God of Normalization (3)

"Today's exchange rate bulletin."

"Hmph. Good. Just came in from Berlin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Understood. I'll deliver it to the manager myself."

The German bank clerk, who wore a single monocle, took the telegram that had arrived from Berlin and climbed the stairs to the upper floor, his polished shoes tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. When ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he reached the door plate reading Manager of Chinese Accounts — Hans Berger, he stopped, raised his hand, and knocked.

Knock knock knock.

"Manager, the exchange rate bulletin from Berlin."

'Ah, I'll be right out.'

A chair creaked softly, and then Hans, sporting his immaculate Kaiser mustache, opened the door and took the telegram.

"Hm. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"No, sir."

"Fine, the rate report is noted. Now — what's on my schedule today?"

"You have one business meeting in an hour, and—"

"...Is it important?"

"Pardon?"

The monocled clerk tilted his head as if he had no idea what the manager meant.

"I'm afraid I don't follow, sir."

"Is this someone big enough that I need to meet them in person?"

"W-well, I honestly couldn't say. I believe it's a Chinese gentleman who runs some trading company, but it didn't seem to be a very large operation."

"So it's a loan matter, then. Must I really sit down with every small-time fellow like that?"

"Then I'll have the loans department handle it."

"Yes, yes. Perhaps it's the weather, but I'm simply not in the mood to meet anyone today."

Once the monocled clerk nodded and went back down the stairs, Hans returned to his own office. The door creaked shut behind him.

He leaned back into his brand-new chair, and a languid drowsiness born of pure comfort wrapped itself around him.

"Furniture, you see — the expensive kind is always best."

He rolled his feet and spun the chair in a full circle. Beyond the window stretched that sweeping view reserved for managers alone, the private offices' special privilege, and it filled his eyes. He savored a cup of coffee, basking in the tranquility, until the warm sunlight streaming through the glass soon had him nodding off.

How much time had passed?

Knock knock knock.

"...Ugh, for heaven's sake. I told you not to disturb me."

Hans opened the door while rubbing his eyes vigorously. It was the same monocled clerk. Suppressing his irritation, Hans enunciated each word clearly.

"Listen. Did I not say I'm meeting no one today?"

"Th-that is—"

"Don't want to hear it. Just deal with it downstairs."

"But this gentleman insists on seeing you personally—"

"I said I'm not meeting anyone!"

Why does this fool never listen to a word I say?

"Let me say it again. I am off this afternoon. I will not be seeing anyone, so handle it your—"

"Major Theodore Lee has arrived, sir."

"Oh, damn it all!! You should have said that first, you blithering idiot!"

Hans hurriedly flung open his private office and dashed inside. Where had he put his suit jacket? ...No idea. He flung open the wardrobe, pulled out a fresh suit, and threw it on in haste.

With a crashing clatter, Hans burst out into the corridor. Taking the stairs two at a time, he looked around — and there in the lobby, unmistakably conspicuous, stood a blue military uniform.

'...What is it about him? Every time I see him, he seems ten centimeters taller.'

Hans cleared the stray thoughts from his head and hurried toward Theodore Lee.

"Major Theodore Lee, sir!"

"Ah, Mr. Hans. It's been a while."

Theodore Lee, who had been idly peering into a fishbowl to pass the time, lost interest the moment Hans approached and turned to face him.

"A manager himself, coming down to greet me in person?"

"Hahaha! I couldn't possibly entrust the honor to anyone else! This way, please! I've prepared the full German course for you!"

Hans brought around the ceremonial car and took the wheel himself. As he drove through the immaculately kept streets of the German-leased Kiautschou territory, he said to me:

"She runs beautifully, doesn't she?"

"Indeed she does."

"A 1910 Prinz-Heinrich! A full eighty horsepower — the crowning achievement of German engineering!"

Hans puffed out his chest with pride and tapped the laurel wreath mounted on the handlebar.

"Heh heh. Do you know where this was made?"

"Hm. I couldn't say."

"Fair enough, I suppose. The company only switched its logo to this laurel a few months ago."

"Did they? What company is it, then?"

"Brace yourself — it's a Benz!"

"A Benz! The very company I invested in."

"That's right! Your eye is truly remarkable, Major! I have no idea how you manage to pick out only the choicest companies like this."

That would be because I'm from the future, you see.

Still, why wasn't the Benz logo a three-pointed star? Would it change later? Eh, it hardly mattered. What mattered was that my glorious capital had gone into Benz as investment funds back when the company was struggling financially right up until 1905.

