Read Online Galaxy Blues by Allen Steele - Free Book Online Page A

flicked his lighter and used it to gently char the end of his cigar. Blue-grey fumes rose toward the ceiling; I don’t smoke, but it was fragrant enough that I almost regretted not accepting the one he’d offered me.
    â€œName’s Goldstein. Morgan Goldstein.” He settled back and stretched out his legs, so self-assured that you could have sworn that he owned the stockade. “Ever heard of me?”
    â€œNo, I…” Then I stopped myself. “There’s a Morgan Goldstein who’s in charge of Janus, but…”
    â€œBut what?” He rolled his cigar between his fingertips, not quite looking at me. “Please. Speak your mind.”
    What was on my mind was the improbability of a billionaire sitting in a cell block, having a smoke and a chat with someone about to be convicted on felony charges. Sure, I knew who Morgan Goldstein was. Founder and CEO of Janus, Ltd., the largest private space firm in the solar system. Earth’s, that is, or at least until just a few years ago, when he abruptly uprooted his corporation from the Western Hemisphere Union and relocated it to Coyote, where he reestablished it as the richest company in the new world, with himself as its wealthiest citizen. Although most of Janus’s shipping interests still remained forty-six light-years away, the corporate headquarters were now located in Albion, not far from the New Brighton spaceport where, if things had worked out better, Geoffrey Carr would have peacefully disembarked.
    â€œYeah…sure, you’re that same guy.” I waved my hand back and forth to clear the air in front of my face. “And I’m Dorothy Gale from Kansas.”
    His face darkened for a moment, as if nonplussed to find someone who wouldn’t instantly take him at his word. Then he relaxed and tilted back his head to exhale smoke at the ceiling. “Then I’d have to ask where you left your little dog and why you couldn’t have found a better place to park your farmhouse.” He shook his head. “I’m not normally accustomed to proving my identity, but if you insist…”
    Reaching into a coat pocket, he produced a datapad. I couldn’t help but notice that it was a Son Ap Executive: state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, in what appeared to be a platinum casing. He pressed his thumb against the ID plate, then raised the pad to his face so that the retinal scanner could check his eyes. A soft click , and the pad opened. He tapped a couple of commands into the keypad, waited a moment, entered yet another set, then leaned forward to pass the unit through the cell bars.
    â€œI’d prefer that you keep this information to yourself,” he said quietly. “I’d rather not have it become common knowledge.”
    I took the pad from him, then read the screen. Displayed at the top was the logo of Lloyd’s of London. Beneath it was an account statement for Mr. Morgan Goldstein, along with a routing number that had been carefully blacked out. And under it was a figure in euros that stretched into ten digits. Ten high digits.
    â€œThat’s my net holdings in this one particular establishment,” Goldstein said, his voice low. “At least of as yesterday morning, the last time I was able to update my portfolio via hyperlink. Sorry, but I’d rather not reveal my holdings in Zurich or the Bank of Coyote. They’re considerably larger.”
    The datapad trembled in my hand. I wasn’t completely convinced, though, so I used my fingertip to move the cursor to the BIO tab within the menu bar. Goldstein waited patiently while the screen changed again…and suddenly, I saw a portrait photo of the man seated on the other side of the bars. About ten years younger, with nearly as many hairs remaining on top of his head, but unmistakably the same individual.
    â€œIt’s okay to breathe,” Goldstein said after a moment. “I do it all the time. Good for the