of sight behind them.
II
The Fox
Chapter 10
A sylum, Whitehead knew, was a traitorous word. In one breath it meant a sanctuary, a place of refuge, of safety. In another, its meaning twisted on itself: asylum came to mean a madhouse, a hole for broken minds to bury themselves in. It was, he reminded himself, a semantic trick, no more. Why then did the ambiguity run in his head so often?
He sat in that too-comfortable chair beside the window where he had sat now for a season of evenings watching the night begin to skulk across the lawn and thinking, without much shape to his ruminations, about how one thing became another; about how difficult it was to hold on to anything.
Life was a random business. Whitehead had learned that lesson years ago, at the hands of a master, and he had never forgotten it. Whether you were rewarded for your good works or skinned alive, it was all down to chance.
No use to cleave to some system of numbers or divinities; they all crumbled in the end. Fortune belonged to the man who was willing to risk everything on a single throw. He’d done that. Not once, but many times at the beginning of his career, when he was still laying the foundations of his empire. And thanks to that extraordinary sixth sense he possessed, the ability to preempt the roll of the dice, the risks had almost always paid off. Other corporations had their virtuosi: computers that calculated the odds to the tenth place, advisers who kept their ears pressed to the stock markets of Tokyo, London and New York, but they were all overshadowed by Whitehead’s instinct. When it came to knowing the moment, for sensing the collision of time and opportunity that made a good decision into a great one, a commonplace takeover into a coup, nobody was Old Man Whitehead’s superior, and all the smart young men in the corporation’s boardrooms knew that. Joe’s oracular advice still had to be sought before any significant expansion was undertaken or contract signed.
He guessed this authority, which remained absolute, was resented in some circles. No doubt there were those who thought he should let go his hold completely and leave the university men and their computers to get on with business. But Whitehead had won these skills, these unique powers of second-guessing, at some hazard; foolish then that they lie forgotten when they could be used to lay a finger on the wheel. Besides, the old man had an argument the young turks could never gainsay: his methods worked. He’d never been properly schooled; his life before fame was—much to the journalists’ dismay—a blank, but he had made the Whitehead Corporation out of nothing. Its fate, for better or worse, was still his passionate concern.
There was no room for passion tonight, however, sitting in that chair (a chair to die in, he’d sometimes thought) beside the window.
Tonight there was only unease: that old man’s complaint.
How he loathed age! It was hardly bearable to be so reduced. Not that he was infirm; just that a dozen minor ailments conspired against his comfort so that seldom a day passed without some irritation—an ulcerous mouth, or a chafing between the buttocks that itched furiously—fixing his attentions in the body when the urge to self-preservation called them elsewhere. The curse of age, he’d decided, was distraction, and he couldn’t afford the luxury of negligent thinking. There was danger in contemplating itch and ulcer. As soon as his mind was turned, something would take out his throat. That was what the unease was telling him. Don’t look away for a moment; don’t think you’re safe because, old man, I’ve a message for you: the worst is yet to come.
Toy knocked once before entering the study.
“Bill …”
Whitehead momentarily forgot the lawn and the advancing darkness as he turned to face his friend.
“… you got here.”
“Of course we got here, Joe. Are we late?”
“No, no. No problems?”
“Things are
II
The Fox
Chapter 10
A sylum, Whitehead knew, was a traitorous word. In one breath it meant a sanctuary, a place of refuge, of safety. In another, its meaning twisted on itself: asylum came to mean a madhouse, a hole for broken minds to bury themselves in. It was, he reminded himself, a semantic trick, no more. Why then did the ambiguity run in his head so often?
He sat in that too-comfortable chair beside the window where he had sat now for a season of evenings watching the night begin to skulk across the lawn and thinking, without much shape to his ruminations, about how one thing became another; about how difficult it was to hold on to anything.
Life was a random business. Whitehead had learned that lesson years ago, at the hands of a master, and he had never forgotten it. Whether you were rewarded for your good works or skinned alive, it was all down to chance.
No use to cleave to some system of numbers or divinities; they all crumbled in the end. Fortune belonged to the man who was willing to risk everything on a single throw. He’d done that. Not once, but many times at the beginning of his career, when he was still laying the foundations of his empire. And thanks to that extraordinary sixth sense he possessed, the ability to preempt the roll of the dice, the risks had almost always paid off. Other corporations had their virtuosi: computers that calculated the odds to the tenth place, advisers who kept their ears pressed to the stock markets of Tokyo, London and New York, but they were all overshadowed by Whitehead’s instinct. When it came to knowing the moment, for sensing the collision of time and opportunity that made a good decision into a great one, a commonplace takeover into a coup, nobody was Old Man Whitehead’s superior, and all the smart young men in the corporation’s boardrooms knew that. Joe’s oracular advice still had to be sought before any significant expansion was undertaken or contract signed.
He guessed this authority, which remained absolute, was resented in some circles. No doubt there were those who thought he should let go his hold completely and leave the university men and their computers to get on with business. But Whitehead had won these skills, these unique powers of second-guessing, at some hazard; foolish then that they lie forgotten when they could be used to lay a finger on the wheel. Besides, the old man had an argument the young turks could never gainsay: his methods worked. He’d never been properly schooled; his life before fame was—much to the journalists’ dismay—a blank, but he had made the Whitehead Corporation out of nothing. Its fate, for better or worse, was still his passionate concern.
There was no room for passion tonight, however, sitting in that chair (a chair to die in, he’d sometimes thought) beside the window.
Tonight there was only unease: that old man’s complaint.
How he loathed age! It was hardly bearable to be so reduced. Not that he was infirm; just that a dozen minor ailments conspired against his comfort so that seldom a day passed without some irritation—an ulcerous mouth, or a chafing between the buttocks that itched furiously—fixing his attentions in the body when the urge to self-preservation called them elsewhere. The curse of age, he’d decided, was distraction, and he couldn’t afford the luxury of negligent thinking. There was danger in contemplating itch and ulcer. As soon as his mind was turned, something would take out his throat. That was what the unease was telling him. Don’t look away for a moment; don’t think you’re safe because, old man, I’ve a message for you: the worst is yet to come.
Toy knocked once before entering the study.
“Bill …”
Whitehead momentarily forgot the lawn and the advancing darkness as he turned to face his friend.
“… you got here.”
“Of course we got here, Joe. Are we late?”
“No, no. No problems?”
“Things are
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