?" Simon called out.
"Good God!" the guard exclaimed. A smile broke over his weathered face. He hollered to somebody inside, "Julio, never mind reportin' in. You get on out here! It's the boss, for chrissake!"
Another guard appeared, older than the first. There were jovial curses of surprise. Simon knew both men, but he cut short their chatter after introducing me.
I said, "Julio, did you get around to telling Central Security that you had visitors out here?"
"Nossir," said Julio Perez. "I was just getting on it when Pete said it was the boss."
"Good. We don't want anyone to know we're corning in."
"What's up?" Pete asked.
Simon said, "We got some bad shit comin' down, boys. It's nothing I want to explain to you right now. We need a Jeep ride in to the main house."
"Sure thing," said Pete. "I'll take you. Ol' Julio can keep an eye on things here."
"We'll drive ourselves," I said.
"Suit yourself, son. Key's in the rig. Remote control for the security checkpoints clipped on the sun visor. Reckon you know the drill."
"Do you have a stunner we can take along?" I asked. "And a Claus-Gewitter or some other kind of blaster?"
"Well, shoot!" said Pete. "You planning a home invasion?"
"Got an extra Ivanov," Julio said soberly, "and a Harvey HA-3 if you want some important artille
ry. I'll get them."
"Perfect." I turned to Pete. "Remember, don't let anyone at the main house or the Central Security station know that Simon and I are coming in the Jeep. You get any inquiries, say that Julio's driving around on road inspection or something."
"I understand." The guard's face was grim. "You can count on us."
Simon clapped him on the shoulder. "Tell you later 'bout the reeraw. With luck, it won't amount to anything."
Julio came out and handed me the guns. "You take care. And keep an eye on Copper Creek when you cross her. Might flood out suddenly. Helluva big storm coming."
"Wouldn't surprise me," Simon said glumly.
The two men went back into their air-conditioned guardhouse. I slipped into the driver's seat of the Jeep and started it up. A moment later the back gate to the Sky Ranch rolled open and we drove inside.
The time was 1505 hours. The board meeting was scheduled to begin in twenty-five minutes, and it would take us at least that long to get to the house via the winding dirt road.
Eight members of the Rampart Board of Directors have gathered in the living room of the ranch house, awaiting the arrival of the ninth and his special guest. An atmosphere of decorum prevails. No one speaks of looming calamity or exhibits unseemly enthusiasm in anticipation of the event they all know will shortly take place. The weather provides a useful topic for small talk.
The living room is a place of mellow oaken beams, polished floor tiles, and informal furniture upholstered in subdued southwestern Indian motifs. An enormous unlit hearth overflows with potted ferns and jars containing sprays of pink, white, and green orchids. Beyond a wall of glass doors, closed against the oppressive heat, a broad terrace overlooks a stupendous vista. The house stands on a rise in the midst of a sparsely wooded plateau and it is almost completely encircled by mountains. The peaks to the south stand in striking contrast to a backdrop of towering cumulonimbus clouds— brilliant white at the tops and nearly black at their bases. Lightning flickers redly in their depths, and from time to time a distant growl of thunder is audible, even inside the heavily insulated house.
In the absence of Simon, Eve Frost has assumed the role of host. She wears a hooded robe of sparkling salmon-colored fabric, and her Halukoid features are frankly revealed. She serves crystal tumblers of sangria to those assembled and is particularly solicitous of her elderly aunt, Emma Bradbury, who seems to be the only one among the directors who does not understand the enormity of what is about to happen.
Zared Frost, President and COO, stands near the patio doors with his close associates, Leonidas Dunne, Chief Technical Officer, and Gianliborio Rivello, Chief Marketing Officer. Zed seems to have regained his executive poise. The three men watch the monsoon begin to engulf the mountain rampart with a gray curtain of falling water. They discuss the prospects of the Arizona Diamondbacks baseball team in the World Series.
Sitting together at a cocktail table made of polished petrified wood are Thora Scranton, a director-at-large who controls the twenty-five percent of Rampart stock owned by the Small Stakeholders, Gunter Eckert, the veteran CFO, and Bethany Frost, the Assistant Chief Financial Officer. Thora is an elegant woman of ample proportions, whose air of maternal calm conceals a ruthlessly pragmatic mind. Beth, a brilliant mathematician, is the designated successor to Gunter. Her election to the board after the death of Yasser Abul Hadi was pressed by Zed, Gianni, Leo, Emma, Dan, and the late Katje Vanderpost over the objections of Simon, who considers his younger daughter still too immature to play a leadership role in the Starcorp. Beth, like her brother Dan, to whom she is devoted, strongly favors the Galapharma merger.
A houseman in a white jacket slips into the room and whispers to Eve. She says to the others, "It seems that Dan has arrived with his guest."
A murmur, almost a sigh, sweeps the room. Then there is silence except for the intensifying drumrolls of thunder. A moment later Daniel Frost enters, his presence almost completely overshadowed by the flamboyant man following on his heels.
Alistair Drummond seems almost to be enveloped in an aura of crackling energy, as though he has managed to siphon ions from the impending storm. His cowboy costume, far from looking inappropriate, gives him the aspect of a Western stalwart of old. Supremely self-confident and smiling, he approaches Eve Frost, takes her dusky blue mutant hand, and inclines his head in a courtly gesture that is just short of mockery.
