Mission: Earth "The Enemy Within" (40 page)

We didn't have any distance to go at all. The forty-eight-story building was right across the way from the Octopus Building. We crossed a two-tone terrazzo pavement set with fountains. The building reared in limestone, aluminum and glass splendor. We entered a huge lobby done in polished and dulled stainless steel.

We stood before an enormous abstract mural, entered an elevator and shot skyward. It spilled us into an enormous room.

A huge ladder of signs confronted us. The top one said:

Owner-Publisher Inspiration Floor

It was followed with the list of magazines published in the building: Slime, Tripe, Riffraff, Dirt Illustrated and Misfortune.

The atmosphere of the room was hazy thick. It smelled like marijuana and opium smoke. There were some people moving about: they were wearing blindfolds, being led by people wearing blindfolds.

We went further into the vast room. I saw numerous posted signs:

All the News That Gives You Fits Unreality Is the Only Reality

Slime, the Magazine That Doesn't Lie or Cheat Anyone but Its Public

Always Check Your Facts in the Cloakroom and Then Write Your Story

They Want Blood, Give It to Them—Even If It Is Your Own

There were some doors opening off: Libeller in Chief, Scurrility Editor, and Head Pervert.

But we were not heading for any of these. Parting the clouds of smoke, we went to a mammoth door at the end of the room. It said:

Owner-Publisher Private Sacred

Bury barged right on in.

Where the desk should be, there was a couch. There was no one on it.

I became aware of lights flashing on the wall over to my right. I saw that there was an organist seated at a huge console organ. It was a woman of middle age in a tail-coated suit—complete, male, white-tie evening dress. She was playing with elaborate gestures on the organ keys. But there was no music!

I noticed that the vast panorama of pictures on the wall were flashing on and mingling in rhythm. She was playing the pictures!

I looked at them. One had to stand back, they were so big. It was a flowing, flashing montage in full color. The pictures were of dead bodies, train wrecks, aircraft crashes, murdered children and graves. And through it all flowed, rhythmically, decay and blood. A symphony of disaster. Rather appealing, I thought.

Bury walked over to the woman. He said, "Get out."

She protested, aghast. "But how can you dream up imaginary news if you don't have substance before you?"

"Beat it," said Bury.

She picked up her baton and top hat, very miffed, muttering about people who did not have a true reporter's soul. But a final look at Bury's face took her out the door quickly.

"Are we here to meet the owner-publisher?" I said.

"Oh, no," said Bury. "He's an LSD addict and always off having an affair with his male psychiatrist. It's always empty, so I use it for meetings."

"Then we own this place?"

"What? And inherit all its libel suits? I should say not. Sit down, Inkswitch, and I'll fill you in."

There was no place to sit but the color-montage organ bench. I sat on it. I accidentally touched a key and a nude body being strangled flashed on the wall. Not a bad looking girl, I thought.

Bury was pacing about restlessly. "We don't have to own any newspapers or magazines. It's done this way: they're all in debt; they and their TV and radio stations are into the banks for billions. So when they want to renew or borrow, the banks tell them they have to put a bank-selected director or six on their boards of directors. And they do it in order to get the money. Then, whatever we want to appear in the press, we simply pass it to a director and he tells the editors and they tell the reporters and they (bleep) well print whatever they're told."

How wise, I thought. Lombar would be fascinated.

But there was more: "Then, if the government gets out of hand, we release stories into the press to embarrass them or get them kicked out. So the government always releases the press releases that we tell them to. It's a very tight system. We control all the banks, you see."

Oho! Lombar indeed would be interested. A masterful system! Closed-circuit propaganda! The truth couldn't even get into it edgewise! So that was how the Rockecenters had remained in control so long and now owned so much! That and chicanery, of course. Totally controlled free enterprise!

I tried to play "Saint James Infirmary" on the organ with one finger. I got a series of Japanese movie monsters smashing and gobbling people. Then I found one good key: when you tremoloed it, rivers of blood gushed down the wall in rhythmic waves.

