by Dean Ing
Roy made a gesture of acceptance. "It's all right with me. Forry's the organizer of this scheme. I suppose he knows what he's doing."
Billy Tucker came hurrying into the room. His eyes swept quickly over the new secretary but then went on to Roy Cos. He said, "Roy, there's a car coming down the road. At least two men in it."
"Probably Ferd and Jet," Forry said, putting down his glass and grinding out his cigarette. "We don't really have to start worrying until after midnight, Billy. Then this guard duty becomes serious." He stood and headed for the door.
The younger man said after him, "Yeah. And I wish to hell you hadn't made us throw away those guns."
"We'll see about that soonest," the ex-newsman said over his shoulder. "As soon as the publicity starts, we'll put in a demand for gun permits through our law firm. We've got a law firm on retainer, too, Roy. If they refuse to issue gun permits for the bodyguard of the Deathwish Wobbly, a howl will go up that'll mean just that much more publicity."
He left the room to go for the front door. Billy went over to the bar, poured himself a ginger ale, and carried it with him to his post.
Roy Cos said to his brand new secretary, "Do you know anything at all about the Wobblies, Ms. Elwyn?"
"Mary Ann," she said. "I knew practically nothing, until
Forry brought up the matter of a temporary job…" She flushed, then quickly added "… or maybe not so temporary, with you. I looked your organization up in the National Data Banks but I'm afraid that it's not my cup of tea. I've never been interested in political economy."
Forry re-entered, followed by two newcomers. Both carried portable typewriters—one a late-model voco-typer and, by the looks of the case, the other an old electric.
Roy and his three bodyguards stood for introductions, and again, Forry did the honors.
Roy looked at the two blankly, not having the vaguest idea why either of them were present. But Forry took over, first sending Les for drinks for the newcomers and then for refills for the rest of them.
When all were seated again, he said, "Jet Peters is your publicity man, Roy. He used to work for one of the big cosmocorps, a multinational corporation specializing in uranium. But he was spelled down, the same as I was, by the computers. A younger guy got his position."
Roy could see that possibility. The other was somewhere in his early fifties and looked both tired and cynical. He was sloppily dressed, a bit bleary of eye, a tremor in his hands. A drinker, the Wobbly decided.
Roy said, "Publicity? I thought you were handling publicity, Forry."
"I am," the ex-newsman said, getting out his cigarettes again. "But I won't be able to handle it all. Jet's an old pro. He'll come up with dozens of ideas that wouldn't occur to me. He's got a lot of contacts, too. He'll earn his ten thousand."
All eyes went to the second of the two newcomers, who had been introduced as Ferd Feldmeyer. He was not just overweight, but almost obscenely fat. Like many fat men, he bought his clothes too small so that he bulged in them. He was pale of face, thin of dirt-blond hair, and his small mouth seemed to pout. Ferd Feldmeyer was less than handsome.
Forry said, "Ferd is your speechwriter."
"Speechwriter! Holy smog, Forry, I don't need a speech-writer. I do my own speeches, usually off the cuff. Why, this guy isn't even a Wobbly, so far as I know. How could he write my speeches, even if I wanted him to?"
Ferd Feldmeyer might not have been much for looks but his voice was deep and had a ring of sincerity. He said, "Since Forry approached me on this, I've been reading up on your movement day and night—including your own publications, not just the material in the National Data Banks. I'll tell you something about political organizations and religions, or philosophies, for that matter. You should be able to sum yours up in two hundred words. If you can't, something's wrong with your movement. Right now, I could sit down and tear off a speech for you that would give the Wobbly position— maybe better than you've ever presented it. On top of that, I'd drop in a little humor, some good quotations, and wind it up with a blockbuster of a gimmick ending that'd have them anxious to tune in to your next broadcast."
Forry said reasonably, "You're not going to be able to give your standard talks off the cuff on Tri-Di, Roy. They've got to be written out, and you're going to have too many to write yourself. You're not only going to speak often on Tri-Di, TV, and even radio, but we're going to line you up for personal appearances, lectures, and so forth. Ferd and Jet are also going to double for you as your ghosts."
Roy stared at him. "My what? That's one thing that nobody else can do for me… die."
