Amazing, thought Basright, how you can analyze what people want so accurately when you want none of it for yourself. Aloud he said, "Entertainment is a high-risk industry, sir. You could lose your capital with breathtaking speed."
Loo-Macklin glanced back at him, didn't smile. "Is that what you think I'm going to do?"
"No, sir, I do not. I was merely mentioning the possibilities."
"You're my second opinion, Basright."
"Thank you for the confidence, sir. Where do you propose we begin? Surely you don't intend to put the entire eleven million into pleasure tapes and performance contracts?"
"No. In addition to entertainment, I want to get into transspatial communications. Quietly. We'll make a lot of noise, throw a lot of money around in entertainment. It will divert attention from our more sober interests. I want contacts in communications industries on every one of the eighty-three worlds, from Lubin and its two hundred to Terra and its billions. I want to develop a network of communications contacts from here to the extreme edges of the UTW. They needn't even be related, at first. Just as long as they're communications oriented." His fingers played the keyboard.
"I've already drawn up a list of thirty purchases I'd like you to make under the new company umbrella." Basright noted that Loo-Macklin did not ask for his opinion on those purchases. That was fine with Basright. Giving opinions to Loo-Macklin always made him uneasy. He much preferred taking orders.
"I want all this done quietly," the muscular young man said intently, "so as not to alarm any potential competitors or the heads of the great public service companies. That's one lesson I learned from the underworld. Move surreptitiously and with elaborate indirection. I want companies with false boards of operators buying up other companies with false boards of operators. There should be at least seven separations of ownership between us and the source of revenue."
He touched another key and the figures on the vast screen vanished. They were replaced by a series of interlocking geometric forms. At first glance it appeared to be a modest piece of abstract art. In a way, it was.
"I've already set up a master design for the new parent company." He looked back at Basright, indicated the screen. "What do you think of it?"
Basright rose from his chair, though he could see just as clearly from it, and walked forward until he was standing close to the screen. He started at the top and began working his way down the screen, studying each section slowly and carefully.
"Extremely elaborate, sir. Too much to grasp all at once." He backed up, finally reached the bottom of the screen, rubbed his eyes. "Too much for me, sir. You'd need another computer to figure out the linkages." He glanced over at his master.
"You always did have a way with computers, sir. But it makes it hard for an old man like me to keep up with your intentions."
"Don't give me that 'old man' routine, Basright. I've watched you work that on too many people and then seen you spring your real intentions on them." He nodded toward the screen. "You'll master it, given time. You'll plug away at it until you know it nearly as well as I do. It's too rational for you to ignore it, too much of a challenge.
"You have your own way with computers. We'd be lost without them. Galactic civilization, the eighty-three worlds of the UTW, would be impossible without them. Even the underworld's become so big and cumbersome they need computers to handle their records. They're just not as efficient as the legal boards of operators, which is why the legal world still holds the reins of civilization. The barbarians will always be stuck at the gates if they can't figure out how to open them.
"The elected politicians, the chiefs of the great companies, the syndicate chieftains . . . they aren't the arbiters of civilization. It's the men and women who sit on the boards of operators, who program the computers that program the computers, who run our lives. Fortunately most of them are technicians and engineers, not administrators or would-be generals. That's why our society is protected from any would-be despot. That's why the UTW will never suffer a totalitarian regime. Thanks to the computers there can be no Khans, no Führers, no Caesars in our future."
"Can't there be, sir?"
Loo-Macklin frowned at him. "Of course not." He gestured toward the screen. "I can probably run up the program to prove it. Why do you wonder?"
"Nothing, sir," said Basright quietly. "Just a passing thought. An idleness. I am distracted from business, which is not good." He looked back at the screen and pointed toward a triangle in the lower right hand corner. "What is that for, sir?"
"That," explained Loo-Macklin energetically, turning his attention to the screen, "is the organizational design for administering our titanium, cobalt, and rare metals processing plants on Manlurooroo I and II. I've already opened secret negotiations to buy into them."
