To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) by William Rotsler Page A
Authors: William Rotsler
Ads: Link
side. "No!” he exclaimed aloud, then immediately felt foolish.
He heard someone enter behind him, and asked, "Elaine?"
"Was there anything you wanted before I go?"
"No, have a good night. See you in the morning. Oh, take whatever is left of the wine."
"Thanks, boss. That bottle is big enough to build a floating ark in. Good night."
Blake nodded, staring at the model of the Inner Chamber.
Why the hell would anyone go to so much trouble? When you are gone, you're gone. Even someone with 'loses ego should know that! No matter what all those religions say. They have proved nothing. Death is extinction. Give a body a decent burial to keep it from polluting the area. Or section it up for the organ banks and recycle the remains. But a tomb of this size? Elaine had reported that there was already some adverse publicity, people wondering why so much money was being spent on one man's tomb when there were people starving in India, in Central America, in Africa. People grumbled that the money could have been better spent fighting crime that was rampant in the arcos of Texas and Louisiana.
When the announcement of the tomb-building project had been made, the Voss empire took a nine-point drop in stocks and continued down for days. Voss had been prepared, and bought stock heavily before the market stabilized and the price went back up. He had made a profit of over 30,000,000, a substantial part of the tomb cost. Blake had wondered if the whole effort had been arranged for just that effect. Jean-Michel had smiled blandly at the suggestion, said others would probably try the same trick, and had then continued his intense discussion on the zero-defect aspects of the Inner Chamber's construction.
Blake had shrugged then and he shrugged again, now. He left the workroom and slumped into his chair behind the desk. The day was nearly gone, and the sunset brought Blake the melancholy that had so afflicted him of late. Not even the high adventure of this special commission had broken it.
He gazed out at the city, thinking of the high price he paid for his office to be on one of the exterior facets of the arcolog. He had considered it a necessary expense and had refused an inner office.
Money. It is always money. Money to live well, money to live at all. But that will change soon, Blake told himself. With the money from this one commission he would be able to retire, if he wished, roam the world, buy a condo at the top of an arcolog overlooking the Aegean, have a summer home with a modest helipad to receive guests, have a good wine cellar, clothes, art.
And, of course, a woman.
Rio.
Blake ripped his mind away, dialed opaque his expensive view, and sought distraction in his wallscreen. He poured himself a drink and let his eyes munch on the television.
A plainclothes detective was chasing a sweating man across the slippery top of an arcolog. Cornered, the sweating man turned and fired a laser, narrowly missing the detective, who returned his fire. The criminal screamed and the screen changed viewpoints to see a dummy fall from the crest of the ark.
Blake punched the control studs.
A crowd roared over the clang of steel. The screen cut from a wide view of Nero's Colosseum to tight close-ups of the desperate trio that faced the big French soldat robot, a curved sword in either waldo. One of the human fighters was a woman, bare to the waist, and bleeding from a bad shoulder cut.
Shaking his head, Blake changed channels. The Circus was getting too bloody for his tastes.
"–will bring you the latest news. Sheppard Maier, in Houston, on John Grennell's return from the Jupiter Mission and the tapes of Terry Ballard's tragic death on Callisto. Hans Siden on the phenomenon of a rise in church attendance. Jay Kinney with the latest in sports and arena highlights. And more, after these words from Steele Security Service, the ultimate in modem protection."
Stab.
Reverend Sam's Star of Bethlehem satellite was seen in a long shot against the
He heard someone enter behind him, and asked, "Elaine?"
"Was there anything you wanted before I go?"
"No, have a good night. See you in the morning. Oh, take whatever is left of the wine."
"Thanks, boss. That bottle is big enough to build a floating ark in. Good night."
Blake nodded, staring at the model of the Inner Chamber.
Why the hell would anyone go to so much trouble? When you are gone, you're gone. Even someone with 'loses ego should know that! No matter what all those religions say. They have proved nothing. Death is extinction. Give a body a decent burial to keep it from polluting the area. Or section it up for the organ banks and recycle the remains. But a tomb of this size? Elaine had reported that there was already some adverse publicity, people wondering why so much money was being spent on one man's tomb when there were people starving in India, in Central America, in Africa. People grumbled that the money could have been better spent fighting crime that was rampant in the arcos of Texas and Louisiana.
When the announcement of the tomb-building project had been made, the Voss empire took a nine-point drop in stocks and continued down for days. Voss had been prepared, and bought stock heavily before the market stabilized and the price went back up. He had made a profit of over 30,000,000, a substantial part of the tomb cost. Blake had wondered if the whole effort had been arranged for just that effect. Jean-Michel had smiled blandly at the suggestion, said others would probably try the same trick, and had then continued his intense discussion on the zero-defect aspects of the Inner Chamber's construction.
Blake had shrugged then and he shrugged again, now. He left the workroom and slumped into his chair behind the desk. The day was nearly gone, and the sunset brought Blake the melancholy that had so afflicted him of late. Not even the high adventure of this special commission had broken it.
He gazed out at the city, thinking of the high price he paid for his office to be on one of the exterior facets of the arcolog. He had considered it a necessary expense and had refused an inner office.
Money. It is always money. Money to live well, money to live at all. But that will change soon, Blake told himself. With the money from this one commission he would be able to retire, if he wished, roam the world, buy a condo at the top of an arcolog overlooking the Aegean, have a summer home with a modest helipad to receive guests, have a good wine cellar, clothes, art.
And, of course, a woman.
Rio.
Blake ripped his mind away, dialed opaque his expensive view, and sought distraction in his wallscreen. He poured himself a drink and let his eyes munch on the television.
A plainclothes detective was chasing a sweating man across the slippery top of an arcolog. Cornered, the sweating man turned and fired a laser, narrowly missing the detective, who returned his fire. The criminal screamed and the screen changed viewpoints to see a dummy fall from the crest of the ark.
Blake punched the control studs.
A crowd roared over the clang of steel. The screen cut from a wide view of Nero's Colosseum to tight close-ups of the desperate trio that faced the big French soldat robot, a curved sword in either waldo. One of the human fighters was a woman, bare to the waist, and bleeding from a bad shoulder cut.
Shaking his head, Blake changed channels. The Circus was getting too bloody for his tastes.
"–will bring you the latest news. Sheppard Maier, in Houston, on John Grennell's return from the Jupiter Mission and the tapes of Terry Ballard's tragic death on Callisto. Hans Siden on the phenomenon of a rise in church attendance. Jay Kinney with the latest in sports and arena highlights. And more, after these words from Steele Security Service, the ultimate in modem protection."
Stab.
Reverend Sam's Star of Bethlehem satellite was seen in a long shot against the
Similar Books
