From: Womack Richard Date sent: Sun, 15 Nov 1998 "The Wealthiest Man" Copyright 1998 by Richard Womack "Are you a doctor? Are you human?" The demands came from the patient, who, despite the strength of his voice, looked weak and wasted. Fiftyish, with iron grey hair not so much receding as surrendering and piercing eyes protected by black brows. "Avoiding the philosophical conundrums that spring to mind, I will respond simply. Yes and Yes." The human doctor looked young but serious and was certainly confident enough to have authority. "You are Garth Steele." "I've seen nothing but android nurses for three days, who aren't capable of answering simple questions." "One point eight seven days to be precise, and yes again, that is part of the treatment. It is essential that recovery be slow, regulated and stress free." "You know my name. Do you also have my records?" Steele had always had a reputation for cutting directly to the point. "That is part of the recovery procedure," agreed the doctor, and offered Steele a flat tablet, the surface of which clearly showed columns of figures. The patient grabbed it and eagerly studied it, but quickly gave up in obvious frustration, throwing the device down on his bed. "Careful," admonished the Doctor," it's electronic. You can corrupt it. All your data is in there." "Are you familiar with it?" "Of course. That is also part of the recovery. Early association with one capable of answering all questions." "Then you know the state of my finances?" "Not intimately. I don't pretend to comprehend the fine detail. I'm a doctor not an accountant. But in broad terms I can answer most of your questions." The doctor recovered the electronic tablet and fiddled briefly with the controls. "How much am I worth?" "An academic question but capable of a precise answer. 17,856,068 primes." "What's that in dollars?" "Dollars ceased to exist when all world currencies were merged." "What was the exchange rate?" The doctor fiddled with the tablet to find the answer. "At that time your investments were held in some seventeen different currencies. US dollars were an even thousand to one prime, pounds sterling were at 475, the euro changed at..." "That's no use," broke in Garth. "It tells me nothing." "It tells you that the US dollar was worth." "Don't try and fool with me buddy. What do I own?" "Own." The word seemed curious on the doctors tongue, but he dutifully referred to the tablet. "Yes, there are a number of companies listed. There is SSS, the Fusion Conglomerate and IMA. You seem to own those outright. I am impressed." "What do they do?" "Well, SSS is the Steele Space Service. A fleet of freighters that harvest asteroids for the Fusion Conglomerate. Their three satellite power plants reduce all matter to a basic molecular structure, releasing enough raw power to supply most of the worlds' needs." "Ah. Power utilities." "The molecular bi-product is shipped to IMA, the International Manufacturing Association. They make just about everything." "And I own all those?" "According to this, yes." "What about this hospital. I left instructions to stay heavily invested in health. People don't argue about prices when their life is at risk." "You appear to own this medical facility." The doctor made a surprised face at something else he read on the tablet. "It says here that you are the richest man in the world." Steele allowed himself to relax. It was confirmed. His investment managers had done well. Proved the stupidity of those who had wanted to dissipate his wealth on charities. "Then lets get to the next important thing. You can cure cancer?" The doctor once again consulted the tablet, carefully tuning the controls, obviously searching. "Cancer. The decease I have. The reason I had to resort to cryogenics in the first place." Demanded the patient impatiently. "Oh yes," the doctor found the place. "The cure for cancer was found in 2118. It was completely eradicated by 2137. By genetic engineering." "What kind of a doctor are you, that you have to look up things like that?" "I'm a psychiatrist. I thought that was obvious." The overt belligerence of Steele was beginning to wear down even the doctors' calm facade. "You say cancer was curable in 2118. So what is the year now?" "2500." "Why have you left me sleeping so long? My instructions were to wake me as soon as you could cure me." "I don't think they had mastered cryogenics by then, and resuscitation is not a simple matter." "More likely those bastards investing my wealth didn't want to give it up. I've been under for centuries longer than necessary. Someone will pay for that. Get me my lawyers." "At this stage in your recovery, it is better that I am your only contact." "Crap. That's for normal patients. I ain't normal, and I want my lawyers." "I really think it would be better if you calmed down and explored the situation more fully. There are questions I want to ask you." "To hell with your questions. I'm feeling fine. Get my lawyers!" "No." The word took a visible effort from the doctor, but he said it with conviction. It was totally ignored by the patient. "Then get me the senior administrator. Who's the head of this place. Get him. Remember, he's your boss, but I own this place, so I'm his boss. So I can make life very difficult for you." Steele was getting into his normal stride. He was happy he had lost none of his old persuasive ways. The doctor hesitated. "The Chief of Staff is not on duty to-day." "When will he be back? Tomorrow? Who's his deputy?" "The Chief is due for periodic visit in twenty days. I note she didn't attend her last three duties." "Slack! I'll soon get rid of her. The deputy?" "The medical centre is run by," the doctor paused, grouping for the word, ".. computer. It controls the android nurses." "I hope it understands a true line of command." "It is controlled by