They had been bowing to Queen Teenie, not to Lombar Hisst!
Madison’s knees stopped shaking.
He clutched his goodies to his bosom and sped out of the palace.
Though distant still, victory beckoned loud and clear just over the horizon.
HE HAD HIS CHANCE AT HELLER!
Wild exultation began to pound through him as he finally believed himself that it was true!
HE WAS THE ABSOLUTE CZAR OF PR ON VOLTAR!
PART SEVENTY-FOUR
Chapter 1
Teenie, standing in the door of her palace, still clothed in the golden page’s costume she had worn while walking back of Lombar, received Madison’s ebullient good news somewhat grimly. She looked at the authorizations and gave them back.
“All right, all right, Madison. We’ve got it this far. Now you better start delivering. You can’t hang around here and get anything done now. I want Gris’ head and I want it bad—rotting preferred. So roll up your sleeves and start sweating!”
The look she gave him was so meaningful and the pop of her bubblegum so explosive that Madison hastily left. She might suspect that this really was a double-cross. He wasn’t after Gris at all—his real target was Heller-Wister, for only in that way could he come right with Mr. Bury. With Heller-Wister fully handled on Voltar, Madison could only then return to Earth a conquering hero—and not be shot as a deserter.
He hoped Teenie realized that PR was intricate and complex and wasn’t done in a minute. The thing to keep your attention on was thoroughness—and GETTING HEADLINES!
Madison knew the image he would have to complete: it was that of a folk hero on the model of Jesse James, and how well he was researched in such images now—in the yacht he had traveled all over studying famous outlaws. Heavens, he fairly ached to put it into effect.
He knew just how to attain results: Coverage, Controversy and Confidence.
What he lacked here on Voltar were Connections, another C which he had always had on Earth.
Well, first things first. He had better get organized. He didn’t even have a secretary, much less a string of obedient editors and publishers. Money. That was what he better start with first.
As he climbed into his airbus, he said to Flick, “How do I get my identoplate changed? Where do I go?”
“You going to get PAID? Oh, you just lie back on the seat there and relax and I’ll have you to the Government City Finance Office twice as fast as this junk heap will go!”
They took off in a blur. They rushed through the Palace City gates, outbound, so fast Madison hardly had time to get nauseated from the time shift to thirteen minutes earlier.
As he drove frantically across the Great Desert, Flick said, “Oh, but am I tired of eating stale sweetbuns out of garbage pails like we been doing! You also owe me a pack of puffsticks. And I know a rooming house where we can get a room real cheap. Do you feel all right? Are you comfortable? Should I turn on some music?”
Madison was not paying much attention. He was trying to work out how he would go about setting up in such unknown terrain. Then he got off into headlines that kept drifting through his head: 18-point, FLEET OFFICER GOES RENEGADE but he kept discarding them. They were sort of pale and lacked punch. He realized this would require a lot of careful planning to really make it good. He had no support troops, he had no lines and the fact that these people on Voltar were ignorant of real PR was both a blessing and a curse. Every trick of the trade would be brand-new to them, but on the other hand, there were no traditional supports. It was sort of like a man approaching a virgin: the question was, how willing would she be to be raped?
His thinking was interrupted by Flick. The driver had gotten out, opened Madison’s door and was now anxiously cautioning him not to trip on the ramp as he alighted. Madison was startled to see how much time had elapsed. They were at the Finance Department.
Following the anxious directions of Flick, Madison went by himself through the scurrying crowds and came shortly to a counter which had a sign, “Identoplate Changes.”
A bored clerk, in a working coverall to protect his suit, finished downgrading the pay of a disgruntled teacher who had been transferred to a lesser school and turned to Madison. Without interest, he examined the papers. He reached over for his plate-changing machine and then suddenly looked back at the form.
“UNLIMITED PAY?” He went boggle-eyed. He hastily pushed buzzers and Madison found himself surrounded on every hand by Finance Department Security Police.
An officer took the Change of Pay form through a door while the others just stood and stared at Madison. The officer could be seen punching buttons and turning on lights that apparently verified codes hidden in identoplates.
When he came back, he held on to the form and waited. It made Madison very nervous.
Shortly, an old man with a Finance Department executive badge came behind the counter and the officer gave him the form.
“I can’t understand it,” the officer said. “It’s genuine.”
“This is impossible!” said the aged executive. “Unlimited pay status? He could buy the planet!”
“Well, it’s your business now,” said the officer, and at a signal all the Finance Police left. But all along the counters, the word had spread and clerks and others were peering at Madison and whispering.
Another executive came behind the counter and the first one handed him the form and said, “Gods, look at this, Cipho. That guy Hisst gets crazier every day! It’s a valid order. But what do we do?”
Cipho said, “What allocations would it come out of? Let me see the other papers.”
