Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “My father died,” the Ay-rab explained. “There is a law that one must be a citizen to inherit, unless there is a treaty—and how can there be a treaty with Saudi Arabia, which no longer exists? I went to the court, Effendi.”

  “And you were drunk,” said Mundin.

  Hamid said gravely, “Effendi, it is even as your great poet Fitzgerald so beautifully wrote—

  “Indeed the Idols I have loved so

  long

  Have done my Credit in this

  world much wrong:

  Have drowned my Glory in a

  shallow Cup

  And sold my Reputation for a

  Song.”

  “Sure, Hamid, sure,” said Mundin. “I’ll look into it.”

  LUNCH continued without further interruption or much conversation. Over coffee, Lana said, brooding, “I guess the big shots’ll ride out to Morristown in armored cars. Too bad we ain’t rich. Well, let’s get to the jumping-off place.”

  A taxi took them through the Bay tunnel to the Long Island Railroad terminus in Old Brooklyn. Just for the record, they tried the ticket window.

  “No, sir,” the man said positively. “One train a day, armored. For officials only. What the hell do you want out there, anyway?” They canvassed the bus companies by phone, without luck.

  Outside the railroad station, at the head of the cab rank, Lana began to cry.

  “There, little girl.” One of the hackies soothed her, glaring at Mundin and Bligh. A fatherly type. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s my daddy,” Lana bawled. “He’s in that terrible place an’ he’s lost an’ my mommy said we should go help him. Mister, just take us to the edge, please? An’ Uncle Norvie and Uncle Charlie won’t let anything bad happen if those bas—if those bad men in Morristown try anything. Honest!”

  The hackie broke down and agreed to take them to the edge.

  It was a two-hour drive over bad roads. He let Lana ride next to him in the front. Swinging her little handbag gaily, with the volatility of a child, she chattered, all smiles, the whole way. Uncle Norvie and Uncle Charlie exchanged looks. They knew what was in the little handbag.

  Morristown, being older, was better organized than Belly Rave. The driver stopped a couple of weed-grown blocks from the customs barrier.

  “Here we are, little girl,” he said tenderly.

  The little girl reached into her handbag. She took out her busted bottle and conversed earnestly with the driver. He cursed and drove on.

  At the gate, a couple of men looked genially inside. Lana whispered something—Mundin thought he caught the words “Wabbits” and “Itty-Bitties”—and the men waved them on. A block past the gate, on Lana’s orders, the driver stopped at another check-point, manned by a pair of dirty-faced nine-year-olds.

  They got a guide—an Itty-Bitty with a carbine. On their way through the busy brawling streets to the Administration Building, grownups got out of sight when they saw him clinging to the cab.

  At the Ad Building, Lana said curtly to the driver, “Wait.”

  Mundin pointed to the steel-plated wheeled and tracked vehicles drawn up in the building’s parking lot. “We get out of here in one of those or not at all.”

  Lana shrugged. “I don’t get it, but all right.” She told the Itty-Bitty, “Pass the cab out, will you? And whenever you guys need something in Belly Rave, you know who to come to.”

  IT was one o’clock—the meeting was scheduled for one-thirty. The check-point in the lobby passed Mundin and Bligh on the strength of Mundin’s stock certificate. Lana was to wait in the visitor’s room.

  Some twenty men filled the meeting room. Quite obviously, they were Titans. Beside these richly, quietly dressed folk, Mundin and Bligh were shabby interlopers.

  They were also ridiculously young and awkward.

  From here on, it gets hard, Mundin told himself. Corporate law!

  The vision blinded him with its brightness.

  Another new arrival was greeted cheerfully by the Titans. “Bliss, old man! Never thought you’d turn up for this nonsense. Old Arnold’s going to tramp all over you again, as usual.”

  Bliss was thin and younger than most of them. “If a couple of you gutless wonders would back me up, we’d stop him. Anyway, what else have I got to do with my time?” Then archly, “I did hear something or other about a Miss Laverne . . .” It broke up in laughter.

  Mundin dove into the breach. “How do you do, Mr. Bliss,” he said breathlessly, taking the man’s hand. “I’m Charles Mundin, Regular Republican candidate in the 27th District—and a small stockholder here.”

