Mission: Earth "The Enemy Within" (42 page)

Madison came running back, puffing. "I'm sorry I'm late. Oh, dear, what are you amateurs up to? Mr. Wister, I do apologize." He sat down in a chair on the platform. "They are so enthusiastic in their practicing. Well, as long as we're sitting here, you can tell me about the new fuel."

"Well," said Heller, "the planet does need one."

They chatted amiably. The camera appeared to be all on Heller and grinding!

Madison talked about anything and everything, all very banal. Heller answered conversationally. Now and then a costume man rushed in and changed his coat.

Finally, Madison turned to the crew. "That's enough practice today. We have work to do. Scrap all that film."

"Oh, it's expensive!" said the photographer. "Can't I keep it for my personal library?"

"Good heavens," said Madison, "I hope you have film left for the real reason we came!" He looked sad suddenly.

"I'm afraid I will be in trouble. We came to shoot Non-Skid paint and Mr. Stampi has no cars. All we can shoot is just black paint. It doesn't make much of a picture."

Madison got up. "Put all this away," he ordered. "Start shooting pictures of the black track."

"Oh, that won't make any picture!" said the photographer. "We'll all get ourselves fired!"

Suddenly Madison snapped his fingers. "Mr. Wister, I know it's a lot to ask. It won't take but a moment. Could you drive your car along there and put on the brakes a little bit and make it skid?"

Heller shrugged. Madison looked so honest and so appealing, sort of like a spaniel, that Heller said, "All right."

He drove the Cadillac out on the track. The crew took positions. Heller did as he was told.

"Didn't get it!" said the camera operator. "I need more speed. More zip."

Heller was amused. He wanted to try some driving anyway. He made the Caddy skid and spin. He amused himself.

They were having trouble getting the right angles.

Heller stopped at the pit. Madison wanted some pictures of the tires. Then Heller went out again.

He did a whole circle of the track. Just in front of the cameras, he slammed on the brakes. He was only doing about sixty.

Sideways went the Caddy!

Rubber screamed!

BANG!

The front left tire blew!

The Caddy careened, lurched, almost overturned!

Heller fought the wheel!

He came to a stop inches from a barricade. Smoke from the wrecked rubber rose.

He got out and looked. There was rubber all over the track, not much to tell from it.

He got a jack and a new wheel from his truck. He was working on changing the tire.

"Is it all right if we keep that for our library?" the photographer asked him.

"You shouldn't say yes," said Madison to Heller. "They pool everything they shoot with every photo library in town. I don't have any control over what they do with their films."

The chief cameraman began to rave. "(Bleep) you, Madison! That was a good shot! If I don't get some shots today, I'll be fired!"

Heller shrugged.

"Well, all right," Madison told him. "But you should be careful, Mr. Wister. Oh, yes. One thing. You can keep those glasses and those teeth. For your own safety, you should wear them if other photographers come around. I don't think they will, of course. I do thank you for your help today."

"Thank you for yours," said Heller.

They shook hands.

Madison and his crew left.

Me? I didn't get it. This Madison was mild as milk. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what he was up to. Then I had a clue. Confidence. He had spent all that time building Heller's confidence in him. I thought it was pretty inane. Bury had overestimated the danger in Madison, that was for sure.

For two whole days, watching the viewer or replaying its strips, there was no slightest sign of J. Walter Madison. I began to think he was just a fizzle and that I myself would have to get in there.

Heller was working on his carburetor. He had stored the Caddy and trailer in a garage in Spreeport. He had brought over the old Caddy engine on its trailer and put together a little shop. It was not very far from New York and Bang-Bang was happily driving him back and forth in the old cab. He usually got to his Empire State Building office around four each day.

He was making too much progress. I was worried.

On the third afternoon, just as he sat down at his desk, J. Walter Madison sailed in. He was very conservatively dressed, very mild of manner, smooth of voice: an epitome of the most socially acceptable young man you ever cared to meet.

