The Lagrangists. Mack Reynolds

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      “It is,” Rex told her wryly. “And as I said, it’s also one of the cheapest. I’m down on the service levels, along with the ultra-market, the automated restaurant kitchens and the garages and theatres.”

      “I see,” Susie said. “Well, here we are.”

      They had come up upon a conservative but efficient hover-car, a two-seater. Rex eyed it in surprise while the physicist popped into the driver’s position behind the manual controls. As a city dweller, Rex Bader seldom saw a privately owned car. Automated hover-cabs, yes, but not private cars.

      She activated the small vehicle, dropped the lift lever and trod on the accelerator. The electro-steamer smoothed into motion under her manual control.

      “We’ll head for the offices,” Susie told him. “At this time of the day, that’s where the professor would be.”

      Rex said, in the way of idle conversation, “I thought it was against the rules to bring a privately owned vehicle onto city streets.”

      They were proceeding through the acres of parks and playgrounds, gardens and small lakes surrounding the high-rise which housed his tiny apartment.

      “Against the rules, Rex, but one is able to pull a few wires when one commands the professor’s prestige. Anything to speed up the efficiency of his activities.” There was prim satisfaction in her tone.

      “By the way,” he said, as they pulled up to the entry of the expressway and she skillfully came to a halt on a dispatcher.

      She threw a switch, deactivating the manual controls, then reached to the dashboard and dialed what was obviously their destination before relaxing back into her seat. The auto-controls of the underground expressway took over and within moments they were proceeding at full cruise speed.

      “Yes?” she said.

      “Just what is the position that Professor George Casey holds down on the Lagrange Five Project?”

      “Why, none,” she told him, evidently surprised that he should ask.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Colonel Ilya Simonov, recently arrived from Greater Washington by Supersonic, had had his Zil auto-cab drop him at the old baroque palace on Kaluzhskaya street. Somewhat to his surprise, there was no sign of a guard at the somber entry. On second thought, it called for more than surprise. He made a mental note to mention the fact to his superior in the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya upon his next interview with Minister Kliment Blagonravov. The days of the terrorism of the 1960s and the 1970s were over; indeed, they had rarely applied to the Soviet Complex, but Ilya Simonov was chilled by the thought of what several well-armed, dedicated assassins could accomplish against Soviet science, given fifteen minutes in this building.

      The colonel, though now dressed in mufti, was obviously militarily trained. He was young for his rank and handsome in the Slavic tradition, though there was a touch of slant in his eyes that betrayed his mother’s Cossack ancestry. The eyes were also wolfish, cold and, perhaps, somewhat cruel. It was not for nothing that in international espionage circles he was reputed to have killed more men—and women—than the plague. In his lapel was the tiny red emblem that revealed that the colonel carried the Soviet Hero’s Combat Award, the only one of his various decorations that he ever bothered to wear, in a nation more than normally prone to wear medals and decorations. He could well be scornful of all others. The Hero’s Award was earned only in combat and in two cases out of three, posthumously. The only equivalents had been the Victoria Cross of Great Britain and the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaf Cluster, Hitlerian Germany’s highest award for bravery in the field. The American Medal of Honor is a distant second and could even be awarded to some general far behind the lines of battle.

      Ilya Simonov had no idea what this assignment would turn out to be and he suspected that his superior, who had sent him here to the Academy of Sciences center, didn’t either. Next to the Presidium of the CPSU and the Council of Ministers, the Academy was the most prestigious body in the Soviet Complex, not answerable even to Simonov’s police organization.

      He entered the building and, for a moment, the interior set him back. The marble halls still contained statuary, uncomfortable Victorian period furniture, paintings and other relics of the days when the palace had been the private home of some long forgotten aristocrat. It would seem that no one had even gotten around to removing them.

      There were several reception desks in the entrada, none of them automated, somewhat to his surprise. He marched up to the nearest and rapped out, “Colonel Simonov. On appointment to see Comrade Anatole Mendeleev.”

      “Academician Mendeleev,” the girl reproved him gently.

      The colonel studied her and made a mental note. It would seem, in the Academy, that scientific rank and title were considered more important than Party position. He wondered at the desirability of that and decided to mention it to Kliment Blagonravov.

      The girl had evidently pressed some button since a guide materialized at Simonov’s elbow.

      The guide led the way.

      Mendeleev was cordial enough, considering his lofty position as one of the few scientists to achieve this elevated rank. He was somewhat vague, a slow speaking man, somewhere in his mid-sixties and beginning to show his years; his remaining hair was completely white and he had a flabby double chin.

      He shook hands, dismissed the guide, gestured in the direction of a chair, took his own place behind his desk and stared at the colonel.

      The academician said finally, “Colonel Simonov, in my time I have had little contact with the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya.”

      There was no answer to that. In his time the colonel had little contact with scientists. Ilya Simonov crossed his legs and held his peace.

      The academician said, “It is with deep regret that I come into contact with it now.”

      There was no answer to that, either.

      Mendeleev sighed deeply and evidently came to the point. “Comrade Colonel,” he said. “What do you know about Lagrange Four?”

      Ilya Simonov frowned. He said hesitantly, “Why, I suppose what the ordinary layman knows. It’s part of the Yankee space program. They’re mounting a very extensive operation to build a very large space station about half way between the Earth and moon. It’s out of my field, of course, but even moderately following the news, one is continually hearing of it, especially since I’m based in Greater Washington.”

      The academician sighed again and said, “Space station isn’t exactly the term. It is not to be compared with our Salyut space station project. When their Island One, as they call it, is completed, it is expected to contain some 10,000 inhabitants. And that is only their first. Island One will build Island Two, which will be larger, and Island Two will construct Island Three. Island Four is planned to be sixteen miles long and about four miles in diameter, and could house a few millions in a situation somewhat similar to, say, Bermuda. And that is just the beginning! From there they expect to go on to the asteroids where, it would seem, there would no longer be any need for the importation of any raw materials from Earth or the Moon. The asteroids contain them all, practically, including hydrocarbons.”

      The colonel was staring at him. He said, “I didn’t know the Lagrange Five Project was of that magnitude. Our American friends seem to have gone overboard in their dreaming this time.”

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