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judge unless he went there and looked? And would he know if he did? And how could he find time?
Funny, but a man who owned a thousand starships automatically never had time to ride in even one of
them. Maybe in a year or two --
No, those confounded wills wouldn't even be settled in that time! -- two years now and the courts
were still chewing it. Why couldn't death be handled decently and simply the way the People did it?
In the meantime he wasn't free to go on with Pop's work.
True, he had accomplished a little. By letting "X" Corps have access to Rudbek's files some of the
picture had filled in -- Jake had told him that a raid which had wiped out one slaver pesthole had resulted
directly from stuff the home office knew and hadn't known that it knew.
Or had somebody known? Some days he thought Weemsby and Bruder had had guilty knowledge,
some days not -- for all that the files showed was legitimate business . . . sometimes with wrong people.
But who knew that they were the wrong people?
He opened a drawer, got out a folder with no "URGENT" flag on it simply because it never left his
hands. It was, he felt, the most urgent thing in Rudbek, perhaps in the Galaxy -- certainly more urgent
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than Project Porcupine because this matter was certain to cripple, or at least hamper, the slave trade,
while Porcupine was a long chance. But his progress had been slow -- too much else to do.
Always too much. Grandmother used to say never to buy too many eggs for your basket Wonder
where she got that? -- the People never bought eggs. He had both too many baskets and too many eggs
for each. And another basket every day.
Of course, in a tough spot he could always ask himself; "What would Pop do?" Colonel Brisby had
phrased that -- "I just ask myself, 'What would Colonel Baslim do?' " It helped, especially when he had
to remember also what the presiding judge had warned him about the day his parents' shares had been
turned over to him; "No man can own a thing to himself alone, and the bigger it is, the less he owns it.
You are not free to deal with this property arbitrarily nor foolishly. Your interest does not override that of
other stockholders, nor of employees, nor of the public."
Thorby had talked that warning over with Pop before deciding to go ahead with Porcupine.
The Judge was right. His first impulse on taking over the business had been to shut down every
Rudbek activity in that infected sector, cripple the slave trade that way. But you could not do that. You
could not injure thousands, millions, of honest men to put the squeeze on criminals. It required more
judicious surgery.
Which was what he was trying to do now. He started studying the unmarked folder.
Garsch stuck his head in. "Still running under the whip? What's the rush, boy?"
"Jim, where can I find ten honest men?"
"Huh? Diogenes was satisfied to hunt for one. Gave him more than he could handle."
"You know what I mean -- ten honest men each qualified to take over as a planetary manager for
Rudbek." Thorby added to himself, "-- and acceptable to 'X' Corps."
"Now I'll tell one."
"Know any other solution? I'll have each one relieve a manager in the smelly sector and send the man
he relieves back -- we can't fire them; we'll have to absorb them. Because we don't know. But the new
men we can trust and each one will be taught how the slave trade operates and what to look for."
Garsch shrugged. "It's the best we can do. But forget the notion of doing it in one bite; we won't find
that many qualified men at one time. Now look, boy, you ain't going to solve it tonight no matter how
long you stare at those names. When you are as old as I am, you'll know you can't do everything at once
-- provided you don't kill yourself first. Either way, someday you die and somebody else has to do the
work. You remind me of the man who set out to count stars. Faster he counted, the more new stars kept
turning up. So he went fishing. Which you should, early and often."
"Jim, why did you agree to come here? I don't see you quitting work when the others do."
"Because I'm an old idiot. Somebody had to give you a hand. Maybe I relished a chance to take a
crack at anything as dirty as the slave trade and this was my way -- I'm too old and fat to do it any other
way."
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Thorby nodded. "I thought so. I've got another way -- only, confound it, I'm so busy doing what I
must do that I don't have time for what I ought to do . . . and I never get a chance to do what I want to
do!"
"Son, that's universal. The way to keep that recipe from killing you is occasionally to do what you want
to do anyhow. Which is right now. There's all day tomorrow ain't touched yet . . . and you are going out
with me and have a sandwich and look at pretty girls."
"I'm going to have dinner sent up."
"No, you aren't. Even a steel ship has to have time for maintenance. So come along."
Thorby looked at the stack of papers. "Okay."
The old man munched his sandwich, drank his lager, and watched pretty girls, with a smile of innocent
pleasure. They were indeed pretty girls; Rudbek City attracted the highest-paid talent in show business.
But Thorby did not see them. He was thinking.
A person can't run out on responsibility. A captain can't, a chief officer can't. But he did not see how,
if he went on this way, he would ever be able to join Pop's corps. But Jim was right; here was a place
where the filthy business had to be fought, too.
Even if he didn't like this way to tight it? Yes. Colonel Brisby had once said, about Pop: "It means
being so devoted to freedom that you are willing to give up your own . . . be a beggar . . . or a slave . . .
or die -- that freedom may live."
Yes, Pop, but I don't know how to do this job. I'd do it . . . I'm trying to do it. But I'm just fumbling. I
don't have any talent for it
Pop answered, "Nonsense! You can learn to do anything if you apply yourself. You're going to learn if
I haw to beat your silly head in!"
Somewhere behind Pop Grandmother was nodding agreement and looking stern. Thorby nodded
back at her. "Yes, Grandmother. Okay, Pop. I'll try."
"You'll do more than try!"
"I'll do it. Pop."
"Now eat your dinner."
Obediently Thorby reached for his spoon, then noticed that it was a sandwich instead of a bowl of
stew. Garsch said, "What are you muttering about?"
"Nothing. I just made up my mind."
"Give your mind a rest and use your eyes instead. There's a time and place for everything."
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"You're right, Jim."
"Goodnight, son," the old beggar whispered. "Good dreams . . . and good luck!" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]