“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re a peasant,” Derek told me.
“You don’t understand dignity.” It started us going again.
This time when we stopped all was well between us.
“Come on, aristocrat, let’s inspect your estate.” We left the room and hurried down the stairs. “Just remember to play along,” I whispered at the last moment. Daringly, he punched me in the arm before we reached the main floor.
24
The helicopter swooped along the dense hedgerow marking the plantation border, while sprinklers made mist in the earlymorning light. We were exploring the more distant sections of the estate, having toured the main compound the evening before.
“How much wheat do you grow?” Derek had to shout above the noise of the motor.
“A lot.”
“No, how much?” Derek insisted. Fenn, in the pilot’s seat, pursed his lips.
I leaned across from the back seat. “Just say anything. He won’t know the difference.”
Fenn frowned at my insensitivity. “No, I’ll tell him. One point two million bushels, same as it’s been for years.”
Derek furrowed his brow. “Is that a lot?” Since dinner the previous night he had burrowed deep into his role.
Fenn smiled. “Enough. And then there’s six hundred thousand bushels of corn. And sorghum.”
“I like corn!” Derek said happily. I nudged him, afraid he would overdo it. “Nicky, why’d you poke me?” His tone was anxious. “Am I bothering him too much?” Nicky? I’d kill him.
“You ask too many questions, Anthony.”
“He’s no trouble,” Fenn said.
Derek’s look was triumphant. “See, Nicky?” He turned to Fenn. “Is this all yours and Mr. Plumwell’s?”
“Don’t I wish!” Fenn brought us down on a concrete pad outside a large metal-roofed building. “I work for Mr.
Plumwell, and he’s just the manager.” His tone changed.
“Course, he’s been here most of his life.”
“Doesn’t the owner live here?” I asked.
“Old Winston died six years ago, but he was sick long before that. This place was started way back, by the first Randolph Carr. He left it to Winston.”
“I take it he had no children.”
“Are you kidding? Five.” Fenn opened the gate. “They say his oldest boy was a heller. Randolph II. He gave the old man so much trouble Winston sent him all the way to Earth to college. He never came home while Winston was alive.”
Derek was attentive.
“Will he ever?” I asked.
“Randy was supposed to be on the ship that docked this week, and we expected we’d find ourselves working for him.
But he died on the trip, so it’s all up in the air.”
“What will happen?”
Fenn gestured toward the building we were about to enter.
“This is the second-largest feed mill on the planet. It’s entirely automated. Takes only three men to run it.” We looked in. “Randy had a son, some snot born in Upper New York.
They say he’s on the ship. The joeyboy’s never even been here, so he doesn’t know squat about planting. I guess he’ll be sent back to Earth for schooling. I don’t know; Mr. Plumwell’s made the arrangements. The joeykid won’t have any say until he’s twenty-two.”
“Then what?” A new tension was in Derek’s voice.
Fenn grinned. “Between you and me, boys, I wouldn’t be surprised if by that time Carr Plantation’s books were in such a state he’d need Mr. Plumwell more than ever.”
I grinned. “The Carrs should have stayed if they wanted to run the place.”
Fenn looked serious. “You’re lighter than you know.
Someday we’ll have a law about absentee owners. Sure, they’re entitled to profits, but a resident manager who stays all his life and runs things, he should have rights too. The management should pass down in his family, not the owner’s.
If--”
“Now wait a min--” Derek broke in.
I overrode him fast. “Anthony, don’t interrupt!”
“But he--”
“Haven’t you learned your manners?” I shoved Derek with force. “Apologize!” He looked surly. I squeezed his arm. “Go on!” Derek mumbled an apology, and I breathed easier. Perhaps when he calmed, he’d realize he’d nearly blown our cover.
Fenn asked, “Aren’t you a bit rough on the joey?”
“Sometimes he needs sitting on.” My tone was cross.
“His father let him believe he was too good for discipline.”
Derek shot me a deadly glance but kept quiet.
“You see how it is,” Fenn said. “Mr. Plumwell’s been here thirty years, and he knows every inch of this plantation.
Last year we cleared thirty million unibucks, even after the new acreage. Carr Plantation has to be run by a professional.”
“Where do you keep all the cash?” Derek was back in character.
Fenn smiled mirthlessly. “Some of it goes to the Carr accounts at Branstead Bank and Trust. The rest goes for salaries and expenses.”
“So the Carr boy gets to play with the money even if he can’t boss the plantation,” I said.
“Not quite. The account is in the Carr name but Mr.
Plumwell has control until a Carr shows up who has the right to run the estate. Mr. Plumwell makes sure the right people are on our side, that sort of thing. That money pool helps protect our way of life.” He looked at me closely. “How did we get on this subject?”
“I’m not sure.” My tone was bright and innocent. “What’s this conveyor belt do?”
That night we were invited to dine with Plumwell and his staff. I made a show of nagging Derek about his table manners; he retaliated by calling me “Nicky”. All the while Derek’s penetrating glance was taking in the oil paintings hanging above the huge stone fireplace, the fine china, the crystal glassware, the succulent foods and drink. He eyed Mr. Plumwell’s place at the head of the table with something less than delight.
In our room, after dinner, he moped on his bed while I got ready to turn out the light.
“What’s bothering you, Anthony?”
His voice was quiet. “Please belay that, Mr. Seafort.”
“What’s wrong, Derek?”
“This is my house. I should be at the head of the table.”
“Someday.”
“But in the meantime...” He brooded.”Fenn mentioned one point two million bushels of wheat. The reports they sent my father listed seven hundred thousand. Someone’s been skimming. Who knows what else Plumwell’s stolen? I’ve got to do something.”
“Why?”
He was surprised. “It’s my money.”
I had no sympathy. “You have your pay billet. Are you hurting?”
“That’s not the point,” he said with disdain. “Should this--this thief get away with what’s not rightfully his?”
“Yes, if he’s improving your estate.” He was shocked into silence. “You’re out of the picture, Derek. You’re so wealthy you won’t even miss what he steals. In the meantime, he’s opening up new acreage that permanently benefits your plantation. He’s doing a good job, stealing or not.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Derek said bitterly. “You never had anything, and you never will!”
I snapped off the light, determined not to speak to him before morning. I yearned for the isolation of the Captain’s cabin.
Presently he said, “I’m sorry.” I ignored him, cherishing my hurt.
After a while he cleared his throat. “I apologize, Mr.
Seafort.” I made no answer. He snapped on the light. “Am I talking to the Captain now, or Mr. Seafort the ex-midshipman?”
A good question. In fairness to him, I wasn’t Captain at the moment. “The ex-midshipman.”
“Then I won’t stand at attention. I didn’t mean what I just said. I was angry and wanted to hurt you. Please don’t make me grovel.”
I relented. “All right. But I repeat what I told you. He’s doing a good job building Carr Plantation even if he does skim the profits.”
“What if I tell him who I am, just before we leave. That’ll show him he can’t--”