"Pardon me, sir, but if we're to make our first thrust into the entertainment industry, why do we need cobalt and titanium ore facilities?"
"To build the shells of our spacecraft with, Basright."
"Spacecraft, sir?"
"Yes. To populate the shipping line I'm going to start. You remember what I said about communications. We're going to work into that from two different directions.
"To any curious outsiders, legal or illegal, it will seem as though we're concentrating our energy in the entertainment industry. That's natural enough, given our previous involvements with prostitution and drugs. The line there between the legal and the illegal is slim. On some worlds it's merely a matter of convention and abstract moral principles."
"Yes, sir," said Basright, listening and absorbing.
"We're also going to buy into communications industries, quietly and slowly. But then we're going to work our way into those industries which supply the raw materials for communications."
"What does all this lead to, sir?" Basright waved at the screen. "Does this grand design have a point, an end? Or is it an end in itself? What will you do if you fulfill what you have planned? Draw a larger design, a grander schematic?"
Loo-Macklin took his hands from the keyboard, clasped them behind his head. He leaned back, stared up at the screen.
"Basright, I honestly don't know."
"The unknown obsession, sir. I told you."
"Dammit, Basright," said Loo-Macklin tersely, turning to glare at the persistent old man, "I am not obsessed!"
"Call it by another name then, sir," suggested Basright placatingly. "Each of us owns a certain modicum of ambition."
"I will settle for ambition. But let's have an end to all this nonsense of obsession." He thought a moment, asked curiously. "What about you, Basright? In your quiet, plodding way, does some ambition lurk in that outwardly servile brain of yours?"
"Yes, it does, sir. I want to live long enough to find out what your ob . . . ambition is."
"That doesn't sound like much of a life goal, Basright."
"A modest ambition to fit my personality, is it not, sir?"
Loo-Macklin considered, then shrugged. He turned back to the keyboard, touched controls. A small section of the immensely complicated design was enlarged to fill the entire screen. It was outlined in brilliant fluorescent green.
"Here's where I want you to begin. There are facilities on Restavon that produce a large number of the more mindless and disreputable programs for home viewing. They are as profitable as they are critically declaimed.
"A number of firms have tried to take over the companies in question. I've made them an offer which they will accept." He grinned. "The difference in our offer from those made previously is that the directors of the companies think it would add validity to their product if an interworld hero was sitting on their decision-making board with them. They intend to use me only for public relations value, of course, and to manipulate the capital we will put in as they see fit. I'll change that in due course."
"I dare say you will, sir," said Basright.
"Meanwhile—" he gestured at the screen—"I want you to go to Restavon and buy up the subsidiary suppliers."
>
All business now, Basright removed a small box from his pocket. He alerted it and began making notes.
"You can begin with those four small firms on Restavon and Tellemark," Loo-Macklin informed him evenly. "Then there are those up-and-coming young performers whose contracts I wish to purchase. On Terra, the singer Careen L'Hi. On Restavon, the comedian Mark Obrenski. On Elde . . ."
The production plant on Restavon was quite elaborate. It had to be. No business could survive on that intensely competitive world save the best, and the QED studios had been built utilizing only the finest equipment and most creative individuals.
From the stage sets of QED came forth dozens, hundreds of works of entertainment destined for transmission throughout the eighty-three worlds: dramas and tragedies, classics, adventure tales, science-fiction, mysteries and comedies, in short, every kind of fictional amusement mankind had managed to invent over the ages to distract himself from the vicissitudes of reality.
QED studios were housed in a four-tiered industrial complex located on the outskirts of Nanaires, a large city, which bordered the shore of Restavon's Elegaic Sea. It generated profits all out of proportion to the size of its physical plant, for its primary industrial asset lay in the fecund imaginations of its employees.
