Higher Mythology (15 page)

“And how do you know that?” Holl asked. “Is the language of the air English, too?

“No, they talk through telepathy. It made pictures in my mind, and it understood what I thought at it. It’ll help us. As soon as it finds them it’ll contact me.”

“One of your pipe dreams, is it?” Holl asked drearily.

“Uh-uh! Frank saw it, too.”

“I know you want to help, Keith Doyle, but mythical sprites seeing all is a little too much for me when my troubles are all too real. Forgive me. You’ve been a great help to us, and I’m not ungrateful. I’m merely tired. I’d best clear the line, to be ready in case the kidnappers call again. We’ll await you on Saturday.”

Keith was disappointed, but he reasoned, as he hung up the phone, that Holl hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen. He’d prove it, as soon as the sprites came through. If it didn’t, they were no worse off than before. It was funny, he thought, that his excitement in finding out about Dola almost made him forget that he had achieved his aim of finding the air sprites. It was a great, important discovery.

In spite of his concern for the missing children, he couldn’t help strutting a little as he walked across the campus back to his car. He was probably the first human being to make contact with the ethereal creatures. As soon as this terrible business was cleared up, he vowed to find out everything he could about this new race of hitherto mythological creatures.
Doyle’s Compendium of Magical Species
began to write itself in his mind.

“Okay,” the hoarse voice said over the phone when Catra picked it up, “We’ve got three demands.”

Catra put her hand over the receiver and relayed the message to Holl. “What shall we do?” she asked.

Holl steeled himself. “Keith Doyle said never to give in to a kidnapper, but we can’t risk annoying them. Hear his requirements, but promise nothing.”

“Go ahead,” Catra said into the receiver. Her hands trembled.

“Here’s what we want: money, immunity from prosecution, and one other condition we’ll let you know about later, when we deliver the children.”

“We have very little. How much money do you want?” she asked.

“Twenty thousand dollars in small bills. Unmarked. No explosives, no dye packets.”

“Aye,” Catra said, noting the specifics down on a piece of paper. Her companions crowded around to read what she was writing. “Now,” she said boldly, “we’ve a condition of our own. We want to hear the children’s voices. Hello?” She turned a frightened face to the others. “He hung up.”

***

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Meier cleared his throat and rustled his pages of notes. Keith gave him a brief glance and turned from staring out the window to staring at his fingertips then back out the window as if he was looking for something hovering just outside the twentieth floor.

“Today,” Meier said, “I’m going to show you a few products that are so new that they haven’t even got names yet. The client wants a snappy presentation for her product, and we’ve got diddly on ’em as yet. I’m showing you these raw, so you see what we have to start with. It’s not pretty.” The others chuckled.

Meier threw onto the table five small clear packets. “There you go. Becky Sarter grows and dries organic fruits. Dried apricots, dried sultanas, dried berries and cherries, mixed dried fruit. No added sugar or preservatives. Cellophane packaging. Upscale. No name. Demographics of her target market are male and female ages 25 to 45, income level upwards of thirty grand a year, college educated or better. Go for it.”

Three of the four interns picked up the packets, turned them over in their hands, searching for inspiration.

“What’s a sultana?” Sean asked, feeling the substance of a dried apricot through the wrapper. It was flabby and flexible, like a fleshy orange ear. He wrinkled his nose.

“One of the names for golden raisins,” Dorothy said, holding up that package. “Doesn’t it sound more elegant?”

“Paul, how about Oh, Gee Snacks?” Brendan suggested, then he spelled it. “Stands for the OG abbreviation of ‘organic’?”

“Maybe,” Paul Meier said. “It’s kind of cutesy. Run with it. Gimme some thoughts on a campaign.” But Brendan had shot his bolt. He grinned and shrugged.

“Ug-
ly
,” Sean said. “You weren’t kidding about not pretty. How about ‘Ugly fruit, beautiful vitamins’?”

“I approve of the product,” Dorothy said. “Environmentally sound packaging, no pesticides. You can compost cellophane, you know. Becky Sarter? How’s ‘Sarter your day with good nutrition’?”

Everyone groaned.

“Nothing there to hang onto, really, Dorothy. Half a pun is NOT better than none. But you have a lot of basic knowledge there about the product. That’s good. But we need a
name
. How about you, Keith?” Meier asked. “Keith? Earth to Keith.” He rapped on Keith’s notebook with his knuckles.

Keith came back from his musings with a start. “Uh, sorry. What?”

“Let’s hear it. What can you do with Sarter organic dried fruits?”

“Would the client get all bent up about changing the spelling of his name?”

“Her name, and I don’t know. Why?”

“You can’t ask a client to change his name!” Brendan exclaimed.

“Why not? They’ve done it themselves. I read that Chef Boy-ar-dee is really a man named Boiardi.” Keith spelled it.

“So what have you got in mind?”

“How about spelling it Sartre, like the philosopher?” Keith asked, mentally thanking the Elf Master for the intensive course in philosophy the last semester of his junior year. “He’s the one who said, I think, therefore I am. I think.”

