Rags said, "I bet there's one thing you don't know about me, Mr. Hada. I make up a lot of my own ballads."
"Creative," Kaminsky said to Hada straight-faced. "That's good."
"For instance," Rags continued, "I once made up a ballad about a man named Tom McPhail who ran ten miles with a bucket of water to put out the fire in his little daughter's crib."
"Did he make it?" Hada asked.
"Sure did. Just in time. Tom McPhail ran faster and faster with that bucket of water." Chanting, Rags twanged in accompaniment.
"Here comes Tom McPhail
Holdin' on tight to that great little pail.
Holdin' on tight, boys, here he come.
Heart full of fear, faculties numb."
Twang, twang, sounded the banjo, mournfully and urgently.
Kaminsky said acutely, "I've been following your shows and I've never heard you sing that number."
"Aw," Rags said, "I had bad luck with that, Mr. Kaminsky. Turned out there really is a Tom McPhail. Lives in Pocatello, Idaho. I sang about ol' Tom McPhail on my January fourteenth TV show and right away he got sore--he was listenin'--and got a lawyer to write me."
"Wasn't it just a coincidence in names?" Hada said.
"Well," Rags said, twisting about self-consciously, "it seems there really had been a fire in his home there in Pocatello, and McPhail, he got panicky and ran with a bucket to the creek, and it was ten miles off, like I said in the song."
"Did he get back with the water in time?"
"Amazingly, he did," Rags said.
Kaminsky said to Hada, "It would be better, on CULTURE, if this man stuck to authentic Old English ballads such as 'Greensleeves.' That would seem more what we want."
Thoughtfully, Hada said to Rags, "Bad luck to pick a name for a ballad and have it turn out that such a man really exists... Have you had that sort of bad luck since?"
"Yes, I have," Rags admitted. "I made up a ballad last week... it was about a lady, Miss Marsha Dobbs. Listen.
"All day, all night, Marsha Dobbs.
Loves a married man whose wife she robs.
Robs that wife and hearth of Jack Cooks's heart.
Steals the husband, makes that marriage fall apart.
"That's the first verse," Rags explained. "It goes on for seventeen verses; tells how Marsha comes to work at Jack Cooks's office as a secretary, goes to lunch with him, then later they meet late at--"
"Is there a moral at the end?" Kaminsky inquired.
"Oh sure," Rags said. "Don't take no one else's man because if you do, heaven avenges the dishonored wife. In this case:
"Virus flu lay 'round the corner just for Jack.
For Marsha Dobbs 'twas to be worse, a heart attack.
Miz Cooks, the hand of heaven sought to spare.
Surrounded her, became a garment strong to wear.
Miz Cooks--"
Hada broke in over the twanging and singing. "That's fine, Rags. That's enough." He glanced at Kaminsky and winced.
"And I bet it turned out," Kaminsky said, "that there's a real Marsha Dobbs who had an affair with her boss, Jack Cooks."
"Right," Rags said, nodding "No lawyer called me, but I read it in the homeopape, the New York Times. Marsha, she died of a heart attack, and it was actually during--" He hesitated modestly. "You know. While she and Jack Cooks were at a motel satellite, lovemaking."
"Have you deleted that number from your repertoire?" Kaminsky asked.
"Well," Rags said, "I can't make up my mind. Nobody's suing me... and I like the ballad. I think I'll leave it in."
To himself, Hada thought, What was it Dr. Yasumi said? That he scented psi powers of some unusual kind in Ragland Park... perhaps it's the parapsychological power of having the bad luck to make up ballads about people who really exist. Not much of a talent, that.
On the other hand, he realized, it could be a variant on the telepathic talent... and with a little tinkering it might be quite valuable.
"How long does it take you to make up a ballad?" he asked Rags.
"I can do it on the spot," Rags Park answered. "I could do it now; give me a theme and I'll compose right here in this office of yours."
Hada pondered and then said, "My wife Thelma has been feeding a gray fox that I know--or I believe--killed and ate our best Rouen duck."
After a moment of considering, Rags Park twanged:
"Miz Thelma Hada talked to the fox.
Built it a home from an old pine box.
