Mission: Earth "The Enemy Within" (41 page)

"Oh, dear," said Izzy.

"It's just like you wanted it," said Vantagio.

"Speech! Speech!" the others were shouting.

Heller forced Izzy to stand up.

Izzy, squirming with embarrassment, cleared his throat several times, adjusted his glasses and said, "My good and tolerant friends, it is true that this is a lucky day. My thesis was at last accepted after three horrible years. At the graduation ceremony, thanks to your moral support, I did not trip on my gown going down the aisle. When I accepted my diploma from the president, no snake jumped out of it. I even found my seat once more, thanks to your forming ranks so I couldn't miss it.

"But I must tell you that it is very unlucky to have such good luck. Fate always lurks with sharpened teeth and can strike most unexpectedly.

"As I can now devote my full time to the corporations, any market and financial analyst can predict with ease that they will surely crash.

"You are unwise to have any confidence in me. It could bring you bad luck too. I thank you."

He sat down. They all applauded. They made him cut the coffin with a provided spade.

After a while, after his third piece of cake, Heller said, "I hope this rain goes away by tomorrow. I want to take the Caddy to Spreeport, Long Island, and do a few turns on the track."

Izzy said, "Oh, dear. I wish you wouldn't do such dangerous things. I'm still responsible for you, you know."

"Well, this isn't very dangerous, Izzy. The speedway there is quite new. I'm not trying out the carburetor. I'm just breaking the Caddy in. The engine is still stiff."

"Mr. Jet, please don't connect any racing activity or your name with the corporations. Please. I have an awful feeling about it. Fate can be pretty treacherous." Heller laughed.

But so did I. Izzy could be righter than he knew, I hoped.

I had all I needed to know. I instantly phoned J. Walter Madison.

"This is Smith. Wister will be at the Spreeport, Long Island, Speedway tomorrow if the rain stops. You can begin to work him over."

"Work him over?" said Madison. "That is a strange way to put it, Mr. Smith."

"I mean, do what you do," I corrected.

"Mr. Smith, I hope you don't think I mean anything but good for this fine young man. Please don't insist that I use anything but the most standard PR on him."

"And what is that?" I said.

"Well," said Madison, delight creeping into his voice, "first is CONFIDENCE. One must go to any lengths to build up the client's Confidence in one. You see, clients do not know the skills of PR and they often get strange ideas and balk and know best and all that. One has to be VERY careful they do not put their foot in it and get off on the wrong track.

"The next is COVERAGE. One has to get maximum exposure. This gives name-awareness to the public. And one simply gets Coverage, Coverage, Coverage! One has to achieve saturation of all media and publicity channels."

The enthusiasm of the true professional was giving his voice a lilting tone. "Then third is CONTROVERSY. The public and media will not print or touch anything that does not have Controversy in it. To get the press or TV to accept the simplest story, it must imply conflict."

"Sounds pretty straightforward to me," I said a bit dubiously. If Madison did just those things, Heller might succeed. He hadn't mentioned any shooting at all. I had my doubts. Bury must have a personal bias against this sincere and dedicated public relations expert.

"Oh, it IS straightforward," said Madison. "You will see. I will do nothing, absolutely nothing shady or underhanded. My personal ethics won't allow it. I will simply build up Wister's Confidence in me, get him maximum Coverage and make sure the press gets their Controversy. The three C's, Mr. Smith. Standard PR to standard press. You'll see. Oh, Wister will win on this one. But really, I must ring off. I see right now I have some other calls to make. I do appreciate your help. Leave the professionalism to me. I won't let you down."

He hung up. I sat there quite a while. The three C's. It did sound awfully standard. I began to worry. Maybe Heller really was going to win! Awful thought!

Now that I knew I didn't have any office, superior or any time clock to punch, I lolled around the penthouse sitting room the next morning. The rain had cleared and I now and then glanced at the viewer.

Heller drove a semi—a trailer pulled by diesel tractor—along State Highway 27. The Atlantic Ocean was visible on his right occasionally. Signs pointed the way to Jones Beach, one of the largest recreation areas around New York. There was lots of sand.

