Moon Flower Read online

  So the children of the new privileged West Coast dynasties were no longer graced by attending such hallowed academies as Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. Stanford still kept its prestige, of course, and by the reckoning of many headed the list of western higher learning institutions by virtue of its tradition. Gates University, in a glorious setting amid the Cascades, was a close runner, noted for the munificence of its donors, as by a slightly wider margin were Corbel, not too far north at Bellingham, and Farrell at Santa Cruz. The last two were formerly existing campuses that had been acquired, expanded, and aggrandized to immortalize names that had swept to super-wealth and fame in the extraterrestrial development boom. A titanium Heim heat shield surmounting polished marble on the entrance lawn had replaced ivied walls as the symbol of tribal roots and social cohesion for the highborn.

  ***

  One of the founders of Interworld Restructuring was a former Air Force pilot turned business speculator by the name of Conrad Metterlin. Having adjusted to the life of palatial residences in Carmel, St. Moritz, and Brisbane, custom-built Lamborghini, and a personalized Gulfstream that he used as a flying conference room or party suite depending on the occasion, he turned his attention to the business of raising his position on the social hierarchy by outdoing rivals in ostentatious display — a compulsion also coded in the genes that color the tail feathers of peacocks and the hindquarters of mandrills. Among prominent humans, this frequently expresses itself as the making of spectacular donations to worthy and highly visible causes. In Metterlin’s case, it took the form of a half-billion-(revalued)-dollar grant to include a Metterlin School of Aviation in Occidena’s new National College of Space Sciences and Engineering at Sunnyvale. This in turn was a lavish affair intended as a monument to symbolize the groundings of the new nation’s wealth and political prestige, and took the form of grandiose exhibition of surreal space-age architecture and experimental facilities dedicated to the new physics, close to the airport and aviation complex located further north along the peninsula, the military space center on the former NASA site at Ames, and the launch installations east of San Jose at Alum Rock.

  The Aviation School’s Grand Opening Day was blessed by a flawless sky of sunshine and clear blue. Chefs from San Francisco’s noted houses of haute cuisine dispensed salmon tartare with marinated cucumber, and paté de foie gras accompanied by oceans of champagne in a marquee set up to serve the lawn party beneath the name metterlin carved in granite above the main entrance, while couples in Adrian Jules suits and Gregg Ruth diamonds gyrated on a polished hardwood floor to amplified swing from a blue-blazered dance band. The orchids setting the tone of the floral backdrop had been flown in from Venezuela, and the winsome, yellow-furred primates somewhat suggestive of lemurs, known as kerries — the zoologist who discovered them had been Irish — being led around on gold chains by attendants and frolicking to the delight of the guests, were from a planet of a neighbor to Barnard’s Star. At the far end of the lawn, facing the Aviation School building, a pair of Beech twin-prop trainers stood garlanded in flowers and bunting — Metterlin’s surprise bonus gift, named Julian and Esther after his two children.

  Jerri Perlok was not there as a result of owning a line of perfumery with a Paris label that had become famous, or landing a husband from Jimmy’z club in Monaco. In fact, she didn’t have a husband, spending too much of her life in wild corners of the world that few beyond regular readers of National Geographic would be likely to know much about; in any case, even at twenty-nine she had still to experience a relationship that she could have felt enough confidence in it to want to make permanent. Despite being accused by many of being irreverent and rebellious, at heart she was still one of those old-fashioned few for whom “lifelong commitment” meant what it said.

  She sat on her own at one of the sunshaded tables on the lawn, sipping a glass of Meursault Chardonnay over an unfinished plate of smorgasbord salad, and noting the subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle signaling through body language and preening displays taking place on the dance boards and around and about of who ranked where in the status stakes, who was bidding, and who was available. As an anthropologist and evolutionary psychologist with a secondary interest in mythology, Jerri was more accustomed to observing the mating rituals of South American birds and Namibian antelopes, and more familiar with the rewards and punishments meted out by ancient Greek and Hindu deities than the emerging subspecies of Homo sapiens plutocratus — but it was all very educational and interesting.

