Unpredictable Results
Volume 1 of the Jheebs Logs
Copyright 2004 by C. H. Inglin
All rights reserved.
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Chapter 1
Thank you, Jheebs. You may clear the table now. Everything was done to perfection, as usual. I think we shall be ready for dessert in, say, twenty minutes or so. This splendid pinot secco should keep us happily occupied until then.
Jheebs? Why, yes, he is quite a useful fellow. Couldn't do without him. Also quite unique, you know, only one of his kind on Hildred's Planet. Jheebs and I go back quite a few years now. How I came to be associated with him is one of those stories so absurd, so riddled with improbable events, even I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't been there.
I well remember how it all started that evening at Uncle Grump's. A pleasant, clear early summer's evening much like this, with the lights of Ilnestrom just starting to come on as they are now, all strings of white, amber, gold against the deep blue of the western horizon. Very spectacular. And if you think the view from here is wonderful you should see it from Uncle Grump's penthouse.
In point of fact, you can see the penthouse itself if you'll look towards the southwest. There, that cluster of lights crowning the tallest building in the financial district. My Great Aunt Eldora and her husband Euphonius Grumpitz still reside there. It suits Uncle Grumps' self-image as top of the financial food chain. Fancies himself a mercantile bird of prey, perched there, waiting to swoop down on the fiscal mice below. That's where the whole story started. I'd been invited to one of those intimate family dinners that so often are the preludes to great events, usually of a disastrous nature. Invited is perhaps not entirely the correct term. Commanded to attend is a tad closer to the truth. I'd opened my front door a few days earlier to find one of Uncle Grump's servots waiting there, its outstretched metal claw proffering an engraved invitation addressed to Dunstan Malvern. No casual messages left on the discom for Uncle Grump. Undoubtedly the feed from the vid-unit in the machine's teapot dome was being duly recorded to ensure that I couldn't deny receiving the invitation. Uncle Grump is always very careful about such details.
You might gather from my tone that I was a less than eager guest that night and you would be quite right. Before this particular evening I hadn't had much contact with my great-aunt and uncle for several years you see, not since my advancing age had cured my Tantie Eldora's serious case of guardianship over me. If anyone was happier than myself at the termination of that relationship it was Euphonius Grumpitz. Uncle Grump and I had never exactly hit it off well. The less seen of me the better, was Uncle Grump's opinion. And then, for no apparent reason, here comes an invitation to a quiet family dinner at home. As the missionary to the cannibals said, it's rather difficult to enjoy the main course when you're not certain whether or not you'll be the dessert.
On their parts, the host and hostess proceeded as if nothing unusual were up. The food was excellent, as you would expect from the kitchen of two of the richest people on the planet. We made the usual small talk. By we I mean primarily Tantie Eldora with occasional assistance from myself. Uncle Grump maintained his usual habit of not engaging in small talk and as far as he's ever been concerned all conversation with me qualifies as small talk.
Courses came and were duly consumed. Dessert was served, though by that time my stomach was churning such that it could have been cold, stale oatmeal for all the enjoyment I derived. Ultimately, while the servots cleared up, we adjourned with the final wine selection to Uncle Grump's study, where I wandered out onto the balcony and pretended to calmly observe the view. I could hear murmurs behind me. Uncle Grump and Tantie Eldora were speaking in low tones, the sort reserved for when the children aren't supposed to hear. Whatever was in the works was getting a final going over before the fatal moment. Then there were footsteps behind me, Tantie Eldora's footsteps. The moment was at hand.
"Duncie, your Uncle Euphonius has something to say to you. Now, I know that you and he don't often see eye to eye, but please, as a favor to your dear old Tantie, listen to him. It's for your own good, you know."
Amazing, the seemingly infinite variability of the human voice. I've known Tantie Eldora, when employing the full resources of her substantial physique, to rattle china several counties over. But tonight, to hear her, the softly maternal, good-wifely tone in her voice, you would never suspect that she was one of the few people on the planet who was a match for Uncle Grump. The marriage between them was by some described as a marriage of convenience. That was wrong. It was more a marriage of necessity. Before joining forces they had been conducting their own private Armageddon in the battle for control of a commercial concern. It threatened to degenerate into the worst sort of scorched earth combat until, in a dual flash of insight brought on by exhaustion, they decided to join forces.
The curious thing about them was that, where Uncle Grump lived for the battle, devoting most waking hours to waging financial war, Tantie Eldora seemed almost to stumble into great victories by accident, or by engineering her triumphs with the most ad hoc of strategies. Most of her time was spent pursuing one or another passion of the moment. Only occasionally did she venture into the lists to tilt with the merchant-knights. But when she did the results were almost always disastrous to her opponents. Many have suggested that the union of Euphonious Grumpitz and Eldora Picquet was a matter of destiny, the inevitable joining of two complementary spirits, the strengths and weaknesses of one interlocking nicely with the other. The truth is probably that fear and greed played the greatest roles in bringing the loving couple together. I personally have long suspected that a good bit of Uncle Grump's incentive in the arrangement was fear of what Eldora might do if she ever turned her full attention to business while on her part Tantie Eldora had a firm appreciation of the value of being able to enlist Uncle Grump's resources in her various crusades.
Tantie Eldora gave me a light pat on the shoulder and left. I deduced that there would be no seconds on the wine, since she took my glass with her. Uncle Grump remained standing at the far side of the study. I could see his reflection in the glass, could see the bare, polished dome and the sweeping white bow wave of mustache that seemed to be trying to compensate for the absence of its relatives above. It was something of a trademark of his, that mustache and the accompanying nose. If the mustache believed in doing things up with panache, billowing and sweeping and threatening to outflank his ears, the nose was equally determined to hold up its end of the business, making up in enthusiasm what it lacked in style. It was one of those noses that takes off with rather too much velocity and then realizes with a start that continuing on the current heading will carry it off about a meter or so further than any nose has gone before and thus it makes a series of mid-course over-corrections before making a last swoop and heading for home.
