(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  “What can he get back from you?”

  Dr. Chapman considered his drink. “Oh, nothing. I’m sure he expects nothing from me.” He looked up and smiled. “As Cass might put it, maybe he wants some phone numbers.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “No, seriously, I think I’m his fun. He just likes the sensation of being close to us. I imagine it gives him a certain standing among his higher-echelon friends. I mean, he can pretend to be a part of this; it’s something you can’t buy.”

  “That makes sense,” said Paul. He drank slowly, still wondering

  where all this was leading. “How did you ever tie in with him?”. “Well, you know our operation pretty well by now,” said Dr. Chapman. “There’s always resistance. From the start we decided to work with social groups instead of individuals, because individuals are scared or shy. But, bolstered by group opinion, an individual usually conforms. So our problem was to reach these civic and church groups. It wasn’t easy. The direct approach proved impossible. Most often, they were suspicious. Who were we? What did we really want? And so forth. So I reasoned that the only way to win their confidence was through academic and political leaders. I leaned heavily on the university connections I had. In each university city, a professor or professor emeritus or member of the board of regents would send me to a politician or the head of a club-and that would usually open the door. Of course, this time, it’s easier. You have no idea what it was like on the previous surveys. But now we have public acceptance. I have a reputation. It’s smart-even an honor-to be part of our effort. Anyway-“

  He paused to sip his gin and tonic, licked his upper lip, then went on. “Anyway, that’s how I came across Ackerman. Four years ago, we wanted three group samplings in the Los Angeles area. I knew someone at UCLA, and he knew someone in the mayor’s office, and he knew Ackerman. Well, I came on ahead and met Ackerman. He’s a big old goat. Used to play football at Stanford, I think. While most of his schooling hasn’t rubbed off, I think he takes a pleasure in being common. But he’s shrewd and smart, and he knows everyone-and, as I said, everyone owes him something. Well, he got quite a kick out of the whole thing. He made three phone calls, and we had the three groups. I sent him an autographed copy of the book, and he was like a baby. Anyway, when I knew we were coming to Los Angeles again, I wrote him, told him what I wanted. And he arranged it. Don’t ask me how.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Paul.

  Dr. Chapman’s mind seemed suddenly elsewhere. “You’ll meet him,” he said absently. “He’ll be at the lecture, you can be sure.” He gazed at Paul a moment. “Actually, there’s someone else I want you to meet-someone far more important to us right now.”

  Here it is at last, Paul told himself. He said nothing. He drank.

  “Before I go into that,” Dr. Chapman was saying, “I think I had better explain something to you. It’s rather important, and I know I can trust your discretion.”

  Paul nodded.

  “Because it involves the two of us.” He paused a moment, considering how he should say what he wanted to say. “I’m sure you know, without my telling you, that I have a good deal of respect and affection for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t waste words. So I mean what I say. I’ve had this thing on my mind for some time. I’ve been holding it off until our tour was finished. Keeping a team together is important-very important-working together, no favors, no exceptions; it has to be democratic. But there comes a time when you can’t depend on three men but must choose only one. Horace has seniority. He’s fine, fine. We all like him. He’s dependable, a workhorse. But he has no imagination, no social gift, no flair. He’s not dynamic. He reflects the face of the crowd. As for Cass, well, I’ll be truthful; he won’t do, simply won’t do. He’s misplaced in this kind of work. He hasn’t the detachment of a scientist. And he’s disturbed. That’s been evident to me for some time. Of course, he does his work, does his work well, but I’ll have to drop him after this survey is done.”

  Paul was mildly surprised at Dr. Chapman’s perception-not his perception, really, but his all-seeing, omnipotent eye. Well, so much for Horace, and goodbye Cass. One little Indian left.

  “Which brings me to you,” Dr. Chapman was saying. “I’ve watched you closely-under every circumstance-and I’m happy to say you’ve never disappointed. I think you like this work-“

  “Very much.”

