by Philip Wylie
Something buzzed in Glenn’s mind. He saw the President and the scene was his mnemonic. The President had suggested that the scientists at this secret meeting had been “blackmailed” into attending. At the time, Glenn had not given much notice to the word. Lightly spoken, he’d thought of it as meaning something other—an arm-twisting effort at persuasion to get these nine away from their labs. A selling effort. Now, he knew what had been meant.
There were nine high-level research scientists in the room. All were dependent on grants for their work—donations, federal appropriations, and university funds, as well as massive disbursements from industries that expected, or at least hoped, to gain some future knowledge that might be applied in their enterprises. The twenty-five industrialists here, with their industrialist friends, and friends in politics, with their lobbies and that kind of power, could plainly do grave damage to the research of these nine specialists representing ninety thousand, by simply spreading the word. Cut the grants. Leave out this University. Shut down on that Institute. Get congress to put such-and-such money in something else.
Blackmail.
Nothing else.
And the nine men present were clearly aware of the fact now. They looked ill.
The afternoon passed.
The fighting grew more intense. The scientists who had not yet presented their views now encountered total hostility. Some fought back, like Bush. Others tried to temporize, to soothe the hostile industrialists even when they had to take back their own true assertions for that end. It was, to Glenn, sickening. About four thirty, the end came.
Bush stood, in the midst of a squabble over metalurgical plant effluents and said, loudly, acidly, above the palaver, “I wish to say, gentlemen, that I am leaving. Mr. Cooper, will you make the arrangements? My proposed stay through one more day is, obviously, a waste. I expected to be treated as what I am, an authority in a limited field. Just as others, here, are authorities in mining, manufacturing, lumbering, shipping, and whatnot. I would never argue with your knowledgeable statements in your industries. That you argue with me, and us, is—well—childish. This is a free nation and our information is solid, open and vital. We shall continue to spread it every way we can. I shall thank our host for his—extreme hospitality. Beyond that, I have no thanks to offer and no amiable words. In the present, general mood, your sacred ‘progress’ will go on, until we educate the masses to its perils, or until you begin to slaughter them by your idiot refusal to face reality. You are assumed to be hard-headed, straight-thinking, objective leaders of great enterprises. I call you juvenile and I call you fools.”
Two and then three scientists rose to join Bush.
Cooper, who had listened to Bush with a half-smile, now said, “I am sorry, gentlemen. I deeply appreicate your efforts, as scientists, to educate us, us infantile and moronic businessmen. I think all nine of you might better leave. When you’ve gone, perhaps the atmosphere will be less invidious—and personal—and we who sit here, then, may be able to benefit from your information—with the heat off.”
It seemed, momentarily, possible, to Glenn.
But when Cooper escorted his nine guests from the room, the remaining men reacted in a way Glenn hadn’t expected.
Words and bits of statements, of questions, flashed from man to man too fast to discern their source.
“Suppose those bastards talk?”
“What do you mean?”
“Spread word of these sessions! Tell the world the bunch of us are here to figure out how to shut them up. Or, at least, how to go on with business and avoid the whole ecology load?”
“They won’t. Coop guaranteed that.”
“How could he?”
“Coop? He can. He promised they’d deny they’d been here, if need be. He’s a man who knows more ways to skin cats than Daniel Boone.”
“Well, at least we got the bulk of what Rufus promised. We know the enemy, his positions and what he plans. That’s a help.”
“When my dad had the company, no college type ever thought of telling him he mustn’t cut down trees! Jesus!”
“Or drill for oil? So Santa Barbara gets a smearing. So what? Would they give up their cars, tomorrow, all of ’em, to keep a California town free of a little oil?”
“Or stop using electricity.”
Rufus Cooper returned. He seemed undisturbed as he sat down and waited for silence.
“My staff is getting them off,” he chuckled. “It was a bit hotter than I expected. Have to admire some of them. Spit in your face, knowing you could cut them down to earlevel. Well, friends, you heard most of the major story. Now we can get down to the problem. How do we handle these Jeremiahs and their growing habit of frightening Joe and Joan Doakes out of their wits?”
