"You can't build Rome in a day, Thor."
"It looks as if I never would learn! I've been thinking about going back into the Guard."
His grandfather frowned. "That would not be wise."
"Why not, sir?"
"If you don't have talent for business, there are other honorable professions."
"Meaning the Guard isn't?"
"Mmm . . . your grandmother and I are philosophical pacifists. It cannot be denied that there is never a moral justification for taking human life."
"Never," agreed grandmother firmly.
Thorby wondered what Pop would think? Shucks, he knew!—Pop cut 'em down like grass to rescue a load of slaves. "What do you do when a raider jumps you?"
"A what?"
"A pirate. You've got a pirate on your tail and closing fast."
"Why, you run, I suppose. It's not moral to stay and do battle. Thor, nothing is ever gained by violence."
"But you can't run; he has more legs. It's you or him."
"You mean 'he.' Then you surrender; that defeats his purpose . . . as the immortal Gandhi proved."
Thorby took a deep breath. "Grandfather, I'm sorry but it doesn't defeat his purpose. You have to fight. Raiders take slaves. The proudest thing I ever did was to burn one."
"Eh? 'Burn one'?"
"Hit him with a target-seeker. Blast him out of the sky."
Grandmother gasped. At last his grandfather said stiffly, "Thor, I'm afraid you've been exposed to bad influences. Not your fault, perhaps. But you have many misconceptions, both in fact and in evaluation. Now be logical. If you 'burned him' as you say, how do you know he intended—again, as you say—to 'take slaves'? What could he do with them? Nothing."
Thorby kept silent. It made a difference which side of the Plaza you saw a thing from . . . and if you didn't have status, you weren't listened to. That was a universal rule.
Grandfather Bradley continued, "So we'll say no more about it. On this other matter I'll give you the advice I would give your departed father: if you feel that you have no head for trade, you don't have to enter it. But to run away and join the Guard, like some childish romantic—no, Son! But you needn't make up your mind for years. John is a very able regent; you don't have a decision facing you." He stood up. "I know, for I've discussed this with John, and he's willing, in all humility, to carry the burden a little farther . . . or much farther, if need be. And now we had all better seek our pillows. Morning comes early."
Thor left the next morning, with polite assurances that the house was his—which made him suspect that it was. He went to Rudbek City, having reached a decision during a restless night. He wanted to sleep with a live ship around him. He wanted to be back in Pop's outfit; being a billionaire boss wasn't his style.
He had to do something first; dig out those papers that father and mother had signed, compare them with the ones prepared for him—since father must have known what was needed—sign them, so that Uncle Jack could get on with the work after he was gone. Grandfather was right about that; John Weemsby knew how to do the job and he didn't. He should be grateful to Uncle Jack. He would thank him before he left. Then off Terra and out to where people talked his language!
He buzzed Uncle Jack's office as soon as he reached his own, was told that he was out of town. He decided that he could write a note and make it sound better—oh yes! Must say good-by to Leda. So he buzzed the legal department and told them to dig his parents' authorizations out of the vault and send them to his office.
Instead of papers, Judge Bruder arrived. "Rudbek, what's this about your ordering certain papers from the vault?"
Thorby explained. "I want to see them."
"No one but officers of the company can order papers from the vault."
"What am I?"
"I'm afraid you are a young man with confused notions. In time, you will have authority. But at the moment you are a visitor, learning something about your parents' affairs."
Thorby swallowed it; it was true, no matter how it tasted. "I've been meaning to ask you about that. What's the progress in the court action to have my parents declared dead?"
"Are you trying to bury them?"
"Of course not. But it has to be done, or so Uncle Jack says. So where are we?"
Bruder sniffed. "Nowhere. Through your doing."
"What do you mean?"
"Young man, do you think that the officers of this company will initiate a process which would throw affairs of the firm into incredible confusion unless you take necessary steps to guard against it? Why, it may take years to settle the wills—during which, business would come to a stop . . . simply because you neglected to sign a few simple instruments which I prepared weeks ago."
