Following him into the dark, inward corridors of Kykuit was going into the very center of a maze. Departing from the rich outward-facing salons, they moved into a house wing that was stranger. More intimate art, softer lighting, deeper stillness. This was his man, not his legend.
The servant stood before a heavy, unstained mahogany door and knocked delicately. A subdued "Enter," came from within, a paper-thin yet razor-edged voice. The servant pushed open the door, invited Ezra in with a gesture, and then closed it with a soft, decisive click.
Jason was in the lion's den.
The room was not what he was used to. Not a marble-and-gold throne room. It was a command center, a war room disguised as a gentleman's study. Every inch of space was dedicated functionality. Not a shelf of novels, but of row-on-row of comparable leather-bound ledger books stood on the walls, each spine embossed with a date: 1888, 1889, 1890. The history of an empire, encoded and indexed. A vast globe, its brass meridian glowing in the lamplight, filled a corner.
And in another corner a piece of hardware that brought Jason a jolt of elation: a brass tickertape machine. It was still, a folded paper serpent crouched at its feet, but he Knew its purpose. It was his first live feed, his 19th-century Bloomberg terminal. This room was where the globe had been prophesied. Even the air was thick, thick with the smell of yellowed paper, thick leather, and omnipresent, metallic whiff of naked puissance.
John D. Rockefeller Sr. sat in a sturdy, well-worn leather armchair, a heavy wool blanket tossed over his knees. Beneath the formal magnificence of the dinner hall, he was a shorter, thinner man. But the impression was broken with his eyes. Intently fixed on Jason, they were sharp and probing as a geologist's pickax.
"Sit," Senior commanded, his tone a harsh rasp. He motioned with a bony hand in the general direction of a free armchair directly in front of him. Between him and the armchair was no desk, no partition. Only two men, two chairs, a century of hopes.
Senior did not have time for courtesies. The game was already on.
"My son, John," he began, his voice without passion, a matter of fact. "He sees the world as it ought to be. A gentle, Christian world, motivated by alms and good works. He is a good man. Perhaps the very best man who ever lived."
He paused, his words hanging in mid-air, a conscious, deliberate pause. "And as for myself, well, I've gone out of my way to see the world exactly as it is. A bloody, glorious fight for survival."
He leaned in, the blanket rustling. "Now tell me, son. Your words at dinner were astounding. But they were for a crowd. For you, alone, with no one to impress. What is it that you see?"
This was it. The real test. Jason experienced a flash of pure, unadulterated focus. Finally he could rid himself of the guise of deferential brother-in-law and speak as he was, in the tweed suit of Ezra Prentice.
He did not speak of stocks. He did not provide counsel. He laid out his broad generalizations of his 21st-century thinking, with a lexicon from this epoch.
"Sir, I believe I'm witnessing a fundamental change within the American home," he started, his tone strong and deep. "I believe we are witnessing the birth of a new kind of homemaker: a professional homemaker. A homemaker who might not be able to purchase a luxury, but who will still manage to scrounge up a penny for cleanliness, for uniformity, for a quality she can rely on. That is why a corporation like Procter & Gamble is more than a soap manufacturer. It is a guarantee. Their ubiquitous advertising, even during this current period, is creating a psychological moat for their products. It is an irrevocable brand allegiance that no recessionary cycle can ever shake. While others hoard pennies on advertising, P&G is investing in purchase of next fifty-year market share."
He leaned in, mirroring the old man. "Death of distance. Physical distance was overcome by your pipelines and railroads. But there is a new invention that is winning minds' distance: radio."
He gestured with his hand at the empty air. "Junior considers it a marginal source of fun. I consider it the best ever-conceived device for one-to-one, mass persuasion. One voice, my voice, your voice, a senatorial voice, going directly into each home in America, simultaneously. That organization which controls that network, an organization like RCA, isn't in radio. It is in the business of creating assent. It will be kingmakers."
And he played his ace. "And I see not only in the giants, but in the ants. Tiny innovative companies in a specialized field about which no one is paying much attention. There is a tiny little company in Rochester, the Haloid Company. Photographic paper. Extremely small business. But I've read their research papers. They are experimenting with an entirely new electrostatic process. A dry printing process. It's a nothing now. A novelty. But I believe one day a machine with that process will be as much a part of an office as a telephone." He knew, with absolute conviction, it would be called xerography, would change the world.
Senior listened, his face a mask of impassivity, his pale eyes never once leaving Ezra's. Jason had bared his very soul, his very essence of his transmigrated education.
The old man was still for an extremely long time after he finished. And from his lips, a dry laugh emerged, as if stones were rubbing against each other.
"You have a fine mind for storytelling, Ezra," he said. "Big, epic stories." He paused. "We'll determine if you have a strong enough stomach for reality."
With a slow, deliberate movement, Senior took a notepad from a side table. He used a fountain pen to pen a name and a telephone number on it.
"This is Mr. A. L. Pierce," he noted. "He is my most discreet broker. He is a shark. Quick, quiet, and he doesn't ask questions."
He tore the sheet from the pad and flung it across the small table. "You have your own money, don't you? Alta's dowry from me was a very generous one. Your own inheritance was no trivial amount."
Jason looked down at the paper. It was as heavy as a piece of gold.
"Amaze me," groaned Senior.
It was not a grant of money. It was a challenge. A controlled experiment. Senior was not giving him money; he was giving him a chance to shoot his gun and sending him after it. It was a much larger gesture of faith.
Jason was again in his guest suite with Alta. The door was closed. Electric energy welled though him, a feeling of raw possibility he hadn't felt in a very long time. He stood in front of a heavy, black bakelite telephone on a bedside table, still carrying the note from Senior. He gave the operator the number.
A second later, an impatient, clipped voice answered. "Pierce."
"This is Ezra Prentice," said Jason, as icy as a winter frost. "Mr. Rockefeller Sr. thought I should call you."
There was a fractional pause at the end of the telephone. "I see. What can I do for you, Mr. Prentice?"
"I want you to sell my entire portfolio. And my wife's trust, for which I have discretions. Everything."
The broker's calm demeanor was shattered. "Sir? But Mr. Prentice, they're Triple-A rated railroad bonds, high-grade electric utility stocks. with this market, that's where you go for safety."
"I know their rating," he cut him off, his voice bitter with an order that forbade the broker to be silent. "And I know the market. It is an illusion of safety. Sell them. See it done at market open tomorrow."
"And... and with the proceeds, sir?" asked the broker, his voice now tinted with a feeling of amazement as well as interest.
Jason looked out of the window into the dark, great estate, the seat of an empire to be his own. A wolflike smile, quite unnatural on Ezra Prentice's face, came upon his lips.
"I want you to go out and take positions in three corporations. Procter & Gamble. Radio Corporation of America. And a very small firm out of Rochester you've probably never done business with: the Haloid Company."
He paused for emphasis. "Buy as much as you can without impacting on the price. Got it?"
He hung up with a crisp, satisfying click. He'd just sold Ezra Prentice's safe, respectable past and bet his last dollar on Jason Underwood's future.
The game was begun.