Kennon was startled by the speed with which his letters were answered.
Accustomed to the slower pace of Beta he had expected a week would
elapse before the first reply, but within twenty-four hours nine of his
twelve inquiries were returned. Five expressed the expected “Thank you
but I feel that your asking salary is a bit high in view of your lack
of experience.” Three were frankly interested and requested a personal
interview. And the last was the letter, outstanding in its quietly
ostentatious folder-the reply from Box V-9.
“Would Dr. Kennon call at 10 A.M. tomorrow at the offices of
Outworld Enterprises Incorporated and bring this letter and suitable
identifications?” Kennon chuckled. Would he? There was no question about
it. The address, 200 Central Avenue, was only a few blocks away. In
fact, he could see the building from his window, a tall functional block
of durilium and plastic, soaring above the others on the street, the
sunlight gleaming off its clean square lines. He eyed it curiously,
wondering what he would find inside.
* * *
The receptionist took his I.D. and the letter, scanned them briefly,
and slipped them into one of the message tubes beside her desk. “It will
only be a moment, Doctor,” she said impersonally. “Would you care to sit
down? ’”
“Thank you,” he said. The minute, reflected, could easily be an hour. But
she was right. It was only a minute until the message tube clicked
and popped a capsule onto the girl’s desk. She opened it, and removed
Kennon’s I.D. and a small yellow plastic rectangle. Her eyes widened at
the sight of the plastic card.
“Here you are, Doctor. Take shaft number one. Slip the card into the
scanner slot and you’ll be taken to the correct floor. The offices you
want will be at the end of the corridor to the left. You’ll find any
other data you may need on the card in case you get lost.” She looked at
him with a curious mixture of surprise and respect as she handed him the
contents of the message tube.
Kennon murmured an acknowledgment, took the card and his I.D., and
entered the grav-shaft. There was the usual moment of heaviness as
the shaft whisked him upward and deposited him in front of a thickly
carpeted corridor.
Executive level, Kennon thought as he followed the receptionist’s
directions. No wonder she had looked respectful. But what was he doing
here? The employment of a veterinarian wasn’t important enough to demand
the attention of a senior executive. The personnel section could handle
the details of his application as well as not. He shrugged. Perhaps
veterinarians were more important on Kardon. He didn’t know a thing
about this world’s customs.
He opened the unmarked door at the end of the corridor, entered a small
reception room, smiled uncertainly at the woman behind the desk, and
received an answering smile in return.
Come right in, Dr. Kennon. Mr. Alexander is waiting for you.
Alexander! The entrepreneur himself! Why? Numb with surprise Kennon
watched the woman open the intercom on her desk.
“Sir, Dr. Kennon is here,” she said.
“Bring him in,” a smooth voice replied from the speaker. Alexander X. M.
Alexander, President of Outworld Enterprises--a lean, dark, wolfish man
in his early sixties--eyed Kennon with a flat predatory intentness that
was oddly disquieting. His stare combined the analytical inspection
of the pathologist, the probing curiosity of the psychiatrist, and the
weighing appraisal of the butcher. Kennon’s thoughts about Alexander’s
youth vanished that instant. Those eyes belonged to a leader on the
battlefield of galactic business.
Kennon felt the conditioned respect for authority surge through him in
a smothering wave. Grimly he fought it down, knowing it was a sign of
weakness that would do him no good in the interview which lay ahead.
“So you’re Kennon,” Alexander said. His lingua franca was clean and
accentless. “I expected someone older.”
“Frankly, sir, so did I,” Kennon replied.
Alexander smiled, an oddly pleasant smile that transformed the hard
straight lines in his face into friendly curves. “Business, Dr. Kennon,
is not the sole property of age.”
“Nor is a veterinary degree,” Kennon replied.
“True. But one thinks of a Betan as someone ancient and sedate.”
“Ours is an old planet--but we still have new generations.”
“A fact most of us outsiders find hard to believe,” Alexander said. “I
picture your world as an ironclad society crystallized by age and custom
into something rigid and in flexible.”
“You would be wrong to do so,” Kennon said. “Even though we are cultural
introverts there is plenty of dynamism within our society.”
“How is it that you happen to be out here on the edge of civilization?”
“I never said I was like my society,” Kennon grinned. “Actually I
suppose I’m one of the proverbial bad apples.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Alexander said. “Your early years
probably influenced you.”
Kennon looked sharply at the entrepreneur. How much did the man really
know about him? “I suppose so,” he said indifferently.
Alexander looked pleased. “But even with your childhood experiences
there must be an atavistic streak in you--a throwback to your
adventurous Earth forebears who settled your world?”
Kennon shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. I really don’t know. Actually,
I’ve never thought about it. It merely seemed to me that an undeveloped
world offered more opportunity.”
