The Jagged Orbit (33 page)

NINETY-SEVEN
BACKTRACK

Flamen looked from the looped-tape cut of Celia to the reality and back again, and tried with some puzzlement to analyze his own feelings. Something wrong . . . ? No, not wrong exactly; just not as he had expected. The fury he had felt at being deprived of his show by the new Holocosmic directorate—Gottschalk nominees, all of them, assembled hastily from half a dozen networks and cobbled into a spur-of-the-moment board —should have lasted indefinitely. To have a lifetime career snatched away ought to have created a lasting grudge.

But already, within less than a week, he was more relaxed than he had been for many years past, forgetting to worry about the future. Yes, that was it: the necessity kept slipping his mind.

He shook his head. Stretched out on a long lounge opposite him, Celia glanced up. "Is something the matter?" she inquired.

"Nothing," Flamen said in a tone of vague surprise. He went on looking at her. She had been here for two days now; she had simply arrived, unannounced, with all her baggage from Prior's place, and settled back into her own home as if there had been no discontinuity. She was completely free of the aftereffects of the drugs she had been given at the Ginsberg, as far as Flamen could tell, except that a certain tension had gone from her behavior; there was no hint of the snappishness which had colored her voice and expression for months on end before her hospitalization. Also they had had more pleasure in bed than he could recall at any previous time.

She seemed, in a word, happy.

Maybe it was just as well, Flamen told himself, that his plan to dislodge Mogshack from his position of influence had run aground on the weird confusion of last weekend. What
had
happened? Everything had been such a fantastic muddle of hard verifiable fact—like the news of the Gottschalks' new data-processing equipment and the unaccountable reference to "Robert" Gottschalk —with sheer unmitigated nonsense. But because of it, he had abandoned his intention of having Celia padded to Conroy's parameters, and it looked as though that was very lucky for him. No one could deny that Celia was better now than she had been for ages, perhaps better than during their entire married life.

He gave a contented little sigh. To have avoided making a fool of himself was something to be grateful for, of course, but to have Celia back, more than just cured, was still better.

A chime sounded from the vuset facing him, and he realized with a start that it was midday. The set had been fixed to switch itself on automatically and play his show, and he hadn't canceled the instruction because this was the first time he'd been home at noon since the Gottschalks bought the network; he'd been tied up in the office on all the previous days, sorting out the loose ends and making half-hearted inquiries about alternative employment.

Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure what use the new directorate was making of his vacant slot. He stared at the screen as it lit, and was astonished beyond measure to see a dark familiar face appear: Pedro Diablo.

"What in the
world?"
He was half on his feet. Countermanding the impulse with an effort, he sank back.

What could possibly underlie Diablo's taking over? Ready to be angry all over again, he waited while the station ID played through, and the introductory commercial for imported skimmers.

"This week," a sugary voice said over, "our noontide deep probe into the planet Earth is conducted by guest spoolpigeon Pedro Diablo!"

Crazy! Fantastic! Flamen's mouth finned into a bitter line. But Diablo was saying, "Friday, friends, and my last guest spot on this slot—next week back to your regular host, with whom I hope to have the privilege of collaborating for a while at least. So for the last solo time, here's your view of the world through kneeblank eyes ..."

Flick-flick, and on the screen the familiar fortress-like shape of the Ginsberg. Diablo over: "What lies behind the forced resignation of New York State Mental Hygiene Director Dr. Elias Mogshack?"

What?

And Mogshack, in his office, rock-still, eyes closed, a specimen of classic catatonia, every muscle frozen.

"Why, taking too seriously his own injunction about being an individual, it would seem," Diablo said in a tone of slashing irony. Flick-flick and reconstructed scenes, as good as any Flamen himself had ever mounted —reluctant professional admiration began to drive away his resentment, his bewilderment at the passing reference to the slot being "back to normal" next week, and the shock of the news about Mogshack's forced resignation. The director was seen and heard with Reedeth, screaming over a comweb that there was a plot to unseat him, threatening dismissal because Reedeth had allowed Xavier Conroy to enter the hospital.

