No, I had to be extremely careful. My Golden Congo Company was in delicate negotiations with United Africa people. My Baluchistan oil company was in trouble with the new government there. The new governor in Maryland was conducting a publicity-seeking probe into the Hagerstown arcology project. General Motors was unsure of cooperating with my General Anomaly complex on the new turbine patent.
No business is static. Life is not static. Even as one project is completed, it begets new projects. The beginning or end of one venture in a life such as mine is a unit in an intricate house of cards, and I was the dealer. Even when I had little or nothing to do with a project personally, when I was but a tertiary mover, or a simple stockholder, I was still related. If something happened to me, “it” happened all over. I needed to arrange things indirectly. I called Carol Oakland at Martian Explorations. “How is the documentary on the Vault coming?”
“It’s almost done, sir. Avery will have a closed circuit screening in a few days. We will inform your office. They will have the new edition of the Royal Jewels book out next month, Mr. Thorne. We presume you wish Publitex to handle it.”
She had given me a good opening. “Yes, of course. In fact, I think you could have them handle the Star Palace project as well. Perhaps we should send someone out there in person. Who’s available?”
She smiled. “For that kind of trip they’d all be willing. Kramer, Reiss, possibly Harrison. They’re all good.”
“What about Braddock? He might be the best.” I noted her expression and quickly added, “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a new expropriation just for this. Let him wander around awhile, get the feel of the place, and don’t pressure him for reports.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve never met him, but if you like him . . .” She paused but a moment. “I’ll get through to his service right away.”
“Good. How’s everything else?”
Carol suddenly looked tired. “Cropsey is in jail. He’s the one who was working on the correlations between the Burroughs 45-16 stela and the new Yucatan finds?”
“Yes, I remember. Not much to go on, but if anything develops from it we might prove the Martians visited us here. But what happened to him?”
“He was found with a pet, sir, a . . . Doberman.”
“Jesus. What the hell was the matter with him? He knows damn well those things are over the legal limit. Couldn’t he keep a hamster or even a permakitten? Something that didn’t eat so much?”
“He was very fond of it, sir. He lives—uh, lived—in that old arcology tower in Omaha, one of the real oldies, a charming old place like two intersecting reversed pyramids. Only about five hundred thousand population.”
“Yes, I know the kind they used to build. Go on.”
“Well, there was a raid on some kind of black mass cult that was supposed to be making human sacrifices. You know the sort that springs up, the antitechnology types. Well, the police got the floor numbers reversed and they blew open the wrong door and—well, they found Armand with the animal—”
“What’s his fine?”
“It’s worse than that, Mr. Thorne. It’s his third offense. He had a whole pride of cats in Borneo and an unlicensed collie in Atlanta. You’d think he’d learn . . .” She sighed deeply. “I suppose they’ll let him work in prison, but maybe not—”
“All right. Do what you can for him. You’d think they would learn that we can’t afford pets any longer. Maybe some day, when we get over the food crisis—”
“They didn’t destroy the animal, sir, that’s one nice thing. It was sent to the preserve in Argentina. Maybe someday—”
“Yes, of course. Someday. They didn’t impound the stela or anything?”
“No, sir. We had all his papers picked up when they cleaned out his apartment. I’ve given the cubestone to Mittleman to study.”
“Fine. You’re doing well, keep it up.”
I thumbed the contact and then punched for Sandler, my chief accountant, signaling for a scrambler circuit. “Lowell, I need about . . . um . . . six million for a private project.” His eyebrows went up and I saw his hand go offscreen to pause over a computer. “There’s some slack in Operation Epsilon, isn’t there?” He nodded.
“Not that much, though,” he said. He didn’t ask me what I wanted it for. His department was How and When. Mine was Why.
“Project Dakota came in under budget and that hasn’t been returned. The Louvre still wants that Picasso. Sell it to them. Move some of my Lune Fabrique stock. Put everything in Diego Braddock’s name.”
Again, his eyes searched my face, but he said nothing. His fingers moved and he glanced at the readout. “That will about do it. I might have to sell futures on the Baja marijuana crop, but I’ll see. What time do I have?”
“Will a week do it?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then nodded. “Ten days at the outside.” He paused, then asked, “This is, or course, a confidential transaction?” I nodded. “You know there will be some difficulty in accounting for the transfers?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll take care of it.” I had almost added
“When I get back,” but I caught myself. Sandler was not privy to the Diego Braddock persona ploy, and I saw no reason to endanger him with information he needn’t be concerned with.
I clicked off with a wave and sat back in my chair. I had started the cogs turning that would send “Diego Braddock” to Mars. Every man of wealth that I know has at least one standby persona, a nonperson complete with official papers, a history, dossiers, bank accounts, health records, an address, and whatever else was needed. These personas are assumed as needed, either for business or personal reasons, or both. They are sometimes created for a lark, much as Harun al-Rashid donned beggar’s rags to roam the Baghdad nights; the lure of becoming someone else, even for an evening, is strong. I have several of these ongoing personas, plus two that I had needed to terminate, complete with death certificates and burial urns. In various parts of the world there are offices and homes for Andrew Garth, Howard Scott Miles, Waring Brackett, and Diego Braddock. They all had jobs that permitted travel, or were living on stock dividends. I changed the “cast” fairly frequently and only Billy Bob Culberson, a paraplegic genius in Lampasas, Texas, knew them all. He delighted in creating realistic and authentic personalities. Only once did I have to interfere, and that was when he had one persona working for another, and carrying on a correspondence with yet another. It was getting too complex for me, but it amused him.
It is a childish game, but necessary in certain areas of business. Using the existing formats I carefully constructed a schedule that my right and left hand man, Huo, would follow, once I had left. It was necessary that he know the truth, so he could properly manipulate the “leaks” and reports that would create the illusion of my movement on Earth. Everyone was to know where I was at all times. Control was kept informed from Huo’s desk. Nothing extraordinary would seem to happen, just the usual restless Thorne zigzag.