The Barsoom Project

“Very well,” Arbenz said, looking down on the top of Alex’s head. “What is it that I can do for you?”

“Well…” Alex still felt a bit uncomfortable. Arbenz was seven inches taller than he, even though Earth’s gravity had stooped him by an inch or two. “There was an incident in one of our Games. It’s the Game your niece is in.”

Arbenz became very alert indeed. “An incident?”

The elevator thudded down, the door opened as if jarred, and Arbenz strode through the lobby at a brisk walking pace. At least, for Arbenz it was walking. Alex would have felt ridiculous breaking into a jog, but as he tried to match the Ambassador’s long-legged stride, for the first time in his life he understood why race-walking was an Olympic sport. The gray hair must be premature. No old man raised in low gravity could outrun Alex Griffin!

It took him a minute to make his pace both efficient and comfortable. That gave him his breath back. He said, “It could mean nothing. It’s one of those. A hologram monster attacked the wrong person, and the computer killed her out of the Game.” Alex spread his hands. “No real problem. No explanation either.”

Arbenz’s long face creased with concern. “Was it Charlene?”

Alex gulped air, felt the first flush of perspiration under his collar. Arbenz looked perfectly comfortable. “No, it was her friend Eviane.”

Arbenz passed through the VIP gate and headed for the Tower of Night, a slender silver projection glistening in the morning light.. Alex blinked. He’d passed the Tower yesterday evening; it had been tall. This morning it went up forever! What he knew to be the Tower’s roof continued without a break, tapering to a silver line, stretching into the blue zenith.

Three years ago he’d seen the plans. For two years Alex had been looking at the restaurant itself. He’d eaten here; he’d loved the way the elevator took him into the sky… and still he hadn’t known it for what it was. Now he remembered the Barsoom Project’s discussion of bridges to the planets. The Tower of Night had been a Beanstalk all along.

By now Dream Park’s special guests were used to the sight of the Ambassador, and barely noticed his passing. All things considered, he was one of Dream Park’s less startling sights. Even on the reduced schedule demanded by the Barsoom Project, there were still enough KaleidoKlowns, dancing ‘Toons, and multispecies street vendors to steal the thunder from a mere six-foot-five Lunarian.

“A strange girl,” Arbenz said finally. With savage satisfaction Alex noted that Arbenz had finally broken into a sweat. “I met her only briefly. Apparently she and Charlene are quite close. No one was hurt?”

“No one. What I want is to go back over the threats that were made against you.”

Arbenz hadn’t looked tired until Griffin said that. “The usual. They consider the Barsoom Project an abomination, the desecration of the heavens. Even the name ‘Falling Angel’ has been considered demonic. It is an absurd pseudo-fundamental Moslem view of the world. People are being exploited for personal gain.”

They had reached the Tower of Night. They entered the elevator. As the door closed, Dream Park vanished.

Outside the clear-plastic windows was burnt-umber sand and a pink sky shading to black. Dead, waterless, almost windless; a dust storm receded toward the too-close horizon.

“You said personal gain. Who stands to gain by scaring you off? Or killing you?”

“Considering the number of contracts that are at stake, I’d consider that question unanswerable. And I surely don’t understand why an imaginary monster should have attacked my niece, and missed!”

Alex nodded reluctantly. He didn’t either.

The elevator rose rapidly. The tiny Martian spaceport town dropped away at fantastic speed, and even without the accompanying sense of acceleration, his stomach flopped and gurgled. He gulped as Mons Olympus rose over the horizon with thin clouds streaming from its shallow flank at two levels, then shrank to become a bump on a shrinking sphere.

If Charlene Dula had been killed out, where would she go? Someplace unprotected?

If the terrorist had missed Charlene, he must be a fool. But fool enough to think that Marty would stay in the Game with Charlene out?

“Mr. Ambassador, has your niece ever been named directly in one of these threats?”

“No. But indirectly, yes, and a kidnap attempt was made on Mitch De Camp’s boy.”

“Dr Camp’s the President of Falling Angel.”

“Correct.”

Alex closed his eyes, reviewing the information. When he opened them again, Mars was a beach ball held at arm’s length, and the Beanstalk span stretched below them like a tightrope across the Abyss. “All right. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not really,” Arbenz said. The elevator came to a halt. “And now I must ask you to excuse me. There are appointments waiting.”

The inner door opened. Beyond was conversation and sanity, the smell of food, and the feel of solid ground.