"Good morning, Uncle Jack."
"Well, did you get your studying done?"
"Sir? Oh, yes. That is, I fell asleep reading."
Weemsby smiled. "Lawyerese is soporific. Did you satisfy yourself that I had told you correctly what they contained?"
"Uh, I think so."
"Good." Weemsby put down his coffee and said to a servant, "Hand me a house phone. Thor, you irritated me last night."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"But I realize you were right. You should read what you sign—I wish I had time to! I have to accept the word of my staff in routine matters or I would never have time for policy . . . and I assumed that you would do the same with me. But caution is commendable." He spoke into the phone. "Carter, fetch those papers from Rudbek's apartment. The garden."
Thorby wondered if Carter could find the stuff—there was a safe in his study but he had not learned to use it, so he had hidden the papers behind books. He started to mention it but Uncle Jack was talking.
"Here is something you will want to see . . . an inventory of real property you own—or will own, when the wills are settled. These holdings are unconnected with the business."
Thorby looked through it with amazement. Did he really own an island named Pitcairn at fifteen something south and a hundred and thirty west—whatever that meant? A domehome on Mars? A shooting lodge in Yukon—where was "Yukon" and why shoot there? You ought to be in free space to risk shooting. And what were all these other things?
He looked for one item. "Uncle Jack? How about Rudbek?"
"Eh? You're sitting on it."
"Yes . . . but do I own it? Leda said I did."
"Well, yes. But it's entailed—that means your great-great-grandfather decided that it should never be sold . . . so that there would always be a Rudbek at Rudbek."
"Oh."
"I thought you might enjoy looking over your properties. I've ordered a car set aside for you. Is that one we hopped here in satisfactory?"
"What? Goodness, yes!" Thorby blinked.
"Good. It was your mother's and I've been too sentimental to dispose of it. But it has had all latest improvements added. You might persuade Leda to hop with you; she is familiar with most of that list. Take some young friends along and make a picnic of it, as long as you like. We can find a congenial chaperone."
Thorby put the list down. "I probably will, Uncle Jack . . . presently. But I ought to get to work."
"Eh?"
"How long does it take to learn to be a lawyer here?"
Weemsby's face cleared. "I see. Lawyers' quaint notions of language can shock a man. It takes four or five years."
"It does?"
"The thing for you is two or three years at Harvard or some other good school of business."
"I need that?"
"Definitely."
"Unh . . . you know more about it than I do—"
"I should! By now."
"—but couldn't I learn something about the business before I go to school? I haven't any idea what it is?"
"Plenty of time."
"But I want to learn now."
Weemsby started to cloud, then smiled and shrugged. "Thor, you have your mother's stubbornness. All right, I'll order a suite for you at the main office in Rudbek City—and staff it with people to help you. But I warn you, it won't be fun. Nobody owns a business; the business owns him. You're a slave to it."
"Well . . . I ought to try."
"Commendable spirit." The phone by Weemsby's cup blinked; he picked it up, frowned, said, "Hold on." He turned to Thorby. "That idiot can't find those papers."
"I meant to tell you. I hid them—I didn't want to leave them out."
"I see. Where are they?"
"Uh, I'll have to dig them out."
Weemsby said in the phone, "Forget it." He tossed the phone to a servant and said to Thorby, "Then fetch them, if you don't mind."
Thorby did mind. So far he had had four bites; it annoyed him to be told to run an errand while eating. Besides . . . was he "Rudbek of Rudbek?" or still messenger for the weapons officer? "I'll be going up after breakfast."
Uncle Jack looked vexed. But he answered, "I beg your pardon. If you can't tear yourself away, would you please tell me where to find them? I have a hard day ahead and I would like to dispose of this triviality and go to work. If you don't mind."
Thorby wiped his mouth. "I would rather not," he said slowly, "sign them now."
"What? You told me that you had satisfied yourself."
