"I don't like it, McCoy," he said.
"Yes, sir," said a tiny voice, which seemed to emanate from underground.
"I mean now," said Ford, glancing up. The horse and rider continued to drift across the surface of the sky.
"Yes, sir!"
When he glanced up again, all sign of the cloud was gone. He smiled and said:
"That's better."
"Anything else, sir?" asked the voice.
"Oh, I don't know. Is the news ready?"
"Yes, sir."
Ford leaned back in the chair and scratched his chin. He sighed loudly. "All right—give me the news."
"But, sir, I thought-"
He sat up rigidly. "What was that, McCoy?"
"Your daughter, sir. I think she—"
"Don't," Ford said. He was breathing heavily. "I don't want you ever to do that. Don't think, McCoy."
"But she's awake, sir."
"Feed her."
"And after that?"
"Tell her—oh, tell her I'll be there in a minute. I want to watch the news first."
"I'll roll it, sir."
"Do that."
Ford sighed. Dull, dull, dull. That was the only handicap of being so rich that anything you wanted they ran and got it before you could ask: you got bored. Nothing was ever exciting; anticipation was a lost emotion.
He looked up at the sky but it remained blank and blue. McCoy was slow today.
Inefficiency bored Karlton Ford, and what bored him always irritated him, and what he found irritating, he soon grew to hate. He ought to warn McCoy. The little man had a good job here. He ought not to risk losing it through lack of initiative.
But maybe the problem was simply technical. The sky was still blank. Even McCoy was not that stupid.
The voice from underground suddenly said, "I'll have it for you in a minute, sir."
Ford grunted. Near his chair, a herd of cows munched contentedly on the high grass. The cows were spotted black and white but, in spite of the fact that he was one of the world's ten largest suppliers of natural milk, he didn't know one breed of dairy cattle from another. Perhaps an acre farther away—on the opposite side of a low barbed fence—a handful of horses drank from a narrow stream. Ford owned all of this—stream, horses, cattle, sky, clouds, McCoy. Anything within sight of his present vantage point, he owned—and a great deal more besides. Besides this ranch here in Wyoming, he owned a house in New York State—along the Hudson River—and apartments in Geneva, Tokyo, and Honolulu. He wasn't the richest man in the world; he was the third richest. But the other two were men exactly like himself. He was a private person. Fewer than twenty men had ever met him face-to-face. Under his present identity, that is; at other times, he had been more free and personable. In his life, he had used a variety of names. James Henry Walsh was one. As Karlton Ford, he was rich, powerful, and feared. Also, though this was far from common knowledge, he was a superman.
The day's news began to appear against the surface of the sky, the events of the past few hours recreated in stunning, three-dimensional replica. Ford watched, vaguely intrigued. Here was the interior of the supposed atomic bomb plant in Borneo. Small, stooped, menacing, yellow-skinned men and women darting like bugs around the egg-shaped bomb. The scene was so ridiculous he didn't see how it could fool anyone. But it did—it fooled almost everyone. When he watched the news, Ford never allowed a commentator's sound-track to intrude. He didn't need anyone to explain the significance of events to him. If any particular item was really important, he already knew about it. The same was true of the next shot—a battalion of identical soldiers marching briskly across a barren field. The android army. Secret maneuvers. Preparing, if necessary, to move. Ford smiled. Then came scenes of actual fighting—sporadic incidents so far. Brief skirmishes in China, Mexico, Turkey. A bombed-out village—somewhere in Indonesia—Java, he recalled. An attempt by the civilized nations to knock out the bomb works. A failure, of course—predestined, since the bomb itself was a hoax. Then came brief shots of the various so-called leaders of the world. Talking, talking, talking. Endlessly droning their pitiful cliches. He was glad he didn't have to hear. He felt more genuine contempt for these supposed leaders than he did for the race itself. One did not expect anything exceptional from ordinary men; one did at times hope to uncover some hidden spark in a leader. Ford had known several of these leaders, however, and the spark had always been absent. Like their followers, the leaders lacked ability, imagination, foresight, and intelligence. A war was coming. All of them—civilized and primitive alike—wished to avoid the conflict.