I stood there for what seemed a week or so, wishing I had some more wine, if only to give my hands something to do in holding the glass. He stood there, almost as far away as he could get while still being in the same room, occasionally sipping some of his wine. I worked out light, inoffensive comments I could toss out to get a conversation going, discarding each in turn as having too many controversial possibilities. Finally he spoke.
"Dunce," he said.
"Yes, Uncle?" I said, turning to meet my fate.
"Dunstan, we have to have a talk."
I thought I could see the cords in his gaunt neck working, the chin bobbing slightly, the hollow cheeks puffing just faintly, as if he were rejecting utterances at the last possible millisecond, countermanding orders just as the troops were about to go over the top.
"Excellent dinner, Uncle," I said, deciding to take the initiative and cut my way through. "Glad to see Maurice hasn't lost his touch, or his sense of smell or whatever it is that enables him to knock off these incredible dinners. And the wine! Just fanta..."
"Dunstan!" he said with a certain tone and volume that said he was breaking the lease on the initiative and moving back in. "I think you and I are both aware that I did not invite you here for dinner merely to get your opinion of Maurice's abilities and the quality of my cellar. Actually, if it weren't for Eldora's insistence you wouldn't be here at all! Ever!"
Thank you, dear Tantie Eldora. Quite a match, Eldora and Euphonius. Born within a week of each other and cursed by the name faddists who for several years running had popularized the concept of giving all children of a year names beginning with the same letter. That fad had mercifully died out early, but not before considerable damage had been done.
"Well, then perhaps I should express my thanks to my dear great-aunt and then perhaps I should be on my..."
"Dunstan!" he said yet again. For someone who'd never professed any joy at hearing my name, he was using it freely this night. "At your aunt's insistence I have invited you here to discuss your future, a subject upon which I suspect she's expended considerably more thought than you have!"
"Well, Uncle, I've always subscribed to the theory that the truly wonderful thing about the future is that it's always ahead of us and there is, therefore, no sense in unnecessarily mucking up the present with it." You would think that someday I'd learn that levity is wasted on Uncle Grump. Not yet.
"And that is precisely the attitude that has your aunt so upset. And, as your uncle, by marriage only, may God be thanked, that upsets me as well."
A lovely sentiment, simply put. One that would have touched my heart, if I hadn't known my great-aunt and her husband well enough to be more than somewhat suspicious. Now, if Uncle Grump was upset because Aunt Eldora was upset it could mean any of several things and possibly a combination of several things. That Tantie Eldora was upset was quite plausible. Perhaps my welfare was the current passion of the moment. Such had happened before, and been followed by extended periods when Nephew Dunstan was about equal in significance in her life with a small lichen clinging to a frigid cliff face on the uttermost southerly fringe of Soucon. Such is Tantie Eldora. That Uncle Grump was upset because his dear wife was upset was also plausible. More likely, Uncle Grump was upset because once Tantie Eldora fastened upon a subject to brood about she could hold on to it with all the tenacity of the carnivorous Darkwater Sound barnacle. Until she achieved a resolution of the problem, or her attention shifted to another, more pressing matter, those around her were going to have a devil of a time getting anything done. I sought to reassure him.
"Well, Uncle, I am certainly most grateful for this demonstration of concern on my behalf, but I really think it's needless. I'm really doing quite adequately. Perhaps not splendidly, but I am content and I see no great disasters looming ahead. So please convey my thanks to Tantie Eldora and tell her please not to worry on my behalf."
"Dunstan, I've pulled your records."
There are a number of phrases a fellow could happily go through life without hearing uttered. Things like "We find the defendant guilty on all counts" or "Dear, I seem to be a little late". The simple phrase "I've pulled your records" ranks right up there in its power to cast dark shadows over one's immediate future.
"What do you mean, 'pulled' my records?" I said, attempting to put a strong tone of outrage in my voice in a last ditch, forlorn hope effort to regain the initiative. "There are laws, after all. Privacy laws, Uncle. Personal privacy has been the very cornerstone, the holiest of holy principles since well before we bid goodbye to the ancient home world. One does not simply punch up a few numbers on the old discom and ferret out all the secrets of a fellow citizen. I am a citizen in good standing, of legal age and entitled to conduct my life as I see fit without interference. It's not done, can't be done, shouldn't be done!"
"It can if one is the spouse of the former legal guardian of the citizen in question and files a suit for disclosure in the public interest. Eldora's status as guardian, even though terminated by your attaining your majority, still retains certain legal rights and obligations pertaining to your welfare and conduct. You should be grateful your great-aunt bothers herself to look out for you, especially since your parents abandoned you."
"Well, now, that's not entirely correct you know. They didn't abandon me."
"They parked you in a boarding school and went off to run about naked on a pile of sand in the Equatorials! That doesn't fit my concept of proper parenthood!"
"They were operating a plantation on one of the islands. There were no schools, in fact no other people there, so boarding school was a necessity. As for running around naked, I understand it's quite hot there, and, with only machines about the island, clothes hardly make a lot of sense, now, do they?"
Something in Uncle Grump's expression told me that he deeply regretted my failure to be in residence when a freak hurricane took a lovely, verdant island and made a barren sandbar of it overnight, sweeping away everyone and everything that had been there the day before.
"Be that as it may, the subject we're here to discuss is your future. And based on your accomplishments to date I wouldn't bet a counterfeit demi-furt on your prospects for a successful, prosperous future."
