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"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
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ifemaker.txt 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 time you're a professor of human behavior or something..."
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"Cognitive psychology," Massey supplied. "I study what kinds of things people
believe, and why they believe them. Deception and delusion play a big part in
it. So, you see, the hobby is really an extension of my job, but in disguise."
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"It sounds a fascinating field to be associated with," Sylvia Fenton
commented.
"Button's right it's valuable," Buhl said. "Not enough people know how to
begin telling sense from nonsense. Most of our managers don't know where to
start . . . nobody to show 'em how. Financial mechanics are all you get from
the business schools these days."
"An interesting point," Ramelson said. He went through the motions of thinking
to himself for a few seconds. "Have you, er . . . have you ever wondered what
your knowledge might be worth to you outside of the academic community, Mr.
Massey?" Massey made no immediate response, and after a pause Ramelson went
on, "I'm sure I don't have to spell out at great length what it might mean to
have the resources of an organization like GSEC at your disposal. And as we
all know, such an organization is able, if it so chooses, to reward the
services that it considers particularly valuable with . . . well, shall we
say, extreme generosity."
The rest of the company had fallen quiet. Massey walked slowly away toward the
center of the room, stopped to sip some more of his drink, and then turned
back to face them. "Let's come right to the point," he suggested.
"You want to buy me off of the Mars mission."
Ramelson seemed to have been half expecting the sudden directness, and
remained affable. "If you wish to put it that way," he agreed. "We all have
our price it's a worn and tired phrase, but I believe it nevertheless. So
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