![Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]](/res/aob/book1.jpg)
his face staring out at the world with all the self-confidence of a self-made millionaire. Vaughan read a potted biography of the great man beside the photograph: born in New York, he’d risen from obscurity to the status of a major tycoon in his twenties, running a couple of Luna-Mars shipping Lines before starting up in the colony business with his business partner, Reb Lassiter. Scheering had assumed total control of, the company after Lassiter’s death five years ago.
To the left of the elevator was an exhibition area given over to educating the visitor on the positive aspects of Mallory’s human colonisation.
Vaughan browsed the softscreens and holo-cubes, which gave condensed histories of the planet’s discovery, exploration, and colonisation. Documentary-footage was accompanied by a saccharine female voice-over, sotto voce corporate hard sell.
It was, he had to admit, a stunningly beautiful world.
Take Switzerland, expand it, add a North African climate and gravity a little less than Earth’s, and the result was the exotic colony world of Mallory. The fact that the grass and most growing things were a shade of blue only added to the planet’s allure.
There was very little on Mallory’s native fauna, and nothing about Scheering-Lassiter’s ecological policy. Not that he’d expected much in that department.
He read everything there was to read in the exhibit, listened to all the anodyne commentaries, and came away knowing he’d been fed the party line.
It was time to find someone who might be able to answer a question or two.
He bypassed the open-plan office area—the desks occupied by glorified secretaries—and made for an enclosed office at the far end of the chamber.
The door was marked: Gita Singh, Co-Director.
He knocked and opened the door without awaiting a reply.
A woman in her thirties, power-dressed in a severe black suit more like a uniform, looked up from a softscreen in surprise. “Can I help you?”
He’d decided to be direct, rather than try to catch her out with dissimulation. “I hope so. I’m Jeff Vaughan and I’m investigating the murder of one of your colleagues.”
Singh was suspicious. “Have you cleared this with security?”
He flashed his identity-pass. “How do you think I got this far?” he smiled, disarmingly. “I know you won’t be able to tell me anything linked directly to the case itself, but I’d appreciate some background information about the planet.”
Singh’s gaze was professionally neutral. “Mr Vaughan, I really am very busy this morning. By the elevator you will find an informative display, which should tell you all you need to know.”
He shook his head, his smile sardonic now. “I think not. I’ve taken the tour, and in fact I think it told me nothing about what I really want to know about Mallory.”
She held his gaze. “And what might that be?”
Vaughan was placatory. He spread his hands. “Look, I’m on your side. Someone sliced one of your colleagues to bits and I want to solve the case. I’m sure you appreciate my concern?”
“Of course, Mr Vaughan. But I cannot see how anything I might tell you about Mallory could have any bearing—”
“Perhaps I should be the judge of that, Ms Singh? To begin with, I’d like some information about Scheering-Lassiter’s ecological policy regarding Mallory, its relations with Eco-Col, and the management of indigenous fauna.”
Discreetly, but not so discreetly that Vaughan missed it, Singh slipped a hand beneath the desk and applied pressure.
The audience was over.
Vaughan sighed. “Well, I can see that I’m wasting my time here, Ms Singh. It’s been pleasant chatting.”
She watched him with an expression that indicated the sentiment was not mutual.
He rose and left the room, quickly, before security arrived and quizzed him about the pass-card. He took the elevator to the
To the left of the elevator was an exhibition area given over to educating the visitor on the positive aspects of Mallory’s human colonisation.
Vaughan browsed the softscreens and holo-cubes, which gave condensed histories of the planet’s discovery, exploration, and colonisation. Documentary-footage was accompanied by a saccharine female voice-over, sotto voce corporate hard sell.
It was, he had to admit, a stunningly beautiful world.
Take Switzerland, expand it, add a North African climate and gravity a little less than Earth’s, and the result was the exotic colony world of Mallory. The fact that the grass and most growing things were a shade of blue only added to the planet’s allure.
There was very little on Mallory’s native fauna, and nothing about Scheering-Lassiter’s ecological policy. Not that he’d expected much in that department.
He read everything there was to read in the exhibit, listened to all the anodyne commentaries, and came away knowing he’d been fed the party line.
It was time to find someone who might be able to answer a question or two.
He bypassed the open-plan office area—the desks occupied by glorified secretaries—and made for an enclosed office at the far end of the chamber.
The door was marked: Gita Singh, Co-Director.
He knocked and opened the door without awaiting a reply.
A woman in her thirties, power-dressed in a severe black suit more like a uniform, looked up from a softscreen in surprise. “Can I help you?”
He’d decided to be direct, rather than try to catch her out with dissimulation. “I hope so. I’m Jeff Vaughan and I’m investigating the murder of one of your colleagues.”
Singh was suspicious. “Have you cleared this with security?”
He flashed his identity-pass. “How do you think I got this far?” he smiled, disarmingly. “I know you won’t be able to tell me anything linked directly to the case itself, but I’d appreciate some background information about the planet.”
Singh’s gaze was professionally neutral. “Mr Vaughan, I really am very busy this morning. By the elevator you will find an informative display, which should tell you all you need to know.”
He shook his head, his smile sardonic now. “I think not. I’ve taken the tour, and in fact I think it told me nothing about what I really want to know about Mallory.”
She held his gaze. “And what might that be?”
Vaughan was placatory. He spread his hands. “Look, I’m on your side. Someone sliced one of your colleagues to bits and I want to solve the case. I’m sure you appreciate my concern?”
“Of course, Mr Vaughan. But I cannot see how anything I might tell you about Mallory could have any bearing—”
“Perhaps I should be the judge of that, Ms Singh? To begin with, I’d like some information about Scheering-Lassiter’s ecological policy regarding Mallory, its relations with Eco-Col, and the management of indigenous fauna.”
Discreetly, but not so discreetly that Vaughan missed it, Singh slipped a hand beneath the desk and applied pressure.
The audience was over.
Vaughan sighed. “Well, I can see that I’m wasting my time here, Ms Singh. It’s been pleasant chatting.”
She watched him with an expression that indicated the sentiment was not mutual.
He rose and left the room, quickly, before security arrived and quizzed him about the pass-card. He took the elevator to the
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