"But," Ravenhurst continued smoothly, "if I fail to live up to your
ideas of courtesy again, I hope you'll forgive me in advance. I'm
sometimes very forgetful, and I don't like it when a man threatens to
leave my employ twice in the space of fifteen minutes."
"I'm not in your employ yet, Ravenhurst," I said. "If I accept the
job, I won't threaten to quit again unless I mean to carry it through,
and it would take a lot more than common discourtesy to make me do
that. On the other hand, your brand of discourtesy is a shade above
the common."
"I thank you for that, at least," said Ravenhurst. "Show him to my
office, Mr. Feller."
The blond young man nodded wordlessly and led me from the room.
* * * * *
Walking under low-gee conditions is like nothing else in this
universe. I don't mean trotting around on Luna; one-sixth gee is
practically homelike in comparison. And zero gee is so devoid of
orientation that it gives the sensation of falling endlessly until you
get used to it. But a planetoid is in a different class altogether.
Remember that dream--almost everybody's had it--where you're suddenly
able to fly? It isn't flying exactly; it's a sort of swimming in the
air. Like being underwater, except that the medium around you isn't so
dense and viscous, and you can breathe. Remember? Well, that's the
feeling you get on a low-gee planetoid.
Your arms don't tend to hang at your sides, as they do on Earth or
Luna, because the muscular tension tends to hold them out, just as it
does in zero-gee, but there is still a definite sensation of
up-and-down. If you push yourself off the floor, you tend to float in
a long, slow, graceful arc, provided you don't push too hard. Magnetic
soles are practically a must.
I followed the blond Mr. Feller down a series of long corridors which
had been painted a pale green, which gave me the feeling that I was
underwater. There were doors spaced at intervals along the corridor
walls. Occasionally one of them would open and a busy looking man
would cross the corridor, open another door, and disappear. From
behind the doors, I could hear the drum of distant sounds.
We finally ended up in front of what looked like the only wooden door
in the place. When you're carving an office and residence out of a
nickel-iron planetoid, importing wood from Earth is a purely luxury
matter.
There was no name plate on that mahogany-red door; there didn't need
to be.
Feller touched a thin-lined circle in the door jamb.
"You don't knock?" I asked with mock seriousness.
"No," said Feller, with a straight face. "I have to signal. Knocking
wouldn't do any good. That's just wood veneer over a three-inch-thick
steel slab."
The door opened and I stepped inside.
I have never seen a room quite like it. The furniture was all that
same mahogany--a huge desk, nineteenth century baroque, with carved
and curlicued legs; two chairs carved the same, with padded seats of
maroon leather; and a chair behind the desk that might have doubled as
a bishop's throne, with even fancier carving. Off to one side was a
long couch upholstered in a lighter maroon. The wall-to-wall carpeting
was a rich Burgundy, with a pile deep enough to run a reaper through.
The walls were paneled with mahogany and hung with a couple of huge
tapestries done in maroon, purple, and red. A bookcase along one wall
was filled with books, every one of which had been rebound in maroon
leather.
It was like walking into a cask of old claret. Or old blood.
The man sitting behind the desk looked as though he'd been built to be
the lightest spot in an analogous color scheme. His suit was mauve
with purple piping, and his wide, square, saggy face was florid. On
his nose and cheeks, tiny lines of purple tracing made darker areas in
his skin. His hair was a medium brown, but it was clipped so short
that the scalp showed faintly through, and amid all that overwhelming
background, even the hair looked vaguely violet.
"Come in, Mr. Oak," said Shalimar Ravenhurst.
I walked toward him across the Burgundy carpet while the blond young
man discreetly closed the door behind me, leaving us alone. I didn't
blame him. I was wearing a yellow union suit, and I hate to think what
I must have looked like in that room.
I sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk after giving a brief
shake to a thick-fingered, well-manicured, slightly oily hand.
He opened a crystal decanter that stood on one end of the desk. "Have
some Madeira, Mr. Oak? Or would you like something else? I never drink
spirits at this time of night."
I fought down an impulse to ask for a shot of redeye. "The Madeira
will be fine, Mr. Ravenhurst."
