Mission Earth 03 - The Enemy Within

by The Enemy Within [lit]

  "Are we here to meet the owner-publisher?" I said.

  "Oh, no," said Bury. "He's an LSD addict and always off having an affair with his male psychiatrist. It's always empty, so I use it for meetings."

  "Then we own this place?"

  "What? And inherit all its libel suits? I should say not. Sit down, Inkswitch, and I'll fill you in."

  There was no place to sit but the color-montage organ bench. I sat on it. I accidentally touched a key and a nude body being strangled flashed on the wall. Not a bad looking girl, I thought.

  Bury was pacing about restlessly. "We don't have to own any newspapers or magazines. It's done this way: they're all in debt; they and their TV and radio stations are into the banks for billions. So when they want to renew or borrow, the banks tell them they have to put a bank-selected director or six on their boards of directors. And they do it in order to get the money. Then, whatever we want to appear in the press, we simply pass it to a director and he tells the editors and they tell the report­ers and they (bleep) well print whatever they're told."

  How wise, I thought. Lombar would be fascinated.

  But there was more: "Then, if the government gets out of hand, we release stories into the press to embarrass them or get them kicked out. So the government always releases the press releases that we tell them to. It's a very tight system. We control all the banks, you see."

  Oho! Lombar indeed would be interested. A master­ful system! Closed-circuit propaganda! The truth couldn't even get into it edgewise! So that was how the Rockecent­ers had remained in control so long and now owned so much! That and chicanery, of course. Totally controlled free enterprise!

  I tried to play "Saint James Infirmary" on the organ with one finger. I got a series of Japanese movie monsters smashing and gobbling people. Then I found one good key: when you tremoloed it, rivers of blood gushed down the wall in rhythmic waves.

  The door opened.

  It was Madison!

  I had not gotten a good look at him in his car last night under the mercury-vapor highway lights and all.

  I was amazed!

  Here was a clean-looking, rather handsome young man. He was impeccably dressed, quite conservatively. He had brown hair and very appealing brown eyes. He might well have been a model for a shirt ad. He seemed quiet, well-mannered, totally presentable.

  He said, "Social notices. Madison arrived late and was deeply apologetic. Unquote."

  Bury, I noticed, backed up a bit as though talking to a bomb. "Did you get your credentials?" he said.

  "Oh, yes. Today, Madison received the supreme award of the very best credentials of a Slime-Tripe re­porter. Deeply honored, he expressed his gratitude...."

  "And you are now on special independent assign­ment?" asked Bury.

  "Quote Credentials Department Unaccountably Pleased that no Direct Assignment Contemplated. News spread rapidly throughout buildings. Thousands cheered...."

  Bury said, "This is Smith, John. You will be receiv­ing tips from him. Give him your mother's phone num­ber and that of the F.F.B.O. office."

  Madison bowed and then walked over and gave me the most sincere and genuine handshake I have ever had. Then he got out a notebook, wrote the numbers on a page and gave them over.

  Then Madison walked over toward Bury—who stepped back—and looked at the attorney with appealing courtesy. "What am I supposed to do?"

  Bury reached into his pocket. He took out one of the passport pictures of Wister. He handed it over.

  Madison took it and gazed upon it in a friendly way. "He looks like a very nice fellow."

  "He is, he is," said Bury. "His name is Jerome Ter­rance Wister."

  Bury glanced toward me. I took my cue. "He has an office in the Empire State Building." I gave him the number. "He has developed a new fuel. He will try to get it known through racing."

  "And?" said Madison.

  Bury spoke. "You will act in the capacity of a Slime-Tripe reporter on special assignment. Actually, he is a modest man. He would not hire a PR directly. But as his friends, we know he needs one to help him on his way. Really, he would not accept our help so we must be name­less. It is a charitable way to contribute to this great soci­ety, to have this fellow and his invention helped. Do you understand, Madison? That is your sole assignment."

  Instantly Madison became ecstatic. "You mean I am to really, truly help him?"

  "Indeed so," said Bury. "Make his name a house­hold word, make him immortal!"