"Oh, I hadn't thought I've done so bad. I've had my ups and downs so far, but as they say, adversity is an excellent teacher."
"And I doubt you've paid any more attention to it than to any other teacher you've had. How many higher schools have you attended?"
"Well, I'll have to think. Now if you include the time I spent..."
"Twenty-three. Nearly two dozen colleges, universities, institutes, academies and technical schools. You've tried all three continents and you've yet to come back with a degree, a diploma, a certificate of completion. I doubt you've even collected a single certificate of adequate attendance! By God, from most of them all you've received is a notice never to bother applying for re-admission!"
"Well, what are grades and certificates anyway? Mere marks on paper! That's all! They don't indicate what one's learned in reality. Just because I've never bothered myself to satisfy the petty details of the educational bureaucracy..."
"The Free School of Stadonpoort has no bureaucracy, no tests, no structure. Damn near haven't any teachers from what I've heard, nor even a curriculum. Self-guided, they call it. You were bounced out of there even! No one's ever been tossed out of that poor excuse for a school, though their so-called degree's been tossed out often enough. Never, never in history has anyone spent so much time in colleges and universities and what not and accomplished so little. According to your records, after you were dismissed from number twenty-three you applied to fifteen more institutions. None of them even bothered to respond to your application."
"But Uncle, if you think about it, what's most important in higher education is not the accumulation of odd, marginally useful facts but the accumulation of friends, making acquaintances. Hooking into networks. Meeting people who can help you out further down the line."
"I've done some investigation there, too. Some useful friends you've acquired! The Dunfey brothers? There's a useful lot. Parents couldn't even follow the minimum rules of responsible procreation. Had to pop out twice the standard number of off-spring without bothering to acquire the proper permits, so each one's Birthright was cut in half. Might as well have hamstrung them at birth. And the Giffen boy you think so highly of. Keep company with him long enough and you'll end up sharing a cell in a social rehabilitation center with him."
This line was obviously going in an undesirable direction, and quickly. I tried to change tack again.
"Well, actually, by the time I left Stadonpoort I'd pretty well determined that my talents did not lie within the realms of academe. So it was really no loss my not going on to other schools, you see."
"And where do your talents lie? Business, perhaps?"
"I have been rather dabbling, looking for the proper niche, as it were."
"Are you aware, that in the entire history of civilization on this planet, from the inception of the Social Capitalist system four hundred and fifty-three years ago, no one has ever failed to successfully complete his or her statutory period of labor service? You're expecting to find a niche, as you put it, where in five years you were unable to perform acceptably in any simple assignment given you?"
"But Uncle! I was credited with completion. I wouldn't have been granted control of my Birthright Account if I hadn't."
"That was the result of an oversight by the Founders. I researched it personally. When the Founders established the system, it was inconceivable to them that anyone not a certifiable mental dysfunctional could fail to perform competently in at least one minor, menial function. They neglected to write in any procedure for dealing with someone like you. Did you know there was serious discussion within the Administration of withholding your Birthright? But Legal Branch discovered that there was no basis for such an action in the Charter and they had to give it to you."
"Actually, I think there were some misunderstandings in my assignments. Personal conflicts and such..."
"Misunderstandings? Your performance reports read like a biblical plague on the economy!"
"Now Uncle Grump, I realize that a little hyperbole livens up the conversation, adds a bit of color and what not, but you're really going much too far."
"Should I mention the shellfish farm incident, out in the Brimly Broads? A simple enough assignment. Really it was. Just make sure the feeding machines, which virtually never break down, keep scattering feed on schedule and be sure the predator fences, which are computer monitored at that, stay intact. But could you cope with that?"
"Have you ever been out on the Broads at high summer, Uncle? Only time it ever gets really pleasant, you know. Offshore winds push the fogs back out to sea, keep the insects at bay. Temperature just perfect to enjoy a tall glass of punch..."
"The mudsharks went into a feeding frenzy of a sort never seen before..."
"Most amazing to watch. Never forget the sight. Only wish I'd had a camera to record it. They all got in through that one tiny hole in the fence. Cartilaginous bodies, you know. They can squeeze through the most incredibly small gaps. I understand they've developed much better fences as a result of that incident, so you see it wasn't a total..."
"The price of crevys went up astronomically over the entire east coast. Some varieties of mollusks were entirely off the market for months! And let's not forget your excursion into construction. A simple task, monitoring the cobblestone layers in Old Town Freibourg. The machines were all pre-programmed. Thousands spent in research to duplicate fourteenth century cobbled streets. All you had to do was watch the monitor for errors which never happen. But could you do that? No, you had to re-program the machines."
"I was merely trying for a more aesthetically pleasing effect."
"You got an effect, all right. The patterns you created induced dizziness and nausea in three out of five people walking down the street. Two hundred meters of paving had to be ripped up and re-done."
"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Just like the good idea you had at the syntha-chic plant. Reprogramming the synthetic chicken breast production line to produce cultured protein, not in the shape of chicken breasts, but in the form of genitalia. Wonderful! Obscene entrees! Just what were you thinking there?"
"Well, the Neoteric Dionysians were scheduled to have their great triennial fertility festival and orgy. It seemed like an excellent marketing ploy to me. If management had only acted on my plan..."
"Which they didn't. But that didn't stop you from carrying on with it, without even checking that the lot was consigned to the right religious order. And of course it's not your fault that the auto-chef at the Chapterhouse of the Order of Albigenses was not programmed to check the physical appearance of synthetic chicken breasts. The elders were not amused when they saw their Poulet Mistral. The entire chapter spent better than a month undergoing purification rituals.