“It does,” Alexander said. “But it also offers more work. If you’re
figuring that you can get along on the minimum physical effort required
on the Central Worlds, you have a shock coming.”
“I’m not that innocent,” Kennon said. “But I am not so stupid that I
can’t apply modifications of Betan techniques to worlds as new as this.”
Alexander chuckled. “I like you,” he said suddenly. “Here read this and
see if you’d care to work for me.” He picked a contract form from one of
the piles of paper on his desk and handed it to Kennon. “This is one
of our standard work contracts. Take it back to your hotel and check it
over. I’ll expect to see you at this time tomorrow.”
“Why waste time?” Kennon said. “The rapid-reading technique originated
on Beta. I can tell you in fifteen minutes.”
“Hmm. Certainly. Read it here if you wish. I like to get things
settled--the sooner the better. Sit down, young man and read. You can
rouse me when you’re finished.” He turned his attention to the papers on
his desk and within seconds was completely oblivious of Kennon, his face
set in the rapt trancelike expression of a trained rapid reader.
Kennon watched for a moment as sheets of paper passed through
Alexander’s hands to be added to the pile at the opposite end of the
desk. The man would do better, he thought, if he would have his staff
transcribe the papers to microfilm that could be read through an
interval-timed scanner. He might suggest that later. As for now, he
shrugged and seated himself in the chair beside the desk. The quiet was
broken only by the rustle of paper as the two rapt-faced men turned page
after page with mechanical regularity.
Finally Kennon turned the last page, paused, blinked, and performed
the necessary mental gymnastics to orient his time sense. Alexander, he
noticed, was still engrossed, sunk in his autohypnotic trance. Kennon
waited until he had finished the legal folder which he was reading and
then gently intruded upon Alexander’s concentration.
Alexander looked up blankly and then went through the same mental
gyrations Kennon had performed a few minutes before. His eyes focused
and became hard and alert.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think of it?”
“I think it’s the damnedest, trickiest, most unilateral piece of
legalistics I’ve ever seen,” Kennon said bluntly. “If that’s the best
you can offer, I wouldn’t touch the job with a pair of forceps.”
Alexander smiled. “I see you read the fine print,” he said. There was
quiet amusement in his voice. “So you don’t like the contract?”
“No sensible man would. I’m damned if I’ll sign commitment papers just
to get a job. No wonder you’re having trouble getting professional help.
If your contracts are all like that it’s’ a wonder anyone works for
you.”
“We have no complaints from our employees,” Alexander said stiffly.
“How could you? If they signed that contract you’d have a perfect right
to muzzle them.”
“There are other applicants for this post,” Alexander said.
“Then get one of them. I wouldn’t be interested.”
“A spaceman’s ticket is a good thing to have,” Alexander said idly.
“It’s a useful ace in the hole. Besides, you have had three other job
offers--all of which are good even though they don’t pay fifteen Ems a
year.”
Kennon did a quick double take. Alexander’s investigative staff was
better than good. It was uncanny.
“But seriously, Dr. Kennon, I am pleased that you do not like that
contract. Frankly, I wouldn’t consider employing you if you did.”
“Sir?”
“That contract is a screen. It weeds out the careless, the fools, and
the unfit in one operation. A man who would sign a thing like that
has no place in my organization.” Alexander chuckled at Kennon’s blank
expression. “I see you have had no experience with screening contracts.”
“I haven’t,” Kennon admitted. “On Beta the tests are formal. The
Medico-Psych Division supervises them.”
“Different worlds, different methods,” Alexander observed. “But they’re
all directed toward the same goal. Here we aren’t so civilized. We
depend more on personal judgment.” He took another contract from one of
the drawers of his desk. “Take a look at this. I think you’ll be more
satisfied.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll read it now,” Kennon said.
Alexander nodded.
* * *
“It’s fair enough,” Kennon said, “except for Article Twelve.”
“The personal privilege section?
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s the contract. You can take it or leave it.”
“I’ll leave it,” Kennon said. “Thank you for your time.” He rose to his
feet, smiled at Alexander, and turned to the door. “Don’t bother to call
your receptionist,” he said. “I can find my way out.”
“Just a minute, Doctor,” Alexander said. He was standing behind the
desk, holding out his hand.
“Another test?” Kennon inquired.
Alexander nodded. “The critical one,” he said. “Do you want the job?”
“Of course.”
“Without knowing more about it?”
“The contract is adequate. It defines my duties.”
“And you think you can handle them?”
“I know I can.”
“I notice,” Alexander observed, “that you didn’t object to other
provisions.”
“No, sir. They’re pretty rigid, but for the salary you are paying I
figure you should have some rights. Certainly you have the right to
protect your interests. But that Article Twelve is a direct violation of
everything a human being should hold sacred besides being a violation
of the Peeper Laws. I’d never sign a contract that didn’t carry a full
Peeper rider.”