"You mean nothing will be done until I sign?"
"That is correct."
"I don't understand. Suppose I were dead—or had never been born. Does business stop every time a Rudbek dies?"
"Mmm . . . well, no. A court authorizes matters to proceed. But you are here and we must take that into consideration. Now see here, I'm at the end of my patience. You seem to think, simply because you've read a few balance sheets, that you understand business. You don't. For example your belief that you can order instruments turned over to you that were given to John Weemsby personally and are not even company property. If you were to attempt to take charge of the firm at this time—if we proceeded with your notion to have your parents declared dead—I can see that we would have all sorts of confusion while you were finding your balance. We can't afford it. The company can't afford it. Rudbek can't afford it. So I want those papers signed today and no more shilly-shallying. You understand?"
Thorby lowered his head. "I won't."
"What do you mean, 'You won't'?"
"I won't sign anything until I know what I'm doing. If I can't even see the papers my parents signed, then I certainly won't."
"We'll see about that!"
"I'm going to sit tight until I find out what's going on around here!"
CHAPTER 19
Thorby discovered that finding out was difficult. Things went on much as before but were not the same. He had vaguely suspected that the help he was being given in learning the business had sometimes been too much not well enough organized; he felt smothered in unrelated figures, verbose and obscure "summaries," "analyses" that did not analyze. But he had known so little that it took time to become even a suspicion.
The suspicion became certainty from the day he defied Judge Bruder. Dolores seemed eager as ever and people still hopped when he spoke but the lavish flow of information trickled toward a stop. He was stalled with convincing excuses but could never quite find out what he wanted to know. A "survey is being prepared" or the man who "has charge of that is out of the city" or "those are vault files and none of the delegated officers are in today." Neither Judge Bruder nor Uncle Jack was ever available and their assistants were politely unhelpful. Nor was he able to corner Uncle Jack at the estate. Leda told him that "Daddy often has to go away on trips."
Things began to be confused in his own office. Despite the library Dolores had set up she could not seem to find, or even recall, papers that he had marked for retention. Finally he lost his temper and bawled her out.
She took it quietly. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm trying very hard."
Thorby apologized. He knew a slow-down when he saw one; he had checked enough stevedores to know. But this poor creature could not help herself; he was lashing out at the wrong person. He added placatingly, "I really am sorry. Take the day off."
"Oh, I couldn't, sir."
"Who says so? Go home."
"I'd rather not, sir."
"Well . . . suit yourself. But go lie down in the ladies' lounge or something. That's an order. I'll see you tomorrow."
She looked worried and left. Thorby sat at his chaste, bare, unpowered executive desk and thought.
It was what he needed: to be alone without a flood of facts and figures. He started digesting what he had soaked up.
Presently he started listing the results.
Item: Judge Bruder and Uncle Jack had put him in Coventry for refusing to sign the proxies.
Item: He might be "Rudbek of Rudbek"—but Uncle Jack would continue to run things until Thorby's parents were legally dead.
Item: Judge Bruder had told him bluntly that no steps would be taken about the above until he admitted his incompetence and signed proxies.
Item: He did not know what his parents had signed. He had tried to force a showdown—and had failed.
Item: "Ownership" and "control" were very different. Uncle Jack controlled everything that Thorby owned; Uncle Jack owned merely a nominal one share to qualify him as acting chairman of the board. (Leda owned a chunk as she was a Rudbek while Uncle Jack wasn't—but Uncle Jack probably controlled her stock too; Leda paid no attention to business.)
Conclusions:—
What conclusions? Was Uncle Jack doing something crooked and didn't dare let him find out? Well, it didn't look like it. Uncle Jack had salary and bonuses so large that only a miser would want more money simply as money. His parents' accounts seemed in order—they showed a huge balance; the megabuck Uncle Jack had handed him hardly made a dent. The only other withdrawals were for Grandfather and Grandmother Bradley, plus a few sums around the family or charged to the estates—nothing important, another couple of megabucks.