“Descartes said that,” Brendan said in disgust.

“Okay, so what?” Keith snatched up a pen and drew a bag, splaying the letters out across the top.
Sartre Sultanas. The Raisin d’Etre.

“It means, the reason for being—I mean, the
raisin
for being.”

“Not another pun!” Brendan exclaimed.

Meier stared at it for a second, a tiny grin growing in the corner of his mouth.

“That’s funny. It’s sly. Not bad for someone who’s been staring out the window all day. It might appeal to the environmentally conscious intellectuals who buy organic stuff.” He picked up Keith’s caricature, drummed on it with the cap end of his pen.

“Hey, we’re not supposed to be pandering to intellectuals,” Brendan protested.

Meier raised an eyebrow. “We pander, as you call it, to the people most likely to buy the product. The readers who don’t get it will buy the product because it’s something they perceive a need for. Those who get it will like it more because it’s an in-joke aimed at them. That’s not all bad, because although the market is small, the availability of the product is limited, too. Says here in the research that there’s less than ten thousand pounds of organic dried raspberries available each of the last four years. Even if it increases drastically, that’s still nowhere near the amount of good old-fashioned, non-organic black raisins being sold every day.”

“You could have pictures in the ads of famous philosophers eating the product,” Dorothy suggested.

“Except for Albert Einstein, who the hell is going to know what a philosopher looks like?” Sean said, looking bored.

“‘Yum! Much tastier than hemlock,’ says Socrates,” Brendan snickered.

“Why not?” asked Meier. “Come on, this is what brainstorming is all about. You may not get the best ideas right away, but they’ll come if you feel relaxed about what you’re doing. Keith here may have looked like he was catatonic, but his mind was racing along.”

“You’re right about him looking catatonic,” Sean said.

Keith made a good-natured face at him, too preoccupied to think of a retort. He’d been a million miles away, thinking of Dola and baby Asrai.

Meier still looked thoughtful. “Keith, I’m going to take this to the committee.” The others looked dismayed. “Come on, guys, it couldn’t hurt. The pros have flunked out on this one. We’ve gotten a lot of self-righteous claptrap about wholesomeness, a couple of environmental fire-eaters offering obscure suggestions, some overly cute b.s., and a lot of blank stares. The four of you have done better on Sarter Fruit in less time than anyone else to date. This could spark the right inspiration in someone’s mind. If they don’t want Sartre, the raisin d’etre.” He chuckled.

Brendan regarded Keith with a look of pure hatred. Keith smiled innocently at him, fanning the fury still higher. If you can’t join ’em, he thought, annoy ’em. Keith turned to Meier. “Same understanding as before,” he said.

Meier nodded. “I appreciate your trust, kid. I won’t take advantage of you. If they’ll take it with your name on it, it’ll be there.”

The door to the little conference room swung open, and a man leaned in. He was tall and slender, with dark, well-coifed hair that had just the faintest suggestion of gray at the tips of the sideburns, and a health-club tan. He glanced at the young folk, and his face lit up. He turned to Meier.

“Paul! Here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Meier made the introductions.

“Doug Constance, one of our creative directors,” Meier said, sweeping a hand around the table. “Doug, this is Dorothy Carver, Brendan Martwick, Keith Doyle, and Sean Lopez. My latest crop of interns.”

“I know! That’s why I came in,” Constance said, grinning at them.

The four students favored the newcomer with big, hopeful smiles. “What can we do for you, Doug?” Meier asked.

“Well, we’ve got a new client we’re pitching coming in this afternoon,” Constance said. “I thought one of your interns might like a chance to see how it’s done, maybe throw in a few suggestions, be right in from the beginning. What do you think?”

Keith sat up straighter. It would be a great opportunity to show his stuff. He could see that all three of the others had the same thought. Without waving his hand and yelling, “Me! Me!” it was difficult to make himself stand out from the group. He concentrated on looking bright, alert, and he hoped, creative. He smiled at the account executive, trying to meet his eyes.

But Constance’s eye lit on Dorothy and her ubiquitous sketchbook. “There she is. How about her? Paul, we’d like to borrow this very talented young lady for the afternoon. We’d appreciate her input on Natural-Look Hair Products, and maybe she could do some sketches for layouts. She’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you, Dorothy? Could you lend her to us, Paul?”

Paul looked at Dorothy, whose eyes were glistening beacons. “Sure, if you want. Go ahead, honey.”

Dorothy rose with alacrity, her sketchbook clutched to her chest, and headed out of the room. Constance held the door open for her, then shut it behind them, with a final wink at Meier. “See you later!”

Disappointed, Keith spared himself one uncharitable thought as he sank back into his chair, that Dorothy would undoubtedly use this opportunity to promote her chances at getting the PDQ job. Maybe he’d have done the same under similar circumstances, but he wasn’t so sure.

