"Coming in with us?" Mundin asked.
Hubble scowled.
The chairman passed on to the matter of compensation of officers. Mundin gathered from the reading of a long, involved statement of capital gains and tax depreciation that the corporation officers didn't think they were making enough money. They wanted more.
During the reading stockholders chattered sociably. Mundin began to wonder why they had bothered to come, as the pay-raise was lackadaisically approved by a unanimous voice vote.
At the next order of business he found out why.
It was called "Diversification of Raw Material Sources, with Special Reference to Alumina and Silicates." Mundin couldn't make head or tail of the dull technicalities, but he noticed that the sociable conversations tapered to a halt. One group, not more than four or five men, were putting their heads together with much figuring on the backs of envelopes and checking of records. Secretaries were running in and out with books and sheaves of documents as the reading droned on.
At last, the chairman said genially, "Well, gentlemen, the question. Shall we save time by asking for a unanimous vote of 'Aye?'"
A thin, gray old man rose and said: "I call for a record vote." He looked daggers at an elaborately unconcerned man in the first row and quavered menacingly, "And let me say to you gentlemen that I'm going to keep a copy of the record. And I will be guided by it in reaching future decisions, particularly during the last week of the coming quarter. I trust I have made myself entirely clear."
The chairman harumphed and the record vote was taken.
The proposition was defeated by a narrow margin, in an atmosphere of restrained passions. Mundin sensed dimly that there had just been a pitched battle—a corporate Gettysburg, a trial of strength between two mighty groups, with millions a year as the least part of the stakes. Beyond that he couldn't see.
Hubble, beside him, was growing restless. Mundin leaned over and whispered, "You could hold the balance of power in a matter like that if you came in with us."
"I know," Hubble said. "I know." And then, after a long while, "Let me see that paper again."
That was how Mundin knew he had him.
The meeting continued.
There were three other clashes—Union Representation; Petition for Lowered Haulage Rates; and Committee to Study Design Improvements. Between votes Hubble read the spots off the power of attorney and fished for information. Mundin was noncommittal. "Yes, they're clients of mine. No, sorry, can't tell you just where Mr. Lavin is staying at present, I'm afraid. Yes, there is a sister. Mr. Arnold up there can probably give you more information than I."
"Arnold is in it?"
"Up to his eye-teeth. Arnold will probably attempt before long to—why, here it comes now!"
One of the colorless secretaries was reading, just above a mumble: "Proposal to rectify an anomalous distribution of voting stock. Proposal is to empower board to acquire at par dormant stock, dormant to mean stock unvoted since issue, provided time in question be not less than ten years, stock to be deposited in company treasury." It sailed through the air of the room without raising a ripple.
Mundin whispered, "Ask him how much stock is involved. That'll be your answer."
Hubble hesitated, then firmly swallowed the hook. He rose, looking grim, and put the question.
Arnold smiled. "I'm afraid we haven't got the exact figures. It's more of a contingency measure, Mr. Hubble."
Hubble said, "I'd be satisfied with an estimate, Mr. Arnold."
"No doubt. But as I said, we haven't got the figures. Now to proceed—"
Hubble began to look mulish. "Is the amount by any chance twenty-five per cent?" Throughout the room people sat up and conversations broke off short.
Arnold tried to laugh. Hubble snapped: "I repeat my question. Is or is not the amount of stock which you are asking us to empower you to buy and deposit in the company treasury, under your control, twenty-five per cent?"
As it soaked in there was a mild uproar. Hubble ignored it. "Is it or is it not, Mr. Arnold?" he demanded. "A very simple question, I should think! And if the answer is 'no,' I shall ask to see records!"
Arnold grimaced. "Please, gentlemen! Please, Mr. Hubble! I can hardly hear myself think. Mr. Hubble, since you have objections to the proposal, we'll withdraw it. I presume I have the consent of all present for this agenda change. To pass on—"
Hubble clamored, "You do not have my consent to this agenda change, Mr. Arnold. I am still requesting information on the proposal."
Somebody slid into a seat beside Mundin. A big, handsome, well-preserved old man. "I'm Harry Coett," he muttered. "What's all this about? I see you talking to Bliss and then all hell breaks loose. Say, weren't you with Green, Charlesworth? No? Thought I knew you. Well, what's up? Arnold's scared. You've got something. What is it?"
Mundin smugly asked, "What's in it for me?"
The man stared. "Hell, boy! I'm Harry Coett. Where are you from, anyway?"
And a third party joined them as the debate between Hubble and the chairman raged and spread. "You seem to have put Hubble onto something, young man," the newcomer whispered. "I like that. Spirit. Somebody told me you were an attorney, and it happens there's a vacancy on our law staff. Quite a nice vacancy. I'm Roadways, you know. Nelson's the name—"
Coett snapped: "I was here first, George!"
By then the floor debate had escaped from Hubble's hands. Scenting blood or gold, half the stockholders present were fighting for the chance to question Arnold, who was sweating and grimly managing not to say a thing—at great length. The other half of the stockholders seemed to be clawing their way into the group around Mundin, the odd young man who seemed to know things. Mundin, smiling politely and meeting no one's eye, heard the whispers and conjectures: "—an attorney, from the S.E.C., I guess, going to throw the book at old Arnold for—" "—into camp, but how do you know it isn't Green, Charlesworth or—" "No, you ass! Proxies! They've been quietly—"
He judged the time was ripe. He said politely, "Excuse me, gentlemen," and stood up.
"Mr. Chairman," he called. Arnold pointedly avoided his eye and recognized somebody else—who was at once the goal of a ten-yard dash by Harry Coett. Coett whispered urgently in the man's ear and he said: "I yield to Mr. Mundin."
"Thank you," said Mundin. "Perhaps I can clarify this confused situation. However, Mr. Arnold, first I should like to talk to one of my principals, the young lady."
"Principals?" Arnold asked distractedly. A secretary murmured something to him. "Oh. Miss Lav—oh, certainly. She'll —uh—be free to talk to you immediately after the meeting concludes. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Urmurm?"
"Quite satisfactory."
And that was that, and more, far more, than he had dared hope for. Not only had he thrown an egg into the corporate fan, so that half the stockholders in G.M.L. were swarming around him, but Arnold was returning Norma as his price for not "clarifying the situation." Arnold's raid had blown up in his face; far less than getting the Lavin stock to vote, he would be lucky to hold his domination of the board.
Mundin sat down comfortably—and silently, acknowledging leading questions and offers from the Titans with polite nothings.
The stockholders' rebellion began visibly to peter out. With Mundin quieted, angry and uncertain men perceived that some sort of deal had been made under their noses. They didn't like it; they had done it themselves too often to enjoy feeling the spur on their own flesh. One of them called for unseating Arnold, but cooler heads prevailed. Wait until this thing is a little more settled. Wait until this Mundin tells what he knows.