«Nope. They’re better than that and you can’t patent Bernoulli’s principle. They made the variation in the metallurgical tolerances.»
«Indigenous and unprovable.» Michael Ryan tapped his pipe into an ashtray. «Genessee has laboratories in a dozen different states, proving grounds in twice as many. They could predate mockups with authenticated affidavits, and the courts wouldn’t know what the hell was going on. They’d win.»
«Exactly,» agreed Andrew. «But that’s another story, another time. We’ve got enough to think about. Where are we? What do we do?»
«Let me try to put it together.» Alan Martin picked up the cardboard chart marked «Genessee Industries.» Each chart was twenty-four inches by twenty-four: there were outlined boxes with headings above subdivisions. Underneath and to the right of every title was inserted—stapled—typewritten data pertaining to the areas of contractual commitment, engineering and construction, financial operations, and legal entanglements—usually concerning the financial operations. There were scores of index markings that referred the reader to this or that file. «The advantage of the financial picture is that it pervades all areas… During the past weeks we’ve sent out hundreds of questionnaires—routine, all the companies got them. As you all know, they were coded, just like advertising coupons in newspapers. The codes gave us mailing times and locations. We then followed up with staff interviews. We found that with Genessee there was an abnormal amount of shifting. Answers we assumed would be sent from logically designated departments and locations were transferred to others—not so logical. Executive personnel our staff went out to interview routinely were suddenly no longer in their positions. Genessee had sent them to other divisions, subsidiaries; hundreds, even thousands of miles away. Some to overseas branches… We began setting up conferences with union leadership. Same story, only less subtle. The word went out across the country—from one coast to the other—no local discussions. The nationals were deciding what to do about government interference. In short words, Genessee Industries has been engaged in a very efficient and massive cover-up.»
«Not completely efficient, obviously,» said Trevayne quietly.
«Pretty damned good Andrew,» rejoined Martin. «Remember, Genessee has over two hundred thousand employees, multimillion-dollar contracts every fifteen minutes—under one name or another—and real estate rivaling the Department of the Interior. As long as those questionnaires kept coming back, and with Genessee’s diversification, the shuffling might easily go unnoticed.»
«Not with you, you financial raccoon.» Vicarson sat on the arm of an easy chair and reached over, taking the Genessee chart from Martin.
«I didn’t say they were that good.»
«What struck me,» continued Sam, «and it probably wasn’t so great a shock to Mike and John or even Al here, was the sheer size of Genessee. Its subsidiary structure is goddamned unbelievable. Sure, we’ve all heard Genessee this and Genessee that for years, but it never really impressed me before. Like those one-page ads you see in magazines—institutional things; you figure, okay, it’s a company. That’s nice; it’s a nice display. But this one! It’s got more names than a telephone book.»
«And no antitrust action,» said Andrew.
«Gesco, Genucraft, SeeCon, Pal-Co, Cal-Gen, SeeCal … So help me, it’s double crostics!» Sam Vicarson tapped his finger on the Genessee chart’s «Subsidiary» heading. «What bothers me is that I’m beginning to think there are dozens more we haven’t traced.»
«Let them be,» said John Larch with a pained expression on his thin face. «We’ve got enough to work with.»
14
Major Paul Bonner parked in an empty space on the river side of the Potomac Towers lot. He stared out the windshield at the water, growing sluggish with the progressing fall season. It had been seven weeks to the day since he’d first driven into that parking area; seven weeks since he’d first met Andrew Trevayne. He had begun the liaison position with resentment—against both the man and the job. The resentment against the job remained, perhaps grew; he found it difficult to sustain any real dislike of the man.
Not that he approved of Trevayne’s goddamn subcommittee; he didn’t. It was all horseshit. Scattershot horse-shit conceived by the pols on the Hill for the sole purpose of shifting—or at least diluting—the responsibility for that which was necessary. That’s what made Major Paul Bonner so hostile; no one could dispute the necessity—no one! Yet everyone gave the appearance of shocked disbelief when dealing with acknowledged reality.
Time was the enemy. Not people. Couldn’t they see that? Hadn’t they learned that in the space program? Certainly Apollo 14 cost twenty million when it was launched in February of seventy-one. If, instead, it had been scheduled for seventy-two, it would have cost ten; six months later, probably five to seven and a half. Time was the ultimate factor in the goddamn civilian economics and since they, the military, had to reckon with time, they also had to accept the economic—civilian—penalties.
Over the weeks he’d tried to impress Andy Trevayne with his theory. But Trevayne only acknowledged it to be a factor, not the factor. Trevayne insisted that Bonner’s theory was simplistic, then roared with laughter when Bonner reacted explosively to the term. Even the Major had smiled—«simplistic» was no less a code name for «idiocy» than his use of «civilian.»
Checkmate.
But Trevayne did allow that if one eliminated time, a degree of corruption could be dispensed with; if there was all the time in the world, one could sit back and wait for reasonable prices. He agreed to that.
But it was only one aspect, he insisted. Trevayne knew the marketplace. Corruption went much further than the purchase of time.
And Bonner knew he was right.
Checkmate.
The fundamental difference between the two men was the importance each gave to the time factor, however. For Bonner it was paramount; for Trevayne it wasn’t. The civilian held to the judgment that there was a basic international intelligence that would prohibit global holocaust. The Major did not. He’d seen the enemy, fought him, witnessed the fanaticism that propelled him. It filtered down from austere halls in national capitals through field commanders to battalions; from battalions down into the ranks of the half-uniformed, sometimes half-starved troops. And it was powerful. Bonner was not so simplistic, he felt, as to reduce the enemy to a political label; he’d made that clear to Andy. The enemy wasn’t a Communist, or a Marxist, or a Maoist or a Lumumbaist. Those were merely convenient titles.
The enemy was three-fifths of the earth emerging from ignorance and thrust forward by the idea of revolution; the idea of finally—after centuries—possessing its own identity. And once possessing it, forcing its imprimatur on the rest of the world.
No matter the reasons, even the justifications; no matter the rationalizations, filled with motivational theories and diplomatic convolutions. The enemy was people. A few in control of millions upon millions; and these few, with their newly found power and technology, were subject to human weakness and their own fanatical commitments.
The rest of the world had to be prepared to deal decisively, emphatically, overpoweringly with this enemy. Paul Bonner didn’t give a damn what it was called.
That it was, was enough.
And that meant time. Time had to be bought, no matter the price or the petty manipulations of the suppliers.
He got out of the Army car and started to walk slowly across the tarred surface toward the entrance of the apartment-office complex. He was in no hurry, no hurry whatsoever. If it were possible, he’d prefer not being there at all. Not today.