"And that fiasco should have been a warning to me when you went into your religious phase. I said to your Aunt, 'He's finally found himself. He's flopped at business, so it should seem obvious. A career in religion. That's the traditional route for those who can't do anything useful'. But I was wrong, wasn't I? There are one hundred and forty-seven major and minor churches, sects and cults, in the most generally accepted delineation of them. You had to get involved with The Crack-Pots!"
"Pardon me, Uncle, but in most of society it's not considered polite to refer to the Society of Saint Theophilus of the Vessel That Was Broken and Then Made Whole Again as 'The Crack-Pots'".
"Whatever they're called, you're lucky you weren't brought up on charges for creating a public disturbance. It would have been the first time in the history of the order that The Crack-Pots ever filed such a charge instead of having it filed against them!"
Here I must admit, in all candor, that my attraction to the Theophilans was less a love of their dogma than of a particular blonde, blue-eyed adherent. Unfortunately, the public conception of Theophilan religious practices is not entirely correct, and I was as misguided as the average citizen. How was I to know that when the high priest shouted "Get thee naked before the sight of the Lord", he meant that in a spiritual rather than a physical sense.
"And where are you now? No profession, much less hope of a job of any sort. You blithely took full charge of your Birthright Account at the first opportunity and in less than five years you've frittered it away."
"I'll admit to some unfortunate investment decisions. Frittered is not perhaps an entirely accurate term. My circumstances are somewhat straitened at the moment but with a bit of belt tightening..."
"Straitened? Have you any idea just how much you have left?"
"Well, ah, as of my last statement of account, ah..."
"How much?"
"Now if you include..."
"Joint fund and commercial paper fund shares with an income potential of no more than seven hundred furts a year. Ready exchange account containing two hundred and seventeen furts, fifty-three rappen as of two o'clock this afternoon. I don't doubt you've managed to run that down some since then.
"Do you know what the accounts of your year-mates, left in the hands of competent managers, produce on average? Anywhere from twenty to twenty-five thousand furts a year. Not a fortune by any means but more than adequate for a judicious person to live a modest but comfortable life without ever having to lift a finger to bring in additional income.
"And what of you? I've run a projection, based on the pattern of spending you've established. I give you not more than thirty days before you've had to liquidate the rest of your account and piddled it all away. And given your affinity for beverages I dare say piddled is the most appropriate verb to describe the process. And then what? Very simply put, your creditors will file complaints, the courts will judge you insolvent, non-self-supporting and, considering your record, incapable of self-support. You'll be placed on the Subsistence List and being judged sound of body and not, technically at least, mentally impaired they'll find some useful employment for you, something too insignificant to justify applying a machine to."
Under most circumstances I have little trouble framing a suitable response for Uncle Grump. Years of verbal sparring have developed in me a capacity for quick if not always effective or wise retorts to him. This image, though, of being something akin to the man who cleans up after the machine that cleans up after the horses in a parade did rather disturb me such that I could think of nothing to say.
Throughout my boyhood, when schoolmates gathered to share sordid tales of the adult world, stories had circulated of what happened to those unfortunates who failed to make it in the life beyond school. There were still places left in the world, out in the far western reaches of Westcon and the frigid expanses of Soucon, that had never been settled due to inhospitable climates and terrains. But there were projects underway to reclaim them. Projects that were run by some of the brightest and most adventurous of scientists and engineers. At the highest levels, of course. Down at the grunt and groan level, out in the swamps and deserts and on the frigid mountain sides, there were never enough people willing to serve in the most isolated work sites doing the mundane things. So the brute force, fetch and carry positions on those projects were largely staffed by those judged unfit or undeserving to live within the comfortable cocoon of society. At the age of twelve or so the thought of the dangers of climate, beast and the unknown was daunting even if tinged with a certain amount of juvenile romanticism. At nearing thirty the thought of living far removed from decent food and drink, not to mention stimulating social intercourse, was utterly paralyzing and completely abhorrent.
I could see that Uncle Grump was savoring this apparently mortal blow that he had inflicted. For once I could think of absolutely nothing to say. As hard as it was to admit, he was right. I'd been doing a pretty effective job of deluding myself. Of course, I had known that my finances were in a perilous state but I'd had minor successes before, when the accounts had actually risen. But after each minor rise there had always been another dramatic plummet. The thought that it would eventually plummet to the very rock bottom I had managed to suppress with the hope that something would come up. That hope was gone now. The Malvern fortunes were embarking upon their final plummet, nosing over into the classic death spiral.
Uncle Grump savored his victory for several long minutes. Then he spoke again.
"For reasons I will never understand, your great-aunt harbors feeling of warmth for you such that the fate I've described disturbs her deeply. Therefore I have utilized certain business contacts, called in some favors, to obtain a job for you."
He reached into his dinner jacket and withdrew a small, off-white business card. He extended it towards me, making no move to close the distance between us, not even extending his arm its full length. I of course approached as a supplicant. In my state of mind at that point I would have gladly dropped to hands and knees and groveled in front of him in return for this lifesaver he was offering.
"This is the business card of the person you are to see. The address is there. You are to be there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. The pay is not, I understand, munificent, but it is quite adequate for a bachelor to live on and the work is not notably difficult. I have it on good authority that this is a position eminently suited to your talents. I was only able to obtain it by expending considerable personal influence. If you manage to bungle this one you'll not only end up on the Sub List, you'll have caused me to waste influence and I am not accustomed to wasting influence any more than I am money. Is that understood?"
"Clearly, Uncle, quite clearly. And thank you. I believe I'm on the threshold of..."
"I suggest that you be on the threshold of my door and well on your way home to get a good night's rest. You realize that this is without a doubt the last chance you'll ever get? I sincerely hope you surprise me."
