“Jesus, Ling—you want war back? Even I’m not that nostalgic.”
“I feel in my heart that in the old days, when we were a brawling, clawing, struggling world, we were more human. Now we grow fat and soft on the riches flung down to us from on high—and because our short-term wealth has temporarily overtaken population growth, we have stopped fearing population growth. One day we will reach a point where no input of new wealth can help us… and then civilization will fall, and millions, billions, will die. Conceivably all. All humans. But not the Stardancers. They may never die.” He heard emotion creeping into his voice and caught himself. “You understand, I do not discuss these matters publicly. Stardancers are much beloved. In this age, no man can hold real wealth or power save he treat with them. Humanity is drunk, today, happily drunk, and in no mood for grim warnings. But how can the Neanderthal not hate the Cro-Magnon, Eva?”
She nodded. Time to change the subject. “Well, I can’t say I share your feelings, but at least I think I understand them now. Thanks for explaining. I’ll remember not to buy you the new Drummonds holo for your birthday.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Please do, if you like. One may admire the exquisite gyrations of cancer cells in the microscope. The choreography of the Stardancers themselves I find very interesting; it’s only their existence that offends me.”
That made her smile. “It’s a shame your country gave up emperors, Ling. You’d have been one of the great ones.”
“One hates to be a merely good emperor,” he agreed, and finished his drink.
She followed suit. “Are you sleepy?”
“No.”
“Shall we go to bed?”
He bowed and took her hand. “All my life I have wondered why other men prize young women.”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “they do not feel they deserve the best.”
He smiled, and came closer.
18
Washington, D.C.
28 January 2065
The assistant director of the United States Internal Revenue Service knew that her office was as snoop-proof as human ingenuity could make it. Nonetheless she got up from her desk and personally made sure her office door was locked. Then she told her AI to cancel all appointments for the day and hold all calls, and opened a “Most Secure” phone circuit to Brussels.
Her global counterpart, the Right Honorable Undersecretary of Revenue for the United Nations, and Assistant Chairman of the Committee on Fiscal Anomalies, answered promptly. “Hello, LaToya. This is early in the day for you to call. What is it, 8 AM in Washington?” He looked closer. “My God—are you ill?”
“I’ve been up all night, George.”
The Undersecretary sighed. “Something serious, then. All right, which hat shall I wear?”
“Both of them, I think. And hold on to both. You may have to invent a third hat: I don’t think there’s any precedent for this.”
A sigh. “Go ahead.”
“George, I’ve run the integrations through again and again. I used three methods, different machines, I even had the software triplechecked.”
“And—”
“You’ll be receiving more than you’re expecting from us this year.”
The Undersecretary lifted an eyebrow. “How much more?”
“On the order of ten percent.”
The other eyebrow rose to join the first. “You are telling me the gross national product of the United States has taken a ten percent jump. Up.”
“That is part of what I’m telling you. I talked with Jacques and Rogelio last night… and they report nearly identical bulges. Jacques puts his at nine percent; Rogelio is running behind, but says Mexico will probably run eleven and a half.”
The Undersecretary was frowning. “So someone is pumping serious money into North America. Is it real, or just pixels?”
“As far as I can learn, it’s genuine money.”
“Where is it coming from?”
“It falleth as the gentle rain from heaven. Drop by drop—all over.”
A grunt. “Stonewalled, eh? Very well—where is it going? Who’s paying taxes on it? What categories?”
“Take a tranquilizer.”
The Undersecretary frowned, then did as he was bid. At once the frown smoothed over. “Go ahead.”
“One category: self-employed income.”
“Self-employed?” That was the last sector in which he would have expected such a surge in earnings. “Any breakdowns as to subcategories yet?”
The assistant director nodded. “Again, one. Self-employed artists.”
The Undersecretary stared. After a full ten seconds of silence, he said, “What kind of artists?”
“All kinds of artists. Live theater, dance, film, music, literature, sculpture, painting… what it comes down to is, in every genre and subgenre there is, from grand opera to street theater, roughly ten percent of the working professionals have had a very good year.”
“And all from the same source?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I suspect it, because it all seems to be coming in the same way: anonymous donations, rather than grants or box office. One donation per artist or arts group. Substantial ones.”
“But then it’s simple!” the Undersecretary said. “Who’s declaring the increased donations on their taxes?”
“That’s the problem. Nobody. Not in North America anyway. But why the hell would someone overseas want to take such a huge flyer in North American art?”
“Confusing,” the Undersecretary agreed.
“Confusing, hell. It worries me, George. Good news on this scale is ominous. I smell a swindle of some kind.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance these benefactors are North Americans who elected for some reason not to claim…” He trailed off.
She politely pretended she hadn’t heard him. “Will you look into it, George? Quietly?”
“I’ll get back to you,” he said, and broke the connection.
For the rest of the day work devoured her attention, but she fretted most of the night. The next morning at the office she flinched when her AI said, “The Undersecretary of Revenue.”
“Accept!” she said at once.
“He is not on the phone, ma’am. He is in your outer office.”
“Jesus.” She took a deep breath, and rose to her feet. “Admit him.”
Two bodyguards entered first, scanned the room carefully, and nodded through the door. The Undersecretary came in, and dismissed them with some unseen signal. She started to come around her desk to greet him, but he waved her off. They sat together; he came to the point without formalities. “This room is secure?”
The assistant director checked a telltale. “Yes.”
“It’s happening all over the globe. And in space. High Orbit, Luna City, everywhere. Has been for over six months now.”
“Everywhere? The same way?”
“Not everywhere. Just the places where people make art for money. But all of those.”
She looked surprised. “All? You don’t have up-to-date data from all, do you? I thought there were several nations still refusing to switch over to a December 31 tax deadline.”