Robert Adams - The Memories of Milo Morai

Those who had seen the creature averred that it was solid-colored, sort of a dun shade above and with a pure-white belly and chest, and to Wahrn’s mind that meant yet another threat to their livestock, for he knew from strictly forbidden forays into the ruined town that the other cat therein was a spotted one. It was purest idiocy to allow proven stock killers such as the she-bear and now this new cat to den up nearby and yet not be allowed to go into the ruins and slay them; he knew it and the first sergeant and a few others knew it too. Now, if he and they could only win over enough of the other farmers to their way of thinking, he would have a chance, at least, of facing and backing down that hidebound old bastard Mosix.

“And,” he muttered bitterly to himself, “if a bullfrog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his ass so much.”

After a brief conference with First Sergeant Rehnee, it was decided that that worthy would take the ambush party to a new locale, possibly a little farther north and west of the center of the ruins, on the morrow. It would be Wahrn’s job, he being the best and most experienced hunter of the community, to take a smaller party out and try to backtrack the calf-killer.

Mosix’s emissary had objected loudly, of course, to his rearrangement, but the slender, soft-handed man was easily routed by Wahrn’s half-serious display of bluster, departing the armory as speedily as he could without breaking into a dead run, his fat body jiggling to his accelerated movements, his face white as curds and his ears ringing with the raucous, mocking laughter of the assembled Guardian force.

As upon the past nights, with all the folk of the camp gathered around the central firepit digesting their meal and keeping their hands busy with individual projects of one kind or another—one of the young warriors fletching arrows, two others grinding ancient brass key blanks against rough-grained pebbles to make arrowheads, others honing the cutting edges and points of weapons and tools on finer-grained stones, one tap-tap-tapping one of the big silver rings found in the ruins with a small wooden mallet up a tapered brass dowel to make it large enough to fit over a horn bow ring.

Djoolya, squatting beside Milo and using one of the fine shiny steel needles she had found and some of the brightly colored threads to apply embroidered designs to one of his cloth shirts, spoke aloud, “Love, I want to know what happened after that enemy woman who had been your lover died and your chief gave you his leave to depart his camp. So will you again open your memories to us, this night?”

Across the firepit, Myrah Linsee, her fingers all heavy with the flashiest of the rings, sat embroidering one of her own shirts, not any of her young husband’s clothing. She said, “I remember from all that we had out of Uncle Milo’s memories last year, on the autumn hunt. I think I know what happened next. I think Uncle Milo wed the widow of his friend, Jethroh, the woman called Mahrteen. Am I right, Uncle Milo? Am I? Am I?”

“Yes, you are, Myrah,” he said. “I had sworn to my dying friend that I would take care of his wife and their children, you see, and a man or a woman of honor must always fulfill pledges. Yes, I went to Martine Stiles, wooed her and married her.

“But here, enter into my memories before I talk myself hoarse, needlessly.”

It was not until shortly after he and Martine were married that Milo discovered just how wealthy had been his late buddy Jethro, and then he was stunned, staggered. Certain at first that he had misunderstood, he switched from the English they had been speaking to her native tongue, French.

“How much, Martine?”

She shrugged languidly, in a way that seems to be unique to speakers of Romance languages, and replied, “Fifteen millions, my Milo, more or less, of course; the figure is now some five months old. Telephone the accountant in New York, on Monday morning; he can give you the exactness. But that does not include certain small properties Jethro acquired here and there over the years, or this farm, either, for that matter.”

“He once told me,” said Milo, “that he owns a villa near Nice.”

Martine frowned and nodded. “Yes. I have ordered it repaired. It is said to have been damaged severely in the war. There is another, presently being leased profitably, in Switzerland. There is the little house he bought in South Carolina before he went to England, a piece of undeveloped beachfront property in North Carolina, his townhouse in New York City, the estate that was his father’s on Long Island, New York, and the home his father and mother used in winter in Miami, Florida. He also inherited his elder brother’s homes, one in Connecticut and one in Cuba, the home of his uncle in Bermuda and the home of his sister somewhere in California.”

“Those are not included in the fifteen million, eh?” he said dryly. “Then, pray tell me just what is included, Martine.”

“Let us see if I can to remember.” She closed her eyes and began to tick her fingers. “There is the ranch in New Mexico and the one in Montana, of course. Various petrol wells in a number of places are owned wholly or in part. There are mines that produce copper or silver or something of those sorts—one is in Utah, one is in Nevada and one is somewhere in South America, I believe ... or is it two? I don’t recall, Milo.

“There are part ownerships in coal mines, in iron ore mines and in some other ore whose name I cannot think but who is used to make the metal called aluminium, I believe. There are part ownerships in some canneries of fish and other things, but I don’t to remember just where they are and . . . oh, yes, one of them is in Argentina, adjacent to the biggest of the ranches of cattle. There is another ranch, almost as big, of sheep, but I cannot thinkof where.

“If you will but to telephone Monsieurs MacLeish and Birnbaum, they can send you papers that will tell you all these things in greater detail.”

Milo did better than that. He packed a bag, drove to the station in Washington and took a train up to New York City, arriving in midafternoon. A taxi driver’s suggestion wound him up in the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. It was nice, but he found the prices of everything to be outrageous. He telephoned ahead, then took another taxicab to the offices of the Stiles estate’s accountants.

There he was treated like visiting royalty, effusively greeted by a high-grade flunky and ushered immediately into a conference room already occupied by both senior partners, Fergus MacLeish and Bruno Birnbaum, hot coffee, hot tea and an assortment of fine wines and spirits.

After the greeting and congratulatory formulae were spoken, Milo got down to cases. “Gentlemen, I want to know in detail just what are my wife’s holdings relative to the estate of her deceased first husband, Brigadier General Jethro Stiles . Understand, I had known for years that Jethro was personally quite wealthy and came of a very well-to-do family, too, but despite the fact that we were buddies, he never went into his personal financial data with me. And, of course, I never would’ve thought of asking, buddies or not—that was his business.”

“We can . . . and will give you some information, Mr. Moray.” MacLeish replied guardedly, adding, “But perhaps you also should talk with the late General Stiles’ brokers, attorneys and bankers, as well. In that way, you can be assured of having the . . . ahhh, the totality of the holdings.”

“Yes, Mr. Moray,” Birnbaum took up. “You see, our firm only deals with taxes and, therefore, only those assets that fall under the scansion of the Department of the Treasury.”

“That is,” said MacLeish, “domestic incomes, only.”

“Just how much is the total worth of the estate, gentlemen? Do you know?” asked Milo bluntly.