Yet, in spite of this unanimity, they would fail. To Ford, it was a sad, sad joke.
The rest of the news failed to hold even his occasional attention. An editorial—apparently a government spokesman—Ford followed the speaker's lips sufficiently long to determine that the man was simply reciting a long and involved threat. The stock market continued to do surprisingly well—especially in those areas most directly related to Ford's own financial interests. He manufactured munitions. And sports. He decided to watch this part keenly. The sight of long-legged, half-naked boys and girls racing across fields and kicking round balls caused him to laugh aloud. Even with war only days away, they continued to play their games.
But, in a way, that was merely part of the one human characteristic he admitted admiring: their perseverance. If that was a virtue—their stubbornness—then the race surely possessed it. After all, for more than fifty years mankind had survived when, by all proper calculations, they should have collapsed and perished. Fifty years, Ford thought, since the first of us reached maturity. And we haven't won yet, he reminded himself. Although we will— we must—the time is finally here.
They called themselves the Inheritors, meaning the name as both boast and threat. When the human race fell—a matter of days, weeks—the Earth would be theirs. The earliest of the Inheritors—Ford was one of these—had been born some seventy years ago. They did not consider themselves mutants. They were supermen only in the sense of being superior, for they were not really men at all. Ford thought—and most Inheritors agreed—that they must be the children of some awesome extraterrestrial race which, for reasons of its own, had sent seed spores drifting across space. Whether the arrival of these spores on Earth was deliberate could not, of course, be determined; but sometimes Ford had a dream in which, after conquering Earth, he and the other Inheritors one day looked up into the sky and saw a fleet of starships coming down to rest; the ships, of course, carried their ancestors. But that was just a dream. The actual truth remained unknown. All Ford knew was that one day he had awakened inside the womb of a woman. A short time later, he had caused himself to be born. At twelve, he had left his temporary home and ventured into the world. By the time he turned fourteen, he had established contact with five other Inheritors. Ten years later, more than a hundred were known to each other. The first generation had ended there, but sons and daughters had soon followed. Now there were nearly three hundred Inheritors and new grandchildren were being born almost every week.
"Sir?" said the voice from the ground.
Frowning, Ford glared at the grass: "Now what, McCoy?"
"The news is over, sir."
"I know that."
"I mean Anna—your daughter, that is. She keeps asking me when you're coming."
"And what are you telling her?"
"I said you were on your way."
Ford smiled. "And is that true? Do I look as if I'm presently on my way?"
"Well, no, sir."
"Then you admit you lied? To your employer's daughter? Consciously? With deliberate malice?"
"Well...I-I..."
"I think I'll take pity on you, McCoy. I know I ought to fire you but—well, I did say I'd pity you. And I do. So you may tell Anna that I will be there very shortly."
"Yes, sir."
"And next time, McCoy, don't be so eager."
"Yes, sir."
Sighing, Ford raised his eyes. The sky
was blue and bare. He did not especially look forward to seeing Anna again. He was beginning to think the decision to allow her to establish contact had not been wise. Still, at the time, it had seemed necessary, especially with that ridiculous policeman sniffing at his old past trails. Better to tell her than to be found out. Less dangerous. And she might—because of her husband's essential role in their general designs—prove useful at some future time. And she did amuse him. He recalled her mother with some warmth too. That incident had occurred during a period when—as protective camouflage—the Inheritors had taken human wives and husbands. The Superiors had been born then. A few of the marriages even continued to this date but, as soon as the first child was born, the relationship was always severed. It would not be wise to allow the Superiors to know the truth too soon—what they really were. Better to desert the children and kill the human mother or father. Ford thought he must have been soft. It had come from too close contact with humans for too long a time. That was why he had failed to place Anna in a government home; he had left her with human friends. When the fact was discovered, he had been forced to fight with all his might to keep the other Inheritors from censuring him. He had been made to admit a public mistake. Now he even had to live with that mistake—Anna was here.
