Gods and Pawns (34 page)

It was a nicer room than the others I’d been in so far. Huge, of course, with an antique Spanish ceiling and golden hanging lamps, but wood-paneled walls and books and Bakhtiari carpets gave it a certain warmth. My gaze followed the glow of lamplight down the long polished mahogany conference table and skidded smack into Hearst’s life-size portrait on the far wall. It was a good portrait, done when he was in his thirties, the young emperor staring out with those somber eyes. He looked innocent. He looked dangerous.

“Nice likeness,” I said.

“The painter had a great talent,” Hearst replied. “He was a dear friend of mine. Died too soon. Why do you suppose that happens?”

“People dying too soon?” I stammered slightly as I said it, and mentally yelled at myself to calm down: it was just business with a mortal, now, and the guy was even handing me an opening. I gave him my best enigmatic smile and shook my head sadly. “It’s the fate of mortals to die, Mr. Hearst. Even those with extraordinary ability and talent. Rather a pity, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Hearst replied, never taking his eyes off me a moment. “And I guess that’s what we’re going to discuss now, isn’t it, Mr. Denham? Let’s sit down.”

He gestured me to a seat, not at the big table but in one of the comfy armchairs. He settled into another to face me, as though we were old friends having a chat. The little dog curled up in his lap and sighed. God, that was a quiet room.

“So George Bernard Shaw sent you,” Hearst stated.

“Not exactly,” I said, folding my hands. “He mentioned you might be interested in what my people have to offer.”

Hearst just looked at me. I coughed slightly and went on: “He spoke well of you, as much as Mr. Shaw ever speaks well of anybody. And, from what I’ve seen, you have a lot in common with the founders of our Company. You appreciate the magnificent art humanity is capable of creating. You hate to see it destroyed or wasted by blind chance. You’ve spent a lot of your life preserving rare and beautiful things from destruction.

“And—just as necessary—you’re a man with vision. Modern science, and its potential, doesn’t frighten you. You’re not superstitious. You’re a moral man, but you won’t let narrow-minded moralists dictate to you! So you’re no coward, either.”

He didn’t seem pleased or flattered, he was just listening to me. What was he thinking? I pushed on, doing my best to play the scene like Claude Rains.

“You see, we’ve been watching you carefully for quite a while now, Mr. Hearst,” I told him. “We don’t make this offer lightly, or to ordinary mortals. But there are certain questions we feel obliged to ask first.”

Hearst just nodded. When was he going to say something?

“It’s not for everybody,” I continued, “what we’re offering. You may think you want it very much, but you need to look honestly into your heart and ask yourself: are you ever tired of life? Are there ever times when you’d welcome a chance to sleep forever?”

“No,” Hearst replied. “If I were tired of life, I’d give up and die. I’m not after peace and tranquillity, Mr. Denham. I want more time to live. I have things to do! The minute I slow down and decide to watch the clouds roll by, I’ll be bored to death.”

“Maybe.” I nodded. “But here’s another thing to consider: how much the world has changed since you were a young man. Look at that portrait. When it was painted, you were in the prime of your life—
and so was your generation.
It was your world. You knew the rules of the game, and everything made sense.

“But you were born before Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address, Mr. Hearst. You’re not living in that world anymore. All the rules have changed. The music is so brassy and strident, the dances so crude. The kings are all dying out, and petty dictators with dirty hands are seizing power. Aren’t you, even a little, bewildered by the sheer speed with which everything moves nowadays? You’re only seventy, but don’t you feel just a bit like a dinosaur sometimes, a survivor of a forgotten age?”

“No,” said Hearst firmly. “I like the present. I like the speed and the newness of things. I have a feeling I’d enjoy the future even more. Besides, if you study history, you have to conclude that humanity has steadily improved over the centuries, whatever the cynics say. The future generations are bound to be better than we are, no matter how outlandish their fashions may seem now. And what’s fashion, anyway? What do I care what music the young people listen to? They’ll be healthier, and smarter, and they’ll have the benefit of learning from our mistakes. I’d love to hear what they’ll have to say for themselves!”

I nodded again, let a beat pass in silence for effect before I answered.

