The officer looked at it. He held it to the light. He compared pictures. He gave another signal. A soldier grabbed my hand. He produced a pad and inked it. He got my fingerprints. He gave them snappily to the officer.
The officer compared them to a card he had.
In a cavalry voice, he shouted, “FOHwud, HO-o!”
There was a roar and rattle.
A cart of equipment was rushed in, the cannon wheels rumbling on the carpet and tearing it to bits. Three men were pushing it. They stopped it in the center of the room. One of them rushed out on the terrace and held up a chromium-plated pole.
Another officer came in. He knelt by the cart. He picked up an instrument. He barked into it and waited tensely.
The pause gave me an instant to read their uniform badges:
US ARMY SIGNAL CORPS
The officer at the cart said to me, “This is ultra-secret. You could be shot for disclosing that you have seen a satellite-enscrambled decode-recode. Not even the Russians know we have it. Do you swear you have not seen it?”
I raised my inked-up hand and swore.
“Good,” he said, “here is your party.” He handed me the instrument.
A voice said, “Alo. Kto eta gavarit?”
I handed the instrument back to the Signal Corps officer. “Don’t you have the wrong number? I think he just asked me who was speaking in Russian.”
“(Bleep)!” said the officer. He got on the line again. He talked very fast and hard. Once more he handed me the phone.
A voice said, “¡Diga! ¿Con quien hablo?”
I tried to hand the instrument back to the officer. “Somebody just answered me in Spanish. I think he wanted to know who he was speaking to.”
“No, no,” said the officer. “You’ve got the right party.”
I put the instrument back to my ear. The voice repeated, “¿Con quien hablo?”
“Inkswitch,” I said.
“Ah. Espera un momento, por favor.” So I waited a moment. It was more than a moment, but that’s how the Spanish are. Funny, though. I didn’t know enough Spanish to spot accents but it sure wasn’t Spain Spanish. A lilting sort of speech like he was singing. Cuban?
“Well, that sure took them long enough!” Voice on the phone. New England twang. Bury!
“Where are you?” I gasped.
“Central America,” said Bury. “Somebody killed the director of the CIA and there was an outbreak of peace down here. I had to fly in to review treaties to see which ones could be broken. It’s not too bad, though. They really have some great snakes down here. You ought to see them! But that isn’t what I called you about. The matter is pretty high security so I had to bypass the National Security Agency. Besides, there aren’t any phones in the jungle here. Is the US Army Signal Corps still in the room, there?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, tell them to move out of earshot. This is highly classified stuff.”
I told them and they went out onto the terrace and into the hall, guns drawn and ready to defend their equipment in case of attack.
“The area is clear,” I said.
“All right,” said Bury. “I got a call about an hour ago on the facsimile satellite hookup. He was on personally. You know who I’m talking about.”
Yes, I certainly did. I realized with alarm that Delbert John Rockecenter himself had been through to Bury.
“Inkswitch,” said Bury, “you’ve let Madison get out of hand! You-know-who is hopping mad!” I could hear him shaking newspapers at the phone. “Raving, Inkswitch, raving!”
I chilled. When Rockecenter raves, governments fall.
“He kind of got it wrong,” said Bury. “He thought the news said the kid was setting up a rival oil company and was violating family policy by introducing competition. It’s that Miss Peace: she reads him the papers and she can’t spell. So Madison has got it all screwed up. That kid is his client, not Octopus. Madison is out of his field, getting into legal. Justice mustn’t be allowed to get out of hand. I know, I’m a lawyer. And that’s the real catastrophe in this. We can live with most of this but one item in it really needs to be objected to and no overrule! And this is the real reason you’ve got to get Madison under control, Inkswitch. Have I got your full attention?”
I told him he surely had.