  Her invitation had been procured by a friend called Ivor, whom she had met a little over a year previously on the Hawaiian island of Maui. She had been staying in a trailer on the lower slopes of a volcano, which she and a colleague had rented as a base for studying migratory bird habits. Ivor was in a $2,000-per-night suite at the Four Seasons hotel, functioning in his role as household manager for the Metterlins and their company of select guests enjoying a week of mid-Pacific getaway. It was a truism among household managers, or “personal assistants,” employed by the superlatively rich that they slept with the phone left on and a notepad and pen by the bed to be always prepared for sudden demands from their charges, so Jerri and Ivor had not actually seen much of each other in the event. Even principals who were not third-generation hereditary beneficiaries but who had made it to where they were through their own drive and initiative seemed to acquire a sudden learned incompetence in even the simplest of mundane tasks. It was as if having others perform them were a badge that denoted status — much like the women of Imperial China whose crippling by foot-binding advertised that they could afford servants to carry them. But Ivor’s anecdotes of life in the top tenth of a percentile had been too intriguing for an anthropologist not to be interested in. She found him personable in himself in any case. His permanently unpredictable schedule suited her own tendency to get stuck into things that interested her for days at a time, and to disappear suddenly from her apartment in the Sierra foothills across the Central Valley for spells in unusual places, and in their own unconventional way they had continued an erratic form of friendship ever since. And so here she was.

  The other reason Jerri had wanted to attend the event was that her life had recently taken on a change of direction that she’d known was a possibility but not really taken seriously. Some months before, more by way of a whimsical dare to herself than from a belief that it would lead to anything, she had applied to Interworld Restructuring for a position as an exo-anthropologist (purists in the profession were still debating whether the term was meaningful, since according to some, “anthropo-” meant strictly Terran-human) in response to the ads they had been running for scientific professionals to staff their stellar exploration missions. Maybe hearing a lot about the consortium from Ivor had had something to do with it. For a long time little had happened other than her receiving a routine acknowledgment. Then, suddenly, she was notified that an expedition was being organized at short notice to a planet called Cyrene, and if she could wrap up her Earthly affairs in time, or at least put them on hold, there was a slot for her if she wanted it, and a place reserved on a familiarization course to be conducted in San Francisco.

  Jerri had noticed that elderly people seldom argued. If others disagreed with their views, or were too rushed and hurried to listen to them in the first place, they tended to let things be. But when someone did take the trouble to listen, they could learn much that was of value. And one thing that she had noticed over and over again was that older people never regretted anything they had done. Even the marriage that hadn’t worked, the gold mine that ran dry, the business that went belly-up — all seemed to evoke the reaction “Well, I gave it a try.” What they regretted were the things they hadn’t done when the chance was there: the year or two to see the world that they had put off and put off because there was always something more urgent, and one day it was too late; the buy-in option that they turned down. Even the recollection of a come-on eye and a provocatively revealed leg from fifty years ago could produce a wi
stful “It was right there in front of me, but I was too green to see it.” Thus forewarned, Jerri had consigned herself to whatever fate might have in store, accepted the offer, and joined the class a week previously. However, she was playing hookey today after Ivor made good on his promise to get her an invitation to the Metterlin Aviation School opening day, which gave her a chance to see close-up something of the people behind the business that she would be working for. Also, it would enable her to break the news to Ivor personally of her imminent departure. Things had moved so quickly that she hadn’t found an opportune moment to mention it.

  A rising fanfare from the band made her turn her head from studying the curving geometric surfaces of metal and glass that formed the roof and upper parts of the building. Two stewards wearing the maroon jackets and tan pants of Metterlin’s personal staff were tactfully but efficiently moving the dancers away from the center of the wooden floor and clearing an avenue to the side, where a paved path led from the entrance forecourt. Approaching along it, surrounded by an entourage of officials from the college, local political figures, more maroon jackets, and a half-dozen two-fifty-pounders in tuxedos bulging at the chest and the shoulders, was Conrad Metterlin himself, with his wife, Vera, on his arm.

  He was clearly relishing every moment. As the people on the dance floor fell back into an admiring circle and others converged or fluttered mothlike from around the lawn and the marquee, he strode grandly in a sky-blue suit that shone with a silky luster, trimmed at the lapels and pockets with what looked like sheared mink, beaming and acknowledging favorites with waves from side to side. Vera maintained a regal poise, moving proudly in an iridescent gown that reflected in gold and green, and seemed more drapery than dress, the effect enhanced by jewelry flashing in the sunlight from her fingers, arms, neck, and hair. Without missing a step, the couple swept to the center of the floor as the band changed tune, where they proceeded to move smoothly into a stylish routine that brought approving murmurs and applause. The steps and twirls looked very technical and precise, but Jerri didn’t know enough about that kind of thing to be able to fully appreciate or name them. She took another bite from her plate and continued to watch, fascinated, while the King displayed himself before his court.

  “They’ve been rehearsing it for a week,” a voice murmured from behind her. She looked up as Ivor slid down into one of the vacant chairs. He had exchanged his white jacket — the household manager didn’t share the maroon of the rank-and-file attendants — for one of lightweight red satin that blended in. Even so, he was taking a risk; staff were not expected to be visible when off-duty, let alone talking with guests. But all attention was elsewhere, which was doubtless why he had chosen this moment to make an appearance. “Had a special dance coach coming in daily for the last month. You don’t wanna know what the hourly rate was.”

