The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  For a heartbeat or two after coming through the door, the old man stood with his eyes fixed on her, his mouth half open, frozen in the instant before speech. Abruptly, he appeared to reassert control over himself and arranged his features into familiar lines.

  “Hello, Jo,” he said softly, closing the door behind him. “You’re looking well.”

  And she was. A few pounds in the right places had matured her figure since the last time the two of them had faced each other. She was wearing a clingsuit – blue, to match her eyes – and she wore it well; in the past she had been too thin by most outworld standards, but the extra weight on her light frame brought her close to optimum. Her dark hair, its normal sandy color permanently altered years before to a shade closely matching her late grandfather’s, was parted in the middle, curving downward into a gentle frame for her oval face, and then cut off sharply below the ears. Between the straight line of her nose and a softly rounded chin, her lips would have appeared fuller had they not now been compressed by irritation.

  “You’re not looking so bad yourself,” she replied stiffly. “Island life seems to be agreeing with you. How’ve you been?” She really didn’t care.

  “Can’t complain.”

  The amenities went on for a few more minutes with Jo doing her best to be as pleasant as possible. Old Pete’s return irritated her. IBA was running smoothly now, and all because of her. What did he want here anyway? She resented anyone from the old days intruding on IBA. It was her company now – the Finch flair had been restored and IBA was reasserting its claim to pre-eminence in its field.

  Old Pete. Of all the people from the past, he was the last she wished to see at her door. And he must know that. She’d made no secret of it when he was forcefully retired; and even now, years later, she could feel the hostility radiating from her despite her calm and cordial demeanor.

  Old Pete was glancing around the room. A figure standing in a far corner caught his eye and he whirled. “Joe! Good–” Then he realized he was looking at a hologram. “That’s one of the most lifelike holos I’ve ever seen,” he said with obvious relief as he moved around to view it from different angles. “For a moment I actually thought–”

  “The founder’s portrait has to go somewhere,” Jo said.

  “Co-founder, you mean.”

  Jo hesitated, then backed down. He was right and it would serve no purpose to get petty with him.

  “The late co-founder,” she finally replied, then made an attempt to bring the conversation toward the bottom line. “What brings you back?”

  Frowning, he eased himself into a chair across from Jo’s desk and stared at her. “I don’t know how to put this, exactly. In a way, I’m here to ask IBA to help me, the Federation, and IBA.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Sounds kind of convoluted, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds like you’re hedging,” Jo replied without returning the smile.

  Old Pete’s laugh was genuine. “Just like your grandfather! Okay, I am hedging, but only because I’ve got to somehow convey to you a convincing version of a vague concept formed from speculation based on incomplete and/or secondhand information.”

  “What is it, then?” she snapped, then reminded herself to show restraint and have patience. He was, after all, an old man.

  “I’ve uncovered a plot against the Federation charter.”

  Jo let the statement hang in the air, waiting for more. But her visitor out waited her.

  Finally, “What’s that got to do with IBA?” she asked grudgingly.

  “Everything. The charter severely limits the activities of the Federation; it restricts it from meddling in planetary affairs and from interfering in interplanetary trade. For the past couple of centuries it has bound the planets tightly together while managing to stymie the bureaucrats at every turn. But there’s a delicate balance there, easily upset. If the charter should be changed or, worse yet, thrown out somehow, the politicos at Fed Central who are so inclined will have free rein to indulge their whims.”

  Jo shrugged. “So what? That doesn’t affect IBA. We have absolutely no connection with anyone in the Federation. We don’t even have a connection in the Ragna Cooperative. So how can any political machinations be of any consequence to us?”

  “If the charter goes, so does the free market,” he told her.

  A drawn-out, very dubious, “Ohhhh?” was her only reply.

  Old Pete grunted. “Jo, what do you know about the Restructurist movement?”

  “It’s a political group that wants to make some changes in the Federation,” she replied. “DeBloise is their current leader, I believe. Beyond that, I don’t know much about them. Nor do I care much about them or any other political group.”

  “You’d better start learning. To say they want to ‘make some changes in the Federation’ is to put it lightly… turn it inside out is more like it! The Fed was designed to keep the lid on interplanetary affairs: mediate some disputes, promote a little harmony while simultaneously maintaining a low level of constructive discord, and quashing the violent plans of some of the more acquisitive planetary regimes. But that’s not enough for the Restructurists.

  True to their name, they want to restructure the entire organization… turn it into some sort of social and economic equalizer that’ll regulate trade in free space and even get involved in the internal affairs of some of the planets.”

  Jo remained unconcerned. “They’ll never get anywhere. From what I understand, the Fed charter is defensively worded in such a way as to make it impossible for anyone to get around it.”

  “You forget: there’s an emergency clause that allows for a temporary increase in the scope of Federation activity should it or its planets be threatened. Peter LaNague, who designed the charter, disowned it after that clause was attached over his protests.”