  "Oh," said Madison. "Glorious, Stupendous and Gala! Mr. Bury," he said with eyes glowing, "I can make him the most immortal man you ever heard of! One way or another his name will be known forever!" He could not contain himself for joy. He walked around the room, almost bouncing.

  He stopped, "Quote Labor Negotiations Today Hit Snag. It was learned from unimpeachable sources that Madison wished to know what budget..."

  "The sky is the limit," said Bury. "Within reason, of course."

  Madison glowed. "Oh, I can see it now! Immortal! His name known everywhere by everyone forever!" Joy and enthusiasm leaped out of every pore. He couldn't stand still. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have thrown it in the air!

  Bury pulled me out of the room. We waded through the clouds of marijuana smoke and stench of opium. We held steady as reporters bumped into us. We got to the elevator.

  Bury looked around for any snipers as we left. He got us safely outside the building. We stood beside a tin­kling fountain and breathed deeply to get rid of the stench.

  He tucked his Beretta more securely into its holster. "Inkswitch, it's all in your hands now. If you lose his number, you'll find his mother in the phone book. He is on his way. I've got to go off for a few days—the Gov­ernor General of Canada is being balky about carrying out genocide on the French population there and we sim­ply have to clear out Nova Scotia to take over the new oil fields: it has a lot of legal angles. But I'll be back well before the fireworks begin in case stronger measures are needed. You just feed Madison a tip or two as you think best. Give him his head. And we'll be rid of Wister! Good luck to you."

  He hurried off upon his busy duties.

  Beside the splashing fountain, in that quiet place, I was a little bit troubled.

  This Madison was obviously the nicest fellow you ever wanted to meet. He seemed even naive, taking a lik­ing to Heller at once.

  I wondered if Bury hadn't exaggerated the dangers in this fine young man. Maybe he would make Heller famous and successful after all!

  PART TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapter 1

  That evening was no time to be out-of-doors. With sunset, a drizzle had begun that gave an acid rain. If it got on your clothes, it ate holes in them. A nasty night: the low clouds masked even the penthouse terrace at the Bentley Bucks Deluxe. Autumn was upon New York like a polluted sponge.

  Accordingly, I was careful to go nowhere and instead phoned Senator Twiddle. I told him how much Rocke­center thought of him and he was certainly pleased.

  I had just laid down the phone when it rang again. An operator's voice, in that curious sing-song they use, said, "Mr. Smith? This is Manhattan Air Terminal Tele­phone Exchange. A man has just come to the desk and handed me a slip of paper with your name on it, indi­cating I should call. Here is your PARty."

  The line clicked. Then something said, "Mmmmmfffff."

  I said, "Speak up. I do not understand you."

  "Mmmmmfffff."

  I hung up in disgust. But I was puzzled too. I did not know a soul in New York named "Mmmmmfffff." Hungarian?

  I busied myself ordering a splendid dinner. Utanc was not around as usual. I hoped the rain wouldn't burn her beautiful face if she was prancing around in it.

  The phone rang. A voice said, "Mmmmmfffff."

  "Who are you?" I demanded. "I don't know a single Mmmmmfffff anywhere."

  A more distant voice on the phone said, "You hold it to my ear and I'll talk." The voice became abruptly louder. "You, sir, this is us. Raht tried to
phone you ear­lier but he still has the wires in his jaws. (Hold the phone closer.) My arms are still in casts. The doctor refused to take out the wires or break off the casts or release us for another two weeks."

  "Phaugh!" I said. "Loaf, loaf, loaf! Anything to get a little more time off!"

  "Well, sir, we knew how anxious you were about a certain thing. So Raht sneaked by the nurses and the desk. I couldn't go because my arms are still in casts and it's conspicuous and I can't climb. But Raht's jaws are the only thing he has that is still immobi­lized. ..."

  "What in Hells are you trying to tell me?" I snapped.

  "(Hold the phone closer.) But he had to wait until the guards and sightseeing guides left for the night. The weather is so bad both the lower and upper towers were closed, fortunately. So Raht climbed up the TV mast as best he could. It was awfully slippery because of the rain. We'll have to get him new pajamas because of the acid eating through. But it was awfully windy and he skinned his shins...."

  "My Gods!" I said. "Come to the point!"

