by Jack Vance
Isabel May took his hand. “My instincts tell me that I can trust you. The over-ride is a couplet:
‘Tom, Tom, the piper’s son
Stole a pig and away he run.’
V
Lanarck reported to Cardale. “I am happy to inform you that the affair is satisfactorily concluded.”
Cardale regarded him skeptically. “What do you mean by that?”
“The over-ride is safe.”
“Indeed? Safe where?”
“I thought it best to consult with you before carrying the over-ride on my person.”
“That is perhaps over-discreet. What of Isabel May? Is she in custody?”
“In order to get the over-ride I had to make broad but reasonable concessions, including a full pardon, retraction of all charges against her, and official apologies as well as retributive payments for false arrest and general damage. She wants an official document, certifying these concessions. If you will prepare the document, I will transmit it, and the affair will be terminated.”
Cardale said in a cool voice: “Who authorized you to make such far-reaching concessions?”
Lanarck spoke indifferently. “Do you want the over-ride?”
“Of course.”
“Then do as I suggest.”
“You’re even more arrogant than Detering led me to expect.”
“The results speak for themselves, sir.”
“How do I know that she won’t use the over-ride?”
“You can now call it up and change it, so I’m given to understand.”
“How do I know that she hasn’t used it already, to the hilt?”
“I mentioned compensatory payments. The adjustment has been made.”
Cardale ran his fingers through his hair. “How much damages?”
“The amount is of no great consequence. If Isabel May had chosen to make intemperate demands, they would only partially balance the damage she has suffered.”
“So you say.” Cardale could not decide whether to bluster, to threaten, or to throw his hands in the air. At last he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have the document ready tomorrow, and you can bring in the over-ride.”
“Very well, Mr. Cardale.”
“I’d still like to know, unofficially, if you like, just how much she took in settlement.”
“We requisitioned a hundred and one million, seven hundred and sixty-two dollars into a set of personal accounts.”
Cardale stared. “I thought you said that she’d made a temperate settlement!”
“It seemed as easy to ask for a large sum as a small.”
“No doubt even easier. It’s a strange figure. Why seven hundred and sixty-two dollars?”
“That, sir, is money owing to me for which the bursar refuses to issue a voucher. It represents expenses in a previous case: bribes, liquor and the services of a prostitute, if you want the details.”
“Any why the million extra?”
“That represents a contingency fund for my own convenience, so that I won’t be harassed in the future. In a quiet and modest sense it also reflects my annoyance with the bursar.”
Lanarck rose to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time, sir.”
“Until tomorrow, Lanarck.”
I’ll Build Your Dream Castle
When Farrero first met Douane Angker, of Marlais and Angker, Class III Structors, something in his brain twisted, averted itself; and, looking down at the curl on Angker’s tough mouth, he knew the feeling flowed in both directions. Angker, short and solid, had concentrated in him a heavy unctuous vitality, the same way a cigar stub holds the strongest juices.
Farrero did not, on this occasion, meet Leon Marlais, the other half of the firm, nor did he during the entire length of his job. He would not have recognized him face to face on the pedestrip—because Marlais chose not to be known. His mania for privacy transcended an ordinary taste for seclusion and approached obsession.
Angker held to no such aloofness. The panel to his office stood always wide. All day technicians in the adjoining workroom could look in to see him shouldering, driving, battering through his work; watch him barking orders into the telescreen, flourishing a clenched hand for emphasis.
Farrero stayed away from the office, appearing only for new assignments. He assumed his work was satisfactory. If not, he felt sure Angker would have fired him, and with gusto. However, the day he knocked at Angker’s door to report on the Westgeller job, he knew he was in for trouble.
“Come in!” called Angker, not looking up. Farrero, who was somewhat deaf, turned up his hearing-aid and sauntered forward.
“Good morning,” said Farrero.
Angker responded only with a brief glance upward.
Farrero dropped two strips of microfilm on the desk. “Ready for execution. I’ve shown them to Westgeller, got his O.K.”
“Westgeller? I suppose he can pay for the place.” Angker tipped the strips down the slot in his desk.
“Your credit office likes him,” said Farrero. From where he stood, Angker’s lowered and foreshortened face looked like a rudely molded mask. “He makes heavy glass,” said Farrero. “The stuff tourist submarines are built from. He’s also got a finger in Moon Mining.”
The screen on the far wall glowed, projected the holographic image of a large solid house backed by a gloomy wall of fir trees. It was an old-fashioned house, with high gables and many chimneys, as if it were intended to fight year after year of winter snow. Its colors were a dark red, with gray and white trim, and the sun-cells of the roof glowed a rich burnished copper. Behind, the great fir trees marched almost up to the house; the trunks of many others could be seen dwindling off through the dim aisles. At the front a lawn rolled gently down to banks of bright flower-beds. It was clearly a Class III house.
“Ah…ah,” Angker grunted. “Nice piece of work, Farrero. Where’s the site?”
“Fifty miles from Minusinsk, on the Yenisei.” Farrero dropped into a chair, crossed his legs. “Fifty-four degrees latitude.”