He greeted Heller politely. He said he was sorry to bother him but Heller might be interested in the Chemistry Today, just out, and here were a dozen copies for his files.

Heller opened it. The item was a two-inch-square picture on the next to last page, down at the bottom. It said, Jerome Terrance Wister, a young student, plans to make a career of finding a cheap fuel. That was all. The picture, however, was one of Heller in glasses with a pugnacious jaw and buckteeth. It did not look the least like Heller. It amused him.

In reply to thanks, Madison said, "It was a great temptation to say more. There are rumors all around about this new fuel. I don't know where they are coming from. My editors wanted me to put it more strongly because of tips they'd gotten. But I said no. Mr. Wister, if you need any help or advice about publicity, be sure to phone me. I fear someone is getting excited about this fuel." He gave Heller a card with a phone number on it. "Papers can get quite hyperbolical. I don't have any influence, being just a freelance, but I may be able to give you some tips to keep you from straying into some of the pits and traps of the press." They shook hands warmly and Madison was on his way.

I thought I had better have a copy myself. I went down to the newsstand. "Chemistry Today?" said the hotel-lobby news vendor. "Never heard of it." He looked up in a big book they apparently kept for out-of-town guest queries. He phoned Hotaling's Foreign Newspaper Center down on 42nd Street. "Can't find it," he said. "And they never heard of it. Must be some little, tiny house organ."

I was relieved. Heller's "great discovery" was buried in a newspaper nobody had ever heard of. Great! I saw Madison's strategy now. It was simply to prevent a whisper of news. Clever. He, I supposed, would lay all over the media like a blanket. Good man! I was sorry I had doubted him.

The next morning, having ascertained that Utanc apparently was not up, I was breakfasting in the penthouse sitting room, the hazy autumn sun warm through the glass, feeling at peace. I opened up the Daily Fits to find Bugs Bunny.

I gaped!

On page two, there was that weird picture of Heller.

STUDENT DISCOVERS CHEAP FUEL

SAYS WILL REVOLUTIONIZE AUTOS

J. T. Wister, an undergraduate, claims to have found a magic fuel. It is very cheap.

Known to his classmates as the "Whiz Kid," a twist on the name "Wister," he already has a considerable reputation for brilliance.

When asked about the fuel, he modestly said, "It will revolutionize the whole industrial world, the whole automotive industry, as well as our entire culture."

I seethed! (Bleep) that Madison! This was one story he hadn't blanketed. The worst of it was, it was TRUE!

If Heller began to use atomic conversion, it wasn't one cheap fuel he'd have but thousands!

I rushed down to the news vendor and got every daily paper they had! On page two or page three in every one of them, same story! Varied in word formation. But the same story!

I tried to call Madison. His mother said he was out. I raged. I paced back and forth. This was the thing which mustn't happen! He really was going to make Heller famous!

A walk in Central Park cooled me off somewhat. I returned and passed the lobby newsstand.

Slime Weekly News Magazine had just been delivered. The vendor was opening the packet.

And there on the front cover was Heller! Glasses, buckteeth and all!

Same story! It was now going national!

Believe me, I didn't sleep well that night!

In the morning, it was worse!

The out-of-town papers were carrying it. And the New York papers had moved him up to page one!

They were all calling Heller the "Whiz Kid" now!

Gods! Madison had blown it!

I phoned. His mother said he was still out. I said in a deadly voice, "He better not be out!"

"Oh, is this Mr. Smith?" she said. "Mr. Smith, he wants you to come to 42 Mess Street, the loft!"

I made sure my Colt Python .357 Magnum-.38 Special was fully loaded. No wonder people wanted to shoot this Madison! He was incompetent! And now he must be hiding out!

A cab rushed me downtown into the industrial west side. Gritting my teeth, I went down an alley. There sat that Excalibur! The chrome exhaust pipes were all polished. A man was sitting in it. He had one arm in a sling. It was Jambo! The one that had tried to attack Heller with the camera!