  The thin man gently disengaged his hand. “It’s Hubble, Mr. Ermurm—Bliss Hubble. How do you do.” He turned to one of the Titans and demanded with mock belligerence, “Didn’t you get my wire, Job? Why haven’t I got your proxy for the contract thing?”

  “Because,” Job said slowly, “I like old Arnold’s policies so far. You’ll rock the boat one of these days, Bliss—unless we kick you out of it first.”

  “Mr. Hubble,” Mundin said insistently.

  Hubble said absently, “Mr. Ermurm, I assure you I’d vote for you if I lived in the 27th District, which, thank God, I don’t.” His eyes were wandering. He headed across the room to buttonhole another Titan. Mundin followed him in time to hear, “. . . all very idealistic, I’m sure, my dear Bliss. But many an idealistic young man has turned out to be a hard taskmaster. I mean no offense.”

  Bliss Hubble was off again. Mundin judged that this last Titan was angry enough to talk to him. A vein was throbbing nicely in his reddened temple. Mundin asked in tones of deep disapproval, “Same old scheme, eh?”

  THE Titan said angrily, “Of course. The fool! When young Hubble’s seen as many raids on management as I have, he’ll think twice before he tries to pull wool over my eyes. The contract thing indeed! He’s trying to shake the faith of all of us in the present management, stampede a board election, bribe—oh, in a gentlemanly way, of course—bribe himself onto the board and then do as much damage as he can. But, by Godfrey, it won’t work! We’re keeping a solid front against him. . .” His eyes focused. “I don’t believe I know you, sir. I’m Wilcox.”

  “Delighted. Mundin. Attorney.”

  “Oh—proxies, eh? Whom do you represent? Most of the chaps seem to be here.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wilcox.” Mundin followed Bliss Hubble, who had thrown himself into a chair after another rebuff. He handed him the power of attorney from Don Lavin that Ryan had prepared.

  “Hey? What’s this?”

  “I suggest you read it,” Mundin said.

  There was a patter of applause as half a dozen men came in. One of them—Arnold—said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Let us all be seated and proceed.”

  Mundin sat beside Hubble, who was reading mechanically. One of the new arrivals began to drone out the minutes of the last meeting. Nobody was paying a great deal of attention.

  Hubble finished reading, handed the document back to Mundin and asked with an amused smile, “Just what am I supposed to do about it?”

  Mundin said sharply, “Looks foolish, doesn’t it?”

  Disconcerted, Hubble said, “I didn’t say that. And—well, there have been rumors. Rumors to which you might have just as much access as I.”

  Mundin looked knowing. “We’re not going to be greedy, Mr. Hubble,” he said, wondering what he was talking about. “Assuming that I’m not a swindler and that isn’t forged, how would you like to be on the board?”

  “Very much,” Hubble stated. “We can put you there. Our twenty-five per cent voting stock plus your—?”

  “It’s a matter of record. Five and a half per cent. I vote the family holdings.”

  Mundin did sums in his head. Thirty and a half per cent. If they could take Hubble into camp and swing twenty per cent more . . .

  He faced front. Let Hubble think it over for a while.

  The minutes were accepted as read. One of the new arrivals grinned. “Now, g
entlemen, to business. To begin with, election of a board member to replace Mr. Fennelly.”

  SOMEBODY proposed Mr. Harry S. Wilcox, the gentleman with the throbbing vein in his temple. Somebody else proposed a Mr. Benyon and nominations were closed. Secretaries moved among the stockholders with ballots, which they filled out after an inspection—brief and with deferential smiles—of the stockholders’ proxies and share certificates. Mundin blandly presented his one share to a secretary’s horrified gaze. The man gave him his ballot as if he were passing alms to a leper.

  Wilcox won and there was a social round of applause and back-patting. From certain broad smiles, Mundin suspected the result of the balloting was as fixed as the morrow’s sunrise.

  He grinned at Hubble, who didn’t seem to think it was at all funny.

  “Coming in with us?” Mundin asked.

  Hubble scowled.

  The chairman passed on to the matter of compensation of officers. Mundin gathered, from the reading of a long, involved statement of capital gains and tax depreciations, that the corporation officers didn’t think they were making anywhere near enough money.