The former newsman said, "Sorry, Roy; poor choice of words. I meant ghost writers. If this publicity hits the way I think it will, there'll be calls for articles from all sorts of periodicals from all over the world. Maybe we'll even do a book." He squinted his eyes and said thoughtfully, "That reminds me of something. Do you speak Spanish?"
"No."
The little man turned his eyes to Mary Ann Elwyn, who had been sitting quietly, primly, her hands in her lap. She had refused the drink Les offered. Forry said, "Make a note, Mary Ann. We need computer translators to put Roy's speeches into Spanish, French, and Italian."
The secretary quickly opened her attache case, brought forth a stylo and notepad, and scribbled away.
Jet said, "How about Russian and Mandarin?"
Forry thought about that but then shook his head. "Not yet. For the time being, the Wobbly movement is aimed at the West. Maybe later, if I understand the program correctly, it might spread to the Soviet Complex and China. Okay, Roy?"
"I suppose so," the Wobbly said. This whole thing seemed to be getting more and more out of his hands. The ineffective-looking little Forrest Brown was taking over with a vengeance. Thus far, Roy Cos had precious little to do—except to stay alive as long as possible.
Forry spoke through the smoke that dribbled from his mouth. "We'd better get down to definite plans. Like I said, we start the publicity tomorrow. We also wrap up the arrangements for the first Tri-Di talk, nationwide, beamed worldwide from satellites. When Roy's made that first speech, the publicity will really hit. He'll be big news. Everybody in the country will be on the edge of their chairs waiting for the Deathwish Wobbly…" He broke off and looked at Jet Peters. "I think we ought to use that bit of business in our publicity. The Deathwish Wobbly. The revolutionist so sincere that he's willing to die for the chance of spreading it." He looked back to Roy and the others. "They'll be sitting on the edges of their chairs, waiting to see how long it'll take for the Grafs men to get to you."
He ground out his current cigarette and took up the drink sitting on the cocktail table before him. "Until the first Tri-Di broadcast, we won't show. We'll not leave this house. Nobody here will use their credit cards, on the off chance that the enemy might have connected one of us with Roy. I'll pay all expenses, as I did for renting this place, with my card. It's an unnumbered account and they won't be able to trace me with it. The moment we make that broadcast, Roy will begin to use the million pseudo-dollars a day available to him on his Swiss International Credit Card. And from then on we're on the defensive. But the more this pyramids, the more publicity Roy gets, the better his chances are of avoiding the Graf's hit men. There'll be mobs wherever he goes, making it difficult for assassins to get through to him. I hope. A good many of those people are going to be on Roy's side. He's the underdog, and fighting against terrible odds. They'll be out to get any assassins who turn up. And these men of the Graf's are pros, not fanatics. They're not interested in making martyrs out of themselves. That'll be one of the biggest advantages
WC 113 VC.
Les Bates looked at his wrist chronometer. He announced Four hours to go until midnight."
Chapter Ten: Lee Garrett
Of all the major cities of the world, only Rome, the City of the Seven Hills, had not banned surface vehicles. It wouldn't, at least not in the older areas of town, originally settled by Romulus and his tribesmen, glorified by Augustus, later
made the center of the world's most powerful religion. It couldn't because old Rome was a museum of three thousand years' standing. It would have been impossible to dig metros and underground highways. The archeological world would have been up in arms. Excavations would have destroyed a multitude of buried ancient temples, tombs, arenas, and fortifications going back as far as the Etruscans. These all lay ten to fifty feet below the surface, someday to be dug out with loving care. Even the pressures of modern transport could not threaten to destroy the remnants of a tiny synagogue where once, perhaps, Paul had given sermons; a governmental building where Caesar had issued his edicts; an aqueduct which once supplied the water for the baths of Diocletian.
However, private vehicles were discouraged to the point where only the most powerful, through wealth or governmental position, were allowed their personal conveyances. Otherwise, traffic was limited to emergency vehicles and to public cabs and buses. It still amounted to considerably more traffic than was to be seen elsewhere.
Thus it was that Lee Garrett found herself riding from the shuttleport to the city's center in a small taxi. It had been some years since she had been in this wondrous city, and she recognized a score of landmarks with a thrill.
