Investment Horizon

by Greg Hansen

Skidbett Larsen was a confidence man, and a good one.

He had all the requisite tools: nimble wits, a machinelike memory, impeccable taste, an open and honest face, animal cunning and boundless greed. He even had, at age forty-seven, a fine head of wavy gray hair.

But his most valuable assets by far were his eyes. Light green and perfectly spaced, they could at one moment radiate forgiveness and understanding — inspiring trust, confidence, when all reason and logic implored otherwise — and then the next moment burn like twin pricks of irresistible green fire. They were magical eyes, and few indeed could resist them.

So Skidbett was a good con man. Not a great one, as he’d yet to make the big score that would cement his status as such. But as he stood at the foot of the gang-ramp and studied the city’s skyline he had a feeling that was all about to change.

The planet Varfleet was a long way from anywhere, even by relativistic standards. Circling its amber sun well into the Galactic periphery, it had evaded human notice until a mere three hundred years gone; the descendants of those original colonists still controlled the government and most of the planet’s wealth. Recently discovered tetracite deposits in Varfleet’s equatorial hills, however, had brought a more general prosperity to the population, and had created a class of nouveau riche with the means and determination to close the privilege gap.

Varfleet’s ruling class — the self-styled “children of first blood” — held court in a cluster of gleaming mansions perched on a hilltop overlooking Varfleet Town. The city itself staggered across the valley in a vain attempt at order before giving up and dissolving into a mass of smoke-shrouded factories. Over and around it all, orange- and black-hued vegetation showed against the green-tinted sky: a stomach churning display of evolution gone wrong.

Varfleet was remote. It was wracked with class envy and strife. It was arguably the ugliest planet in the Galaxy. It was perfect. “Stars, what an awful place you’ve got here, Lyle,” said Skidbett, wrinkling his aristocratic nose.

“What do you mean ‘I’ve’ got here?” Lyle replied, walking heavily down the ramp with an overfilled valise in each hand. “I got off this rock as soon as I could and you know it.” Lyle, unlike Skidbett, was not a good con man. He was bright enough and suitably nondescript, he was half Skidbett’s age, and he’d worked hard at his apprenticeship, now in its third year. But he was cursed with the one thing a con man could not afford to possess: a conscience. Not a large one, but fatal nonetheless. Lyle set the suitcases down and tested the ammonia-rich air.

“You know, I had serious reservations about this trip,” Lyle said as he released his breath with a satisfied sigh. “But now that we’re here I confess I feel a bit of affection for the old place.” Lyle’s affection had been augmented by yet another rough landing, and by an ominous rattle from the Renard’s retrofitted relativistic drive that had grown steadily worse over the last two parsecs. The old spacecraft was truly on her last legs; she seemed to sigh with relief as her pressure valve vented unneeded steam into the air.

Skidbett scoffed and started out across the tarmac toward the customs hut. Lyle picked up the suitcases and hurried to catch up. “So Skid, what’s it going to be this time? The Dahlgren Dangle and Snatch? Houlihan’s Cash-o-Matic? The Amazing Disappearing Bank Book?”

“Watch and learn my friend,” Skidbett replied with an enigmatic smile, “watch and learn.”

* * *

A week later, they’d secured adequate office space and spent the last of their Scyrillian take on elegant office furniture and a few discreet yet provocative advertisements (the receptionist, unwisely, had not demanded payment in advance.) Lightspeed Investments was born.

On the morning after the ads appeared, Lyle and Skidbett settled down in front of the closed-circuit monitor to watch their receptionist interview applicants. They rejected the first two, but gave her a green light on the third. A few moments later she opened the door to their opulent office and announced the visitor: “Mr. Bassi is here to see you, sirs.”

Bassi marched into the office, six feet of vanity in a five-foot three-inch frame. His clothes were ultra expensive and poorly laundered. His eyes blinked behind thick glass lenses. Skidbett, standing behind his expansive desk, swallowed his glee and greeted him coolly.