He poured and handed me a stemmed glass nearly brimming with the wine.
I joined him in an appreciative sip, then waited while he made up his
mind to talk.
He leaned across the desk, looking at me with his small, dark eyes. He
had an expression on his face that looked as if it were trying to
sneer and leer at the same time but couldn't get much beyond the
smirk stage.
"Mr. Oak, I have investigated you thoroughly--as thoroughly as it can
be done, at least. My attorneys say that your reputation is A-one;
that you get things done and rarely disappoint a client."
He paused as if waiting for a comment. I gave him nothing.
After a moment, he went on. "I hope that's true, Mr. Oak, because I'm
going to have to trust you." He leaned back in his chair again, his
eyes still on me. "Men very rarely like me, Mr. Oak. I am not a
likable man. I do not pretend to be. That's not my function." He said
it as if he had said it many times before, believed it, and wished it
wasn't so.
"I do not ask that you like me," he continued. "I only ask that you be
loyal to my interests for the duration of this assignment." Another
pause. "I have been assured by others that this will be so. I would
like your assurance."
"If I take the assignment, Mr. Ravenhurst," I told him, "I'll be
working for _you_. I can be bought, but once I'm bought I stay bought.
"Now, what seems to be your trouble?"
He frowned. "Well, now, let's get one thing settled: Are you working
for me, or not?"
"I won't know that until I find out what the job is."
His frown deepened. "Now, see here; this is very confidential work.
What happens if I tell you and you decide not to work for me?"
I sighed. "Ravenhurst, right now, you're paying me to listen to you.
Even if I don't take your job, I'm going to bill you for expenses and
time to come all the way out here. So, as far as listening is
concerned, I'm working for you now. If I don't like the job, I'll
still forget everything I'm told. All right?"
He didn't like it, but he had no choice. "All right," he said. He
polished off his glass of Madeira and refilled it. My own glass was
still nearly full.
"Mr. Oak," he began, "I have two problems. One is minor, the other
major. But I have attempted to blow the minor problem up out of
proportion, so that all the people here at Raven's Rest think that it
is the only problem. They think that I brought you out here for that
reason alone.
"But all that is merely cover-up for the real problem."
"Which is?" I prompted.
He leaned forward again. Apparently, it was the only exercise he ever
got. "You're aware that Viking Spacecraft is one of the corporations
under the management of Ravenhurst Holdings?"
I nodded. Viking Spacecraft built some of the biggest and best
spacecraft in the System. It held most of Ceres--all of it, in fact,
except the Government Reservation. It had moved out to the asteroids a
long time back, after the big mining concerns began cutting up the
smaller asteroids for metal. The raw materials are easier to come by
out here than they are on Earth, and it's a devil of a lot easier to
build spacecraft under low-gee conditions than it is under the pull of
Earth or Luna or Mars.
"Do you know anything about the experimental robotic ships being built
on Eros?" Ravenhurst asked.
"Not much," I admitted. "I've heard about them, but I don't know any
of the details." That wasn't quite true, but I've found it doesn't pay
to tell everybody everything you know.
"The engineering details aren't necessary," Ravenhurst said. "Besides,
I don't know them, myself. The point is that Viking is trying to build
a ship that will be as easy to operate as a flitterboat--a one-man
cargo vessel. Perhaps even a completely automatic job for cargo, and
just use a one-man crew for the passenger vessels. Imagine how that
would cut the cost of transportation in the Solar System! Imagine how
it would open up high-speed cargo transfer if an automatic vessel
could accelerate at twenty or twenty-five gees to turnover!"
I'll give Ravenhurst this: He had a light in his eyes that showed a
real excitement about the prospect he was discussing, and it wasn't
due entirely to the money he might make.
"Sounds fine," I said. "What seems to be the trouble?"
His face darkened half a shade. "The company police suspect sabotage,
Mr. Oak."
"How? What kind?"
[Illustration]
"They don't know. Viking has built six ships of that type--the McGuire
class, the engineers call it. Each one has been slightly different
than the one before, of course, as they ironed out the bugs in their
operation. But each one has been a failure. Not one of them would pass
the test for space-worthiness."