Sebastian Hada heard a sad cluck:
Wicked gray fox had eaten his duck"
"But ducks don't cluck, they quack," Nat Kaminsky said critically.
"That's a fact," Rags admitted. He pondered and then sang:
"Hada's production chief changed my luck.
I got no job, and ducks don't cluck."
Grinning, Kaminsky said, "Okay, Rags; you win." To Hada he said, "I advise you to hire him."
"Let me ask you this," Hada said to Rags. "Do you think the fox got my Rouen?"
"Gosh," Rags said, "I don't know anything about that."
"But in your ballad you said so," Hada pointed out.
"Let me think," Rags said. Presently he twanged once more and said:
"Interesting problem Hada's stated.
Perhaps my ability's underrated.
Perhaps I'm not no ordinary guy.
Do I get my ballads through the use of psi?"
"How did you know I meant psi?" Hada asked. "You can read interior thoughts, can't you? Yasumi was right."
Rags said, "Mister, I'm just singing and twanging; I'm just an entertainer, same as Jim-Jam Briskin, that news clown President Fischer clapped in jail."
"Are you afraid of jail?" Hada asked him bluntly.
"President Fischer doesn't have nothing against me," Rags said. "I don't do political ballads."
"If you work for me," Hada said, "maybe you will. I'm trying to get Jim-Jam out of jail; today all my outlets began their campaign."
"Yes, he ought to be out," Rags agreed, nodding. "That was a bad thing, President Fischer using the FBI for that... those aliens aren't that much of a menace."
Kaminsky, rubbing his chin meditatively, said, "Do one on Jim-Jam Briskin, Max Fischer, the aliens--on the whole political situation. Sum it up."
"That's asking a lot," Rags said, with a wry smile.
"Try," Kaminsky said. "See how well you can epitomize."
"Whooee," Rags said. " 'Epitomize.' Now I know I'm talking to CULTURE. Okay, Mr. Kaminsky. How's this?" He said:
"Fat little President by name of Max.
Used his power, gave Jim the ax.
Sebastian Hada's got eyes like a vulture.
Sees his opening, steps in with CULTURE."
"You're hired," Hada said to the folksinger, and reached into his pocket for a contract form.
Kaminsky said, "Will we be successful, Mr. Park? Tell us about the outcome."
"I'd, uh, rather not," Rags said. "At least not this minute. You think I can also read the future, too? That I'm a precog as well as a telepath?" He laughed gently. "I've got plenty of talent, according to you; I'm flattered." He bowed mockingly.
"I'll assume that you're coming to work for us," Hada said. "And your willingness to be an employee of CULTURE--is it a sign that you feel President Fischer is not going to be able to get us?"
"Oh, we could be in jail, too, along with Jim-Jam," Rags murmured. "That wouldn't surprise me." Seating himself, his banjo in hand, he prepared to sign the contract.
In his bedroom at the White House, President Max Fischer had listened for almost an hour now to the TV set, to CULTURE hammering away on the same topic, again and again. Jim Briskin must be released, the voice said; it was a smooth, professional announcer's voice, but behind it, unheard, Max knew, was Sebastian Hada.
"Attorney General," Max said to his cousin Leon Lait, "get me dossiers on all of Hada's wives, all seven or eight, whatever it is. I guess I got to take a drastic course."
W
hen, later in the day, the eight dossiers had been put before him, he began to read carefully, chewing on his El Producto alta cigar and frowning, his lips moving with the effort of comprehending the intricate, detailed material.
Jeez, what a mess some of these dames must be, he realized. Ought to be getting chemical psychotherapy, have their brain metabolisms straightened out. But he was not displeased; it had been his hunch that a man like Sebastian Hada would attract an unstable sort of woman.
One in particular, Hada's fourth wife, interested him. Zoe Martin Hada, thirty-one years old, now living on Io with her ten-year-old son.
Zoe Hada had definite psychotic traits.
"Attorney General," he said to his cousin, "this dame is living on a pension supplied by the U.S. Department of Mental Health. Hada isn't contributing a dime to her support. You get her here to the White House, you understand? I got a job for her."
The following morning Zoe Martin Hada was brought to his office.