“Now, knock it off,” Meier said, breaking into his thoughts. “I can see what you three are thinking.
No
decision has been made yet on who’s going to be picked for the job—if anyone—and you’ve still got to earn a grade out of this term, so give me your attention. Got it?”

The three young men eyed each other. “Yes, Paul,” Keith said. The other two murmured their agreement.

“Sorry, Paul,” said Sean, cocking his head sheepishly to one side.

“Good,” Meier said firmly, spreading out a sheaf of photographs from a folder. “Now, I’ve got another product I want your best thoughts on. It’s one of my new accounts. Listen up. I’m going to give you these to chew over, then I’ve got a couple of meetings of my own.”

“Come on, Doyle, I know what bifurcated means, and you know what bifurcated means, but the average jerk on the streets is going to think it’s something dirty.” Brendan shook his head at the ad copy Keith had scribbled on a mock layout.

“Hey, sex sells,” Sean said, laughing.

“It’s got nothing to do with sex, and I think it sounds dumb. Just like everything he comes up with.” Brendan threw an annoyed gesture toward Keith who turned his hands palm upward in appeal.

“No, look, it’d make great copy. It’s supposed to be obscure, then you come to the tagline, which would read,” Keith held up his yellow pad and declaimed, “‘But instead of wading through our grandiose verbiage, why not come and see how our tire sails through water.’”

“Too wordy for anyone except the New Yorker,” Brendan said, drumming his fingertips. Keith shrugged, and started drawing lines through his copy.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” he conceded. Brendan looked surprised to have Keith agree with him, then sat back smugly. He put his heels on the table.

Meier opened the door. Brendan immediately swept his feet off and sat up straight. Teacher’s pet, Keith thought in annoyance.

“Nice to see little birds in their nests agreeing for a change!” Meier said cheerfully. “Dorothy not back yet?”

“Nope,” the three young men said in unison.

“Okay,” Meier said. He flopped into his chair and sighed deeply. “What a day! Okay. What’s Dunbar PLC’s new centrally-grooved aqua-handler tire going to be called?”

“The Brain,” said Sean.

“The English Channel,” said Keith and Brendan together.

“No consensus, eh?” Meier asked. “Typical. You sound like you work for an ad agency. All right, Sean, why ‘The Brain’?”

Sean turned his photograph of the product and his rough sketches toward the instructor. “Because it looks like a brain, or the top of it does, if you see it straight on. I wrote, ‘Your car is five times as smart when you add four Brains to the one behind the wheel.’”

“That’s not bad,” Meier said, nodding. “Doesn’t hurt to flatter the customers.”

“I looked at the
bottom
of the tire where it hits the pavement,” Brendan said, “and to me it looked like the rear end of the girl on the beach in the Bahamas tourist commercials, but you don’t see
me
suggesting we call it The Tush.”

“Why ‘The English Channel’, then?”

“Because nothing handles water like the English Channel,” Keith tossed off patly. “Dunbar’s an English company.”

“Americans like things that are English,” Brendan added. “It makes you think of people swimming the Channel, which is a real accomplishment. We’re riding on that,” he finished, cocking a distrustful eye toward his erstwhile partner.

“Har, har,” Keith said obediently.

“True, true,” Meier agreed. He glanced at the clock, which showed 5:15. “Okay, you wanna leave me all of this stuff, and I’ll look it over tonight? I’ll give you my thoughts on it tomorrow, and you can let me know if you want me to propose your ideas or not. Good work, gentlemen.”

Keith rose and gathered up his belongings. He realized guiltily that he hadn’t thought about Dola’s plight in hours. Still, there was nothing he could do for at least another twelve hours, and there was the chance that he could get a call any time that Holl and the others had found the kidnappers and managed to pull off a rescue without him. The important thing was that the children were alive and well.

He carried his coffee cup down the hall and into the employee lounge to wash it out. Only one light was on in the long, narrow room, over the sink at the far end. The flat-napped carpet swallowed up his footsteps, so that the only sounds were his breathing and the water running as he rinsed out his mug. Until he heard the sob.

“Who’s there?” he asked gently into the gloom. He made out a shape at the table next to the window, and thought he recognized the outline. “Dorothy, is that you over there?” There was no answer. He turned off the water and put the cup down.

His eyes became quickly used to the gloom as he went to sit by her. Her makeup was smudged, leaving matte streaks on her skin, and she looked miserable. He scooted his chair close to hers.

“You were gone all afternoon. How’d it go?” he asked.

“Horrible!” Dorothy burst out, and her voice caught as she struggled not to cry. He could see that she was not only unhappy, but very angry. “Do you know what that big sell was all about? What they wanted me at that presentation for? A token! Natural-Look’s president is an African-American woman. PDQ doesn’t have any creative directors who’re both female and African-American, so they pretended they needed me there to help with the presentation. I just sat there and nodded the whole time. They listened to my ideas once in a while when I managed to speak up, but you could tell they weren’t really paying any attention. It was all phony! For looks! So
she
would think they were politically correct. She thought I was a staff artist. They never told her I was just an intern. I hate this place.”