Today's Reading
FORTY YEARS LATER
His office was set into a corner on the hotel's starboard wing, connected to the first floor by a two-passenger elevator. The elevator was not quite private, but tucked cunningly away from sight of the other rooms so that guests seldom thought to use it. This way he could step through the sliding scissor-gate and relish one final moment of peace each morning before the madness began.
On the sunset dial above the door the bronzed pointer moved gradually from right to left. He watched it closely. Seven seconds to go. Three seconds. The pointer settled on the western hills, and the elevator said huskily, First floor. Please mind your step.
He stepped out, and a voice exclaimed, "There you are!" Mataz was upon him at once, speaking in a low, breathless rush: "We've got a situation. A problem. A big problem. A disaster, frankly."
He arranged his face, cheerful, focused: Don't worry. I'm here. "Tell me about it," he said.
Omar Mataz, assistant manager and self-proclaimed "Head of Guest Experience," was a strikingly beautiful man who reveled in the drama of a good crisis. He took out a pocket-kerchief, patted down the glowing skin beneath his jaw and said, "It's about the Countess of Adeladia."
"Countess." He combed the guest list in his mind, pulling her name. "A one-nighter. Fourth floor. She's checking out at 10:30."
"That's the one."
They ducked through a door marked STAFF ONLY, into the back passageway. It was in these hidden byways that the Abeona started to look like an actual ship—close walls, pockmarked rubber flooring, warning signs on display, a smell of breath and stale food waste clinging like a fine film to every open surface. The atmosphere was that of a military base under attack, a steady and purposeful chaos: a swaying trolley of croissants rushed one way, while in the opposite direction a bellhop ran, bellowing, "Hoverjack! Who took the goddamn hoverjack?"
"She's left her ship docked on the lobby slipway," said Mataz. "Private vessel. Flyby, some kind of superyacht. Hideous thing. The group from—"
He stopped Mataz with a raise of the hand, turned to a technician who was passing. "Did you fix the lights in the conference room?" She nodded.
"Good. Remember, the set-up is for twenty-four." He turned back to Mataz. "Go on."
"The first group from PSC are arriving in ten minutes in the auto-shuttle and you know that thing is not up to code, I don't know if it'll stop. I'm sure it won't. If someone doesn't move that flyby we are going to have two dozen dead scientists with eyes like burst tomatoes floating past the dining-room window." A useful thing about Mataz was that he always had the worst case scenario poised at the end of his trimmed fingertips. "And nobody can find the damn countess," he finished. "She's not in her room."
"Early morning swim," he murmured. Checked his watch. They had been walking for the entirety of this exchange, and were nearing the end of the passage now. A rattle of compounded wheels: he and Mataz both instinctively ducked as a plate of hot breakfast swept past on the auto-service gondola overhead. "She'll be there when the breakfast bar opens," he said. "I'll catch her. Have we got a spot free in the hangar?"
"I believe so."
"Okay. Make sure. Prep a signal for that shuttle, but don't send it just yet. Can't have a panic."
They burst out into the sparse, calm, hygienic facade of the lobby. He paused, kneading the space above his eyebrows, contemplating the shifting battle lines of the day ahead.
"Mr. Manager, sir?" a voice asked from the reception desk.
"Yes?" he turned, smiling already, to ask with complete sincerity, "How can I help?"
It was Carl speaking. Of course it was Carl. Fifty-two now, big enough now to fit the miner's jacket, which he'd kept. The decades had rumpled him, sloped his shoulders, slung a little pouch over his belt. Softly traced wrinkles set his face into a permanent puzzled smile. He dressed informally compared to his underlings, tie loose, shirt rolled easily around the elbows. Sometimes he liked to hang around the lobby and help people with their bags just for the pleasure of hearing them whisper, in wondrous admiration, "Look! It's the manager!"
Yup, he'd think. That's me.
Everyone at the Abeona had a different name for Carl. To the kitchen staff he was Boss, to the reception, Mr. Manager. To the chief technician he was always Honey. The pianist called him Mr. Abeona, though this was not technically his name. None of these titles were Carl's idea, but it was one of his policies to let people address him as they wished. Things went smoother that way.
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