The Place to Stand

871 Pages·2011·3.33 MB·English

by  Robert Lukens

The Place to Stand
By
Robert Lukens
What Archimedes said of the mechanical powers may be
applied to reason and liberty: "Had we," he said,” a place
to stand upon, we might raise the world." -- Thomas Paine
.

Copyright 1997
Copyright 2004
By Robert Lukens
Table of Contents
THE PLACE TO STAND
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
TUESDAY - DAY 1 - THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER 2
TUESDAY - DAY 1 - THE UPSHOT
CHAPTER 3
WEDNESDAY - DAY 2
CHAPTER 4
THURSDAY - DAY 3
CHAPTER 5
FRIDAY MORNING - DAY 4
SATURDAY - DAY 5
CHAPTER 6
MONDAY - DAY 7
TUESDAY - DAY 8
CHAPTER 7
WEDNESDAY - DAY 9
THURSDAY - DAY 10
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
FRIDAY - DAY 11
CHAPTER 10
MONDAY - DAY 14
WEDNESDAY - DAY 16
CHAPTER 11
FRIDAY - DAY 18
CHAPTER 12
WEEKEND IN THE KEYS - DAYS 19 & 20
SUNDAY EVENING - DAY 20
CHAPTER 13
MONDAY - DAY 21
TUESDAY - DAY 22
WEDNESDAY - DAY 23
CHAPTER 14
THURSDAY - DAY 24
CHAPTER 15
FRIDAY - DAY 25
SATURDAY - DAY 26
CHAPTER 16
MONDAY - DAY 28
THURSDAY - DAY 31
FRIDAY - DAY 32
SATURDAY - DAY 33
CHAPTER 17
MONDAY - DAY 35
TUESDAY - DAY 36
WEDNESDAY - DAY 37
CHAPTER 18
THURSDAY - DAY 38
SATURDAY - DAY 40
SUNDAY - DAY 41
CHAPTER 19
MONDAY - DAY 42
TRIP TO SPAIN - TUESDAY - DAY 43
WEDNESDAY - DAY 44
THURSDAY - DAY 45
FRIDAY - DAY 46
CHAPTER 21
SATURDAY - DAY 47
MONDAY - DAY 49
FRIDAY - DAY 53
TUESDAY - DAY 57
THURSDAY - DAY 59
CHAPTER 22
MONDAY - DAY 63
FRIDAY - DAY 116
CHAPTER 23
PART TWO
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CLINTON RANDOLPH
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
EARLY IN SOVERINDI'S THIRD YEAR.
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
PART THREE
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
Part 1
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday - Day 1 – The Beginning