"Mr. Hans, a question — how many times over has my investment grown by now?"

"The money in Benz, you mean?"

"That's the one."

"Hmm. When you were accumulating Benz shares at your peak, sir, they were trading at a mere seventy percent of the initial par value, so..."

Hans stroked his chin a few times and promptly arrived at a figure.

"You've made at least six times your money by now. If you were lucky on entry, perhaps eight. Ah! In case you were wondering, last year's dividend came to sixteen percent, for your reference."

Hoooooly — yes indeed!

Now THIS is the life.

"How much do you expect this year's dividend to be?"

"Hm, no less than eighteen to twenty percent, I'd wager. Benz just unveiled a model called the Blitzen Benz, so the share price should climb even higher!"

"The Blitzen Benz?"

"Yes! A demonstration vehicle built to showcase their engineering — they say it can run at a staggering 228 kilometers per hour!"

I'm sorry, what.

228 kilometers per hour? In 1910?

Are they torturing aliens down there? Or is Karl Benz himself secretly also from the future???

"We've arrived! This is my regular haunt — the head chef here is simply extraordinary."

Following Hans's guidance, I stepped inside and into what looked to be the finest spot in the house — a private dining room.

"Major, this is pure Germany! Bratwurst — the very essence of the nation on a plate!"

"Isn't that just a sausage?"

"Pssh! Not a sausage — a Bratwurst!!"

Hm. This is delicious.

Seriously — a man must climb the ladder of success. Behold.

Just five years ago, these people treated me with open rudeness, and now they strain every sinew to stuff my mouth full of delicacies.

As I savored the bratwurst — salty-savory, its fat bursting with every bite — and the schweinshaxe, crackling crisp on the outside and meltingly tender within, Hans moistened his throat with beer and cautiously broached the subject.

"M-Major, if it isn't too impertinent — might I ask what business brings you all the way here?"

"Ah, nothing much."

I dabbed my mouth lightly with my napkin.

"Just came to see if there's anywhere new worth investing in."

"...You mean, new investments?"

His palms had gone sweaty, it seemed; he set down his beer and wiped his hand two or three times against his trouser thigh.

"And, um — might I ask the, er, amount involved?"

"Hm. If I tell you, won't it become the talk of the town?"

"Never, sir! Absolutely never! Place your trust in the lips of this Hans Berger!"

"Really? Hm."

"Oh, come now — go on, please?"

"I don't have exact figures yet, but think of it as roughly one thousand dollars a month or less."

"...One... one thousand? One thousand dollars?"

His eyes began to whirl. He was probably converting dollars into Imperial German marks and drafting half a dozen balance sheets in his head. Being the generous soul I am, I gave him room to think — instead of talking at him, I loaded my mouth with excellent meat and beer and savored it.

Mmm. Yummy.

"...Did you know, Major?"

At last Hans seemed to have exhausted the ledger in his skull, and he opened his mouth.

"A thousand dollars is four years' wages for a solidly middle-class man in the German Empire. Well over four thousand marks."

"Is that so."

"Enough to buy a brand-new Ford Model T with money left over. Enough to buy a new Opel Doktorwagen and still have change to spare. ...What on earth do you intend to do with it?"

I shrugged my shoulders upward.

"What kind of question is that? Why, obviously I want to get rich. A comfortable, carefree life — what could be better?"

"No. From what I can see, that isn't it at all."

"?"

"Men who truly want that simply buy government bonds once their fortune reaches a certain size and live securely off the interest. ...Someone rolling money around at high risk like a gambler is either addicted to the game itself — or he has some compelling reason that forces him to shoulder that risk."

"...Hm."

Those eyes, probing to pierce a phenomenon they couldn't understand. For the sake of our pleasant relationship, it wouldn't hurt to loosen my bundle just a little. I wet my throat with a swallow of beer and spoke.

"Mr. Hans. Do you know what life in Manchuria is like?"

"I'm ashamed to admit I don't."

"Then how about life in Berlin? You know that well enough, don't you."

"Well, eh — I used to work at the office all day, and after clocking out I'd enjoy a cold beer with fresh-baked bratwurst. On weekends, I'd go to my football club or catch a play nearby."

"I see. Then allow me to describe life in Manchuria."

"Ah — yes, of course."

"Step just a little outside Fengtian, the heart of Manchuria, and you'll find lawless men, bandits, and roving brigands. Powerless citizens live in fear of when their lives might be threatened, and having the property they scraped together stolen from them by someone else is simply a matter of daily luck."

"......"

