![Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]](/res/aob/book1.jpg)
Level One with a cage full of businessmen and schoolchildren.
He took an air-taxi the three kilometres to the centre of the Station. He would normally have travelled by train, but as Kapinsky was picking up the expenses he could afford to travel in comfort.
The Scheering-Lassiter headquarters was situated in the high-rise business sector, a tapering obelisk like extruded glass, which, until last year and the construction of the central government tower, had been the tallest building on the Station.
It looked, Vaughan thought as he stood in the plaza outside the edifice, suitably phallic and thrusting for a company whose aim it was to seed the stars. He watched the comings and goings of business execs and company workers, fingering the pass in his pocket and hoping its validity had not been erased after its owner’s death.
Everyone going into the building through the single, sliding entrance proffered a pass-card, which was scanned by an electronic eye. Security guards were on hand to turn away personae non gratae. A small proportion of the people entering the building made enquiries at reception; far more simply walked through the lobby and made for the elevators.
The thing to do was to go in exuding confidence, an air of belonging, and once inside take it from there. With luck he would get a bit further than Kapinsky had yesterday.
He walked towards the building and activated his implant. Instantly a hundred minds flared in close proximity—a cacophony of hope and desire, anger and joy—with a dull backing of the mind-noise of the rest of Levels One and Two.
He felt his pulse race as he approached the sliding glass door. As it opened to admit him and a couple of suited Thai women, a curious thing happened.
The mind-noise that was a constant background hum remained in his head, but the bright flares of individual minds cut out the instant he entered the building. He was so surprised that he almost forgot to show the staring camera eye his purloined pass. He fumbled with it, heart hammering, and passed into the lobby without being apprehended.
He bypassed reception and headed straight for the elevators, where a wall plaque described the departments on various floors.
He bought himself time by consulting the plaque, at the same time coming to terms with the fact that everyone in the building—everyone employed by Scheering-Lassiter—was mind-shielded.
There were exceptions: a cleaner scouring the marble tiles was without a shield, as were a couple of lowly office boys, along with casual visitors to the building—but Vaughan estimated that more than ninety per cent of everyone in the building was unreadable.
Which meant that he wouldn’t learn as much as he’d hoped this morning—but the fact that the company kept its personnel shielded was interesting in itself.
The first floor was given over to individual offices and a list of executive’s names. The second through tenth floors housed various departments, corporate strategy, research and development, and Terran administration among others.
On the fifteenth floor he found what he was looking for: colonial affairs. In offices one to five were housed the Mallory Department.
Vaughan entered the elevator and rose to the fifteenth floor.
He stepped out into a spacious area of wide corridors and open-plan offices, decorated with what he took to be specimens of Mallorian flora: blue shrubs and startled-looking blood-red cacti, alien to eyes accustomed to verdant Earthly horticulture. Men and women in smart business suits moved back and forth, barely giving him a second glance. They, too, were shielded. He killed his implant, and the distant mind-noise from the rest of the Station fell blissfully silent.
Across the wide corridor, facing the elevator, was a big head and shoulders photograph of Gustave Scheering, the head of the organisation. He appeared to be in his sixties, the beefy slab of
He took an air-taxi the three kilometres to the centre of the Station. He would normally have travelled by train, but as Kapinsky was picking up the expenses he could afford to travel in comfort.
The Scheering-Lassiter headquarters was situated in the high-rise business sector, a tapering obelisk like extruded glass, which, until last year and the construction of the central government tower, had been the tallest building on the Station.
It looked, Vaughan thought as he stood in the plaza outside the edifice, suitably phallic and thrusting for a company whose aim it was to seed the stars. He watched the comings and goings of business execs and company workers, fingering the pass in his pocket and hoping its validity had not been erased after its owner’s death.
Everyone going into the building through the single, sliding entrance proffered a pass-card, which was scanned by an electronic eye. Security guards were on hand to turn away personae non gratae. A small proportion of the people entering the building made enquiries at reception; far more simply walked through the lobby and made for the elevators.
The thing to do was to go in exuding confidence, an air of belonging, and once inside take it from there. With luck he would get a bit further than Kapinsky had yesterday.
He walked towards the building and activated his implant. Instantly a hundred minds flared in close proximity—a cacophony of hope and desire, anger and joy—with a dull backing of the mind-noise of the rest of Levels One and Two.
He felt his pulse race as he approached the sliding glass door. As it opened to admit him and a couple of suited Thai women, a curious thing happened.
The mind-noise that was a constant background hum remained in his head, but the bright flares of individual minds cut out the instant he entered the building. He was so surprised that he almost forgot to show the staring camera eye his purloined pass. He fumbled with it, heart hammering, and passed into the lobby without being apprehended.
He bypassed reception and headed straight for the elevators, where a wall plaque described the departments on various floors.
He bought himself time by consulting the plaque, at the same time coming to terms with the fact that everyone in the building—everyone employed by Scheering-Lassiter—was mind-shielded.
There were exceptions: a cleaner scouring the marble tiles was without a shield, as were a couple of lowly office boys, along with casual visitors to the building—but Vaughan estimated that more than ninety per cent of everyone in the building was unreadable.
Which meant that he wouldn’t learn as much as he’d hoped this morning—but the fact that the company kept its personnel shielded was interesting in itself.
The first floor was given over to individual offices and a list of executive’s names. The second through tenth floors housed various departments, corporate strategy, research and development, and Terran administration among others.
On the fifteenth floor he found what he was looking for: colonial affairs. In offices one to five were housed the Mallory Department.
Vaughan entered the elevator and rose to the fifteenth floor.
He stepped out into a spacious area of wide corridors and open-plan offices, decorated with what he took to be specimens of Mallorian flora: blue shrubs and startled-looking blood-red cacti, alien to eyes accustomed to verdant Earthly horticulture. Men and women in smart business suits moved back and forth, barely giving him a second glance. They, too, were shielded. He killed his implant, and the distant mind-noise from the rest of the Station fell blissfully silent.
Across the wide corridor, facing the elevator, was a big head and shoulders photograph of Gustave Scheering, the head of the organisation. He appeared to be in his sixties, the beefy slab of
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