the meteoric rise of cornel lorensse to fame in 2011 and 2012 now commands a full column in the encyclopaedia terrestriana. brushed off in a single sentence in the encyclopaedia, but much discussed in that day, was his close relationship with meta erosine, his patroness.
for half a decade, wealthy, beautiful meta erosine had been the toast of earth. she was an actress, a painter, a singer, a socialite, and she had changed men almost as often as she changed the dresses she wore. her face was familiar in newspapers and on television screens, her husky songs were on a million recording tapes, her colorful antics were the grist for magazine articles and the subject of denunciations from the pulpit.
in cornel she seemed to have found a vehicle for all the burning fire of her energy. she pushed him, she groomed him, she threw the power of her wealth behind him. his slender figure clad in a black velvet suit sat at polished pianos on a hundred stages; and for each concert, the auditoriums and the audiences were bigger.
meta was with him on these concert tours; and between tours he stayed in seclusion at the big house in jersi, putting into music his memories of his native mars. each tour introduced to the world the new compositions of cornel lorensse.
what he wrote and played was the haunting music of the deserts, the canals and the marches. into his music he poured the loneliness of the red sands and the violence of the desert winds, the beauty of sable skies jeweled with enormous stars, the happiness of the helmeted traveler when he reaches the green valleys of the canals, the hopes and joys of human lovers gathered in bubble-like domes amid the chill wastelands.
he did not, as meta had wanted to, give his compositions french titles. he named them as he would have named them on mars: the desert wanderer, swift phobos, marsh gardens, names that were strange to earth, but were familiar themes of his own people.
his melodies took music-loving earth by storm. they burst upon a world in which 20th century dissonance had strangled 19th century romanticism, like flowers in a garden of crystal. it was cornel lorensse and those pioneer composers who avidly aped him who began the 21st century renaissance in music.
without shame, cornel lived on the largesse of his patroness, for his growing fees and royalties all went for one purpose. he had found the society called the friends of mars, and everything that he earned he poured into their coffers to finance privateer space vessels able to elude the mars corporation's company-owned warships and to keep a thin line of supplies flowing to the free martian people scattered in their desert strongholds.
like any secret society in a hostile culture, the friends of mars maintained dissociated chapters, connected by the slenderest and most carefully guarded lines of communication. cornel knew of only one chapter, in nuyork, and to this he took his contributions when he was between concert tours.
during one of those visits, late in the summer of 2012, javan tomlin, chief of the chapter, told him that all he contributed was still not enough for mars to become free.
"our base of support isn't broad enough," said javan. "ships cost money, fuel costs money, supplies cost money. guns and ammunition are most expensive of all, because military weapons are illegal. no one man can support such an operation, even when he makes the kind of money you're making."
there were half a dozen of the friends of mars, besides cornel and javan, in the meeting room. the others nodded agreement at javan's words.
"none of us are wealthy and we can't contribute much but our time and work," said one of them. "the wealthy people all sympathize with the mars corporation."
"that's too much of a blanket indictment," said javan. "the mars corporation controls the spacelines to mars, and what little information comes back to earth is censored and heavily propagandized in their favor. most people don't know what's happening on mars. our people need a powerful radio transmitter to broadcast to earth, cornel."
cornel shook his head.
"what information the people of earth get must be disseminated on earth," he said. "powerful radio equipment would take up space and weight needed for arms. besides, the mars corporation forces have air power and directional finders. they'd bomb a permanent installation before it had a chance to send out its second broadcast."
"all we can do is work and hope," said javan gloomily. "if we had a fleet of about a dozen good ships, we might be able to swing it, but we have only two and a third abuilding."
"there are three on mars," cornel pointed out.
"one was blasted in space last week, and they're too old to lift more than half cargo, anyhow," said javan. "the corporation controls the earth space stations, through the government, and we have to use direct drive stage-rockets."
cornel left, not feeling very optimistic. at the curb outside the club, he looked up and down the street for a cab to take him to the heliport where his copter was parked.
there was no cab in sight, but from a side street a little distance away a long black limousine swung into the boulevard, sped swiftly to the club entrance and halted. the back door opened and meta leaned out, beckoning.
"get in, quick!" she urged. "we've got to get away from here!"
not understanding, cornel got in. the car roared away with a burst of acceleration that thrust him back on the cushions beside her.
"what in saturn?" he demanded and turned to look out the rear window.
a squad of police cars was converging on the club he had just left. sirens screaming, they pulled up, blocking the street, and armed officers in plain clothes leaped out and hurried into the club.
meta put her arms around his neck and drew his head down to her lap.
"they're raiding the friends of mars," she said, and a soothing note crept into her tone. "you're safe, darling. they don't know you were there."
"but how did they know? how did you know?" he demanded, struggling unsuccessfully to free himself from the imprisonment of her embrace. the sound of the sirens had died in the distance behind them.
"i told them," meta said firmly. "where do you think i get the wealth you've been living on, darling? i own a fourth of the stock of the mars corporation."
