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probably even asked as questions, but I thought you should know."
"We appreciate your concern, and your candor. That is an issue in which the
Prince has expressed some interest. I would appreciate it, Admiral, if you
would contact Ryrce directly in the future, should you have further
inspirations or any factual support for your theory."
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The admiral wanted to wipe his steaming forehead, but did not. Instead he
waited.
The Emperor stood.
"We are not displeased. We also appreciate your sense of tact. Therefore, your
effrontery will not be punished, and we urge you to continue your direction of
the Service with the same sense of dedication you have so far shown."
With an obvious effort, the elderly ruler turned and departed, his feet
clicking as he made his way across the tiles toward the exit portal.
The admiral let his breath out slowly, as evenly as he could.
LIV
GERSWIN LEANED FORWARD on the control couch and checked the results displayed
on the data screen again. According to every conceivable test, the plant
produced a thread stronger and finer than any synthetic, needed no special
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fertilizers, and thrived in a wide range of climate and soil conditions.
The field tests, limited as they were, supported Professor Fyrio's research
and contentions, as did the limited evaluations Gerswin had commissioned from
the University at New
Avalon.
Gerswin shook his head. The problem wasn't the biology, nor the data, but that
none of the commercial enterprises or agricultural interests contacted quietly
had shown any interest in what was principally an agricultural product
suitable only for nonfoodstuff uses.
The damned plant would make someone a fortune, and no one was interested
because there was
"no real money" in agriculture.
The than in black stared at the data screen of the small ship, ignoring the
larger pilot displays above and before hint.
"What else can you do?"
"Inquiry imprecise. Please reformulate," answered the AI in its clinically
impersonal but feminine tones.
Gerswin ignored the standard request, then tapped the keyboard, his fingers
flying across the arrayed studs.
"Set for blind torp. Route beta three. Code Delta with databloc trailer. Lyr
D'Meryon."
"Blind torp in position to receive. Ready to bloc feed.
The pilot squared his shoulders and faced the scanner.
"Lyr. Need some basic information. Details are, in the databloc attached. Need
recommended corporate type business structure with voting control removed from
the system where the business operates. Also need a list of' systems
permitting absentee ownership. Suspect it would include systems like Byzantia,
El Lido, and Dorlian. Send a copy of the systems you come up with to
Infonet, my code, and request full background on them. I'll pick up the final
from my drop there."
He paused, pursing his lips.
"Doesn't make much sense, I know, but looks like we need demonstration
ventures to prove profitability of biological products and solutions. The:
commercial types accept biotech for medicine and raw materials, but not for
finished or semifinished products.
"Enough said for now."
He tapped the closure, and hoped that she would read between the words.
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With a sigh, he called up the information in the Fyrio files and began to
reformat what he needed for the compressed databloc to accompany his
transmission.
When he was finished, he coded it to the torp message.
"Torp pack complete. Send at max two."
"Readying torp for max two path."
Nodding, Gerswin indexed the research files for the information on protein.
Somewhere, somewhere, he recalled a project on replicating animal protein
structure with a common plant, a weed nearly, that had used Amardian/T-type
genetic fusion.
"Tore released on max two path."
"Amardian genetics," he tapped into the keyboard.
Three cross-references appeared on screen five, the data screen.
"In-system contact. Two eight five at one point five, plus three radians. CPA
two hundred kays, plus or minus twenty."
"Interrogative classification."
"Tentative identification in-system ore tug, class three. Low power orbit
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recovery."
"Stet. File and report deviations."
He returned his attention to the screen, and to the background on Amardian
genetics research.
Wondering whether he could have been more efficient with a fixed headquarters,
Gerswin paused, then shook his head. He'd have long since drowned in the
reports, and who else could have tracked down what was important in the long
run? This way, he could make decisions, request information, and move enough
to avoid terminal boredom while, he hoped, the research grants began to
generate the biological techniques needed so desperately by Old Earth.
In the interim, poor Lyr drowned in the reports.
Once he finished tracking down what he needed on the meat substitute
possibility, it would be time to head for Aswan to reenergize and to take a
break before returning to the tedious tracing and verifying that seemed to
follow inevitably from each possible lead that his own research in the grant
files showed up. For each hundred approved grants, perhaps ten held some
promise, and of those with promise, one or two showed either commercial or
technical possibilities.
On the other hand, after nearly forty years since he had insisted on
innovative grants, the research product totals had become impressive. The
foundation already had an impressive and growing income from some of those
developments, nothing that yet matched the income generated by
Lyr's skillful manipulations of income and assets, but he could see when that
had to come, perhaps sooner than Lyr expected.
His own thread venture, if it worked out, could conceivably add a great deal,
since the potential was enormous, and since the license fees belonged to the
foundation.
"Energy reserves below ten stans."
He shook his head again. Might as well head for Aswan before finishing up.
While the times were currently peaceful, he hated to let the ship drop into a
low energy state, or to purchase power commercially. The fewer the records
about unknown yachts or the Caroljoy that showed for
Imperial Intelligence or other interested parties to pick up, the better. And
the cheaper as well.
"Plot course line for jump points," he ordered as he returned the genetics
research to the files and centered himself in the control couch.
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LV
JORGE FUGAZEY LIKED fax screens, a fact clear from the massive console and the
more than thirty screens that angled gently upward around him from his control
position.
His fingers played the control studs in lightning flashes, almost as quickly
as his deep-
set black eyes flickered from display to display.
He did not look up as the younger man approached.
"Father . . . ," ventured the thinner man, who also had angular features and
dark eyes.
The son did not vibrate with the focused intensity of his sire, though most
men and women would have paled beside either.
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