He stepped to the door and tapped.
"Come in."
Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some papers
aside. "Well, what do _you_ want?"
DeVore held out the letter. "You wanted to see me, sir, about this." He
placed the paper within the reach of his superior, who snatched at it,
held it up for a moment, then dropped it to his desk.
"Yes, I did. What can we do about it?"
"Why," DeVore spread his hands slightly, "we'll have to comply."
"That isn't what I meant, Idiot! How can we continue to receive the
payments from Consolidated?"
"I don't think we can, sir. If Central Coördinating wants to put the
device on a national basis, we can't do anything about it."
Morely looked down at the letter, then glared searchingly at DeVore.
"The way I read this," he declared, "they want to distribute
manufacturing rights on the communicator to plants in other regions than
this. Right?"
"Yes, sir."
"But they don't say anything about our continuing the Consolidated
payments on an overwrite basis, for the sale of devices they may make.
Now, do they?"
"No, sir. But that's implied. In cases like this, Central always takes
over all rights." DeVore hesitated. "I believe regulations--"
"I don't care what's implied, DeVore. And I don't care what you
believe. All I see is what's in this letter. They want to distribute the
manufacturing load, and I'm quite willing that they should. I want to
continue receiving the payments from Consolidated. Now, you arrange it
so that they're satisfied and I'm satisfied."
[Illustration]
"But that'll mean Consolidated will have to pay double. We can't--"
"Don't say 'can't' to me!" Morely held up a hand angrily. "DeVore, I'm
not going to tell you how to do this. I want it done. The details are
your affair, and if I have to teach you your business, I'll get someone
who can do things without having to have them spelled out to him." He
leaned back, to glare at DeVore.
"Now, get on the job. I told you to make arrangements for me so that we
will retain our payments from Consolidated. And I'm not interested in
what arrangements you make with them, or what arrangements they make
with Central. Is that a simple enough order for you to understand?"
"Yes, sir. I understand all right. But--"
"Good! I'm glad I managed to get at least one simple idea into your
head." The spring in the chair twanged as Morely came forward, to poke
his head at DeVore. "Now, get to work on it."
He jerked his head down for a quick look at the letter on his desk, then
looked up again.
"And I'll expect a report from you by tonight that you've got the matter
taken care of."
DeVore looked at his superior expressionless for a heartbeat. He had
been given peculiar orders before, and he'd always managed to work out
the problems involved. But this was the ultimate. This one seemed to be
just plain illegal. And there was no point in arguing further. There was
just the barest chance that there might be some legitimate way out. If
he challenged the Old Man on an illegal order, he just might get his
ears pinned back. He'd simply have to go back to his office and try to
hunt out a technicality. He nodded.
"Yes, sir. I'll get on it immediately."
He saluted and started to leave the office. But he didn't make it.
"And, DeVore!"
The Fiscal chief halted abruptly, and turned.
"Sir?"
"I'm getting tired of the negative thinking you people seem to have
fallen into lately. I'm sick of going into every routine detail with
you. When you got that letter, you should have immediately worked out a
method of retaining the royalties. Then, you could have come in and
presented it for my approval. That is the kind of work I want. And
that's the kind of work I mean to get in the future. Do you understand?"
Sternly, DeVore suppressed a sarcastic thought. He held his mind and
face blank and nodded with a semblance of respect.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well." Morely waved a hand. "Now get something done."
* * * * *
As DeVore walked through the corridor, he thought over the situation. Of
course, the easy way out would be to force Consolidated to continue the
payments in addition to their license fees from Central. That could be
done. There were all kinds of methods by which pressure could be brought
to bear on any company by the district leader's office. And from
Consolidated's point of view, double payments could offer a cheap means
of keeping out of difficulties. They would be able to pass most of the
cost to the consumer by a slight price increase, justified by a minor
modification of the devices.
But they wouldn't be happy about it, and there would come a day when an
auditing team from Central would be checking in the district. And that
would be the day of days!
DeVore turned in at the door to his own office, crossed the room, and
sat down at his desk.
To be sure, he could request a share of the fees from Central, and
they'd make an award. But they'd never award more than fifty per cent,
and it'd be hard to get that much. That was no good. The Old Man would
want the same payments he'd been getting.
Or, he could try to negotiate a new agreement with Consolidated, double
the royalties, and then request fifty per cent from Central. He grinned
wryly. That would be within legal limits, he was sure, but Central knew
the present arrangement, and he knew that they knew. And so would most
of the interested manufacturers in other regions. The first-class
citizens who owned the plants had their own liaison. They'd all balk.
Then, Central would invalidate both old and new agreements and refuse
compensation of any kind to district. That would be a suicidal course.