Bassi ignored him and slapped a newspaper on the desktop. “What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded, his voice a bit too shrill to take seriously. Skidbett arched an eyebrow, gave Bassi an icy stare. “Ah, that is, I’m interested in learning more about your services,” Bassi temporized.

Skidbett stared silently for another moment, then spoke an abrupt dismissal: “Thank you, sir, for your inquiry; however we cannot serve your needs at this time.” He gestured to the door and resumed his chair.

Bassi’s arrogance wilted at the unexpected rejection. He blinked through his spectacles for a few surprised moments. “Why not?” he implored, crestfallen.

Skidbett looked up at him and reclined in his chair. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Bassi. We provide specialized wealth management services to a very select clientele. In my view you simply do not meet our standards.”

Bassi gasped. “But you don’t even know me! I’m sure I’d meet your standards if you just gave me a chance!”

Skidbett looked across at Lyle, who occupied a chair at the side of the desk. The two shared a long grim glance. Lyle let the suspense build, then shook his head slowly in the negative. Skidbett nodded and turned back to the visitor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bassi, but we...”

“Wait! Please, I’d make a wonderful client for you! I’ve got loads of money, and I’m willing to pay for good advice!”

Skidbett looked at him skeptically. “Is that so?”

“Yes! I own two functioning tetracite smelters and a third will be on line next month. I’ve got mining rights, real estate, gemstones, lots and lots of cash...” He fumbled in his jacket pockets as though to prove his claims.

Skidbett cut him short. “Please, Mr. Bassi, we believe you.” He stared at the anxious mark for a few more moments, calculating. “Very well,” he said, reluctantly, “perhaps we can take a few minutes to explore the possibility.” “Oh thank you!”

“Please have a seat.” Bassi seemed surprised to realize he was still standing and settled quickly into a nearby chair. The chair was low-slung, and Bassi was forced to look up more steeply than usual. He squinted across the desk at Skidbett. A large picture window in the wall behind the desk provided a very useful glare and a view of the looming, hilltop colonial enclave.

“Tell me, Mr. Bassi,” Skidbett began, “how you feel about money.” The question caught Bassi off guard and he stammered for a few moments.

Lyle rescued him. “What do you like about being wealthy?”

“Oh, okay! I like how I can buy anything I want. Well, almost anything,” Bassi added, with a dark look out the window.

Aha! thought Skidbett. “Certain items remain... out of your reach?” he prodded.

“Yeah,” Bassi answered, sullenly. “I tried to buy a home on Colony Hill but they wouldn’t sell to me, because I’m not of the first blood. There’s laws against that kind of thing you know!”

Skidbett nodded, his eyes and face suddenly full of sympathy. He seemed to consider for a moment, then took on an expression of benevolent determination. “Mr. Bassi, I believe I judged you too quickly. I think we can help you after all.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’ve been the victim of Consumer Discrimination, an evil we’ve sworn to eliminate.” Skidbett looked over at Lyle again. Once more Lyle let several suspenseful moments pass before nodding three times in affirmation. Skidbett smiled triumphantly at the man in the low-slung chair. “Mr. Bassi, I would like to propose a client partnership!”

“Oh, wonderful! Yes, please!” the little man giggled. “When do we start?”

Skidbett reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a one-page document. “We employ proprietary, highly secret management techniques,” he said seriously. “Before we explain our philosophy to you, we require that you sign this nondisclosure agreement.” Bassi reached for the paper, scanned it, and scribbled his name at the bottom. He handed it back with an eager smile.

“Very well!” Skidbett declared, relaxing into his chair. He sat quietly for a moment and pursed his lips. “Mr. Bassi,” he began, “do you know what the difference is between you and the children of first blood?”

“They have more money than I do?” Bassi ventured.

“That’s right!” Skidbett replied. “Do you know why?” Bassi was stumped, shrugged. “They’re not smarter than you, are they?”

“No.”