With that Uncle Grump escorted me out to the door, where Tantie Eldora was waiting. I tucked the card safely away, said my good-byes to Tantie Eldora, thanking her perhaps too effusively, took the Grumpitz's private elevator to ground level and stepped out into the pleasant evening air.
Chapter 2
I left Uncle Grump's penthouse that night with a great feeling of relief, the kind one might expect to experience when the governor shouts "Stop!" just as the warden's finger touches the button. Reprieve! Stay of execution! It had all worked out much better than I could have hoped mere hours before. Perhaps I'd misjudged dear old Great Uncle Grumpitz. Perhaps age was mellowing the old fellow, as it alters a young, harsh, tongue biting wine into a fine, palate pleasing delight. Perhaps I'd been wrong in judging time to be merely pickling the codger. A few short hours before I'd been a young man on the slide, not even knowing how serious was the crisis that I'd so casually fallen into. Now, thanks to Uncle Grumpitz, I had prospects. I would have a position. More importantly, I would have an income.
The evening was still new, especially for one who followed my policy of not arising until the sun was well on its way. Take no chances; stay under the covers until dawn is a dead certainty. What a waste it is to leap out of bed and discover it's all a false alarm. Therefore, I was far from ready to retire. I decided to do a bit of reconnoitering. Spy out the lay of the land for the morrow. I was a bit curious, as anyone would be, as to the nature of my new employment. Taken aback as I was by the offer I had neglected to ask as to the nature of the job or, for that matter, the nature of the company I was to work for.
I took out the business card that Uncle Grump had given me. In the center was a name and title, "M. Beeson, Vice President, Operations". In the top left corner was the company name, Resource Optimization, and an address, 1485 Megenheim Street, Suite 12. Scrawled across the bottom, in Uncle Grump's impatient hand, was "8 A.M. SHARP".
The barest of information there. However, the address was nearby, on the edge of the financial district, simply two lefts, a right and a dash down an alley from Uncle Grump's door. Perhaps I could determine something by an inspection of the premises. Off I went and in ten minutes or so had located the home of my soon-to-be employer.
It was closed up, as one would expect at this hour. Externally it was much like any other business building in the district. Imposing, in its black speckled granite facade, but also anonymous. One of many such buildings. On a superficial level, details of this and that and the arrangement of the trim around the doors, it was different and distinct from its neighbors, yet on a slightly higher level, above the petty details, not really any different from its neighbors. Dull light shone through the heavy glass doors. To the left, set at eye level in the wall, a directory plate glowed with soft phosphorescence. Running my nose up within a mole's reading distance, I was able to make out a series of names. Some were individuals, usually with an alphabet soup of letters behind them, others collections of names of individuals, usually with their own particular letter combinations appended. Then there were the peculiar products of those individuals who specialize in creating nom-de-guerre for partnerships, associations and other corporate entities. Some few identified the nature of dealings of the bearers, either incorporating descriptive phrases within the name or as a sort of suffix to the name. Most did not, choosing to camouflage their occupation in words that sounded impressive but gave away nothing as to what those behind the words actually did. Resource Optimization occupied a spot about in the middle and had opted to be among the nots.
Well, thought I, if one comes to do business with Resource Optimization, one obviously must know what that business is before dropping in.
The more I rolled that name around, the more I liked the sound of it. It had that something, that sense of substance suggested by the word resource. How can you argue with a firm that deals in resources. Likes them so much they take the very word as part of their name. None of your mincing boutique businesses here. Solid pillars of the industrial world, that's what a name like that suggests. And optimization. That had a lovely ring to it. A touch of science, technology, modern alchemy in that word. Cold, pure, rational activity. Resource Optimization. The more I said it the better it sounded. I had a feeling it would sound well indeed at asocial function.
"Ah, yes. I'm employed at Resource Optimization. You know of it? No? Well, not surprising, really. Not many outside our little niche know of us. Let me tell you a bit..."
Yes. That should go down very well indeed. It's always important to have suitable openers on hand to get the conversation going. I have acquaintances who profess that the single most important reason for holding a job is to provide them with something to talk about at.
In this delightful frame of mind I began to make my way back home. I retraced my steps back past the residence of wonderful old Uncle Grump and then stepped aboard the first of the series of slidewalks to take me back to my humble abode on the far side of The City. The first stage took me to the Blakeshaw Gate, its black basalt pillars delineating the traditional bounds of the financial district. From the gate it was onto another slidewalk, moving briskly down the center of Graflein Esplanade, and then across Quercus Park. Augmenting the slidewalks with an easy stroll I'd be home in another twenty minutes or so. Then off to bed and a goodnight's sleep before beginning my new career.
Or so it might have been. Instead I dallied a bit at Quercus Park, stepping off the slidewalk to stroll one of the round-about paths. The elder moon was just up and the younger was high in the sky, providing more than enough light to stray from the main, well lit pathways. The peculiar characteristic of the native pseudo-oak of curling its leaves with nightfall increased the amount of light filtering down to ground level and gave an unseasonable autumnal cast to the scene. The dark, twisting shapes of the squat, gnarly troll oaks and the tall, columnar titan oaks combined with the gothic tracery of shadows they cast were food for the imagination, especially the imagination in a buoyant, whimsical frame of mind. My imagination automatically began to recall those childhood stories woven around trees and woodlands, the benign and the horrific tales of innocents lost and bizarre, malevolent creatures found in the dark fastness of the primeval forest. Therefore I jumped, just slightly, when I heard my name called out.
"Dunstan! By gosh and golly and the blood of any number of saints, it is! Dunstan Malvern, himself, it 'tis. Straying a bit far from your usual haunts, aren't you, m'lad?"