He looked up, thinking of one of the girls out in the legal crew.
"_Fiscal regulations, please. And Markowitz on royalties, too._"
The girl turned half around, and he could see a faint impression of her
view of office details. Then, she went to a book rack. For a few
seconds, she glanced over the books, then selected two large volumes.
"_Shall I look it up, or do you want the books?_"
"_I'll take them. Might need quite a bit of research._"
Shortly, the girl appeared in his doorway. Quickly, she laid the two
volumes on his desk.
DeVore nodded his thanks and opened regulations. Some of the paragraphs
were delightfully vague, and could be subject to more than one
interpretation. But one paragraph was clear and explicit. And that was
the one he was concerned with.
A royalty agreement with, or manufacturing license from Central
Coördination definitely abrogated any agreement with, or payment to, any
lesser headquarters. Such an agreement or license barred any further
negotiation between any lesser headquarters and a manufacturer, relating
to the product concerned. Double royalties were prohibited in any case.
He pushed the books aside. There was no need of looking in Markowitz.
That regulation paragraph took care of this exact situation, and
disposed of it neatly. For an instant, he thought of taking the volume
in to the leader's office. Then, he remembered the threatening note in
the authoritative voice and the flat, deadly thoughts he had noted as
secondaries.
That wouldn't work either. He thought of the undercurrent in Kirk's
thoughts. Kirk had been carrying a regulation book, he remembered. He
contacted the Fixed Communications chief.
"_Don't_," he was told. "_I tried it. Know what happened?_"
"_Go ahead._"
"_He got the regional director on the communicator. I've been
transferred to Outpost. They seem to need a cable maintenance chief up
there. And I was lucky at that. I started to protest, and they nearly
had me for insubordination._" Abruptly, Kirk cut away.
* * * * *
DeVore stared unseeingly across the desk. He'd been at Outpost for a
short time once, on an inspection trip, and he still remembered the
place. At one time, it had been a well supplied, well organized post. At
that time, observational duty had been regarded more highly than now,
and the place had been desirable for any single officer, though the
married men had objected to being separated from their families by the
many miles of frozen waste. But that had changed.
Now, Outpost was the end of the line. The dilapidated surface quarters
offered poor protection from the fierce cold. Supply ships were rarely
scheduled to the place, and were often held up by storms when they were
scheduled. Half rations--even quarter rations--were commonplace. He
shook his head. Kirk was in real trouble, and there would be no point in
joining him. That would help neither of them.
This, he thought, was a situation. Then, he realized something else.
From Morely's point of view, it was a perfectly safe situation, with
nothing to lose. The district leader could easily disclaim any
responsibility for his Fiscal chief's actions in this matter. After all,
he hadn't given any detailed instructions. He had made no direct
suggestion of any illegal course. He'd merely consulted his Fiscal
expert on a technical matter, and if DeVore had seen fit to use an
illegal method of solving a problem, it was DeVore's responsibility
alone.
To be sure, Morely had been a little emphatic in his order, but that was
simply because he was well aware of his Fiscal chief's disinclination to
make exhaustive technical research.
DeVore pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the regulation book.
He might be able to use the same tactic Morely was following--if he were
so inclined. He could issue verbal instructions to the sector leader
concerned, and Bond might fail to see the trap. Then, he could report to
the leader that the matter was taken care of, indorse the letter back to
Central, with the agreement copy, and let Bond turn in funds under one
of the "miscellaneous received" accounts. In fact, he realized, that was
just about what the district leader expected him to do.
He smiled and shook his head. A few months ago, it was possible he could
have done that, but even then, he wouldn't have. And now, with the
mental communicators in use, it would be a flat impossibility. The trap
would be as obvious to Bond as it had been to him. He leaned back in his
chair and tapped his fingertips against each other.
The mentacoms, he knew, were in common use by this time, in virtually
every office of district, regional, and national administration, as well
as by most citizens. And he'd served under Marko Keller once--known him
fairly well, too. He shrugged.
It would be a little irregular for a district Fiscal chief to make
direct contact with the Coördination Agency's comptroller, but there was
nothing like getting the most expert and authoritative advice available.
He relaxed, trying to recreate his memories of the man who was now
National Comptroller.
* * * * *
Marko Keller strode purposefully into the filing section. He could
easily get the data he needed by simply contacting one of the clerks, he
knew, but he felt an urgent need for personal activity. That
conversation with DeVore, way out in Region Nine, had upset him more
than he liked to admit, even to himself.
It wouldn't be so bad if it were an isolated incident. Such things could
be taken care of by administrative action, and a single instance would
cause little disturbance. But there were too many, happening too often.
He pulled a file drawer open, violently.