It was not that he disliked these evidences of a crude but vital civilization. He simply was not interested in them. They had, in his scheme of things, little actual value, as property, just as, to him, the Alaska Indians and the Eskimos had little value as human beings.

He rarely openly expressed his indifference to these objects and the people who had created them. Sometimes, when a friend or a visiting V.I.P. expressed an interest in a piece of ivory or stone or intricately patterned fur, he would stare at it impassively.

“It’s real interesting,” he said. “All that stuff. But not around the house. That junk’s for museums.”

Carefully planned, as was every move he made, Czar had married the plain daughter of Einar Wendt, the Tacoma lumberman. She was older than Czar; gaunt and prim. Even her father’s substantial wealth had not tempted the high-spirited lusty lads of Tacoma, Seattle, San Francisco. She was an easy conquest for the romantic-looking, soft-talking, ambitious Kennedy. Einar Wendt himself had been early impressed with this up-and-coming young Alaskan who seemed to have a guiding hand on every promising business venture in the Territory.

“You two young people won’t be living in Alaska for long,” Einar Wendt had said, smiling tolerantly and regarding with prideful interest the amazingly long gray cylindrical ash that protruded from the end of his very good cigar. “Baranof’s pioneer stuff, it’s for young kids like you, but you’re too smart to waste your time there, Zeb.” He never called his son-in-law Czar, as did everyone else, even the bride. “You really belong in a city like Tacoma here, I’d like to work you into the business. Alaska’s pretty rough for a girl raised the way Myrt was, and her friends are all here, all the kids she was brought up with.”

Czar Kennedy raised no objection, presented no argument to the older man. He merely said, “She’ll learn to like it there. There are plenty of fine people in Alaska.”

“Oh, sure, sure. But twenty years from now I may want to start to kind of take it easy. If you and Myrt have been living here for, say, ten years before that, why, that’s where you step in.”

Czar Kennedy appeared to be considering this, modestly, amiably. The fine eyes were glowing, he ran his hand through his wavy shock of hair as was his way when under emotion. It was not the emotion of gratitude. He was thinking, “Why, you old fool, twenty years from now, if you’re alive, you’ll be working for me, I’ll own your business and you, too, and I’ll still be living in Alaska. And I’ll maybe own that, too.”

Czar Kennedy left the log cabin that had been his home through the years since his coming to Baranof. He and his dowered bride set up housekeeping on a grand scale for the Alaska of that day. A four-room frame house, one of the few carpenter-built houses in the town. Czar had told no one of his plans. He had said that the fine four-room house was built for the occupancy of a wealthy Seattle investor who was planning to spend a year or two between Alaska and Seattle and wanted to feel sure of his accustomed comforts. Always secretive, he had had the furniture shipped in from Seattle, very solid. There even were sets of books, bought for prestige rather than for reading: a set of Shakespeare, red and gold; a set of Walter Scott, green and gold; Washington Irving, brown and gold, all preserved behind the glass front of the bookcase. Other volumes were on much cosier terms with the bride: The First Violin and Thelma and Jane Eyre and all the daring yellow-backed novels by the author known as The Duchess.