  "Well, he turned it off, sir. And we wanted to tell you we can't get back on the job for another two weeks. The doctor refuses...."

  "You two will do anything, anything to loaf! Believe me, I'll make sure your pay is docked!"

  I hung up. I was so exasperated at the flimsy pretext

  they were using that, for a moment, the import of the news did not sink in.

  The 831 Relayer! It was off! I could once more see what Heller was doing! And in the nick of time, too. Madison would need this information!

  I quickly broke out and set up my viewer and equip­ment. I turned it on.

  It worked!

  A dinner party!

  It was in some private dining room in some restau­rant. It was very posh. It was made to look like an old English inn with dark oak, mounted boars' heads, a log fire. The waiters were in red hunting coats.

  But what was this? I really didn't recognize the peo­ple! They all had on flat mortarboard hats and black gowns! All of them!

  They were apparently just finishing a roast beef din­ner with plum pudding and chatting away.

  As Heller glanced around, speaking to this one and that or answering or laughing at some joke, I tried to identify the people.

  Bang-Bang! What was he doing in a mortarboard and black gown? He hadn't graduated from anything. And there was Vantagio! He had long since graduated. And there was the leading painter and several other paint­ers all in mortarboard hats and gowns.

  Izzy was there, sort of shrunk back. He was dressed like the rest.

  They were finished with the main dinner now. Sud­denly the far doors opened and eight waiters came in, four on one side and four on the other, bearing a huge cake in a peculiar way.

  Everyone cheered.

  They sang:

  Happy doctorate to you,

  Happy doctorate to you.

  Happy doctorate, dear Izzy,

  Your dream has come true.

  The waiters put the cake down. It was in the shape of a coffin! On the top it said "Here lies DOCTOR IZZY EPSTEIN."

  "Oh, dear," said Izzy.

  "It's just like you wanted it," said Vantagio.

  "Speech! Speech!" the others were shouting.

  Heller forced Izzy to stand up.

  Izzy, squirming with embarrassment, cleared his throat several times, adjusted his glasses and said, "My good and tolerant friends, it is true that this is a lucky day. My thesis was at last accepted after three horrible years. At the graduation ceremony, thanks to your moral support, I did not trip on my gown going down the aisle. When I accepted my diploma from the president, no snake jumped out of it. I even found my seat once more, thanks to your forming ranks so I couldn't miss it.

  "But I must tell you that it is very unlucky to have such good luck. Fate always lurks with sharpened teeth and can strike most unexpectedly.

  "As I can now devote my full time to the corpora­tions, any market and financial analyst can predict with ease that they will surely crash.

  "You are unwise to have any confidence in me. It could bring you bad luck too. I thank you."

  He sat down. They all applauded. They made him cut the coffin with a provided spade.

  After a while, after his third piece of cake, Heller said, "I hope this rain goes away by tomorrow. I want to take the Caddy to Spreeport, Long Island, and do a few turns on the track."

  Izzy said, "Oh, dear. I wish you wouldn't do such dangerous things. I'm still responsible for you, you know."

  "Well, this isn't very dangerous, Izzy. The speedway there is quite new. I'm not trying out the carburetor. I'm just breaking the Caddy in. The engine is still stiff."

  "Mr. Jet, please don't connect any racing activity or your name with the corporations. Please. I have an awful feeling about it. Fate can be pretty treacherous." Heller laughed.

  But so did I. Izzy could be righter than he knew, I hoped.

  I had all I needed to know. I instantly phoned J. Walter Madison.

  "This is Smith. Wister will be at the Spreeport, Long Island, Speedway tomorrow if the rain stops. You can begin to work him over."

  "Work him over?" said Madison. "That is a strange way to put it, Mr. Smith."

  "I mean, do what you do," I corrected.

  "Mr. Smith, I hope you don't think I mean anything but good for this fine young man. Please don't insist that I use anything but the most standard PR on him."

  "And what is that?" I said.

  "Well," said Madison, delight creeping into his voice, "first is CONFIDENCE. One must go to any lengths to build up the client's Confidence in one. You see, clients do not know the skills of PR and they often get strange ideas and balk and know best and all that. One has to be VERY careful they do not put their foot in it and get off on the wrong track.

