“Yes, and I see that there are other ways, too—a waiting list, for example.”
“Of course, and another way is for me to give you something just because I like you more than I like Maria. These are imperfect ways, but the money way is imperfect too, I think. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, indeed,” said Stevens gravely; “But there is something else that disturbs me. In the moneyless society, the farmer will contribute his cows and grain, the shoemaker his shoes, and so on, and everything will come out even. But what will I contribute?”
“What can you do? What have you done before?”
“Nothing very useful. I have invested in stocks and in precious metals. I wrote a little poetry when I was young.”
Palladino smiled. “Then you will contribute your poetry.”
Stevens said, “Forgive me, but I can’t believe my poetry would be worth all those tractors and shoes.”
Palladino leaned forward. “That is exactly the point. We don’t weigh one thing against another, we don't assign prices or numbers. If your poetry is all you have to give, you give it. Even if you have nothing to give—if you are old and infirm, let’s say—still there are enough things to go around. You can have meat, you can have shoes. Why not? There is enough.”
After the last lecture, when Palladino was about to leave for Naples, Stevens said to him, “Professor, perhaps while you are gone I could undertake a little organization here in Rome, collect some money, distribute pamphlets and so on?”
“My dear friend, I would be very grateful. Bruno and Maria do what they can, but there is never enough time.”
“And it also occurred to me, if it would not be an impertinence, I would like to translate some of your works into English and French.”
“Marvelous! Yes, by all means!” Palladino got up to embrace him and sat back, beaming.
“And, of course, Professor, I would like something with your signature authorizing me to do these things.”
“Of course, of course.”
The problem was to create a cadre, a hard core of dedicated Palladinists who could then recruit others, and so on, making sure that one proof of dedication was to consist of generous contributions to the group. Stevens persuaded the Lancianis to hold weekly meetings at their apartment, where, first modestly and then with more confidence, he set forth his program.
He also began to talk about the moneyless society whenever he met his rich friends. “But that’s fascinating!” said the dotty old Contessa di Corso. “Think of living without any money at all! I really would like to give him something, dear Peter. Who shall I write the check to?”
“Not a check, please. As a matter of principle, Palladino does not pay taxes. He accepts only cash, which he doesn’t have to report.”
“But they’ll put him in jail, won’t they?”
“He thinks he could write a very good book in jail.”
Encouraged by the success of these trial balloons, during the next few months Stevens went to the introductory lectures of an Indian guru, a self-maximization program, and a New Age chiliastic organization, and enrolled in classes at all three. The exhortations were very wearing, particularly since he was getting three kinds at once. “Why are you doing this?” Julie asked.
“It’s very interesting.”
And, in fact, it was. The three groups had several things in common: a charismatic leader, an efficient and cynical leadership, and a hierarchical program designed to lead the converts, by . means of larger and larger promises, into paying larger and larger fees. When the converts became sufficiently indoctrinated, they indoctrinated and trained new converts in their turn, and received a portion of the new fees as their share. By degrees it was made clear to the converts that the group was the most important thing in their lives. Great attention was paid to neat appearance and dress, positive emotions and enthusiasm. By every possible means the converts were bound together and isolated from nonbelievers. The enthusiasm was infectious: Stevens found himself in a state of continual nervous excitement, and had to resort to sleeping pills.
At the end of three months he believed he understood the dynamics of these groups sufficiently for his purposes, and he dropped out with relief. He had lost twenty pounds.
12
One morning in the spring of that year, Robert S. Windom’s desk computer said, “Call from Andrew Vick of Standing Wave Transportation, boss. He wants to speak to you personally.”
“What the hell is Standing Wave?”
“Just a moment. Standing Wave Transportation, incorporated in Delaware, a subsidiary of Transport Systems, Ltd., a British corporation. President, Laurence Hawkins; Chief Executive Officer, Douglas De Angelo.”
“Okay. Is that a new company? I never heard of it.”
“Date of incorporation is January 21, 2005.”
“Standard and Poor’s rating?”
“Triple A.”
“See if you can find anything about them in the net.”
“Searching. An article in Business Day, March 23, 2005.”
“Put it on.”
The article came up in the flatscreen. Windom scanned it quickly; it wasn’t much. “. . . intends to develop the so-called ‘standing wave’ system of instantaneous transportation based on the work of the Danish mathematician Olvard Torreson (d. 1989).”
What the hell. “Okay, Benji, put him on.”
A face appeared in the tube, young, pale, brown-haired, rather attractive. “Mr. Windom, my name is Andrew Vick; I’m an assistant to Douglas De Angelo, the CEO of Standing Wave Transportation. We’re interested in a feasibility study, and we’d like to know if your firm can devote a substantial amount of time to it beginning fairly soon.”
“Let me find out. Benji, work schedule.” The chart came up on the flatscreen. “I have a four-week window beginning on January third. Is that what you mean by a substantial amount of time?”
“I think it might be more like six months, but you would be the best judge of that.”
Windom hesitated. “There are a few things we could put off, but I’d have to know more about it first.”
“That’s satisfactory. Would it be possible for you to come and talk to Mr. De Angelo sometime this week?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Let me turn you over to my secretary.” He gave the call to the computer, then sat back a moment and thought. The computer said, “Nine-thirty June eighth, boss.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Windom, the head of the consulting firm that bore his name, was a red-haired, freckled man of forty-eight who liked cats, beer and jazz, in that order. He had been a project design supervisor with Martin Marietta until he began to feel peculiar about some of the work he was doing. The consulting firm he had founded after that was doing fairly well, although not as well as he sometimes pretended. Like other people in his profession, he worked himself too hard and sometimes felt depressed on Mondays.
He searched Torreson and got a little more. Eight years after the mathematician’s death, his unpublished papers had been discovered in a library in Copenhagen. Among them was a solution of Schrodinger’s wave equation which made it possible to transport an object instantaneously from one location to another. This so-called “uncivilized” solution had been known and ignored for years, but Torreson had added a hint of a way to make practical use of it. An international team of physicists and engineers had taken it to the point of laboratory demonstration. It sounded crazy, but it smelled like money, and besides, he was curious.
The reception room of Standing Wave Transportation in Newark was neat but very small. Precisely at nine-thirty, Windom was ushered into the office of Douglas De Angelo, a heavy-set man in his early fifties, with a smooth face and an easy smile. The office was also neat but small. De Angelo came around his desk to welcome the visitor, led him to a comfortable chair and sat down on the sofa opposite the coffee table. “Glad you could come, Mr. Windom. Some coffee?”