“Take him hours to get there,” commented Angker sourly.
“He says he likes it. Winter—snow—solitude. The untouched forests, wild-life, wolves, peasants, things like that. He’s got a lifetime lease on three hundred acres.”
Angker grunted again, leaned back in his chair. “What are the numbers?”
Farrero laid his head back against the cushion. “Our cost is a hundred thousand, add five thousand contingency cushion and fifteen percent profit comes to about a hundred twenty-one thousand. That’s our bid.”
Angker leveled a sudden under-eyebrow glance at Farrero, squared up in his seat. He pressed a button. A cutaway section of the first floor flicked upon the screen. He pressed again. The second floor. Again. Detailed wall plans. He looked up and the lines from his nostrils down seemed to gather, purse his mouth, pull it out into a hard lump.
“How do you fix on that figure?” He jerked a pencil toward the screen. “My guess is that you’re fifty or sixty thousand low. That’s a big house, with considerable detail.”
“I really don’t think so,” said Farrero politely.
“What is the basis for your estimate?” inquired Angker, as gently.
Farrero clasped his hands around his knee. “There’s a philosophical background to the figure.”
“Philosophy?” cried Angker, in such a voice that Farrero turned down the volume on his hearing-aid. “But continue, if you will.”
“Certainly. One of the shortcomings of modern civilization—ancient civilization too, for that matter—is that the average man never gets all he wants of the most desirable products, never makes his life fit his dreams. In the competent Type A man this lack creates incentive to earn more money: hence high productivity. In the incompetent inefficient Type B man it breeds resentment, dissatisfaction and low productivity. There are far more Type B’s than Type A’s; therefore, in the longest view we help ourselves by providing so-called ‘dream’-merchandise at an affordable
cost.”
“I’m a Type X man,” said Angker. “To me this all sounds like flapdoodle. Explain how I can fulfill my dreams and gain fifteen thousand profit from a house which I sell at sixty thousand dollars below cost.”
“Certainly. We use new methods. I’ve explored the system carefully. It works.”
“How?”
Farrero paused. “I, personally, am a Type A man. I want, and I hereby request, a five percent royalty in all houses built using my materials.”
“Continue.”
“First, please sign this memorandum.”
Angker barely glanced at it. “Sure.” He scrawled his name across the bottom.
“Fine,” said Farrero. “Excellent. I’ll give construction the go-ahead.” He started to rise to his feet.
“Not so fast. How is all this accomplished?”
Farrero said: “Well, first of all, in North Siberia, land is inexpensive. We shoot carbolon piles into the permafrost—using a machine I’ve developed. We erect carbolon poles, tie on plumbing, wiring and ducts, pour a slab of coagulated mud. I can’t reveal the exact nature of the binder just yet, but it’s highly efficient. The slab is immediately finished with tile or hardwood. That’s the first day’s work. Next—and here is one of my innovations—the walls and partitions are formed around pre-standing doors, windows and fireplaces, rather than cutting them in and setting them after. We save three days here. On the third day the roof is dropped in place. This is, naturally, a pre-fab. Fixtures are installed, insulation is applied and the outer shell sprayed on. The fourth day sees the plot landscaped; a details crew takes over for a day or two. Then Westgeller moves in.”
“If all goes well.”
“No reason otherwise, except inclement weather.”
Angker leaned abruptly forward, pointed a pencil at Farrero. “You shouldn’t have given Westgeller the estimate till you checked with the office.”
“That’s what you’re paying me for,” said Farrero, with the glibness of forethought. “Designing, estimating, selling.”
“Wrong. You are paid to work and also to represent the company’s best interests. Assume that the system works. You’ve cost us a lot of money, all in order to finance your theories. I have theories of my own I want to finance and since I run the company, I get first choice.”
“Your point is well-taken,” said Farrero politely. “Still, it is a short-sighted view. When the human race as a whole benefits, we all benefit. I am a member of the League of Hope, and this is our basic doctrine.”
“And you think it wise to finance this doctrine with my money?”
Farrero considered a moment. “There are two answers I could make to this, ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. If I answered ‘Yes’, I could point out that you have wealth far more than ample for your needs. However, I will answer ‘No’. My instructions are explicit: I am to quote prices which allow the company a fifteen percent profit, this is precisely what I have done.”
When Angker was aroused, his dog-brown eyes glowed with russet lights. Now he put his hands on the edge of the desk, and Farrero, with an inward quiver, gazing deep into Angker’s eyes, saw the russet flicker.
“Fifteen percent,” said Angker, “is a rough basis for operation. However, you’re supposed to exercise judgement. We guarantee our customers quality, nothing else. If our price suits ’em, fine. If it doesn’t, there are thirty-nine other outfits with the same kind of license we’ve got.”
“You forget,” said Farrero, getting to his feet, “that what makes this saving is my private idea. I worked it out.”
“On company time.”
Farrero flushed. “I built a small-scale section with company equipment, for company protection—to check the idea, and see whether it was a lemon or not. The scheme was completely formulated before I even left the Institute. In any event, the patent is in my name.”
“Well,” said Angker heavily, “you’ll have to sign it over to Marlais and Angker.”
