Gladiator-At-Law

by Frederik Pohl

  “What do they expect in that moldy gym they call a stadium here? Look at Pittsburgh—we’re twice as big, and they have armored halftracks.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Miss Dali. “Mr. Stimmens would like to see you.”

  “All right,” he said ungraciously, and dialed a chair for his junior scriptwriter.

  “Excuse me, chief,” Stimmens said hesitantly. “Can I see you for a moment?”

  “You’re seeing me,” Norvie had picked that bon mot up from Candella the week before.

  Stimmens hesitated, then spoke much too rapidly. “You’ve got a great organization here, chief, and I’m proud to be a part of it. But I’m having a little trouble—you know, trying to get ahead, hah-hah—and I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for you chief, as well as me if——” He went through a tortuous story of a classification clerk’s mistake when he finished school and an opening in Consumer Relations and a girl who wouldn’t marry him until he got a Grade Fifteen rating.

  Long before Stimmens had come anywhere near the point, Norvie knew what he wanted and knew what the answer had to be; but Candella’s bruises were fresh on his back and he let Stimmens go on till he was dry. Then, briskly:

  “Stimmens, if I’m not in error, you signed the regular contract before you joined us. It has——”

  “Well, yes sir, but——”

  “It has, I say, the usual provision for cancelation. I believe you know the company’s policy in regard to selling contracts. We simply cannot afford to sell unless the purchase price is high enough to reimburse us for the employee’s training time —which, I might say, in your case is all the time you’ve spent with us, since you have clearly failed to master your job. I’m surprised you come to me with a request like that.”

  Stimmens looked at him. “You won’t let me go?”

  “I can’t let you go. You’re at liberty to cancel your contract.”

  Stimmens laughed shortly. “Cancel! And go back to Belly Rave? Mr. Bligh, have you ever been in Belly Rave?” He shook his head like a man dispelling a nightmare. “Well, sorry, Mr. Bligh,” he said. “Anything else for me to do today?”

  Norvie looked undecided at his watch. “Tomorrow,” he growled. As Stimmens slumped away, Norvie, already feeling ashamed of himself, petulantly swept the chair back into the wall.

  It was almost quitting time.

  He made a phone call: “Mr. Arnold Dworcas, please. Arnie? Hello; how’re you? Fine. Say, I saw that attorney of your brother’s today. Looks like everything will be all right. Uh-huh. Thanks a lot, Arnie. This evening? Sure, I was hoping you’d ask me. All right if I go home first?—Ginny’ll want ‘to hear about the lawyer. About eight, then. S’long… .”

  Arnie Dworcas had a way of interminably chewing a topic and regurgitating it in flavorless pellets of words. Lately he had been preoccupied with what he called the ingratitude of the beneficiaries of science. At their frequent get-togethers he would snarl at Norvie:

  “Not that it matters to Us Engineers. Don’t think I take it personally just because I happen to be essential to the happiness and comfort of everybody in the city. No, Norvie, We Engineers don’t expect a word of thanks. We Engineers work because there’s a job to do, and we’re trained for it. But that doesn’t alter the fact that people are lousy ingrates.”

  At which point Norvie would cock his head a little in the nervous reflex he had acquired with the hearing aid and agree: “Of course, Arnie. Hell, fifty years ago when the first bubble-cities went up women used to burst out crying when they got a look at one. My mother did. Coming out of Belly Rave, knowing she’d never have to go back—she says she bawled like a baby when the domes came in sight.”

  And Arnie: “Yeah. Not that that’s evidence, as We Engineers understand evidence. It’s just your untrained recollection of what an untrained woman told you. But it gives you an idea of how those lousy ingrates nettled down and got smug. They’d change their tune damn fast if We Engineers weren’t on the job. But you’re an artist, Norvell. You can’t be expected to understand.” And he would gloomily drink beer.

  Going home from work and looking forward to seeing his best friend later that night, Norvie was not so sure he didn’t understand. He even felt a little grieved that Arnie had insisted on it. He even felt inclined to argue that he wasn’t an artist like some crackpot oil painter or novelist in a filthy Belly Rave hovel, but a technician in his own right. Well, kind of; his medium was the emotional fluxes of a Field Day crowd rather than torques, forces, and electrons.

