The Barsoom Project

Alex Griffin shielded his eyes as he emerged from the tube station. Although only an eighteen-minute ride from Dream Park (including tube transfer) the tubes had been relatively quiet, and dark. Alex had closed his eyes, trying to keep the tension at a dull roar.

Understandable, considering what was sitting in his lap, and what he had to attempt.

The sidewalks buzzed with activity, and in the midst of it he felt slightly uncomfortable.

How long had it been since he ventured outside the environs of Cowles Industries? With all of the resorts, shopping malls, entertainment complexes, and health services, he actually hadn’t needed to leave the corporate environment for…

Over a year?

Astonishing, now that he actually thought of it. Closer to two years, maybe.

The executive jets, the tubes, the vacations in Aspen and fishing in Bermuda… All of these things had been owned, controlled, designed by Cowles Industries, if not outright owned and maintained for the use of the executive staff. A totally self-contained world.

Alex was suddenly, painfully aware of how vulnerable he felt. There was no nod of recognition from the hundreds and thousands of people passing him on the street. The street sounds were foreign to him-there were still internal-combustion engines in San Diego, albeit small, efficient ones. He could smell it in the air.

It was new, and in a way exciting. He ran up the dozen steps to the Glass Tower, the tallest and most prominent building in EnCom Plaza, rising above the others like a giant standing on stilts.

He ran up those steps, a tall, redheaded man, lean in his three-piece suit, extremely fit, and alert. Perhaps the nervousness didn’t show. Perhaps.

The guard at the front door stopped him-him! — and asked his business.

The guard was portly, with dark skin that didn’t seem to be any protection from the sun. His skin was peeling badly on the tip of his nose, and on his neck. Alex handed him the coded card Fekesh’s secretary had sent via courier.

Oh, very well, Mr. Griffin. If you insist that your business is that important, and that personal, I suppose Mr. Fekesh could squeeze you in for five minutes tomorrow.

Mighty white of her.

Arriving in EnCom Plaza now, Griffin could begin to believe that the man was actually as busy as that.

The guard grudgingly took the card and entered it in a computer slot, read the results. He had a more respectful look when he returned to the door. Not much, but an improvement.

“One moment, sir.”

Alex stepped back as a door hummed open for him, and stepped into a shielded pocket between two three-inch-thick slabs of plastiglass.

He felt an initial humming, and then nothing for several seconds, although the skin on his forearms tingled.

Probably just nerves. Right.

The inner door slid open.

Alex watched everything. The guard clipped a card on his pocket, and said “Penthouse” unnecessarily, pointing toward an elevator.

Alex had seen the plans for the building-there were six elevators visible, and two hidden: Executive and Freight.

The door hissed shut behind him.

He didn’t find it easy to violate the ageless ritual of watching the numbers change on the digital display. It took effort to observe his surroundings. Typical elevator cubicle. Five feet deep, four wide. Seven feet high. Moved soundlessly. The walls seemed made out of burnished copper, but were smoother to the touch; they felt like some kind of plastic. Had the elevator started moving yet?

The door opened soundlessly.

Griffin found himself in a suite of luxury offices. The entire floor seemed to be walled in glass, partitioned off with wood. It made for an interesting mixture, somehow elemental: earth and sky mingled together.

A beautiful brunette at the front desk rose and extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Griffin, of course. Mr. Fekesh is expecting you.”

I’ll just bet he is. “Thank you. May I go in?”

“In a moment. May I get you something?” The ritual question. Coffee. “Club soda, if you have it.”

She laughed musically. “In twenty-six flavors.”

“Lemon, then.”

“I’ll just be a moment.”

Alex sat, aware of his own nervousness, aware that he was probably being watched. The sweet lull of the music-what was that? Something by Mozart? He wasn’t up on his classical music, and for some reason that added to his discomfiture.

There were a dozen people working at various desks, in various stages of activity. But the real work was undoubtedly going on behind the various closed doors. They simply hummed with hidden power.

The receptionist returned clucking to herself as if she were keeper of the world’s best private joke. She handed him a foam-plastic cup. “And Mr. Fekesh will see you in a moment. Please.”

She motioned him to an office door down the hail. He smiled his thanks, took a sip. It was at the perfect edge of coldness, brisk and refreshing. He had always liked the way lemon tasted in fizzing drinks. Cleansing somehow.