He saw, between the two FBI men, a scrawny woman, attractive, but with wild, animosity-filled eyes. "Hello, Mrs. Zoe Hada," Max said. "Listen, I know sumpthin' about you; you're the only genuine Mrs. Hada--the others are imposters, right? And Sebastian's done you dirt." He waited, and saw the expression on her face change.
"Yes," Zoe said. "I've been in courts for six years trying to prove what you just said. I can hardly believe it; are you really going to help me?"
"Sure," Max said. "But you got to do it my way; I mean, if you're waiting for that skunk Hada to change, you're wasting your time. About all you can do"--he paused--"is even up the score."
The violence which had left her face crept back as she understood, gradually, what he meant.
Frowning, Dr. Ito Yasumi said, "I have now made my examination, Hada." He began putting away his battery of cards. "This Rags Park is neither telepath or precog; he neither reads my mind nor cognates what is to be and, frankly, Hada, although I still sense psi power about him, I have no idea what it might be."
Hada listened in silence. Now Rags Park, this time with a guitar over his shoulder, wandered in from the other room. It seemed to amuse him that Dr. Yasumi could make nothing of him; he grinned at both of them and then seated himself. "I'm a puzzle," he said to Hada. "Either you got too much when you hired me or not enough... but you don't know which and neither does Dr. Yasumi or me."
"I want you to start at once over CULTURE," Hada told him impatiently. "Make up and sing folk ballads that depict the unfair imprisonment and harassment of Jim-Jam Briskin by Leon Lait and his FBI. Make Lait appear a monster; make Fischer appear a scheming, greedy boob. Understand?"
"Sure," Rags Park said, nodding. "We got to get public opinion aroused. I knew that when I signed; I ain't just entertaining no more."
Dr. Yasumi said to Rags, "Listen, I have favor to ask. Make up folk-style ballad telling how Jim-Jam Briskin get out of jail."
Both Hada and Rags Park glanced at him.
"Not about what is," Yasumi explained, "but about that which we want to be."
Shrugging, Park said, "Okay."
The door to Hada's office burst open and the chief of his bodyguards, Dieter Saxton, put his head excitedly in. "Mr. Hada, we just gunned down a woman who was trying to get through to you with a homemade bomb. Do you have a moment to identify her? We think maybe it's--I mean it was--one of your wives."
"God in heaven," Hada said, and hurried along with Saxton from the office and down the corridor.
There on the floor, near the front entrance of the demesne, lay a woman he knew. Zoe, he thought. He knelt down, touched her.
"Sorry," Saxton mumbled. "We had to, Mr. Hada."
"All right," he said. "I believe you if you say so." He greatly trusted Saxton; after all, he had to.
Saxton said, "I think from now on you better have one of us close by you at all times. I don't mean outside your office; I mean within physical touch."
"I wonder if Max Fischer sent her here," Hada said.
"The chances are good," Saxton said. "I'd make book on it."
"Just because I'm trying to get Jim-Jam Briskin released." Hada was thoroughly shaken. "It really amazes me." He rose to his feet unsteadily.
"Let me go after Fischer," Saxton urged in a low voice. "For your protection. He has no right to be President; Unicephalon 40-D is our only legal President and we all know Fischer put it out of commission."
"No," Hada murmured. "I don't like murder."
"It's not murder," Saxton said. "It's protection for you and your wives and children."
"Maybe so," Hada said, "but I still can't do it. At least not yet." He left Saxton and made his way with difficulty back to his office, where Rags Park and Dr. Yasumi waited.
"We heard," Yasumi said to him. "Bear up, Hada. The woman was a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of persecution; without psychotherapy it was inevitable that she would meet a violent death. Do not blame yourself or Mr. Saxton."
Hada said, "And at one time I loved that woman."
Dolefully strumming on his guitar, Rags Park sang to himself; the words were not audible. Perhaps he was practicing on his ballad of Jim Briskin's escape from jail.
"Take Mr. Saxton's advice," Dr. Yasumi said. "Protect yourself at all times." He patted Hada on the shoulder.
Rags spoke up, "Mr. Hada, I think I've got my ballad now. About--"
"I don't want to hear it," Hada said harshly. "Not now." He wished the two of them would leave; he wanted to be by himself.
