He felt cruel about turning her off. “Later,” he said, as the terrible spikes of sound met in his brain. “We have to get up now. The patriarch is waiting for us. We’re going to the tower today.”
Clissa pouted. They tumbled from bed; instantly the damnable sonics ceased. They showered, breakfasted, dressed. “Are you sure you really want me to come?” she asked.
He said, “My father made a point of inviting you. He thinks it’s high time you saw the tower. Don’t you want to go?”
“I’m afraid I’ll do something foolish, say something naive. I feel so awfully young when I’m around him.”
“Youare awfully young. Anyway, he’s fond of you. Just pretend you’re terribly terribly fascinated by his tower and he’ll forgive you for anything silly you might say.”
“And the other people — Senator Fearon, and the scientist, and whoever else — Manuel, I feel embarrassed already!”
“Clissa—”
“All right. All right.”
“And remember: the tower is going to strike you as the most marvelous enterprise of humanity since the Taj Mahal. Tell him that after you’ve seen it. Not in so many words, but getting the idea across your own way.”
“He’s really serious about the tower, isn’t he?” she asked. “He actually expects to talk to people in the stars.”
“He does.”
“How much will it cost?”
“Billions,” Manuel said.
“He’s draining our heritage to build that thing. He’s spending everything.”
“Not quite everything. We’ll never hurt for cash. Anyway, he made the money; let him spend it.”
“But on an obsession — a fancy—”
“Stop it, Clissa. It isn’t our business.”
“Tell me this, at least. Suppose your father died tomorrow, and you took charge of everything. What would happen to the tower?”
Manuel set up the coordinates for their transmat jump to New York. “I’d halt work on it the day after tomorrow,” he said. “But I’ll gut you if you ever let him know that. Get in, now. Let’s go.”
1140, New York. Midmorning already, and he had been awake only forty hurried minutes, after arising at eight. That was one of the little troubles of the transmat society: you kept dropping whole segments of time into hidden pockets if you jumped from west to east.
Naturally there were compensating benefits when you went the other way. In the summer of ’16, on the day before his wedding, Manuel and some of his friends of the Spectrum Group had raced the dawn westward around the world. They began at 0600 on a Saturday in the Amboseli Game Preserve, with the sun coming up back of Kilimanjaro, and off they went to Kinshasa, Accra, Rio, Caracas, Veracruz, Albuquerque, Los Angeles, Honolulu, Auckland, Brisbane, Singapore, Pnompenh, Calcutta, Mecca. No visas were needed in the transmat world, no passports; such things were too obviously absurd with instantaneous travel available. The sun plodded along, as always, at a feeble thousand miles an hour; the leaping travelers had no such handicap. Although they paused fifteen minutes here, twenty minutes there, enjoying a cocktail or nipping a floater, buying small souvenirs, touring famous monuments of antiquity, yet they constantly gained time, pressing farther and farther backward into the previous night, outstripping the sun as they sped about the globe, striding into Friday evening. Of course, they lost all they had gained when they crossed the dateline and were dumped into Saturday afternoon. But they nibbled away the loss by continuing westward, and when they came round to Kilimanjaro again it was not yet eleven on the same Saturday morning from which they had departed, but they had circled the world and had lived a Friday and a half.
You could do such things with a transmat. You could also, by timing your jumps with care, see two dozen sunsets in a single day, or spend all your life under the blaze of eternal noon. Nevertheless, arriving in New York at 1140 from California, Manuel resented having had to surrender this segment of morning to the transmat.
His father greeted him formally in his office with a pressure of palms, and hugged Clissa with somewhat more warmth. Leon Spaulding hovered uneasily to one side. Quenelle stood by the window, back to everyone, studying the city. Manuel did not get along with her. He generally disliked his father’s mistresses. The old man picked the same type every time: full lips, full breasts, jutting buttocks, fiery eyes, heavy hips. Peasant stock.
Krug said, “We’re waiting for Senator Fearon, Tom Buckleman, and Dr. Vargas. Thor will take us on the grand tour of the tower. What are you doing afterward, Manuel?”
“I hadn’t thought—”
“Go to Duluth. I want you to get to know something about the plant operations there. Leon, notify Duluth: my son arrives for an inspection trip early this afternoon.”
Spaulding went off. Manuel shrugged. “As you wish, father.”
“Time to extend your responsibilities, boy. To develop your management capacities. Someday you be boss of all this, eh? Someday, when they say Krug, they meanyou .”
“I’ll try to live up to the trust you’ve placed in me,” Manuel said.
He knew he wasn’t fooling the old man with his glibness. And the old man’s show of paternal pride wasn’t fooling him. Manuel was aware of his father’s intense contempt for him. He could see himself through his father’s eyes: a wastrel, a perpetual playboy. Against that he held his own image of himself: sensitive, compassionate, too refined to brawl in the commercial arena. Then he tumbled through that image to another view of Manuel Krug, perhaps more genuine: hollow, earnest, idealistic, futile, incompetent. Which was the real Manuel? He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He understood less and less about himself as he grew older.
Senator Fearon stepped from the transmat.
Krug said, “Henry, you know my son Manuel — the future Krug of Krug, he is, the heir apparent — ?”
“It’s been many years,” Fearon said. “Manuel, how are you!”
Manuel touched the politician’s cool palm. He managed an amiable smile. “We met five years ago in Macao,” he said gracefully. “You were passing through, en route to Ulan Bator.”
“Of course. Of course. What a splendid memory! Krug, this is a fine boy here!” Fearon cried.
“You wait,” Krug said. “When I step down, he’ll show you how areal empire-builder operates!”
Manuel coughed and looked away, embarrassed. Some compulsive sense of dynastic need forced old Krug to pretend that his only child was a fit heir to the constellation of enterprises he had founded or absorbed. Thus the constant show of concern for Manuel’s “training,” and thus the abrasive, repetitive public insistence that Manuel would some day succeed to control.
Manuel had no wish to take command of his father’s empire. Nor did he see that he was capable of it. He was only now outgrowing his playboy phase, groping his way out of frivolity the way others might grope their way out of atheism. He was looking for a vehicle of purpose, for a vessel to contain his formless ambitions and abilities. Someday, perhaps, he might find one. But he doubted that Krug Enterprises would be that vehicle.
The old man knew that as well as Manuel did. Inwardly he scorned his son’s hollowness, and sometimes the scorn showed through. Yet he never ceased pretending that he prized his son’s judgment, shrewdness, and potential administrative skills. In front of Thor Watchman, in front of Leon Spaulding, in front of anyone who would listen, Krug went on and on about the virtues of the heir apparent. Self-deluding hypocrisy, Manuel thought. He’s trying to hoax himself into believing what he knows damned well won’t ever be true. And it won’t work. It can’t work. He’ll always have more real faith in his android friend Thor than he will in his own son. For good reason, too. Why not prefer a gifted android to a worthless child? He made us both, didn’t he?