Chapter 3

At fifteen-fifteen, the light on his interphone blinked twice, and Marlowe hastily initialed a directive with his right hand while touching the switch with his left.

“Yes, Mary?”

“Mr. Mead, sir.”

“O.K.” He switched off, pushed the directive into his OUT box, and pulled the GenSurv and the folder on Martin Holliday out of the HOLD tray. “Come in, Chris,” he said as Mead knocked on the door.

“How are you today, Mr. Marlowe?” Mead asked as he sat down.

“Four ounces heavier,” Marlowe answered dryly. “I presume you’re not. Cigarette, Chris?”

Apparently, the use of the first name finally caught Mead’s notice. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a cigarette and lit it. “Thanks--Dave.”

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Marlowe chuckled, his eyes almost disappearing in crinkles of flesh. “How’s Mary?”

Mead grinned crookedly. “Miss Folsom is in fine fettle today, thank you.”

Marlowe rumbled a laugh. Mead had once made the mistake of addressing the woman as “Mary,” under the natural assumption that if Marlowe could do it, everyone could.

“Mary, I fear,” Marlowe observed, “lives in more stately times than these. She’ll tolerate informality from me because I’m in direct authority over her, and direct authority, of course, is Law. But you, Mead, are a young whipper-snapper.”

“But that’s totally unrealistic!” Mead protested. “I don’t respect her less by using her first name ... it’s just ... just friendliness, that’s all.”

“Look,” Marlowe said, “it makes sense, but it ain’t logical--not on her terms. Mary Folsom was raised by a big, tough, tight-lipped authoritarian of a father who believed in bringing kids up by the book. By the time she got tumbled out into the world, all big men were unquestionable authority and all young men were callow whipper-snappers. Sure, she’s unhappy about it, inside. But it makes her a perfect secretary, for me, and she does her job well. We play by her rules on the little things, and by the world’s rules on the big ones. Kapish?”

“Sure, Dave, but--”

Marlowe picked up the folder on Holliday and gave Mead one weighty but understanding look before he opened it.

“Your trouble, Chris, is that your viewpoint is fundamentally sane,” he said. “Now, about Holliday, Martin, options 062-26-8729, 063-108-1004. I didn’t get time to read the GenSurv on the Karlshaven planets, so I’ll ask you to brief me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s IV like?”

“Good, arable land. A little mountainous in spots, but that’s good. Loaded with minerals--industrial stuff, like silver. Some tin, but not enough to depress the monetary standard. Lots of copper. Coal beds, petroleum basins, the works. Self-supporting practically from the start, a real asset to the Union in fifty-six years.”

Marlowe nodded. “Good. Nice picking, Chris. Now--got a decoy?”

“Yes, sir. Karlshaven II’s a False-E. I’ve got a dummy option on it in the works, and we’ll be able to undercut Holliday’s prices for his land by about twenty per cent.”

“False-E, huh? How long do you figure until the colony can’t stick on it any longer?”

“A fair-sized one, with lots of financial backing, might even make it permanently. But we won’t be able to dig up that many loafers, and, naturally, we can’t give them that big a subsidy. Eventually, we’ll have to ferry them all out--in about eight years, say. But that’ll give us time enough to break Holliday.”

Marlowe nodded again. “Sounds good.”

“Something else,” Mead said. “II’s mineral-poor. It’s near to being solid metal. That’s what makes it impossible to really live on, but I figure we can switch the mineral companies right onto it and off IV.”

Marlowe grinned approvingly. “You been saving this one for Holliday?”

“Yes, sir,” Mead said, nodding slowly. He looked hesitantly at Marlowe.

“What’s up, Boy?”

“Well, sir--” Mead began, then stopped. “Nothing important, really.”

Marlowe gave him a surprising look full of sadness and brooding understanding.

“You’re thinking he’s an old, frightened man, and why don’t we leave him alone?”

“Why ... yes, sir.”

“Dave.”

“Yes, Dave.”

“You’re quite right. Why don’t we?”

“We can’t, sir. I know that. But it doesn’t seem fair--”

“Exactly, Chris. It ain’t right, but it’s correct.”

The light on Marlowe’s interphone blinked once. Marlowe looked at it in momentary surprise. Then his features cleared, and he muttered “Cabbage.” He reached out toward the switch.

“We’ve got a visitor, Chris. Follow my lead.” He reviewed his information on Dovenilid titular systems while he touched the switch. “Ask ud Klavan to come in, uh ... Mary.”