He began slowly to pick up odd votes—232, 906, 1917—some of them directly, some through proxy. But Weemsby picked up votes also. Some shareholders answered, "Pass to proxy," or failed to respond—as the names marched past and these missing votes did not appear, Thorby was forced to infer that Weemsby held those proxies himself. But still the additional votes for "Rudbek of Rudbek" mounted—2205, 3036, 4309 . . . and there it stuck. The last few names passed.
Garsch leaned toward him. "Just the sunshine twins left."
"I know." Thorby put away his calculator, feeling sick—so Weemsby had won, after all.
The Secretary had evidently been instructed what names to read last. "The Honorable Curt Bruder!"
Bruder voted his one qualifying share for Weemsby. "Our Chairman, Mr. John Weemsby."
Weemsby stood up and looked happy. "In my own person, I vote one share. By proxies delivered to me and now with the Secretary I vote—" Thorby did not listen; he was looking for his hat.
"The tally being complete, I declare—" the Secretary began.
"No!"
Leda was on her feet. "I'm here myself. This is my first meeting and I'm going to vote!"
Her stepfather said hastily, "That's all right, Leda—mustn't interrupt." He turned to the Secretary. "It doesn't affect the result."
"But it does! I cast one thousand eight hundred and eighty votes for Thor, Rudbek of Rudbek!"
Weemsby stared. "Leda Weemsby!"
She retorted crisply, "My legal name is Leda Rudbek."
Bruder was shouting, "Illegal! The vote has been recorded. It's too—"
"Oh, nonsense!" shouted Leda. "I'm here and I'm voting. Anyhow, I cancelled that proxy—I registered it in the post office in this very building and saw it delivered and signed for at the 'principal offices of this corporation'—that's the right phrase, isn't it, Judge?— ten minutes before the meeting was called to order. If you don't believe me, send down for it. But what of it?—I'm here. Touch me." Then she turned and smiled at Thorby.
Thorby tried to smile back, and whispered savagely to Garsch, "Why did you keep this a secret?"
"And let 'Honest John' find out that he had to beg, borrow, or buy some more votes? He might have won. She kept him happy, just as I told her to. That's quite a girl, Thorby. Better option her."
Five minutes later Thorby, shaking and white, got up and took the gavel that Weemsby had dropped. He faced the crowd. "We will now elect the rest of the board," he announced, his voice barely under control. The slate that Garsch and Thorby had worked out was passed by acclamation—with one addition: Leda.
Again she stood up. "Oh, no! You can't do this to me."
"Out of order. You've assumed responsibility, now accept it."
She opened her mouth, closed it, sat down.
When the Secretary declared the result, Thorby turned to Weemsby. "You are General Manager also, are you not?"
"Yes."
"You're fired. Your one share reverts. Don't try to go back to your former office; just get your hat and go."
Bruder jumped up. Thorby turned to him. "You, too. Sergeant-at-Arms, escort them out of the building."
CHAPTER 23
Thorby looked glumly at a high stack of papers, each item, flagged "urgent." He picked up one, started to read—put it down and said, "Dolores, switch control of my screen to me. Then go home."
"I can stay, sir."
"I said, 'Go home.' How are you going to catch a husband with circles under your eyes?"
"Yes, sir." She changed connections. "Good night, sir."
"Good night."
Good girl, there. Loyal, he thought. Well, he hoped. He hadn't dared use a new broom all the way; the administration had to have continuity. He signaled a number.
A voice without a face said, "Scramble Seven."
" 'Prometheus Bound,' " Thorby answered, "and nine makes sixteen."
"Scramble set up."
"Sealed," Thorby agreed.
The face of Wing Marshal "Smith" appeared. "Hi, Thor."
"Jake, I've got to postpone this month's conference again. I hate to—but you should see my desk."
"Nobody expects you to devote all your time to corps matters."
"Doggone it, that's exactly what I planned to do—clean this place up fast, put good people in charge, grab my hat and enlist for the corps! But it's not that simple."
"Thor, no conscientious officer lets himself be relieved until his board is all green. We both knew that you had lots of lights blinking red."
"Well . . . all right, I can't make the conference. Got a few minutes?"
"Shoot," agreed "Smith."
"I think I've got a boy to hunt porcupines. Remember?"
" 'Nobody eats a porcupine.' "
"Right! Though I had to see a picture of one to understand what you meant. To put it in trader terms, the way to kill a business is to make it unprofitable. Slave-raiding is a business, the way to kill it is to put it in the red. Porcupine spines on the victims will do it."
"If we had the spines," the "X" Corps director agreed dryly. "You have an idea for a weapon?"