"Destinatio, Signorina?" the admiring cabby had asked her, his eyes indicating appreciation of her fine blond hair, piled high on her head, of her very un-Italian blue eyes, not to speak of her svelte figure.
The Roman way of the male toward any girl with the least pretensions of pulchritude returned to her and she smiled, remembering. "Number 17, Via della Pilotta," she told him in impeccable Italian.
He looked over his shoulder again. "But Signorina, the Palazzo Colonna is no longer open to the public, not even on Saturday mornings."
"So I understand," she told him.
They were passing through the Piazza di Spagna, for centuries the center of the Bohemian artist element, with its medieval Fontana dil Barcaccia by Bernini still watered by a Roman aqueduct. And with its famed Scala di Spagna, known as the Spanish Steps by many tourists. Lee Garrett smiled.
A church here, a palace there, a monument to some long-dead emperor farther on. They sped through the Piazza di Trevi, with its baroque fountain where visitors threw coins to guarantee that one day they would return. And shortly they pulled up before the huge complex that was the Palazzo Colonna, once the most sumptuous of the patrician houses of Rome. Lee brought her International Credit Card from her handbag and put it in the payment slot of the cab.
There were two uniformed young men at the entry, looking in their red medieval garb something like the Swiss guards at the Vatican and bearing, of all things, halberds, shafted weapons of the 15th century with axlike cutting blades, beaks, and terrible spikes. Lee, amused, remembered reading somewhere that the unlikely looking devices had been designed as can openers against armored horsemen. She wondered if there was presently a horse in all Rome, not to speak of a man in armor.
One of them approached, bowed, and politely opened the cab door for her.
Lee got out, flashed him a smile, and said, "I have an appointment with Signorina Duff-Roberts. Meanwhile, I am not sure where I'll be staying tonight. Could you get my bags and hold them for me somewhere?"
He bowed again. "Signorina Garrett?"
"Why, yes."
"Your things will be taken up to your suite, Signorina."
"Thank you." Lee's eyebrows went up slightly but her poise was built in. So: she had a suite in the Palazzo Colonna!
Without doubt there would be a small plaque on the door reading Lucretia Borgia Slept Here, or some such.
Inside the entrance were four more young men, in outfits of pages, complete to satin berets with tassels atop. They had been lounging, idly talking among themselves, but now one advanced for a sweeping bow, very much in character. "The Palazzo is not open to the public, Signorina."
"I'm Lee Garrett," she told him. "I have an appointment…"
"Of course, Signorina," he blurted. "If you will come this way. Signorina Duff-Roberts awaits you."
She followed him up the impressive stone stairway to the vestibule. Years ago, her father had brought her here to see the famed home of what had once been the most powerful family in Rome. Popes had been born here, and cardinals without number, and kings, queens, dukes, duchesses. In the vestibule were paintings of several schools, including Van Dyke, Murillo, and Lotto.
The way led them through the Hall of the Colonna Bellica, past the steps leading down to the Great Hall, and then up another stairway almost as magnificent as that at the entrance to the palace. The priceless treasures of the palace might have been expressed in tonnage. Then followed a series of coldly superb chambers, each a museum of murals, marbles, and tapestries. Why would anyone choose to live in such a place? But then they arrived at the spacious salon of Sheila Duff-Roberts.
There was no identity screen set into the magnificent carved door; that would have been a desecration. Her guide knocked softly and then, without waiting for a response, opened the door and closed it behind her.
On her visit as a youngster, Lee hadn't been in this part of the rambling building. In those days it had still been occupied by descendants of the Colonna family and visitors had been excluded from the private quarters. This room had obviously once been one of the minor salons, now converted into a baroque office. The furniture was of the fifteenth or sixteenth century, with all the stiffly uncomfortable appearance of that era.
Sheila Duff-Roberts arose from her chair behind the desk. She was a large woman physically, but was built in handsome proportion. She enjoyed the long limbs and proud carriage of an Olympic champion. Her face was classical and she knew how to bring out her best features. Her hairdo, cosmetics, and jewelry were the products of experts. Basically, hers was a severe face, brightly intelligent rather than friendly, and her smile was cool. A cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth, man-style. She was dressed in a slack suit which Lee recognized as the latest style in Common Europe. She approached Lee briskly, hand outstretched. It proved to be a warm, firm hand, somehow projecting a caressing quality.