A creative mind of a different sort was touring the impressive facilities. To Loo-Macklin, QED represented the industrywide base he'd been trying to acquire for some time. Its purchase had given him a foothold in the private world of excessive finance and would allow borrowing on the scale necessary to gain entry into other areas.
The executive escorting the new owner around the complex was an earnest, perspiring gentleman in his fifties. He owed his present discomfort to a lack of regular exercise and a plaid and white suit cut too slim for his expanding figure. But then, QED was in the business of supplying illusions and comfort was not particularly important.
Loo-Macklin didn't think much of the administrative personnel he'd encountered so far. That didn't trouble him overmuch. As long as his employees did their jobs, turned out their product, he could overlook personal faults. The executive, Cairns, was no different from the rest.
"Over here," the man was saying unctuously, "are our mixing facilities. We can blend backgrounds, special effects, special sounds, music, aroma, tactility, ductility, and live or automatonic performers as readily as you'd make a vegetable stew."
Loo-Macklin nodded perfunctorily as he whispered to the tall, older man who followed him as closely as a shadow. Cairns didn't like the old man, whose name was Basright, any more than he did his new boss, but he kept his famous smile frozen on his face. The corporate takeover had come unexpectedly. Now all he wanted to do was satisfy this new owner's curiosity and get him the hell out of Nanaires as fast as possible. He didn't like playing the fawning subordinate, especially in front of his own staff, but the role had fallen to him and he would play it out to its end. Loo-Macklin had insisted on the guided tour.
"Down that corridor," he continued briskly, "are the location sets for our most famous ongoing comedies, including Matermon's Family, which has been in production continuously for fifteen years. But I'm sure you're familiar with the show. Everyone is."
Loo-Macklin shook his head. "Sorry. Can't say that I am. I don't watch much screen, and I don't care for comedy."
I can believe that, Cairns thought. The roller that was transporting them took a turn to the left in response to the executive's pressure on the controls.
"Here are the sets for our viewerun series," he said. "They're recording one right now. This is only for Restavonwide exposure, but the size of the planetary market makes it a viable proposition for us. We also produce such series on other worlds where a sufficient number of residences are wired into the studio."
A flicker of interest seemed to waken within the somber-visaged new owner. He stared down through the transparent wall at the pageant being acted out below.
It was a historical tale involving the wars of settlement, which ravaged Ganubria IV some two hundred years ago, before the UTW extended its control over all the human-settled worlds. The participants battled only with old-style projectile weapons.
As they watched, a noisy battle scene, which filled the huge recording room, was taking place. Technicians scurried about out of pickup range, adjusting the lighting and rain clouds. As the weapons discharged, several members of the cast fell bleeding to the ground.
"The wounds look real," Loo-Macklin commented
"Naturally," said Cairns, surprised. "We pride ourselves on the realism of our productions. As to who gets shot, that is determined by the viewers who run the plot from their home stations and who subscribe to this particular service. We never let the carnage get out of hand. Good actors who are willing or desperate enough to participate in viewerun programming are scarce these days."
Something more than casual interest had appeared in Loo-Macklin's face. As he turned to face Cairns, it was clear that the placid, noncommittal expression he'd worn all morning had vanished. In its place was a twisted, almost maniacal stare of glacial fury. Taken aback, the executive stumbled away from him. Even Basright was staring askance at his boss, wondering what on earth had transformed him so.
"Tell them to stop that," Loo-Macklin said tightly. "Right . . . now."
"But . . . I can't do that," muttered the confused Cairns, trying to recover his poise. His eyes traveled from the homicidal expression on the new owner's face to the scenario in progress below. "They're right in the middle of a voted plot twist and I . . ."
"Right now," Loo-Macklin repeated, somehow colder still. He'd turned back to stare through the viewing glass, his knuckles white where they gripped the guardrail.
Basright stared quietly at his boss. He's so mad he's shaking, the assistant thought in amazement. Not in all the years of their association had he seen Loo-Macklin this angry.
