by Herman Wouk
In one corner of this pleasing panorama of spontaneity there was an inharmonious detail of planning. Directly in front of the station stood three busses, evidently waiting to take the people of the Fold to the studio. This transportation had always been furnished by the Marquis Company in special busses festooned with Aurora Dawn slogans, as these machines clearly were not; and the one clue to the identity of the thoughtful provider of them was the presence in front of them of a small sound-truck displaying the trademark of Republic’s bitter rival, the United States Broadcasting System. The reader will gain special insight into the mystery on learning that there sat beside the driver of this truck a little, pale, sour-visaged man who surveyed the mob with satisfaction while he flicked a ring round and round the third finger of his left hand.
Round and round went Tom Leach’s ring; and round and round the circle of twelve jet balls went the second hand of the Republic Broadcasting Company’s clock. Quarter past seven, proclaimed the generous angle of the hands. The tall masts atop the building silently poured into the void a series of electric waves that were translated by receiving sets into the Lily Maid Cold Cream Serenade. Now there were left only the Claridge Balloon Tire Circus and Aurora Dawn’s own Bob Steele Frolic in the crumbling barrier of time between the present moment and Father Stanfleld’s scheduled appearance; and in Chester Legrand’s offices directly under the great masts, an eleventh-hour council grimly sat. The dramatis personae were those of Thursday, less the Messrs. Stanfield, Pennington, and Leach, who were elsewhere engaged. Andrew Reale, hurriedly called from the last rehearsal of Marquis’s substitute musical program, sat in his shirt sleeves, looking young, overfatigued and miserable; having learned through the newspapers of the startling misfortune of the Englishes, he had been making regular, useless efforts to ascertain their condition, and had, indeed, been at a telephone vainly trying to reach Mrs. Beaton when the page boy came with the instruction to conduct him to Legrand’s office. Seldom had Andrew responded to a summons and sat down to a crucial task with less heart. Beside him the loyal Grovill slouched in his chair, head in hands, clothes drooping around his bulk as though he had lost twenty pounds. Van Wirt and the lawyer, Morphee, sat stiffly and silently opposite them. At either end of the table, Legrand and Marquis confronted each other. Legrand’s face was drawn into sharp business lines, and his gray hair was unkempt. Marquis had clasped his hands before him to still a trembling, and he was glowering out from under his eyebrows. The air of the room was heavy with the staleness of cigars and smoke.
“I will not retreat one inch,” the soap maker was saying in a voice muffled with passion and raised almost to soprano pitch. “I am the master of Aurora Dawn’s policy and I have to apologize to nobody for what I have done. Furthermore, I consider that I have made no mistakes and done nothing unjust or ill-considered, and if I had it to do over again I would proceed exactly as I have done up to the present. My decision regarding Stanfleld stands.”
“At the risk of repeating myself let me point out to you,” said Legrand, running his fingers through his hair, “that your decision involves not only your own policy but that of the Republic Broadcasting Company. We, as well as you, will have to answer to the public for barring the preacher from the air. You are forcing on us the necessity of deciding whether to back you or back him–”
“I don’t agree that any such choice exists for you,” Marquis interrupted. “Under a legal contract I have paid you your stated price for this radio time and it is mine to do with as I will. Your action is limited to carrying out my desires with your technical facilities. If the public is stupid enough to blame you for what I do, well, that’s a risk you run in the broadcasting business.”
Legrand drew out of his breast pocket a rumpled yellow envelope. “Immediately before I called you,” he said, “I received among the thousands of protests that have been jamming our office activities, this wire from Bill Wing, chairman of the Federal Communications Commission. Let me read it to you.” He smoothed the message reverently before him on the table and read aloud: “Receiving demands from high officials to take action in Stan-field case. Urge you persuade Marquis allow him broadcast as only way to quell newspaper talk. If he is barred we may be compelled conduct inquiry. Wing.”