Maybe I should fight back, he thought. Dr. Yasumi recommends it; now Dieter Saxton recommends it. What would Jim-Jam recommend? He has a sound mind... he would say, Don't employ murder. I know that would be his answer; I know him.
And if he says not to, I won't.
Dr. Yasumi was instructing Rags Park, "A ballad, please, about that vase of gladioli over there on the bookcase. Tell how it rise up straight in the air and hover; all right?"
"What kind of ballad is that?" Rags said. "Anyhow, I got my work cut out for me; you heard what Mr. Hada said."
"But I'm still testing you," Dr. Yasumi grumbled.
To his cousin the Attorney General, Max Fischer said disgustedly, "Well, we didn't get him."
"No, Max," Leon Lait agreed. "He's got good men in his employ; he's not an individual like Briskin, he's a whole corporation."
Moodily, Max said, "I read a book once that said if three people are competing, eventually two of them will join together and gang up on the third one. It's inevitable. That's exactly what's happened; Hada and Briskin are buddies, and I'm alone. We have to split them apart, Leon, and get one of them on our side against the other. Once Briskin liked me. Only he disapproved of my methods."
Leon said, "Wait'll he hears about Zoe Hada trying to kill her ex-husband; then Briskin'll really disapprove of you."
"You think it's impossible to win him over now?"
"I sure do, Max. You're in a worse position than ever, regarding him. Forget about winning him over."
"There's some idea in my mind, though," Max said. "I can't quite make out what it is yet, but it has to do with freeing Jim-Jam in the hopes that he'll feel gratitude."
"You're out of your mind," Leon said. "How come you ever thought of an idea like that? It isn't like you."
"I don't know," Max groaned. "But there it is."
To Sebastian Hada, Rags Park said, "Uh, I think maybe I got me a ballad now, Mr. Hada. Like Dr. Yasumi suggested. It has to do with telling how Jim-Jam Briskin gets out of jail. You want to hear it?"
Dully, Hada nodded. "Go ahead." After all, he was paying the folksinger; he might as well get something for his money.
Twanging away, Rags sang:
"Jim-Jam Briskin languished in jail,
Couldn't find no one to put up his bail.
Blame Max Fischer! Blame Max Fischer!"
Rags explained, "That's the chorus, 'Blame Max Fischer!' Okay?"
"All right," Hada said, nodding.
"The Lord came along, said, M
ax, I'm mad.
Casting that man in jail, that was bad.
Blame Max Fischer! the good Lord cried.
Poor Jim Briskin, his rights denied.
Blame Max Fischer! I'm here to tell;
Good Lord say, Him go straight to hell.
Repent, Max Fischer! There's only one route:
Get on my good side; let Jim-Jam out."
Rags explained to Hada, "Now here's what's going to happen." He cleared his throat:
"Bad Max Fischer, he saw the light,
Told Leon Lait, We got to do right.
Sent a message down to turn that key,
Open that door and let Jim-Jam free.
Old Jim Briskin saw an end to his plight;
Jail door open now, lets in the light.
"That's all," Rags informed Hada. "It's a sort of holler type of folk song, a spiritual where you tap your foot. Do you like it?"
Hada managed to nod. "Oh sure. Anything's fine."
"Shall I tell Mr. Kaminsky you want me to air it over CULTURE?"
"Air away," Hada said. He did not care; the death of Zoe still weighed on his mind--he felt responsible, because after all it had been his bodyguards who had done it, and the fact that Zoe had been insane, had been trying to destroy him, did not seem to matter. It was still a human life; it was still murder. "Listen," he said to Rags on impulse, "I want you to make up another song, now."
With sympathy, Rags said, "I know, Mr. Hada. A ballad about the sad death of your former wife Zoe. I been thinking about that and I have a ballad all ready. Listen:
"There once was a lady fair to see and hear;
Wander, spirit, over field and star,
Sorrowful, but forgiving from afar.
That spirit knows who did her in.
It was a stranger, not her kin.
It was Max Fischer who knew her not--"
Hada interrupted, "Don't whitewash me, Rags; I'm to blame. Don't put everything on Max as if he's a whipping boy."