  Ivor was medium in height, trim and athletically built, with black hair cropped very close to his head, and deep brown eyes that Jerri had long suspected concealed a greater shrewdness than he tended to let on. He missed nothing and made decisions instantly that almost invariably turned out to be right. Also, he was a perfectionist — as anybody would practically have to be to qualify for the job. Yet despite the diligence he displayed in catering to every whim and need, from seeing that a dish of Esther’s preferred brand of ice cream was always available from the kitchen to making sure that a plane from the Metterliln’s small private air force was fueled up at all times with a pilot on call, Jerri discerned an attitude beneath it that was not in accord with the image that he was obliged to maintain. She wasn’t sure if it stemmed from envy hiding somewhere deep down, suppressed resentment, or simply a reaction to incessantly having to advertise one’s subservience. But she sometimes detected hints of rebellion stirring, which was maybe what had evoked a response in herself. His revealing of just how planned and calculated an affair the spectacle taking place on the dance floor had been was an example.

  She smiled in the easygoing way that came naturally, whatever the setting. “They give you a break? I don’t believe it. The next thing, you’ll be telling me they’re turning human.”

  “Hey, why don’t you try giving me a break? I’ve been on the go since five a.m. I spotted you here a while back — but I can only manage a few minutes. So hi again. Glad you could make it. What do you think of life in the stratosphere?”

  “Some theories have it that elaborate dancing evolved as a selection ritual. Proficiency and coordination are genetic markers for reproductive eligibility. It’s still there if you look. But most people have conditioned themselves not to see it.”

  “Don’t you ever stop working?”

  Jerri dropped her flippant tone. “I’m enjoying it. Thanks for taking the trouble, Ivor. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Ivor selected a cocktail stick with a black olive, cheese, and anchovy from a dish on the table and sampled it. “Did you come down from Pinecrest this morning?”

  “Actually, I was down here in the Bay Area already. That was something I wanted to tell you. I took a day off school.”

  “School?”

  “Off-planet Preparatory Basics. At Interworld’s place in Redwood City. Do you remember that crazy application I told you I put in — for an anthropology slot?...”

  Ivor stared at her for what must have been a couple of seconds at most. She could almost sense the bit-patterns streaming through neural registers. “You got it?”

  She nodded. He seemed genuinely pleased for her, even though it obviously meant she would be leaving.

  “How soon?” he inquired.

  “Four days.”

  “Four days? Jeez! When you make your mind up to do something, you don’t hang around.”

  “It’s all happened so quickly. That was why I didn’t mention it before — my feet haven’t touched the ground. The runaround to get Nim approved was unbelievable.”

  “Nim’s going too?”

  “Well, of course!” Nimrod was Jerri’s dog. She flashed Ivor a reproachful look that said he ought to know better. “So I’m really glad that this came up when it did, because it gives me a chance to tell you face-to-face. The ship’s up there in Earth orbit already. It’s called the Tacoma. We’ll be shuttling up from Alum Rock....”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dr. Ellis, the department head at Berkeley, confided to Shearer that it was probably as well Shearer would be departing. Since the adtenna project had failed to yield worthwhile results, funding was unlikely to be renewed when the present contract expired. He already had a termination agreement and various release documents ready to be signed. Probably, Shearer reflected cynically as he scrawled his name on the dotted lines, a convenient way of getting rid of a surplus body and cutting the departmental payroll without incurring severance obligations.

  Shearer had expected that if anything came of the Cyrene application, he would have had a lot more time to prepare for it than this. When he asked about Rob and Merritt, Ellis replied that arrangements would be made to absorb them elsewhere in the university. That was something to be grateful for anyway, Shearer reflected. Consequently, he was able to feel comfortable in himself and to look to the future with curious but guarded optimism when he showed up the next morning to begin the briefing sessions that had been scheduled across the Bay in Redwood City.

  Interworld Restructuring’s company literature referred to its holdings on the Bay waterfront unassumingly as “offices.” The reality was a massive square-built structure the size of a city block, with angled walls and a flat airpad-roof, rendered in glass and various hues of plastic and ceramics. With just about all of the peninsula north from San Jose being urbanized, the complex stood on reclaimed land that had been worth a billion before anything was built on it, and extended out over the water above a system of piers inside a floating security fence of linked buoys patrolled by armed guards in speedboats. The north-facing wall of the massif was windowless and carried a plot of the nearer regions of the galaxy, illuminated at night, s
howing the locations of the stars where an Interworlds presence had been established. A morphing banner above cycled through the words peace-prosperity-progress.