suspicion,” Evans said. “Including Morgan here, which is why he’s so pissed off with me.”
Greg sneaked a glance at Walshaw, meeting impenetrable urbanity. The man had not—nor ever would—sell out. Greg knew him, the type, his motivation; he’d no grand visions of his own, the perfect lieutenant. And in Event Horizon and Philip Evans he’d found an ideal liege. The old billionaire must’ve understood that too.
Walshaw nodded an extremely reluctant acknowledgement. “The nature of the circumvention does imply a degree of internal complicity, certainly knowledge of the security monitor procedures was compromised.”
“He means the buggers are on the take, that’s what,” Evans grumbled. “And I want you to root ‘em out for me, boy. You’re about the nearest thing to independent in this brain-wrecked world. Trustworthy, as far as we can satisfy ourselves. So then: four hundred New Sterling a day, and all the expenses you can spend. How does that sound?”
“Do I have to sign the contract in blood?”
“Just don’t screw me about, boy. I’ve spent close on twenty years fighting that shit President Armstrong and his leftie stormtroops, now he’s gone I’m not going to lose by default. Event Horizon is going to be my memorial. The trailblazer of England’s industrial Renaissance.”
Greg felt a twinge of admiration for the old man, he was dying yet he was still making plans, dreaming. Not many could do that. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked.
“You and I will go down to Stanstead,” Morgan Walshaw said. “Assuming I’m trustworthy.”
“Don’t be so bloody sarcastic,” Evans barked.
“Stanstead is Event Horizon’s main air-freight terminal in England,” Walshaw explained, quietly amused. “All our flights out to Listoel originate there.”
“Listoel?” Greg asked.
“That’s the anchorage for my cyber-factory ships out in the Atlantic,” Philip Evans said. “A lot of Event Horizon’s domestic gear is still built out there, and it’s where my spaceline, Dragonflight, is based. Anyone going up to Zanthus starts at Listoel.”
“Calling in the management personnel and memox-furnace operators who are currently on leave won’t be regarded as particularly unusual,” Walshaw said. “Once they arrive, you can use your gland ability to determine which of them have been turned. After that, you and a small security team will go up to Zanthus and pull whoever circumvented the security monitors, along with the guilty furnace operators working up there. We’ll fly up replacements from the batch you’ve vetted.”
“You want me to go up to Zanthus?” Greg asked. There was a sensation in his gut, as if he’d just knocked back a few brandies in rapid-fire succession.
“That’s right, boy. Why, that a problem?”
“No.” Greg grinned. “No problem at all.”
“It’s not a bloody holiday,” Evans snapped. “You get your arse up there, and you stop them, Greg. Hard and fast. I’ve got to have something concrete to show my backing consortium. They’re due for the figures in another six weeks. I’ve got to have something positive for them, they’ll understand a spoiler, God knows enough of the kombinates are trying to throttle each other rather than do an honest day’s work. What they won’t stand for is me dallying about whining instead of stomping on it.” Philip Evans subsided, resting on the powerchair’s tall back. “That just leaves this evening.”
“What’s happening this evening?” Greg asked.
“I’m throwing a small dinner party—some close friends and associates, one or two glams, plus Julia’s house guests. There’s a couple of people I want you to screen for me. I’ve invited Dr Ranasfari. He’s leading one of Event Horizon’s research teams, a genuine genius. I’ve got him working on a project I consider absolutely crucial to my plans for the company’s future. So you handle with care.” Evans stopped, looking as
Greg sneaked a glance at Walshaw, meeting impenetrable urbanity. The man had not—nor ever would—sell out. Greg knew him, the type, his motivation; he’d no grand visions of his own, the perfect lieutenant. And in Event Horizon and Philip Evans he’d found an ideal liege. The old billionaire must’ve understood that too.
Walshaw nodded an extremely reluctant acknowledgement. “The nature of the circumvention does imply a degree of internal complicity, certainly knowledge of the security monitor procedures was compromised.”
“He means the buggers are on the take, that’s what,” Evans grumbled. “And I want you to root ‘em out for me, boy. You’re about the nearest thing to independent in this brain-wrecked world. Trustworthy, as far as we can satisfy ourselves. So then: four hundred New Sterling a day, and all the expenses you can spend. How does that sound?”
“Do I have to sign the contract in blood?”
“Just don’t screw me about, boy. I’ve spent close on twenty years fighting that shit President Armstrong and his leftie stormtroops, now he’s gone I’m not going to lose by default. Event Horizon is going to be my memorial. The trailblazer of England’s industrial Renaissance.”
Greg felt a twinge of admiration for the old man, he was dying yet he was still making plans, dreaming. Not many could do that. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked.
“You and I will go down to Stanstead,” Morgan Walshaw said. “Assuming I’m trustworthy.”
“Don’t be so bloody sarcastic,” Evans barked.
“Stanstead is Event Horizon’s main air-freight terminal in England,” Walshaw explained, quietly amused. “All our flights out to Listoel originate there.”
“Listoel?” Greg asked.
“That’s the anchorage for my cyber-factory ships out in the Atlantic,” Philip Evans said. “A lot of Event Horizon’s domestic gear is still built out there, and it’s where my spaceline, Dragonflight, is based. Anyone going up to Zanthus starts at Listoel.”
“Calling in the management personnel and memox-furnace operators who are currently on leave won’t be regarded as particularly unusual,” Walshaw said. “Once they arrive, you can use your gland ability to determine which of them have been turned. After that, you and a small security team will go up to Zanthus and pull whoever circumvented the security monitors, along with the guilty furnace operators working up there. We’ll fly up replacements from the batch you’ve vetted.”
“You want me to go up to Zanthus?” Greg asked. There was a sensation in his gut, as if he’d just knocked back a few brandies in rapid-fire succession.
“That’s right, boy. Why, that a problem?”
“No.” Greg grinned. “No problem at all.”
“It’s not a bloody holiday,” Evans snapped. “You get your arse up there, and you stop them, Greg. Hard and fast. I’ve got to have something concrete to show my backing consortium. They’re due for the figures in another six weeks. I’ve got to have something positive for them, they’ll understand a spoiler, God knows enough of the kombinates are trying to throttle each other rather than do an honest day’s work. What they won’t stand for is me dallying about whining instead of stomping on it.” Philip Evans subsided, resting on the powerchair’s tall back. “That just leaves this evening.”
“What’s happening this evening?” Greg asked.
“I’m throwing a small dinner party—some close friends and associates, one or two glams, plus Julia’s house guests. There’s a couple of people I want you to screen for me. I’ve invited Dr Ranasfari. He’s leading one of Event Horizon’s research teams, a genuine genius. I’ve got him working on a project I consider absolutely crucial to my plans for the company’s future. So you handle with care.” Evans stopped, looking as
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