EVE OF BEYOND

Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg

2011 marks the fortieth year that Barry N. Malzberg and Bill Pronzini have been collaborators. Together they’ve published four novels (one science fiction, three suspense) and more than fifty SF, fantasy, and mystery short stories. On his own, Bill has written seventy novels and three hundred short stories of various types, as well as four books of nonfiction. In 2008, he was the proud recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s highest award, the Grand Master. That same year, Barry won the Locus Award for Best Nonfiction Book for Breakfast in the Ruins.

* * * *

I am alone in my private office, virtually previewing Eve of Beyond’s new fall line of menswear, when my son and partner Arthur bursts in without knocking.

My office is both sanctum and sanctuary. A place of dignified quiet, as befits the founder of the originating and most successful manufacturers of inexpensive, all-season wardrobes for the soon-to-depart. I take pardonable pride in my company, which has held steadfast in the market for twenty-five years. On one wall is a hologram of our tasteful slogan: Leave your loved ones all they deserve. On another is an artfully framed copy of our first AARP online advertisement, which I wrote when I was Arthur’s age and which set the standard not only for Eve of Beyond but for all our many imitators: “A Message for All Advanced Seniors: Why throw away your hard-earned savings on clothing you will most likely wear for only a short time? For a fraction of the price charged by most retail outlets, Eve of Beyond will provide you with beautiful non-durable tunics and other garments guaranteed not to outlast you, and which your heirs can, without guilt, embarrassment, or financial loss, simply discard after your passage.”

Arthur, however, does not respect either my privacy or the nobility of our chosen profession. A man of thirty-four with the fumbling gestures and naiveté of a teen-ager, he rushes red-faced to my desk, waving some sort of document and shouting excited words I am unable to comprehend until I give the disconnect command to the virtual display.

“Ninety million global credits! Ninety million global credits!”

“Lower your voice,” I say. “I’m not deaf.”

“Ninety million global credits,” he repeats. His face is puffed with avarice and self-importance, the dimples in his cheeks like miniature dollar signs. “That’s how much they’re offering now, up five million.”

“How much who is offering for what?”

“Heaven-Sent Garments, of course. For Eve of Beyond.”

I look at him with a mixture of tolerance and distaste. He is, after all, my son—all I have left now that Susan is gone. But he is also overweight, overbearing, and something of a scoundrel. I wonder, not for the first time, where Susan and I went wrong.

“I thought I told you not to contact those people,” I say.

“I didn’t,” he says. “They contacted me. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime offer; I’ve already given it to our lawyers to look over. All we have to do is sign and we’ll be rich. I can buy that ski lodge in Aspen I’ve always wanted. You can retire, go anywhere you want, even live in luxury in New Europe—”

“And wouldn’t you like that?” I say. “Well, forget it. How many times do I have to tell you and the board and the lawyers that I refuse to sell?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said, old man? Ninety million global credits!”

Old man. Arthur seems to think that I am as feeble as many of our customers. The business has taken over his insufficient faculties, to the point where he sees senility everywhere—including in his vigorous, fifty-nine-year-old father.

“It could be a hundred and fifty million,” I say, “and still I wouldn’t agree to sell.”

“Why not? Why are you so damn stubborn? Heaven-Sent owns all our major competitors already, as well as most of the regular clothing manufacturers. We can’t hold out on them much longer, they’ll grind us out of business if we try. They’re big, they’re enormously powerful—”

“And corrupt,” I say. “They’ve taken an honorable, even a noble business and turned it into something shadowy, money-grubbing, conscienceless.”

“Shadowy? What do you mean, shadowy?”

“Exactly what I said. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust their motives.”

“Their motives are the same as ours, only more ambitious. They’ll sell far more Eve of Beyond clothing than we do and double or triple our present profit margin.”

So cold and cynical, this son of mine. At times like this I wish I had never granted him a full partnership in Eve of Beyond.

“You know that’s not the only reason I founded the company,” I say, hurt. “We’re a compassionate business, filling a genuine human need. Heaven-Sent Garments has no compassion. They worship at the shrine of Mammon.”

