Two of the men, one blond, one balding and both significantly shorter than their guests, were wearing suit jackets which were quickly removed and draped over chairs as they all sat. The suited men were senior partners of the company which owned the building and they leaned comfortably in their high-backed chairs, feeling at ease in this familiar environment.
However they regarded their four guests warily, as if they might at any moment lash out at their hosts. The tall men were all dressed similarly, wearing simple jeans and shirts in different pastel colours, as if their clothing had been bought in bulk from the same store. No better way to disguise danger, the bald suit thought, than to make it look like everything else, stop it from standing out, even if their appearance jarred when compared to their current corporate surroundings.
Three of their visitors intentionally chose seats which allowed them to take in the view that the floor-to-ceiling windows gave them from up on the 43rd floor. Heights didn’t bother them. But even though time on Earth was a rare and expensive thing for off-worlders their rapt fascination with the brightly lit city 120m below them surprised their hosts.
The fourth man however seemed disinterested in the view, disinterested even in the expensive décor of the conference room, the crystal glasses and water-filled pitcher laid out for them. He seemed content to stare intently at the conference table as his fingers ran gently over its smoothly polished surface. He imagined that somewhere outside was someone who’s sole official purpose in life was to keep this table in such wonderful condition. A worthwhile endeavour, he felt.
“So we are in agreement?” The question from the bald suit broke the spell the Chicago skyline had over three of the pastel-shirted men, who all turned to look at the man still quietly studying the fine mahogany table. The question hung in the air until he gave a quiet sigh and asked “How old do you suppose this table is?”
“Shall we focus, please, Mr Spencer?” An edge of impatience was clear in blond suit’s voice and his face briefly flushed red. 6 years of planning, 18 months of courting these… these people. The fourth man continued to gaze down at the table, though one of his colleagues opposite noticed an eyebrow rise slightly at the tone.
“You may communicate to your employer that yes, we have an agreement.” Spencer finally said. Both suits relaxed visibly, the blond one fleetingly glancing at a small camera in the opposite corner of the room. “We will foment and lead a revolution against the new planetary authority and install a government more to our liking. In return for your… sponsorship… your employer will receive preferential,” without looking up from the table he raised a hand to pre-empt an objection from the man in the blond suit, “preferential treatment. We cannot be seen to allow exclusivity if we are to have any kind of legitimacy. You know this.”
The suits said nothing, eventually earning them a look and then a nod. Across the table one of his companions looked at his watch and coughed discretely.
“Very well,” the Spencer continued, his attention now returned to the table. “We will confirm the start date by encrypted message to this email account”. The man who had coughed slid over a piece of paper the size of a business card with some typed characters on, which the bald suit picked up and pocketed without comment.
“We have a spaceship to catch.” A brief smile at the cliché. The four off-worlders stood in unison, catching both suits by surprise. The coughing man, having been sat closest too them, handled quick handshakes with both the blond and bald suits and turned to follow his colleagues from the room.
On his way out the Spencer made a point of running his fingers smoothly down the length of the table. He paused at the door and turned to his guests, still stood in front of their chairs at the other end of the table. “Nice view,” he said and disappeared through the door and out of sight.
Such was modern life, thought the blonde suit as pulled on his jacket, revolutions now begun as business deals - the line between a corporate takeover and dramatic social change increasingly blurred. People said a Martian revolution was looking inevitable, the result of both dissatisfaction and a century of science-fiction literature prompting a peculiar fusion of populous need and populist thought. Life imitating art, on a planetary scale. So, he thought, why not make some money from it?
* * *
A continent away an old man with thinning hair and a carefully trimmed white beard had exactly the same thought as he watched his two assistants leave the conference room.
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