central policy. Everything is controlled by central policy. Ownership doesn't really mean anything any longer." "You mean you don't own those clothes?" "Oh yes. That's personal. People own personal things. But not organizations." Steele abruptly changed tack. This doctor needed putting in his place. It was time to get personal. "Why do you keep looking over my head?" Steele demanded. "What have you got rigged behind me?" "Only a translation screen." "A translation screen? What's that for." "It translates your words into present day language. It also suggests most of the words I need to reply." "You mean you don't speak English!" "Not your brand of English. It's important for your recovery that you can communication easily." "So you had to learn my English" "Ancient English we call it. I had to program the translation computer, and learn it so I could talk to you. That takes a long time. Which is probably why you haven't been revived before. No one was prepared to make the effort." "But you did. I thank you." Steele was not used to being gracious. It wouldn't last long. "I think it would be easier if I gave you some background. I had prepared some explanations." The doctor fiddled with the tablet. "This is appropriate to what we have been discussing." He began reading from his notes. "Strictly enforced honesty in advertising reduced the variety of inferior products. Automated manufacturing from basic molecular building blocks could always meet full demand. IF centrally controlled. Centralized decisions are based upon what is best for society as a whole. Optimizing profit and 'economic rationalism' ceased to be relevant." The doctor skipped a bit. "You are the richest man in the world, because no one else aspires to accumulate wealth." "But money is the mechanism for who gets what," Steele interjected. "There is no need for it, when there is enough for everyone. The only question is when. Who gets the new products first. That's resolved by a simple registration system. If you want something, you put your name on a delivery list. There's no hurry, time is not important." "Some things are always different, like housing." argued Steele. "Not really. The population is far greater than in your day. All accommodation is concentrated into dormitory towns, where all units are the same size with the same facilities. Holographic picture walls give everyone the view they want." "But work. How do you reward the people who have to do the hard jobs? How do you get people to work the long hours?" The doctor hesitated, and skipped a large section of explanation. "Most of the work is done by androids," he began again. "Like the nurses who attended to you. Food production has been simplified by molecular manufacturing, and all factories are automated. Services are provided by androids. There isn't much work left for people. The majority spend their time enjoying themselves. Art and all forms of entertainment have reached new heights." "Most people. Not all people." Steele jumped on the weakness. "Someone has to control the machines, and develop new products." "Some elect to donate their time to society. A lot of young people go out to colonies the stars, but not enough to reduce the population. Having children is still a fun activity." "But a few people are the controllers ?" "A select few." "For instance, you mentioned the Chief of Staff of this Hospital. She has power. She controls the computer that runs everything." "She sets policy. There is a 5% working class. The People's dormitory towns cover 60% of Earth's land mass. The Workers share the other 40%. They need that space to experiment with new products on behalf of the People." "I knew it." Steele's fragile frame was wrecked with excitement. His face became animated for the first time. "The rich getting richer at the expense of the masses. It's always the same. I'm an entrepreneur. I'll be one of the Workers." "Impossible. Potential Workers are selected at an early age. Only high IQ children are accepted into Workers schools. They learn the basics of science and management. People schools are devoted to the important subjects of art and literature and the social graces. You can't switch from People to Worker in mid life." "I can! You just watch me. There hasn't been a system yet that I haven't conquered." Steele was confident he had identified the crux of his future and could meet the challenge. "Now, I'm tired from all this talk, and I need to rest and consider what I've learnt. I'll need reference works to study how things operate." "Of course." "So, you think you're that safe. You think I can't breach your Worker privileges." The doctor showed signs of animation again. "I'm not a Worker," he almost shouted, angrily. "How dare you accuse me!" "You mean, unfreezing me was not a planned act ..." "Certainly not. The Workers have no policy of resuscitation. No. This is an entertainment." The doctor proudly drew himself up. "I am an actor. We have achieved a 7% rating, one of the highest this season." "You mean reviving me was just for a public spectacle!" "I told you how much effort was involved. A Worker would never waste so much time." "Whatever. Get me that information and you'll soon have the spectacle of me forcing my way into Worker territory. But first, you must cure my cancer." "The androids are working on that. But the cure is not on-line. It must have been archived. It hasn't been needed for centuries." "But I'm in terminal stages of the decease!" "Don't worry. First estimates are we can recover the cure and redevelop it within two years." "You must do it faster than that. I won't live that long." "But we have to know what the cure is before we can put it on a list. Then it will be manufactured. But there's no queue jumping. That is never tolerated. It's a crime worse that murder." * * * * * * * * * * * * * *