Arthur wipes his round face. His cheeks and forehead are the color of port wine. Apoplectic, I think sadly. I won’t be surprised if he has a stroke or a coronary before the age of forty-five.

“I suppose you’ve been listening to those scurrilous rumors,” he says.

“What scurrilous rumors?”

“The ones spread by the Hereafter Habiliments people. They’re just bitter because they held out too long, were forced to sell to Heaven-Sent for fewer credits than they hoped to get.”

“I haven’t heard any such rumors. What do they say?”

“Never mind what they say. The rumors aren’t true, that’s the point,” Arthur says. “I’m not going to argue with you any more about this, old man. You turned over 40 percent of Eve of Beyond to me, remember? I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you of that. I intend to sell Heaven-Sent my interest immediately and urge the members of the Board to do the same, and if you hold out, then you’ll just have to suffer the consequences.”

He turns, stomps to the door, flings it open, slams it behind him. I stare at the closed door, consumed by sadness and anger. Mostly anger. Arthur does not understand and never will what Eve of Beyond means to me.

I founded the company as a practical and benevolent service industry, to right what I believed then and still believe now was a terrible wrong: that the soon-to-depart were either compelled to pay the same price for clothing as healthy people twenty to thirty years younger, or to purchase whatever poor quality castoffs could be found in the ever-dwindling number of charitable thrift shops. This inequity was a result, of course, of society’s refusal to cope with death in a realistic fashion. Perishability in the clothing business, I determined, could and should be a virtue rather than a point of contention. Operating on that simple principle, Eve of Beyond has not only achieved success but in its own way has rewarded, even honored, its thousands of satisfied customers.

But now this business I have nurtured for so long is in imminent danger of being taken over by Heaven-Sent Garments—a division of International Interests Corporation, another of the vast, soulless conglomerates that seek to control all types of global commerce. If they gain control of Eve of Beyond, they will have a monopoly on the nondurable market. And they will certainly destroy the firm’s principles and respectability by cutting corners, establishing “more cost efficient” means of ministering to the clothing needs of the soon-to-depart by downsizing to the cheapest synthetics. All service and customer dignity would be lost.

I am even more adamantly determined now not to sell. And I must try to prevent Arthur from selling. We each own 40 percent of the voting stock; the other 20 percent is divided among the five members of our board of directors. Those five surely will continue to side with me as they have in the past.

There is a board meeting scheduled in three days; I make arrangements for it to be moved up to tomorrow afternoon. Then I attempt to find out the nature of the “scurrilous rumors” Arthur alluded to by getting in touch with George Metz, a former employee who, with my blessing, left Eve of Beyond to form Hereafter Habiliments a dozen years ago. He and I have maintained a cordial relationship despite the fact that we are, or were, competitors. I do not believe that he would spread rumors of any type, no matter what Arthur says, but he may well have an idea of what is going on with Heaven-Sent. But I am told by a woman in George’s former office that his services were terminated after the takeover. An effort to reach him at home also fails. I leave a video message, asking him to contact me at his earliest convenience.

No one else I talk to in the clothing profession is willing or able to discuss the rumors. Everyone seems afraid of Heaven-Sent, or rather of its global parent, International Interests Corporation. I sense dark and ugly things swimming beneath the surface of their operations. Perhaps I should be afraid, too, but I’m not. Righteous anger still dominates my emotions.

I determine to have another talk with Arthur, but he has left for the day and is not expected back. No one seems to know where he can be found.

A short while later I receive two VisPhone calls. The first is from Harold Reedus, of Reedus, Reedus, and DeCarlo, the law firm that has represented Eve of Beyond since its inception. Harold is the son of Benjamin Reedus, an old friend and confidante who, unhappily, retired to Florida two years ago. He possesses a cunning legal mind, but like Arthur and unlike his father, has little or no compassion. Another son who has failed to live up to his parents’ hopes and expectations. After a careful review of the offer sheet from Heaven-Sent, Harold says, he considers it not only fair and reasonable but quite generous. He strongly advises me to sell, and says that he will tender the same advice to members of the Board “in the best interests of all concerned.” Nothing I say to the contrary has any effect on his position.