There was a general murmur of relief and of grim intent, too.
Cooper broke that up genially. “Getting on. I suggest we begin our strategy session in the morning. Meantime, we need … recreation. Be my guests. Nine, then, say?”
And the response was a shuffling of chairs, a standing up, stretching, a yawn or two and some muttered curses—all, ending by a boylike charge for the doors—and what lay beyond.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NIGHT THAT FALLS
Glenn couldn’t sleep.
He’d had a ride on the hot desert with two other men—and a dude-pushing cowboy, “for safety,” unneeded by Glenn. He’d swum. He’d bathed and changed. There were cocktails on the air-conditioned patio of the main house during a desert sunset that was gaudy, violent and unfelt in the cool, fresh air of the enclosure. Dinner: more alcoholic and boisterous than Glenn liked, but, still, not atypical. The twenty-five men like himself had hosted too many lavish conventions, sales sessions and “special” parties (for commercial ends, always) to fail to be able to participate in that sort of masculine, woman-aimed fun.
As the liqueurs were served and the coffee, Cooper announced the evening’s possibilities.
“We’re having stag movies, and then a live stag show, at ten, in the theatre. Nobody needs to attend. Any man who prefers, can go to bed in his quarters and not be disturbed. The rooms have libraries, TV, and music—tapes and taped films, assorted as to, ah, entertainment quality.” They hooted at that news. “If you have found a … companion and wish to retire with her—assuming it’s a ‘her’—do so. If you haven’t met a special friend but would like to, we shall shortly join our ladies and your option is total.” Applause from the drunkest. “There are books in every little library, of all kinds. My personal physician, whom you’ve met, will be in attendance through the night and into morning, in case of hangovers requiring a little soothing—or abatement. I haven’t pointed out to all of you that, also, each suite is equipped with a set of buttons, convenient to the beds. You will note that various services are available with a push of the appropriate button.
“If what you like to drink, from gin to genuine absinthe, isn’t in your private bar, ring for it. But in that case, we may not have it since I have provided you with only every brand and variety of beverage I know of—though soft drinks are limited in your quarters. If you are afflicted with insomnia, touch the doctor’s button. He’ll prescribe. That is about it, I believe. Any questions?”
There were none—only a few maudlin cheers.
“Then I suggest we join the ladies—those who aren’t joined, I mean.”
Glenn went along.
He was astonished at the array of beauty. Especially of the ladies who looked to be from twelve to seventeen, of whom there were several. He was also indignant.
By and by he walked out on a terrace, alone. Bessie hadn’t been in the group in Cooper’s ballroom where, now, a rock band played. He hadn’t seen her since lunch.
In the dusk, silhouetted by the floodlighted grounds, he made out another man, standing still, gazing at the rock-and-cactus garden. When the man snapped a lighter and raised it to a cigar Glenn identified him: Coleman Cassmund, who’d built more and larger bridges in more lands than a
ny other living engineer. In the glow of the little flame Glenn saw his face was calm, his hands steady and his bearing—what? Aloof? Glenn knew that Cassmund and Cooper were good friends but Glenn had met the super-engineer only a few times and knew little else about him—mostly what was reported in the press. Cassmund was usually in Arabia, Japan, Thailand, India, or, if at home, in Montana, Alaska, Texas or some other region where Glenn’s enterprises didn’t take him—away from cities, then, and often living in “construction city” with his thousands of employees, in some hastily-thrown-together wooden town in the wilds where there was a river, perhaps a lake, or a gorge that somebody wanted bridged. Cassmund was notoriously hard to interview, a limelight-dodger second only, perhaps, to someone like Howard Hughes.
Over his cigar, he recognized Glenn. “Nice night,” he said.
Glenn walked to the other’s side and, without speaking, they took comfortable chairs with a small table between them.
“Wonderful.”
“Like the desert?”
Glenn nodded and got out a cigarette. “Yes. And lake country, the sea, wild rivers, mountains, glaciers, upland country, bays, jungles, forests—I like them all and have no favorite.”
