"I'll tell you what," said Bean. "I'll find out from Graff who's taking care of it."
"You want to invest it?" asked Theresa. "Going into brokering or financial management when Peter has finally achieved world peace?"
"I won't be here when Peter—"
"Oh, Bean, for heaven's sake, don't take me seriously and make me feel bad for acting as if you weren't going to die. I prefer not to think of you dying."
"I was only saying that I'm not a good person to manage Ender's ... portfolio."
"So ... who?"
"Wouldn't that be whom?"
She grimaced. "No it would not. Not even if you spoke English."
"I don't know. I've got no candidate."
"And so you wanted to confer with Peter."
Bean shrugged.
"But that would make no sense at all. Peter doesn't know anything about investing and ... no, no, no. I see what you're getting at."
"How, when I'm not sure myself?"
"Oh, you're sure. You think Peter is financing some of this from Andrew's pension. You think he's embezzling from his brother."
"I doubt Peter would call it embezzling."
"What would he call it, then?"
"In Peter's mind, Ender's probably buying government bonds issued by the Hegemony. So when the Hegemon rules the world, Ender will get four percent per year, tax free."
"Even I know that would be a lousy investment."
"From a financial point of view. Mrs. Wiggin, Peter has the use of more money than the scant dues the few dues-paying nations still pay to the Hegemony."
"The dues go up and down," said Theresa.
"He tells you?"
"John Paul is closer to these things. When the world is worried about war, money flows into the Hegemony. Not a lot, just a little extra."
"When I first got here there were Peter, you two, and the soldiers I brought with me. A couple of secretaries. And a lot of debt. Yet Peter always had enough money to send us out in the choppers we brought with us. Money for fuel, money for ammunition."
"Bean, what will be gained if you accuse Peter of embezzling Ender's pension? You know Peter isn't making himself rich with it."
"No, but he is making himself Hegemon. Ender might need that money someday."
"Ender will never come back to Earth, Bean. How valuable will money be on the new world he's going to colonize? What harm is it causing?"
"So you're all right with Peter cheating his brother."
"If he's doing that. Which I doubt." Theresa's smile was tight and her eyes flashed just a little. Mother bear, guarding cub.
"Protect the son who's here, even if he's cheating the son who's gone."
"Why don't you go back to your place and take care of your own child instead of meddling with mine?"
"And the pioneers circle the wagons to protect from the arrows of the Native Americans."
"I like you, Bean. I'm also worried about you. I'll miss you when you die. I'll do my best to help Petra get through the hard times ahead. But keep your hippo-sized hands off my son. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders, in case you didn't notice."
"I think maybe I won't have that interview with Peter this morning after all."
"Delighted to be of service," said Theresa.
"Do avoid telling him I stopped by, will you?"
"With pleasure. In fact, I've already forgotten that you're here." She turned back to the computer and typed again. Bean rather hoped she was typing meaningless words and strings of letters because she was too angry to be writing anything intelligible. He even thought of peeking, just to see. But Theresa was a good friend who happened to be protective of her son. No reason to turn her into an enemy.
He sauntered away, his long legs carrying him much farther, much faster than a man walking so slowly should have gone. And even though he wasn't moving quickly, he still felt his heart pump faster. Just to walk down a corridor, it's as if he were jogging a little.
How much time? Not as much as I had yesterday.
Theresa watched him go and thought: I love that boy for being so loyal to Ender. And he's absolutely right to suspect Peter. It's just the sort of thing he'd do. For all I know, Peter got us back onto full salary at the University, too, only he didn't tell us and he's cashing our checks.
Then again, maybe he's secretly getting paid by China or America or some other country that values his services as Hegemon.
Unless they value his services as Lincoln. Or... as Martel. If he was really writing the Martel essays. Such a thing smacked of Peter's propaganda methods, but the writing sounded nothing like him, and it could hardly be Valentine this time. Had he found another surrogate writer?
Maybe somebody was contributing in a big way to "Martel's" cause and Peter was pocketing the money to advance his own.
But no. Word of such contributions would get out. Peter would never be so foolish as to accept money that might compromise him if it were found out.
I'll check with Graff, see whether the I.F. is paying out the pension to Peter. And if it is, I'll have to kill the boy. Or at least make my disappointed-in-you face and then curse about him to John Paul when we're alone.
Bean told Petra he was going to train with Suri and the boys. And he did—go where they were training, that is. But he spent his time in one of the choppers, making a scrambled and encrypted call to the old Battle School space station, where Graff was assembling his fleet of colony ships.
"Going to come visit me?" said Graff. "Want to take a trip into space?"
"Not yet," said Bean. "Not till I've found my lost kids."
"So you have other business to discuss?"
"Yes. But you'll immediately realize that the business I want to talk about is none of my business."
"Can't wait. No, got to wait. Call I can't turn down. Wait just a minute please."
The hiss of atmosphere and magnetic fields and radiation between the surface of the Earth and the space station. Bean thought of breaking off the connection and waiting for another time. Or maybe dropping the whole stupid line of inquiry.
Just as Bean was going to terminate the call, Graff came back on. "Sorry, I'm in the middle of tricky negotiations with China to let breeding couples emigrate. They want to send us some of their surplus males. I told him we were forming a colony, not fighting a war. But... negotiating with the Chinese. You think you hear yes, but the next day you find out they said no very delicately and then tittered behind their hands."
"All those years controlling the size of their population, and now they won't let go of a measly few thousand," said Bean.
"So you called me. What is it that's none of your business?"
"I get my pension. Petra gets hers. Who get's Ender's?"
"My, but you're to the point."
"Is it going to Peter?"
"What an excellent question."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Please. As I recall, you have a history of making interesting suggestions."
"Stop sending the pension to anybody."
"I'm the Minister of Colonization now," said Graff. "I take my orders from the Hegemon."
"You're in bed so deep with the I.F. that Chamrajnagar thinks you're a hemorrhoid and wakes up scratching at you."
"You have a vast untapped potential as a poet," said Graff.
"My suggestion," said Bean, "is to get the I.F. to turn Ender's money over to a neutral party."
"When it comes to money, there are no neutral parties. The I.F. and the colony program both spend money as fast as it comes in. We have no idea where to begin an investment program. And if you think I'm trusting some earthside mutual fund with the entire savings of a war hero who won't even be able to inquire about the money for another thirty years, you're insane."