The door opened.

It was Madison!

I had not gotten a good look at him in his car last night under the mercury-vapor highway lights and all.

I was amazed!

Here was a clean-looking, rather handsome young man. He was impeccably dressed, quite conservatively. He had brown hair and very appealing brown eyes. He might well have been a model for a shirt ad. He seemed quiet, well-mannered, totally presentable.

He said, "Social notices. Madison arrived late and was deeply apologetic. Unquote."

Bury, I noticed, backed up a bit as though talking to a bomb. "Did you get your credentials?" he said.

"Oh, yes. Today, Madison received the supreme award of the very best credentials of a Slime-Tripe reporter. Deeply honored, he expressed his gratitude...."

"And you are now on special independent assignment?" asked Bury.

"Quote Credentials Department Unaccountably Pleased that no Direct Assignment Contemplated. News spread rapidly throughout buildings. Thousands cheered...."

Bury said, "This is Smith, John. You will be receiving tips from him. Give him your mother's phone number and that of the F.F.B.O. office."

Madison bowed and then walked over and gave me the most sincere and genuine handshake I have ever had. Then he got out a notebook, wrote the numbers on a page and gave them over.

Then Madison walked over toward Bury—who stepped back—and looked at the attorney with appealing courtesy. "What am I supposed to do?"

Bury reached into his pocket. He took out one of the passport pictures of Wister. He handed it over.

Madison took it and gazed upon it in a friendly way. "He looks like a very nice fellow."

"He is, he is," said Bury. "His name is Jerome Terrance Wister."

Bury glanced toward me. I took my cue. "He has an office in the Empire State Building." I gave him the number. "He has developed a new fuel. He will try to get it known through racing."

"And?" said Madison.

Bury spoke. "You will act in the capacity of a Slime-Tripe reporter on special assignment. Actually, he is a modest man. He would not hire a PR directly. But as his friends, we know he needs one to help him on his way. Really, he would not accept our help so we must be nameless. It is a charitable way to contribute to this great society, to have this fellow and his invention helped. Do you understand, Madison? That is your sole assignment."

Instantly Madison became ecstatic. "You mean I am to really, truly help him?"

"Indeed so," said Bury. "Make his name a household word, make him immortal!"

"Oh," said Madison. "Glorious, Stupendous and Gala! Mr. Bury," he said with eyes glowing, "I can make him the most immortal man you ever heard of! One way or another his name will be known forever!" He could not contain himself for joy. He walked around the room, almost bouncing.

He stopped, "Quote Labor Negotiations Today Hit Snag. It was learned from unimpeachable sources that Madison wished to know what budget..."

"The sky is the limit," said Bury. "Within reason, of course."

Madison glowed. "Oh, I can see it now! Immortal! His name known everywhere by everyone forever!" Joy and enthusiasm leaped out of every pore. He couldn't stand still. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have thrown it in the air!

Bury pulled me out of the room. We waded through the clouds of marijuana smoke and stench of opium. We held steady as reporters bumped into us. We got to the elevator.

Bury looked around for any snipers as we left. He got us safely outside the building. We stood beside a tinkling fountain and breathed deeply to get rid of the stench.

He tucked his Beretta more securely into its holster. "Inkswitch, it's all in your hands now. If you lose his number, you'll find his mother in the phone book. He is on his way. I've got to go off for a few days—the Governor General of Canada is being balky about carrying out genocide on the French population there and we simply have to clear out Nova Scotia to take over the new oil fields: it has a lot of legal angles. But I'll be back well before the fireworks begin in case stronger measures are needed. You just feed Madison a tip or two as you think best. Give him his head. And we'll be rid of Wister! Good luck to you."

He hurried off upon his busy duties.

Beside the splashing fountain, in that quiet place, I was a little bit troubled.

This Madison was obviously the nicest fellow you ever wanted to meet. He seemed even naive, taking a liking to Heller at once.

I wondered if Bury hadn't exaggerated the dangers in this fine young man. Maybe he would make Heller famous and successful after all!

