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careers: as a staffer for an orgy livie production company, or, perhaps, as a
serial murderer.
Her job had suddenly become a complete, dawn-to-dawn nightmare.
It had not begun like that, nor had it been like that for nearly five years. In
fact, she had been enormously envied for getting the post.
Somewhat dissatisfied, certainly overqualified and without time to do her
own research and publishing in her previous job as head librarian at a large
university, she had been contacted, out of the blue, by an executive search
service. She was offered what she thought was the ultimate job at triple her
present salary. Did she mind relocating to a different system? No. The
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r r
headhunter seemed unsurprised, as if he knew everything about her. The
position was as a private librarian. The woman demurred she had no
intention of burying herself in some recluse's dusty archives and letting the
world pass.
Nothing like that at all, the man explained. He suggested she visit the planet
of Yongjukl and investigate her new job. She would have a round-trip ticket.
He offered to accompany her. She declined. The librarian was quite
attractive and the headhunter seemed disappointed.
The library was nearly mansion-size and was but one building on sprawling
grounds. The main house dwarfed the library. It was secluded, with more
than a thousand square kilometers of guarded, secure grounds. Her own
quarters were lavish. There was a full staff: cooks, cleaners, gardeners.
Not that the librarian was imprisoned. She had her own gravcar, and a large,
sophisticated city was no more than an hour or two away. She was allowed to
keep her own hours as long as the system remained current. If she ever
needed help, she could hire as many day-workers as necessary.
Computers? Scanners? Filing robots? State of the art and new models
provided regularly.
She asked if she had permission to pursue her own studies and research.
Certainly. Could she have visitors? If she chose. However, if she left the
grounds, she was required to carry a remote. She must consider herself on
call dawn-to-dawn. An unlikely possibility.
It seemed too good to be true. She felt like a character in one of the goth-livies
she had supposedly given up when she was twelve but still "lived," somewhat
guiltily, in her occasional bubblebaths.
Especially since there was no one in the mansion. No one except the staff. And
none of them had ever met the mansion's owner.
When she returned to her own world, her first question to the headhunter
was: Who would I be working for?
The man explained. The mansion and its grounds were part of a family
estate. Which one? I cannot tell you that. But the mansion must remain with
the family, and be maintained. If not it is a matter of a rather elaborate and
eccentric trust, my dear an entire commercial empire would be
disassembled.
At the head of the family is the young heir, the man continued. You may never
meet him. He is extremely busy and prefers living closer to the Empire's
center. But he is an unusual man. He might well show up one day.
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r r
Alone or with an entourage in which case he will require absolute privacy.
The man shrugged. It must be nice to be so wealthy that you can order your
life that precisely.
If I take this position, the woman asked which you can accept on a weekly,
monthly, or yearly contract, the headhunter interrupted I must keep that a
secret? No, not necessarily, the man said. It seems to be a favorite topic about
once a year by the planet's newsvids. Say what you wish it is not as if there's
anything to hide.
Thinking dark thoughts of windswept castles and disguised, royal lovers, she
accepted the position.
For eleven years, it was paradise. Staggering amounts of material churned in
daily. It seemed the unknown heir subscribed to every scientific, military, or
political journal in the Empire. The material was scanned, summarized, and
mostly discarded by a computer/scanner who seemed to have completely
elitist tastes. It was, the woman once thought, a machine that seemed
programmed to provide an instant update for someone newly risen from the
grave. The computer had two sysop stations. One was in a sealed room, the
other belonged to the librarian. The sealed unit seemed to contain, she
learned when she snooped in boredom, some files that were inaccessible to
the rest of the system.
Annually the entire files for that year were deleted. Then the machine began
all over, collecting, summarizing, and storing.
Until a little more than six years before.
At that time, the computer had switched modes and begun storing everything.
The librarian did not notice until year's end. She panicked just slightly. Had
she done something wrong? She did not want to lose her position. Not only
was she perfectly happy on this world, having met and loved a wonderful
succession of mates, but she was publishing important analyses in a steady
stream, the envy of her far-lesser-paid and, to their minds, overworked
colleagues in the field. The man at the other end of the emergency contact
number soothed her. Not to worry, he said. Just continue. So continue she
did.
Now she was going quite insane. Because, to everyone's astonishment, the
heir a man she thought most likely a legal myth by now arrived. A small
ship set down on the small landing pad. One man got out, and the ship
instantly lifted away.
Guards met him. "Sir, this is a private "
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