"Sounds like Dr. Mogshack wanted to shut out the world an itsy bit too much," Diablo said judiciously as the screen reverted to the monstrous concrete bastion of the entire hospital. "Rumor says . . ."

And Mogshack with a Gottschalk Blazer in his hand covering the door of his office while Ariadne Spoelstra attempted to enter; firing, turning the door into smoldering ash; Reedeth tackling Ariadne like a football linebacker and bringing her down a fraction of a second before the fan-shaped beam would have seared her in half.

"There's that old bit about the physicians healing themselves," Diablo said. "I predict a massive state investigation of the Ginsberg Hospital's operation for the past several years—"

The comweb buzzed, and Flamen shouted at it to refuse the call. But the command was overridden, and in the screen appeared the bland face of Eugene Voigt. Seeing him, Flamen changed his mind instantly and shut down the sound on the vuset instead. He blurted, "Mr. Voigt, what in hell is going on at Holocosmic?"

"It would be more appropriate to inquire what is going on in the Gottschalk cartel," Voigt purred under the drooping screen of his walrus moustache. "I trust you'll be able to counteract the instructions you've presumably given for the discontinuance of your operations?"

"Yes, of course—I haven't done anything irrevocable, on the slim chance of being able to find work elsewhere. ... You fixed this reversal of the decision?"

"Not precisely," Voigt murmured. "But as you may or may not know, the order to buy out the majority holding in Holocosmic originated at a new and ultra-advanced data-processing center in Nevada, on which we have been keeping careful tabs since Mr. Anthony Gottschalk placed the contracts for it, and upon our discovering that a major malfunction was likely to develop we—ah —took steps to render repairs unusually difficult To be exact, we made certain that virtually the entire skilled maintenance staff of IBM was reserved for a PCC contract, and it worked very nicely. I've just been notified by Mr. Marcantonio Gottschalk himself that the purchase of Holocosmic and the cancellation of your show was an unauthorized decision and was this morning revoked by a substantial majority at a family discussion on his estate in New Jersey."

He paused, not smiling, but with his eyes narrowing in a network of pleased wrinkles. "Ah—I take it you are not displeased with the news?"

"Christ, it's fantastic!" Flamen exclaimed. "You're a sly bastard, Mr. Voigt, and I
mean that as a compliment."

Voigt gave a shrug and self-consciously adjusted the set of his right ear. "Our introverted epoch is not the happiest environment for a communications specialist, Mr. Flamen. One does what one can to reverse the trend away from person-to-person contact It's a necessary prerequisite for the continuation of one's career. By the way, I take it you haven't been watching the noon slot on Holocosmic this week?"

"I was so damned sick at the trick that had been played on me I couldn't have brought myself to. I didn't even know Diablo was taking over. Did you fix that?"

"Well, early last Monday morning a confidential request was filed by Mr. Marcantonio Gottschalk, who as titular head of the cartel was entitled to conduct informal negotiations concerned with the new diversified venture into vu-transmission, for someone to furnish an interim group of programs while a final decision on the content of the slot was being reached, and still being under the obligation imposed by the Washington-Black-bury contract we needed to find Mr. Diablo a suitable post
pro tem."
Voigt made an all-embracing gesture. "We did not comp that you would feel—ah—slighted by having a replacement of such notorious talent"

"Hell, no!" Flamen's eyes were on the vuset, not the comweb screen, and there was another reconstructed scene, this time showing the well-known chairman of Lares & Penates Inc. walking around a kneeblank-staffed factory producing plastic Lars. It was galling to have lost the chance to break that particular story, but it was a wise choice to help hold the audience for the interim week. Besides, the detail was exceptional, perhaps because Diablo had actually been to the factory in question. "How's he been doing, by the way?" he added.

"Very well, I understand. The blank audience has naturally been intrigued to see the celebrated knee spoolpigeon at work, and the figures are up by eight or nine percent. And, incidentally, a point which will no doubt interest you: there has been no interference on the show this week."

"That means it was the old Holocosmic directorate sabotaging us!"

"You may comp it how you wish, Mr. Flamen. I'm simply stating the fact."