Still, he would enjoy seeing her face. When she found out the truth. When the war ended and humanity was beaten and it was time for the final move. Checkmate. Then Anna—and her fellow Superiors—would discover what they really were—the hybrid children of truly superior creatures. Crippled, useless forms. Like mules. It would shatter them. Their lives, he knew, were predicated upon delusions of superiority. None would survive a dose of the truth. A pity. But, once the war was over, their purpose in life would be ended anyway.
McCoy's shrill, piping voice interrupted his thoughts: "Sir, I hate to—"
"I'm coming!" Ford bellowed.
He stood up. Raising both hands above his head, he stamped a foot on the ground. Instantly, with a loud roar, he soared into the air. The tiny jets concealed in his tunic lifted him easily through the sky. He flew over the cattle, sped past the horses, hurried along the length of the stream. At last, in the distance, the high stone turrets of the castle came into view.
Here was home.
Fourteen
She wasn't wearing a stitch but that didn't prevent the funny little man whose name she could hardly ever remember from popping his head through the door and saying as excitedly as a child on its birthday: "He's on his way, Anna."
She made no effort to cover herself. It didn't seem necessary or appropriate for McCoy—yes, sometimes she could remember, that was his name. She waved him inside, then looked away. McCoy radiated a constant veneer of furious tension, but there was never anything below. He made her feel uncomfortable. It was as if he lacked any real depth, as though a large portion of himself had been burned away and left empty.
She was lying on the big bed, facing the window: "You told me that a half-hour ago."
"Ah, but this time—" she sensed him trying to circle the bed so that she would have to look him in the eye and, as a compromise, turned her head and faced him "—it's true." He made a glib motion, crossing his heart and grinning hugely. "I mean, I just talked to him." The last word was spoken with a feeling that bordered upon reverence.
"Then you can let me alone now."
"Until he comes," McCoy corrected, crisply.
"Yes—exactly. Until he comes. Now—please—go."
"Yes, Anna." But he didn't move. He stood there, silently wringing his hands.
"Well, what?" she said, irritated.
"I wanted you to know." His grin grew even larger. "The sculpture equipment has arrived. I had it set up in the—"
"No," she said, sharply.
"But-"
"I told you I wasn't interested. I'm through, retired. I never want to see a strip of tape again in my life."
"But your talent. You don't know." He was shaking his head fiercely. "If you'd only just try one so that—"
"So that I could give it to you?" She sat up and glared at him. McCoy was a collector. He already owned several of her original tapes.
"I don't care about that. No. I just want your talent—I don't want it to be lost to the world."
"Oh, leave me alone," she said, with feeling.
"But-"
"I'll talk to you later." It was the only way of getting rid of him. "Maybe I will do something."
"Do you promise?"
"I promise we can talk about it."
"Oh, fine. That's enough—enough." He began to back out of the room, almost bowing, his smile firmly in place. "After you're through—through with him."
"Yes," she said.
"Oh, good. Oh, good."
She stood, stepped forward, and kicked the door shut. She sighed and shook her head. Then she went to the closet and grabbed a handful of clothes and threw them on. Turning, she glanced out the window.
From here, she could see very little besides the swimming pool and a corner of the garden. The pool was filled and emptied daily, but except for herself she had never seen anyone make use of it. While she watched, two servants crossed her line of sight. There seemed to be hundreds of them throughout the house, each identical to the others. For all the personality any of them exhibited, they could have been androids.