"No, sir, I told you that I had read them. But I don't understand them. Uncle Jack, where are the papers that my parents signed?"
"Eh?" Weemsby looked at him sharply. "Why?"
"I want to see them."
Weemsby considered. "They must be in the vault at Rudbek City."
"All right. I'll go there."
Weemsby suddenly stood up. "If you will excuse me, I'll go to work," he snapped. "Young man, some day you will realize what I have done for you! In the meantime, since you choose to be uncooperative, I still must get on with my duties."
He left abruptly. Thorby felt hurt—he didn't want to be uncooperative . . . but if they had waited for years, why couldn't they wait a little longer and give him a chance?
He recovered the papers, then phoned Leda. She answered, with vision switched off. "Thor dear, what are you doing up in the middle of the night?"
He explained that he wanted to go to the family's business offices. "I thought maybe you could direct me."
"You say Daddy said to?"
"He's going to assign me an office."
"I won't just direct you; I'll take you. But give a girl a chance to get a face on and swallow orange juice."
He discovered that Rudbek was connected with their offices in Rudbek City by high-speed sliding tunnel. They arrived in a private foyer guarded by an elderly receptionist. She looked up. "Hello, Miss Leda! How nice to see you!"
"You, too, Aggie. Will you tell Daddy we're here?"
"Of course." She looked at Thorby.
"Oh," said Leda. "I forgot. This is Rudbek of Rudbek."
Aggie jumped to her feet. "Oh, dear me! I didn't know—I'm sorry, sir!"
Things happened quickly. In minutes Thorby found himself with an office of quiet magnificence, with a quietly magnificent secretary who addressed him by his double-barreled title but expected him to call her "Dolores." There seemed to be unfimited genies ready to spring out of walls at a touch of her finger.
Leda stuck with him until he was installed, then said, "I'll run along, since you insist on being a dull old businessman." She looked at Dolores. "Or will it be dull? Perhaps I should stay." But she left.
Thorby was intoxicated with being immensely wealthy and powerful. Top executives called him "Rudbek," junior executives called him "Rudbek of Rudbek," and those still more junior crowded their words with "sirs"—he could judge status by how he was addressed.
While he was not yet active in business—he saw Weemsby rarely and Judge Bruder almost never—anything he wanted appeared quickly. A word to Dolores and a respectful young man popped in to explain legal matters; another word and an operator appeared to show moving stereocolor of business interests anywhere, even on other planets. He spent days looking at such pictures, yet still did not see them all.
His office became so swamped with books, spools, charts, brochures, presentations, file jackets, and figures, that Dolores had the office next door refitted as a library. There were figures on figures, describing in fiscal analog enterprises too vast to comprehend otherwise. There were so many figures, so intricately related, that his head ached. He began to have misgivings about the vocation of tycoon. It wasn't all just being treated with respect, going through doors first, and always getting what you asked for. What was the point if you were so snowed under that you could not enjoy it? Being a Guardsman was easier.
Still, it was nice to be important. Most of his life he had been nobody, and at best he had been very junior.
br /> If only Pop could see him now!—surrounded by lavish furnishings, a barber to trim his hair while he worked (Pop used to cut it under a bowl), a secretary to anticipate his wishes, and dozens of people eager to help. But Pop's face in this dream was wearing Pop's reproving expression; Thorby wondered what he had done wrong, and dug harder into the mess of figures.
Eventually a pattern began to emerge. The business was Rudbek & Associates, Ltd. So far as Thorby could tell this firm did nothing. It was chartered as a private investment trust and just owned things. Most of what Thorby would own, when his parents' wills were proved, was stock in this company. Nor would he own it all; he felt almost poverty-stricken when he discovered that mother and father together held only eighteen percent of many thousand shares.
Then he found out about "voting" and "non-voting"; the shares coming to him were eighteen-fortieths of the voting shares; the remainder was split between relatives and non-relatives.
