"See here, Mr., uh, Brown. This is of no interest to."
"We think it is," the ex-newsman said. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook forth a smoke. "We either find out, or Mr. Cos doesn't sign." He put the cigarette in his colorless lips and brought forth his lighter.
Brett-James stared at him for a long moment, but finally said, "The daily premiums are one million pseudo-dollars."
The gray-faced Forry nodded as he lit up, blowing smoke through his pinched nostrils. "Clear enough. You have to do Roy in within ten days or you start losing money."
The signing of the contract was witnessed by the receptionist and another nonentity she brought in, a young man who avoided Roy's eyes as he signed.
When the two witnesses were gone, Brett-James rubbed his hands together and said, "Jolly well. I daresay you'll be returning immediately to the mainland. Where will you be staying?"
Forry looked at him flatly. "Get serious," he said. "Do you think we'd give you that much of a head start?" He put Roy's copy of the contract into his attache case.
When they had left, the other pressed a button on his desk and four men entered, one of them the young witness. Brett-James said, "You've got the photos, the tapes and all?"
The oldest of the four nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Very well, get to work on both of them. Check out this Forrest Brown chap. We'll want to know just where he fits in." Brett-James made a motion with his hand. "All right, Maurice, tail them. Follow the instructions I gave you earlier."
As they walked back toward Bay Street, Forry looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got over an hour before the next shuttle to Miami. We might as well eat. Blackbeard's Tavern is a good place."
"Right," Roy said, immersed deeply in bleak thoughts.
They reached the shopping center and turned left.
The little ex-newsman stopped at a shop and said, "Just a minute. I might as well stock up here."
The sign said, 'Solomon's Mines,' and they entered to find the store devoted almost exclusively to tobacco products. Roy muttered, "Jesus Christ. In the States this shop would've been raided before it opened."
His companion ordered a dozen packs of Russian Imperial Gold Tip Blacks and began stuffing them into his pockets. "A fraction of what they cost on the black market at home," he said. "Here, stick these away." He handed Roy six packs.
"Wait a minute," Roy Cos said indignantly. "Suppose they nail me with them at American customs. It's a bad policy for a member of the Wobblies. A radical can't afford to be anything else offbeat. It gives them a handle to get at you."
Forry said impatiently, "They never search your person at customs unless you're a known smuggler or have a criminal record when they check you out in the data banks."
Roy shrugged in resignation and distributed the six packages of cigarettes about his pockets.
As they left the shop, the little newsman was tearing one pack open. He shook out a gold-tipped, black-papered cigarettee and said, "Like to try one?"
"For God's sake, do I look stupid? You think I want to wind up with my lungs eaten away and my heart pounding overtime?"
Forry grinned. "They've been denouncing alcohol for centuries, but I notice you're not particularly opposed to taking a drink."
"It's only excessive use of alcohol that's condemned," Roy told him, his tone righteous. "Moderate use of alcohol has been a blessing to man since prehistory."
"By Christ, you radicals are the most conservative cloddies going. You're worse than the United Church. Excess of anything will do you in. Drink enough water and you'll drown."
They argued companionably, deliberately avoiding the subject uppermost in both their minds.
Blackbeard's Tavern turned out to be a cozy bar and restaurant, with a small calypso band playing in the background, surprisingly softly. They took a table and a white-jacketed, barefooted black was there immediately to take their order.
Forry said, with obvious anticipation, "Native Bahamians have their own food specialties that are hard to get elsewhere. Conch, for instance-a kind of shellfish. We'll have conch chowder, green turtle pie, and baked Andros crabs. And black beer to go with it."
Roy put down his menu and let the other do all of the ordering. When the waiter was gone, he said, "I think we were followed."
"Yeah, I noticed that," Forry said. "Forget about it. The contract doesn't go into effect until tomorrow. But don't forget that tomorrow starts at midnight. Meanwhile, they most certainly don't want anything to happen to you before then. That bastard tailing us is more like a bodyguard than anything else, at this stage. It'll be something else if we see him tomorrow."
The waiter brought large mugs of very dark beer and, shortly afterward, the conch chowder. They ate without joy, stolidly going through the motions while lost in their thoughts. It had been one thing, planning this coup, but getting down to the nitty-gritty in Brett-James's office had brought home reality. The contract was signed now and there was no going back; as of midnight, Roy would have a price on his pelt.
Again they avoided saying what was uppermost in both of their minds. Forry skated near it with, "Funny how societies always seem to provide for the future by accident. Ever consider that maybe this bland food is preparing us for a dull future?"
