Citizen of the Galaxy (35 page)

“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 unnecessarily. 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? Well 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.

“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 canapes 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 tight 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 haw 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. Garsch 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 place for everything.”

“You're right, Jim.”

“Goodnight, son,” the old beggar whispered. “Good dreams . . . and good luck!”