One Trillion Dollars

by Andreas Eschbach

  “I can’t stand it,” John mumbled, but more to himself than to anyone particular. “If one more person tells me I’m doing the right thing, I’ll scream.”

  “He was sentenced to serve twenty-five years in prison after the war,” Ursula told him on their way to the airport, “which was lucky for my father, because he got to grow up without his influence. He was a late baby; he had two older brothers who were killed as Volkssturm soldiers in the last days of the war.”

  “I don’t understand why you even keep in contact with him.”

  “Me neither. My father cannot seem to get away from him. I think sometimes that he wants to prove something to him. Maybe that love triumphs over hate or whatever. I don’t know. I always hated it when we had to go see him in jail or the hospital and he poured out all that vile nonsense at us.”

  John looked out the window. An airport employee opened the gate and allowed them to pass with a friendly smile. They drove onto the tarmac, where the jet was waiting to take them to London.

  “If I’ve got anything to say about it, you’ll never have to see him again,” John told her.

  McCaine had left orders not to be disturbed by any phone calls for the next two hours. He sat there looking out at the view of central London freshly washed by rain and shining in the October sunshine. He was casually leaning back in his chair, his legs resting on the tabletop with a file on his lap that contained highly controversial numbers. He stared vaguely into the distance while he thought about how to kill off humanity — at least the useless parts of it.

  Hunger, of course, was one method. Hunger was a quiet and inconspicuous type of death. Each year millions died from starvation and had done for decades without much effect on public opinion. Hungry people were too weak to start wars; another advantage of using hunger as a weapon. One drawback about hunger though, was that it was not caused by a global lack of food but problems of distribution. People were starving to death because they could not afford to buy food. It would take considerable effort to expand international logistics and to remodel worldwide trade relationships without radical change and doubly difficult to accomplish this without drawing attention.

  It was a significant disadvantage; almost enough to rule out starvation.

  McCaine was studying the diagrams that showed the development of human population over the past two thousand years. The only dent in the steady climb was caused by disease; the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century had eliminated one-third of the European population. Nothing else made much of a mark on the line, not even World War Two.

  Epidemics. Plague was out of the question now; it was too easily cured. But AIDS looked good, didn’t it? AIDS was caused by a virus, not bacteria, and there were still no effective weapons in the medical arsenal to fight viruses. AIDS managed to accomplish the feat of being barely contagious, yet still being passed on relentlessly by sexual contact and other methods also usually associated with degenerate lifestyles. And the time period between infection and showing symptoms was long enough to infect many others with it.

  He leafed through a thin report on epidemiology from a famous Swedish institute. It said AIDS infected mainly those not intelligent enough to protect themselves from it, or those with too much of a sex-drive to take such measures seriously. In other words, AIDS could be seen as a form of natural selection. This line of thought fascinated him. Could it be that AIDS was a plague sent by God, that this was a sign for him to follow. AIDS really did look attractive. As an epidemic it could hardly be improved on. The only question was whether it would work fast enough. The numbers looked discouraging. The rate of infection was low when compared to the birthrate and in many places new infections were even diminishing. Naturally these were early stages, but it was not enough by far to dent the population growth graph.

  Perhaps this was the point in time to interfere. One could take control of a particular pharmaceutical company and make the medication for its treatment too expensive and reduce research on finding a cure to the absolute minimum. Excuses could always be found. In a tight spot, one could always plead “shareholder value,” which seemed to be an acceptable excuse for anything in business these days.

  Despite his instruction, the phone rang.

  “Yes? Ah, I understand. With his girlfriend? Well, well! Good, thank you for letting me know.” He had to admit, that of all his bodyguards Chris O’Hanlon was the most reliable at keeping him informed.

  McCaine closed the file and put it back in the filing cabinet. He would have to consider taking a larger share of control over the food supply, seeds, and vaccines, but not today. Weapons were needed to protect the last vestiges of civilization against the oncoming hordes of barbarians. This would also require the redistribution of a sizable amount of the conglomerate’s assets, and he still had no inkling how he was going to convince John Fontanelli of all this.

  $39,000,000,000,000

  HE REALLY DID have a stately home, a virtual palace. She could hardly believe it, not even as they sat there waiting for the wrought-iron gates with the dark-red Fontanelli ‘f’s to be opened. It was not enough that they had flown in a private jet, just for them, and that they got picked up by one of those black stretch limousines, which made her feel like being in a movie. Now there was really was this stately home that John had repeatedly mentioned to her. She thought he was joking. It appeared from behind the hill, gray, defiant and giant, it was an unbelievable estate and to her it seemed very inappropriate for someone who simply had money and not the hereditary lineage of some ancient noble family. The servants stood in a row to welcome them — hundreds of servants, men and women wearing the traditional uniforms of cooks, chambermaids, waiters, gardeners, handymen, barn hands, and so forth. And a real butler wearing a stiff tail coat stepped forth as soon as the chauffeur opened the car door and greeted them with true Oxford stiff-upper-lip English.