But he didn't turn off to Jones Beach. He went along the scattered main street of Spreeport, not very impressive. There seemed to be an awful lot of fish food restaurants and motels.

He neared an area of new construction. A huge sign:

SPREEPORT SPEEDWAY

Spreeport Stock Car Association

Saturday Nights: Stock Cars and Bombers

The parking lots were vast. A grandstand sprouted flags. Heller drove up to a gate. A security guard came out and looked at his cards. Somehow he had become a member of NASCAR—the National Association of Stock Car Racing—a member of the Spreeport Racing Club and a lot of other things. He had been busy! Or Izzy or Bang-Bang had.

The guard said, "Mr. Stampi said you could use Pit 13, Mr. Wister. There ain't nobody else out today. Track pretty wet."

Heller drove on through to an area behind Pit 13 and got out of the cab of the tractor.

He was all alone! No Bang-Bang. Then I realized Bang-Bang must have a drill or ROTC class or something.

And there was the Cadillac on the trailer. It was now gleaming red. It really hurt the eyes even in that dim ocean sunlight.

Heller pulled the wheel chocks and let off the brake and rolled the car down off the trailer.

He checked the gas. There were additional instruments on the panel. The steering wheel was leather wrapped. The white seats were gleaming! Mike Mutazione had certainly done a job on that interior!

Heller climbed in, gave his Voltar engineer's gloves a tug, each one, and started the car up. It thundered with a controlled storm of power. Mike Mutazione had certainly done something under the hood, too!

He tooled the Caddy around to the pit and then, in a very leisurely fashion, began to drive around the track. It was asphalt. It was not banked very much. It was wet after the rain. He wasn't driving fast enough to skid. He was, as he had said, simply breaking in the engine. He was watching a heat gauge and oil pressure.

I didn't know how long the circle of the track was. Not too much. Maybe half a mile. Oval—two turns and two straightaways.

He began to make the car surge and slow, maybe running the engine at different speeds. It skidded once. He began to work his accelerator against his brake.

Something was worrying him. He coasted into the pit area and stopped. He got out and looked at the tires.

There was a noise behind him. He turned.

A tough-looking camera crew was descending upon him! Five men. They were carrying rather old-looking equipment. They were filthy and unshaven. The obvious leader was a very hard egg.

"Your name Wister?" he bellowed.

I flinched. Was this Madison's idea of building his first C—Confidence? That crew looked like they were going to beat Heller up!

"We got a tip you gotta new fuel!" said the leader, maybe a reporter. "You better tell us all about it or we'll knock the hell out of you!"

I had caught a glimpse of Heller's feet as he drove and he was not wearing his baseball shoes! He was obviously not armed. He wasn't even holding a wrench.

"Are you from some paper?" said Heller.

"You said it, bud. We're sent here by 'Screw News' and you better start talking before we start hitting!"

"Where did you hear about any new fuel?" said Heller.

"Secretaries talk, bud, and don't you forget it! And it's time you commenced!"

"I don't wish to talk to you," said Heller.

"Jambo!" barked the leader. "Let him have it!"

The man carrying the battered old TV camera lowered it and charged Heller!

Heller's hand came up. The camera soared! Heller lashed out with one foot and Jambo's body went down the track so fast he looked like he was competing in a race! He fell in a heap.

The rest of the crew suddenly produced lead pipes!

"Wait a minute!" cried a voice. "Wait a minute! Desist, you rowdies!" It was Madison!

Neat, presentable, impeccably dressed, he suddenly interposed himself between the crew and Heller.

"You awful people go away and leave him alone!" said Madison. "Go on, at once, shoo, shoo, or I shall have to report you to the Reporter Ethics Committee!"

The crew slunk off. They picked up the camera and Jambo as they departed.

Madison turned to Heller. He dusted him off saying, "Oh, my," and "what thoroughly nasty oafs some reporters are." He did a good job of dusting even though there wasn't a speck on Heller's red racing suit.