Roy frowned at his plate. "It is kind of tasteless. You mean we're getting ourselves ready for an era of the blahs?"
The little newsman said, "A slow dissolution, maybe." He nodded agreement with himself. "Without necessarily deliberate planning, society provides for the future. In this case, a future in which over ninety percent of the population became proles. The big difference between proles and slaves is that the slaves had to work to maintain the upper classes. But now machinery does practically all of the work and proles are real drones, absolutely worthless."
Roy said, scowling, "How do you mean society provided for my future? I didn't ask to become a complete drone. It was foisted on me."
The newsman nodded again and put down his fork, giving up the food for which neither of them had found enthusiasm. "You're an exception. But over a century ago society was already preparing for the day of the prole. Most kids at that time were already spending more time watching TV than they were spending in school. Oh, there were good schools in the United States, such as MIT, Johns Hopkins, Berkeley, Caltech, and so on. And the good schools turned out possibly five percent of the college graduates of the time. But the rest of the school system was a shambles. Kids got out of grammar school unable to read and write. Hell, many of them graduated from high school unable to function as adults-couldn't make out an application, couldn't keep up a checkbook. Their reading was confined to comic books or strips in the newspapers, or painfully wading through the sports pages. They got their news, to the extent they were interested at all, from TV commentators."
"I still don't see how that leads to society preparing for the future," Roy said, scowling still. This wasn't gospel as laid down by the Wobbly movement.
"Our people were being prepared for becoming proles, unemployables. In modern society you've got to have a good education to hold down a job. Fine, the five percent needed today got a good education. It's not necessary that the ninety percent have one. In fact, it's a disadvantage. An educated man, unemployed, is a potentially dangerous man. He can think, and question, and act on the answers he comes up with. Our educational system was weaning our youth away from an aggressive approach to life, taking the guts out of them, preparing them for their future as proles."
Roy said softly, still in rejection, "So what's our future? What lies ahead for us!"
"Probably more of the same. And the upper class will continue to get richer and smaller, as it eliminates the lower levels of its own class, who are thrown down into the ranks of the proles if their fortunes are lost by whatever means- including being pissed away."
The Wobbly looked at him, thoughtfully. He said, his voice slow, "You're more interested in these things than you've admitted, aren't you,
Forry? How come you picked a Wobbly on this project of yours? Why not a Luddite, or Neo-Nihilist, or possibly a Libertarian? And why meT'
Forry Brown tossed his napkin to the table and looked at his wrist chronometer. "We have to get going," he said, bringing his card from his pocket. "You weren't my first choice, Roy. I approached another National Organizer of the Wobblies before you. He evidently wasn't cut out to be a martyr. He turned me down."
Chapter Seven: Lee Garrett
Gary McBride entered the Nuits St. Georges restaurant, his eyes on his wrist chronometer. He looked around hurriedly, frowned, and then went into the bar lounge.
Lee Garrett sat at a small table, a glass before her. She seemed not at all impatient.
He came up to her, his smile just slightly drawn. "Ms. Garrett, of course?" he said. He took in the glass with its light golden contents. "By George," he said. "Not a drink before eating the specialties of Burgundy?" He took the table's second chair. "I'm Gary McBride."
She smiled brightly at him, her almost unbelievably blue eyes taking in his male fashion model appearance. Not only was Gary McBride handsome, in the best upper class tradition, but he was dressed for the part. His suit, shirt, and shoes were exactly what the youthful senior executive in Manhattan was wearing, not just this year, but probably this week.
She said, after shaking hands, "Only a sherry."
"Tio Pepe, I should hope," he said. "Anything stronger or less dry would play havoc with one's palate."
She did a little laugh, as though he were joking. "Tio Pepe is so dry it gives me heartburn."
"Then not another sip of that," he told her severely. "Andre would be desolate. Shall we go to our table?"
He took her arm and led her to the dining room. Lee was dressed in green Irish tweeds which would have denigrated any figure less superb than her own. She looked very businesslike, her simple white blouse and low heels very sincere.
The maitre d' greeted them unctuously and led them to a table tucked intimately away in a small nook. The decor was early French bistro: reproductions of Toulouse Lautrec's posters, aged advertisements of Ricard, Pernod, and a Rheims champagne. The room was moderately full of prosperous diners.
Andre put menus before them, brought forth a pad and stylo, and looked inquiringly, politely, and most earnestly at Gary McBride.
Gary McBride said to Lee, "The menu is in French. Shall I order?"
"Please do," she said, putting down her own carte.
