Worlds in Chaos by James P. Hogan Page B

it’s like to be what you call a celebrity? You do it all the time? Where do you get the stamina? What’s the secret?”
    “Not really,” Keene said. “Most of the time I deal with reactors and engines. This is just temporary, since Friday. Attention spans on this world tend to be short.” He looked at the glass that Sariena was holding. “Want me to get you another? Save your feet.”
    “Oh, please. Any kind of fruit juice with a touch of vodka. . . .” She handed him the glass. “Do I look unladylike up here on the arm like a bird on a perch? If I sit down in this couch I can’t get up again. It digests you.”
    “I don’t think you could look unladylike in a boiler suit,” Keene replied. “Something more to eat?”
    “Thanks, but I’ve had enough.”
    He went over to the bar and got a refill, along with a straight Scotch for himself. He wasn’t driving tonight. Might as well make the most of it, he figured. “Anything else for you, sir?” the cocktail waiter tending the bar asked. He peered at Keene more closely. “Say, aren’t you one of those three guys who—”
    “You’ve got it,” Keene murmured, covering his mouth and slipping a ten into the glass set aside for tips. “But don’t spread it around.”
    He went back, handed Sariena her drink, and looked at her while he sipped his own. There had been so many things he’d listed in his mind that he wanted to ask her when they finally met. He wanted to know about her world and what it was like to live out there; how it felt to be without a planet that automatically self-renewed and replenished everything necessary for life; to be totally dependent for survival itself, every moment, on machines. He wanted to know how a moneyless system could function and still sustain—evidently—all the complexities of a technological society. What motivated people to provide for each other in place of the penalties and rewards that just about every authority on Earth insisted were indispensable? . . . So many things. And now here they were, and suddenly none of it felt appropriate.
    “Well, you’ve certainly created some attention,” Sariena said. “Let’s hope it’s a good omen for the talks.”
    “We can but try,” Keene said.
    “So what brought you to Washington so soon? Was the President so impressed that he wants you to put together a real space program for them at last?”
    “I wish.” Keene sipped his Scotch and saw that Cavan was watching them inconspicuously from across the room. “As a matter of fact, somebody wanted me to talk to you while I was here. Not the President, but it was to do with your mission.” Sariena waited, curious. Keene looked around. The suite was in the penthouse, with an exterior balcony all the way around. “Let’s go outside,” he suggested. “Gallian says you need to get used to the air.”
    Sariena rose and moved toward one of the sliding glass panels that had been opened. Keene picked up a chair and followed her along the balcony to a corner, away from the others who were outside talking. Keene placed the chair by the wall and leaned an elbow on the rail while Sariena sat down. He began: “The person that I mentioned is on the inside here. And I’ve seen something myself today of what reactions are going to be.” He shook his head. “Earth isn’t going to buy this line about Venus being an earlier Athena. Yes, Athena happened and the standard theories were wrong. Nobody can deny that. But they’re going to fight any suggestion that the two have anything in common. As far as they’re concerned Venus is a planet and moves like a planet. Athena is a one-time anomaly that will be a spectacle for a year until it leaves the Solar System. . . .” Keene paused, thinking for a second that Sariena wasn’t listening. She was sitting back against the window glass, staring up at the sky with a faraway, almost rapturous expression.
    “I love stars,” she said.
    Keene looked away and turned his head upward.