Citizen of the Galaxy by Robert A. Heinlein

Thorby glanced around, the room was crowded. She slapped a switch. “Speak up!” she snapped. “I’ve turned on the privacy curtain.”

“Please tell Mr. Garsch that Rudbek of Rudbek would like to see him.”

Thorby thought that she was about to tell him not to tell fibs. Then she got up hastily and left.

She came back and said quietly, “The Counselor can give you five minutes. This way, sir.”

James J. Garsch’s private office was in sharp contrast with building and suite; he himself looked like an unmade bed. He wore trousers, not tights, and his belly bulged over his belt. He had not shaved that day; his grizzled beard matched the fringe around his scalp. He did not stand up. “Rudbek?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. James J. Garsch?”

“The same. Identification? Seems to me I saw your face in the news but I don’t recollect.”

Thorby handed over his ID folder. Garsch glanced at the public ID, studied the rare and more difficult-to-counterfeit ID of Rudbek & Assocs.

He handed it back. “Siddown. What can I do for you?”

“I need advice . . . and help.”

“That’s what I sell. But Bruder has lawyers running out of his ears. What can I do for you?”

“Uh, is this confidential?”

“Privileged, son. The word is ‘privileged.’ You don’t ask a lawyer that; he’s either honest or he ain’t. Me, I’m middlin’ honest. You take your chances.”

“Well . . . it’s a long story.”

“Then make it short. You talk. I listen.”

“You’ll represent me?”

“You talk, I listen,” Garsch repeated. “Maybe I’ll go to sleep. I ain’t feeling my best today. I never do.”

“All right.” Thorby launched into it. Garsch listened with eyes closed, fingers laced over his bulge.

“That’s all,” concluded Thorby, “except that I’m anxious to get straightened out so that I can go back into the Guard.”

Garsch for the first time showed interest. “Rudbek of Rudbek? In the Guard? Let’s not be silly, son.”

“But I’m not really ‘Rudbek of Rudbek.’ I’m an enlisted Guardsman who got pitched into it by circumstances beyond my control.”

“I knew that part of your story; the throb writers ate it op. But we all got circumstances we can’t control. Point is, a man doesn’t quit his job. Not when it’s his.”

“It’s not mine,” Thorby answered stubbornly.

“Let’s not fiddle. First, we get your parents declared dead. Second, we demand their wills and proxies. If they make a fuss, we get a court order . . . and even the mighty Rudbek folds up under a simple subpoena-or-be-locked-up-for-contempt.” He bit a fingernail. “Might be some time before the estate is settled and you are qualified. Court might appoint you to act, or the wills may say who, or the court might appoint somebody else. But it won’t be those two, if what you say is correct. Even one of Bruder’s pocket judges wouldn’t dare; it would be too raw and he’d know he’d be reversed.”

“But what can I do if they won’t even start the action to have my parents declared dead?”

“Who told you you had to wait on them? You’re the interested party; they might not even qualify as amicus curiae. If I recall the gossip, they’re hired hands, qualified with one nominal share each. You’re the number-one interested party, so you start the action. Other relatives? First cousins, maybe?”

“No first cousins. I don’t know what other heirs there may be. There’s my grandparents Bradley.”

“Didn’t know they were alive. Will they fight you?”

Thorby started to say no, changed his mind. “I don’t know.”

“Cross it when we come to it. Other heirs . . . well, we won’t know till we get a squint at the wills — and that probably won’t happen until a court forces them. Any objection to hypnotic evidence? Truth drugs? Lie detectors?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re the best witness that they are dead, not just long time missing.”

“But if a person is missing long enough?”

“Depends. Any term of years is just a guide to the court, not a rule of law. Time was when seven years would do it — but that’s no longer true. Things are roomier now.”

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