  “I’m aware of all that,” Jo said with forced patience. The conversation seemed to have veered off its original course… or had it? In spite of the pile of work spread out before her, she felt compelled to follow Old Pete’s train of thought through to its finish. “And it seems every time I catch a vidcast, there’s a news item about another attempt to invoke the security clause in the Fed charter. And every time it’s voted down. Even if they do succeed in invoking it, so what? It’s only temporary.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Jo. If you look at the history of old Earth, you’ll find that very seldom, if ever, is any increase in governmental power temporary. The emergency clause is probably the key to Restructurist control: once they invoke it they’ll have their foot in the door and the Federation will never be the same again. I don’t want to see that happen, Jo. Your grandfather and I were able to make IBA a going concern because of the Fed’s hands-off policy toward any voluntary transactions. It’s my personal belief that we Terrans have come as far as we have in the last couple of centuries because of that policy. I don’t want to see it changed. I don’t want to see the Federation regress toward empire – it arose from the ashes of another empire – but I see it looming in the future if the Restructurists have their way.”

  “But they won’t,” Jo stated.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Many of those Restructurists may seem like starry-eyed idealists, but a good number are crafty plotters with power as their goal. And Elson deBloise is the worst of the hunch. He’s an ambitious man – a mere planetary delegate ten years ago, he’s now a sector representative – and this plot, whatever it is, centers around him and his circle. I’ve made a connection between deBloise and an as yet unnamed man on Dil. The man is some sort of physicist, probably, and if deBloise thinks he can be of use, then both he and the Federation had better be on guard!”

  Jo was struck by the old man’s vehemence. “Why not go directly to the Federation if you think something dirty is up?”

  “Because I don’t have a shred of tangible evidence. I would look like a nut and deBloise would have plenty of time to cover his tracks. Frankly, I’d rather not even involve the Fed.
It’s not set up to deal with deBloise’s type. I’d much prefer to handle everything behind the scenes and avoid any open involvement with the politicos. To do that I need IBA’s contacts.”

  “It’s always been a company policy to stay out of politics,” Jo said after a moment of silence. “It’s one of our by-laws, as a matter of fact.”

  Old Pete’s face creased into a smile. “I know. I wrote it.”

  “Then why the sudden change of heart?”

  “No change of heart, really. I still don’t think business should have any connection with government. It’s dangerous and it’s usually sneaky. When a businessman and a politician get together, certain things are bound to occur.” He ticked the points off on the fingers of his left hand. “The businessman is usually one who’s found that he hasn’t quite got what it takes to make it in the free market, so he will try to persuade the government to use its coercive power to help him gain an advantage over his competitors: a special sanction, an import quota, a right of way, et cetera. The politician will find that if he complies he will grow richer in power and/or material wealth. The colluding business will aim for a monopoly over a particular market while the politician will aim in turn for further extension of political influence into the marketplace by controlling that monopoly. They both wind up winners. The losers: everybody else.

  “So I still say, government should have no influence in the economy and business should have no influence in government. And that’s the way it’s been under the LaNague Charter. You, don’t see any lobbyists at Fed Central because the Federation has denied itself any and all economic power. Nobody’s getting any special favors and I want to keep it that way. And the only way for me to do that is to meet a few politicos head-on.”

  Jo drummed her fingers on the desk and studied the old man. His concern was genuine. And despite the conspiratorial overtones of his suspicions, Jo had an uneasy feeling that he could be right. The Restructurists had been rather quiet of late. Maybe something was brewing after all.

  But a secret plot to trigger the emergency clause of the Federation charter? Unlikely. But then again… Old Pete had never been known to be prone to hysteria, nor to paranoia. He was getting on in years, true, but not that far on. He and her grandfather had possessed two of the shrewdest minds in the interstellar market in their day and she sensed that Pete’s was still sharp. If he thought there was something in the wind that threatened IBA, then it might be wise to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Jo withheld complete acceptance. She’d help, even if it meant continued close contact with Pete, but she’d keep an eye on him. If he was wrong and his suspicions had no basis in fact, then little was lost except some time and personal aggravation. If he happened to be right, however… well, IBA was her home and her family. Anything that threatened it, threatened her.

  “I’ve always found conspiracy theories titillating,” she said after a long pause, “though rarely verifiable. But if it’s in IBA’s interest, I’ll do what I can.”

  Old Pete’s body relaxed visibly as he heard this. “Good! You can help me dig. I’ve already got someone checking out this fellow on Dil. We’ll have to keep a watch on all the Restructurist eminentoes to see if anything else is about to break.”

  Jo nodded. “I can see to that. I’ll also send someone of my own to Dil to see what can be uncovered there.” She rose to her feet, anxious to end the meeting. “In the meantime…”

  Old Pete sat where he was and held up his hand. “Not so fast.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “If we’re going to be working together on this thing,” he said, “let’s get one thing settled: Why do you hate me?”

  Jo’s voice rose half an octave. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Yes, you do. And I’d like an explanation. You owe me that much, at least.”

  She wondered at times if she owed him anything; then at other times she felt she owed him everything. But always, when she thought of him, old hatreds rose to the surface. She hesitated.

  “I’m waiting,” Old Pete said patiently.

