It was nearly midnight Mundin had never felt so bone-weary in his life; even Norma Lavin was slumped in her chair. Coett, Hubble and Nelson were bright-eyed and eager, skilled technicians doing the work they best knew how to do.
But the work was done. Mundin, yawning, dragged himself to his feet He said tiredly, "So the first thing for me to do is set up offices, eh?"
There was a pause.
Harry Coett sighed. He said, "Not quite the first thing, Mundin."
"What then?" Mundin peered at him.
Coett said crisply, "Call it a matter of personal satisfaction. We've all heard rumors about young Lavin. I don't say they're true; I don't know if they're true or not But if they're true we don't get off the ground."
Mundin blazed, not quite quickly enough: "See here, Coett—"
Coett said quietly, "Hold it. We've all had a look at that paper of yours. It's a power of attorney, all right, and I've no doubt that it's as valid as it can be. But it isn't a stock proxy, Mundin. It doesn't mention G.M.L. stock in it anywhere, except in the affidavit at the end, and Don Lavin didn't sign that himself."
"What do you want?" Mundin asked sullenly.
Coett said, "Let me tell a fantastic story. Mind you, I don't say it's true. But it's interesting. There are two young people, like a brother and sister, for instance. One of them has some stock, but can't use it. The other is—ah—temporarily out of circulation. Let's suppose that a smart young lawyer gets hold of them. First thing he does, he walks in on a meeting and lets it be known that the stock exists. With that as a wedge, he pries the girl loose from wherever she is. With the girl, he sucks in three good, dumb Joes—like Hubble, Nelson, and me, for instance. With the dumb Joes in the palm of his hand, he squeezes recognition of the stock out of, for instance, Arnold. That's pretty good work: He has the girl, and he has the stock. The question is, what do the dumb Joes have then?"
God, thought Mundin, and I never believed in mind-reading. He said, "Am I supposed to take this fantasy seriously?"
Coett shook his head. "Of course not, Mundin. Just, for the sake of the record, before we get too far involved in any of this, let's see the stock. Tomorrow morning be time enough?"
"Tomorrow morning will be fine," Mundin said hollowly.
Chapter Seventeen
Take the Port of New York.
Not the slagged-out, cinder-crusted waters that lap at the fringe of Belly Rave, but Old New York, when Belle Reve was fresh and the plaster had not yet cracked. The harbor is filled with ocean-going ships. (Remember ships?) Between Manhattan and the Jersey shore ferries ply. There are many of them in the mid-twentieth-century bustle, half a dozen lines and more; some old, some new, some fast, some slow. . . .
There are two ferry lines owned by railroads. (Remember railroads?)
One is a proud green fleet. Half a dozen thousand-tonners, steel-hulled, Newport-built. Radar charts their crossings, and the pilings in their slips stand straight and tall.
The second fleet: Three rust-colored midgets, shambling blindly back and forth between snaggle-toothed berths.
Consider the paradox: The weary red ferries belong to a rich and solvent railroad. The radar-eyed giants are chattels of a corporation which has been in the hands of the receivers for four decades and two years.
It is a matter of recorded fact that, in the middle of the twentieth century, the only ferries in New York Harbor which could afford to install the expensive blessings of science belonged to a line in bankruptcy. Let us rewrite the dictionary:
bank'-rupt-cy (n) the state of having affairs managed by disinterested parties, not owners; therefore, the natural and preferred state of Big Business.
Mundin said stubbornly:
"All right, all right, all right! You don't have to go through it again, Ryan. Finance is Coett's business, not mine; and corporate law is your business, not mine; and if you all say that G.M.L. has to go into bankruptcy I'm not going to stand in your way. But I don't like their methods."
Ryan shifted achingly on the lumpy couch. Mundin was getting worried about him; his skin was pale yellow, his eyes black circles. Obviously the old fool had given up food almost entirely for the past weeks. But he could still make sense when he talked. He said, "If you go to a doctor to save your life, do you complain about the taste of the medicine?"
Mundin didn't answer. He shook his head worriedly and paced the room.
Norma came back from putting Don Lavin to bed. She sat down wearily and poured herself a drink. "Mud," she growled. She made a face as she swallowed it. "I've poured better liquor off laboratory specimens. Mundin, what about the stock?"
Mundin said: "Lavin—Norma—if you ask me that one more time, I swear I pick up and walk out of here. I don't know what about the stock. Maybe we can't deliver it. If we can't, we can't; I've had a rough day and I'm just not up to any more miracles right now. Maybe we can talk Coett and the others out of it tomorrow morning."
"Maybe not," said Norma; but she looked at Mundin's rebellious expression and that was all she said.
It was after midnight; but Ryan needed to hear everything that had happened, and they all needed to plan for the next day. Mundin gave the old man a blow-by-blow account of the stockholders' meeting and the later discussion at Hubble's house; the three of them picked apart every word and hint of the whole exhausting day, checking and rechecking their progress.
Norvell Bligh joined them at about one. Mundin let him in, astonished to see the little man there.
"Just wanted to know if you need us any more tonight," Norvell said. His voice was eager; he was enjoying this, Mundin thought, with a faint prick of irritation—not realizing what a job, any kind of job for whatever sort of pay, meant to a Belly Raver.
"Who's 'us,' Bligh?" Norma Lavin demanded.
"Me and the Wabbits," he grinned. "Lana stopped me on the way in. She said to tell you the Gee-Gees had a patrol near here about ten o'clock, but the Wabbits took care of them; didn't know if they were trying to knock off your brother or not."
Ryan's sallow face was abruptly pale; but he didn't speak. Norma said suspiciously, "I didn't see any Wabbits when we came in."
Bligh looked at her. "You wouldn't," he said.
Mundin said dubiously, "I guess you might as well go home, Bligh. There's nothing more you can do for us tonight.
"Meaning I should mind my business?" Bligh inquired. "Okay. If you need anything, all you gotta do is ask, that's all." He grinned amiably and headed toward the door.
Surprisingly, Harry Ryan stopped him. "Wait a minute, Bligh. Mundin—Norma—will you come here a moment?"
Mundin and the girl, in response to his gestures, leaned close to him. He said in an undertone, "What about seeing if he can get some, well, medical attention for Don?"
Mundin said sharply, "Ryan, you told me we couldn't do that! G.M.L. won't let us, remember? Unauthorized use of conditioning techniques; fourteen billion dollars; if we break the law, G.M.L. will—"
"Shut up, Mundin," said Norma. "Ryan's right. The situation has changed now. We've got backing from Coett, Hubble, and Nelson."
They battled in whispers for minutes while Bligh leaned cheerfully against the doorframe, out of earshot, watching them. It was Mundin, flushed and angry, against the other two; Mundin who objected and refused and shook his head. He said tightly, "If we did try to get Don deconditioned, this isn't the way to do it. If we're going to break the law, let's at least do it privately, not by taking every derelict in Belly Rave into our confidence. I've said it before, Ryan, I don't like dirty methods. Surely we can get Don fixed up legally some way or other—we've got some strength now, we'll try for a court order, or at least an inquiry, and—"