“Whoa,” said Svoboda. “Who shit in your Rice Krispies?”
“This isn’t about aluminum at all!” I stood from the stool. “Thanks, Svobo. I owe you one.”
“What?” he said. “What do you mean it’s not about aluminum? Then what’s it about?”
But I already had a head of steam going. “Stay strange, Svobo. I’ll be in touch.”
The administrator’s office used to be in Armstrong Bubble because that was the only bubble. But once Armstrong became all loud noises and machinery, she relocated. Nowadays she worked out of a small, one-room office on Conrad Up 19.
Yup, you heard me. The administrator of Artemis—the most important and powerful person on the moon, who could literally have any location rent-free—chose to work in the bluest of blue-collar areas. If I were Ngugi, I’d have a huge office overlooking the Aldrin Arcade. And it would have a wet bar and leather chairs and other cool powerful-people stuff.
And a personal assistant. A beefy yet gentle guy who called me “boss” all the time. Yeah.
Ngugi didn’t have any of that. She didn’t even have a secretary. Just a sign on her office door that read ADMINISTRATOR FIDELIS NGUGI.
To be fair, it’s not like she was president of the United States. She was, effectively, the mayor of a small town.
I pressed the doorbell and heard a simple buzz emanate from the room beyond.
“Come in,” came Ngugi’s voice.
I opened the door. Her office was even less fancy than I’d expected. Spartan, even. A few shelves with family photos jutted out of raw aluminum walls. Her sheet-metal desk looked like something from the 1950s. She did at least have a proper office chair—her one concession to personal comfort. When I’m seventy years old I’ll probably want a nice chair too.
She typed away on a laptop. The older generations still preferred them to Gizmos or speech-interface devices. She somehow carried grace and aplomb even while hunched over at her desk. She wore casual clothes and, as always, her traditional dhuku headscarf. She finished typing a sentence, then smiled at me.
“Jasmine! Wonderful to see you, dear. Please, have a seat.”
“Yea-thank-yes. I’ll… sit.” I settled into one of the two empty chairs facing her desk.
She clasped her hands and leaned forward. “I’ve been so worried about you, dear. What can I do to help?”
“I have a question about economics.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Economics? Well, I do have some knowledge in that area.”
Understatement of the century. This woman had transformed Kenya into the center of the global space industry. She deserved a Nobel Prize. Two, really. One for Economics and another for Peace.
“What do you know about Earth’s telecom industry?” I asked.
“That’s a broad topic, dear. Can you be more specific?”
“What’s it worth, you think? Like, what kind of revenues do they pull down?”
She laughed. “I could only hazard a guess. But the entire global industry? Somewhere in the five-to-six-trillion-dollar-per-year range.”
“Holy shit! Er… pardon my language, ma’am.”
“Not a problem, Jasmine. You’ve always been colorful.”
“How do they make so much?”
“They have a huge customer base. Every phone line, every internet connection, every TV cable subscription… they all create revenue for the industry—either directly from the customer or indirectly through advertising.”
I looked down at the floor. I had to take a moment.
“Jasmine?”
“Sorry. Kind of tired—well, to be honest, I’m hungover.”
She smiled. “You’re young. You’ll recover soon, I’m sure.”
“Let’s say someone invented a better mousetrap,” I said. “A really awesome fiber-optic cable. One that reduced costs, increased bandwidth, and improved reliability.”
She leaned back in her chair. “If the price point were comparable to existing cables, it would be a huge boon. And the manufacturer of that product would be swimming in money, of course.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And let’s say the prototype of this new fiber optic was created in a specially made satellite in low-Earth orbit. One with a centrifuge aboard. What would that tell you?”
She looked puzzled. “This is a very odd discussion, Jasmine. What’s going on?”
I drummed my fingers on my leg. “See, to me that means it can’t be created in Earth’s gravity. It’s the only reason to make a custom satellite.”
She nodded. “That sounds reasonable. I take it something like this is in the works?”
I pressed on. “But the satellite has a centrifuge. So they do need some force. It’s just that Earth’s gravity is too high. But what if the moon’s gravity were low enough for whatever process they’re using?”
“This is an oddly specific hypothetical, dear.”
“Humor me.”
She put her hand on her chin. “Then obviously they could manufacture it here.”
“So, in your expert opinion, where’s a better place to manufacture this imaginary product: low-Earth orbit or Artemis?”
“Artemis,” she said. “No question. We have skilled workers, an industrial base, a transport infrastructure, and shipping to and from Earth.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s kind of what I thought.”
“This sounds very promising, Jasmine. Have you been offered a chance to invest? Is that why you’re here? If this invention is real, it’s definitely worth putting money into.”
I wiped my brow. Conrad Up 19 was always a comfortable 22 degrees Celsius, but I was sweating nonetheless.
I looked her in the eyes. “You know what’s strange? You didn’t mention radio or satellites.”
She cocked her head. “I’m sorry, dear. What?”
“When you talked about the telecom industry. You mentioned internet, phone, and TV. But you didn’t bring up radio or satellites.”
“Those are certainly parts of it as well.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you didn’t mention them. In fact, you only talked about the parts of the industry that rely on fiber optics.”
She shrugged. “Well, we’re talking about fiber optics, so that’s only natural.”
“Except I hadn’t brought up fiber optics yet.”
“You must have.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a very good memory.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
I pulled a knife from my boot holster and held it at the ready. “How did O Palácio find my Gizmo?”
She pulled a gun from under the desk. “Because I told them where it was.”
11
“A gun?!” I said. “How did a gun get into the city?! I never smuggle weapons!”
“I’ve always appreciated that,” she said. “You don’t have to keep your hands up. You do, however, have to drop that knife.”
I did as I was instructed. The knife floated down to the floor.
She kept the gun pointed at me. “May I ask, how did you come to suspect me?”
“Process of elimination,” I said. “Rudy proved he wasn’t selling me out. You’re the only other person with access to my Gizmo location info.”
“Reasonable,” she said. “But I’m not as sinister as you think.”
“Uh-huh.” I gave her a dubious look. “But you know all about ZAFO, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to make a shitload of money off of it?”
She scowled. “Do you really think so little of me? I won’t make a single slug.”
“But… then… why…?”
She settled back into her chair and relaxed her grip on the gun. “You were right about the gravity. ZAFO is a crystalline quartzlike structure that only forms at 0.216 g’s. It’s impossible to make on Earth, but they can make it here with a centrifuge. You’re such an intelligent girl, Jasmine. If only you’d apply yourself.”