Cassmund exhaled a velvet and elegantly scented smoke cloud. “Me, too. Seems curious. Most men, most people, have a certain kind of landscape they put above the others. I’m like you. What about the Everglades?”
Glenn smiled. “Swamps? Forgot to add them. I have fished Lostman’s River, the Shark, even Alligator Lake, many times. So, yes, put me down as a swamp-fan, too.”
There was a serene pause. Music came faintly mixed with laughter, two-sexed.
“Funny,” the engineer finally said, looking at the cherry tip of his cigar as if it was interesting and odd. “My profession is to get people into those places. Who soon ruin them, or mostly ruin them. I remember Oppenheimer said, about making the A-bomb, that—something to this effect—‘science has known sin.’ I often feel building bridges is the same sort of sin.”
Glenn pondered, not because his answer was unready, but to keep the pace of this discussion at Cassmund’s chosen level, quiet, unhurried, calm, almost intimate.
“In that event, publishing newspapers, trade journals, operating broadcasting stations, selling ads for the printed properties, commercials, for the electronic medium—all that is sin, too.”
Cassmund nodded. Perhaps three minutes passed.
Cassmund spoke again. “Rufe puts on some show.”
Glenn waited and then said, “Why?”
The engineer turned and gazed at Glenn—a long, angular face, large, thin nose, leathery skin, deep-set eyes, gray, Glenn had thought earlier, when he’d studied this comparative stranger—a tall, lean man who looked like a monk, a zealot, a martyr and the kind both spiritually and intellectually consumed by a quiet, hidden flame. Little like a bridge-builder, a construction wizard.
“Why?” Cassmund ultimately repeated. “Good question. Known Rufe Cooper from postgraduate days—after M.I.T. He’s a—well—hard to state. A giving guy, in a way, but also one with a monarch complex, like us all.”
Glenn wanted to ask for a definition of that but did not, because he felt he might get it by not asking, and fail to, if he made any sign of pressing.
“Some men with Coop’s kind of fortune do one thing, some another, as a sort of symbol to prove to the world—or, likely, themselves—they’ve got it made. Hearst carted a castle to California. Carnegie studded the nation with libraries. Onassis has the biggest yachts, his own islands, a wife beyond compare. Coop—Rufe—well—”
The cigar was smoked, observed, used again.
“Rufe plays Maharajah this way. Loves the desert, obviously. Enjoyed erecting this spread, like a kid. And when it was ready he started the fun in his brand of entertaining. Who else can collect the beautiful people, the powerful ones, the glittery ones and all others—in a luxurious, a super-de-luxe hideaway—where every possible indulgence can be served, and safely, in a place like this? And who else, billionaire over and over if you like, has found such a means to prove he made it? Who’d go to Rufe’s incredible lengths to learn exactly what pleasures—vices, if you want, for some—are the favorites of prospective guests? And then invite the guests and supply the means.”
“Nobody, I am sure. And that’s it?”
“Not by half! Rufe’s friendly, and that’s real, unless you cross the guy. He likes people. His own tastes are almost spartan and completely normal. I often suspect he’s even faithful to his wife. Who prefers the Manhattan penthouse, the villa on the Cote d’Azur. No. There’s more. Haven’t you been … approached … by a lady who, well, more or less fits your main and most evident … specifications? That lovely thing with dark hair and big, blue eyes—maybe? At the pool?”
“Yes.” Glenn left it there.
“And you’ve seen it happen to others, in their assorted ways?” He glanced to catch the assenting nod. “So it must have been evident to you that Rufe had done a lot of very careful and secretive research. Right? Right. Very well, what came to mind, with you, next? That the whole spread, this horizontal ultra-Hilton-Sheraton might be bugged? With mikes and cameras?”
He waited and Glenn realized he was supposed to speak.
“It occurred to me. In fact, I discussed it with that waternymph you noticed. She brought up the obvious answer. There are twenty-six of us here who represent business and industry and the top of those. Bessie pointed out that no such group would come here, let alone permit Coop to seduce them, or exploit their … passions—”
Cassmund cut in softly. “Say it, man! Passions, sure. But you were going to say, first—?”