Flamen hesitated. Reverting to the most important subject, he said, "But—but look: how did you manage to set the Gottschalks up? Or rather, the splinter group, I guess, who forced through the Holocosmic purchase."

"I think they set themselves up, Mr. Flamen." Voigt tugged absently at the lobe of his right ear again, detached it by mistake, and put it back with a hint of embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. But this is all very peculiar, Mr. Flamen. I'm still trying to get some sense out of our own computers, because we've had some highly improbable additional data fed into our circuits overnight. You know about Dr. Mogshack's breakdown?"

"Just saw about it on the vuset."

"Well, this of course is a major scandal, and Federal mental hygiene experts have been called in. Among other things they opened the data-banks of the Ginsberg to the Federal data-processing network, and analysis of the information we've acquired is going to take a very long time. It looks as though—possibly because for some while one of the inmates has been doing the servicing there—some nonsensical notions have been plugged in as pure gospel. For instance ..."

"What?"

"Well, I've been trying to make sense of this all morning and so far I've run into a brick wall. I asked about the cessation of interference on the Holocosmic noon slot, and I was referred to a block of data newly acquired from the Ginsberg." Voigt checked. "Is something wrong, Mr. Flamen?"

"I—I don't know." Vivid in memory, the suppressed recollection of the automatics in Reedeth's office telling him that Mrs. Celia Prior Flamen possessed the ability to interfere with electromagnetic radiation in the bands used for...

But it was absurd. It had to be absurd.

Yet he could hear Voigt continuing, while on the screen of the vuset a commercial was playing silently— not the one for Guardian traps which ordinarily filled this spot. Of course, one could hardly expect Diablo to put up with a
clip that showed a fellow kneeblank being painfully done to death.

"It all led back eventually to a prognosis for your wife, Mr. Flamen, a statement to the effect that she could somehow—ah—interfere with your appearances on the vu-beams, and was resentful of her own ability because on the conscious level she knew how much you valued your work. It further said that when she found a way to employ this talent for, rather than against, you, she would be completely recovered." Voigt gave a deprecating smile. "To think that something of that kind could actually be included in the data-banks of a major State hospital! If it's typical of what will be turned up by the inquiry into Mogshack's administration, it's not too soon to get him out, in my view."

But Flamen wasn't listening. He was staring now at Celia, completely relaxed on the long lounge, eyes closed.

Effortfully, he said, "Mr. Voigt, will you do me a favor?"

"If possible," Voigt agreed politely.

"Will you check the Federal computers about—?" He stopped. It was so ridiculous! He was going to make a fool of himself if he said one more word. And yet he couldn't prevent his lips and tongue from finishing the sentence.

"Will you check them about Robert Gottschalk's breakdown, see if by any outside chance what you're told leads you back to the same block of data?"

"Ah . . . Yes, by all means, if you think it's worth—" Voigt, in his turn, broke off short. "Mr. Flamen, I'm accustomed to thinking of you as a particularly well-informed person, but how in the
world
did you know that the Gottschalk computer was nicknamed 'Robert'? Even members of the cartel were kept in ignorance of that fact unless they had already pledged their unquestioning support to the faction led by Anthony Gottschalk!"

I
was told by a madman out of the Ginsberg.

But Flamen could not compel himself to that admission. He kept enigmatic silence, while his mind churned.
If Madison was right about that, could he have been right about other things? And could the Ginsberg automatics ...?

He stared at Celia, wondering if that was the truth— wondering if her cure had happened the moment she came to peer over the shoulder of her brother and was told that Holocosmic had been bought out by the Gottschalks and there would be no more Matthew Flamen Show.

That would be a way to make her talent work for, instead of against him: fouling up the ultra-complex computer....

But he couldn't convince himself. He could only put up with the ghost of the suspicion that it might have happened like that

Voigt said with new briskness, "Well, that leaves just one further point, Mr. Flamen, apart from congratulating you on the restoration of your show to normal as of Monday next. Will you—ah—will you be willing to continue working in collaboration with Mr. Diablo? I sounded him out informally and he says he's prepared to if you are. For some reason, in spite of the deposition of Mayor Black—"