Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“We’ll announce the strike,” said Silverman quietly, picking at his india rubber as he talked, “in about three weeks’ time, when we’re certain of the full extent and capacity of the hole. We want to make some plans for coping with the publicity and the sudden inflow of money. The shares will go through the roof, of course.”

“The shares have already climbed steadily. Perhaps some people already know?”

“I guess that’s right,” said Silverman. “The trouble with that black stuff is once it comes out of the ground you can’t hide it.” Silverman laughed.

“Is there any harm in getting in on the act?” asked David.

“No, as long as it doesn’t harm the company in any way. Just let me know if anyone wants to invest. We don’t have the problems of inside information in England—none of the restrictive laws we have in America.”

“How high do you think the shares will go?”

Silverman looked him straight in the eye and then said casually, “$20.”

Back in his own office, David carefully read the geologist’s report that Silverman had given him: it certainly looked as if Prospecta Oil had made a successful strike, but the extent of the find was not, as yet, entirely certain. When he had completed the report, he glanced at his watch and cursed. The geologist’s file had totally absorbed him. He threw the report into his briefcase and took a taxi to Paddington Station, only just making the 6:15 train. He was due in Oxford for dinner with an old classmate from Harvard.

On the train down to the university city he thought about Stephen Bradley, who had been a friend in his Harvard days and had generously helped David and other students in mathematics classes that year. Stephen, now a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College, was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant scholars of David’s generation. He had won the Kennedy Memorial Scholarship to Harvard and later in 1970 the Wister Prize for Mathematics, the most sought-after award in the mathematical faculty. Although in monetary terms this award was a derisory $80 and a medal, it was the reputation and job offers it brought with it that made the competition so keen. Stephen had won it with consummate ease and nobody was surprised when he was successful in his application for a Fellowship at Oxford. He was now in his third year of research at Magdalen. His papers on Boolean algebra appeared at short intervals in the Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society, and it had just been announced that he had been elected to a Chair in Mathematics back at his alma mater, Harvard, to commence in the fall.

The 6:15 train from Paddington arrived in Oxford an hour later and the short taxi ride from the station down New College Lane brought him to Magdalen at 7:30. One of the College porters escorted David to Stephen’s rooms, which were spacious, ancient, and comfortably cluttered with books, cushions and prints. How unlike the antiseptic walls of Harvard, thought David. Stephen was there to greet him. He didn’t seem to have changed one iota. His suit seemed to hang off his tall, thin, ungainly body; no tailor would ever have employed him as a dummy. His heavy eyebrows protruded over his out-of-date round-rimmed spectacles, which he almost seemed to hide behind in his shyness. He ambled over to David and welcomed him, one minute an old man, the next younger than his thirty years. Stephen poured David a Jack Daniels and they settled down to chat. Although Stephen never looked upon David as a close friend at Harvard, he had enjoyed coaching him and always found him eager to learn; besides, he always welcomed an excuse to entertain Americans at Oxford.

“It’s been a memorable three years, David,” said Stephen, pouring him a second drink. “The only sad event was the death of my father last winter. He took such an interest in my life at Oxford and gave my academic work so much support. He’s left me rather well off, actually…Bath plugs were obviously more in demand than I realized. You might be kind enough to advise me on how to invest some of the money, because at the moment it’s just sitting on deposit in the bank. I never seem to have the time to do anything about it, and when it comes to investments I haven’t a clue.”

That started David off about his demanding new job with Prospecta Oil.

“Why don’t you invest your money in my company, Stephen. We’ve had a fantastic strike in the North Sea, and when they announce it the shares are going to go through the roof. The whole operation would only take a month or so and you could make the killing of a lifetime. I only wish I had some of my own money to put into it.”

“Have you had the full details of the strike?”

“No, but I’ve seen the geologist’s report, and that makes pretty good reading. The shares are already going up fast and I’m convinced they’ll reach $20. The problem is that time is already running out.”

Stephen glanced at the geologist’s report, thinking he would study it carefully later.

“How does one go about an investment of this sort?” he asked.

“Well, you find a respectable stockbroker, buy as many shares as you can afford and then wait for the strike to be announced. I’ll keep you informed on how things are going and advise you when I feel is the best time to sell.”

“That would be extremely thoughtful of you, David.”

“It’s the least I can do after all the help you gave me with math at Harvard.”

“Oh, that was nothing. Let’s go and have some dinner.”

Stephen led David to the college dining hall, an oblong, oak-paneled room covered in pictures of past Presidents of Magdalen, bishops and academics. The long wooden tables at which the undergraduates were eating filled the body of the hall, but Stephen shuffled up to the High Table and offered David a more comfortable seat. The students were a noisy, enthusiastic bunch—Stephen didn’t notice them, but David was enjoying the whole experience.

The seven-course meal was formidable and David wondered how Stephen kept so thin with such daily temptations. When they reached the port, Stephen suggested they return to his rooms rather than join the crusty old dons in the Senior Common Room.

Late into the night, over the rubicund Magdalen port, they talked about North Sea oil and Boolean algebra, each admiring the other for his mastery of his subject. Stephen, like most academics, was fairly credulous outside the bounds of his own discipline. He began to think that an investment in Prospecta Oil would be a very astute move on his part.

In the morning, they strolled down Addison’s Walk near Magdalen Bridge, where the grass grows green and lush by the Cherwell. Reluctantly, David caught a taxi at 9:45 leaving Magdalen behind him and passing New College, Trinity, Balliol and finally Worcester, where he saw scrawled across the college wall, “c’est magnifique mais ce n’est pas la gare.” He caught the 10:00 A.M. train back to London. He had enjoyed his stay at Oxford and hoped he had been able to help his old Harvard friend, who had done so much for him in the past.

“Good morning, David.”

“Good morning, Bernie. I thought I ought to let you know I spent the evening with a friend at Oxford, and he may invest some money in the company. It might be as much as $250,000.”

“That’s fine, David, keep up the good work. You’re doing a great job.”

Silverman showed no surprise at D

avid’s news, but once back in his own office he picked up the red telephone.