  Jo shook herself and made ready the reply that was as unpleasant for her to say as it was going to be for Old Pete to hear.

  “If it hadn’t been for you,” she said slowly and distinctly, “my father would be alive today.”

  Old Pete’s face registered the expression she had expected: shock. And something more… he was hurt, too.

  After a long pause, he spoke in a low voice. “How could you think such a thing?”

  “Because it’s true! You probably talked him into that sabbatical of his. And if you didn’t talk him into it, you could have talked him out of it. But however it was, you got control of his stock and sent him off to be killed!”

  Old Pete suddenly looked all of his eighty-one years. A lot of things were suddenly very clear to him.

  “You must believe that Junior insisted on leaving… I did my best to dissuade him, but you can’t talk a Finch out of anything once he’s got his mind set on it. He thrust the stock on me for safekeeping until his return – he only planned to be away a year.”

  “But he never returned and it all turned out very nicely for you, didn’t it?”

  “You’re not thinking very clearly, little girl,” Old Pete said as anger began to absorb the hurt. “Think! What did I do with that stock? Did I set myself up as all-powerful ruler of the IBA complex? Did I remake the company in my own image? Did I milk it dry? No! No to all of them! I set up a board of directors to run things for me because I’d lost interest in the whole affair. Joe dead, and then Junior dead… all within four years…” His voice softened again. “I just didn’t feel like going on with any of it any more.”

  In the long silence that followed, Jo was almost tempted to believe him. His hurt at what she had said seemed so real. But she couldn’t accept it. Not yet. There was something locked away in Old Pete, something he would never let her see. She had no idea what it was or what it concerned, but it was there. She sensed it. And she couldn’t let the old hatreds go. She had to have someone to blame for losing a second parent by the time she was eleven years old, for the years spent with an indifferent uncle and a preoccupied aunt.

  “Well,” she faltered, “someone made him leave. Someone got him out of the picture.”

  “Yes, and that someone was Junior himself.”

  Jo’s voice broke. “Then he was a fool!”

  “You can’t understand why he left, can you?” Old Pete said softly, as if seeing Jo for the first time. “And I think I know the reason. Since you were in your teens you’ve known what you wanted and you had to work to get it. You had to confront me, then the board of directors, and then you had to prove yourself to the interstellar traders.”

  He rose and began to pace the room.

  “It was different, however, for Junior… perhaps we shouldn’t have called him that but it got to be a necessity when he and his father were working together. You’d say ‘Joe’ and they’d both say ‘What?’ But anyway, it was different for him. He grew up in your grandfather’s shadow; he was Joe Finch’s son and everything was cut out for him. He had a prefab future in IBA and most sons would have slipped right into the mold.

  “But not Junior. IBA was a golden apple waiting to be plucked and he walked away. Oh, he hung on and gave it a try for a couple of years after his father’s death, but it just wasn’t for him. At least not yet. He didn’t feel he’d earned it. It was no accomplishment for him to take over IBA. He balked.” Old Pete snorted. “That Finch blood, I guess.”

  “And you couldn’t change his mind?”

  He shook his head. “No. Tried up to the last day. He said good-by not knowing where he was going; I said good-by figuring to see him again in a year or so. You know the rest.”

  “What there is to know, yes.” Jo slumped in her chair. “I’m sorry, but I don’t care to talk about this any more.”

  Old Pete ignored her. “You know, I just realized what’s missing in this office: a
picture of Junior. Jo, you really shouldn’t reserve all your ancestral reverence for your grandfather.”

  “Please,” Jo said, “not now. I’ll have someone show you to the guest suite.”

  “Quite all right,” came the smiling reply. “I know exactly where it is – I helped design this building, don’t forget.” He turned at the door. “A nice little holo of your father would go very well on the desk there. Think about it. Junior was really quite a fellow in his own way. And you’re closer to him than you’ll ever know.”

  Jo remained in her chair after he had gone. It was a long time before she was able to get back to her work.

  Junior

  THE VANEK VILLAGE was an odd place, almost humorous in its incongruities. Sitting in front of their smooth-domed mud huts, the Vanek women, almost identical to the men in appearance, prepared the coming meal or mended clothes; the men whittled their statuettes and tableaux as they had no doubt done for centuries; the children romped as all children have romped for eons. A timeless scene at first glance. Then one noticed that the pump over the well in the center of the village was of Terran design and powered by solar batteries. A closer look and one noticed that fine strands of insulated wire ran from hut to hut. And filtering through the primitive background noise of the village in its natural surroundings was the hum of a modern generator. The Vanek had looked upon electric lighting and had seen that it was good… at least in this particular village.

  Rmrl left Junior standing by an odd-looking contraption while he went to confer with the elders. It was a series of intricately carved gearlike wheels suspended on axles set at crazy angles. Junior touched one of the smaller wheels and it began to rotate; he gave it a push to move it faster and suddenly all the wheels were turning. The rates and angles were all different, but all were turning.

  He returned his attention to Rmrl, who was approaching a large hut that stood apart from the others. The mud on the walls had been etched with countless, intricate gyrating designs.