The second call is from Delbert P. Jones, Executive in Charge of New Acquisitions for Heaven-Sent Garments. I almost refuse to talk to him. I have had conversations with Jones before, in person and on the VisPhone, and cannot stand the man. His manner is both unctuous and faintly menacing, his smile as devoid of warmth and humor as a shark’s. But avoiding him will serve no purpose except to make him believe I am as afraid of him and his conglomerate bosses as all the other clothing manufacturers.

Jones wastes no time with amenities. “I understand your son Arthur and your firm’s attorney have urged you to accept our latest offer, but that you still refuse to sell your shares. Isn’t 40 percent of ninety million credits enough for you, Mr. Kampman?”

“Money has nothing to do with it,” I say. “As I’ve told you before, it’s a matter of honor and pride.”

“Pride goeth before a fall,” he says cryptically.

Lies, obfuscations, clichés—those are Heaven-Sent’s stocks in trade. “Are you threatening me, Jones?”

“Would it make a difference to you if I was?”

“No, damn you. I refuse to sell my shares no matter what you say or do.”

He takes a different tack. “If I were to tell you you’d be retained as Eve of Beyond’s president and CEO, would you be more inclined to be reasonable?”

“Is that what you promised George Metz? That he’d be retained as president and CEO of Hereafter Habiliments?”

“He would have been,” Jones says, “if he’d exhibited a more cooperative attitude.”

I look at his shark-smiling face on the screen, his massive body encased in a form-fitting silk tunic that must have cost as much as fifty of Eve of Beyond’s nondurables, his sumptuously appointed office. This man, this money-oozing puppet, could tell me that the Earth revolved around the Sun and I would not trust him or his motives in making the claim.

“For the last time,” I say, “Eve of Beyond is not for sale, now or ever.”

“You mean your 40 percent isn’t.”

“Not my 40 percent and not the 20 percent owned by our stockholders. You may be able to coerce my son, but not the rest of us.”

“No? We’ll see about that.”

He pushes a button and the screen goes dark.

George Metz returns my call as I am about to leave for home. He looks and sounds old, worn out, nervous. He denies spreading rumors about Heaven-Sent, seems hesitant when I ask if he has heard any. At length he agrees to talk to me, but not on the Vis-Phone. Over drinks at “the place where we used to go when I worked for Eve of Beyond.”

I take one of the new skycabs to the Mission Towers Hotel, then a high-speed elevator to the rooftop lounge with its sweeping views of the city. George is waiting for me, a large glass of whiskey in front of him. His eyes have a glaze that tells me the drink is neither his first nor will it be his last of the day.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he says morosely.

“Why not?”

“Not in my best interest. Or yours, Kampman.”

“Well, we’re both here now,” I say. “Tell me about these Heaven-Sent rumors.”

He drinks deeply, seems to struggle with himself, finally leans forward and says in an undertone, “Not Heaven-Sent—International Interests Corporation.”

“What about them?”

“It’s all over, you know. For you, me, all of us. You can’t resist these people, Kampman. No, they aren’t people, they’re machines. Machines.”

“If you feel that way, why did you sell out to them?”

“I had no choice. Neither do you. Neither does anybody, anywhere.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“The clothing business is only a small part of their operation,” Metz whispers. “A very small part. Why limit themselves? Eh? Yes, and why limit profits when it’s so easy to broaden the customer base and increase the profit margin, in our field and every other?”

I stare at him. He seems in very poor health, and not only because of his drinking. Disconnected, too. Weighted, fruited with sorrow and preoccupation. He is a dozen years younger than me, yet in the dim light of the lounge he resembles a model customer for Eve of Beyond.

“What are you trying to say, Metz?”

He finishes his drink, glances furtively in the direction of the door. “You can’t beat them,” he says. “Can’t beat any of these huge global corporations. They’re already in control and their plans aren’t our plans. Don’t you see that? Can’t you see the shape of the future?”

“No, I can’t.”

“All right then, forget it. Forget we had this conversation. I’ve already said too much.” Metz stumbles to his feet, lurches a few steps toward the door, then turns back. “You’ll find out, Kampman,” he says. “Sooner or later, you’ll find out.”

