Moon Flower by James P. Hogan Read Free Book Online Page A

feeling of living on borrowed time.
    “Got any thoughts about lunch?” Rob asked, turning around on the stool to address Shearer.
    “Not really.... Sammy’s?” It was a deli along the block from the campus, one of the regular haunts.
    “Could do, I guess.”
    Shearer looked over at Merritt. “Coming with us?”
    “I brought something in today. No reflection on the company, but it means I get to read for an hour on my own in peace and quiet too.”
    “What are you reading?” Rob asked her curiously as she got up and went over to unhook her duffel bag from the rack behind the door.
    “An old Victorian novel. English.” Merritt came back and sat down again, taking out a plastic lunch box secured with a rubber band, and a flask. She rummaged some more and handed Rob a battered-looking volume with faded red covers and worn edges. “Besides, I don’t like the security hassle of getting back in again. So I only go out if I have to.”
    “Original?” Rob inquired, thumbing through the pages.
    “No, a nineteen-twenties reprint.”
    “That’s practically the same to me. So what’s it got? Swooning heroines, cads, and decent chaps with character and breeding that tells?”
    “At least they were written by authors who knew their own language,” Merritt replied. “And, you can be facetious if you want, but you’re not that far off the mark. Sure — characters with style and taste. Where else are you going to find it these days?”
    “Do you know, there used to be a time when there wasn’t any security to go through to get into a place like this?” Shearer said. “Or most places, in fact.” He inclined his head up at one of the cameras covering the lab area from opposite ends. “Or any of that. The staff would never have put up with it. Universities were public places, funded with public money. They took a pride in being open to anyone who wanted to walk in off the street. No tracker chips in everything you own. No bio-ID profiles.”
    “Times sure change, don’t they.” Rob snorted and rose to his feet, passing the book back to Merritt.
    “It sounds like another world,” Merritt said dreamily.
    “That’s just what it was,” Shearer told them. He got up too and retrieved his jacket from the hook next to Merritt’s bag. “Airports as well.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Really. Everywhere. My grandfather told me he could remember just walking through to the gates where they boarded the old flat-takeoff jets. Sometimes there wouldn’t be any agent or anyone there. The door of the plane was open. You just got on, found your seat, and waited for the crew to show up.”
    Rob was staring fixedly when Shearer turned back toward the door. “You know, Marc, every time I listen to you, I end up thinking about something in ways that never occurred to me before,” he accused.
    “That’s because you’re not supposed to think about it,” Shearer said, and then threw back, “See you later, Merritt.”
    “Take your time.”
    As Shearer followed Rob out, his phone emitted its squeaky rendition of Toccata and Fugue in his jacket pocket. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up,” he said, taking the unit out. Rob nodded and moved away along the corridor. Shearer thumbed the accept key and dropped his pace to a slow walk. The tone selection that it had sounded indicated an audio-only call. “Marc Shearer here.”
    “Mr. Shearer.” The voice was that of Ellis, the department head. “I have some news for you that I am informed is most urgent. I confess that I also find it highly surprising.”
    “Oh?”
    “It concerns your application for an off-planet posting.”
    “Yes?” Something jumped in Shearer’s chest. Although he had complied with Wade’s request, there had seemed little reason for it to be considered worth allocating a valuable slot on a mission. Hence, he had not thought too much about it, devoting his time instead to the contemplation of what other future prospects might present