Power Play - Anne McCaffrey [84]
A gaggle of people coming from the passenger lounge were advancing on him in a solid phalanx. Frowning, he gestured with his right hand for them to clear to the side to allow him to pass. But then he saw the reason for such a mass: an invalid vehicle, one of the newest types, was in the midst of the people, its occupant turning from left to right as he issued a stream of orders, which were being recorded. To Matthew’s intense surprise, the man in the chair was none other than Farringer Ball, Secretary-General of Intergal: the one man he cared less about seeing than any other in the galaxy; the very one whose intransigence had resulted in the wretched planet being adjudged sentient and autonomous, ruining all Luzon’s careful plans for its future.
“Why, Farringer,” Luzon said in his heartiest voice, tingeing it with concern and sympathy, “whatever has happened to you?”
“Luzon?” Farringer’s voice was a wispy croak, and Luzon was genuinely shocked at the man’s condition. The chair obviously contained life-support devices; Luzon was now close enough to see the tubes running from the man’s body to a machine under the seat of the chair. “Recovered from your injury?”
“Indeed, and I could wish you the same good fortune. Whatever has reduced you to this sorry state?” Not that Luzon wasn’t delighted to see that justice was being served. “On your way to Petaybee, are you? For one of their miracle cures?” Luzon smiled graciously.
“To Petaybee?” Farringer Ball’s wheeze went up an octave, and he stared at Luzon in surprise. “Why should I go there, of all places?”
“Why, hadn’t you heard? Since the board so nobly decided that Intergal should withdraw and allow Terraform B its autonomy, every drug company in the galaxy is trying to sign up the exclusive rights to the therapeutic treatments only available there.” Partially true, of course, since representatives were on the planet, although, according to Luzon’s informants, none of them had reported back to their head offices, or anywhere, on the results of their missions.
“What therapeutic treatments?” Ball snapped, and half of the crowd around him looked expectantly at Luzon for the answer.
Luzon then realized that medics of various sorts made up most of the groupies around the secretary-general.
“Why, I thought you’d have heard. You always know what’s going on in the medical field.” Luzon could afford to be slightly condescending: poor health was Ball’s true reward. “There is something about the pure air and organically grown food products on Petaybee, not to mention the ambience, that absolutely changes a man!”
“It does?” Ball wheezed. “How?” He peered suspiciously up at the obviously robustly healthy Luzon. “You only broke your legs . . .” His tone implied that a pair of broken legs didn’t take much healing.
“True.” Luzon leaned down conspiratorially. “But then I didn’t need the special sort of healing that only Petaybee provides. We really shouldn’t have let the planet out of our control, you know. You’d be glowing with health again if you’d taken the cure there.”
“Taken the cure? What cure?”
“Now, that I don’t know in any particulars, I’m afraid,” Luzon replied, knowing that he had Ball just where he wanted him. “Of course, now that Intergal no longer has any rights on the planet, its administrators—if you can call such novices by that term,” he added, permitting a belittling sneer to color his voice, “are of course setting up a monopoly on the surface. I really feel that one cannot put a price on such natural benefits, and one certainly shouldn’t restrict those who are chosen to receive the cure to such a narrow category . . .”
“What category? What monopoly? What natural benefits?” Ball’s agitation made his wheeze worse and he started coughing, a dry, hard, rasping sound despite