  He had an important job, Norvie told himself: Associate Producer, Monmouth Stadium Field Days. Of course, Arnie far outstripped him in title. Arnie was Engineer Supervising Rotary and Reciprocal Pump Installations and Maintenance for Monmouth G.M.L. City… .

  Not that Arnie was the kind of guy to stand on rank. Hell, look at how Arnie was always doing things for you—like finding you a lawyer when you needed one—and—well, he was always doing things for you. It was a privilege to know a man like Arnie Dworcas.

  Knowing a fellow like Arnie made life a great deal more enjoyable for a fellow like Norvie.

  Norvie smiled internally at the thought of Arnie, right up to the moment when he arrived at the door of his bubble-bouse and the scanner recognized him and opened the door, and he went in to join his wife and child.

  Chapter Three

  charles mundin, LL.B., entered Republican Hall through the back way.

  He found Del Dworcas in the balcony—the Hall was a busted, slightly remodeled movie house—telling the cameramen how to place their cameras, the sound men how to line up their parabolic mikes and the electricians how to use their lights. For that was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was.

  Mundin stood on the sidelines faintly hoping that one of the cameramen would take out a few of Dworcas’s front teeth with a tripod leg, but they kept their tempers admirably. He sighed and tapped the chairman on the shoulder.

  Dworcas gave him the big hello and asked him to wait in the manager’s office for him—he had to get these TV people squared away, but it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. “Did you see that fellow Bligh?” he asked. “Yeah? Good. Soak him, Charlie; you got to make a living, you know. Some friend of my kid brother’s. Now go on down to the office. Couple of people there for you to talk to.” He looked palpably mysterious.

  Mundin sighed again; but that, too, was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was. At the foot of the stairs he yelled in astonishment: “Great God Almighty! Prince Wilhelm the Fourth!”

  William Choate IV jerked around and looked confused, then stuck out a hand for Mundin to grasp. He was a pudgy little man of Mundin’s age, classmate from John Marshall, heir to a mighty corporate practice, tidy dresser, former friend, solid citizen, four-star jerk. “Why, hello, Charles,” he said uncertainly. “Good to see you.”

  “Likewise. What are you doing here?”

  Choate made a mighty effort and produced a shrug. “Oh,” he said, “you know.”

  “Meaning that even a corporation lawyer has political dealings once in a while?” Mundin helped him out.

  “That’s it exactly!” Choate was pleased; it was just like old times. Mundin had always helped him out, all the way through John Marshall Law.

  Mundin looked at his former prot6g6 with emotions that were only distantly related to envy. “It’s a pleasure to run into you, Willie,” he said. “They keeping you busy?”

  “Busy? Whew! You’ll never know, Charles.” That was an unfortunate remark, Mundin admitted to himself. Busy—— “You know the I. G. Farben reorganization?”

  “By reputation,” Mundin said bitterly. “I’m in criminal practice right now. Incidentally, I had an interesting case today——”

  “Yes,” Choate said. “Well, you might say I’ve won my spurs. The old man made me counsel for the Group E Debenture Holder’s Protective Committee. Old Haskell died in harness, you know. Think of it—forty years as counsel for the Protective Committee! And with a hearing before the Referee in Receivership coming
up. Well, I won my spurs, as you might say. I argued before the referee this morning, and I got a four-year stay!”

  “Well,” Charles Mundin said. ‘To use a figure of speech, you certainly won your spurs, didn’t you?”

  “I thought you’d see it that way,” Choate beamed. “I simply pointed out to old Rodeheaver that rushing through an immediate execution of receivership would work a hardship on the committee, and I asked for more time to prepare our roits for the trust offices. Old Rodeheaver just thought it over and decided it would be hi the public interest to grant a stay. And, Charles, he congratulated me on my presentation! He said he had never heard the argument read better!”

  “Well done,” said Charles. It was impossible to resent this imbecile. A faint spark of technical interest made him ask, “How did you prove hardship?”