Rudbek & Assocs. owned stock in other companies—and here it got complicated. Galactic Enterprises, Galactic Acceptance Corporation, Galactic Transport, Interstellar Metals, Three Planets Fiscal (which operated on twenty-seven planets), Havermeyer Laboratories (which ran barge lines and bakeries as well as research stations)—the list looked endless. These corporations, trusts, cartels, and banking houses seemed as tangled as spaghetti. Thorby learned that he owned (through his parents) an interest in a company called "Honace Bros., Pty." through a chain of six companies—18% of 31% of 43% of 19% of 44% of 27%, a share so microscopic that he lost track. But his parents owned directly seven per cent of Honace Brothers—with the result that his indirect interest of one-twentieth of one per cent controlled it utterly but paid little return, whereas seven per cent owned directly did not control—but paid one hundred and forty times as much.
It began to dawn on him that control and ownership were only slightly related; he had always thought of "ownership" and "control" as being the same thing; you owned a thing, a begging bowl, or a uniform jacket—of course you controlled it!
The converging, diverging, and crossing of corporations and companies confused and disgusted him. It was as complex as a firecontrol computer without a computer's cool logic. He tried to draw a chart and could not make it work. The ownership of each entity was tangled in common stocks, preferred stocks, bonds, senior and junior issues, securities with odd names and unknown functions; sometimes one company owned a piece of another directly and another piece through a third, or two companies might each own a little of the other, or sometimes a company owned part of itself in a tail-swallowing fashion. It didn't make sense.
This wasn't "business"—what the People did was business . . . buy, sell, make a profit. But this was a silly game with wild rules.
Something else fretted him. He had not known that Rudbek built spaceships. Galactic Enterprises controlled Galactic Transport, which built ships in one of its many divisions. When he realized it he felt a glow of pride, then discovered gnawing uneasiness—something Colonel Brisby had said . . . something Pop had proved: that the "largest" or it might have been "one of the largest" builders of starships was mixed up in the slave trade.
He told himself he was being silly—this beautiful office was about as far from the dirty business of slave traffic as anything could be. But as he was dropping to sleep one night he came wide awake with the black, ironic thought that one of those slave ships in whose stinking holds he had ridden might have been, at that very time, the property of the scabby, frightened slave he was then.
It was a nightmare notion; he pushed it away. But it took the fun out of what he was doing.
One afternoon he sat studying a long memorandum from the legal department—a summary, so it said, of Rudbek & Assocs.' interests—and found that he had dragged to a halt. It seemed as if the writer had gone out of his way to confuse things. It would have been as intelligible in ancient Chinese—more so; Sargonese included many Mandarin words.
He sent Dolores out and sat with his head in his hands. Why, oh, why hadn't he been left in the Guard? He had been happy there; he had understood the world he was in.
Then he straightened up and did something he had been putting off; he returned a vuecall from his grandparents. He had been expected to visit them long since, but he had felt compelled to try to learn his job first.
Indeed he was welcome! "Hurry, son—we'll be waiting." It was a wonderful hop across prairie and the mighty Mississippi (small from that height) and over city-pocked farm land to the sleepy college town of Valley View, where sidewalks were stationary and time itself seemed slowed. His grandparents' home, imposing for Valley View, was homey after the awesome halls of Rudbek.
But the visit was not relaxing. There were guests at dinner, the president of the college and department heads, and many more after dinner—some called him "Rudbek of Rudbek," others addressed him uncertainly as "Mr. Rudbek," and still others, smug with misinformation as to how the nabob was addressed by familiars, simply as "Rudbek." His grandmother twittered around, happy as only a proud hostess can be, and his grandfather stood straight and addressed him loudly as "Son."
Thorby did his best to be a credit to them. He soon realized that it was not what he said but the fact of talking to Rudbek that counted.
The following night, which his grandmother reluctantly kept private, he got a chance to talk. He wanted advice.