That astuteness interested Glenn. “‘Weaknesses, vices.’”
“Goodo! Sure. But not the sado-masochist sorts. Rufe loathes the pain-thrill bastards. So do I. So do you, I am sure.” Another pause and the music stopped so they heard only the suddenly muted laughter and its ebb, as people were, plainly, leaving for the “stag” films and the live show to follow.
“Maybe,” the engineer continued, “I can’t get it over to you. What men and women do here is what they most long to, insofar as Rufe can learn. And they know it’s safe, whatever it may be. You see those young girls?” A head turn, sharp, and Glenn gave a shake to his shoulders, involuntarily. That caused the other to laugh in a short, basso-satiric way.
“Don’t be so self-righteous, Glenn.” That use of his first name wasn’t even noticed, at once. The voice went on, musing, interested, adroit, calm, wonderingly but with clarity, too.
“The world is full of young girls like that. Lolitas? Who knows? When should a female be laid? When she’s able and also wants it? Some say so. There are societies—and there’s a Summerhill—but there’s no known true creed. Those kids enjoy their work and enough of the sort have grown up so that I know early sex far from ‘ruined’ their lives.” He glanced away and went ahead, hurriedly, to evade any questions.
“Several studies of girls, raped at nine or before, you may know about. Their grown-up lives seem to be less neurotic, happier, more normal, than any control group. Don’t ask me why or whether the sample says it all, says anything, maybe. However. The next point. Nobody is sure Rufe hasn’t a film library of their behavior, here. Guests have brought valets, maids, who were actually electronic whizzes—and had their suites searched. Nothing found. So they are as sure as they can manage to be. But never positive. Hell. Maybe some rooms are and some people don’t even imagine that Rufe bugged their erotic gambits. I doubt it. But most may be a little unsure, including men and women whom even Rufe wouldn’t dare try to blackmail? Tease with the alleged tape recordings? Whatever. And Rufe loves that setup. Of course, he probably hasn’t spied or bugged a soul. Not the type. But that’s a sort of source for private power-sense. Abstruse?”
Glenn waited the proper time. “Not really, I guess. If that’s your meat, your bag.”
“He genuinely enjoys being so—so total a host. He enjoys the f
un his guests have and the fact that he is able to supply it, exactly as per blueprint. He likes people, as I said. This lavish place is fun for him because it’s so much fun for others.”
“A bit Roman.”
“Right! The emperor can furnish his favorites with everything, including almost anything. Exception. No slaves. Nobody ever came here under pressure, or stayed, if they found they wanted out. That, too, is like Rufe. Everybody has to be pleased, or the gig’s no good. A bummer. You see a single unhappy, bored, let alone worried—nonguest-guest?”
Glenn acknowledged he hadn’t.
“Then, that’s it. Rufe’s brand of super-yacht, his imported castle, his private island, is to be the most perfect host in all time. And in his terms, he is, I’d think.”
“I see.”
“You don’t. But you will. Something’ll happen.”
Cassmund rose, stretched, and offered a “Good night” as he left the terrace.
Three hours later, Glenn was still restless.
It was past midnight and he’d read a while in bed, switched off the lights, tried to sleep and failed, then read some more and repeated that routine. He became wider awake then ever. That damned Cassmund, he found himself thinking. A very nice and very fascinating guy, he added. But he was awake on Cassmund’s account. Something would happen, he’d said. Nothing had. So his vigil continued and it involved images of Bessie, not surprisingly.
At twelve thirty, when he’d doused the bedside lamp a third time, something did happen, something at first so faint and slight he wasn’t sure it related to him.
A door closed audibly. A woman sighed audibly. But there was no woman in the bedroom or the living room, either.
Then a woman murmured, “I’m late!” in subdued self-reproach.
No answer.
At the foot of Glen’s bed, on a bare segment of wall, a light appeared and expanded, dimly then with growing intensity. Soon Glenn identified it. An oblong of light with curved corners, about two feet by three—as if from a slide-projector. It wobbled, focused and suddenly offered a picture. Of Bessie.