"You Smith?" he said, holding a sawed-off leopard in his good hand. This was a strange turn of events. I eased sideways and got ready to draw, wondering if I could beat that leopard.

"Hey, Smith!" yelled a voice from above. It was Madison leaning out one of those tipped industrial windows.

"You're expected," said Jambo.

I went up some dirty flights. I entered a huge loft.

It was JAMMED with people and typewriters and desks. Birds with their hats on the back of their heads and cigarettes drooping from their mouths were giving typewriters a pounding. Others were rushing about, some with mail sacks sealed to go. News teleprinters were chattering against one wall. BUSY!

Madison was standing just inside the door to an office at the end. I walked through the turmoil, choked a bit by the marijuana smoke but more choked with rage.

He was bright and hot-eyed. "How do you like it? It was all I could get at a moment's notice!"

"You're making him FAMOUS!" I shouted at him.

He looked a little puzzled. "Why, of course! Quote Madison always does his job unquote subhead Famous Public Relations Expert..." He broke off. Then he said, "You still seem cross!"

"Of course I'm cross!" I screamed at him.

"My mother said you sounded cross this morning on the phone. So I thought I had better show you. Those men out there are thirty of the most imaginative reporters I could find out of work on short notice. They're writing and sending out news releases about the 'Whiz Kid' to every paper in the world. I've got Wister's confidence. I am giving him lots of coverage. You don't approve?"

"You know what you were really hired for," I grated.

He frowned. He sat down in a rickety chair. Then he said, "I understand, Mr. Smith. I will mend my ways. You'll see tomorrow!"

I went off. I was glad he had gotten the point.

The (bleeping) fool would have made Heller a folk hero or something if he had kept going on with his stupid campaign! A famous Heller was something we DID NOT NEED!

Confident that all would now be well, I retired that night and slept peacefully.

The Bentley Bucks Deluxe always put a morning paper on any breakfast tray—perhaps to take attention off the fact that the two-dollar ounce of orange juice was out of a tin can. I was developing what psychologists call a newspaper-anxiety syndrome, a common ailment on Earth these days, one which is responsible for the majority of commitments to mental institutions. The symptoms are you feel fine and cheerful and then you catch a glimpse of any corner of a newspaper, like under a dog's dish, and you begin to shake; it is only after you look at some of the type that vertigo extremis sets in.

That was exactly what happened to me. The ounce of orange juice was halfway to my lips when I saw the lead story:

WHIZ KID

CHALLENGES

OIL COMPANIES

In an exclusive statement to the New York Yuk, the Whiz Kid today asked, "How come America and the world is letting itself get gypped by the oil companies?"

Spokesmen for the Seven Brothers, which includes Octopus Oil Company as their acknowledged senior, said, "We are only public service organizations. The cost of oil is such that we have done everything possible to cut it. Such accusations are common."

The story went on. I was shaking so that I couldn't see the type to finish it.

I rushed into the hall, realized I had no bathrobe on, rushed back and put on an overcoat and then phoned for a bellhop to bring up a copy of every newspaper in the stand.

Crouched on the floor, I went over them. They all carried the story. The only difference was that the name of the paper had been changed in the first line. The Whiz Kid had made the statement exclusively forty times, to forty different papers including the Garment Daily Worker.

I must be calm, I told myself. Then I realized that Madison, of course, had not had time to stop the story. It takes a few hours to set a newspaper into type and he probably had not been able to stop it.

The viewer was sitting there. How was Heller taking this? Sometimes he stopped by his office before leaving for the speedway.

Yes, there he was. He had newspapers spread all over his desk. Shortly, he picked up his gloves, ready to leave. Izzy was coming in the door. Heller went back to his desk.

"Where is all this coming from?" demanded Heller.

Izzy looked very sad. "A publicist would say you have caught the public fancy."

"But I didn't make any such statement!"

Izzy shrugged and then made a circular motion with his finger around his temple. "That's newspapers."

"What do I do about it?"

"Leave for South America," said Izzy with sudden interest. "I can get you a ticket on the first flight out."