“There are also,” I warned him, “matters of the heart to be considered. When a man has loved ones, certain things are going to cause him grief—if he lives long enough to see them happen. Think about that, Mr. Hearst.”

He nodded slowly, and at last he dropped his eyes from mine.

“It would be worse for a man who felt family connections deeply,” he said. “And every man ought to. But things aren’t always the way they ought to be, Mr. Denham. I don’t know why that is. I wish I did.”

Did he mean he wished he knew why he’d never felt much paternal connection to his sons? I just looked understanding.

“And as for love,” he went on, and paused. “Well, there are certain things to which you have to be resigned. It’s inevitable. Nobody loves without pain.”

Was he wondering again why Marion wouldn’t stop drinking for him?

“And love doesn’t always last, and that hurts,” I condoled. Hearst lifted his eyes to me again.

“When it does last, that hurts too,” he informed me. “I assure you I can bear pain.”

Well, those were all the right answers. I found myself reaching up in an attempt to stroke the beard I used to wear.

“A sound, positive attitude, Mr. Hearst,” I told him. “Good for you. I think we’ve come to the bargaining table now.”

“How much can you let me have?” he said instantly.

Well, this wasn’t going to take long. “Twenty years,” I replied. “Give or take a year or two.”

Yikes! What an expression of rapacity in his eyes. Had I forgotten I was dealing with William Randolph Hearst?

“Twenty years?” he scoffed. “When I’m only seventy? I had a grandfather who lived to be ninety-seven. I might get that far on my own.”

“Not with that heart, and you know it,” I countered.

His mouth tightened in acknowledgment. “All right. If your people can’t do any better—twenty years might be acceptable. And in return, Mr. Denham?”

“Two things, Mr. Hearst,” I held up my hand with two fingers extended. “The Company would like the freedom to store certain things here at La Cuesta Encantada from time to time. Nothing dangerous or contraband, of course! Nothing but certain books, certain paintings, some other little rarities that wouldn’t survive the coming centuries if they were kept in a less fortified place. In a way, we’d just be adding items to your collection.”

“You must have an idea that this house will ‘survive the coming centuries,’ then,” said Hearst, looking grimly pleased.

“Oh, yes, sir,” I told him. “It will. This is one thing you’ve loved that won’t fade away.”

He rose from his chair at that, setting the dog down carefully, and paced away from me down the long room. Then he turned and walked back, tucking a grin out of sight. “O.K., Mr. Denham,” he said. “Your second request must be pretty hard to swallow. What’s the other thing your people want?”

“Certain conditions set up in your will, Mr. Hearst,” I said. “A secret trust giving my Company control of certain of your assets. Only a couple, but very specific ones.”

He bared his smile at me. It roused all kinds of atavistic terrors; I felt sweat break out on my forehead, get clammy in my armpits.

“My, my. What kind of dumb cluck do your people think I am?” he inquired jovially.

“Well, you’d certainly be one if you jumped at their offer without wanting to know more.” I smiled back, resisting the urge to run like hell. “They don’t want your money, Mr. Hearst. Leave all you want to your wife and your boys. Leave Marion more than enough to protect her. What my Company wants won’t create any hardship for your heirs, in any way. But—you’re smart enough to understand this—there are plans being made now that won’t bear fruit for another couple of centuries. Something you might not value much, tonight in 1933, might be a winning card in a game being played in the future. You see what I’m saying here?”

“I might,” said Hearst, hitching up the knees of his trousers and sitting down again. The little dog jumped back into his lap. Relieved that he was no longer looming over me, I pushed on.

“Obviously we’d submit a draft of the conditions for your approval, though your lawyers couldn’t be allowed to examine it—”

“And I can see why.” Hearst held up his big hand. “And that’s all right. I think I’m still competent to look over a contract. But, Mr. Denham! You’ve just told me I’ve got something you’re going to need very badly one day. Now, wouldn’t you expect me to raise the price? And I’d have to have more information about your people. I’d have to see proof that any of your story, or Mr. Shaw’s for that matter, is true.”

What had I said to myself, that this wasn’t going to take long?

“Sure,” I said brightly. “I brought all the proof I’ll need.”