Marquis emitted a sound like that of a seal clearing its nostrils upon emerging from water. “Naturally,” he added in elaboration of the sound, “the radicals in the government want this radical Stanfield to be given a chance to spread his propaganda. That radical mob at Penn Station has the same idea. I’m not impressed by anything that radicals in or out of the government may care to say about my business.”
“It would be a happy day for the radicals,” said Legrand, “if you were correct in enrolling under their banner everyone who disagrees with you. Bill Wing, however, is state treasurer of the New Jersey Republican Committee.”
“It wouldn’t matter to me,” shouted Marquis, waving a shaking hand at Legrand, “if he were Herbert Hoover. Neither he nor anybody else but myself can dictate policy to the company of which I am president.”
(The reader is reminded that all quotations of Mr. Marquis’s conversation are inaccurate in so far as they have been pruned of certain interjections which ladies and children could not possibly understand. Color and emphasis are lessened thereby. On the other hand, this volume may be safely left in parlors frequented by youngsters who have learned to read but not to discriminate– a recommendation not lightly made for all modern novels. But to go on:)
“Public opinion dictates to all of us who are in business,” said Legrand. “Our firms exist by public favor. Public opinion can force this company to act against the wishes of a client.”
“Grovill!” said Marquis sharply. The fat man started as though coming out of slumber and turned a white, sagging face to his employer, who proceeded, “Please go to your office now and prepare the necessary papers to transfer the three Aurora Dawn shows with Republic to the United States Broadcasting System.”
“Yes, sir,” said Grovill, looking around in bewilderment and not moving.
“One moment,” interposed Morphee, the tall old lawyer, in church-organ tones. “I’m quite certain that Mr. Legrand was not suggesting that his company would fail to meet its contractual obligations. He was merely advising a client, as I’m sure you will agree he should, what he considers the wisest course to be followed in a situation which is, I’m sure you will confess, both unprecedented and delicate–”
The telephone beside Legrand interrupted this memorable dialogue. Legrand picked up the receiver. As he listened, his eyes widened, and he stared fearfully at his desk clock, which showed seven-thirty-five. Properly to convey to the reader the shocking news he was hearing, we must shift scenes again in mid-chapter, and return to the Pennsylvania Station; grant the writer the latitude of the moving pictures and come along.
Some ten minutes before this instant (it is impossible, almost, to tell a tale of radio without the aid of a chronometer, such is the terrible urgency of Time in that queer new trade), Father Stanfield and his Fold had arrived by train and had emerged into the tumultuous, torch-lit, good-natured riot on Seventh Avenue. At once Tom Leach leaped to the roof of his sound truck with a portable microphone, and shouted in a voice amplified to the strength of thunder, “He’s here, folks!” at which the host sent up a shout that tore the concave of the night. While the farm people were filing through the crowd to the busses, Leach danced around on top of the truck howling, “Your attention, please!” As the jubilation subsided, he spoke thus, every syllable booming out in a Niagara of sound:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am speaking for the United States Broadcasting System. In order to prove that American free-enterprise radio does not endorse the suppression of freedom of speech and religion, USBS proudly announces that if Father Stanfield is still barred from the Aurora Dawn hour at 8:30, he can broadcast his sermon through this very microphone over our nationwide facilities, by courtesy of Lustro-Dent Toothpaste, which has glad
ly yielded its time!”
The outburst of joy which followed this announcement has never been forgotten by those who saw it. The college boys snakedanced, the women wept, the men cheered, the children ran about screaming, the communists tore their banners to shreds, cascades of paper poured down from the windows of the surrounding hotels, and a small brass band (which Leach had judiciously provided) blared out a blood-curdling martial tune. Father Stanfield climbed to the top of the truck and clasped hands with the pale little man, setting off fresh paroxysms of happiness in the throng.
