“You don’t think much of Captain Sheridan?” asked Gray with surprise. “Everyone at Earthforce think it’s finally the right move.”
“At least Sheridan is by the book,” conceded the Psi Cop. “An honest plodder. But he may find that Babylon 5 is not covered in the book. I’ll reserve judgment until I see how he handles the pressure.”
“You would rather have someone from the Corps running B5?”
“No,” answered Bester. “We work better behind the scenes. But it would be nice to have a friend in that post.”
Gray cleared his throat and thought that he had better turn the conversation back to the promotion. “If you get a new assistant, doesn’t he or she have to be a Psi Cop?”
“That has always been the conventional thinking—Psi Cops sticking with other Psi Cops. But it’s not official
policy. In some respects, it would be better to separate my assistant from my backup person. I can always find new cops to go after the rogues, but an able assistant is a bit harder to replace.”
After negotiating another corner, Bester continued, “My assistant has to be a member of the Corps and be willing to undergo a deep scan. That goes without saying. Otherwise, it could be anybody.”
The older telepath turned abruptly, stepped in front of Gray, and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’ve done a lot of research on you, Mr. Gray. I especially like the way you manage to come out on the winning side of every skirmish. That quality, plus your military background, is very appealing to me.”
Gray waited for the blast of a deep scan, but it never happened. Bester just looked at him, a satisfied smile on his surprisingly youthful face. It was as if he was saying he could jump his mind anytime he wanted to, but he wasn’t going to, for now. So the liaison official took the offer at face value—he was on a trial period to be Mr. Bester’s full-time assistant.
However, Gray couldn’t forget the fact that he had a job to do, and that was to promote the military’s needs in the upcoming conference of high-level telepaths. Press releases claimed the focus was on commercial applications for telepaths—and there would be representatives from the commercial firms—but everyone knew who really controlled the Corps these days. Military and corporate telepaths were fighting for crumbs of power compared to what Bester already had. They controlled their own domains, but Bester and the Psi Cops controlled them.
“The monorail is this way,” said Bester. “We have a private car.”
“My luggage,” said the young telepath.
Bester smiled. “It’s being delivered to your suite. I think you will find that the Royal Tharsis Lodge is being quite accommodating.”
Once inside the security of the sealed monorail car, Harriman Gray finally relaxed and took in the sights, such as they were on a dark Martian night. The angry red planet didn’t look so angry when it was crisscrossed with monorail tubes, prefabricated dwellings, and shielded domes. It looked like a giant gerbil habitat on a dusty parking lot.
A canyon yawned beneath the monorail tube, lit up by a science station perched on the rim. The canyon was, Gray estimated, about six kilometers deep, or about three times the depth of the Grand Canyon. The canyon faded into the distance before Gray could get a very good look. With a minimum of gravity and friction, the monorail was breezing above the surface of Mars at a speed of four hundred kilometers per hour.
Gray shifted his gaze toward the distance and their destination, the famed Tharsis Rise—a jutting plateau of volcanic ridges that was five kilometers high. It was lit up like the Pyramids, but the lights failed to convey even
one-tenth of its size. By daylight, it was a monstrous thing that seemed to go on forever, but Gray knew it was only about three thousand kilometers across.
Tharsis Rise was a bona fide tourist attraction, no one could deny that. And the Royal Tharsis was a posh resort, so posh that both the manager and the chef were Centauri. Fine, thought Gray, but once you got past a few Centauri luxuries, there wasn’t anything out here to see but a big flat rock. He would have preferred an Earth setting for the conference—with greenery and water—not hot, dusty rocks.
Bester was quiet and thoughtful as he gazed out the convex window. “You don’t see anything of interest out there, do you,” he remarked.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” answered Gray. “I’ve always found the mystique of Mars to be sadly lacking. Behind all these sleek tubes, there’s a lot of poverty, dissension, and nothing. People came here looking for something, and only a few found anything of value. Now they want to blame the planet they came from for all their problems.”
“Yes,” said Bester, staring at the vast, rose-hued horizon. “But if you find something of value here on Mars, it may be priceless.”
Even though the two men were totally alone in the private car, Gray leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “There are rumors about what’s going on at our facility in Syria Planum. If I may ask, Mr. Bester, what’s going on out there?”
The little man bristled. “That information is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Gray, straightening in his seat.
Actually, the military had a good idea what was going on at the Psi Corps training center, and Gray had been secretly briefed about it. But this was not the time or place to pursue the matter.
Bester relaxed a bit, but he still looked preoccupied. “Don’t you see,” he explained, “we can’t tell anyone about Syria Planum, because we’re the only ones who can keep a secret.”
“Yes,” admitted the young telepath, nodding his head sagely. [1] It was their burden, in a way, that all the mundanes, the nontelepaths, were doomed to become a second class under the telepaths. He didn’t really like it, but he understood it as a sort of natural evolution of society. Who could stand in their way?
“It’s late,” said Bester, “but I can arrange a tour of the hotel for you right away, if you like.”
“I’ve been here before,” answered Gray, “although I was only here for the day. It’s a beautiful facility.”
“Secure, too,” said the man in the black uniform. “The monorail is the only way in or out. Except for overland, which would be insane. During the weekend of the conference, we can make sure that only the Corps and our handful of invited guests even get off the rail.”
Gray shook his head apologetically. “I’ve been travelling around so much, I haven’t kept up. Are we still worried about the separatists?”
“Bloody idiots,” muttered Bester. “They haven’t got a chance. We’re not going to give up Mars to a bunch of illiterate miners, I can tell you that.”
Gray cleared his throat. “Of course, the military would have preferred to go to Earth for the conference. West Point or Sparta, some place like that.”
Beater smiled. “Have you ever played Martian basketball?”
Now Gray sat forward eagerly. “No, but I’ve heard about it.”
“It’s just like Earth basketball,” said Bester, “only with the low gravity, everybody gets to dunk it. They have some lovely courts here, and perhaps you and I can take some time for a match in the morning. We don’t have to sign the contracts with the hotel until tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’d like that,” answered Gray, beaming.
The young man was feeling more relaxed already. Certainly all those terrible stories about Mr. Bester were simply not true. He could see the hotel very clearly now, an art-deco monstrosity that looked nothing like a lodge, as he thought of a lodge. Only the jutting ridge of Tharsis gave the complex any perspective whatsoever.
An explosion suddenly lit up the jagged rock face, and a flaming section of the hotel spewed outward, along with tables, chairs, and other objects that were sucked into the thin atmosphere.
1
For six generations since telepathy had been scientifically proven, Psi Corps had been testing and monitoring telepaths. It had grown from a minor subdepartment into the most feared organization in the Alliance, and most telepaths considered themselves genetically superior.