  During the reading, stockholders chattered sociably. Mundin began to wonder why they had bothered to come, for the raise was lackadaisically approved by a unanimous voice vote.

  At the next order of business, he found out why.

  It was called, “Diversification of Raw Material Sources, with Special Reference to Alumina and Silicates.” Mundin couldn’t make head or tail of the dull technicalities, but he noticed that the sociable conversations tapered to a halt. One group, not more than four or five men, were putting their heads together with much figuring on the backs of envelopes and checking of records. Secretaries were running in and out with books and sheaves of documents as the reading droned on.

  At last, the chairman said genially, “Well, gentlemen, the question. Shall we save time by asking for a unanimous vote of ‘Aye’ ?”

  A thin, gray old man rose and said, “I call for a record vote.” He looked at an elaborately unconcerned man in the first row and quavered menacingly, “And let me say to you gentleman that I’m going to keep a copy of the record. And I will be guided by it in reaching future decisions, particularly during the last week of the coming quarter. I trust I have made myself entirely clear.”

  The chairman harrumphed and the record vote was taken.

  THE proposition was defeated by a narrow margin, in an atmosphere of restrained passions.

  Mundin sensed dimly that there had just been a pitched battle—a corporate Gettysburg, a trial of strength between two mighty groups, with millions a year as the least part of the unseen stakes.

  Hubble, beside him, was growing restless. Mundin leaned over and whispered, “You could hold the balance of power in a matter like that if you came in with us.”

  “I know. Let me see that paper again.”

  Mundin knew he had him.

  The meeting continued.

  There were three other clashes—Union Representation, Petition for Lowered Haulage Rates, and Committee to Study Design Improvements. Each time the struggle, while Hubble read the spots off the power of attorney and fished for information.

  Mundin was noncommittal. “Yes, they’re clients of mine. No, sorry, can’t tell you just where Mr. Lavin is staying at present, I’m afraid. Yes, there is a sister. Mr. Arnold up there can probably give you more information than I.”

  “Arnold is in it?”

  “Up to his eye-teeth. He’ll probably attempt before long to—wait, here it comes now!”

  One of the colorless secretaries was mumbling, “Proposal to rectify an anomalous distribution of voting stock. Proposal is to empower board to acquire—at par—dormant stock, dormant to mean stock unvoted since issue, provided time in question be not less than ten years, stock to be deposited in company treasury.” It sailed through the air of the room without raising a ripple.

  Mundin whispered, “Ask him how much stock is involved. That’ll be your answer.”

  Hubble hesitated, then firmly rose, looking grim, and put the question.

  Arnold smiled. “I’m afraid we haven’t the exact figures. It’s more of a contingency measure, Mr. Hubble.”

  Hubble said, “I’d be satisfied with an estimate, Mr. Arnold.”

  “No doubt. But as I said, we haven’t got the figures. Now to proceed—”

  Hubble began to look mulish. “Is the amount by any chance twenty-five per cent?”

  Throughout the room, people sat up and conversations broke off short.

  ARNOLD tried to laugh. Hubble snapped, “I repeat my question. Is or is not the amount of stock you are asking us to empower you to buy and deposit in the company treasury, under your control, twenty-five per cent?”

  As it soaked in, there was a mild uproar. Hubble ignored it.

  “Is it or is it not, Mr. Arnold? A very simple question, I should think! And if the answer is ‘no,’ I shall ask to see records!” Arnold grimaced. “Please, gentlemen! Please, Mr. Hubble! I can hardly hear myself think. Mr. Hubble, since you have objections to the proposal, we’ll withdraw it. I presume I have the consent of all present for this agenda change. To pass on—”

  “You do not have my consent to this agenda change, Mr. Arnold. I am still requesting information on the proposal.” Somebody slid into a seat beside Mundin, a big, handsome well-preserved old man. “I’m Harry Coett. What’s this all about? I see you talking to Bliss and then all hell breaks loose. Say, weren’t you with Green, Charlesworth? No? Thought I knew you. Well, what’s up? Arnold’s scared. You’ve got something. What is it?”

  Mundin smugly asked, “What’s in it for me?”

  The man started. “Hell, boy, I’m Harry Coett. Where are you from, anyway?”