  “Yes. And you’re good at it. I’ve decided you’re the one I can depend upon. You see, Paul, there’s more to my work than being a scientist. I learned that very quickly. The scientist part is the most important part, but it’s not enough. The world demands more. To maintain my position, I have to have a second face. It’s the social face, the political face, the-how shall I put it?-this way, perhaps: it’s not enough to do your work; you have to sell it, also. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “If I were scientist alone, with no other talent, this project would not exist today-but if it did exist, it would be relegated to the library stacks; it would not survive and flourish.”

  Paul finished his Scotch and water. There was something about all this that was vaguely upsetting-disappointing would be too strong a word. Yet, it was reasonable. Dr. Chapman was always reasonable.

  “I see your point,” said Paul.

  “I knew you would,” said Dr. Chapman. “Few men have the qualifications to head up a project like this. I happen to be one.” He paused. “You happen to be another.”

  Paul was sure that his eyes had widened. He could not think of a thing to say. He met Dr. Chapman’s gaze, and waited.

  “Now, I must tell you what’s been happening. But I repeat, it’s strictly between us.” He measured his words, more carefully. “I’ve been approached by the Zollman Foundation-you know their importance-“

  Paul bobbed his head. He knew.

  “… they can do things the Rockefeller and Ford people can’t do. Well, their board of directors is very impressed with my work, my record. They’ve been feeling me out about expansion. They would like to underwrite a new academy to be established in the East-like starting a vast laboratory or college-along the lines of the Princeton School for Advanced Studies which would be devoted entirely to the work I have been doing. Only, it would be on a much larger scale.”

  Paul blinked at the enormity of it. “What an opportunity-” he began.

  “Exactly,” said Dr. Chapman crisply. “The work would go ahead on a scale hitherto undreamed of. I’ve gotten as far as discussing actual projects with them. Instead of the limited approach we now have, this academy would prepare dozens of projects, train personnel to handle them, and would send countless teams around the world. For the first time we’d be able to make comparative studies of the sexual behavior of English, French, Italian, and’ American women. As it is now, we’re confining ourselves to the United States, while brilliant sexologists abroad, like Eustace Chesser in England, Marc Lanval in France, Jonsson in Sweden, have been conducting sex surveys quite apart from us. This should all be done by one organization. Of course, there might be problems.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there could be obstacles abroad. Take that sex study of six hundred and ten French and Belgian women that Dr. Marc Lanval started in 1935. He was constantly hampered by the authorities. Liberal as the French are about their sexual activity, they seem to discourage inquiry into it. Lanval claims he was raided more than once by the Surete. Nevertheless, he got his results, and so would we.” Dr. Chapman reflected on this a moment before continuing.

  “I remember Lanval asking his French and Belgian women, ‘Was your physical initiation or your wedding night a good or bad experience?’ Exactly fifty and one half per cent of his women said good experience, and forty-nine and one half per cent said bad. Now, wouldn’t it be interesting to have the same investigator ask the very same question of American, Spanish, German, and Russian women? That
’s what I mean by comparative international studies. But, as I told the Zollman people, this would be only a part of our program-“

  “Only a part?” echoed Paul.

  “Oh, I envision endless other studies, off-shoots of our present work-international investigations into polygamy and polyandry, into the effects of venereal disease on sex life, an examination of illegitimacy in Sweden, a survey confined to mothers and the effects of children on their love lives, other surveys concerned solely with Negroes, Catholics, Jews and similar racial or religious groups, a study on the effects of birth control on sexual pleasure, a worldwide survey of artists who have devoted themselves to writing or painting romantic scenes, and so on and on. There are no boundaries to this and no language to express the good it can do. The Zollman Foundation is thinking in terms of millions of dollars-the academy would become a wonder, a marvel, a landmark of civilization-what Pliny and Aristotle and Plato would have sold themselves into bondage to establish.”