“Better businessmen?” “Don’t think so!”

”More daring, talented, deserving?”

“Of course not!” “Then why are they so much richer than you are?” Bassi blinked, once more at a loss for words. “I’ll tell you why.” Skidbett leaned forward significantly and Bassi followed suit, his eyes wide. “It’s because they’ve had their money longer.” Skidbett leaned back from this revelation with a satisfied smile.

“Ah,” Bassi murmured, not quite understanding but trying to show enthusiasm. “So how...”

“Do you know what this is?” Skidbett interrupted, drawing a large photograph from behind the desk and passing it to Bassi with a flourish. Bassi glanced and then squinted at the photo.

“Some kind of antique spaceship...?”

“Wrong!” Skidbett declared. “This isn’t just a spacecraft. It’s a time machine.”

“Ah,” murmured Bassi again.

“She’s the Renard,” Lyle supplied, “a fully functioning, pre-relativistic carg — er, pleasure craft. Before relativistic technology came along, mankind relied on simple velocity to travel large distances, and so they built spaceships with powerful engines capable of approaching the speed of light.

“Their problem — and our opportunity — is that high velocities are accompanied by time dilation. The faster a spacecraft travels, the slower time moves within it. Or, to look at it another way, the faster time elapses on the craft’s home planet.” Bassi, concentrating intently, still wasn’t getting it.

“Think of it this way,” Skidbett purred. “When you sign a contract with our firm, we book you for a pleasure cruise on the Renard. We jump you to a nearby system, boost you up to eight-tenths light speed, and you spend a relaxing six weeks circling a lovely white dwarf star. Meanwhile, your money grows here on Varfleet, not for six weeks,” Skidbett dialed his eyes up to maximum power, “but for sixty-five years.”

“Ah!” Bassi clapped his hands with delight. “Brilliant!”

Skidbett nodded. Isn’t it? he thought, ironically. Lyle passed a thick client agreement and a pen across the desk. “Simply complete pages three, five, seven and ten, and your place will be reserved.”

Bassi carefully picked up the contract. “I generally have my attorney review all legal documents before signing,” he said.

Skidbett clucked his tongue. “Remember the nondisclosure!”

“Yes, of course.” Bassi grasped the pen in his suddenly sweaty fingers. “How much should I... invest?” he asked, tremulously.

“The contract minimum is one million shekels. Of course you’re welcome to invest as much as you like.” “And your fees?”

Skidbett smiled. “One percent per annum. One point five if you elect first class accommodations on the Renard.”

Bassi hesitated. He looked down, then up, then across the desk at the two swindlers. He furrowed his brow; Skidbett felt a sudden pang of uncertainty. “I just don’t think...”

“With all due respect, Mr. Bassi,” Lyle interrupted, “when you return from this little vacation you’ll have enough money to buy the whole of Colony Hill. Every last, stony square inch of it.”

Bassi turned his troubled gaze to the window and the sight of the towering metal and glass monuments. He suddenly stiffened. “I’ll do it!!” he declared. “I’ll sign. I’ve got almost two million and I want to invest all of it.” Skidbett and Lyle relaxed as Bassi scribbled away. They stole a triumphant sidelong look at each other.

“You’re a wise man, Mr. Bassi,” Skidbett crowed. “Not only is this a foolproof investment strategy, its also an excellent way to escape a bad marriage, or outwait any statute of limitations!”

Bassi looked up sharply at this, alarm in his eyes. Skidbett froze. Lyle, however, kept his head and began a reassuring laugh; Skidbett recovered and joined him a split second later. After a few anxious moments, Bassi followed suit, entered his bank account number on page ten and added the last signature.

At the doorway Skidbett clapped Bassi’s shoulder and shook his hand. “I hardly need stress the importance of secrecy,” he said. “Opportunities like this come along just once in a lifetime, and that’s why we’re so careful who we do business with.” Bassi swore complete discretion and left with a spring in his step.

To be continued...