"Right," said Mundin.
"Twelve thousand five hundred dollars," the manager said after some scribbling. "Our biggest and best, with six guards."
It was paid.
The pickup went off smooth as silk. A conditioned clerk handed over the little box in which were certificates of Don Lavin's fantastic claim to twenty-five per cent of G.M.L., and Mundin examined them wonderingly as the armored whirly-bird bumped off the streets of Coshocton. Three and one-half billion dollars at par, he kept saying to himself. They didn't talk much, all the way back to Monmouth.
Hubble demanded: "Did it work, Don?"
Coett said, "If that sawbones didn't deliver after the way we strung along—"
Nelson said, "How much did it cost?"
"I'm all right, thanks," said Don Lavin politely.
"And," Mundin added casually, "we came back by way of Coshocton. No need to horse around with duplicate certificates, gentlemen."
They examined the originals with awe, gloating. "We're in," Coett exulted. "As of the next stockholders' meeting. Three months—plenty of time to shake up the firm and pick up what we need for a majority. My God, a majority! The hell with the proxies and the voting trusts!"
There was a long hassle about pooled stock and irrevocable joint agreements; and suddenly Mundin, looking at the three titans of finance, saw predacious jungle animals. He blinked, and the illusion was gone; but he couldn't help thinking of G.M.L., rapacious as it was, as some huge and helpless vegetarian beast, harried by sharp-toothed little carnivores. Even Norma felt something; because she burst out:
"Daddy never meant—" She choked herself off, and looked wildly at the conspirators for a moment. Then she said wearily, "Ah, the hell with it. Excuse me. I don't vote, anyhow." And she was gone out of the room.
"Now," said Coett, hardly noticing her departure, "it is possible that while we are throwing G.M.L. into bankruptcy, Green, Charlesworth may take an interest. I don't suppose it will happen. But if they should show up, Charles, don't attempt to handle it yourself. Buck it to us. Understand?"
"Understand," said Mundin. Green, Charlesworth. Insurance and bankers' bankers; odd how their name kept coming up. "Is that all we have to worry about now—Green, Charlesworth?"
"No," Coett said honestly. "It's a long, tough row, Mundin. Bankruptcy's tricky, even when the corporate mass is relatively small."
"And you're determined to go through with the bankruptcy? We can't just try to vote our stock, or manipulate it on the market?"
"If anything," Coett said shakily, "would bring Green, Charlesworth down on us, that's it. No, no, Mundin. Simple blackmail and bribe, bankruptcy and ruin—let's not upset the applecart." His face was actually white. But Mundin put it out of his mind and said worriedly to Don, "What was the matter with Norma?"
"Forget it," said Don. "Daddy wanted this, and Daddy gave his life to that—forget it. She has the idea Pop's invention is a sacred trust, and it's up to us to use it for the common good." He grinned easily, but his eyes were as hooded as ever before Dr. Niessen carved into his brain. "Who do you like the Field Day?" he asked opaquely.
Chapter Eighteen
Mundin said, "You have to be careful. Don't say that you represent G.M.L. You're just acting for a business associate."
"I understand, Mr. Mundin," said Norvie Bligh.
Mundin brooded. "If we could only come out in the open instead of this cloak-and-dagger business. Well, things are looking up. You're sure you've got it straight?"
"Positive, Mr. Mundin," said Norvie. He met the lawyer's doubtful eye and, surprisingly, winked. "Well give 'em hell, pal," he said, and left.
Later on, outside Candella's private office at General Recreations, Norvie wasn't quite so confident. This was the office in which he had had so many difficult days; these were the rooms where young Stimmens had cut his throat; that was the door through which Candella had booted him out.
But the electronic secretary summoned Candella, and Norvie was all right again.
Candella came bustling through the door with a huge, friendly smile plastered on his face. "Norvie, boy!" he yelled. "Damn; but it's good to see you! How the hell have you been?"
Norvell said curtly, "Morning, Candella." He allowed Candella one limp touch of his hand and withdrew it.
"Well," said Candella heartily. "Uh—well!"
Norvie said, "I'll be brief. You got my message."
"Oh, yes, Norvie. Yes, indeed, you're here about—" he looked around him rapidly and said in a lowered tone "—G.M.L."
"Speak up, Candella," Norvell said sharply. "Yes, I'm here about G.M.L. Not officially, mind you. Not at all officially."
"Of course not, Norvie!"
Norvell nodded. "And I have your promise that you'll keep what I say in strict confidence?"
"Oh, certainly, Norv—"
"Not a word to anyone?"
"Of course n—"
"Good. In a word, Candella, we have had complaints."
Candella kept his smile, but it was like the rictus of a loathsome disease. "Complaints?"
"Oh, not about you. I have no idea how well or badly you are doing your job now, and in any case," Norvie said severely, "that would have nothing to do with G.M.L. My associates would never dream of interfering in another corporation's affairs."
Of course not!" Candella agreed.
"The complaints are about the bubble-houses, Candella. One of my associates is a rather substantial holder in G.M.L. We've heard—well, reports. I'll be frank with you; we haven't been able to track them down. But they are alarming, Candella; very alarming. So alarming that I can't repeat them, or even hint at what they concern. You understand that, don't you?"
"Certainly, Mr.—certainly, Norvie!"
Norvell nodded. "I can only ask you a couple of questions, without giving you any clue as to why I ask them. The twenty-eight thousand bubble-houses General Recreations leases are devoted almost entirely to married couples, I believe. How many of these marriages are sterile? Of those where children have been born while living in a bubble-house, what percentage of the children are malformed?"
Candella's eyes were cesspools of curiosity. "I—I don't know off-hand," he said, "but—"
"Of course not," Norvell said impatiently. "I don't want you asking any direct questions, either. No sense starting any rumors. But if you can find out—quietly—I'd appreciate your giving me a ring." He produced the most splashily engraved calling card Mundin's printer had been able to turn out overnight "Here's my number. Remember, I'm not offering you any inducement—that would be unethical. But it would be very much appreciated by me and my associates. We show our appreciation, Candella. Good-by."
He nodded curtly. Candella cried, "Hey, Norvie! Don't— don't run off like that! Can't you stay a little while and have some lunch, or a drink or something?"
"Sorry. Afraid not."
Candella rushed on, "But gee, Norvie, everybody's been looking forward to seeing you again. Stimmens particularly— I don't know what to say if you won't have lunch with us."
Norvell frowned. "Stimmens," he said thoughtfully. "Oh, Stimmens. Sorry, Candella. But do give Stimmens my regards, and tell her that I think of her often."
He left.
Norvell had a busy day. His schedule was General Recreations, Hussein's, and an even dozen bars in Monmouth City. By evening he was tired, happy, and about seventy-five per cent drunk. He approached his last call with a mixture of sadness, anger, and nostalgia.
Arnie Dworcas let him in.
Norvell tried none of the tricks he'd used on Candella with Arnie Dworcas; he was the old Norvell, the true friend, the shy acolyte. Sitting there with Amie, listening to Arnie's explanations of the world's affairs, it seemed to Norvie that Belly Rave was a nightmare and Mundin a figure from a dream; nothing had changed; nothing would ever change, as long as he could sit and drink Arnie's beer.