First information was exchanged. Thorby learned that his father, on marrying the only child of his grandfather Rudbek, had taken his wife's family name. "It's understandable," Grandfather Bradley told him. "Rudbek has to have a Rudbek. Martha was heir but Creighton had to preside—board meetings and conferences and at the dinner table for that matter. I had hoped that my son would pursue the muse of history, as I have. But when this came along, what could I do but be happy for him?"
His parents and Thorby himself had been lost as a consequence of his father's earnest attempt to be in the fullest sense Rudbek of Rudbek—he had been trying to inspect as much of the commercial empire as possible. "Your father was always conscientious and when your Grandfather Rudbek died before your father completed his apprenticeship, so to speak, Creighton left John Weemsby in charge—John is, I suppose you know, the second husband of your other grandmother's youngest sister Aria—and Leda, of course, is Aria's daughter by her first marriage."
"No, I hadn't known." Thorby translated the relationships into Sisu terms . . . and reached the startling conclusion that Leda was in the other moiety!—if they had such things here, which they didn't. And Uncle Jack—well, he wasn't "uncle"—but how would you say it in English?
"John had been a business secretary and factotum to your other grandfather and he was the perfect choice, of course; he knew the inner workings better than anyone, except your grandfather himself. After we got over the shock of our tragic loss we realized that the world must go on and that John could handle it as well as if he had been Rudbek himself."
"He's been simply wonderful!" grandmother chirped.
"Yes, he has. I must admit that your grandmother and I became used to a comfortable scale of living after Creighton married. College salaries are never what they should be; Creighton and Martha were very generous. Your grandmother and I might have found it difficult after we realized that our son was gone, never to come back, had not John told us not to worry. He saw to it that our benefit continued just as before."
"And increased it," Grandmother Bradley added emphatically.
"Well, yes. All the family—we think of ourselves as part of Rudbek family even though we bear a proud name of our own—all of the family have been pleased with John's stewardship."
Thorby was interested in something other than "Uncle Jack's" virtues. "You told me that we left Akka, jumping for Far-Star, and never made it? That's a long, long way from Jubbul."
"I suppose it is. The College has only a small Galactovue and I must admit that it is hard to realize that what appears to be an inch or so is actually many light-years."
"About a hundred and seventy light-years, in this case."
"Let me see, how much would that be in miles?"
"You don't measure it that way, any more than you measure that couchomat you're on in microns."
"Come now, young man, don't be pedantic."
"I wasn't being, Grandfather. I was thinking that it was a long way from where I was captured to where I was last sold. I hadn't known it."
"I heard you use that term 'sold' once before. You must realize that it is not correct. After all, the serfdom practiced in the Sargony is not chattel slavery. It derives from the ancient Hindu guild or 'caste' system—a stabilized social order with mutual obligations, up and down. You must not call it 'slavery.' "
"I don't know any other word to translate the Sargonese term."
"I could think of several, though I don't know Sargonese . . . it's not a useful tongue in scholarship. But, my dear Thor, you aren't a student of human histories and culture. Grant me a little authority in my own field."
"Well . . ." Thorby felt baffled. "I don't know System English perfectly and there's a lot of history I don't know—there's an awful lot of history."
"So there is. As I am the first to admit."
"But I can't translate any better—I was sold and I was a slave!"
"Now, Son."
"Don't contradict your grandfather, dear, that's a good boy."
Thorby shut up. He had already mentioned his years as a beggar—and had discovered that his grandmother was horrified, had felt that he had disgraced himself, though she did not quite say so. And he had already found that while his grandfather knew much about many things, he was just as certain of his knowledge when Thorby's eyes had reported things differently. Thorby concluded glumly that it was part of being senior and nothing could be done about it. He listened while Grandfather Bradley discoursed on the history of the Nine Worlds. It didn't agree with what the Sargonese believed but wasn't too far from what Pop had taught him—other than about slavery. He was glad when the talk drifted back to the Rudbek organization. He admitted his difficulties.