Chapter 21

On Friday, we got a notice of a special meeting of the Exxon Board, to include selected stockholders. The selected few were me, Mason Management, Guldhus SE (a big, private, Swedish investment combine representing unnamed overseas investors), and The Rockefeller Brothers Foundation. All but Guldhus were known to me. The meeting was scheduled for Tuesday at 0900, Texas time.

[Don’t worry about Guldhus SE. I am Guldhus, and I will be attending via a virtual hookup. I made an avatar out of several Swiss bankers – all of whom are now long dead – and I will animate Mr. Goff at the appropriate times. He is actually representing my own portfolios. Those portfolios own just under 100,000 shares. About 20% less than yours. I created Guldhus several months ago, in case we ever needed to have somebody represent our overseas accounts. By the way, Guldhus means Goldhouse, in Svenska. It is headquartered in Malmö, Sweden, at the end of the Öresund Bridge, a connection to Copenhagen. It’s at the southern end of Sweden and has a mild climate, a lot like Norfolk, Va – in case you ever want to go.]

Thanks for the travelogue, Red. But I have some business to attend to in the U.S. at the moment.

... ...

I took the weekend off, except for watching Alex take care of Doyobi. He’d be fine. At the current rate, the tumor would be gone within two weeks. She was interested in the contraception implants in the female Wokita. I slowly explained the dangers of an incestuous mating for anybody – dog, chimpanzee, or human. Mating with your own brother or sister could be bad.

So, what did the implants do to prevent that, she asked? This presented a subject I’d have to be careful with. It didn’t exactly prevent sex, it just prevented conception.

I discussed it with the Dads and we came to an understanding. It seemed likely that, at some point, the kids would develop some sort of sexual relationship between them. They were unique, unlikely to have romantic relationships with other kids their own age and had already bonded. But we didn’t want them to get involved until it happened – whenever it happened. Hard to tell them: no, don’t do it, but when it eventually happens, IF it happens, when you’re older, it’s okay if you use contraception.

So, I compromised, I went into the ‘having sex wasn’t a bad thing, if you’re old enough, but having babies wasn’t’ talk – and there was always the problem birth or genetic defects. After all, no contraception was 100% foolproof.

After a while, I could tell she was bored with the whole thing.

What she really wanted to know was why did the vet not give her another implant the last time Ogoe went in for a checkup.

This proves the wisdom of “don’t answer what they’re not asking.”

“I guess he thinks she won’t have any puppies at her age. That happens to all females when they get really old. People, too,” I explained.

“Then why are her ovaries getting all puffy and ready to turn lose of an egg?” our little veterinarian asked. Seems she learned a lot about the physical aspects of procreation. I’ll just concentrate on the moral / psychological aspects of things in the future.

“I’ll call our vet on the res and get her – and the other ladies in our herd – to keep giving her the implants ... And meantime to keep the girls separated from the boys for now.”

“Okay, Mom. I don’t think the ‘Kitas would understand all the brother/sister stuff. Couldn’t we get some wild wolves to mate with the girls, and the boys too, for that matter. They’re not neutered, and I hate to have all that natural goodness of our ‘Kitas, just ... go away.”

“An interesting idea, Alex. Let me think on it and we’ll see what I can come up with,” I said. It was actually a good idea.

“Mom. I had an idea. Could we separate Gwina from the others for a week or so? I want to try and have him grow another leg – you know, to replace the one he lost when he sacrificed himself in the invasion?”

“Alex, I don’t think...” I started to say nobody could do that. But then I thought: who knows, maybe she can. I corrected myself in mid-sentence. “ ... I don’t think anybody ever tried that before. Sure we can try.”

...

The only other thing of consequence was the sneak-out through the back door. The Fibbies didn’t know about it, so David and Fingers and Jim borrowed a big pickup and went out to search out the X that they’d been looking for the last time.

This time we gave the FBI something to watch. We sent Rock, Bear, and Alex out to get a big, super-deluxe pizza from the Hut. They tailed this little diversion like they did last time, and they made sure that there were no federal laws broken on either leg of the trip.

In fact, there were no laws broken on either the pizza trip or the scouting trip. Except for maybe planting some surveillance equipment on the underside of the mechanic’s truck. Now we’d be able to know his whereabouts.

I divided my time watching Jim on the scouting trip and Alex on the pizza side-show. Back at home, it was just me, Eli, and the four Wokitas. The kids thought they were “their” Wokitas, but I managed to convince them that I could play better than the kids while they were away. I pounded the grass out back and the dogs jumped on me. We had a grand ol’ time, under the confused gaze of a dozen or so horses. The great white owl, by the way, was off watching the pizza run, with an FBI escort.

...

In due course, Tuesday morning came around and our 0800 chopper showed up. After I mentally frisked him, while David looked over the helicopter, we were off to see what was going to happen with the Exxon people.

We got to the Boardroom and there were some pastries and coffee available. I got a small chuckle when I introduced myself and asked for a Coke. There were some other introductions, including my guards. I explained that as a relative of the Tribe’s Medicine Man, I had to have guards. I smiled an apology. When off the reservation, you know. Trust of outsiders only goes so far. I apologized again. But after all the broken promises to our people, well ... The Vice Chairman of the Board started things off. “We have an opening on the Board, so I think the first thing to do is elect a new Chairman.”

“Objection,” came from Guldhus’s video hookup.

“Yes. Objection,” came from the Rockefeller Group. “We think we’d like to hear from management about Mr. Fortin’s suicide, and what has happened. Then we’d like to hear from management about the tanker situation.”

“I think the objections are out of order,” said the Vice Chair, Mr. Rosen.

One of the other Directors said, “With all due respect, Charles, the objections are not out of order. We have here close to half a million shares represented. The concerns of the shareholders are valid.” There was a general murmur of assent in the Boardroom.

“Ve can ask for an emergency meetink of all de stockholders if ve must,” said Mr. Goff, the rep for Guldhus.

“Oh, Mr. Goff, we don’t need to do that. All right. The guidance of the Board will, of course, be followed,” Charles Rosen conceded, although it was obviously not what he wanted. No, he wanted to be rubber stamped as the Chairman.

The CEO was called in. With him were the COO, and someone who was introduced as “heading up our investigation,” a Ms Hovarth. She was about sixty – but could have been forty-five, and looked to be a sharp cookie – about one sharpening short of a battleaxe.

Hovarth read from her notes: “There seems to be no doubt about the suicidal nature of Mr. Fortin’s death that is in question. The gun was a .45 and he put in in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. His wife and his daughter were elsewhere in the house, and came into the room within a few minutes of the shot; the blood had not congealed yet.”