They examined them minutely. They conferred. Madison got very nervous. He said, “Is there something wrong?”
The first executive looked at him. “We can’t determine what budget it comes out of. Your rank is PR man, whatever that is, and it’s in the Apparatus. Your pay status says: No Pay—P, so that means you were to be attached to Palace City. Hisst signed this authorization not only as Chief of the Apparatus but also as Spokesman for His Majesty, so that would make it Royal. We can’t determine which letter designation to put after the new pay status. I’m afraid you will have to come back.”
Madison’s stomach rumbled. He thought of his image with Flick. He thought of Teenie’s meaningful look. He thought of his anxiety to get started. “Is there no way it can be done now?”
“Well, it’s dangerous,” said Cipho. “You might overdraw somebody’s budget. You might decide to buy Industrial City or something and then you’d jam all our computers.”
“What kind of money is in those budgets?” said Madison desperately.
They went in the other room and came back. Cipho said, “The Apparatus is nearly overdrawn because of the revolt on Calabar. Palace City is nearly empty now, so its allocation is only fifty percent utilized. The Royal expenditures have dropped to almost nothing.”
“Money,” begged Madison. “How much money is in them?”
“There’s a billion Palace City that won’t be used and about four billion Royal.”
Madison’s hopes soared. “Look, just give me a pay status on all three.”
“Hmm,” said Cipho.
“Look,” said Madison, putting on his most earnest and sincere face, “I am a reasonable man. If I guarantee to advise you if I intend to draw more than a billion at any one time and confer with you, will you make it a pay status for all three? That way it would only debit from existing funds.”
“You’d have to put it in writing,” glowered Cipho.
“It would keep the computers from locking up,” said the first executive. “Give him some paper.”
They got the signed and stamped undertaking and marked his identoplate: Pay Status: Unlimited—APR.
Madison accepted it with a very straight face. Never in his whole career had he ever had a billion-dollar drawing account! Oh, what he could do with that!
They had the look of men who had bested him. And he was very solemn as he walked
away.
A BILLION-DOLLAR DRAWING ACCOUNT!
PART SEVENTY-FOUR
Chapter 2
On the way out, Madison put his new identoplate to use. At the cash-withdrawal counter the pretty girl there looked at the identoplate and stared at him round-eyed. “Unlimited pay status?” she gulped. “How . . . how much cash do you want?”
Madison gave her the first figure that came into his head. “Oh, fifty thousand for now.”
She scratched her head. “That will be an awful wad. It will ruin the shape of your suit. Wait right there. I’ll see if we have some thousands.”
She came back with a neat pack and while she was stamping things, Madison looked at the banknotes. It was the first time he had seen any Voltar money up close. It was gold-colored paper, quite pretty. It sparkled. He petted it. Very nice.
“You wouldn’t have some idle time tonight, would you?” asked the girl hopefully.
Madison ran.
He got in the airbus and Flick closed the door for him. “We got some money?” said Flick. And when Madison patted his pocket, Flick leaped behind the controls and they took off.
“I’m STARVING!” said Flick, as he threaded his way through Government City air lanes. “I’ll just drop down to a busy street and we’ll get some hot jolt and FRESH sweetbuns off a vendor. You also owe me a pack of puffsticks. I gave one to that guard, remember?”
He dropped down into the parking strip beside the thronged and noisy street. He yelled at a dark-complected old man who was pushing a cart laden with comestibles and other things.
“Two hot jolts, four sweetbuns, one pack of puffsticks,” said Flick.
Dutifully the old man handed them in and then held out his hand.
“Pay him,” said Flick.
Madison got out a thousand-credit note and handed it over.
“I can’t take that,” the old man said. “It would clean out the change of the whole street. You only owe me a tenth of a credit. Haven’t you got a coin?”
“Wait a minute,” said Madison. “Two coffees, four buns, one pack of puffsticks. Ten cents? You must be mistaken.”
“Well, things are a little high these days,” the old man said. “And after all, I’ve got to make a living.”
“No, no,” said Madison. “I’m not haggling with you. I’m just trying to figure out how much a credit is worth. I got it: how much is a good pair of shoes?”
“Oh, call it a credit and a half,” the old man said. “They’re kind of dear, the good ones I mean.”
Madison did a racing calculation. He had been thinking in terms of dollars. As close as he could guess, one credit must be worth at least twenty bucks!
He sank back on the seat in a sudden shock. He didn’t have a billion-dollar drawing account.
HE HAD ONE FOR TWENTY BILLION!
A voice penetrated his shock. “Well, pay the man,” said Flick. “He’s got some blank vouchers there. Just stamp one.”