What must have been the sensations of Tom Leach as he stood atop the shaking truck, stared at by eighty thousand eyes, hearing roars of applause for himself from forty thousand throats? Did he thank any deity for having granted him the strength to challenge Marquis at last? Did he congratulate himself for having gone to the president of USBS on the day that Marquis had humbled him, to tell him the story, offer his services and propose the daring scheme which was now bursting into bloom so brilliantly? Did he regret cutting at a blow his twenty-year partnership with Grovill? Did he see the road, lying straight and dusty before him to the grave, which he must trudge yoked to a wife who would not forgive him his costly excursion into moral principle? A historian limited to external facts can answer none of these questions; he can only relate that as Tom Leach looked around at the swarm of happy faces and felt the grip of Father Stanfield’s great hand, he gave his ring one mighty flick which thrust it off his finger and sent it spinning and glittering through the air to everlasting loss in the black street; whereupon he looked around wildly, and then burst into the first whole-souled laugh he had uttered since his young days.
And so it was that the triumphal procession of Father Stanfield and his Fold set forth toward the Republic Building ten blocks away, the sound truck and busses rolling slowly in the van, the brass band and the gay mob following behind in a continuing display of merriment and satisfaction, while the police, in obedience to an order from the mayor (who was a great admirer of the Faithful Shepherd) cleared the streets before the oncoming mass and kept order while it passed. It was at this moment that an assistant of Legrand, posted at the scene, telephoned to transmit these developments in a shaky voice, taking care to explain very plainly the ingenious move that USBS had made to turn the crisis to its advantage.
So much less time did it take him to tell the news than it does a painstaking author, that when Legrand hung up the receiver and drew his eyes away from his desk clock, that honest timepiece read only seven-thirty-seven. He swiftly repeated the tidings, to the consternation of his hearers; then he went on with some sternness, “It must be clear even to you, Mr. Marquis, that we now have no alternative. Reale,” he added, turning to our hero, “the Faithful Shepherd program will be broadcast as originally scheduled. Please go down to the studio and make the necessary arrangements quickly.”
“Reale, stay where you are,” said Marquis in an extremely high voice. “Legrand, I will deal in my own way with USBS for stabbing me in the back when they have nine and a half million dollars of my business, and I assure you that you will profit greatly by the steps I will take against them, if you stand by me now. I still want Stanfield kept off my hour.”
Legrand and his lawyer exchanged a brief glance, and the radio man thrust his fingers once quickly through his hanging gray hair. “It’s no use, Mr. Marquis,” he said. “Permitting USBS to pose as the only free-speech network would damage Republic far beyond your ability to repay us. Go ahead, Reale.”
“Hold on!” shouted Marquis. “I serve you notice that I will at once withdraw all Aurora Dawn accounts from you and sue you for deliberate breach of contract.”
“I anticipate both actions,” said Legrand.
“You will thank Mr. Legrand in a cooler moment,” interjected the lawyer, “for overriding what is, and I’m certain you will some day say so, obviously an emotional and irrational decision on your part. He is taking the only step that can save both Republic and Aurora Dawn from the most serious damage in the sphere of public relations. I say again, and I am sure you will eventually agree, you owe him gratitude for his–”
Marquis interrupted to reply at some length to this observation, but his answer, due to the stated limitations of the historian, must go entirely unrecorded. He was concluding his retort for want of breath when Legrand said to Reale impatiently, “Please go ahead, my boy. We’ve very little time.”
Our hero had sat dully during the debate, confident that the result would be, as always, submission to Marquis. Only halflistening, he had given himself up to painful reflections on the subject of his erstwhile sweetheart, Laura. He had been startled out of this reverie by the news about USBS. Rapidly calculating his position, he realized that if Marquis broke with Republic all would be over for his clever plans; he, a Republic man, would be received as a leper in the soap man’s household thereafter. Since the abruptly broken meeting with Carol, he had been prevented by the turmoil of events from seeing her for more than a few minutes at a time, and nothing was decided between them. To be cut off from the shallow, heedless youngster would be to lose his hold over her in a month, he reasoned, thus missing the gamble after an alarming investment of self-respect and personal felicity. In this wise, if not in these words, did the gallant Andrew hastily judge his footing, whereupon he rose and spoke thus:
“Mr. Legrand, although it is scarcely my place to do so, permit me to urge you to reconsider, before it is too late. It seems to me we are breaking faith with Mr. Marquis, and no business can long survive that breaks faith.”