From out of the shadows, along a side path of a side path, his identity betrayed by the unmistakable voice and the ridiculous attempt at putting on an ancient Irish accent, came the form of Malcolm Dunfey. Trailing slightly, and nearly lost in the shadows, was the pixie like shape I recognized as Sydne Sigrest. Even in the shadows the peculiar, off center top knot she habitually formed her hair into was an unmistakable indicator.
"Been off to dine with my beloved Great-Uncle Grumpitz," I said.
"If I'd known you were so close to starvation as to resort to visiting Uncle Ogre, I'd have organized a relief expedition. We could surely have found some old friends to chip in a crust of bread for your benefit. I presume you're not having a jest at my expense?"
"Certainly not! The delightful old gentleman merely asked me over to break bread, toss back a splendid bottle and discuss a business arrangement."
"Now we know he's having us on," said Sydne. "Is this the Dunstan we've known for many long years? The one who so often whiled away an evening telling us tales of the malevolent doings of his few surviving relatives? I suggest, Malcolm, that you wrestle him to the ground and remove his mask. He's obviously an impostor posing as Dunstan, though why anyone would want to is beyond me."
"Perhaps it's Dunstan, and he's slipped into some strange mental infirmity. Delusions, hallucinations, and all those sorts of perturbations. You are feeling all right, aren't you, Dunstan? Not giddy, light-headed? Confused perhaps? How many fingers am I holding up?"
"None. Your hands are in your pockets."
"Excellent! His night vision hasn't been afflicted by this strange illness. It'll make it that much easier for us to guide him to the clinic. I'm sure we could raise enough among his grieving friends to purchase a lobotomy."
"I assure you I'm perfectly all right. It sounds strange, I grant you, but it's true. Uncle Grump seems to have mellowed somewhat. He was very nearly civil during dinner, and then he announced that he'd arranged a job for me."
I thought it somewhat unnecessary to go into the less flattering details of our discussion.
"Perhaps we should take up a collection to buy the Grump a lobotomy. I'm sure his business associates would dearly love to contribute. Probably raise enough to buy him several. I don't doubt some of his long time friends would even offer to do the work themselves, gratis. Come along with us, Duncie. We'll discuss the proposition over a mug and a plate of tapas."
"I've already eaten, but a bit of frothy wouldn't be unwelcome. Where to, navigator?"
"'Another Cheap Dive'. Myron's working there so we can count on the service, if nothing else."
"No offense, but cheap dives seem somehow to be Myron's proper milieu. Which one is Myron working at now?"
"I told you. 'Another Cheap Dive'."
"Yes, I understand that. I was just inquiring as to the name of the cheap dive we're going to."
"That is its name. 'Another Cheap Dive'."
"Oh. At least there's no question here of false advertising."
And so my course veered from that originally plotted. The evening was still young and I've always felt it worthwhile to inspect new eateries. Even if their product proves indigestible, they still provide material for conversation. And besides, who knows whom one might meet and what opportunities might arise. An egg doesn't become an omelet by staying in the refrigerator.
On through the moonlit park the three of us went, thence via another slidewalk to the Lukins Rise District, a mixed neighborhood of shoulder to shoulder two story homes, artisans' shops and eateries. Befitting its character as a haunt of those with craftsman and artist temperaments, or at least pretenses to such, the area was well populated in the evening hours. Many of the locals ran shops where they created and hawked objects of craft or art more as a supplement to their regular Birthright stipends than as regular employment and felt no need to maintain what dealers in staples might consider regular hours. As a result there was considerable hustle and bustle all about. The scenes in most of the shops resembled more nearly informal social gatherings than typical retail transactions.
After perhaps ten minutes we stopped in front of a two story, stucco, multi-unit residence, not much different from any of its neighbors.
"I believe this is the place," Malcolm said. "Never been here before. Going solely on the directions Myron com'd me this morning."
He stepped closer to inspect the number. I saw no sign of a food and drink service establishment and must admit my faith in the Dunfey nose for refreshment was beginning to weaken just a bit. Just then there came the sound of a door opening, and with it rumbling undertones of a large number of people talking, laughing and generally engaging in social intercourse. From the narrow alley that separated the building from its neighbor to our right staggered a largish fellow, obviously under the influence of more than mother's milk.
"Yes, the number matches," said Malcolm. "You might ask that fellow if he knows of the whereabouts...." He stopped in mid-sentence. It was quite obvious from our prospective informant's unsteady gait that he would be lucky to be able to deduce his own current whereabouts. "Never mind. I do believe our destination is quite close. Probably right around this corner."
He led us around the corner of the building. There, in a narrow alleyway, stairs led down to a basement door, a solid, sound deadening one. A small goose necked lamp, its frosted glass cover and heavy wire protective cage suggesting its industrial ancestry, illuminated a floridly artistic sign announcing "Another Cheap Dive."
"Well, it does say dive, doesn't it?" Sydne said, looking down the stairs.
"Rather unique, wouldn't you say? If this is indicative of the rest of the establishment, I expect we'll have to give them a high score for ambiance. Onward!"
As eldest of the Dunfey brood, Malcolm habitually took the role of leader. Taking the steps two at a time, he led us into Another Cheap Dive. Once through the door, I immediately gave the proprietors high marks for ambition. Not just the basement of this one house, but also those of the surrounding buildings had been taken over. Arched passageways, lined in brick facade or tile, had been cut through the separating concrete walls, creating a complex of rooms and galleries, a veritable catacomb filled with diners and drinkers.