"It was terribly fortunate I chanced to happen along," said Madison. "What paper did they say they were from?"

'"Screw News,'" said Heller.

"Dear, dear," said Madison. He was looking at Heller now in a sort of appealing way. "They did mention something about a new fuel. I couldn't help but overhear them. Is there a new fuel?"

"Who are you?" said Heller.

"Oh, I do apologize. I am J. Walter Madison, a mere freelance reporter. I write for Chemistry Today, a very conservative little paper. Just a freelance. But I can see that you have a problem. There has been a leak of news. The thing to do is make some little statement about it, something disparaging, then they'll stop bothering you. And you don't want to be bothered all the time by oafs such as those, I am sure."

"I sure don't," said Heller.

"I am fortunately in a position to help," said Madison. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"They call me Wister."

"Is that your full name?"

"Jerome Terrance Wister is that full name."

"Ah, well. I certainly do not want to force my attention on you, Mr. Wister. But I am afraid that now it has leaked, you will be bothered no end until you make some disparaging little statement. Is there a fuel?"

"Well, yes," said Heller. "But I was going to wait until I had graduated and people would listen to me."

"Oh, I quite understand. Of course they won't listen to just a student. So, to get them off you, why don't I make some little tut-tut statement in a conservative paper like Chemistry Today and they'll not bother you right now."

"Sounds sensible," said Heller.

"Good," said Madison. "Now, I was down here to do an interview on the effects of Non-Skid paint on asphalt. The asphalt has just been painted, you know. And I have a crew over there to take some pictures of the track. It would really be no trouble to rattle off some little story about some student who chanced upon the possibility of a new fuel—very low-key—and you'll be safe to go along and do your work and finish your education without press all over you. May I call over my crew?"

Heller shrugged. Madison took out a whistle and blew it.

Instantly a huge sound truck and three station wagons roared out from behind the grandstand and raced up. They were polished. They had signs on them, very modest, Chemistry Today. The crew alighted. They were clean, well groomed and professional. Very polite. Madison introduced them courteously and explained it wasn't an important story, just a favor he was doing. Maybe a little picture and a two-inch notice. The crew nodded understandingly.

The cameramen prepared to snap off a still.

Suddenly Madison raised his hand. "Wait, wait!" He turned to Heller. "Mr. Wister, you don't wear glasses. People associate glasses with learning. Would you mind if we put some glasses on you? To make you look learned? It's just a little snapshot."

Heller was amused.

"MAKEUP!" cried Madison.

Instantly a makeup man and two girl assistants came out of the huge truck. They set up a table with lighted mirrors. Madison took a pair of glasses. He put his finger through them, laughing. "See, no glass. But it makes you look studious." He put them on Heller. He stood back. "The jaw. It is too regular. It will arouse jealousy or women. MAKEUP!"

They quickly went to work on Heller's jaw. They made it protruding and pugnacious. Then the makeup man slid some large teeth into Heller's mouth.

Lighting men had been setting up.

"Just a little candid snapshot," said Madison. "The crew needs practice, you know. The paper probably won't even run it."

A backdrop was produced. Madison said, "Oh, dear, I'm late for my interview with Mr. Stampi. Do you mind, Mr. Wister, if my crew just practices a bit? They're a bit green. I won't be long." He left.

The crew posed Heller. They began to shoot with a high-powered, strobe-connected camera. They put a variety of hats on him, different helmets, a mortarboard. They asked for different expressions. Heller was mainly amused. But at their request, he was serious when they shot.

"We always make a little library of shots when we shoot and we lack practice," said the photographer. "You won't mind if we make some of these available on request?"

Heller looked at himself in their makeup mirror. He certainly didn't look like Heller. "Why not," he said.

The photographer gave him a model release to sign.

Then the crew chief said, "Mr. Madison is certainly taking his time."

"We could use it to practice our TV setup. The new one we never assembled," said their props man.

Quicker than a wink, they had what looked like an interior TV stage, backdrops, platform, mikes, all erected. They got Heller into some different coats—lab coats, street coats. And each time fired away with a TV camera.