obvious…or was it? When she tried to find an answer, nothing surfaced.
“Well,” she said vaguely, “I’d like an airboat, some nice clothes, and maybe…” In her mind’s eye she suddenly saw herself surrounded by friends. Nice people, like Mr. Mycroft.
“If I were a psychologist and not a lawyer,” said Mycroft, “I’d say you wanted your mother and father more than you wanted two million dollars.”
Jean became very heated. “No, no! I don’t want them at all. They’re dead.” As far as she was concerned they were dead. They had died for her when they left her on Joe Parlier’s pool-table in the old Aztec Tavern.
Jean said indignantly, “Mr. Mycroft, I know you mean well, but tell me what I want to know.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Mycroft, “because if I didn’t, someone else would. Abercrombie property, if I’m not mistaken, is regulated by its own civil code…Let’s see—” he twisted in his chair, pushed buttons on his desk.
On the screen appeared the index to the Central Law Library. Mycroft made further selections, narrowing down selectively. A few seconds later he had the information. “Property control begins at sixteen. Widow inherits at minimum fifty percent; the entire estate unless specifically stated otherwise in the will.”
“Good,” said Jean. She jumped to her feet. “That’s what I wanted to make sure of.”
Mycroft asked, “When do you leave?”
“This afternoon.”
“I don’t need to tell you that the idea behind the scheme is—not moral.”
“Mr. Mycroft, you’re a dear. But I don’t have any morals.”
He tilted his head, shrugged, puffed on his pipe. “Are you sure?”
“Well—yes.” Jean considered a moment. “I suppose so. Do you want me to go into details?”
“No. I think what I meant to say was, are you sureyou know what you want out of life?”
“Certainly. Lots of money.”
Mycroft grinned. “That’s really not a good answer. What will you buy with your money?”
Jean felt irrational anger rising in her throat. “Oh—lots of things.” She rose to her feet. “Just what do I owe you, Mr. Mycroft?”
“Oh—ten dollars. Give it to Ruth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mycroft.” She stalked out of his office.
As she marched down the corridor she was surprised to find that she was angry with herself as well as irritated with Mr. Mycroft…He had no right making people wonder about themselves. It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t wondering a little already.
But this was all nonsense. Two million dollars was two million dollars. When she was rich, she’d call on Mr. Mycroft and ask him if honestly he didn’t think it was worth a few little lapses.
And today—up to Abercrombie Station. She suddenly became excited.
III
The pilot of the Abercrombie supply barge was emphatic. “No sir, I think you’re making a mistake, nice little girl like you.”
He was a chunky man in his thirties, hard-bitten and positive. Sparse blond hair crusted his scalp, deep lines gave his mouth a cynical slant. Webbard, the Abercrombie chief steward, was billeted astern, in the special handling locker. The usual webbings were inadequate to protect his corpulence; he floated chin-deep in a tankful of emulsion the same specific gravity as his body.
There was no passenger cabin and Jean had slipped into the seat beside the pilot. She wore a modest white frock, a white toque, a gray and black striped jacket.
The pilot had few good words for Abercrombie Station. “Now it’s what I call a shame, taking a kid like you to serve the likes of them…Why don’t they get one of their own kind? Surely both sides would be the happier.”
Jean said innocently, “I’m going up for only just a little bit.”
“So you think. It’s catching. In a year you’ll be like the rest of them. The air alone is enough to sicken a person, rich and sweet like olive oil. Me, I never set foot outside the barge unless I can’t help it.”
“Do you think I’ll
“Well,” she said vaguely, “I’d like an airboat, some nice clothes, and maybe…” In her mind’s eye she suddenly saw herself surrounded by friends. Nice people, like Mr. Mycroft.
“If I were a psychologist and not a lawyer,” said Mycroft, “I’d say you wanted your mother and father more than you wanted two million dollars.”
Jean became very heated. “No, no! I don’t want them at all. They’re dead.” As far as she was concerned they were dead. They had died for her when they left her on Joe Parlier’s pool-table in the old Aztec Tavern.
Jean said indignantly, “Mr. Mycroft, I know you mean well, but tell me what I want to know.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Mycroft, “because if I didn’t, someone else would. Abercrombie property, if I’m not mistaken, is regulated by its own civil code…Let’s see—” he twisted in his chair, pushed buttons on his desk.
On the screen appeared the index to the Central Law Library. Mycroft made further selections, narrowing down selectively. A few seconds later he had the information. “Property control begins at sixteen. Widow inherits at minimum fifty percent; the entire estate unless specifically stated otherwise in the will.”
“Good,” said Jean. She jumped to her feet. “That’s what I wanted to make sure of.”
Mycroft asked, “When do you leave?”
“This afternoon.”
“I don’t need to tell you that the idea behind the scheme is—not moral.”
“Mr. Mycroft, you’re a dear. But I don’t have any morals.”
He tilted his head, shrugged, puffed on his pipe. “Are you sure?”
“Well—yes.” Jean considered a moment. “I suppose so. Do you want me to go into details?”
“No. I think what I meant to say was, are you sureyou know what you want out of life?”
“Certainly. Lots of money.”
Mycroft grinned. “That’s really not a good answer. What will you buy with your money?”
Jean felt irrational anger rising in her throat. “Oh—lots of things.” She rose to her feet. “Just what do I owe you, Mr. Mycroft?”
“Oh—ten dollars. Give it to Ruth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mycroft.” She stalked out of his office.
As she marched down the corridor she was surprised to find that she was angry with herself as well as irritated with Mr. Mycroft…He had no right making people wonder about themselves. It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t wondering a little already.
But this was all nonsense. Two million dollars was two million dollars. When she was rich, she’d call on Mr. Mycroft and ask him if honestly he didn’t think it was worth a few little lapses.
And today—up to Abercrombie Station. She suddenly became excited.
III
The pilot of the Abercrombie supply barge was emphatic. “No sir, I think you’re making a mistake, nice little girl like you.”
He was a chunky man in his thirties, hard-bitten and positive. Sparse blond hair crusted his scalp, deep lines gave his mouth a cynical slant. Webbard, the Abercrombie chief steward, was billeted astern, in the special handling locker. The usual webbings were inadequate to protect his corpulence; he floated chin-deep in a tankful of emulsion the same specific gravity as his body.
There was no passenger cabin and Jean had slipped into the seat beside the pilot. She wore a modest white frock, a white toque, a gray and black striped jacket.
The pilot had few good words for Abercrombie Station. “Now it’s what I call a shame, taking a kid like you to serve the likes of them…Why don’t they get one of their own kind? Surely both sides would be the happier.”
Jean said innocently, “I’m going up for only just a little bit.”
“So you think. It’s catching. In a year you’ll be like the rest of them. The air alone is enough to sicken a person, rich and sweet like olive oil. Me, I never set foot outside the barge unless I can’t help it.”
“Do you think I’ll
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