“Inkswitch, right there in the same news story, he committed a felony. He mentioned Swindle and Crouch along with Boggle, Gouge & Hound. Listen, Inkswitch: Boggle, Gouge & Hound are a bunch of cheap ambulance-chasers, and even whispering Swindle and Crouch in the same news story could ruin our reputation. It’s a clear-cut case of attempted manslaughter. Madison has gone too far! It’s pretty serious, Inkswitch. That’s the real reason this call has got to be so secret. Do you grasp the need for a tight, unviolated lawyer-client relationship here?”
I said that I did.
Bury said, “Now, I can’t call Madison. He’d just plead the Fifth. So you have to handle Madison. If you don’t, we’re liable to get a summary judgment with no reprieve. Got it?”
I said I certainly did.
Bury said, “Good. Is there anything else on the docket?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “They changed cashiers and I can’t get paid.”
“Details,” said Bury. “Don’t bother me with details. Tell the Chief Security Officer. Say, you wouldn’t like me to send you a couple of these nice snakes, would you?”
Hastily, I said, “I’ll get on Madison right away!”
“All right,” said Bury. “You make sure you do. I’ve got to go deeper into the mountains now to find General Hatchetheimer and get some of these peace treaties violated to get things going again. I won’t be available for a while: I also want more time with these great snakes. You sure you don’t want some?”
“I’ll be too busy on Madison!” I said quickly.
“Well, give my best to Miss Agnes, (bleep) her.”
He rang off.
I signaled the Signal Corps people on the terrace.
They blew shrill whistles. The MPs went into Red Alert.
They rushed the closely guarded equipment away.
Sirens began to scream in the streets.
With very precisely executed maneuvers, they were gone.
Utanc crawled out from under her bed, white-faced and shaking. She slammed and locked her door with extraordinary force in my face.
The hotel resident doctor was giving the first bellhop an emergency transfusion in the hall.
A hotel repair crew timidly came in and began to put the breakage together as best they could.
The manager appeared. He said, “There are two questions, if you please. A: Are you a Russian defector? Or B: Are you a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in disguise?”
I was kind of upset. I gave him the wrong answers. “It’s no to both,” I said, irritated.
“Good,” he said. “Then here’s the bill for the damages.”
It was for $18,932.27 plus one expended bellhop, value to be determined later.
That decided me right then and there!
PART THIRTY-TWO
Chapter 2
First things first.
MONEY!
I would go see the Chief of Security at once. The problem was how to get there. It is sort of suicidal to get into a New York cab with only thirty-five cents in your pocket. I knew better than to approach Utanc, the way that door had slammed in my face. I would jog.
Wrapped warmly against the cold day, I was shortly sweating and puffing my way southward toward Rockecenter Plaza. It was only a few blocks.
I turned at Saks and wheezed my way through the Channel Gardens, shivering at the sight of all the unovercoated statuary sporting in the iced pools, and finally got to the Octopus Oil Building.
The Chief of Security had his feet on the desk, easing his several stomachs after lunch.
I flashed my Federal ID at him. “Inkswitch,” I said. “I have a problem of the greatest importance to the company.”
/> He punched the computer and it came up blank. “What’s the problem?” he said, taking his feet off the desk.
“Your Miss Pinch on Petty Cash Window Thirteen has not been trained on her job. Miss Grabball did not tell her the procedure in handling a family ‘spi’!”
“Ho, ho!” he said. He checked his revolver, picked up a thick billy club and we were on our way.
I hung back. He went right into the cages like a lion trainer. He seized Miss Pinch by the shoulder and with a yank, hauled her into a back closet.
There were some sharp sounds coming out. Blows.
Very shortly the Chief of Security emerged. He said to me as he passed me, “That’s the way.”
I went promptly to Window Thirteen. Miss Pinch was sitting there in her mannish clothes and thin lips. She had the beginnings of a black eye.
“Inkswitch,” I said, “I want $20,000.”
She punched the computer keyboard. It came up blank. She made out a voucher and handed it to me to sign. I wrote Thomas Jefferson. She took it and carefully counted $20,000 from her cash drawer.
She put the whole $20,000 in her purse!
She didn’t have it right.
I said, “Are you sure that is correct?”
“That’s the way,” she said with hostility.
