disgust—“what are their names? Rum, vodka, gin, whiskey. All of them vile imitations of the holy product of the vine, gift of the Supreme to be used in sacred ceremony and only during selected holy days.”
Mike Dean said, “But Your Holiness, these distilled products are not imitations of wine, they are new, ah, discoveries. Wine is, admittedly, the monopoly of the Temple. We would not dream of, ah, attempting to intrude on your, ah, income in this field. But our distilled products, which, as you know, have been received with enthusiasm…”
The presbyter cut him off by banging his fist against the arm of his chair. “Enthusiasm indeed! These vile brews are consumed night and day, every day, by all who can afford them! My secretaries estimate that literally millions are flowing into your coffers.”
Dean tried to placate him. “Your Holiness, it is true that in the past the peasants and unskilled workers were issued wine only on special religious holidays. But the aristocracy and the other better-to-do elements of society, including Temple personnel, were free to drink on any occasion.”
The other glared. “Do you find free to criticize our institutions? Is it not well known that those whom the Supreme has seen fit to place in high position have such heavy burdens upon their shoulders that it is needful for them to seek peace by resort to the holy product of the grape?”
Dean held up a hand, placatingly. “Your Holiness, it is not the desire of myself and my business associates to intrude on the Temple.”
“Intrude! My revenues have been cut in half! And what is this new disgusting beverage, ale, so cheap that the most poverty stricken can afford to indulge in it and do so even on feast days, holy days, when wine is traditional?”
Rosetti cleared his throat. “That was the point, Your Holiness. The poor also need their release from their daily pressures. Ale can provide it, at little cost.”
“At my expense! That is, of course, at the expense of the Temple.”
Dean said, gently, “Your Holiness, it is not our desire to antagonize you.” He picked up a quill, dipped it into his ink pot, wrote rapidly on a piece of paper. “Would it help if I made a contribution of…of one million crowns to your, ah, personal account as Presbyter in charge of administering the production and distribution of the, ah, holy product of the vine?”
“One…million…crowns?”
Dean handed him the check.
The Temple father frowned at it. “What is this?”
“A new institution, Your Holiness. If you will present that at any of our recently established banking houses, it will be honored.”
Doul scowled at the paper. “I have heard mention of this new institution. And you say this is in value a million crowns?”
“Gold crowns, Your Holiness. A contribution made in recognition of your unfailing labors on behalf of the Temple.” Dean found it impossible to keep an edge of sarcasm from his voice.
The other’s eyes had narrowed again. He began to say something, but then closed his thin lips to a tight line. He came to his feet. “Very well, my sons.” He looked from one of the Earthmen to the other. “Undoubtedly, some meditation on the issues involved is in order.”
Dean and Rosetti stood as well. In great ceremony, they saw their visitor to the door.
When they returned to their places, Louis Rosetti was scowling in thought. “You sure that was a good idea, Mike?”
His companion pulled a snowy handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped his forehead. “I don’t know. That molly has had the wine monopoly tied up in his family so long that they think any guzzle is their private preserve.”
Rosetti said, “The question is, will he stay bribed?”
“I hope long enough for our new drinks to become so popular he won’t be able to blow the whistle on us.”
“But suppose he does?”
Dean grinned at him. “A million crowns is a lot of money. That check was made out to Presbyter Doul, personally. When he cashes it, we will have the check. Supposedly, temple monks take the oath of poverty. Our friend Doul is going to look very sick indeed if, on making the charges against us, there are some counter-charges of misappropriating of funds.”
Louis Rosetti looked at him doubtfully. “I hope you’re not getting too fancy, Mike.”
Mike Dean laughed it away.
Amschel Mayer was incensed.
“What’s got into Buchwald and MacDonald?” he spat.
Jerry Kennedy, attired as was his superior in fur trimmed Genoese robes, signaled one of the servants for a refilling of his glass. Then he shugged.
“I suppose it’s partly our own fault,” he said lightly. He sipped the wine the servant had poured from a long- necked dusty bottle and made a mental note to buy up the rest of this vintage for his cellars before young Mannerheim or someone else did.
“Our fault!” Mayer glared. He shook the report he held in his right hand at the other.
The old boy was getting decreasingly tolerant as the years went by, Kennedy decided. He said soothingly, “You sent Peter and Fred over there to speed up local development. Well, that’s what they’re doing.”
“Are you insane?” Mayer squirmed in his chair. “Did you read this radiogram? They’ve squeezed out all my holdings in rubber, the fastest growing industry on the southern continent. Why, millions are involved. Who do they think they are?”
Kennedy put down his glass and chuckled. “See here, Amschel, we’re developing this planet by encouraging free competition. Our contention is that under such socio-economic systems the best men are brought to the lead and benefit all society by the advances they make.”
“Sol What has this got to do with MacDonald and Buchwald betraying my interests.?”
“Don’t you see? Using your own theory, you have been set back by someone more efficiently competitive. Fred and Peter saw an opening and, in keeping with your instructions, moved in. It’s just coincidence that the rubber they took over was your property rather than some Genoese operator’s. If you were open to a loss there, then if they hadn’t taken over someone else could have. Possibly Baron Leonar, or even Russ.”
“That reminds me,” Mayer snapped. “Our Honorable Russ is getting too big for his britches in petroleum. Did you know he’s established a laboratory in Amerus? Has a hundred or more chemists working on new products.”
Jerry Kennedy finished his wine and motioned to the servant to fill his glass still once again. He said to his older companion, “Fine.”
“Fine! What do you mean? Dean is our man in petroleum.”
“Look here, if Russ can develop the industry faster than Mike Dean, let him go ahead. That’s all to our advantage.”
Mayer leaned forward and tapped his assistant emphatically on the knee. “Look here, yourself, Jerome Kennedy. At this stage, we don’t want things getting out of our hands. A culture is in the hands of those who control the wealth; the means of production, distribution, communication. Theirs is the real power. I’ve made a point of spacing our team about the whole planet. Gunther is in mines, Dean heads petroleum among other things, MacDonald shipping, Buchwald steel, Rosetti distilling, Doctor Wieliczka medicine, and so forth. As fast as this planet can assimilate, we push new inventions, new techniques, often whole new sciences, into use. Meanwhile, you and I sit back and dominate it all through the strongest of power mediums, finance.”
Jerry Kennedy nodded. “I wouldn’t worry about old man Russ taking over Dean’s domination of oil, though. Mike’s got the support of all the
Amschel Mayer had dropped the subject. He was reading the radiogram again and scowling his anger. “This cooks MacDonald and Buchwald. I’ll break them.”
His assistant took another pull at his drink, and raised his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”