"Me? What do you think I am? A genius? But I think I've found one. Name is Joel de la Croix. He's supposed to be about the hottest thing M.I.T. ever turned out. I've gossiped with him about what I used to do as a firecontrolman in Sisu. He came up with some brilliant ideas without being prodded. Then he said, 'Thor, it's ridiculous for a ship to be put out of action by a silly little paralysis beam when it has enough power in its guts to make a small star.' "
"A very small star. But I agree."
"Okay. I've got him stashed in our Havermeyer Labs in Toronto. As soon as your boys okay him, I want to hand him a truckload of money and give him a free hand. I'll feed him all I know about raider tactics and so forth—trance tapes, maybe, as I won't have time to work with him much. I'm being run ragged here."
"He'll need a team. This isn't a home-workshop project."
"I know. I'll funnel names to you as fast as I have them. Project Porcupine will have all the men and money it can use. But, Jake, how many of these gadgets can I sell to the Guard?"
"Eh?"
"I'm supposed to be running a business. If I run it into the ground, the courts will boost me out. I'm going to let Project Porcupine spend megabucks like water—but I've got to justify it to directors and stockholders. If we come up with something, I can sell several hundred units to Free Traders, I can sell some to ourselves—but I need to show a potential large market to justify the expenditure. How many can the Guard use?"
"Thor, you're worrying unnecesarily. Even if you don't come up with a superweapon—and your chances aren't good—all research pays off. Your stockholders won't lose."
"I am not worrying unnecessarily! I've got this job by a handful of votes; a special stockholders meeting could kick me out tomorrow. Sure research pays off, but not necessarily quickly. You can count on it that every credit I spend is reported to people who would love to see me bumped—so I've got to have reasonable justification."
"How about a research contract?"
"With a vice colonel staring down my boy's neck and telling him what to do? We want to give him a free hand."
"Mmm . . . yes. Suppose I get you a letter-of-intent? We'll make the figure as high as possible. I'll have to see the Marshal-in-Chief. He's on Luna at the moment and I can't squeeze time to go to Luna this week. You'll have to wait a few days."
"I'm not going to wait; I'm going to assume that you can do it. Jake, I'm going to get things rolling and get out of this crazy job—if you won't have me in the corps I can always be an ordnanceman."
"Come on down this evening. I'll enlist you—then I'll order you to detached duty, right where you are."
Thorby's chin dropped. "Jake! You wouldn't do that to me!"
"I would if you were silly enough to place yourself under my orders, Rudbek."
"But—" Thorby shut up. There was no use arguing; there was too much work to be done.
&
nbsp; "Smith" added, "Anything else?"
"I guess not."
"I'll have a first check on de la Croix by tomorrow. See you."
Thorby switched off, feeling glummer than ever. It was not the Wing Marshal's half-whimsical threat, nor even his troubled conscience over spending large amounts of other people's money on a project that stood little chance of success; it was simply that he was swamped by a job more complex than he had believed possible.
He picked up the top item again, put it down, pressed the key that sealed him through to Rudbek estate. Leda was summoned to the screen. "I'll be late again. I'm sorry."
"I'll delay dinner. They're enjoying themselves and I had the kitchen make the canapés substantial."
Thorby shook his head. "Take the head of the table. I'll eat here. I may sleep here."
She sighed. "If you sleep. Look, my stupid dear, be in bed by midnight and up not before six. Promise?"
"Okay. If possible."
"It had better be possible, or you will have trouble with me. See you."
He didn't even pick up the top item this time; he simply sat in thought. Good girl, Leda . . . she had even tried to help in the business—until it had become clear that business was not her forte. But she was one bright spot in the gloom; she always bucked him up. If it wasn't patently unfair for a Guardsman to marry— But he couldn't be that unfair to Leda and he had no reason to think she would be willing anyhow. It was unfair enough for him to duck out of a big dinner party at the last minute. Other things. He would have to try to treat her better.
It had all seemed so self-evident: just take over, fumigate that sector facing the Sargony, then pick somebody else to run it. But the more he dug, the more there was to do. Taxes . . . the tax situation was incredibly snarled; it always was. That expansion program the Vegan group was pushing—how could he judge unless he went there and looked? And would he know if he did? And how could he find time?
Funny, but a man who owned a thousand starships automatically never had time to ride in even one of them. Maybe in a year or two—
No, those confounded wills wouldn't even be settled in that time!—two years now and the courts were still chewing it. Why couldn't death be handled decently and simply the way the People did it?
In the meantime he wasn't free to go on with Pop's work.
True, he had accomplished a little. By letting "X" Corps have access to Rudbek's files some of the picture had filled in—Jake had told him that a raid which had wiped out one slaver pesthole had resulted directly from stuff the home office knew and hadn't known that it knew.
Or had somebody known? Some days he thought Weemsby and Bruder had had guilty knowledge, some days not—for all that the files showed was legitimate business . . . sometimes with wrong people. But who knew that they were the wrong people?