  There were hundreds of pairs of eyes glued on her as she got out. Just don’t trip and fall or make some stupid move that would be the butt of jokes and ridicule behind closed doors for weeks.

  John didn’t seem in the least impressed. He didn’t put on an air, nor look as if he felt he should. Amidst this grandiose scenery he simply looked like a typical New York dude.

  A castle, a palace, a stately home! Even the doorway made her feel as if she was entering a recently renovated museum. She almost expected to see a cashier’s booth to buy tickets for admission. And yet more servants inside looked her up and down, or was there a touch of jealousy in their gaze? She longed for a simple little room where she could just be herself without being watched.

  “You will get used to it very fast, believe me,” John assured her and then took her hand. “Come on, I want to show you something, you won’t believe it.”

  They went up the steps, down a hallway, past doors and doors and more doors until they reached a huge entryway that would have made the tallest person in the world look like a dwarf standing next to it. It led into the ballroom, painted blue and gold with huge drapes and giant crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and in the middle of this oriental opulence stood a four-poster bed, covered with silken pillows and luxurious covers, draped with shiny curtains on marble columns: a nightmare in brocade!

  Ursula was speechless, and this for some time. She finally said, “You don’t really expect me to sleep in this monstrosity, do you?”

  John grinned. “No one ever has. This is the show bedroom. It is only to be photographed. Hollywood stars have this sort of thing the internal designer told me, and he thought I would need something like this too.”

  At least she seemed to like the swimming pool, and both the saunas too, the steam bath and the pathway through the greenhouse, filled with tropical plants. John sat on the edge of the pool and let his feet dangle in the water and watched her floating on her back, and how the gentle waves she caused rippled away from her. Light reflected from the water and danced on the blue mosaics on the ceiling and from the fake cliffs, which you could slide
down in a little waterfall.

  “Do you do that?” she asked, pointing as she swam to him. “Swim a few laps every morning?”

  John grinned embarrassed. “Actually, no.”

  “Then you don’t deserve such a swimming pool.” She pushed away from the pool’s edge and went underwater, came back up, and shook her head, letting her long wet hair swing around. She looked adorable.

  “Hey,” he called out to her, “have you ever seen blinds like these?” There were water-proof switches all along the pool. He pushed one of them and just like magic the large glass walls that opened onto the garden turned an opaque milky-white color. It was the latest fad and extremely expensive.

  Ursula watched consternated. “What is it?”

  “Piezo-something-or-another. I forget the exact name for it. As long as an electric current flows the glass is opaque, but it lets just as much light through as before.”

  “Nice. And what’s it for?”

  “Well,” he said carefully, “so that no one can watch you. I mean us … we could skinny dip, for instance. If we wanted to. Or do something else …”

  She gave him an inscrutable look. “I don’t really feel at home yet,” she told him and went underwater … for a long time. A colorful thing gliding along the bottom of the shimmering pool.

  “It was only an idea,” he mumbled, then pressed the button letting the glass go transparent again.

  She could get used to all of this: the elegantly set breakfast table, the fresh towels besides the clean shower, the fifteen-minute professional massage beforehand. The rooms where they actually slept and lived were tastefully furnished and as if by magic were always clean and tidy. She could really get used to all this. For sure.

  So this was London, she thought early the next day, or at least what was visible of it through the tinted bullet-proof windows of the limousine.

  “I haven’t been to my office for two straight months,” John had told her and asked her to come with him to get to know his partner and chief executive, Malcolm McCaine.

  She had never been to London before or Great Britain, for that matter. Seeing the traffic going in the “wrong” direction made her a bit nervous, so she admired the buildings instead. She actually saw men who wore bowler hats and carried black umbrellas — unbelievable! She had always thought that the caricatures in her old English books were only a joke.

  She knew the name Malcolm McCaine as much as anyone else in the world and was just as familiar with who he was as who the president of the United States was. Everyone knew the boss of Fontanelli Enterprises, the largest company in history, the man who got a salary of one hundred million dollars a year, the man who half of all financial journalists considered to be the most talented manager in the world, and the other half considered to be a bumbling imposter. But she would have never recognized him if he crossed her path in the street. He was hardly ever seen on TV. All the papers seemed to have only one photo of him and it even that was the same one. Van Delft had told her that an Australian financial magazine wanted to nominate him as manager of the year, but after McCaine refused to do an interview or photo shoot the idea fizzled away.

  The chauffeur did her a favor by driving past Buckingham Palace, across Trafalgar Square, and along the Thames a bit so that she could see Big Ben. They really existed — all those famous buildings! She still got excited about stuff like that despite all her travels.

  Then they saw some skyscrapers, old and new. Banks and insurance companies too, some world famous ones, others she’d never heard of. The car took a turn by one of them and stopped. Security personnel swarmed out, looked around as if they had entered a war-zone, and only after they gave an all-clear signal could they get out and go into the glass foyer. A small sign said Fontanelli Enterprises; it was so understated that she almost missed it.