Cairns recovered slightly, found himself mumbling into the nearby intercom. "Hold shooting!" His amplified voice echoed through the smoke-filled set below. "This is President Cairns putting a formal hold on set twelve shooting . . . 'til further notice."
Far below, a woman turned from her position behind a clump of rocks, put her hands on her hips and yelled up toward the glass.
"What the blazes is going on, Cairns? Who gave you the authority to break into sequence? I don't give a damn if you are chief administrator, you don't have the artistic right . . .!"
Loo-Macklin, his voice trembling slightly as he stared down at her, said softly, "Fire that one."
"But that's Weana Piorski," Cairns protested, wondering what had set the new owner off. "She's one of our most talented veteran action directors. If I fire her, Ultimac or Enterprex or one of our other competitors will hire her so fast it will . . ."
"She's fired," Loo-Macklin snarled, turning a ferocious glare on the executive, "and you'll join her unless you do exactly as I tell you."
"Yes. Yes, sir," Cairns said dazedly.
"I've had enough of this," Loo-Macklin mumbled to no one in particular. "Come on, Basright. I want to inspect the duplication facilities I've heard so much about." He stalked off down the corridor, disdaining the use of the roller. Basright made placating motions toward the executive, added a look of warning, and hurried off after his boss.
"What's wrong, sir?" he asked Loo-Macklin after they'd turned the far corner. "Surely you don't feel upset by the bloodshed? It's common to such entertainments."
"It's not the killing." Loo-Macklin was starting to calm down, no longer looked ready to demolish whatever might cross his path. His fists had unclenched and the color was beginning to return to his fingers.
"It's just that I will not have that kind of activity taking place under my aegis."
"Your pardon, sir, I don't understand."
"A bunch of smug citizens squat in their hovels and make life-and-death decisions for performers helpless to affect their own destiny. I won't make money off that."
"Sir, those performers ar
e free agents who signed contracts. They understood the dangers inherent in such productions, as well as the considerable rewards. No one forces them to accept assignments to viewerun series."
"I won't have it," Loo-Macklin reiterated firmly. "Let the damn mollymits come down here and make their own choices out on that toy battlefield. Or let the performers and writers decide who gets shot and who doesn't. Not some bored third party. I won't be a party to it." He glanced over at Basright.
"A man's death is his own, even if his life is not." He accelerated, leaving the older Basright straining just to keep him in sight and still wondering just what his boss was talking about . . . .
Chapter 7
"Pick it up," the man said.
The stocky, ugly boy hesitated over the bowl and spoon. Other eyes watched him expectantly, eyes of mostly older orphanage mates. The domeister waited and glared down at the twelve-year-old, his helpmate in hand.
"I told you to pick it up." The helpmate crackled dangerously.
The boy named Kees slowly knelt. The older boy who'd tripped him and caused him to spill bowl and spoon sat at his seat and grinned, enjoying himself no end. Loo-Macklin glanced away from his tormentor and down at the spilled stew which made an abstract pattern against the smooth polytier floor. This was not the first time, only the most recent of dozens of similar incidents, which had made his life a stinging hell since his natural mother had abandoned him years earlier.
Something inside him burst.
He picked up the bowl as ordered . . . and heaved it straight at the domeister's face. Taken by surprise, the man screamed as the remnants of the hot liquid and hard glass bowl caught him across the bridge of his nose. He dropped the dreaded helpmate.
Kees picked it up, jerked the control tab all the way over, past the safety catch. The plastic catch snapped. Then Kees shoved the translucent tube against the domeister's throat.
The man screamed, stumbled backward, and tripped over his own feet, crashing to the floor. Behind them, the other boys were screeching delightedly at this unexpected turn of events. They urged Kees on while staying out of the fray, participating only to the extent of emptying their own bowls on the unhappy domeister, on Kees, on each other as well as the walls and floor.
Man Who Used the Universe Page 9