Each room was unique, some having normal tables and chairs, others tables and chairs suggesting past eras and styles. Still others had low, round tables surrounded by cushions. Some walls had been wainscoted, others frescoed. More sported jungles of hanging plants or bric-a-brac or tapestries. Few of the furnishings matched any other items in the place. The proprietors had obviously outfitted their establishment by scouting cast-off sales far and wide. The overall effect was both garish and delightful. Kitsch taken to the level of art or the depths of excess. It was impossible to decide.
Our round about inspection finally brought us into a room dominated by vinous plants cascading from numerous rustic containers hung randomly on the walls. In one corner a cliff face of mossy rocks had been constructed. Streams of water splashed their way from rock to rock to end up in a small pool at the base. Subtly shifting blue and green lights set in the upper walls and ceiling gave the impression of a swaying jungle canopy.
And there in the middle of the room, occupying a table by himself, was Morgan Dunfey, chronologically the second of the Dunfey foursome. He appeared to have been there for some time as evidenced by several empty glasses, but was still conscious enough to wave us over.
"Malcolm!" he called out. "About time you made your appearance. Myron told me you'd be appearing tonight so I waited on dinner."
"How kind. You haven't bought me dinner in quite some time. I am deeply, deeply touched."
"You misunderstand. I waited so you could buy me dinner."
"I suspect, dear Malcolm," said Sydne, "that you're about to be touched even more deeply."
"Sydne! I didn't see you there! Why don't you join Malcolm and myself for a late, light supper? By the way, how are your finances holding out?"
"They're holding quite well, actually. I took a precaution and put a transfer hold on them for the evening. Just in case."
Myron put on his best look of injured innocence. "Oh clever girl! One would
think you suspected us of looking forward to more than just your company at dinner. To think ..."
"You forget. I've dined with you before."
"So you have. And who's this?" Myron had undoubtedly noticed me before, but the time seemed opportune for a transition away from discussing previous dinners.
"Dunstan Malvern! Alive and well, and since we're on the subject how are your finances these days. They make an excellent Sybaris Slugger here and I had rather hoped to have one or two more, but alas, my ready cash account has not kept pace with my thirst and I'm loathe to make unscheduled dips into my capital."
"I regret to report that my financial health is at the moment somewhat fragile," I said.
"Pity. Sorry to hear that, but then there seems to be a lot of that going around lately."
"Still, it appears things will be improving shortly," I continued.
"How so? If you're onto something lucrative it would be only decent to share it with your old comrades in arms."
I launched again into a brief synopsis of the evening's events. Getting to the end, I inquired as to any knowledge of my new employer. There were blank looks all around.
"Resource Optimization? Hmmm. Sounds like something one should know about," mused Malcolm. "Pithy sort of name, very solid sounding. But it really tells you nothing."
"It seems to me I've heard of it, but I can't for the life of me pin it down," said Sydne. "It seems as if it's one of those names that's so common you don't even notice it." She shrugged, giving up the effort.
"I know what you mean. It's there in the back of my mind. Or maybe I only think it is because you've suggested it. Here comes Myron. Maybe he's heard of it."
Myron Dunfey, the third of the brothers approached, wearing an apron patterned in thin gray and black stripes. The coloring failed to hide the splattered evidence of the night's labor transporting dishes and glasses. We posed him the question.
"Never heard of it. By the by, the management has requested me to ask if you're here to order? Morgan seems to have made them somewhat leery, occupying that table for so long."
"I've kept up my side of the commercial contract," Morgan said, in mock disgust. "I would tell you how many Sluggers I've put away, but I really can't remember, and that alone should be proof of my good patronage."
"I think, dear brother, we'll start with a round of these famous Sybaris Sluggers the family reprobate is so fond of, and perhaps an appetizer as well," Malcolm said.
"Have you, as an employee, any suggestions or warnings as to the food here?" Sydne inquired.
"Well, generally the best course is to start of with one of the tapas platters. Very small portions of a variety of menu items, all of a sort that can be consumed as a prelude to more substantial fare or, by incrementing the quantity, serve as a main dish. There are several combinations to choose from, if you'll peruse the inside cover of the menu. Then, if you find anything edible, you can order the full entree. Or you can move along to another tapas platter. The crevys steamed in herbed wine and served with garlic oil are particularly good tonight."
"Hmmm. The number three looks possible," Sydne said. "What do you think, Malcolm?"
"It looks fine to me. I don't see anything there they can do too badly. A number three it is and a round of sluggers all around."
Myron went off on the circuitous way to the kitchen. Morgan looked around and said, "Do you think we should have ordered a drink for the last of the line?"
"Who?" I asked.
"The afterthought. Brother Merton."
"But he's not here," I said, somewhat puzzled.
"He will be," said Sydne. "Dunfeys travel in hordes, you know. Rather like locusts."
Myron returned with the drinks. Morgan was correct. They did make an excellent slugger. And all the good natured joking aside, from the smells that wafted through the room I suspected the food was not half bad, either. Despite the dinner I'd had earlier, I was beginning to experience that sort of hunger that comes not from the stomach expressing its needs, but from the nose expressing its curiosity and the taste buds exhibiting an inexcusable greed.
As Sydne predicted, Merton, the youngest of the Dunfey brothers appeared, and, as if on cue, so did the somewhat ad hoc entertainment of the establishment. An exotic dancer had twirled her way in from the next room and began making a circuit of the tables, dancing briefly here and then executing a series of clever moves that placed her there. She was quite good. Malcolm pointed this out to Sydne, who seemed to take offense at an anatomical reference and attempted to pin various of his extremities to the table with a fork. I'd like to tell you what else happened that evening, but to tell the truth, I haven't the vaguest recollection.
