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real source of the McCallum wealth—now his wealth. The rich bonanza reaped during the war had disappeared in a glut of overproduction. He didn't like mortgages—they were a sacrifice of control—and Ruddick lived to control everything, land, oil, money, and people. With a sigh, he pressed the lever on his office intercom. He hated the gadget; once he'd have simply yelled for his secretary, but she was older now and hard of hearing.
    "Cathy, I want to do some thinking in here, but I'm expecting some calls. The most important will be from Dr. Burton here in town—you know what that's about. The other will be from Secretary Woodson in Washington. And I'm expecting a call on my private line. I'd really prefer not to talk to anyone else."
    It was unusual for him not to take calls—even when he was in Congress he liked to answer the phone himself, surprising his constituents with his accessibility. But events were closing in on him. Ruddick stepped into his private bathroom and splashed water on his face, then glanced in the mirror, surprised at the unaccustomed stubble on his chin. Wherever he was—Washington, Little Rock, on travel—his morning started with a trip to the barbershop for a shave and facial massage. Today he'd simply forgotten—a sign of how pressure was building. He frowned, patting down his tousled hair.
    The intercom buzzed and he ran to the phone. "It's Dr. Burton, sir."
    "Hello, Dick, how is Marny?"
    Burton's voice was thin and reedy; he was almost eighty and had doctored the McCallum family for the last five decades.
    "Milo, I don't think she's going to make it. She needs a complete workup, and if my guess is right, some intensive abdominal surgery. It will be expensive, and I'm not sure it will do any good. Marny has been moping ever since Alma died."
    "I know, Dick, I tried to get her to retire, but she wouldn't listen to me. I would have kept her salary going, covered all her needs. But she insisted on coming in every day, puttering around, storing Alma's things. But it doesn't matter what it costs—please see that she gets whatever she needs—I'll take care of all of it. And tell her I'll be down to see her tonight."
    They talked a while longer and he hung up, a lump in his throat. Marny had been "given" to his wife as a companion when they were only three, a practice inherited from the days when the McCallum farms had been the McCallum plantation, worked by slaves. Marny and Alma had grown up together, inseparable, servant and mistress but the best of friends. They'd rented her a little cottage down in darktown, and even when she'd grown older and wasn't really efficient, he kept paying her an unconscionable amount, twelve hundred a year, plus all the little perks—lunch, leftovers, clothing from the family.
    Marny was a good woman, and she'd sent two children to college on her salary. It showed what a good Negro could do, if they were treated properly. She'd fallen ill after Alma's death, and the situation became awkward. Ruddick had moved her into the little apartment in the basement that hadn't been used for years. Her daughter had refused him outright when he'd asked her to come there to help, acting strained and resentful, quite a different person than her mother. In the end it was Marny's son, Nathan, who'd come to live with her in Ruddick's house. He was a fine strapping lad, a football player in college, and well mannered; he took beautiful care of Marny, and he even helped around the house.
    The phone rang—it was the Secretary of Defense's assistant.
    "This is Milo Ruddick; yes, I'll wait."
    There was irritation in his voice. Woodson was calling to ask a favor, and he had to hold the line and wait for him; he was obviously losing his grip, as if he were under some terrible stress. It had sometimes been the same during the war, when they were working so closely on the delicate oil transactions.
    "Milo? Sorry to keep you waiting—I was just picking up the phone to talk to you when the