  “I don’t know what to say. There aren’t words-“

  “I expected you to appreciate it. I’m glad you do. If this academy came into being, I would be its president-its mentor.” He stared off a moment, then brought his eyes back to Paul. “You understand, I would be too busy to do what I am doing now. Our work would involve national, international welfare. It would almost be elevated to governmental level. My position would force me to be one moment in the White House, the next in Stockholm with the Nobel people, the next in Africa with Schweitzer, and so forth. I would need someone to guide the actual survey work, the sampling, the real machinery of the academy. This is the job I am offering you.”

  Paul felt the hot flush on his cheeks. He wanted to reach out, touch Dr. Chapman, let him know what this expression of approval meant. “I … I’m overwhelmed, Doctor. It’s … I never dreamed of such a thing.”

  “You’d be making twice the money you’re making now. And

  you’d have authority and a certain-how shall I say?-standing; yes, standing.”

  “When would this happen?”

  “In a year-no more,” said Dr. Chapman. “After we’ve put the female survey to press. Of course-” he stood up suddenly, stepped to his coat on the hanger, and found a cigar. He bit the end, then located a match. Striking it, lighting up, he sat down-“you realize that the whole-the plan-is not a reality until we have a final vote of consent from the Zollman board of directors.”

  “But they know your work.”

  “They know more. I’ve submitted to them, in writing, not only a complete explanation of my methods and achievements, but a detailed outline of my plans and needs. Still, the grant would be so large, it requires study by each individual board member-and a favorable majority vote when they meet in the fall. As things stand now, I believe the majority are inclined to support the idea of an academy devoted to international sex studies. But much can happen between now and the meeting. Those men, the members of the board, they’re human beings. They’re intelligent, but they come from every walk of life, with every background and prejudice and susceptibility-I mean susceptibility to unfavorable criticism-they can be swayed for or against. I’ve seen it too many times.”

  Paul knew that Dr. Chapman had something specific in mind. He did not know what. “I don’t think you have any reason to be worried.”

  “But I have, Paul, I have. I won’t beat around the bush with you. I have. Here, within grasp, is the biggest thing that’s ever happened in my life-and yours-fulfillment of a dream beyond dreams-and yet, some small nonsense between now and late autumn, some carping little thing, could ruin the whole plan and turn Zollman against us.” He stared at Paul. “Have you ever heard of Dr. Victor Jonas?”

  “Of course.”

  Everyone associated with Dr. Chapman was aware of Dr. Jonas, the iconoclastic, outspoken, free-lance psychologist and marriage counselor. When Dr. Chapman’s second book had appeared, Dr. Jonas had reviewed it for several academic journals and had been highly critical. His rhetorical skill and imagery were such that he was often quoted in newspapers and the news magazines.

  “He’s our Devil’s Advocate,” said Dr. Chapman.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You spend your lifetime trying to promote Sainthood for some obscure, courageous, miracle-working missionary, and then you go to the Vatican to present your case and promote your cause, and there is one-appointed who is the Devil’s Advocate, who tries to demolish your cause, who tries to show that your subject does not deserve Sainthood. Often the Advocate succeeds, too. Well, Dr. Jonas is our hurdle, our opposition. He’s been making a study of our work-“

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly I’m sure. I’ve told you, Paul, you can’t hold my job and be pure scientist alone. You can’t be above the battle. I have my sources. Dr. Jonas is doing this study, and I happen to know that it is antagonistic. He will publish it before the Zollman Foundation board meets.”

  “But why would he do that-I mean, undertake the whole thing?”

  “Because he’s been hired to do it. I don’t have all the facts. It’s been rather hush-hush. But there’s a small, crotchety splinter group of the Zollman board, the Anthony Comstock wing, who are opposed to putting money in my academy. They have other plans for the endowment. Well, they looked around for a kindred spirit in dissent. Jonas was a natural choice. He’s against us-whether out of envy or malice or because he wants headlines, I can’t say-but he is, and this Zollman minority is exploiting his attitude. They’ve given him money, out of their private purses I am sure, to make a thorough analysis of our methods and accomplishments, and tear them to shreds. Once done and published, it could have a devastating effect-not on the public at large, but on the judgment of the Zollman board. It could very well destroy my-our-academy.”

