The room beyond was dimly lit, but what were clearly power lines stuck out of one wall near the ceiling.
"Nobody ever wondered about those?"
"Buildings like this go through so many changes and owners," Dobrescu said, putting on the belt, "that stuff gets rewired all the time. As long as it's not currently hot, nobody cares what it used to power."
He touched a stud on the belt and lifted up to the wiring, where he cautiously applied a heavy-gauge voltage meter. There were smaller wires for controls beside the power cables, and he hooked a box to them and took a reading.
"Yeah, there's something back there," he said. "Toss me the power line."
He caught the coil of heavy-duty cable on the second toss, and wired it into the power leads. Then he hooked up the control wires and lowered himself back down to the ground.
"Now to see if we're on a fool's errand," he muttered, and keyed a sequence into the control box.
There was a heavy grinding noise. The walls of the warehouse were set into the side of the hill and made of large, precast slabs of plascrete, with thin lines separating them for expansion and contraction. Now the center slab began to move backward, apparently into the solid hill. It cleared the slabs on either side, then began to slide sideways, revealing a tunnel into the hill. It moved surprisingly smoothly... until it abruptly stopped part way with a metallic twang.
"We need a lamp," Dobrescu said.
Macek went back out to the aircar for a hand light, and, with its aid, they found the chunk of fallen plascrete that blocked the door's track, levered it out of the way, and got the door fully open and operating. The air in the tunnel had the musty smell of long disuse, and they both put on air masks before they followed it into the hill.
The walls were concrete—real, old-fashioned concrete—dripping with water and cracked and pitted with extreme age. The door that sealed the far end of the tunnel was made of heavy steel, with a locking bar. Both had been covered in protective sealant, and when they got the sealant off, the portal opened at a touch.
The room beyond was large, and, unlike the approach tunnel, its air was bone-dry. More corridors stretched into the distance, and there was a small fusion generator on the floor of the main room. It was a very old model, also sealed against the elements. Dobrescu and Macek cut the sealant away and, after studying the instructions, got it into operation.
Lights came on in the room. Fans began to move. In the distance, a gurgling of pumps started up.
"Looks like we're in business," Dobrescu said.
"What's the name of this place?"
"It used to be called Greenbriar."
"This one's not nearly as pretty as the last one," Macek said.
"Get what you're given," Dobrescu replied as they climbed out of the aircar. He'd been keeping a careful eye on a group of young men lounging on the corner. When the real estate agent landed and got out, they straightened up and one of them whistled.
The young woman—this one a short woman in her twenties, with faintly African features—ignored the whistle and strode over to the two waiting "businessmen."
"Mr. Ritchie?" she asked, looking at both of them.
"Me," Dobrescu said.
"Pleased to meet you," she said, shaking his hand, then gestured at the building. "There it is."
This area had once been a small town, before it was absorbed by the burgeoning Imperial City megalopolis. The town, for historical reasons, had managed to maintain its "traditional" buildings, however. This specific building had predated even the ancient United States... which had predated the Empire by over a thousand years. The home of an early politician of the unified states, it had a pleasant view of the small river that ran through the town. It had been maintained, literally, for millennia.
Yet shifting trade, again, had finally ruined it. The plaster walls were cracked and peeling, the roof sunken in. Windows had been broken out. The massive oaks which had once shaded the beautiful house of an early president were long gone, victims of the narrow band of sunlight available in a town surrounded by skyscrapers. The small town was now a drug and crime haven.
There were, however, signs of improvement. The pressure of real estate values this near the center of Imperial City had sent the outriders of a "gentrification" wave washing gently through it. Many of the ancient buildings were cloaked in scaffolding, and there were coffee shops and small grocers scattered along the narrow streets. The quaint old houses of what had once been Fredericksburg, Virginia, had become a haven for the Bohemians who survived in the urban jungle.
And they were about to get a new restaurant.
Dobrescu poked through the building, avoiding holes in the wood floors and shaking his head at the plaster fallen from the ceiling.
"This is going to take one helluva lot of renovation," he said, again shaking his head.
"I have some other buildings I can show you," the real estate agent offered.
"None of them meet the specifications," Dobrescu said. "This is the only one in the area that will do. We'll just have to get it fixed up. Fast." He consulted his toot and frowned. "In... fourteen days."
"That's going to be... tough," the young woman said.
"That's why the boss sent me." Dobrescu sighed.
Roger rolled over carefully, trying not to disturb Despreaux, and pressed the acceptance key on the flashing intercom.
"Mr. Chung," Beach said. "We've exited tunnel-space in the Sol System, and we're currently on course for the Mars Three checkpoint. We've gotten an updated download, including messages for you from your advance party on Old Earth."
"Great," Roger said quietly, keeping his voice down. "How long to orbit?"
"About thirteen hours, with the routing they gave us," Beach replied with a frown. "We're in a third-tier parking orbit, not far from L-3 position. Best I could get."
"That doesn't matter," Roger lied, thinking about how long that meant with Patty on a shuttle. "I'll go check the messages now."
"Yes, Sir," Beach said, and cut the connection.
"We're there?" Despreaux asked, rolling over.
"In the system," Roger replied. "Ten hours to parking orbit. I'm going to go see what Ritchie and..." He trailed off.
"Peterka," Despreaux prompted.
"Peterka have to say." He got to his feet and slipped on a robe.
"Well, I'm going back to sleep," Despreaux said, rolling back over. "I have to be insane to marry an insomniac."
"But a very cute insomniac," Roger said as he turned on his console.
"And getting better in bed," Despreaux said sleepily.
Roger looked at the messages and nodded in satisfaction.
"We got both buildings," he said.
"Mm..."
"Good prices, too."
"Mmmm..."
"The warehouse looks like it's in pretty good shape."
"Mmmmmmm!"
"The restaurant needs a lot of work, but he thinks it can be ready in time."
"MMMMMMMMM!"
"Sorry. Are you trying to sleep?"
"Yes!"
Roger smiled and looked at the rest of the messages in silence. There were codes embedded in them, and he nodded in satisfaction as he scanned them. Things were going well. If anything, too well. But it was early in the game.
He checked out some other information sources, including a list of personal ads on sites dedicated to the male-friendly segment of society. His eyes lit at one, but then he read the signature and mail address and shook his head. Right message, wrong person.
He pulled out the schematic of the Palace again and frowned. All the surviving Marines, Eleanora, and his own memories had contributed to it, but he'd never realized how little of the Palace he actually knew. And the Marines, apparently deliberately, had never been shown certain areas. He knew of at least three semisecret passages in the warren of buildings, the Marines knew a couple of others, and he suspected that it was laced with them.