Conclusion: Uncle Jack was boss, liked being boss, and meant to go on being boss if possible.
"Status" . . . Uncle Jack had high status and was fighting to keep it. Thorby felt that he understood him at last. Uncle Jack put up with the overwork he complained about because he liked being boss—just as captains and chief officers worked themselves silly, even though every member of a Free Trader family owned the same share. Uncle Jack was "chief officer" and didn't intend to surrender his supreme status to someone a third his age who (let's face it!) wasn't competent for the work the status required.
In this moment of insight Thorby felt that he ought to sign those proxies for Uncle Jack, who had earned the job whereas Thorby had merely inherited it. Uncle Jack must have been terribly disappointed when he had turned up alive; it must have seemed an utterly unfair twist of fate.
Well, let him have it! Settle things and join the Guard.
But Thorby was not ready to back down to Judge Bruder. He had been pushed around—and his strongest reflex was resistance to any authority he had not consented to; it had been burned into his soul with whips. He did not know this—he just knew that he was going to be stubborn. He decided that Pop would want him to be.
Thought of Pop reminded him of something. Was Rudbek connected, even indirectly, with the slave trade? He realized now why Pop wanted him to hang on—he could not quit until he knew . . . nor until he had put a stop to it if the unspeakable condition did exist. But how could he find out? He was Rudbek of Rudbek . . . but they had him tied with a thousand threads, like the fellow in that story Pop had told . . . "Gulliver and his Starship," that was it.
Well, let's see, Pop had reported to "X" Corps that there was a tie-up among some big spaceship outfit, the Sargon's government, and the raider-slavetraders. Raiders had to have ships. Ships . . . there was a book he had read last week, Galactic Transport's history of every ship they had built, from #0001 to the latest. He went into his library. Hmm . . . tall red book, not a tape.
Confounded thing was missing . . . like a lot of things lately. But he had almost renshawed the book, being interested in ships. He started making notes.
Most of them were in service inside the Hegemony, some in Rudbek interests, some in others. Some of his ships had been sold to the People, a pleasing thought. But some had wound up registered to owners he could not place . . . and yet he thought he knew the names, at least, of all outfits engaged in legitimate interstellar trade under the Hegemony—and he certainly would recognize any Free Trader clan.
No way to be sure of anything from his desk, even if he had the book. Maybe there was no way, from Terra . . . maybe even Judge Bruder and Uncle Jack would not know if something fishy were going on.
He got up and switched on the Galactovue he had had installed. It showed only the explored fraction of the Galaxy—even so, the scale was fantastically small.
He began operating controls. First he lighted in green the Nine Worlds. Then he added, in yellow, pestholes avoided by the People. He lighted up the two planets between which he and his parents had been captured, then did the same for every missing ship of the People concerning which he happened to know the span of the uncompleted jump.
The result was a constellation of colored lights, fairly close together as star distances go and in the same sector as the Nine Worlds. Thorby looked at it and whistled. Pop had known what he was talking about—yet it would be hard to spot unless displayed like this.
He began thinking about cruising ranges and fueling stations maintained by Galactic Transport out that way . . . then added in orange the banking offices of Galactic Acceptance Corporation in the "neighborhood."
Then he studied it.
It was not certain proof—yet what other outfit maintained such activities facing that sector? He intended to find out.
CHAPTER 20
Thorby found that Leda had ordered dinner in the garden. They were alone, and falling snow turned the artificial sky into an opalescent bowl. Candles, flowers, a string trio, and Leda herself made the scene delightful but Thorby failed to enjoy it, even though he liked Leda and considered the garden the best part of Rudbek Hall. The meal was almost over when Leda said, "A dollar for your thoughts."
Thorby looked guilty. "Uh, nothing."
"It must be a worrisome nothing."
"Well . . . yes."
"Want to tell Leda?"