"Thank you so very much for allowing me to attend your board meeting, Eve! I can't tell you what a great pleasure it is to meet you at last."
She nods, turning away from him almost at once to address the others. "It's time for our meeting to begin. Please gather in the chairs around the fireplace."
Those who are not already seated take their places. Only Eve and Alistair Drummond remain standing. He silently declines to take the chair she has indicated.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting of the Rampart Board of Directors will now come to order. We will dispense with the reading of the minutes by our esteemed Secretary"—an ironic nod to Dan—"and move on immediately to the principal business at hand, our consideration of the acquisition bid by Galapharma Amalgamated Concern."
"I move that the Galapharma tender be accepted," says Daniel Frost.
"I second the motion," says his cousin Zared.
"The motion is now open to discussion." Almost in relief, Eve sits down on a padded stool to the left of the fireplace.
Dan says, "Since this matter has been extensively discussed and voted upon by the board before, I would like to invite my guest, Alistair Drummond, Chairman and CEO of Galapharma Concern, to tell us the advantages that may accrue to Rampart Starcorp, its stakeholders and employees, should this motion be passed today."
Drummond steps forward and begins to speak. His voice is well-modulated and forceful. Its faint Scottish accent, perhaps deliberately intensified for the occasion, lends an exotic charm to even the most banal recitations of statistics. He has brought an electronic display slate with him in a large case, and its muted holograms illustrate and elucidate his remarks.
As he winds down to a conclusion, the onrushing storm reaches the buildings of the Sky Ranch at last. A clap of thunder shakes the main house, provoking startled laughter. Rain descends in a torrential cascade, rattling on the roof and sluicing the terrace windows. Outside, it has become almost as dark as night.
The living room lamps brighten automatically, compensating for the gloom. So do Drummond's splendid holos. Offhandedly, the Galapharma CEO makes mention of the impending participation of Macrodur in the new venture credit program and acknowledges the near certainty that a new treaty with the Haluk will be approved. The data are all smoothly incorporated into his grand new schema. He seems to have thought of everything.
His presentation comes to an end and a few people applaud. Smiling, he deactivates the display and replaces it in its case, which rests on the beautiful table of petrified wood. "Are there any questions from members of the board?"
No one says a word.
Eve rises. "Then I call for a vote by the Rampart stakeholders and their representatives. First: Emma Bradbury, with twelve and a half percent of the corporate stake."
"Aye," Emma says, almost dreamily.
"Next: Thora Scranton, representative of Rampart Small Stakeholders, with twenty-five percent."
"Aye," says Thora.
"Next, Asahel Frost, with twenty-five percent." Dan holds up the document. "I hold the proxy of Asahel Frost, and vote aye."
"Madame CEO?" says Gunter Eckert. "Point of order." She nods. Eckert says he wishes to examine the proxy document. Dan hands it over and the old man makes a minute examination, finally shrugging and returning it. "The document appears to be authentic, but I insist that it be verified by an independent technical authority before the results of this vote are inserted into the public database."
"I agree wholeheartedly with Gunter's quite legitimate request," Dan says.
"Very well," says Eve. "The final stakeholde
r vote is by Simon Frost, with thirty-seven and one-half percent of Rampart stock."
Again Dan lifts the document. "I hold the proxy of Simon Frost and vote aye."
"And I once again stipulate verification." But Gunter's voice is tired and perfunctory now and he is staring into his lap.
"A vote of Rampart stakeholders has been taken," Eve says, "and acceptance of the Galapharma tender is unanimous, subject to the verification of the two proxies. Do I have a motion for adjournment?" "I so move," says Zared Frost. "I second," says Gunter. "And God help the lot of us." At this point the glass terrace doors burst open. A tremendous gust of wind and rain batters the living room, sending lamps, throw pillows, and precious Native American pottery flying, lifting small rugs from the floor, and causing the window drapes to billow and crack like torn sails in a gale.
Emma Bradbury and Bethany Frost shriek and cower in their club chairs. Eve turns a serene face to the invading storm, almost seeming to welcome it. Daniel Frost is a gray statue, clutching the proxy document to his breast like a talisman against disaster. Leonidas Dunne and Gianliborio Riv-ello leap up, mouthing curses, and dash to secure the flailing French doors before they shatter.
They fall back in confusion as two tall figures, drenched to the skin, step past them into the living room.
I kept on walking, reached Dan's paralyzed form, and ripped the proxy slate out of his nerveless hand. "This document is null and void. It was obtained under duress and is completely worthless." I flung the thing onto the floor tiles and crushed it under my boot.
Behind me Simon bellowed, "Damn right! And this fuckin' farce ends right now."
Alistair Drummond turned without a word and strode toward the door.
Dan shouted, "Wait! You can't leave!" He started after Drummond, taking hold of his shoulder, trying to stop him.
Incredibly, Drummond halted, reached into an inner pocket of his vest, pulled out a small but powerful Lanvin actinic pistol, and shot my older brother in the chest. Then he spun about and ran down the hall toward the front door, leaving chaos behind him.