That evening was no time to be out-of-doors. With sunset, a drizzle had begun that gave an acid rain. If it got on your clothes, it ate holes in them. A nasty night: the low clouds masked even the penthouse terrace at the Bentley Bucks Deluxe. Autumn was upon New York like a polluted sponge.

Accordingly, I was careful to go nowhere and instead phoned Senator Twiddle. I told him how much Rockecenter thought of him and he was certainly pleased.

I had just laid down the phone when it rang again. An operator's voice, in that curious sing-song they use, said, "Mr. Smith? This is Manhattan Air Terminal Telephone Exchange. A man has just come to the desk and handed me a slip of paper with your name on it, indicating I should call. Here is your PARty."

The line clicked. Then something said, "Mmmmmfffff."

I said, "Speak up. I do not understand you."

"Mmmmmfffff."

I hung up in disgust. But I was puzzled too. I did not know a soul in New York named "Mmmmmfffff." Hungarian?

I busied myself ordering a splendid dinner. Utanc was not around as usual. I hoped the rain wouldn't burn her beautiful face if she was prancing around in it.

The phone rang. A voice said, "Mmmmmfffff."

"Who are you?" I demanded. "I don't know a single Mmmmmfffff anywhere."

A more distant voice on the phone said, "You hold it to my ear and I'll talk." The voice became abruptly louder. "You, sir, this is us. Raht tried to phone you earlier but he still has the wires in his jaws. (Hold the phone closer.) My arms are still in casts. The doctor refused to take out the wires or break off the casts or release us for another two weeks."

"Phaugh!" I said. "Loaf, loaf, loaf! Anything to get a little more time off!"

"Well, sir, we knew how anxious you were about a certain thing. So Raht sneaked by the nurses and the desk. I couldn't go because my arms are still in casts and it's conspicuous and I can't climb. But Raht's jaws are the only thing he has that is still immobilized. ..."

"What in Hells are you trying to tell me?" I snapped.

"(Hold the phone closer.) But he had to wait until the guards and sightseeing guides left for the night. The weather is so bad both the lower and upper towers were closed, fortunately. So Raht climbed up the TV mast as best he could. It was awfully slippery because of the rain. We'll have to get him new pajamas because of the acid eating through. But it was awfully windy and he skinned his shins...."

"My Gods!" I said. "Come to the point!"

"Well, he turned it off, sir. And we wanted to tell you we can't get back on the job for another two weeks. The doctor refuses...."

"You two will do anything, anything to loaf! Believe me, I'll make sure your pay is docked!"

I hung up. I was so exasperated at the flimsy pretext

they were using that, for a moment, the import of the news did not sink in.

The 831 Relayer! It was off! I could once more see what Heller was doing! And in the nick of time, too. Madison would need this information!

I quickly broke out and set up my viewer and equipment. I turned it on.

It worked!

A dinner party!

It was in some private dining room in some restaurant. It was very posh. It was made to look like an old English inn with dark oak, mounted boars' heads, a log fire. The waiters were in red hunting coats.

But what was this? I really didn't recognize the people! They all had on flat mortarboard hats and black gowns! All of them!

They were apparently just finishing a roast beef dinner with plum pudding and chatting away.

As Heller glanced around, speaking to this one and that or answering or laughing at some joke, I tried to identify the people.

Bang-Bang! What was he doing in a mortarboard and black gown? He hadn't graduated from anything. And there was Vantagio! He had long since graduated. And there was the leading painter and several other painters all in mortarboard hats and gowns.

Izzy was there, sort of shrunk back. He was dressed like the rest.

They were finished with the main dinner now. Suddenly the far doors opened and eight waiters came in, four on one side and four on the other, bearing a huge cake in a peculiar way.

Everyone cheered.

They sang:

Happy doctorate to you,

Happy doctorate to you.

Happy doctorate, dear Izzy,

Your dream has come true.

The waiters put the cake down. It was in the shape of a coffin! On the top it said "Here lies DOCTOR IZZY EPSTEIN."