"Not a failure of the drive or the ordinary mechanisms of the ship, I
take it?"
Ravenhurst sniffed. "Of course not. The brain. The ships became, as
you might say, _non compos mentis_. As a matter of fact, when the last
one simply tried to burrow into the surface of Eros by reversing its
drive, one of the roboticists said that a coroner's jury would have
returned a verdict of 'suicide while of unsound mind' if there were
inquests held for spaceships."
"That doesn't make much sense," I said.
"No. It doesn't. It isn't sensible. Those ships' brains shouldn't have
behaved that way. Robot brains don't go mad unless they're given
instructions to do so--conflicting orders, erroneous information, that
sort of thing. Or, unless they have actual physical defects in the
brains themselves."
"The brains can handle the job of flying a ship all right, though?" I
asked. "I mean, they have the capacity for it?"
"Certainly. They're the same type that's used to control the
automobile traffic on the Eastern Seaboard Highway Network of North
America. If they can control the movement of millions of cars, there's
no reason why they can't control a spaceship."
"No," I said, "I suppose not." I thought it over for a second, then
asked, "But what do your robotics men say is causing the
malfunctions?"
"That's where the problem comes in, Mr. Oak." He pursed his pudgy
lips, and his eyes narrowed. "The opinions are divided. Some of the
men say it's simply a case of engineering failure--that the bugs
haven't been worked out of this new combination, but that as soon as
they are, everything will work as smoothly as butter. Others say that
only deliberate tampering could cause those failures. And still others
say that there's not enough evidence to prove either of those theories
is correct."
"But your opinion is that it's sabotage?"
"Exactly," said Ravenhurst, "and I know who is doing it and why."
I didn't try to conceal the little bit of surprise that gave me. "You
know the man who's responsible?"
He shook his head rapidly, making his jowls wobble. "I didn't mean
that. It's not a single man; it's a group."
"Maybe you'd better go into a little more detail on that, Mr.
Ravenhurst."
He nodded, and this time his jowls bobbled instead of wobbled. "Some
group at Viking is trying to run me out of the managerial business.
They want Viking to be managed by Thurston Enterprises; they evidently
think they can get a better deal from him than they can from me. If
the McGuire project fails, they'll have a good chance of convincing
the stock-holders that the fault lies with Ravenhurst. You follow?"
"So far," I said. "Do you think Thurston's behind this, then?"
"I don't know," he said slowly. "He might be, or he might not. If he
is, that's perfectly legitimate business tactics. He's got a perfect
right to try to get more business for himself if he wants to. I've
undercut him a couple of times.
"But I don't think he's too deeply involved, if he's involved at all.
This smacks of a personal attack against me, and I don't think that's
Thurston's type of play.
"You see, things are a little touchy right now. I won't go into
details, but you know what the political situation is at the moment.
"It works this way, as far as Viking is concerned: If I lose the
managerial contract at Viking, a couple of my other contracts will go
by the board, too--especially if it's proved that I've been lax in
management or have been expending credit needlessly.
"These other two companies are actually a little shaky at the moment;
I've only been managing them for a little over a year in one case and
two years in the other. Their assets have come up since I took over,
but they'd still dump me if they thought I was reckless."
"How can they do that?" I asked. "You have a contract, don't you?"
"Certainly. They wouldn't break it. But they'd likely ask the
Government Inspectors to step in and check every step of the
managerial work. Now, you and I and everybody else knows that you have
to cut corners to make a business successful. If the GI's step in,
that will have to stop--which means we'll show a loss heavy enough to
put us out. We'll be forced to sell the contract for a pittance.
"Well, then. If Viking goes, and these other two corporations go,
it'll begin to look as if Ravenhurst can't take care of himself and
his companies anymore. Others will climb on the bandwagon. Contracts
that are coming up for renewal will be reconsidered instead of
continuing automatically. I think you can see where that would lead
eventually."
I did. You don't go into the managing business these days unless you
have plenty on the ball. You've got to know all the principles and all
the tricks of organization and communication, and you've got to be
able to waltz your way around all the roadblocks that are caused by
Government laws--some of which have been floating around on the books
of one nation or another for two or three centuries.