“That’s quite a bit.”
“That’s the minimum,” Kennon corrected. “Naturally, I won’t object
to mnemonic erasure of matters pertaining to your business once my
contract’s completed and I leave your employment. But until then there
will be no conditioning, no erasures, no taps, no snoopers, and no
checkups other than the regular periodic psychans. I’ll consult with you
on vacation time and will arrange it to suit your convenience. I’ll even
agree to emergency recall, but that’s the limit.” Kennon’s voice was
flat.
“You realize I’m agreeing to give you a great deal of personal liberty,”
Alexander said. “How can I protect myself?”
“I’ll sign a contingency rider,” Kennon said, “if you will specify
precisely what security matters I am not to reveal.”
“I accept,” Alexander said. “Consider yourself hired.” He touched
a button on his desk. “Prepare a standard 2-A contract for Dr.
Jac Kennon’s signature. And attach two riders, a full P-P-yes, no
exceptions--and a security-leak contingency, Form 287-C. Yes--that’s
right--that one. And strike out all provisions of Article Twelve which
conflict with the Peeper Laws. Yes. Now--and finish it as soon as you
can.” He touched another button. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “I hope
you’ll enjoy being a member of our group.”
“I think I shall,” Kennon said. “You know, sir, I would have waived part
of that last demand if you had cared to argue.”
“I know it,” Alexander said. “But what concessions I could have wrung
from you would be relatively unimportant beside the fact that you would
be unhappy about them later. What little I could have won here, I’d lose
elsewhere. And since I want you, I’d prefer to have you satisfied.”
“I see,” Kennon said. Actually he didn’t see at all. He looked curiously
at the entrepreneur. Alexander couldn’t be as easy as he seemed.
Objectivity and dispassionate weighing and balancing were nice traits
and very helpful ones, but in the bear pit of galactic business they
wouldn’t keep their owner alive for five minutes. The interworld trade
sharks would have skinned him long ago and divided the stripped carcass
of his company between them.
But Outworld was a “respected” company. The exchange reports said
so--which made Alexander a different breed of cat entirely. Still, his
surface was perfect--polished and impenetrable as a duralloy turret on
one of the latest Brotherhood battleships. Kennon regretted he wasn’t a
sensitive. It would be nice to know what Alexander really was.
“Tell me, sir,” Kennon asked. “What are the real reasons that make you
think I’m the man you want?”
“And you’re the young man who’s so insistent on a personal privacy
rider,” Alexander chuckled. “However, there’s no harm telling you. There
are several reasons.
“You’re from a culture whose name is a byword for moral integrity. That
makes you a good risk so far as your ethics are concerned. In addition
you’re the product of one of the finest educational systems in the
galaxy-and you have proven your intelligence to my satisfaction. You
also showed me that you weren’t a spineless ‘yes man.’ And finally, you
have a spirit of adventure. Not one in a million of your people would do
what you have done. What more could an entrepreneur ask of a prospective
employee?”
Kennon sighed and gave up. Alexander wasn’t going to reveal a thing.
“All I hope,” Alexander continued affably, “is that you’ll find Outworld
Enterprises as attractive as did your predecessor Dr. Williamson. He was
with us until he died last month--better than a hundred years.”
“Died rather young, didn’t he?”
“Not exactly, he was nearly four hundred when he joined us. My
grandfather was essentially conservative. He liked older men, and Old
Doc was one of his choices--a good one, too. He was worth every credit
we paid him.”
“I’ll try to do as well,” Kennon said, “but I’d like to warn you that I
have no intention of staying as long as he did. I want to build a clinic
and I figure sixty thousand is about enough to get started.”
“When will you veterinarians ever learn to be organization men?”
Alexander asked. “You’re as independent as tomcats.”
Kennon grinned. “It’s a breed characteristic, I guess.”
Alexander shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind after you’ve worked
for us.”
“Possibly, but I doubt it.”
“Tell me that five years from now,” Alexander said--“Ah--here are
the contracts.” He smiled at the trim secretary who entered the room
carrying a stack of papers.
“The riders are as you asked, sir,” the girl said.
“Good. Now, Doctor, if you please.”
“You don’t mind if I check them?” Kennon asked.
“Not at all. And when you’re through, just leave them on the
desk--except for your copy, of course.” Alexander scrawled his signature
on the bottom of each contract. “Don’t disturb me. I’ll be in contact
with you. Leave your whereabouts with your hotel.” He turned to the
papers in front of him, and then looked up for the last time. “Just one
more thing,” he said. “You impress me as a cautious man. It would be
just as well if you carried your caution with you when you leave this
room.”
Kennon nodded, and Alexander turned back to his work.