Thorby blinked. Weemsby's daughter was the last one he could talk to. His gloom was caused by wonder as to what he could do if he became convinced that Rudbek was mixed up in slavery. "I guess I'm not cut out to be a businessman."
"Why, Daddy says you have a surprising head for figures."
Thorby snorted. "Then why doesn't he—" He stopped.
"Why doesn't he what?"
"Uh . . ." Doggone it, a man had to talk to somebody . . . someone who sympathized—or bawled him out if necessary. Like Pop. Like Fritz. Yeah, like Colonel Brisby. He was surrounded by people, yet utterly alone—except that Leda seemed to want to be friendly. "Leda, how much of what I say to you do you tell your father?"
To his amazement she blushed. "What made you say that, Thor?"
"Well, you are pretty close to him. Aren't you?"
She stood up suddenly. "If you've finished, let's walk."
Thorby stood up. They strolled paths, watched the storm, listened to its soft noises against the dome. She guided them to a spot away from the house and shielded by bushes and there sat down on a boulder. "This is a good spot—for private conversation."
"It is?"
"When the garden was wired, I made sure that there was somewhere I could be kissed without Daddy's snoopers listening in."
Thorby stared. "You mean that?"
"Surely you realize you are monitored almost everywhere but the ski slopes?"
"I didn't. And I don't like it."
"Who does? But it is a routine precaution with anything as big as Rudbek; you mustn't blame Daddy. I just spent some credits to make sure the garden wasn't as well wired as he thought. So if you have anything to say you don't want Daddy to hear, you can talk now. He'll never know. That's a cross-my-heart promise."
Thorby hesitated, then checked the area. He decided that if a microphone were hidden nearby it must be disguised as a flower . . . which was possible. "Maybe I ought to save it for the ski slope."
"Relax, dear. If you trust me at all, trust me that this place is safe."
"Uh, all right." He found himself blurting out his frustrations . . . his conclusion that Uncle Jack was intentionally thwarting him unless he would turn over his potential power. Leda listened gravely. "That's it. Now
—am I crazy?"
She said, "Thor, you know that Daddy has been throwing me at you?"
"Huh?"
"I don't see how you could miss it. Unless you are utterly—but then, perhaps you are. Just take it as true. It's one of those obvious marriages that everyone is enthusiastic about . . . except maybe the two most concerned."
Thorby forgot his worries in the face of this amazing statement. "You mean . . . well, uh, that you—" He trailed off.
"Heavens, dear! If I intended to go through with it, would I have told you anything? Oh, I admit I promised, before you arrived, to consider it. But you never warmed to the idea—and I'm too proud to be willing under those circumstances even if the preservation of Rudbek depended on it. Now what's this about Daddy not letting you see the proxies that Martha and Creighton gave him?"
"They won't let me see them; I won't sign until they do."
"But you'll sign if they do?"
"Uh . . . maybe I will, eventually. But I want to see what arrangements my parents made."
"I can't see why Daddy opposes such a reasonable request. Unless . . ." She frowned.
"Unless what?"
"What about your shares? Have those been turned over to you?"
"What shares?"
"Why, yours. You know what shares I hold. They were given to me when I was born, by Rudbek—your grandfather, I mean. My uncle. You probably got twice as many, since you were expected to become the Rudbek someday."
"I haven't any shares."
She nodded grimly. "That's one reason Daddy and the Judge don't want you to see those papers. Our personal shares don't depend on anyone; they're ours to do as we please with, since we are both legal age. Your parents voted yours, just as Daddy still votes mine—but any proxy they assigned concerning your shares can't be any good now. You can pound the desk and they'll have to cough up, or shoot you." She frowned. "Not that they would shoot. Thor, Daddy is a good sort, most ways."
"I never said he wasn't."
"I don't love him but I'm fond of him. But when it comes down to it, I'm a Rudbek and he's not. That's silly, isn't it? Because we Rudbeks aren't anything special; we're just shrewd peasants. But I've got a worry, too. You remember Joel de la Croix?"