Sheila Duff-Roberts said throatily, "Well, my dear, in spite of your photographs, I didn't expect you to look quite so darling."
Lee didn't quite know how to respond to that. To cover the fact, she looked at the desk and said, "Marvelous."
It was done in sandalwood and was adorned with lapis lazuli, amethysts, and other semi-precious stones. In the front it had twelve small amethyst columns, and at the top, gilt statuettes representing the Muses and Apollo seated under a laurel tree.
The other chuckled and said, "Isn't it beautiful—in a repulsive sort of way? I couldn't resist; had it moved in from the Room of the Desks. One of the others there is possibly even worse. It's done in ebony with twenty-eight ivory bas reliefs, and the central relief is a copy of Michelangelo's Last Judgment. A real monstrosity. We'll get it for your office, if you'd like. But do sit down, darling. You're Lee Garrett, of course. I'm Sheila Duff-Roberts."
Feeling a little overwhelmed, Lee took the sixteenth century chair the other indicated. She said, "Yes, Ms. Duff-Roberts. I was given instructions by Gary McBride to…"
"Yes, of course." Sheila Duff-Roberts strode briskly around her ornate desk, resumed her chair, and touched a sheaf of papers before her. "I've been going over your qualifications. Very impressive, my dear."
Lee said, "What qualifications? I haven't the slightest idea what my duties are. Mr. McBride only told me I was to work for the Central Committee of the World Club."
The other smiled her sparse smile and dispatched her cigarette in an elaborate ceramic work never meant, by the artist who had conceived it half a millennium ago, as an ashtray.
She said, "You were selected by our computers as my secretary, darling."
Lee let out her breath, trying to disguise exasperation. "But what is your position? What do you do? What are these qualifications I'm supposed to have?"
"Relax, dear. I'm the secretary." S
he took another cigarette from a medieval gold and ivory box and lit it with a modern gold desk lighter. "One of your qualifications is that you don't need the job. Or any other job, for that matter. You're filthy rich, dear."
Lee looked at her blankly.
The Junoesque woman said, "So are all our other upper-echelon personnel. If they were not born with such resources, we make them available. In short, none of us is motivated by desire for money. We already have money. We are motivated by the dream."
"What dream?" Lee said, still far out of her depth.
The other let heavy smoke flow from her nostrils. "The dream is to create a stable world, Lee. It's been dreamed before, throughout history. For limited periods it has even been achieved, here and there—in Egypt for centuries; in Mexico by the Mayans; in China, at least to a certain degree, before the coming of the Europeans."
Lee said, "What do you mean by stability?"
"For the first time, darling, the human race finds itself in a position to achieve a stable, unchanging society on a worldwide basis. No national disorders, wars, or extreme poverty."
"It sounds like quite a dream," Lee said skeptically. "I knew the World Club was a nonprofit think-factory seeking solutions to current problems, but I had no idea its scope was so all-embracing. Frankly, I'm having second thoughts. It sounds—well, impossible. It's true that I want it to be something rational. Not a… forgive me… pipe dream."
The secretary of the World Club chuckled throatily again. "Lee, darling, do you approve of GAS in the United States of the Americas?"
"I think so. I can't think of any other manner of dealing with mass unemployment brought on by automation."
"And do you approve of the United States taking in any North or South American country that wished statehood?"
"I think it was one of the most intelligent acts my country has ever performed."
"Both were subtly engineered by the World Club."
"But that's ridiculous. I've never even heard a rumor of such a thing."
Sheila smiled. "I said 'subtly,' did I not? First steps, darling. You see, our basic desire is to maintain the status quo in society, based on what now prevails in America and Common Europe. However, we are not really a conservative organization, certainly not a reactionary one. The World Club is quite revolutionary, in the broadest sense of the word. It aims at a stable, desirable world for the overwhelming majority. It cannot be all things to all people, but it can aim at making a stable society for the average person. To do this we must align ourselves against subversive elements: nihilist terrorists, the Wobblies in the States, Eurocommunists in Common Europe, even the Anti-Racist League. But we are not reactionary."