“Andy!” wailed Van Wirt. “Be quiet and do as you’re told. Discuss it another time.” The others seemed too amazed to react.
“By your leave, Mr. Van Wirt,” went on the brave young man, “I feel too strongly about this to be silent. I am a very small fish, but I have my scruples. Mr. Legrand,” he said appealingly, “if your orders to me are still to break our contract with Mr. Marquis and arrange to let Father Stanfield broadcast, please be kind enough to release me from those orders or accept my resignation. I cannot comply.”
Marquis, who had listened with an open mouth, now cleared his throat and violently swore it was wonderful to see that there was still a man’s man in the Republic organization. Legrand immediately said, “I’m sorry, Reale, because I understand you worked well. Your resignation is accepted.” He turned to Van Wirt. “Bill, see to the broadcast, will you? It’s extremely late.” With a sorrowful glance at Andy, and many rueful sighs and shakes of the head, the bereaved sales manager proceeded to comply.
Marquis walked to Andrew Reale and put his arm around his shoulder. “You’ll never regret it,” he said. “Come, get your jacket and we’ll listen to”–he threw an ill-wishing look at Legrand– “our broadcast in the sponsor’s booth. Carol will be there to meet us.” He started out, leading our hero, while Grovill pulled himself to his feet and dogged his employer wearily. Marquis, with his hand on the doorknob, remarked over his shoulder, “Walter, I want you to work with the legal staff all night tonight if it is necessary so that Mr. Legrand may have his notice of cancellation of our contracts at eight o’clock Monday morning.” Grovill said, “Yes, sir,” in an empty tone, as he followed his defeated lord out and closed the door.
These are the true events that underlay the great Aurora Dawn riot, and its ending in complete victory for free speech, free religion, and every other description of freedom which, on the following day, the newspapers said had been vindicated. Accompanied by a thousand mob antics of exultation, Father Stanfield and his Fold came to the Republic Building, were welcomed graciously by the staff and went on the air in due course of time, exactly as though the tempestuous occurrences narrated here had never happened; had, indeed, been no more than a dream, dreamed by Laura English, as she lay in drugged sleep in the Mercy Hospital, a few blocks away. This history would like to pause and watch by her bedside, but it must move on faithfully to recount what was actually contained in the cataclysmic sermon, “The
Hog in the House,” and what happened to the universe when it was uttered.
CHAPTER 23
“The Hog in the House.”
NOBODY CAN EXPLAIN THE FACT that radio works. Turn your dial and cause sounds; you are performing as improbable a deed as the stopping of the sun by Joshua or the splitting of the sea by Moses.
Hold, before you throw this book into the wastebasket, and ask any scientist whether action at a distance is possible, that is, exerting force in one place and causing effects in another place without an intervening medium to transmit the force. Then, when he has told you (quoting Newton) no, of course it isn’t possible, ask him what the medium is that transmits radio waves. He will either answer that nobody can say yet, thus confirming the first sentence of this chapter, or, if he regards you as an easy mark, he will reply “Ether,” and quickly change the subject. Let us not use space here to jeer at ether, the most flogged of all whipping-boy hypotheses ever brought into the court of science in the absence of His Royal Highness, Truth. If you happen not to be familiar with the subject, glance at the disheartened discussion of ether in a current encyclopedia. Ether, if it exists, is apparently an even less digestible miracle than the plague of frogs or the perpetually oxidizing Burning Bush.
This moral history has no quarrel with miracles, either of radio or the Bible; let other pens maintain scientific and religious heresies. It is merely sought here to point out how peculiarly fitting it was that Father Calvin Stanfield, a believer in the old miracles which people will not recognize for lack of evidence, should make use of the new miracle of radio, which people will not recognize because there is too much evidence. Probably this mysterious device was never more appropriately employed than when it spread forth, from the little metal box in front of the Shepherd’s mouth into every inhabited corner of the continent, the address called, “The Hog in the House.”