"I've got the same upstairs. The cameras offer total surveillance day and night." He 
jerked a thumb up at one of the camera's floodlights mounted beside them. There was one 
set on every tenth upright. They swiveled back and forth slowly, like the heads of 
mechanical birds.
    "Luther'll show you how to run through them in sequence. Cost a small fortune to 
install, and I'm not sure it's more than cosmetic. These people aren't fools." "You've 
had break-ins?" "Not here. At the London house it used to happen all the time. Of course, 
that was when I was more visible. The unrepentant tycoon. Evangeline and me in every 
scandal sheet. The open sewer of Fleet Street; it never fails to appall me." "I thought 
you owned a newspaper?" "Been reading up on me?" "Not exactly; I-" "Don't believe the 
biographies, or the gossip columns, or even Who's Who. They lie. I lie"-he finished the 
declension, entertained by his own cynicism-"he, she, or it lies. Scribblers. Dirt 
peddlers. Contemptible, the lot of them." Was that what he was keeping out with these 
lethal fences: dirt peddlers? A fortress against a tide of scandal and shit? If so, it 
was an elaborate lay to go about it. Marty wondered if this wasn't simply monstrous 
egotism. Was the hemisphere that interested in the private life of Joseph Whitehead?
    "What are you thinking, Mr. Strauss?" "About the fences," Marty lied, proving 
Whitehead's earlier point.
    "No, Strauss," Whitehead corrected him. "You're thinking: what have I got myself 
into, locked up with a lunatic?" Marty sensed any further denial would sound like guilt. 
He said nothing.
    "Isn't that the conventional wisdom where I'm concerned? The failing plutocrat, 
festering in solitude. Don't they say that about me?" "Something like that," Marty 
finally replied.
    "And still you came." "Yes." "Of course you came. You thought that however offbeat I 
am, nothing could be as bad as another stretch behind locked doors, isn't that right? And 
you wanted out. At any cost. You were desperate." "Of course I wanted out. Anybody 
would." "I'm glad you admit to that. Because your wanting gives me considerable power 
over you, don't you think? You daren't cheat me. You must cleave to me the way the dogs 
cleave to Lillian, not because she represents their next meal but because she's their 
world. You must make me your world, Mr. Strauss; my preservation, my sanity, my smallest 
comfort must be uppermost in your mind every waking moment. If it is, I promise you 
freedoms you never dreamed of experiencing. The kind of freedoms that are only in the 
gift of very wealthy men. If not, I will put you back in prison with your record book 
irredeemably spoiled. Understand me?" "I understand." Whitehead nodded.
    "Come then," he said. "Walk beside me." He turned and walked on. The fence swung 
around behind the back of the woods at this point, and rather than plunging into the 
undergrowth Whitehead suggested they truncate their journey by heading toward the pool. 
"One tree looks much like the next to me," he commented. "You can come here and trudge 
around to your heart's content later on." They skirted the edge of the woods long enough 
for Marty to get an impression of their density, however. The trees hadn't been 
systematically planted; this was no regimented Forestry Commission reserve. They stood 
close to each other, their limbs intertwined, a mixture of deciduous varieties and pines 
all fighting for growing space. Only occasionally, where an oak or a lime stood 
bare-branched this early in the year, did light bless the undergrowth. He promised 
himself a return here before spring prettified it.
    Whitehead summoned Marty's thoughts back into focus.
    "From now on I expect you to be within summoning distance most of the time. I don't 
want you with me every moment of the day . . . just need you in the vicinity. On 
occasion, and only with my permission, you'll be permitted to leave on your own. You can 
drive?" "Yes." "Well, there's no shortage of cars, so we'll sort something out for you. 
This isn't strictly within the guidelines set out by the parole board. Their 
recommendation was that you remain, as it were, in custody here for six probationary 
months. But I frankly see no reason to prevent you visiting your loved ones-at least when 
there are other people around to look after my welfare." "Thank you. I appreciate it." 
"I'm afraid I can't allow you any time just at the moment. Your presence here is vital." 
"Problems?" "My life is constantly threatened, Strauss. I, or rather my offices, receive 
hate mail all the time. The difficulty is in separating the crank who spends his time 
writing filth to public figures from the genuine assassin." "Why should anyone want to 
assassinate you?" "I'm one of the wealthiest men outside America. I own companies that 
employ tens of thousands of people; I own tracts of land so large I could not walk them 
in the years remaining to me if I began now; I own ships, art, horseflesh. It's easy to 
make an icon of me. To think that if I and my life were brought down there'd be peace on 
earth and goodwill to men." "I see." "Sweet dreams," he said bitterly.
    The pace of their march had begun to slow. The great man's breath was rather shorter 
now than it had been half an hour before. Listening to him talk it was easy to forget his 
advanced years. His opinions had all the absolutism of youth. No room here for the 
mellowness of advancing years; for ambiguity or doubt.
    "I think it's time we headed back," he said.
    The monologue had finally lapsed, and Marty had no taste for further talk. No energy 
either. Whitehead's style-with its unsignaled swerves and bends-had exhausted him. He'd 
have to get used to the pose of the attentive listener: find a face to use when these 
lectures began, and put it on. Learn to nod knowingly in the right places, to murmur 
platitudes at the appropriate breaks in the flow. It would take a while, but he'd get the 
trick of handling Whitehead in time.
    "This is my fortress, Mr. Strauss," the old man announced as they approached the 
house. It didn't look particularly garrisoned: the brick was too warm to be stern. "Its 
sole function is to keep me from harm." "Like me." "Like you, Mr. Strauss." Behind the 
house, one of the dogs had started barking. The solo rapidly became a chorus.
    "Feeding time," Whitehead said.
    
    15
    It took several weeks" living on the estate for Marty to understand fully the rhythm 
of the Whitehead household. Like the benign dictatorship it was, the shape of each day 
was defined absolutely by Whitehead's plans and whims. As the old man had told Marty that 
first day, the house was a shrine to him; his worshipers came daily to touch the hem of 
his opinion. Some of their faces he recognized: captains of industry; two or three 
government ministers (one of whom had recently left office in disgrace; was he coming 
here, Marty wondered, asking for forgiveness or retribution?); pundits, guardians of 
public morality-many people Marty knew by sight but couldn't name, even more he didn't 
know at all. He was introduced to none of them.
    Once or twice a week he might be asked to remain in the room while the meetings were 
held, but more often than not he was required only to be within hailing distance. 
Wherever he was, he was invisible as far as most of the guests were concerned: ignored, 
treated at best as part of the furniture. At first it was irritating; everyone in the 
house had a name but him, it seemed. As time passed, however, he grew to be glad of his 
anonymity. He wasn't required to give an opinion on everything, so he could let his mind 
drift with no danger of being called into the conversation. It was good too to be 
dislocated from the concerns of these almighty people: their lies seemed, he thought, 
fraught and artificial. He saw in many of their faces looks he recognized from his years