It was hard getting used to this life: she had never been this rich before. The bedroom, for instance, a huge chamber, was covered with paintings. She could identify most of the artists with considerable ease. The majority were old masters—on one wall alone, neatly arranged, were miniatures of Chagall, Renoir, Lichtenstein, and Klee. There was a massive Pollack too—undoubtedly an original—on the ceiling. In fact, it was the ceiling. But what disturbed Anna about these paintings was not their value but rather the lack of meaning and pattern to them taken as a whole. The paintings were uniformly masterpieces but they did not mesh. It was as if the artist or school was insignificant as long as the work itself was valuable. The contemporary work, most of it by unknown artists, impressed her similarly. She somehow formed the distinct impression that, in a few years time, without exception, all of these paintings would be considered valuable masterpieces.
The bookshelves only confirmed her impression. One half of a wall was covered with first editions. All were well-known books—most were novels. At a glance, she noted Middlemarch, The Princess Casamassima, Howard's End, The Red and the Black, An American Tragedy, Tender Is the Night, Kim. While it was hardly impossible for one man to appreciate such a variety of authors—from Stendhal through James to Kipling and Fitzgerald—it was the manner in which the books were bound that served as her confirmation. Each was bound in uniform scarlet, with gold-leaf lettering. Which meant that the original bindings had been removed, thus reducing the books considerably in value. Didn't that indicate that Ford placed orderliness above authenticity? Or did it simply mean that extreme wealth permitted a person to ignore common attitudes toward value?
But did it matter? She turned away from the books and flopped on the bed. After all, she was a Superior and Ford, no matter how rich, was not. She had determined that during her first meeting with him. It had been, she admitted, a severe disappointment, but she had grown to like him since, even if he was only a human. In person, he was cold and undemonstrative, but his radiations were the opposite—warm and kindly. He was her real father and, if it hadn't been for the awe she felt at the splendiferous mode of life he followed, they might actually have become real friends once the barrier of his diffidence was penetrated. Still, she didn't understand all of it. This house—it was more like a castle than any regular home—the servants, the grounds. She had always been told that taxes had long ago rendered such brazen displays of wealth impossible.
Millionaires were supposedly an extinct breed. The richest men of today were no better off than a moderately well-off man a century ago. If that was true—she laughed—those men of the past must have lived like a bunch of gods in heaven. And F
ord lived alone too. All of this for one man alone. During her stay here, she had never met anyone except the servants. If Ford had friends, she had seen and heard no evidence of their existence. He never talked of anyone except him and her, and his thoughts—as she received them—were similarly empty of any outside, human interests. She didn't understand this part at all. In fact, there was a great deal about Ford that seemed to lie just beyond her ability to comprehend. She didn't know—had never asked—exactly how he had managed to acquire and then maintain his fortune.
Nor had he ever really explained his failure to search for her. When she had phoned that first time—struggling to penetrate a thick veil of secretaries and receptionists, automated and otherwise, until at last reaching McCoy at the ranch and then, with little explanation required, Ford himself—he hadn't seemed surprised. She told him about Cargill but he didn't seem to care. He had asked her at once to come to the ranch. And she had. But when, the first evening, she had tried to explain her reasons for wanting to find him, he had carefully changed the subject.
The door popped open. A face peeped through. McCoy, again, grinning. "He's here now, Anna."
"Oh, fine." She got off the bed and straightened her dress. "Please tell him I'll be right there."
Ford awaited her in the living room, a dark cavern so vast and ornate as to defy any attempt to describe it briefly. As she crossed the room, Anna heard the sound of her bare feet amplified enormously, so that the patter seemed to fill the whole room. Ford sat in a chair. She dropped at his feet, smiling. He radiated a calm tranquillity that succeeded in erasing her own tensions with ease.
"What are your plans?" he asked, after a considerable silence between them.
"I'm not sure."
"Will you want to return to San Francisco soon?"
"I should."
"Your husband?"
"I don't know. I think he'd have me back if I came and got on my knees and cried and begged him."
Anderson, Poul - Novel 17 Page 10
