Donnel, not taking his eyes from the crowd, said: "Couple of years, sir.
He was just a guy in the bodyguard pool."
"Get me out of here," Orsino said. "To the Syndic Building."
In the big black car, he could almost forget the horror; he could hope
that time would erase it completely. It wasn't like polo. That shot had
been _aimed_.
The limousine purred to a halt before the titanic bulk of the Syndic
Building, was checked and rolled on into the Unrestricted Entrance. An
elevator silently lifted the car and passengers past floors devoted to
Alcohol Clerical, Alcohol Research, and Testing, Transport, Collections
Audit and Control, Cleaning and Dying, Female Recruitment and
Retirement, up, up, up, past sections and sub-sections Charles had never
entered, Syndic member though he was, to an automatic stop at a floor
whose indicator said: _enforcement and public relations_.
It was only 9:45 P.M.; F. W. Taylor would be in and working. Charles
said: "Wait here, boys," and muttered the code phrase to the door. It
sprang open.
F. W. Taylor was dictating, machine-gun fashion, to a mike. He looked
dog-tired. His face turned up with a frown as Charles entered and then
the frown became a beam of pleasure.
"Charles, my boy! Sit down!" He snapped off the machine.
"Uncle--" Charles began.
"It was so kind of you to drop in. I thought you'd be at the theater."
"I was, Uncle, but--"
"I'm working on a revision for the next edition of _Organization,
Symbolism and Morale_. You'd never guess who inspired it."
"I'm sure I wouldn't, Uncle. Uncle--"
"Old Thornberry, President of the Chase National. He had the infernal
gall to refuse a line of credit to young McGurn. _Bankers!_ You won't
believe it, but people used to _beg_ them to take over their property,
tie up their incomes, virtually enslave them. People _demanded_ it. The
same way they demanded inexpensive liquor, tobacco and consumer goods,
clean women and a chance to win a fortune and our ancestors obliged
them. Our ancestors were sneered at in their day, you know. They were
called criminals when they distributed goods and services at a price
people could afford to pay."
"Uncle!"
"Hush, boy, I know what you're going to say. You can't fool the people
forever! When they'd had enough hounding and restriction, they rose in
their might.
"The people demanded freedom of choice, Falcaro and the rest rose to
lead them in the Syndic and the Mob and they drove the Government into
the sea."
"Uncle Frank--"
"From which it still occasionally ventures to annoy our coastal cities,"
F. W. Taylor commented. He warmed to his subject. "You should have seen
the old boy blubber. The last of the old-time bankers, and they deserved
everything they got. They brought it on themselves. They had what they
called laissez-faire, and it worked for awhile until they got to
tinkering with it. They demanded things called protective tariffs, tax
remissions, subsidies--regulation, regulation, regulation, always of the
other fellow. But there were enough bankers on all sides for everybody
to be somebody else's other fellow. Coercion snowballed and the
Government lost public acceptance. They had a thing called the public
debt which I can't begin to explain to you except to say that it was
something written on paper and that it raised the cost of everything
tremendously. Well, believe me or not, they _didn't_ just throw away the
piece of paper or scratch out the writing on it. They let it ride until
ordinary people couldn't afford the pleasant things in life."
"Uncle--"
* * * * *
A cautious periscope broke the choppy water off Sea Island, Georgia. At
the other end of the periscope were Captain Van Dellen of the North
American Navy, lean as a hound, and fat little Commander Grinnel.
"You might take her in a little closer, Van," said Grinnel mildly.
"The exercise won't do you any lasting damage," Van Dellen said. Grinnel
was very, very, near to a couple of admirals and normally Van Dellen
gave him the kid-glove treatment in spite of ranking him. But this was
_his_ ship and no cloak and dagger artist from an O.N.I. desk was
telling him how to con it.
Grinnel smiled genially at the little joke. "I could call it a
disguise," he said patting his paunch, "but you know me too well."
"You'll have no trouble with a sea like this," Van Dellen said, strictly
business. He tried to think of some appropriate phrase to recognize the
danger Grinnel was plunging into with no resources except quick wits, a
trick ring and a pair of guns. But all that bubbled up to the top of his
head was; thank God I'm getting rid of this bastardly little Sociocrat.
He'll kill me some day if he gets a clean shot and the chance of
detection is zero. Thank God I'm a Constitutionist. We don't go in for
things like that--or do we? Nobody ever tells me anything. A hack of a
pigboat driver. And this little bastard's going to be an admiral some
day. But that boy of mine'll be an admiral. He's brainy, like his
mother.