“I thought so, too, at ten o’clock this morning,” said Fern. “I was congratulating myself on having buttressed Magnum Opus against any conceivable blow. We were weathering the depression quite nicely — yes, and your mistakes, too.
“And then, at ten-fifteen, I was visited by a lawyer who was apparently at your party last night. You, apparently, were giving away oil wells last night, and the lawyer was thoughtful enough to draw up documents which, if signed by you, would be binding. They were signed by you. You gave away five hundred and thirty-one producing oil wells last night, which wiped out Fandango Petroleum.
“At eleven,” said Fern, “the President of the United States announced that Galactic Spacecraft, which we had sold, was receiving a three-billion contract for the New Age of Space.
“At eleven-thirty,” said Fern, “I was given a copy of The Journal of the American Medical Association, which was marked by our public relations director, ‘FYI.’ These three letters, as you would know if you had ever spent any time in your office, mean ‘for your information.’ I turned to the page referred to, and learned, for my information, that MoonMist Cigarettes were not a cause but the principal cause of sterility in both sexes wherever MoonMist cigarettes were sold. This fact was discovered not by human beings but by a computing machine. Whenever data about cigarette smoking was fed into it, the machine grew tremendously excited, and no one could figure out why. The machine was obviously trying to tell its operators something. It did everything it could to express itself, and finally managed to get its operators to ask it the right questions.
“The right questions had to do with the relationship of MoonMist Cigarettes to human reproduction. The relationship was this:
“People who smoked MoonMist Cigarettes couldn’t have children, even if they wanted them,” said Fern.
“Doubtless,” said Fern, “there are gigolos and party girls and New Yorkers who are grateful for this relief from biology. In the opinion of the Legal Department of Magnum Opus, before that department was liquidated, however, there are several million persons who can sue successfully — on the grounds that Moon-Mist Cigarettes did them out of something rather valuable. Pleasure in depth, indeed.
“There are approximately ten million ex-smokers of MoonMist in this country,” said Fern, “all sterile. If one in ten sues you for damages beyond price, sues you for the modest sum of five thousand dollars — the bill will be five billion dollars, excluding legal fees. And you haven’t got five billion dollars. Since the stock-market crash and your acquisition of such properties as American Levitation, you aren’t worth even five hundred million.
“MoonMist Tobacco,” said Fern, “that’s you. Magnum Opus,” said Fern, “that’s you, too. All the things you are are going to be sued and sued successfully. And, while the litigants may not be able to get blood from turnips, they can certainly ruin the turnips in the process of trying.”
Fern bowed again. “I now perform my last official duty, which is to inform you that your father wrote you a letter which was to be given to you only if your luck turned for the worse. My instructions were to place that letter under the pillow in Room 223 in the Wilburhampton, if your luck ever really turned sour. I placed the letter under the pillow an hour ago.
“And I will now, as an humble and loyal corporate servant, ask you for one small favor,” said Fern. “If the letter seems to cast the vaguest light on what life might be about, I would appreciate your telephoning me at home.”
Ransom K. Fern saluted by touching the shaft of his cane to his Homburg hat. “Good-by, Mr. Magnum Opus, Jr. Good-by.”
The Wilburhampton Hotel was a frumpish, three-story Tudor structure across the street from the Magnum Opus Building, standing in relation to that build- jug like an unmade bed at the feet of the Archangel Gabriel. Pine slats were tacked to the stucco exterior of the hotel, simulating half-timbered construction. The backbone of the roof had been broken intentionally, simulating great age. The eaves were plump and low, tucked under, simulated thatch. The windows were tiny, with diamond-shaped panes.