  A third party joined them as the debate between Hubble and the chairman raged and spread. “You seem to have put Hubble onto something, young man. I like spirit. Somebody told me you were an attorney and it happens there’s a vacancy in our law staff. Quite a vacancy. I’m Roadways, you know. George Nelson’s the name.”

  Coett snapped, “I was here first, George!”

  By then, the floor debate had escaped from Hubble’s hands. Scenting blood or gold, half the stockholders present were fighting for the chance to question Arnold, who was sweating and grimly managing not to say a thing—at great length. The other half of the stockholders seemed to be clawing their way into the group around Mundin, the odd young man who seemed to know things.

  Mundin, smiling politely and meeting no one’s eye, heard the whispers and conjectures: “—an attorney from the S.E.C., I guess, going to throw the book at old Arnold for—”

  “—into camp, but how do you know it isn’t Green, Charlesworth or—”

  “No, you ass! Proxies! They’ve been quietly—”

  JUDGING the time to be ripe, Mundin said politely, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” and stood up.

  “Mr. Chairman,” he called. Arnold pointedly avoided his eye and recognized somebody else—who was at once the goal of a ten-yard dash by Harry Coett. Coett whispered urgently to the man, who said, “I yield to Mr. Mundin.”

  “Thank you,” said Mundin. “Perhaps I can clarify this confused situation. However, Mr. Arnold, first I should like to talk to one of my principals—the young lady.”

  “Principals?” Arnold asked distractedly. A secretary murmured something to him. “Oh. Miss Lav—oh, certainly. She’ll—uh—be free to talk to you immediately after the meeting is concluded. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Urmurm?”

  “Quite satisfactory.”

  And that was that. It was far more than he had dared hope for. Not only had he thrown an egg into the corporate electric fan, so that half the stockholders in G-M-L were swarming around him, but Arnold was returning Norma as his price for not “clarifying the situation.” Arnold’s raid had blown up in his face. Far less than getting the Lavin stock to vote, he would be lucky to hold his domination of the board.

  Mundin sat down, com
fortably—and silently—acknowledging leading questions and offers from the Titans with polite nothings.

  The stockholders’ rebellion began to peter out. With Mundin quieted, angry and uncertain men perceived that some sort of deal had been made under their noses. They didn’t like it. They had done it themselves too often to enjoy feeling the spur on their own flesh. One of them called for unseating Arnold, but majority opinion was—wait until this Mundin tells what he knows.

  The rest of the meeting went at breakneck speed.

  Hubble spent much of it insisting, “Damn it, Mundin, you made me the first offer! The hell with these vultures. They’ll use you and throw you away. I’m the only heavy stockholder in the company with an open mind and—”

  “Nonsense!” Harry Coett said decisively. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mundin, but whatever it is, it’ll need financing. And I’m Harry Coett. Let me handle—”

  George Nelson said, “Tell him what you did to old Crowther, why don’t you? He needed financing, too.”

  MUNDIN never did find out what Harry Coett did to old Crowther. As the meeting was adjourned, he buttonholed Arnold, who gave him a wan smile. “Come and see me, Mr. Mundin. I’m sure we can get together. Don’t we know each other? Weren’t you with Green, Charlesworth?”

  “The girl, Arnold,” Mundin demanded.

  “Miss Lavin is waiting for you in the reception room.”

  Trailing tycoons, Mundin raced outside.

  Norma Lavin was there, pale and angry. “Hello, Mundin,” she said, not so crisply. “You took your time about it.” And then she was weeping on his chest. “I didn’t sign it. I knew Don wasn’t dead. I didn’t sign. I—”

  “Shut up, superwoman,” Mundin snapped. “Stop giving things away to the eavesdroppers. Your every word is golden.” But he found that he was also shaking—from the reaction to the hours of strain. And unexpectedly but emphatically, from—Norma.

  He got a grip on himself as Coett, behind him, mused, “So this is the young lady Arnold horse-traded you, eh? Your principal, Counselor?”

  “Maybe,” Mundin evaded. “Oh, come off it, Mundin,” Coett said shrewdly. He turned to Norma. “My dear, can I drop you any place? You, too, of course, Counselor.”