The assistant director of the United States Internal Revenue Service knew that her office was as snoop-proof as human ingenuity could make it. Nonetheless she got up from her desk and personally made sure her office door was locked. Then she told her AI to cancel all appointments for the day and hold all calls, and opened a "Most Secure" phone circuit to Brussels.
Her global counterpart, the Right Honorable Undersecretary of Revenue for the United Nations, and Assistant Chairman of the Committee on Fiscal Anomalies, answered promptly. "Hello, LaToya. This is early in the day for you to call. What is it, 8 AM in Washington?" He looked closer. "My God—are you ill?"
"I've been up all night, George."
The Undersecretary sighed. "Something serious, then. All right, which hat shall I wear?"
"Both of them, I think. And hold on to both. You may have to invent a third hat: I don't think there's any precedent for this."
A sigh. "Go ahead."
"George, I've run the integrations through again and again. I used three methods, different machines, I even had the software triplechecked."
"And—"
"You'll be receiving more than you're expecting from us this year."
The Undersecretary lifted an eyebrow. "How much more?"
"On the order of ten percent."
The other eyebrow rose to join the first. "You are telling me the gross national product of the United States has taken a ten percent jump. Up."
"That is part of what I'm telling you. I talked with Jacques and Rogelio last night . . . and they report nearly identical bulges. Jacques puts his at nine percent; Rogelio is running behind, but says Mexico will probably run eleven and a half."
The Undersecretary was frowning. "So someone is pumping serious money into North America. Is it real, or just pixels?"
"As far as I can learn, it's genuine money."
"Where is it coming from?"
"It falleth as the gentle rain from heaven. Drop by drop—all over."
A grunt. "Stonewalled, eh? Very well—where is it going? Who's paying taxes on it? What categories?"
"Take a tranquilizer."
The Undersecretary frowned, then did as he was bid. At once the frown smoothed over. "Go ahead."
"One category: self-employed income."
"Self-employed?" That was the last sector in which he would have expected such a surge in earnings. "Any breakdowns as to subcategories yet?"
The assistant director nodded. "Again, one. Self-employed artists."
The Undersecretary stared. After a full ten seconds of silence, he said, "What kind of artists?"
"All kinds of artists. Live theater, dance, film, music, literature, sculpture, painting . . . what it comes down to is, in every genre and subgenre there is, from grand opera to street theater, roughly ten percent of the working professionals have had a very good year."
"And all from the same source?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know. I suspect it, because it all seems to be coming in the same way: anonymous donations, rather than grants or box office. One donation per artist or arts group. Substantial ones."
"But then it's simple!" the Undersecretary said. "Who's declaring the increased donations on their taxes?"
"That's the problem. Nobody. Not in North America anyway. But why the hell would someone overseas want to take such a huge flyer in North American art?"
"Confusing," the Undersecretary agreed.
"Confusing, hell. It worries me, George. Good news on this scale is ominous. I smell a swindle of some kind."
"I don't suppose there's any chance these benefactors are North Americans who elected for some reason not to claim . . ." He trailed off.
She politely pretended she hadn't heard him. "Will you look into it, George? Quietly?"
"I'll get back to you," he said, and broke the connection.
For the rest of the day work devoured her attention, but she fretted most of the night. The next morning at the office she flinched when her AI said, "The Undersecretary of Revenue."
"Accept!" she said at once.
"He is not on the phone, ma'am. He is in your outer office."
"Jesus." She took a deep breath, and rose to her feet. "Admit him."
Two bodyguards entered first, scanned the room carefully, and nodded through the door. The Undersecretary came in, and dismissed them with some unseen signal. She started to come around her desk to greet him, but he waved her off. They sat together; he came to the point without formalities. "This room is secure?"
The assistant director checked a telltale. "Yes."
"It's happening all over the globe. And in space. High Orbit, Luna City, everywhere. Has been for over six months now."
"Everywhere? The same way?"
"Not everywhere. Just the places where people make art for money. But all of those."
She looked surprised. "All? You don't have up-to-date data from all, do you? I thought there were several nations still refusing to switch over to a December 31 tax deadline."
"True; there are nonconforming nations. But almost all nations require self-employed artists to report quarterly. I can't prove there are no exceptions, yet, but I'd bet money. The pattern is clear."
She powered her chair back away from her desk until it hit the wall. "Isn't this the damndest thing?"
"Have you anything new to report?"
It took her a few moments to respond. "Null results, mostly. I tried to do further breakdowns and correlations, to see if I could get a clue regarding motive. Which artists are getting money? Why them? How much? That sort of thing."
"And?"
"Nothing helpful. Some of them are starving-in-a-garret types, but some are major stars or companies, and some are in between. No geographical, financial, political, religious or even aesthetic connections I can find. Competing schools of theory, some of them. The one steady correlation I've identified tells me nothing useful."
"And that is—?"
"The amount. Apparently, each lucky beneficiary—from the poorest poet to the richest director, from barbershop quartet to symphony orchestra—had his or her or its annual budget approximately quadrupled. In a few cases, that comes to megabucks."
The Undersecretary nodded grimly. "That accords with what I've been able to learn."
The assistant director paled. "Good God, George—there are less than a half dozen fiscal entities on or off Terra who are in a position to disburse that kind of money—"
"I know."
She got a grip on herself. "So you went to the Secretary."
"I deemed it necessary, yes. This is too big for a bureaucrat like me; I needed a statesman."
"And he said—?"
"He said that an anonymous donation is an anonymous donation, regardless of size. He said no law requires a philanthropist to take a tax deduction. He said support for the arts is not a crime. He said it is the policy of the United Nations to respect the right of privacy. He said, with emphasis, that anyone who violates privacy with respect to support for the arts will be broken back to a G-7 clerk."
She was staring at him in growing disbelief. "He said to forget it. That's what you're telling me."
"He said nothing of the sort. Forget what?"
She opened her mouth. Thirty seconds later, words came out. In the interval, she examined her life, for the first time in decades. "I forget," she said at last.
He nodded. "Elephants never look happy."
She powered her chair back to her desk, looked at it, drummed her fingers on it. "The story will come out," she said finally. "Artists always talk to cronkites. Sooner or later one will listen, and realize he has actual news on his hands. The data are public information."
"They will be when we release them," the Undersecretary agreed carefully.
She did mental arithmetic, checking a few figures with her desk. "George, this is scary. Whoever is doing this, they're spending themselves broke. At the present rate of outlay, any conceivable candidate donor will be bankrupt in about five years."
George nodded. "That's the figure I arrived at. But there are signs that the rate is increasing."
"My God! George, you know better than I: a fluctuation of this magnitude in the global economy simply has to translate into suffering and misery, sooner or later. Doesn't the Secretary see—?"
"I'll tell you what I wish," he said.
"What?"
His voice was wistful. "I wish I had kept up the guitar."