  They were escorted to the elevator, which had a real Picasso hanging on the wall that was effectively illuminated and probably just as effectively electronically secured against theft. They went up in the elevator and with every meter she felt as if she was approaching the center of the world, the only real center of power in the closing days of the twentieth century. A gong finally announced the opening of the elevator doors, as if announcing they had arrived at the throne of God himself.

  “Miss Valen,” a deep voice said, and then she did recognize him after all. McCaine. He shook her hand, bowed slightly, smiled and then said, “I’m pleased to meet you,” and he seemed to really mean it. He greeted John with less enthusiasm. “You’re looking well,” he said, “The tropical sun did you good. And you found the love of your life, I see?”

  It was almost embarrassing to see John beaming like a schoolboy being praised by a favorite teacher. She had to look away. She saw the vast amount of plants between the groups of chairs: orchids, ferns, and other shrubbery making the place look like a jungle beneath the low hanging hydroponic lights.

  They took her into the conference room. The aura of power and majesty about the place almost made her heart race. They also took a look at some of the offices. John’s looked empty and unused, McCaine’s seemed a hub of activity. A map of the world behind McCaine’s giant desk with an improbable amount of Fontanelli red on it suggested this was the actual center of power. John might own all this, but he was really only a guest.

  They went down floor lower and into the cafeteria, a little private gourmet restaurant where they had lunch together. McCaine was very sociable, though his hyperactivity seemed at times uncanny, almost depressing. He asked her about her life and her likes and dislikes, and listened to her attentively when she answered. But she could not get rid of the feeling that he already knew everything about her.

  “A lot has happened while you were gone,” he told John, and continued, throwing Ursula smiles. “But I don’t want to bore your lady with that now.”

  John nodded seriously. “I will be back in the office on a regular basis soon. From tomorrow probably.”

  “There’s no hurry,” McCaine said waving a hand. “We have everything under control. Just because I have no private life doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have one.”

  The food was good — the view was superb. McCaine suggested she should go on an extended shopping trip, and then explore London’s cultural life. “Although I’m not up-to-date,” he admitted, “I have been told there’s a lot going on.” Ursula promised to think about it.

  “A remarkable man, this McCaine,” she told John on their way back.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Basically, he does everything, am I right? He’s the one who leads the business and decides everything.”

  “Well … not without my signature,” John defended himself straight away.

  Ursula watched him carefully. The subject seemed to bother him. “I didn’t mean to criticize,” she said. “I asked only because I want to understand what is going on here.”

  John stared grimly ahead. “He is the chief executive, and as the name implies he is the boss. But he is also my employee. It all belongs to me.”

  “But you sign whatever he puts in front of you, don’t you? Or do you sometimes say ‘no, we will do this differently’?”

  “I could say that anytime, of course. But the situation hasn’t arisen. He’s good at what he does and has not had any stupid ideas yet.”

  She was poking around an open wound, that much was clear. A wound John did not even know he had. “Are you able to judge that?” she asked with a cruel undertone that almost took her by surprise too. “I mean, you never studied economics or…”

  “I don’t have to,” John interrupted her. “I’m so filthy rich that I don’t have to be capable of or know anything. Yet still half the world belongs to me. That is the crazy thing about it all.”

  She involuntarily held her breath. “That,” she said carefully, “sounds as if you are not particularly happy with this.”

  “I’m not.” He looked straight ahead again. “Three years ago I delivered pizza. You need tim
e to get used to all this. That can’t be done from one day to the next.” He made a vague gesture. “Sure, McCaine studied everything, can do everything, and has the big plan and so forth. My only decision was to let him do it all.”

  She reached over and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” she said softly.

  He looked at her. “But things are going to change. I will take a closer look into the details from now on.”

  It was just like always, only better. It felt better to go to work when you had a wonderful night and have a wonderful woman at home. John greeted everyone he met with a beaming smile. As he felt the elevator carry him up the building, the grandiose feeling of certain victory literally flowed through his body. He marched right into McCaine’s office and exclaimed: “So? Do we have a plan?”

  McCaine was just about to make a call, but put the phone down again, looking at John with a frown. “A plan? We’ve always had a plan.”

  John shook his head. “No, I meant Professor Collins. The calculations should be finished by now, shouldn’t they?”

  McCaine readjusted the stuff on his desk but didn’t give the impression he was looking for something in particular. “It’s an odd thing with those computers. Of course they cannot come up with ideas of their own, but when you let them go through all sorts of calculations they do it without of the slightest passion or attitude. It never occurs to them to say ‘oh, that’s no good!’ They simply crunch through the numbers and spit out the results. And sometimes they find things that were totally unexpected, and make you have ideas that you otherwise would never have come up with.” He glanced up at John as if he was looking for the right words. “Do you remember the first days here in London? When I told you that one day the American grain silos would have more power than the aircraft carriers of the US Navy? That is the crucial factor now.”

  “The grain silos or the aircraft carriers?”

  “Both. Basically, it is quite simple: the population is growing and arable land is dwindling. What is the logical consequence? The whole world is forced to increase the productivity of what’s available. But this is not possible with current methods. What is the consequence?”