Clinton Randolph slowly opened his eyes. As his mind processed the unfamiliarity of the
airplane's first class cabin, the drone of the engines, and the other passengers performing routine,
early morning activities in the dust-filled shafts of early light, that mixture of anticipation and
anxiety that had been with him since this whole affair began swept into his consciousness,
instantly dispersing any inclination to linger in the tranquility of drowsiness.
Pulling himself erect and snapping the back of his seat upright, he yawned and shook his
head, as if to rid himself of the remnants of sleep. A glance at his watch told him it was 1:10,
back in Florida. Mechanically, he set his watch forward six hours to 7:10, Spanish time. They
must be over Spain now, he thought, if they were going to land in twenty-two minutes. With only
two or three hours of poor quality, intermittent sleep, he could only hope that he wouldn't have to
make any critical decisions today. But he could hardly speculate on that, could he? After all, he
hadn't the slightest idea why he was going to Spain, or what to expect when he got there.
Yesterday morning, an old friend, Norman Jefferson, had called from Marbella, the
classic 'in' place on Spain's Sun Coast. With characteristic bluntness, Jefferson had said, "Clint,
we must talk, and not on the phone. You'll have to come to Spain."
"You can't be serious, Norman," Randolph had said, thinking his friend was joking.
When Jefferson quickly made it clear that he was quite serious, Randolph replied, "Norman, this
is a really bad time. I have several important things going on, and I simply can't afford to go to
Spain-not right now."
"Believe me, Clint, you can't afford not to. You'll have to take my word for it," had been
Jefferson's terse and emphatic response, delivered in a way that implied, "For God's sake, don't
question it. Just do it."
There had been a long silence while Randolph puzzled over why Jefferson might say
such a thing. There were extremely few people whose word Randolph would remotely consider
taking on such a matter. But Norman Jefferson was definitely one of those few people. So here
he was, headed for Spain, filled with more apprehensive curiosity than he felt comfortable with,
lured to a meeting concerning he knew not what.
"Would you like some coffee, sir?" The steward's voice and the tantalizing aroma of
fresh, hot coffee interrupted his thoughts.
"Definitely," said Randolph. "But I'll have some in a few minutes, when I return." The
worst part of waking up, he thought, was the atrocious taste in your mouth.
Pulling his briefcase from beneath the seat, he removed a small toiletry kit and an electric
razor. It felt good to stand up and stretch his legs. As he made his way down the aisle, he felt the
airplane tilt beneath his feet. The descent to Madrid had begun.
When he returned to his seat a few minutes later, his hair was neatly combed; his face
was clean-shaven; his mouth was filled with a fresh, spearmint taste; his eyes were no longer
bloodshot; and, in the air about him, lingered the subtle fragrance of Georgio Armani's after-
shave cream.
He caught the steward's eye. "Could I have that coffee now, please?"
"I'm so sorry, sir. I'm afraid it's too late. We'll be landing in a few minutes," said the
steward, with a sympathetic expression.
Less than two hours after landing in Madrid, his second flight, Iberia's Flight 13 to
Málaga, crossed the mountain range along Spain's southern coast, swung out over the
Mediterranean, and back toward the airport on the coast. The airplane's wheels met the runway
with little more bounce than a sparrow landing. Moments later, the airplane taxied to the
terminal.
Inside the terminal, a cluster of people awaited the arriving passengers. In the front of this
cluster, a short, middle-aged man, wearing a well-tailored, black uniform with bright, brass
buttons on the jacket, stood stiffly "at attention," watching the passengers file past him. In one
hand, he held a chauffeur's cap; in the other, a placard that read, "Mr. Randolph." To every man,
even remotely matching the description he had been given-tall, dark-haired, about forty, and
American-he raised the placard and called out, "Mister Randolph." As a pair of nuns walked by,
the man nodded and bowed almost imperceptibly. Since nuns now looked almost like everyone
else, he treated them almost like everyone else. He waved his sign at the man following behind
the nuns, although he didn't think he was American.
"Mister Randolph?"
"Yes, I'm Randolph," was the response.
Already looking further down the stream of passengers, the man in uniform, thrown off
guard for an instant, hesitated, then quickly regained his composure.
"Welcome to Spain, Mister Randolph," he said, with that blend of Spanish and British
accents not uncommon in Spain, where British instructors teach most of the English classes.
Randolph handed over his suitcase, but when the man in uniform reached for his
briefcase, he said, "I'll keep the briefcase." Today, there was nothing of importance in the
briefcase, but keeping it in his possession was automatic.
"As you wish, sir. Your car is outside. If you will, follow me, please."
A large, silver Mercedes was parked at the curb outside the terminal's entrance. With a
practiced flourish, the man in the black uniform opened the rear door and held it for Randolph.
As the Mercedes pulled out into traffic, Randolph leaned forward and said, "Driver, you
know my name, but you didn't tell me yours."
"Sorry, Mister Randolph. My name is Alberto. I work for Mister Tashogi."
"Adman Tashogi?" asked Randolph.
"That is correct, sir."
This was surprising and interesting, thought Randolph, but it told him nothing about why
he was there. Adman Tashogi was one of the richest men in the world, and it was not remarkable
that he and Norman Jefferson would know each other. No use worrying about it. Everything will
be cleared up soon enough. He sat back, vowing to relax and enjoy the trip, hopefully without
wondering what was so important and so secret that he had to travel five thousand miles to hear
it.
Once they left the terminal area, he ran down the heavily tinted window, to have a clear
view of the mountains and the countryside. Now, he was truly back in Spain. In Madrid, he had
been in Spain, technically; but he had seen nothing but the airport, and the airport was hardly
emblematic of the nation. Here in the open, with the mountains looming only a few miles away
and the foothills rising just beyond the airport, he could feel the essence of Spain. The cloudless
Spanish sky, seen through crisp, dry air, was a profound blue. Randolph recalled a reference to
that intensely blue sky, in an ardent poem by Alfonso, the Wise, a sixteenth-century Spanish
monarch. But the nagging enigma of his reason for being in Spain cut his reverie short. He raised
the window and leaned back, again intent on relaxing.
***