  "The next is COVERAGE. One has to get maxi­mum exposure. This gives name-awareness to the public. And one simply gets Coverage, Coverage, Coverage! One has to achieve saturation of all media and publicity chan­nels."

  The enthusiasm of the true professional was giving his voice a lilting tone. "Then third is CONTRO­VERSY. The public and media will not print or touch anything that does not have Controversy in it. To get the press or TV to accept the simplest story, it must imply conflict."

  "Sounds pretty straightforward to me," I said a bit dubiously. If Madison did just those things, Heller might succeed. He hadn't mentioned any shooting at all. I had my doubts. Bury must have a personal bias against this sincere and dedicated public relations expert.

  "Oh, it IS straightforward," said Madison. "You will see. I will do nothing, absolutely nothing shady or underhanded. My personal ethics won't allow it. I will simply build up Wister's Confidence in me, get him max­imum Coverage and make sure the press gets their Con­troversy. The three C's, Mr. Smith. Standard PR to standard press. You'll see. Oh, Wister will win on this one. But really, I must ring off. I see right now I have some other calls to make. I do appreciate your help. Leave the professionalism to me. I won't let you down."

  He hung up. I sat there quite a while. The three C's. It did sound awfully standard. I began to worry. Maybe Heller really was going to win! Awful thought!

  Chapter 2

  Now that I knew I didn't have any office, superior or any time clock to punch, I lolled around the penthouse sitting room the next morning. The rain had cleared and I now and then glanced at the viewer.

  Heller drove a semi—a trailer pulled by diesel tractor—along State Highway 27. The Atlantic Ocean was visible on his right occasionally. Signs pointed the way to Jones Beach, one of the largest recreation areas around New York. There was lots of sand.

  But he didn't turn off to Jones Beach. He went along the scattered main street of Spreeport, not very impres­sive. There seemed to be an awful lot of fish food restau­rants and motels.

  He neared an area of new construction. A huge sign:

  SPREEPORT SPEEDWAY

  Spreeport Stock Car Association

 
Saturday Nights: Stock Cars and Bombers

  The parking lots were vast. A grandstand sprouted flags. Heller drove up to a gate. A security guard came out and looked at his cards. Somehow he had become a member of NASCAR—the National Association of Stock Car Racing—a member of the Spreeport Racing Club and a lot of other things. He had been busy! Or Izzy or Bang-Bang had.

  The guard said, "Mr. Stampi said you could use Pit 13, Mr. Wister. There ain't nobody else out today. Track pretty wet."

  Heller drove on through to an area behind Pit 13 and got out of the cab of the tractor.

  He was all alone! No Bang-Bang. Then I realized Bang-Bang must have a drill or ROTC class or some­thing.

  And there was the Cadillac on the trailer. It was now gleaming red. It really hurt the eyes even in that dim ocean sunlight.

  Heller pulled the wheel chocks and let off the brake and rolled the car down off the trailer.

  He checked the gas. There were additional instru­ments on the panel. The steering wheel was leather wrapped. The white seats were gleaming! Mike Mutazi­one had certainly done a job on that interior!

  Heller climbed in, gave his Voltar engineer's gloves a tug, each one, and started the car up. It thundered with a controlled storm of power. Mike Mutazione had cer­tainly done something under the hood, too!

  He tooled the Caddy around to the pit and then, in a very leisurely fashion, began to drive around the track. It was asphalt. It was not banked very much. It was wet after the rain. He wasn't driving fast enough to skid. He was, as he had said, simply breaking in the engine. He was watching a heat gauge and oil pressure.

  I didn't know how long the circle of the track was. Not too much. Maybe half a mile. Oval—two turns and two straightaways.

  He began to make the car surge and slow, maybe run­ning the engine at different speeds. It skidded once. He began to work his accelerator against his brake.

  Something was worrying him. He coasted into the pit area and stopped. He got out and looked at the tires.

  There was a noise behind him. He turned.

  A tough-looking camera crew was descending upon him! Five men. They were carrying rather old-looking equipment. They were filthy and unshaven. The obvi­ous leader was a very hard egg.