around World War I, did his umbilical research and then, suddenly announced: They’re lining it with concrete.’
“Lining what with concrete?’ asked my father.
“ ‘The whole Mississippi Valley. They’ve gone nuts over flood control. We’re buying Portland Cement.’
“So my father bought Portland Cement—plants in California, Indiana, and Illinois—and they made him rich. They’re still making me rich. Mal frightens me a little. He says he bets on my hunches, my knowing a thing from a thing. Well”—waving a hand toward the things on the shelves—“so far it’s worked. But suppose I come up with a dud. Which I can do, Dr. Palmer. Which I can do so easy it scares me to death.”
“I’d say, no use borrowing trouble.”
“It’s all you can say. Let’s go in and see Mal.”
So we went in there, Garrett first knocking on a door with no name on it; and sure enough, there was a rumpled, potbellied man sitting behind a desk, his feet in a swivel chair, his fingers covering his belly, and his eyes fixed on his navel. He didn’t look up when we came in. Apparently he could see out of the side of his head, as he said to Garrett: “Not ARMALCO. You transfer that stuff yourself.”
“What stuff?” Mr. Garrett asked.
“The securities for this thing you’ve decided to back. It’s not a corporate enterprise—it’s your private project, and you have to endow it yourself.”
“Well, yeah, that’s what I meant, of course.”
“You said ARMALCO would do it.”
“Okay, then I do it.”
Mr. McDavitt slid a paper across his desk, at last taking his feet down. “There’s the securities I’d think would do it—give this thing, whatever it is, a nicely assorted portfolio with some growth potential and still leave you well assorted. I mean, you’ll kick in with quite a few things, so you’re not left lopsided. There’s a tax angle, of course. Here’s a memo on that.”
Garrett picked up the papers, had a look, folded them, and put them in his pocket. “This is Dr. Palmer,” he said, “who’ll be in charge of our institution from now on.”
Mal paid no attention. He didn’t even look at me. “Okay, then,” Mr. Garrett said after a moment, “is that all?”
Mal didn’t answer, merely hoisting his feet again and going back to his belly button. Mr. Garrett led the way out. “Five minutes from now,” he whispered in the hall, “he’ll call me with what he thinks of you, and I’d better listen, believe me. He didn’t look at you, did he? In a pig’s eye, he didn’t.”
Back in his office we sat down and waited. The phone on his desk tinkled, and he answered. “Thanks, Mal,” he said, “it’s what I wanted to know.”
“He says you’re okay,” he murmured, hanging up.
Several minutes went by, and I realized that Mal’s report and Mal’s assorted memos and admonitions had been very important to Garrett.
“O.K., Dr. Palmer, let’s get started. What’s on your mind?”
I said the next step, I thought, once we were incorporated, was our application to I.R.S. for a ruling on our tax-exempt status. “It’s a job for lawyers,” I said. “Even so, I would have to sit in, as the nub of the matter is the supplementary outline, our bound, typewritten booklet setting forth our aims and purposes. It has to be inclusive, covering everything we may conceivably want to do, so later on, if something comes up, we don’t find we’ve booby-trapped ourselves by leaving something out. I’m the one who knows, the only one who knows in detail, what we’ll want to do and how we expect to do it. So, if Mr. Dent is to be in charge as your lawyer, you should instruct him not only to work with me but to let me pass on his booklet before he actually submits it.”
Mr. Garrett made a note. “I get the point,” he said. “What next, after we get our ruling? How long does it take, by the way? Or do you know?”
“No more than a week or two.”
“And then what?”
“There’s the
“Lining what with concrete?’ asked my father.
“ ‘The whole Mississippi Valley. They’ve gone nuts over flood control. We’re buying Portland Cement.’
“So my father bought Portland Cement—plants in California, Indiana, and Illinois—and they made him rich. They’re still making me rich. Mal frightens me a little. He says he bets on my hunches, my knowing a thing from a thing. Well”—waving a hand toward the things on the shelves—“so far it’s worked. But suppose I come up with a dud. Which I can do, Dr. Palmer. Which I can do so easy it scares me to death.”
“I’d say, no use borrowing trouble.”
“It’s all you can say. Let’s go in and see Mal.”
So we went in there, Garrett first knocking on a door with no name on it; and sure enough, there was a rumpled, potbellied man sitting behind a desk, his feet in a swivel chair, his fingers covering his belly, and his eyes fixed on his navel. He didn’t look up when we came in. Apparently he could see out of the side of his head, as he said to Garrett: “Not ARMALCO. You transfer that stuff yourself.”
“What stuff?” Mr. Garrett asked.
“The securities for this thing you’ve decided to back. It’s not a corporate enterprise—it’s your private project, and you have to endow it yourself.”
“Well, yeah, that’s what I meant, of course.”
“You said ARMALCO would do it.”
“Okay, then I do it.”
Mr. McDavitt slid a paper across his desk, at last taking his feet down. “There’s the securities I’d think would do it—give this thing, whatever it is, a nicely assorted portfolio with some growth potential and still leave you well assorted. I mean, you’ll kick in with quite a few things, so you’re not left lopsided. There’s a tax angle, of course. Here’s a memo on that.”
Garrett picked up the papers, had a look, folded them, and put them in his pocket. “This is Dr. Palmer,” he said, “who’ll be in charge of our institution from now on.”
Mal paid no attention. He didn’t even look at me. “Okay, then,” Mr. Garrett said after a moment, “is that all?”
Mal didn’t answer, merely hoisting his feet again and going back to his belly button. Mr. Garrett led the way out. “Five minutes from now,” he whispered in the hall, “he’ll call me with what he thinks of you, and I’d better listen, believe me. He didn’t look at you, did he? In a pig’s eye, he didn’t.”
Back in his office we sat down and waited. The phone on his desk tinkled, and he answered. “Thanks, Mal,” he said, “it’s what I wanted to know.”
“He says you’re okay,” he murmured, hanging up.
Several minutes went by, and I realized that Mal’s report and Mal’s assorted memos and admonitions had been very important to Garrett.
“O.K., Dr. Palmer, let’s get started. What’s on your mind?”
I said the next step, I thought, once we were incorporated, was our application to I.R.S. for a ruling on our tax-exempt status. “It’s a job for lawyers,” I said. “Even so, I would have to sit in, as the nub of the matter is the supplementary outline, our bound, typewritten booklet setting forth our aims and purposes. It has to be inclusive, covering everything we may conceivably want to do, so later on, if something comes up, we don’t find we’ve booby-trapped ourselves by leaving something out. I’m the one who knows, the only one who knows in detail, what we’ll want to do and how we expect to do it. So, if Mr. Dent is to be in charge as your lawyer, you should instruct him not only to work with me but to let me pass on his booklet before he actually submits it.”
Mr. Garrett made a note. “I get the point,” he said. “What next, after we get our ruling? How long does it take, by the way? Or do you know?”
“No more than a week or two.”
“And then what?”
“There’s the
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