Chapter 3
I awoke early the next morning, slowly and after considerable rolling around and contemplating the eternal early morning question of "Who am I and what am I supposed to be doing?" I use early in the relative sense, relative that is to when one actually went to bed and how much sleep one required. I believe it was actually nearing nine o'clock, and since it eventually occurred to me that I was to start work this morning, I managed to get out of bed and get myself reassembled in a somewhat orderly manner.
On the way out the door I paused by the discom. There was a slip of paper sticking out of the hardcopy slot, so I pulled it out and, with considerable difficulty, focused my eyes on it. It was a funds transfer receipt. A dining and entertainment establishment called "Another Cheap Dive" had effected a transfer of one hundred and thirty-five furts, sixty rappen, for "comestibles, beverages and service," transaction completed at 2:31 AM, this present morning. I made a mental note to investigate what that was about. As with most mental notes, it was of course relegated to the mental wastebasket shortly thereafter.
So I was off to work. Out the door, down to the corner, and on to the slidewalk. One of the advantages of the modestly upper scale neighborhood where I then lived was the proximity to a number of public slidewalks. Once one became familiar with the network of moving belts getting from one part of the city to another was simply a matter of hopping on and off at the right spots and connecting the spots with a few blocks of brisk walking.
After retracing my steps of the previous evening, I located the building I had inspected the evening before. I entered the now bustling lobby and presented myself before a directory podium in the center of the lobby.
"What is your destination, please?" a synthesized voice asked, as I triggered the podium's motion detector.
"Resource Optimization," I announced. The voice returned with "That will be Suite 12, on the fourth floor. Please take elevator five." To my left an elevator door opened and a large number five set into the wall above it began to flash. I entered the indicated elevator and shortly found myself deposited on the fourth floor. So far, so good.
The entrance to Suite 12 was as uninformative as the directory on the exterior of the building. A door of brightly finished hardwood with a simply but nicely executed brass plaque bearing the name, and nothing more. It appeared they felt that, in their line of work, the name was explanation enough. Promising, very promising. A secure, well-established firm has definite advantages as an employer. With one of these upstarts that only opened its door yesterday, can one be at all certain they'll open the door again tomorrow? I entered, hearing, mentally of course, an appropriate fanfare for a historic occasion.
The outer office was impressive, as outer offices go. Nicely done wood and plaster, decorative plants and touches of polished stone facing for accents, tastefully subdued but rich feeling carpet underfoot. And a human receptionist at a central, semi-circular desk. Very tacky, I say, for a firm to have a servot, however well programmed, to greet visitors at their most important offices.
"D. Malvern to see M. Beeson," I said in a business-like but still pleasant voice. She toggled a few keys and glanced at a display screen unobtrusively built into the desktop.
"Ah, Mr. Malvern. Yes," she returned in a pleasant voice. Then she appended a slightly tart, "You're rather late."
I was uncertain as to whether the tone of her voice indicated concern or peevishness. She spoke into an artfully concealed microphone. The desk obviously harbored some fairly clever acoustical devices; while she was obviously speaking, all I could hear on my side of the desk was a low, indecipherable murmur.
"Miss Beeson will be out in a moment, Mr. Malvern," she said.
I thought to engage her in a bit of conversation, perhaps find out a bit of the unofficial story of R.O. Inc., but hadn't the chance. A sliding door whooshed back into its pocket, and M. Beeson strode through with a stride that was in the habit of annihilating distance. She was taller than average, a severe, blonde woman of middling age who would have been quite attractive to someone who was attracted to the goal-obsessed. To someone who was suddenly concerned with the fear of being trampled, her physical attributes were of secondary consideration to her stopping ability.
"Mr. Malvern?" she asked, in a deep soprano. Pure business, no detectable sociability.
"Yes. Very pleased to..."
"You're late. You should have been out at The Site an hour ago. Come along."
Off we went through the door she had entered by, and down a nearly sterile hallway. The off-white walls were sparsely decorated with a handful of pleasant but common paintings and photographs. The doors to the offices on either side bore names and titles that were generic to any business, directors of various planning operations, personnel operations, financial operations, operating operations. At one open door in the domain of the personnel persons we turned in and M. Beeson halted before a desk manned by a rather more attractive young woman.
"This is Mr. Malvern, whom we've been expecting."
I thought I detected just a trace of reproach in her tone.
"Ah, yes. I have your packet right here," she said. She glanced at the clock on the wall. "You're late."
She handed a large manila envelope to M. Beeson, who, in turn, handed it to me.
"The usual personnel forms and information sheets," she said. "Complete them when you have time. Send them up to the main office through the inter-office mail. The forms, that is. I suggest you study the information sheets thoroughly. As a matter of routine, personnel would orientate you, but there won't be time today, since you're late."
And she was off again. I suspect that if I'd blinked she would have been out of sight and I'd have been left to wander. Fortunately we didn't have much farther to go. A few doors down we turned in at the home of "Coordinator - Site Operations." Seated at a desk, just inside the door, nursing a cup of coffee and perusing with little apparent interest a stack of reports sat a youngish looking fellow. On M. Beeson's arrival he carefully placed the coffee on the desk and stood up.
"Donald, this is Mr. Malvern," M. Beeson said. "I suggest you hurry him along to The Site. George will be getting anxious." He extended his hand. I proffered mine and we shook. It was the first friendly gesture I'd encountered here at Resource Optimization.
"You're late," Donald said. "We should have been at the site two hours ago."
M. Beeson had already disappeared. Donald turned and opened the narrow door of a closet set in the wall behind his desk. He removed a pair of long, white coats. One of these he handed to me.
"They really don't serve any useful purpose other than as a sort of uniform," he said, putting on the other coat. "Still, higher management wants us to wear them whenever we're out at The Site. Image thing, you know."