He opened a drawer, got out a folder with no "URGENT" flag on it simply because it never left his hands. It was, he felt, the most urgent thing in Rudbek, perhaps in the Galaxy—certainly more urgent than Project Porcupine because this matter was certain to cripple, or at least hamper, the slave trade, while Porcupine was a long chance. But his progress had been slow—too much else to do.
Always too much. Grandmother used to say never to buy too many eggs for your basket. Wonder where she got that?—the People never bought eggs. He had both too many baskets and too many eggs for each. And another basket every day.
Of course, in a tough spot he could always ask himself: "What would Pop do?" Colonel Brisby had phrased that—"I just ask myself, 'What would Colonel Baslim do?' " It helped, especially when he had to remember also what the presiding judge had warned him about the day his parents' shares had been turned over to him: "No man can own a thing to himself alone, and the bigger it is, the less he owns it. You are not free to deal with this property arbitrarily nor foolishly. Your interest does not override that of other stockholders, nor of employees, nor of the public."
Thorby had talked that warning over with Pop before deciding to go ahead with Porcupine.
The judge was right. His first impulse on taking over the business had been to shut down every Rudbek activity in that infected sector, cripple the slave trade that way. But you could not do that. You could not injure thousands, millions, of honest men to put the squeeze on criminals. It required more judicious surgery.
Which was what he was trying to do now. He started studying the unmarked folder.
Garsch stuck his head in. "Still running under the whip? What's the rush, boy?"
"Jim, where can I find ten honest men?"
"Huh? Diogenes was satisfied to hunt for one. Gave him more than he could handle."
"You know what I mean—ten honest men each qualified to take over as a planetary manager for Rudbek." Thorby added to himself, "—and acceptable to 'X' Corps."
"Now I'll tell one."
"Know any other solution? I'll have each one relieve a manager in the smelly sector and send the man he relieves back—we can't fire them; we'll have to absorb them. Because we don't know. But the new men we can trust and each one will be taught how the slave trade operates and what to look for."
Garsch shrugged. "It's the best we can do. But forget the notion of doing it in one bite; we won't find that many qualified men at one time. Now look, boy, you ain't going to solve it tonight no matter how long you stare at those names. When you are as old as I am, you'll know you can't do everything at once—provided you don't kill yourself first. Either way, someday you die and somebody else has to do the work. You remind me of the man who set out to count stars. Faster he counted, the more new stars kept turning up. So he went fishing. Which you should, early and often."
"Jim, why did you agree to come here? I don't see you quitting work when the others do."
"Because I'm an old idiot. Somebody had to give you a hand. Maybe I relished a chance to take a crack at anything as dirty as the slave trade and this was my way—I'm too old and fat to do it any other way."
Thorby nodded. "I thought so. I've got another way—only, confound it, I'm so busy doing what I must do that I don't have time for what I ought to do . . . and I never get a chance to do what I want to do!"
"Son, that's universal. The way to keep that recipe from killing you is occasionally to do what you want to do anyhow. Which is right now. There's all day tomorrow ain't touched yet . . . and you are going out with me and have a sandwich and look at pretty girls."
"I'm going to have dinner sent up."
"No, you aren't. Even a steel ship has to have time for maintenance. So come along."
Thorby looked at the stack of papers. "Okay."
The old man munched his sandwich, drank his lager, and watched pretty girls, with a smile of innocent pleasure. They were indeed pretty girls; Rudbek City attracted the highest-paid talent in show business.
But Thorby did not see them. He was thinking.
A person can't run out on responsibility. A captain can't, a chief officer can't. But he did not see how, if he went on this way, he would ever be able to join Pop's corps. But Jim was right; here was a place where the filthy business had to be fought, too.
Even if he didn't like this way to fight it? Yes. Colonel Brisby had once said, about Pop: "It means being so devoted to freedom that you are willing to give up your own . . . be a beggar . . . or a slave . . . or die—that freedom may live."
Yes, Pop, but I don't know how to do this job. I'd do it . . . I'm trying to do it. But I'm just fumbling. I don't have any talent for it.
Pop answered, "Nonsense! You can learn to do anything if you apply yourself. You're going to learn if I have to beat your silly head in!"
Somewhere behind Pop Grandmother was nodding agreement and looking stern. Thorby nodded back at her. "Yes, Grandmother. Okay, Pop. I'll try."
"You'll do more than try!"
"I'll do it, Pop."
"Now eat your dinner."
Obediently Thorby reached for his spoon, then noticed that it was a sandwich instead of a bowl of stew. G
arsch said, "What are you muttering about?"
"Nothing. I just made up my mind."
"Give your mind a rest and use your eyes instead. There's a time and a place for everything."
"You're right, Jim."
"Goodnight, son," the old beggar whispered. "Good dreams . . . and good luck!"
Robert A. Heinlein, Citizen of the Galaxy
(Series: # )
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