  Choate waved airily. “Oh, that was easy. We have this smart little fellow in the office, some kind of cousin of mine, I guess. He handles all the briefs. A real specialist; not much at the “big picture,” you know, but very good in his field. He could prove old Green, Charlesworth were starving in the gutter if you told him to. I’m joking, of course,” he added hastily.

  Poor Willie, thought Mundin. Too dumb for Harvard Law,

  too dumb for Columbia, though he was rich enough to buy and sell them both. That’s how he wound up at John Marshall, a poor man’s school which carried him for eight years of conditions and repeats until sheer attrition of memorizing had worn grooves in his brain that carried him through his exams. Mun-din had written most of his papers, and nothing but good-heartedness and a gentle, sheep’s gaze had got him through the orals.

  And poor dumb Willie glowed, “You know what that little job is worth? The firm’s putting in for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, Charlesl And as counsel for record I get half!”

  That did it. Mundin licked his lips. “Willie,” he said hoarsely, “Willie——”

  He cut it oft there. His mind played out the conversation to its end: The abject begging, Willie, you owe me something, give me a job, I can be a smart little fellow as well as anybody’s cousin. And the dismally embarrassed, Gosh, Charles, be fair, the old man would never understand, what would you do if you were in my place? _

  Hopeless, Mundin knew the answer. In Willie’s place, he would keep the lucrative practice of corporate law right in the grip of the Choate family. He would sit on top of his practice with a shotgun in his lap. And if anybody tried to take it away from him he would blast with both barrels and then club him with the butt until he stopped twitching… .

  “Yes, Charles?” Willie was patient and expectant.

  “Nothing,” said Mundin heavily. “You were saying there’s more work to do?”

  “More work?” Willie beamed. “Why, with any luck I’ll hand the Group E Debenture Holders’ Protective Committee down to William Choate the Fifth! The reorganization’s only been going for forty-three years. Soon lots of principals in the case will be dead, and then we’ll have trusts and estates in the picture. Sub-committees! Sub-sub-committees! I tell you, Charles, it’s great to be on the firing line of the law.”

  “Thank you, Willie,” Mundin said gently. “Must you go now?”

  Willie said, “Must I? Oh. Yes, I guess I must. It’s been good seeing you, Charles. Keep up the good work.”

  Mundin stared impotently at his pudgy back. Then he

  turned wearily and went on to Dworcas’s office, not very optimistically. But it was the only thing he could think of to do, apart from suicide. And he wasn’t ready for that, yet.

  Dworcas had still not arrived. The manager’s office, back of the closed-up ticket booth, was tiny and crowded with bales of literature. The people waiting there were a young man and a young woman, obviously brother and sister. Big sister, kid brother; they were maybe twenty-eight and twenty-two.’

  The girl got up from behind one of the battered desks. Mannish. No lipstick, cropped hair, green slacks, a loose plaid shirt. She gripped his hand crunchingly.

  “I’m Norma Lavin,” she said. “Mr. Mundin?”

  “Yes.” Mannish. Now, why was good old Del passing this screwball on to him?

  “This is my brother Don.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Don Lavin had something weird and something familiar about him. Kis eyes drew attention. Mundin had often read of “shining eyes” and accepted it as one of those things you read that don’t mean anything. Now he was disconcerted to find that he was looking into a pair of eyes that did shine.

  “Please sit down,” he said to them, clearing a chair for himself. He decided it was simply Lavin’s habit to blink infrequently. It made his eyes look varnished, gave the youngster • peering, fanatic look.

  The girl said, “Mr. Dworcas tells us you’re a lawyer, Mr. Mundin, as well as a valuable political associate.”

  “Yes,” he said. He automatically handed her one of the fmcy penny-each cards from his right breast pocket. Don Lavin looked somewhat as if he had been conditioned. That was it. Like a court clerk or one of the participants hi a Field Day—or, he guessed, a criminal after the compulsory third-rep treatment.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m a lawyer. I wouldn’t swear to that other part”

  “Umph,” she said. “You’re the best we can do. We got nowhere in Washington, we got nowhere in Chicago, we got nowhere in New York. We’ll try local courts here. Dworcas passed us on to you. Well, we have to start somewhere.”

  “Somewhere,” her brother dreamily agreed.