I should have realized what the outcome of the board meeting would be, that it was in fact inevitable, pre-ordained. But I didn’t. I truly believed that my will would prevail.

I spoke at considerable length, reiterating my position, with passion and eloquence. Emphasized the need to maintain Eve of Beyond’s high professional and moral standards by continuing to provide nondurable clothing that does not sacrifice stylishness or grace, that allows our aged customers to depart with dignity. Urged the others to remember the slogan by which we have operated for a quarter of a century: Leave your loved ones all they deserve.

My arguments, of course, fell on deaf ears. Arthur’s rebuttal, bolstered by Harold Reedus’s ardent recommendation, left nothing to reason or any other possibility. The five non-family board members, men and women I have known for many years, considered trusted friends who shared my ideals, were in the end overcome by greed. Shares in ninety million global credits were too much for any of them to resist.

The final vote is 6-1. Heaven-Sent Garments is now the controlling owner of Eve of Beyond.

I expect Arthur to revel in his triumph after the meeting ends, but he doesn’t. He seems to be almost pleading when he says, “Come to your senses, old man. Do yourself a favor, me a favor, and agree to join the rest of us.”

“Never,” I say.

“What good will holding out do you? The company’s not yours or mine any longer. If you hold onto your shares, you know you’ll be replaced as president and CEO as soon as the legal documents are signed.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to give up, give in. I’ll hire new lawyers, I’ll fight the takeover—”

“On what grounds? You wouldn’t stand a chance. Heaven-Sent and International Interests have batteries of lawyers a lot more high-powered than any you can hire.” Arthur shakes his head and his fat cheeks wobble like globs of pudding. “Damn it, old man, why do you have to be so stubborn? They’re not going to let you get away with any disruption of their agenda.”

“What agenda?”

“Think of the money, can’t you? Think of the life of luxury you can have for a while on 40 percent of ninety million credits.”

“What do you mean, ‘for a while’?”

His eyes shift away from mine. “I’m only thinking of your welfare,” he says. “But there’s nothing I can do if you won’t listen to reason. Absolutely nothing. It’s all on your head now.”

As Arthur shambles away I see Metz’s face hovering as if in a haze, hear him say, They’re already in control and their plans aren’t our plans. You’ll find out, Kampman. Sooner or later, you’ll find out.

* * *

The next few days are a blur. Despite my bravado with Arthur, there is virtually nothing I can do now to save my company or maintain its untarnished image. With rapid dispatch I am deemed persona non grata at Eve of Beyond, my office taken over by an expensively dressed stranger who resembles Delbert P. Jones. I can only sit in my empty flat, a broken and beaten man with nowhere to go and nothing to do. No one calls or comes to see to me to commiserate. Arthur does not come to see me. I am completely alone.

On the fifth day after the takeover, the doorbell finally rings. I open the door without bothering to look first at the viewscreen, thinking it might be George Metz or another old and sympathetic acquaintance. No. A man in uniform stands in the hallway, a large plain box in his hands.

“Delivery for Mr. Chester Kampman,” he says. He hands me the box, then extends an electronic tracking device and stylus. “Sign here, please.”

I sign automatically, and when I return the items to him my eyes focus for the first time on the emblem on the pocket of his uniform. A blue and white emblem with bold lettering that spells Heaven-Sent Garments.

Blindly I carry the box inside and let it fall to the floor. I do not need to open it to know that it contains a plain tunic and bare-necessity accessories. One box—one complete outfit of Heaven-Sent menswear of the cheapest manufacture, designed to last no more than a few months. One and only one.

I know other things then, too, with a sudden and terrible clarity. I know what Metz meant about the nondurable clothing business being but one small cog in International Interests Corporation’s long range plans, and what he was trying to tell me about the shape of the future. I know the lengths to which the mega-conglomerate can and will go to eliminate competitors and dissidents in order to achieve their monstrous purpose. And I know the meaning of Arthur’s words to me after the board meeting, and the full scope of his betrayal.

My son has not only sold them my livelihood and my life’s work.

He has sold them my life.