V. Superstition
29
Less than a week after the talk at the weir, the first hairline cracks began to appear in the pillars of the Whitehead Empire. They rapidly widened. Spontaneous selling began on the world’s stock markets, a sudden failure of faith in the Empire’s credibility. Crippling losses in share values soon mounted. The selling fever, once contracted, appeared well-nigh incurable
In the space of a day there were more visitors to the estate than Marty had ever seen before. Among them, of course, the familiar faces. But this time there were dozens of others, financial analysts, he presumed. Japanese and European visitors mingled with the English, until the place rang with more accents than the United Nations.
The kitchen, much to Pearl’s irritation, became an impromptu meeting place for those not immediately required at the great man’s hand. They gathered around the large table, demanding coffee in endless supply, to debate the strategies they had congregated here to formulate. Much of their debating, as ever, was lost on Marty, but it was clear from the snippets he overheard that the corporation was facing no explicable emergency. There were falls of staggering proportions happening everywhere; talk of government intervention to prevent imminent collapse in Germany and Sweden; talk too of the sabotage that had instigated this catastrophe. It seemed to be the conventional wisdom among these prophets that only an elaborate plan-one that had been in preparation for several years-could have damaged the fortunes of the corporation so fundamentally. There were murmurs of secret government interference; of a conspiracy of the competition. The paranoia in the house knew no bounds.
There was something about the way these men fretted and fought, hands carving up the air in their efforts to contradict the previous speaker’s remarks, that struck Marty as absurd. After all, they never saw the billions they lost and gained, or the people whose lives they so casually rearranged. It was all an abstraction; numbers in their heads. Marty couldn’t see the use of it. To have power over notional fortunes was just a dream of power, not power itself.
On the third day, with everyone drained of gambits, and praying now for a resurrection that showed no sign of coming, Marty encountered Bill Toy, engaged in a heated debate with Dwoskin. To his surprise Toy, seeing Marty passing by, called him across, cutting the conversation short. Dwoskin hurried away scowling, leaving Toy and Marty to talk.
“Well, stranger,” said Toy, “and how are you doing?”
“I’m OK,” Marty said. Toy looked as if he hadn’t slept in a long while. “And you?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Any idea of what’s going on?”
Toy offered a wry smile. “Not really,” he said, “I’ve never been a moneyman. Hate the breed. Weasels.”
“Everyone’s saying it’s a disaster.”
“Oh, yes,” he said with equanimity, “I think it probably is.”
Marty’s face fell. He’d been hoping for some words of reassurance. Toy caught his discomfort, and its origins. “Nothing terrible’s going to happen,” he said, “as long as we stay levelheaded. You’ll still be in a job, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It did cross my mind.”
“Don’t let it.” Toy put his hand on Marty’s shoulder. “If I thought things looked that bad, I’d tell you.”
“I know. I just get jittery.”
“Who doesn’t?” Toy tightened his grip on Marty. “What say the two of us go on the town when the worst of this is over?”
“I’d like to.”
“Ever been to the Academy Casino?”
“Never had the money.”
“I’ll take you. We’ll lose some of Joe’s fortune for him, eh?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The anxiety still lingered on Marty’s face.
“Look,” said Toy, “it’s not your fight. You understand me? Whatever happens from now on, it won’t be your fault. We’ve made some mistakes along the way, and now we’ve got to pay for them.”
“Mistakes?”
“Sometimes people don’t forgive, Marty.”
“All this”-Marty spread a hand to take in the whole circus-“because people don’t forgive?”
“Take it from me. It’s the best reason in the world.”
It struck Marty that Toy had become an outsider of late; that he wasn’t the pivotal figure in the old man’s worldview that he had been. Did that explain the sour look that had crept across his weary face?