He could feel her looking at him. She laughed along, a second too late. Have to change the topic: I’m weak here. “Bad joke. D.C. area, most recently. Lots of places before that. Sounds a bit like you.”
“Yes-we have that gypsy background in common, then.” Consuela’s voice made him think of her fingers working their way between his: wiggling in, sliding and writhing around index and middle fingers, the occasional graze of a well-sharpened nail reminding that half of the excitement was in the peril.
And she was indeed peril. Caine couldn’t be sure whether Helger had sent her as a spy, a distraction, or a peace-or should that be “piece”?-offering, but it was plain that she had been hand-picked for the job of escorting him. She was too striking to be a spy, so she was either intended as baffling bait or as a bribe. Or both. Yes. That would be the way Helger would work. She was a gift that was meant to divert not merely his senses, but his attention-and she was too clever to be an ignorant cat’s-paw: she had to be a knowing accomplice. Good: now I’m thinking straight again.
He looked up, seeing the foliage for the first time. They were speeding under a canopy of-well, not exactly trees: more like oversized ferns and sponge-sheathed goldenrod of gargantuan proportions. Oddly angular vines wound around and hung between them, speckling the shadows with impulsive constellations of small fuchsia and indigo flowers. Amazing that any world could be so habitable and look so different. Amazing that anything could be so biologically compatible with species that evolved 19.9 light-years away.
“Beautiful, no?”
Caine wondered if Consuela were talking about the flowers or herself-and thought: that’s exactly the way she wants me to think. She doesn’t want me to like her: she wants me to be mystified, intrigued, aroused, maybe even a little resentful of the titillation-anything to keep my mind off my job.
“The flowers are unlike anything I’ve seen before. All of it is. How long have you been here?”
“About a year. It’s been-”
“And what do you do? What is your job?”
She almost stuttered. You’d decided I was a gentleman-wouldn’t interrupt, sure to be susceptible to a slow seductive dance, out of good manners, if nothing else. But here’s where the game changes.
“I’m assistant director for new product marketing.”
“What new products?”
“Well,”-sweeping around a corner and out from under the foliage, they came to a dusty stop in front of a lightly-built oil rig-“petroleum.”
The action of the sudden halt sent the inevitable reactive shock waves undulating through the upper part of Consuela’s torso. Caine did his best not to notice. Instead, he smiled: “Venezuela, Corpus Christi, Amsterdam: Exxon?”
She smiled: it was a predatory leer, but honest, and-he intuited-a species of grudging congratulations on his deduction. “So you must be an investigative reporter, then. Yes, Exxon. Daddy, his dad before him, now me: crude runs in the family.”
And in your veins, I’ll bet. “So, that’s the part of CoDevCo that you hail from.”
“Guilty as charged. I am one of the she-wolves of energy corporation notoriety. The despised of the earth.”
Because you create the wretched of the earth, you supercilious bitch. You’ll be telling them to eat cake, next. It was becoming rapidly easier to find her less captivating. But I can’t show that. This is my opportunity.
He swung his legs over the side of the Rover, shaded his eyes, looked to either side: dozens of light-framed derricks in both directions. A thin, steady stream of black-smeared workers-most silent, a few muttering in Farsi, others in what might have been Uzbek-straggled toward the access road. Caine noted a profusion of unmended tears in their clothing, and the dull-eyed stares of the perpetually exhausted. “I suppose you’re aware that I flew over this area yesterday?”
“Did you? I didn’t know.”
Liar. “Yep-but I didn’t spot these as oil rigs. They looked-well, too flimsy. I thought they were construction frames for towers of some kind.”
“It’s a new derrick design made possible by lighter, stronger materials.” Consuela had come to stand alongside him-very close. That was either her arm brushing his elbow, or-
“And so this is why Site One became off-limits? You wanted to establish exclusive production?”
She nodded. “That’s what I guess: the Board doesn’t consult with little fish such as me.”
Caine stared up along the black-gray girders: too easy. They’re showing me this without effort, so they’re hiding something else. But for now, play it out. If you jump topic too fast, she’ll sense that you know there’s more. Play the part of the triumphant-and successfully decoyed-investigator.
He had to wait before speaking; a high speed VTOL approached, transitioned into level flight just about directly overhead, and arrowed up and over the steep green slope of the nearest mountain. “Why show me?”
She shrugged. “Louis didn’t tell me much-”
So, Consuela: Helger is “Louis,” despite being four tiers above you on the chain of command? What is he: a friend you made back home, or a friend you made on your back?
“-but I gather he didn’t have much choice left, in your case. So here it is: our deep, dark secret.”
“It’ll be dark enough when the Commonwealth and the Union learn about it.”
She shrugged. “Possession is nine-tenths, Mr. Riordan. And what are they going to do: impound the site? It will be months before they can get new work crews out here. Besides, no one’s going to stop us, anyway.”
“Why?”
She smiled, not entirely suppressing the condescension-
Go ahead, Consuela, believe I’m not quick enough to see it all for myself. If you decide I’m a little dim now, you’ll let your guard down later-
“Mr. Riordan, surely you know the value of oil.”
“Of course. Even after it was phased out as a fuel, it remains essential.”
“That’s right: plastics, lubricants, fertilizers, chemicals. It is priceless.”
Caine shrugged. “But at six shifts from Earth, the transport cost of oil from Dee Pee Three will eat the profits to nothing. Oil futures are still no more than one hundred c-dollars a barrel, and since we stopped burning it, the remaining supply is deemed sufficient for any foreseeable future.”
She nodded patiently. “Yes, it is. That is the state of the petroleum market on Earth. But there’s something you’re overlooking.”
No, there isn’t-but I’m glad you think so. “And what’s that?”
“New worlds, Mr. Riordan. CoDevCo has moved beyond terracentric marketing assumptions. We are thinking in interstellar terms: our new oil industry on Delta Pavonis Three is a prime example of that.”
“How?”
“Well, let’s do the math, Mr. Riordan. How much does it cost to move a one-liter volume of cargo from one solar system to another? Not freight charges: break-even cost, only.”
“Uh-about three c-dollars a liter, per shift.”
She seemed surprised that he knew. “Right. And how many shifts from Earth to Delta Pavonis?”
“Six.”
“Correct. So, in terms of interstellar transportation alone, it costs eighteen dollars to ship a liter of petroleum from Earth, the only known source of substantial fossil fuel deposits. Now, at one hundred dollars a barrel, that means that the market price for oil on Earth is about two dollars a gallon, or fifty cents a liter. Add in one c-dollar per liter for surcharges and transportation fees, and it costs the distributor about a dollar and fifty cents just to purchase every liter. You see now?”
“If Delta Pavonis wanted oil from Earth, the cost would be immense: a base price of a dollar-fity per liter, plus eighteen dollars more for six interstellar shifts. Add another six dollars for initial lift to orbit at fully subsidized bulk costs. That’s twenty-five dollars and fifty cents of cost to the provider, which will be passed along to the user, plus markup. At that rate, no one out here could afford to buy oil. But, if you can pump your own oil on Dee Pee Three, you’ll be able to sell it here for about the same as Earth rates: that means a higher profit margin, and plenty ready consumers.”