  “Look, Miss Lavin,” Mundin began.

  “Just Lavin.”

  “Okay. Lavin, or Spike, or Butch, or whatever you want me to call you. If you’re through with the insults, will you tell me what you want?”

  Del Dworcas stuck his head in the door. “You people getting along okay? Fine!” He vanished again.

  The girl said, “We want to retain you as attorney for a stockholders’ committee. The G.M.L. Homes thing.”

  G.M.L. Homes, Mundin thought, irritated. That’s silly. G.M.L.—why, that means the bubble-houses. Not just the houses, of course—the bubble-cities, too; the real estate in practically continental lots; the private roads, the belt lines, the power reactors… .

  “Nonsense.” It wasn’t a very funny joke.

  The shiny-eyed boy said abruptly, “The ‘L’ stands for Lavin. Did you know that?”

  Something kicked Mundin in the stomach. He grunted. Suppose—just suppose, now—that maybe it isn’t a joke, he thought detachedly. Ridiculous, of course, but just suppose——

  G.M.L. Homes.

  Such things didn’t happen to Charles Mundin, LL.D. To squash it once and for all, he said, flat out, “I’m not licensed to practice corporate law, you know. Try William Choate the Fourth; he was——”

  “We just did. He said no.”

  They make it sound real, Mundin thought admiringly. Of course, it couldn’t be. Somewhere in the rules it was written down inexpungibly: Charles Mundin will never get a fat case. Therefore this thing would piffle out, of course.

  “Well?” demanded the girl.

  “I said I’m not licensed to practice corporate law.”

  “That’s all right,” the girl said contemptuously. “Did you think we didn’t know that? We have an old banger we dug up who still has his license. He can’t work, but we can use his name as attorney of record.”

  Well. He began hazily. “It’s naturally interesting——”

  She interrupted. “Naturally, Mundin, naturally. Will you get the hell off the dime? Yes or no. Tell us.”

  Dworcas stuck his head in again. “Mundin. I’m awfully

  sorry, but I’ve got to have the office for a while. Why don’t you and your friends go over for a cup of coffee?”

  Hussein’s place across the street was pretty full, but they found a low table on the aisle.

  The old-timers stared with dull, insulting curiosity at the strange face of Don Lavin. The kids in zoot hats with five-inch brims looked once and then looked a
way quickly. You didn’t stare at a man who had obviously been conditioned: Not any more than in the old days you stared at the cropped ears of a convicted robber or asked a eunuch what it was like.

  Norma Lavin got no stares at all. Young and old, the customers looked coldly right through her. The Ay-rabs blamed women like her for the disconcerting way their own women were changing under their very eyes.

  Hussein himself came over. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Ur-munn,” he beamed. “What will you have?”

  “Coffee, please,” Mundin said. Don Lavin shook his head absently. Norma said nothing.

  “Majun for the lady?” Hussein asked blandly. “Fresh from Mexico this week. Very strong. Peppermint, raspberry, grape?”

  Norma Lavin icily said, “No.” Hussein went away beaming. He had delivered a complicated triple insult—by calling her a lady, offering her a narcotic and, at that, a narcotic traditionally beloved by Islamic ladies denied the consolation of love by ugliness or age.

  Mundin masked bis nervousness by studying his watch. “We have about ten minutes,” he said. “If you can give me an idea of what you have in mind——”

  Somebody coming down the aisle stumbled over Don Lavin’s foot.

  “I beg your pardon,” Lavin said dreamily.

  “What’s the idea of tripping me?” asked a bored voice. It was a cop—a big man with an intelligent, humorous face.

  “It was an accident, officer,” Mundin said.

  “Here we go again,” Norma Lavin muttered.

  “I was talking to this gentleman, I believe,” the cop said. Be asked Don Lavin again, “I said, what’s the idea of tripping

  •e? You a cop-hater or something?”

  i Tm really very sorry,” Lavin said. “Please accept my

  •pology.”

  “He won’t,” Norma Lavin said to Mundin, aside.

  “Officer,” Mundin said sharply, “it was an accident. I’m Charles Mundin. Former candidate for the Council in the 27th, Regular Republican. I’ll vouch for this gentleman.”