"Here is how I see it, Mr. Hans. A man who knows life in Berlin thinks of the future. Why? Because the streets are safe, he has a warm home, and there's a guarantee that his property will be safe tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that. A man who knows life in Manchuria invests in the present. Because the peace is a shambles, his house could collapse at any moment, and he has no idea whether his property and his very life will vanish in ten minutes, ten days, or ten years."

I tapped the table lightly with my index finger and continued.

"This new investment money is drawn from part of the monthly wages of the soldiers under my command."

"Drawn from their wages, sir?"

"It's not compulsory. Only about a third have agreed to my proposal so far, so for now I've brought only their share as investment capital."

"......"

"Mr. Hans. I want to give them a future. I want them to think of tomorrow with that money instead of squandering it on pleasure houses and drink — to start families, build wealth, and in the end willingly take up a rifle to defend what they've built with their own hands."

"That sounds like a terribly difficult undertaking, sir."

"It is a necessary one."

"One misstep in the management of it, and those men could come to resent you."

"Do I strike you as incapable of pulling it off?"

"That is..."

He fell silent for a moment, lost in thought — then promptly folded his hands with great courtesy and bowed his head to me.

"Major. I beg of you."

"Beg of me for what, exactly?"

"I won't ask you to entrust the money to me. Frankly, sir, I couldn't follow your skill if you gave me a head start and a running leap. I can't even begin to comprehend how you pluck out precisely the sound companies from among that ocean of them."

When I offered neither confirmation nor denial, he carried on of his own accord.

"Instead, I will provide you with information."

"Information?"

"Every day, from now on, I will wire a telegram to Fengtian, addressed to you, Major. What the share prices are doing, how the exchange rates are moving, how world affairs and the economy are turning — I'll gather everything that comes across my desk, tidy it up neatly, and send it along."

"I take it Deutsche Bank already offers such a service."

"Not at all. This is a personal arrangement, made with my own pocket."

'Arrangement,' is it?

"I confess I don't quite follow."

"You are in Manchuria, Major, and so naturally you lack intelligence on how the wider world turns. I intend to fill that gap for you."

"Then what is it you expect from me in return?"

He did say he wouldn't be asking to manage my money.

Hans wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with his handkerchief and opened his mouth again.

"I should like to receive an incentive."

"An incentive?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Yes, sir. It's a concept a certain Frederick Winslow Taylor has just introduced to the academic world. A man who travels around the struggling companies of the American East offering advice on their management—"

"Ah, I take it he's some manner of management consultant?"

"Th-that's exactly right. It's an occupation and a concept utterly unfamiliar here in Europe, and... you know of it already. Remarkable, sir. Remarkable in every way."

"Be that as it may?"

"I too, in exchange for providing you intelligence, wish to receive an incentive. As for the amount — pay me when you feel like it, and only as much as you feel like."

"Heh — and you'd accept that?"

"So long as I merely follow where you lead, Major, money copies itself like a printing press. What reason would I have to demand payment? Do take this as nothing more than a sign that a close bond has now formed between you and me."

Wait. What?

As I listened to Hans, a strange, a ver-r-ry strange feeling began to creep over me. ...Hold on. Hold on. Hold on. Something's wrong here. Something IS wrong, isn't it.

"You mean... you'll buy shares just by following my lead?"

"Yes, sir."

"...Mr. Hans, aren't you an interested party in my dealings? Isn't that insider trading?"

"Pardon? What's that?"

...What?

"I mean — buying or selling shares in advance using information that only interested parties could possibly know."

"...And why would that be a problem?"

As expected.

Magnificent, 1910!

"Whew."

Back in his private office, Hans Berger loosened his tie and slumped into his chair. Exhausted. He felt as though he could fall asleep on the spot.

"...I can't do that."

If he did, he'd remain a salaried drone until the end of his days. To dawdle even when opportunity came knocking made one an imbecile — hardly a proud member of Deutsche Bank, would it not? He brewed a fresh cup of coffee and raised it to his lips.

"Damn it all."

Far too hot. What he needed was a stimulant poured straight into his brain this instant. In the end, Hans fetched cold water and dumped it into the coffee. The result tasted horrific, but that hardly mattered.

"Compile the list of major companies across America, Britain, Germany, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠France... now what was it again? Aviation? Yes — find the aviation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠firms."

Hans pulled out every work file he had and began drawing up the checklist exactly as Theodore Lee had requested.

Once the list was finalized at last, Hans dispatched the documents by the fastest mail available — and only then did he go to sleep.