“That’s good,” Hearst told me, and picked up the receiver of the phone on the table at his elbow. “Anne? Send us up some coffee, please. Yes, thank you.” He leaned away from the receiver a moment to ask: “Do you take cream or sugar, Mr. Denham?”

“Both,” I said.

“Cream and sugar, please,” he said into the phone. “And please put Jerome on the line.” He waited briefly. “Jerome? I want the black suitcase that’s under Mr. Denham’s bed. Yes. Thank you.” He hung up and met my stare of astonishment. “That is where you’ve got it, isn’t it? Whatever proof you’ve brought me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I replied.

“Good,” he said, and leaned back in his chair. The little dog insinuated her head under his hand, begging for attention. He looked down at her in mild amusement and began to scratch between her ears. I leaned back, too, noting that my shirt was plastered to my back with sweat and only grateful it wasn’t running down my face.

“Are you a mortal creature, Mr. Denham?” Hearst inquired softly.

Now the sweat was running down my face.

“Uh, no, sir,” I said. “Though I started out as one.”

“You did, eh?” he remarked. “How old are you?”

“About twenty thousand years,” I answered. Wham, he hit me with that deadweight stare again.

“Really?” he said. “A little fellow like you?”

I ask you, is five foot five really so short? “We were smaller back then,” I explained. “People were, I mean. Diet, probably.”

He just nodded. After a moment he asked: “You’ve lived through the ages as an eyewitness to history?”

“Yeah. Yes, sir.”

“You saw the Pyramids built?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask me how they did it, because he’d never believe the truth, but he pushed on:

“You saw the Trojan War?”

“Well, yes, I did, but it wasn’t exactly like Homer said.”

“The stories in the Bible, are they true? Did they really happen? Did you meet Jesus Christ?” His eyes were blazing at me.

“Well—” I waved my hands in a helpless kind of way. “I didn’t meet Jesus, no, because I was working in Rome back then. I never worked in Judea until the Crusades, and that was way later. And as for the stuff in the Bible being true…Some of it is, and some of it isn’t, and anyway it depends on what you mean by true.” I gave in and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping my face.

“But the theological questions!” Hearst leaned forward. “Have we got souls that survive us after physical death? What about Heaven and Hell?”

“Sorry.” I shook my head. “How should I know? I’ve never been to either place. I’ve never died, remember?”

“Don’t your masters know?”

“If they do, they haven’t told me,” I apologized. “But then there’s a lot they haven’t told me.”

Hearst’s mouth tightened again, and yet I got the impression he was satisfied in some way. I sagged backward, feeling like a wrung-out sponge. So much for my suave, subtle Mephistopheles act.

On the other hand, Hearst liked being in control of the game. He might be more receptive this way.

Our coffee arrived. Hearst took half a cup and filled it the rest of the way up with cream. I put cream and four lumps of sugar in mine.

“You like sugar,” Hearst observed, sipping his coffee. “But then, I don’t suppose you had much opportunity to get sweets for the first few thousand years of your life?”

“Nope,” I admitted. I tasted my cup and set it aside to cool. “No Neolithic candy stores.”

There was a discreet double knock. Jerome entered after a word from Mr. Hearst. He brought in my suitcase and set it down between us. “Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, without a trace of sarcasm, and exited as quietly as he’d entered. It was just me, Hearst, and the dog again. They looked at me expectantly.

“All right,” I said, drawing a deep breath. I leaned down, punched in the code on the lock, and opened the suitcase. I felt like a traveling salesman. I guess I sort of was one.

“Here we are,” I told Hearst, drawing out a silver bottle. “This is your free sample. Drink it, and you’ll taste what it feels like to be forty again. The effects will only last a day or so, but that ought to be enough to show you that we can give you those twenty years with no difficulties.”

“So your secret’s a potion?” Hearst drank more of his coffee.

“Not entirely,” I said truthfully. I was going to have to do some crypto-surgery to make temporary repairs on his heart, but we never tell them about that part of it. “Now. Here’s something I think you’ll find a lot more impressive.”

I took out the viewscreen and set it up on the table between us. “If this were, oh, a thousand years ago and you were some emperor I was trying to impress, I’d tell you this was a magic mirror. As it is…you know that Television idea they’re working on in England right now?”