Madison was still in shock. Flick came back to him, stuffed the thousand-credit note into his breast pocket and tapped around his coat and found his identoplate and drew it out. The old man was presenting the paper through the window and Flick, looking at the stamp face, was pushing the button to get it to come up with the right stamp.
Suddenly Flick froze.
He was staring at the plate.
Suddenly Flick cried, “Pay Status UNLIMITED?”
He stared at Madison.
The mouth opened in the squashed oval of a face. The mouth closed.
Flick looked back at the identoplate. He worked the button and made the picture of Madison come up. He looked at it. He looked back at Madison. Then Flick shifted the button and stared at the pay status again.
Flick sat back. His eyes were jiggling.
The old man urged the paper at the driver. “Stamp it for my tenth of a credit, please.”
Flick got his eyes in focus. He went into sudden motion. He scribbled on the paper and stamped it and said, “THROW THE WHOLE CONTENTS OF YOUR CART IN!”
The old man looked at the paper in shock. Then he hastily began to pitch things through the window. He barely managed to tip up the last tray when Flick took off.
“HOT SAINTS!” cried Flick as he raced into the air. “MY DREAMS HAVE JUST COME TRUE!”
PART SEVENTY-FOUR
Chapter 3
The airbus was accelerating so rapidly and with such a wild turn that Madison was sent sprawling into the tumbling packs, canisters, chank-pops and jugs of sparklewater. He thought the world had gone vermilion until he found, from the floor of the vehicle, that he was looking at it through a disposable umbrella of that hue which, somehow, had sprung open.
“What the blazes are you doing?” yelped Madison.
“Just hold on,” said Flick. “I’ll have us there in a minute flat!”
“I didn’t give you any orders to go anywhere!” howled Madison from amongst cartons of puffsticks.
“You don’t know the place like I do,” Flick called back. “Just don’t worry. We’re not lost. I know exactly where we’re going.”
The airbus swooped perilously. It wasn’t a minute. It was more like ten. And Madison had just begun to get himself sorted out when WHAM! they landed.
Flick was out of the airbus like a flash. Madison, prying a sweetbun off his face, heard him chortling. “There she is. Oh, Gods, you beauty! Just what I have always wanted!”
Madison gingerly pried himself out of the car, dabbing at his face. They had evidently landed straight through the open doors of a huge display room. The sign in reverse on the window said:
Zippety-Zip
Manufacturing Outlet,
Commercial City
Flick was standing ecstatically, looking at the ceiling.
A rather good-looking man in a bright green suit came over, somewhat upset about this unorthodox landing but not saying so. “I’m Chalber. Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?”
“That!” said Flick, jabbing with his finger.
Madison had gotten the sweetbun crumbs out of his eyes. They were surrounded by rows and rows of airbuses of every shape and hue. But Flick wasn’t pointing at any of them. He was jabbing at the ceiling.
Up there, on a transparent sheet suspended by cables, was a vehicle on display, visible from the air if one looked through the high windows or glass dome. It was utterly huge: it had a flying angel in lifelike colors protruding forward from each of its four corners and it appeared to be solid gold.
“That, that, that!” said Flick. “I’ve wanted it for years!”
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Chalber, “that’s the Model 99. There were only six of them ever built and they were used for parades and vehicle shows. It’s sort of our symbol of excellence to show what Zippety-Zip can do. It’s not for sale.”
“Oh, yes, by Gods, it’s for sale. Look at that sign on the window. It says, ‘We Sell Everything That Flies.’”
“Well, that’s just a figure of speech,” said Chalber.
“You better start figuring,” said Flick. “I WANT THAT AIRBUS!”
“Well, really,” said Chalber, “you must realize that when the Model 99s were built, they were never intended for sale. We were merely seeking to prove we could do better than any other manufacturers. One or two of them were presented to noblemen as a gesture of good will. But you gentlemen aren’t noblemen.”
“You want a fight?” said Flick, putting up his fists.
“Listen, Flick,” said Madison. “I don’t think we should get into any brawls. . . .”
“Listen yourself!” said Flick. “That 99 has a bar, a toilet, a washbasin with jeweled buttons. It has a color organ and every known type of screen and viewer. The back seats break down into beds that massage you. The upholstery is real lepertige fur. It flies at six hundred miles an hour and can reach any place on the planet nonstop. It is fully automatic. It is completely soundproof and it is pressurized for flights up to three hundred miles altitude. When you land, a pie
ce of the back end pulls out and becomes a ground car and you don’t need to walk. The Model 99 has tons of storage cabinets and you can even hide a girl under the seat.” He shook his fist at Chalber pugnaciously. “I’ve had dreams of driving one around, snooting at all the other traffic and I’m NOT going to be stopped!”
“Really,” said Chalber. “Be reasonable. The price would be ten times that of a top-grade limousine airbus. I can show you gentlemen some very fine vehicles that—”