I went out. Maybe she was just a bit rattled. I should give her a chance to get settled in on her job.
I came back in.
“Inkswitch,” I said. “I want $20,000.”
She punched the computer keyboard. It came up blank. She made out a voucher and handed it to me to sign. I wrote George Washington. She took it and carefully counted $20,000 from her cash drawer.
She again put the whole $20,000 in her purse!
I said, “Wait a minute, Miss Pinch. I don’t think you have this right!”
Her eyes were very, very hostile. “That’s the way,” she said.
I went out. Maybe I was giving her the wrong figure!
I went back in.
“Inkswitch,” I said. “I want $40,000.”
She went through all the motions. Only this time, I signed it Benedict Arnold as a kind of threat.
She took the money out of her cash drawer.
Yes, she put the whole $40,000 in her purse!
“AND THAT’S THE GOD (BLEEPED) WAY!” she shouted.
I gave it up. I made my way outside and thought about it. I really didn’t have any time to waste. If I delayed too long, Bury might phone again and I’d get another hotel bill for $18,932.27 for damages. I couldn’t risk it.
I walked around a while. And then inspiration came to me. I’d go back and see the Chief of Security.
I walked straight in.
He had a pile of money on his desk.
He covered it up with his cap.
“So that’s the way,” I said.
I left. I rapidly walked across courts and down hallways I had memorized before. As a family “spi,” I really had something to report. Crooked employees! I found the private door to the office of Miss Peace.
I knocked.
She opened it a crack.
I said, “As a family ‘spi,’ I have something about employees to report to Mr. Rockecenter.”
I have seen a few faces twist in rage in my time. Hers went more so.
“You think I’d let you in here to spill the beans about me? Get out of here, you (bleepard)!”
I left.
None of this had gone well at all!
As I could think of no way to handle any of this on the spur of the moment, I left.
PART THIRTY-TWO
Chapter 3
How in the Hells was I going to get down to 42 Mess Street? It was far too far to jog.
I walked along a street. Suddenly, inspiration! I saw a cop car. I went up to it. I flashed my credentials. “I have to make an urgent raid on Mess Street. Take me there.”
“We ain’t no errand boys for no god (bleeped) Feds,” said one of them with a hostile glare.
That didn’t work.
I went up a side street. There were some cars parked. I relaxed. Crime was the best way after all. I realized I had become slack on this planet, even to the point of relaxing my Apparatus reflexes. I walked along beside the cars, looking to see if anyone had left his keys in the ignition.
No luck. I had heard cars could be jump-started but I did not know how to do it.
A few doors along, a moving van, huge, was standing. They were just taking out a sofa and carting it into a house.
Aha!
With stealthy speed I crept to its cab. When the driver and helper went inside, I leaped into the van. There were the keys! I started it up, engaged the gears with a clash and roared away!
Behind me I could hear some sliding. In the rearview side mirror, I saw that I was depositing furniture at intervals on the street.
Then there was a big crash as a grand piano went out!
After that there was a sort of banging behind me on the pavement as I roared along. I didn’t know what it was. But nothing must deter me from stopping Madison. I might get another phone call or even a couple of snakes!
The truck was pretty hard to drive, being fifty feet or more long and being pretty high. But after many a narrow escape I made it within a block of 42 Mess Street. The street was too narrow to admit the moving van so I parked it. I found what had been banging behind me was the tailgate hitting the pavement. The grand piano must have busted its hinges. I got it closed. I walked the rest of the way.
The old loft was a beehive. Reporters were rushing about. Typewriters and telex machines were roaring. Outgoing mailbags full of releases to every paper in the world were being passed like fire-bucket lines through the window to sail down into waiting trucks.
A huge new banner stretched across the room:
THINK COVERAGE
AT ANY COST!
Another said:
Front Page or You’re Out!
Madison was in the end office, so surrounded with reporters taking dictation I couldn’t get near him.