Farrero thrust his hands into his pockets. “Surely you’re not serious.”
“Farrero, how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“You’ve put in four years at the Institute, studying Class III technique, right?”
“Exactly so.”
“So it would be just four years wasted if you couldn’t get a job with any Class III contractor.”
“That’s an odd thing to say,” remarked Farrero. “It seems quite irrelevant. What do the other companies of the association have to do with this?”
“They are concerned in two ways. If Marlais and Angker suddenly cut prices, we dislocate the entire industry. They don’t care how much money we make so long as we maintain the price structure.”
“Short-sighted, to the extreme.”
“Secondly, assume that you were no longer associated with Marlais and Angker. You would naturally apply for employment to another member of the association. Why? We are the only agencies licensed world-wide for Class III construction. When you applied, they would call me and ask: ‘What about this chap Farrero?’
“I would say, ‘He is a very philosophical fellow. He belongs to the League of Human Decency—’”
“League of Hope.”
“‘—and wherever he sees a way to save money, he rushes out and grants these benefits to the customer without consulting the home office. A dear kind fellow, but also a pain in the head.’ So the thirty-nine would tear up your application and that is the second reason why they are involved in this conversation.”
“I see.”
“Now, as to your process, it clearly has been developed while you worked for us; therefore it becomes our property. There are a thousand legal precedents to this effect.”
“I devised this method, and dozens of others, while I was still at Tek.”
“Where’s the proof?”
“In the patent office.”
“How old are the patents?”
Farrero waved his hand. “Irrelevant. My basic idea is to bring Class III homes down to the Class II price level, which is of course not a patentable process.”
“It’s not even sensible. If anyone wants to pay Class II prices, let ’em buy Class II houses—from our affiliate XAB Company.”
Farrero held out his hands. “Does public welfare mean anything to you, at all? Do you want to take money without giving anything? That’s the code of the pickpocket!”
Angker touched a button on his desk. “Dave? Ernest Farrero will shortly be passing by your office, on his way out. Have his termination check ready. He is, as of now, fired.”
“Very good, sir.”
Farrero said hotly: “That is a foolish and spiteful act! If you can’t discuss abstract ideas without resorting to such crude tactics, you are in sorry shape, and deserve to lose money! In fact, I shall make it my business to see that you do so.”
“Oh? You won’t find a job anywhere around the association, I assure you of that.”
“An idle threat. I plan to go into business for myself.”
“Have you forgotten the little detail of the license? You haven’t got one. You can’t get one. There’s none being issued. Without a license you can’t build and sell a doghouse anywhere on Earth, Mars, or the Moon.”
Farrero smilingly shook his head. “If you were right—which isn’t always the case, as witness your attitude toward the League of Hope—that would seem definite and very discouraging.”
“You can bet your dirty lavender socks it’s definite and discouraging! Go back to Tek and grow up!”
“Your insults and threats are childish, Mr. Angker. I will now make a prediction, which you can regard as a counter-threat, if you choose. You have just heard one of my innovative concepts. I have several others, and before I’m done I’ll have cost you so much money, you’ll wish you’d taken me in as a partner. Remember that, Mr. Angker.”
Farrero turned off his hearing-aid and departed the office.
Angker touched another button. A soft voice said “Yes?�
�
“Did you hear this last interview?”
“No,” said Marlais.
“I’ll run it back for you—quite a lot in it.” He adjusted the recorder and replayed the interview.
“What do you think?” Angker asked the unseen Marlais.
“Well, Douane,” presently came Marlais’ soft voice, “you probably could have handled him more subtly…” His voice trailed off to a whisper. Then: “We’ll have a hard time proving ownership of any patents. Still, it may be for the best. The industry is stable. We’re all making money. No telling where disruption might take us. Perhaps we’d better call a meeting of the association, lay our cards on the table. I think everyone will contract neither to hire Farrero nor use his process.”
Angker made a doubtful noise. “I said so, but I’m not so sure.”
Marlais spoke with a gentle edge to his voice. “There are forty companies in the association. The chance of Farrero’s approaching any given firm is one in thirty-nine. Consequently, every operator, to protect himself, will obligate himself.”
“Very well. I’ll get the meeting set up.”
The next day Angker instructed his secretary: “Get me Westgeller.”
“Yes, sir…There’s a call coming in for you right now, Mr. Angker. In fact, it’s Mr. Westgeller himself.”
“Put him on.”
Laurin Westgeller’s face appeared on Angker’s screen—fat, friendly, with twinkling blue eyes. “Mr. Angker,” said Westgeller, “I’ve decided to have you go no further with my job. You can send me a bill for your work to date.”
Angker sat glowering at the image. “What’s the matter? Price too high?”
“No,” replied Westgeller. “Price doesn’t enter into the picture. In fact, I plan to spend rather more—perhaps a million.”
Angker’s jaw slacked. “Who…I mean, shall I send out a consultant?”
“No,” said Laurin Westgeller, “I’ve already signed—with one of your late employees, Mr. Farrero. He now is in business for himself, as I guess you know.”