With restrained irritation, Moishe Perlman shut the door to his office. He took out his
keys and locked it. Every time he looked at his door, it revived his bitterness over the fact that
neither his name nor his title appeared on the door. He firmly believed that one of the essential
trappings of authority was one's name on one's office door, with a prominence related to one's
position. Instead, he was supposed to be content with a modest, readily replaceable, plastic strip
on the wall beside the door, identifying him as Moishe Perlman, Minister of Defense.
Today his reaction to the door merely intensified an anger that had been building for
hours. At nine-twenty that morning, he had been leaving his office for a nine-thirty appointment
with the Prime Minister, when his secretary informed him that the meeting had been delayed and
that he was to stand by and wait to be called. It was almost noon, and he had just now been
summoned to the Prime Minister's office. Having canceled a luncheon meeting, he would
probably end up with no lunch. But he would bet a month's pay that the Prime Minister would
enjoy a long, leisurely lunch.
He marched toward the Prime Minister's office. The sound of his leather heels striking
the marble floor echoed up and down the hall. He thought he had discovered why the military
was so enamored with marching: it stimulated belligerence in the marcher.
The Prime Minister's secretary was coming out of the Prime Minister's office, and, seeing
Perlman approaching, held the door for him. He strode into the office, his gait losing its martial
sound on the plush carpet.
"I need a response to a memo that I sent you over a month ago. The one about
Nanotechnology," Perlman blurted out, without preamble or pleasantries. His measured emphasis
on the words "over a month ago," was enough to be noticed, but not quite enough to be
unquestionably insolent.
"Yes. I remember that memo," said the Prime Minister, toying with a pen, as he spoke.
"When I read it, I had no idea what you were talking about. I assumed that if it were important,
you would ask me about it, and then you could explain it to me." He consciously ignored Moishe
Perlman's arrogance. The man was good at his job, which was why he had appointed him. He
found arrogance more acceptable than incompetence, though Perlman sometimes strained his
limits. He sensed that Perlman was going to make him nervous. Lest his habit of playing with his
pen be taken as a sign of that nervousness, he opened the center drawer of his desk, dropped the
pen into it, and pushed it shut.
"Nanotechnology," began Perlman, wishing he could recall the exact description in the
memorandum, "deals with fabrication at the atomic and molecular level. Normally, to
manufacture an item, we assemble components of metal, glass, plastic, or whatever. In
Nanotechnology, sometimes called molecular engineering, it's the same, except the components
are individual atoms and molecules. Current research is limited to microscopic and sub-
microscopic items. It will be a long time before anyone produces a worthwhile product, and a
much longer time, before they even think about large systems. Theoretically though, with this
technology, anyone could manufacture any item, anywhere, simply by loading the proper
program and raw materials into something called a replicator. Every item produced would be
absolutely identical-completely impossible to distinguish one from another."
The Prime Minister listened intently, nodding occasionally. Perlman paused for a
moment. When the Prime Minister asked no questions, he went on.
"In science fiction, there are often devices capable of transmitting objects from one
location to another. Presumably, such devices completely analyze the structure of an object,
break it into atoms and molecules, then transmit either the atoms and molecules or, more likely,
the blueprint of the object's structure to a distant device, which reconstructs the object or
creature. Nanotechnology would work similarly, except that countless copies could be made
without destroying the original. They wouldn't even need an original, but could work from a
design in a computer."
"Are you implying that, with this Nanotechnology, you could duplicate people?"
"Possibly someday, if they can ever generate a complete molecular blueprint for a human
being. Right now, scientists would be happy to duplicate a blood cell. As might be expected, they
will start with very small and very simple items and gradually increase their scope. Recently, a
major breakthrough was achieved," continued Perlman, his tone becoming less condescending
and more serious. "One segment of Nanotechnology deals with microscopic devices would that
interact with living organisms. Tiny computers in these devices would control them, telling them
how to act and what to do, much as the nucleus controls a cell. One scientist has made devices
that resemble living cells and are even capable of reproducing themselves, much as living cells
do. You could think of such devices as trained germs. Someday, such trained germs,
programmed to recognize and kill disease germs or cancer cells, could cure, even completely
eliminate most diseases. On the other hand, there could be quite sinister applications. A device
designed to act as a smart, dangerous microbe could make people sick or kill them, just as living
microbes do. That is the application that interests the Ministry of Defense."
Perlman was still standing. Apparently, the Prime Minister wasn't going to ask him to sit
down. That wasn't helping his mood. He sat down, uninvited, in a chair in front of the Prime
Minister's desk.