Close to hand a reporter was bellowing into a telephone, “I don’t want page two. I want page one! Look, Mr. Vitriahl, you may be managing editor of the St. Petersburg Grimes today, but you won’t even be a copy boy on the Smearwater Shun, the dinkiest paper in Florida, tomorrow! You cooperate, you (bleepard), or you-know-who will be onto your board of directors to find a new god (bleeped) managing editor before dawn. . . . That’s better. Headlines it is.” He hung up.
The reporter was muttering over a dog-eared notebook. He put in another call. “Los Angeles Grimes? Give me J. Blithering Bonkers, please. . . . Hello, Bonkers. This is Ted Tramp of the you-know-who organization. You didn’t give us front page yesterday. . . . All right, all right. So your god (bleeped) managing editor’s wife is head of the National Association of Mental Stealth. Don’t cry on . . . All right. I agree that her embezzling the NAMS funds and running off with the head psychiatrist was news. But god (bleep) it, Bonkers, you got to assert your control over that board! Why the hell do you suppose you-know-who got you on as chairman of the Grimes-Smearer Corporation, anyway? . . . Ah, that’s better. . . . That’s better, Bonkers. . . . Well, (bleep), you don’t have to shoot the (bleepard). Just make him put the Whiz Kid on the front page!”
The reporter hung up and got out some dirty tissue and scrubbed vigorously at his ear. “I can’t stand slobbering!” He saw me. “Who the hell are you? You don’t look dirty enough to be a reporter. You some kind of a spy?”
“Precisely,” I said. “Tell Madison, Smith has got to see him.”
“I dunno,” he said, glancing at the mob around Madison in his office.
“Smith from you-know-who,” I said.
“Jesus,” said the reporter. He grabbed the handle of a fire-engine siren close to hand and began to turn it briskly. The reporters all rushed out looking for the fire.
I walked in.
Madison looked at me with aplomb. “Oh, hello, Mr. Smith. Fifteen p
oint quote Madison Triumphs unquote! We’ve seized the initiative! And I’ll bet you’re here bearing rave notices from Bury!”
“I’m here bearing an axe, Madison,” I said sternly. “You have trod upon sacred toes. You forgot that Octopus isn’t your client so save your ruin for the Whiz Kid!”
“Ruin? Madison can’t get it on the pica stick! What are you talking about, Smith? Mr. Bury gave me specific and direct orders to make the Whiz Kid’s name a household word and to make him immortal!”
“He didn’t give you any orders to PR Swindle and Crouch!” I said. “You link them up in the news with Boggle, Gouge & Hound and Bury will have your telephone disconnected!”
That got to him. “Oh,” he said, slumping. “It is so difficult to work with nonprofessionals. You don’t really understand PR.”
“I understand it very well,” I said. “It’s Confidence, Coverage and Controversy. And the Coverage in my penthouse today cost $18,932.27. And you and I are going to have an awful lot of Controversy if you don’t get Swindle and Crouch out of it and if you think Octopus needs your PR. You mend your ways or you’ll shatter my Confidence!”
“It was front page!” he wailed. “I have had the front page day after day! PR is like marksmanship! It’s the number of times you can hit the front page! And Madison has been riddling it!”
“It and everything else!” I said. “Now settle down. Get on course and do what you’re supposed to do! You repair this damage to Swindle and Crouch and Octopus! No more wild bullets slaughtering innocent bystanders! Get rid of these suits! They’re too close to home.”
“But PR should have a little bit of truth in it,” said Madison. “It sort of spices it up!”
“I’m adamant,” I said.
Suddenly he smiled. “Great! Absolutely great! I got it. I can see it now! Suits are only good for one day of front page. They usually sag to page two and right on down the drain. It doesn’t change my general program.”
He walked up and down his office, sort of dancing. I watched him suspiciously. He was far too happy for a man who has just been chewed up Apparatus style!
He stopped. His honest, earnest face grew sincere. He took my hand. He shook it. “Thank you for a great idea, Mr. Smith. You may not be a professional, but I can assure you that a fresh viewpoint is like warm air to the overworked wits.”