everything he’s done so far.”
“But that doesn’t prove anything, does it,” the tubby man said. “You’re all the
same, you fellows … If Zambendorf walked across the Chesapeake Bay from here
to Washington, you’d just say, ‘Oh yes— that’s the old walking-on-the-water
trick.’ Just because you can imitate something, it doesn’t mean it had to be
done the same way first time, does it?”
“When he walks across the bay, I’ll give you my comment,” Massey promised.
“Er, Mr. Massey, you did say you’d autograph my menu card,” the woman in the
lilac evening dress reminded him hesitantly.
“That’s right. I did.”
“I still have it here, and—”
“No, you misunderstood me. I have.”
“I don’t think I quite—”
“Look inside it.”
“What? Oh, but … Oh, my God, look at this! How did that get in here?”
At that moment Burton Ramelson appeared behind Massey, smiling and holding a
brandy glass. He was small in stature, almost bald, and even his exquisitely cut
dinner jacket failed to hide completely the sparseness of his frame; but his
sharp eyes and tight, determined jaw instilled enough instant respect to open a
small circle in the guests before him. “A splendid exhibition!” he declared. “My
compliments, Mr. Massey, and I’m sure I speak for everyone when I add—my thanks
for turning our evening into a sparkling occasion.” Murmurs and applause
endorsed his words. He turned his head to address the guests. “I know you would
all like to talk to Mr. Massey forever, but after his exertions I think we owe
him the courtesy of a few minutes’ rest in relative peace and quiet. I promise
I’ll do my best to persuade him to rejoin you later.” Turning once more toward
Massey, he said, “Perhaps you’d care to join a few friends and myself for a
brandy in the library.”
As they proceeded out of the dining room and across a hall of paneled walls,
gilt-framed portraits, and heavy drapes, Ramelson chatted about the house and
its grounds, which had been built for a railroad magnate in the 1920s and
acquired by Ramelson’s father toward the end of the twentieth century. The
Ramelson family, Massey had learned from Conlon, commanded hundreds of millions
spread among its many members, heirs, foundations, and trusts in such a way as
to avoid excessively conspicuous concentrations of assets. Most of their wealth
had come from the energy hoax and coal boom following the antinuclear propaganda
campaign and political sabotage of high-technology innovation in the seventies
and eighties, which while achieving its immediate objective of maximizing the
returns on existing capital investments, had contributed to the formulation of
U.S. policies appropriate to the nineteenth century while the developing nations
were thrusting vigorously forward into the twenty-first. The subsequent decline
in competitiveness of American industries and their increasing dependence on
selling to their own domestic market to maintain solvency was partly the result
of it.
The group waiting in the library comprised a half dozen or so people, and
Ramelson introduced the ones whom Massey had not met already. They included
Robert Fairley, a nephew of Ramelson, who sat on the board of a New York
merchant bank affiliated to GSEC; Sylvia Fenton, in charge of corporate media
relations; Gregory Buhl, GSEC’s chief executive, and Caspar Lang, Buhl’s
second-in-command.
Ramelson filled a glass at an open cabinet near the fireplace, added a dash of
soda, and passed the glass to Massey. He proffered a cigar box; Massey declined.
“I’m so glad you were able to come,” Ramelson said. “You possess some
extraordinary skills. I particularly admire the insight into human thinking that
your profession must cultivate. That’s a rare, and very valuable, talent.” After
the briefest of hesitations he added, “I do hope you find it adequately rewarded
in this world of ours.”
“It was a good act,” Buhl said, clapping Massey on the shoulder. “I’ve always
been about as cynical as a man can get, but I don’t mind saying it straight—you
came close to converting me.”
Massey grinned faintly and sipped his drink. “I don’t believe that, but it’s
nice to hear you say it all the same.” Somebody laughed; everyone smiled.
“But it’s only your hobby, isn’t that right?” Robert Fairley said. “Most of the