Towers of Utopia. Mack Reynolds
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knowing about it.”
Barry Ten Eyck sighed. He said, “All right, Steve,” and deactivated his phone and returned it to his pocket. He got back into the elevator compartment and ordered the hundredth floor again.
At the hundredth floor he switched over to Cyril Vanderfeller’s private penthouse elevator, saying, “Penthouse, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Ten Eyck,” the elevator said.
At the entrada, the building manager was met by the Vanderfeller butler, who had obviously been forewarned as soon as the elevator had started up to this rarified ultra in swank housing. He was dressed in black, with anachronistic tails on his coat, and wore that expression of an undertaker so common to the butler trade.
He said, in seeming deep gloom, “Good morning, Mr. Ten Eyck.”
Barry said, “Good morning, Jenson. I believe Mr. Vanderfeller is expecting me.”
However, he had to go through more routine than that.
Jenson said, “Yes, sir, I shall take you to Mr. Abernathy.”
“The appointment was with Mr. Vanderfeller.”
But the other evidently didn’t hear him. He led the way to the office of the private secretary of the scion of the Vanderfeller family.
One of the scions, Barry Ten Eyck thought, as he followed. One of many. He had read somewhere that there were some two hundred and thirty of the family now, each sporting fortunes probably of magnitudes inconceivable to such as Barry Ten Eyck. Information about the Vanderfellers seldom got into the mass media. They were hardly interested in publicity; to the contrary, it was said that such old rich as the Vanderfellers paid out millions of pseudo-dollars a year to keep their names from public appearance. Vaguely, Barry knew that the original Amis Vanderfeller had made his pile during the Civil War, a bit on the shady side, though not illegally. It seemed as though he had been sharp enough to scrape up a thousand-dollars or so and to take an option on a warehouse full of condemned military rifles. When the conflict started, even condemned rifles were in demand and he unloaded them on a grateful Confederate government at an astronomical profit. This had been put immediately into cotton and shipped over to England before the Federal blockade was strong enough to prevent speedy blockade runners from getting through.
That had been half a dozen generations ago. The development of the railroads from coast to coast and the advents of World Wars One and Two hadn’t hurt the family fortunes any. By the third generation, the brighter descendents had pooled their interests and gotten the family monies into trusts and foundations where they would be largely safe from governmental tax depreciations. And also safe from stupid speculations on the part of the less brilliant of the clan—of which it was rumored there was a sizable number.
Currently, the family was in a score of enterprises. Cyril Vanderfeller himself, who in Barry’s opinion had delusions of grandeur about his abilities, devoted most of his efforts to international construction projects, largely hotels and apartment buildings such as Shyler-deme, and to mobile town sites. It was said that he had an apartment in every building owned by Vanderfeller and Moore Constructions, one of the top two hundred cosmocorps in existence.
The butler murmured into the identity screen on the door to secretary Abernathy’s office and they waited for several minutes until it opened.
Barry Ten Eyck took a short, weary breath. Undoubtedly, Abernathy was in the process of impressing him by the need for him to wait. Very well; he was as impressed as he was going to get.
The door finally opened into an ultra-efficient looking office, though not overly large, considering the extent of the penthouse. David Abernathy looked up from a TV phone screen on his desk and came to his feet to shake hands.
“Morning, Ten Eyck,” he said. His handshake was exactly right. So was David Abernathy exactly right. Exactly, down to the last fold in his Byronic revival cravat.
Barry shook and said, “Good morning, Abernathy.” Was there the faintest of frowns present, in view of the fact that he hadn’t mistered the flunky? The hell with it.
Barry said, “Miss Cusack tells me that Mr. Vanderfeller wanted me to drop by.”
“Yes, that is correct,” the other said stiffly, reseating himself. “He told me to summon you.”
Summon him, yet. Barry Ten Eyck was not directly under the authority of Cyril Vanderfeller, although Vanderfeller and Moore Construction owned the Shyler-deme complex. However, nobody with good sense and desire for advancement earned the enmity of a Vanderfeller.
“Let’s go,” Barry said. Damn it, was this going to take all day? He had plenty to do.
Abernathy ignored that and turned to a desk phone screen into which he spoke softly. Finally, he stood. “Mr. Vanderfeller is in his escape-sanctum,” he said loftily, and then led the way.
Barry had been through this before on several occasions, but the rigmarole didn’t improve with age.
They finally stood before a huge double door. There was no identity screen evident upon it, but undoubtedly a micro-spy lens was somewhere located in the hand engraved woodwork. The door looked as though it had once graced the home of some medieval Florentine but to Barry Ten Eyck’s jaundiced eye it was as out of place in this ultra-modern decor as a walrus in a goldfish bowl.
The door smoothed open and they stepped through into what would seem a quarter acre of Victorian-era library. From past experience, Barry knew the books were real, largely first editions or other rarities, and largely not only unread but uncut.
Cyril Vanderfeller, somewhere in his late fifties, stood by one monstrous window looking out over the extent of Phoenecia, the three other demes rearing to approximately the same hundred and ten floors boasted by Schyler-deme. The term deme had been taken from the old Greek, the unit which made up the city of Athens as reconstituted by Solon. They were set in almost an exact square, roughly a square mile of wooded and grassed areas about each and with another approximate square mile of Common land and buildings in the middle. There was an excellent view of the golf course from here, Barry knew.
Cyril Vanderfeller turned. He affected a “hail fellow well met” air, dressed with great informality and kept his face and form appearing, at least, in the best of health.
“Barry!” he said in warmth. “Long time, no see, my good fellow.” He advanced with his hand out.
Barry shook and said, “Good morning, Mr. Vanderfeller.”
The older man took his place behind an ornate wooden desk, barren of course of any phone screens in view of the fact that this was an escape-sanctum. He had gestured to a nearby straight chair although the room was amply provided with comfort chairs. The secretary remained standing and kept his trap shut in the presence.
Vanderfeller put the tips of his fingers together, leaned his elbows on the desk, very businesslike. “My time, of course, is limited, Barry, so I’ll come immediately to the point.”
“Yes, sir.” Barry’s own time, evidently, was meaningless compared to that of the tycoon. Well, maybe the other was right. He probably could have bought or sold all the pseudo-city of Phoenecia out of petty cash.
“My boy, I’m on an informal tour of our demes in my capacity as a member of the board. Sort of a quick check-up, you understand. I’ll be here only a day or two. However, Abernathy and I have been checking out your administration of Shyler-deme. I was somewhat surprised to note that income from all sources has dropped below the half million a week level.”
Barry Ten Eyck nodded. “Yes, sir. For the first time last week.”
“Why?”
“Occupancy has fallen off, sir. At present four thousand and fifty-two apartments, ranging from mini-apartments to duplexes with as many as twenty rooms, are occupied, but that is barely enough to make our breakeven point through our maintenance fees and our sales and services to them.”
Vanderfeller looked at him severely. “My