Did you know that there's a law on the American statute books that
forbids the landing of a spaceship within one hundred miles of a city?
That was passed back when they were using rockets, but it's never been
repealed. Technically, then, it's almost impossible to land a ship
anywhere on the North American continent. Long Island Spaceport is
openly flouting the law, if you want to look at it that way.
A managerial combine has to know all those little things and know how
to get around them. It has to be able to have the confidence of the
stock-holders of a corporation--if it's run on the Western Plan--or
the confidence of communal owners if it's run on the Eastern Plan.
Something like this could snowball on Ravenhurst. It isn't only the
rats that desert a sinking ship; so does anyone else who has any
sense.
"What I want to know, Mr. Oak," Ravenhurst continued, "is who is
behind this plot, whether an individual or a group. I want to know
identity and motivation."
"Is that all?" I eyed him skeptically.
"No. Of course not. I want you to make sure that the MG-YR-7 isn't
sabotaged. I want you to make sure it's protected from whatever kind
of monkey wrenches are being thrown into its works."
"It's nearly ready for testing now, isn't it?" I asked.
"It is ready. It seems to be in perfect condition so far. Viking is
already looking for a test pilot. It's still in working order now, and
I want to be certain that it will remain so."
I cocked my head to one side and gave him my Interrogative And
Suspicious Glance--Number 9 in the manual. "You didn't do any checking
on the first six McGuire ships. You wait until this one is done before
calling me. Why the delay, Ravenhurst?"
It didn't faze him. "I became suspicious after McGuire 6 failed. I put
Colonel Brock on it."
I nodded. I'd had dealings with Brock. He was head of Ravenhurst's
Security Guard. "Brock didn't get anywhere," I said.
"He did not. His own face is too well known for him to have
investigated personally, and he's not enough of an actor to get away
with using a plexiskin mask. He had to use underlings. And I'm afraid
some of them might be in the pay of the ... ah ... opposition. They
got nowhere."
"In other words, you may have spies in your own organization who are
working with the Viking group. Very interesting. That means they know
I'm working for you, which will effectively seal me up, too. You might
as well have kept Brock on the job."
He smiled in a smug, superior sort of way that some men might have
resented. I did. Even though I'd fed him the line so that he could
feel superior, knowing that a smart operator like Ravenhurst would
already have covered his tracks. I couldn't help wishing I'd told him
simply to trot out his cover story instead of letting him think I
believed it had never occurred to either of us before.
"As far as my staff knows, Mr. Oak, you are here to escort my
daughter, Jaqueline, to Braunsville, Luna. You will, naturally, have
to take her to Ceres in your flitterboat, where you will wait for a
specially chartered ship to take you both to Luna. That will be a week
after you arrive. Since the McGuire 7 is to be tested within three
days, that should give you ample time."
"If it doesn't?"
"We will consider that possibility if and when it becomes probable. I
have a great deal of faith in you."
"Thanks. One more thing: why do you think anybody will swallow the
idea that your daughter needs a private bodyguard to escort her to
Braunsville?"
His smile broadened a little. "You have not met my daughter, Mr. Oak.
Jaqueline takes after me in a great many respects, not the least of
which is her desire to have things her own way and submit to no man's
yoke, as the saying goes. I have had a difficult time with her, sir; a
difficult time. It is and has been a matter of steering a narrow
course between the Scylla of breaking her spirit with too much
discipline and the Charybdis of allowing her to ruin her life by
letting her go hog wild. She is seventeen now, and the time has come
to send her to a school where she will receive an education suitable
to her potentialities and abilities, and discipline which will be
suitable to her spirit.
"Your job, Mr. Oak, will be to make sure she gets there. You are not a
bodyguard in the sense that you must protect her from the people
around her. Quite the contrary, _they_ may need protection from _her_.
You are to make sure she arrives in Braunsville on schedule. She is
perfectly capable of taking it in her head to go scooting off to Earth
if you turn your back on her."
Still smiling, he refilled his glass. "Do have some more Madeira, Mr.
Oak. It's really an excellent year."