  Paul was bewildered. “You mean you’ve known this all along, and you’ve done nothing?”

  Dr. Chapman shrugged. “What can I do? It’s not befitting that I … I even recognize this man-“

  “Reinforce your case before the public. Hire publicists if you must.”

  “It wouldn’t help where I want it to help. No, I’ve thought it out. There’s only one thing to do-see Jonas-he’s in Los Angeles -see him and speak to him.”

  “I doubt if he’d listen to reason.”

  “Not reason.” Dr. Chapman smiled. “Cash. He’s obviously a man who can be bought.”

  “How?”

  “By bringing him into our project as a consultant, an associate, and promising him an important place in the academy. We can’t beat him, so we’ll absorb him. He can’t criticize what he’s a part of.”

  Paul shook his head. “A man of your stature can’t go to him with a bribe.”

  “Bribe?” Dr. Chapman’s large, open face reflected astonishment. “Why, it wouldn’t be that at all. We would have real use for this man on our team. I should have stressed that at once. He could keep us from becoming complacent. He could still play Devil’s Advocate, but to bolster us and improve us, for our benefit, not to our detriment.”

  Paul wanted to believe this. He tried to see Dr. Jonas’ value if he quit the society of dragons and enlisted as a knight of the round table. He could see that Jonas’ values would be considerable. “Yes,” Paul said. “But no matter what your motives, it’ll still look like a bribe if you go to him-“

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go to him. You’re right, of course, Paul. I couldn’t.” He shook the long ash off his cigar. “No, I’m not right for it, Paul. But you are. You’re just the person to do it. I hope you will.” He smiled again. “It’s not just me now, you see, it’s both of us-we’ve both got everything at stake.”

  “Well, well, the heir apparent,” said Cass as Paul made his way into the lounge car and joined the other two at their table.

  “That was long enough,” Cass added, slurring his words. “What did you and the old Roman cook up for the Ides of March?”

  “A new survey,” said Paul pleasantly. “We’re going to in
terview men who interview women and find out what makes them so goddam sour.”

  “Big joke,” said Cass, noisily downing his drink.

  Paul glanced at Horace, who was morosely twisting his glass, “Cass got you down, too?”

  Horace lifted his head. “I was just thinking about Los Angeles. I wish we could skip it. I don’t like Los Angeles.”

  “And miss all that great weather?” said Paul.

  “You can have it.”

  Paul leaned across the table and pressed the buzzer. In a moment, a white-coated colored waiter appeared. Paul ordered refills for the others and a Scotch for himself. Watching the waiter go, he saw

  that there were three other people in the lounge car. An elderly couple, seated side by side, were absorbed in leafing pages of their bound magazines. At the far end sat a girl, bleached blonde and rather self-conscious as she pretended to read a paperback book and occasionally sip at her drink.

  Cass saw Paul looking off, and he half turned and observed the blonde. “She must have just blown in,” he said. “Nice tits.” “Cut it out,” said Horace. “Do you want her to hear you?” “That’s right. That’s just what I want her to do.” Cass grinned at Paul. “If they got ‘em, they should be proud of ‘em. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Paul.

  “And maybe even share the wealth.” Pie half turned again and stared at the blonde. She crossed her legs, tugged her skirt down, and concentrated on her book.

  Cass swung back and began to recount a pointless and pornographic anecdote about a blonde he had once kept in Ohio. Presently, the drinks came. Paul paid, and they all devoted themselves to the business of oblivion.

  Cass finished first. “Dammit, I’d sure like to tear off a piece.”

  “It’s the movement of the train,” said Horace ponderously. “I’ve often observed that when people are on moving vehicles-trains, -boats, airplanes-they are sexually stimulated.”

  “Shove it,” said Cass.