“Something went wrong?”
“Everything went wrong.” Werry gave a quiet snort, a sound which might have been indicative of appreciation, awe or contempt. “None of the construction outfits around here had ever tried building a giant lollipop before, so the costs kept going up and up till Morlacher was down to near his last cent. Then they developed new ways of scooping up the tar sands and cleaned out what was left of the easy stuff in a couple of years. Then mono- propellant engines came in and nobody had much use for our oil any more, so the Chinook Hotel never took in a paying customer. Not one ! Talk about a fool and his money!”
Hasson, who had little expertise with money, clicked his tongue. “Anybody can make a mistake.”
“Not that sort of mistake. It takes a special talent to make that sort of mistake.” Werry grinned at Hasson and adjusted the angle of his cap, looking scornful, tough, healthy and well adjusted, the picture of an up-and-coming career cop, a man with complete confidence in his own abilities. Hasson felt a fresh pang of envy.
“Still, it makes a good talking point,” he said.
Werry nodded. “We’ll be going right by it on the way into town. We can stop there and you can have a close look.”
“I’d like that.”
There was little else of interest in the flat white landscape and Hasson kept his gaze fixed on the remarkable structure as it steadily expanded in the frame of the car’s windshield. It was only when they approached to within a kilometre that he began to appreciate the full daring of the unconventional architecture. The central column looked impossibly slim as it soared skywards to blossom outwards into an array of radial beams supporting the circular mass of the hotel proper. It gave the appearance of having been forged from a single piece of stainless steel, although he was sure that seams would become visible upon close inspection. Sunlight glinted on the glass and plastics exterior of the hotel section, making it look remote and unattainable, an Olympian resort for a godlike breed of men.
“There isn’t much room inside that stem for a lift… elevator,” Hasson commented as the car reached the outskirts of Tripletree and began to pass widely separated high-income dwellings perched on snow-covered hummocks.
No room,” Werry said. “The plan was for two tubular scenic elevators running up beside the pylon, but things never got that far. You can see the holes for them on the underside of the hotel.”
Hasson, narrowing his eyes against the intense light from the sky, had just managed to pick out two circular apertures when his attention was caught by a moving speck in the upper air close to the hotel. “There’s a flier up there.”
“Is there?” Werry sounded uninterested. “Could be Buck Morlacher- old Harry’s son. Buck or one of his men.”
“The place isn’t in use, is it?”
“It’s in use, all right — but not the way the Morlachers had in mind,” Werry said grimly. “We’ve got angels here too, you know, and the Chinook makes a dandy roost for them. At night they come in from all over the province for their get-togethers.”
Hasson visualised the task of trying to police the huge eyrie at night and there was an icy heaving in his stomach. “Can’t you seal the place up?”
“Too much glass. They can pick a window anywhere and cut through the bars and they’re in.”
“What about CG field neutralisers? A building like that must have had them to keep off peepers.”
“The money ran out before they were installed.” Werry glanced at his wristwatch. “Look, Rob, you must be real hungry by this time, I’ll take you right on home now to eat and we can stop by for a look at the hotel some other time. How does that sound to you?”
Hasson was on the point of falling in with the suggestion out of courtesy when he realized he had no desire for food. Furthermore, making a closer inspection of the fantastic building would stave off the ordeal of having to meet the other members of Werry’s household.
“I couldn’t look at food just yet,” he said, testing the position. “A column that height must have one hell of a foundation.”
“Yeah — in the ground, where you can’t see it.”
“All the same…”
“Tourists,” Werry sighed, swinging the car to the left to pick up a tree-lined avenue which ran towards the hotel. At this proximity, for the occupants of a vehicle, the building registered on the vision as nothing but a silvery mast sprouting from behind ordinary buildings and making a dizzy ascent to unseen regions. The idea of following that slim pylon upwards for four hundred metres and finding a world of conference halls, ballrooms, cocktail bars and bedrooms seemed utterly preposterous, as much a part of a fairy tale as a giant’s castle at the top of a beanstalk.
Hasson looked about him with interest as the car reached a flat and undeveloped tract of land which would have formed spacious grounds for the hotel. Its boundary was marked by a four-strand wire fence which had been knocked down in several places, and here and there beneath the snow it was possible to pick out old scars made by earth-moving equipment. The air of desolation, of a battle that had been lost, was added to by the state of the low circular building which surrounded the base of the support column. Most of its windows had star-shaped holes and the walls were colourful samplers of aerosol graffiti. A strip of waterproof skin that had almost been detached from the roof stirred gently in the breeze.
As the car came to a halt Hasson noticed another vehicle — an expensive-looking, wine-coloured sports model — parked just inside the line of the fence. A fur-hatted man in his thirties was leaning against it with a shotgun cradled in his arms. He was wearing a one-piece flying suit, the glistening black material of which was crossed by the fluorescent orange straps of a CG harness. Hearing the other car arrive, he turned his head towards Werry and Hasson for a moment — flashing sunlight from mirrored lenses — then resumed his concentrated study of the lofty upper section of the hotel.
“That’s Buck Morlacher,” Werry said. “Guarding the family investment.”
“Really? With a gun?”
“That’s just for show, mainly. Buck likes to think he’s a frontiersman.
Hasson paused in the act of opening the car door. “He isn’t wearing panniers. Don’t tell me he flies with a shotgun just held in his hands.”
“No chance!” Werry tugged the peak of his cap down a little. “It wouldn’t matter much, anyway. There’s nobody around here for it to fall on.”
“Yes, but …” Hasson stopped speaking as he realized he was on the verge of interfering in things which were not his concern. One of the most universal and necessary legislations relating to personal flight was the one which forbade the transportation of dense objects, except in specially approved pannier bags. Even with that precaution the annual death toll from falling objects was unacceptably high, and there was no country in the world where the breaking of that particular law did not bring severe mandatory penalties. All Hasson’s instincts told him Morlacher had just flown with the gun, or was about to fly, and he felt a profound relief over the fact that the law enforcement task was not his. It was work for a fit, hard man in full possession of himself.
“Are you getting out?” Werry said, again glancing at his watch.
“Can’t see anything from in here.” Hasson pushed open the passenger door, swung his feet sideways and froze as his back locked itself into immobility with a sensation like bone grinding on dry bone. He caught his breath and began trying different grips on the doorframe as he struggled with the engineering problem of how to hoist his skeleton into an upright position. Werry got out at the other side without noticing, adjusted his cap, checked to see how his gleaming boots were faring on the snow, tugged his tunic straight at the back, and approached Morlacher with careful tread.