Consulting with the headwaiter as he went, very seriously indeed, Gary McBride ordered as their first course Oeufs en Cocotte Bourguignonne, with a Meursault '48 to accompany it. When the wine arrived, Andre again presided pouring a small amount into McBride's tulip-shaped glass. He sipped it carefully, after he tested the bouquet, and thoughtfully pursed his lips.
Andre murmured, "Le vin est a votre gout?"
"Excellent," Gary McBride nodded, and the headwaiter filled both glasses two-thirds full.
Eggs a la Bourguignonne turned out to be poached in red burgundy, and for a moment, both were silent as they sampled. Gary McBride said, "A pity to discuss business while eating, my dear, but I understand that you were contacted, as planned, by a member of the Anti-Racist League." Lee nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'm afraid I muffed it."
"Not to worry, my dear. What went wrong?"
"I underestimated him. He was a black; well-educated. What tipped him off, I have no idea, but he saw through me. I suppose it was rather humorous. He pretended to get somewhat tipsy and, ah, pretended to make a rather crude play for me."
His eyebrows went up.
t rape, and revealed that I wasn't truly material for the Anti-Racists. He told me off very efficiently, greatly amused."
"I see. Then your cover is blown, so far as the Anti-Racist League is concerned."
"I'm afraid so."
"Not to worry," he said again. "Ah, the duck." The Canard a L'Orange arrived with the Richebourg '65
he had ordered, and again went through the wine-tasting ceremony.
When the waiter had retired he said, "You were not alone. The Foundation has several, ah, agents making the same attempt to penetrate the Anti-Racist League. You were but one. Others, it is to be assured, will be more successful."
She said, "I wasn't told a great deal about the purpose of my mission. Actually, in spite of my silly scene with Horace Hampton, I am not particularly prejudiced so far as minorities are concerned. I was rather surprised that the Race Research Foundation was interested in infiltrating his organization. I thought its research would be along other lines."
"It is but one ramification of a much broader project. You see, Lee, the Anti-Racist League is a racist organization itself."
"I don't understand."
"In much the same way that the Zionists were."
She frowned slightly at him. "I'm not anti-Semitic, either."
"Nor am I, nor is the Foundation. We're far above such ridiculous postures. But there are most pertinent matters involved. The Anti-Racist League was not of particular import to us so long as it was active in the original fifty states alone. The minorities they represent numbered but some sixteen percent of the population; no great danger to our status quo. However, they are now, ah, beginning to spread into Latin America and other areas of the new United States of the Americas."
She scowled down at her plate. "I don't believe I follow you."
"These new citizens have the vote, Lee. There are enough blacks in Haiti, Jamaica, and even the Guianas to assure that their senators and representatives will be represented in Congress by blacks-if steps are not taken. It's equally true for Mexico, Central America, and the parts of South America which are chiefly Indian."
"So the purpose of the Race Research Foundation is."
"Ultimately, to maintain the status quo. To see that our people, yours and mine, do not vanish from the positions of power they now assume. Ah, but here is the cheese. I have ordered a selection of Roquefort, Brie, and Chevre."
The cheese was accompanied by a bottle of Rose d'Anjou, following which the waiter brought Crepes de Chapitre.
Lee, who had been silent and thoughtful through these culinary wonders, said at one point, "But since my cover has been blown, as you put it, I am no longer of value to the Foundation."
He smiled at her condescendingly. "We'll discuss it later in my office, my dear."
When they finished the meal, Andre returned, bowing unctuously again.
He said to Gary McBride, "Ca vous a plu, le repas, Monsieur McBride?"
"II etait superb, Andre," the other told him grandly.
Andre looked at Lee. "Et Madam?"
Lee said, ' 'Mes felicitations au chef pour ses crepes. Us etaient commes des diners de George Garin au Chateau du Clos de Veuheot. IIy avaient des autres nobles efforts."
"Merci, Madam." Andre bowed deeply and was gone.
Gary McBride gaped at her. "Parisian French," he said accusingly.
"My father was in the diplomatic corps. In Paris, I attended the Lycee Janson de Sailly. I also have Spanish, Portugese, and Italian, and can get along in German. My Russian is atrocious."
"All Russian is atrocious," he smirked, then saw irritation in her face. "Or did I make a mistake?"
She said, evenly, "Several. Never order such a wine as Richebourg with such a dish as Canard a L'Orange. Nor any other wine, for that matter. The acid of the orange sauce destroys the enjoyment of any great wine. The sole exception is Bouzy, from the Champagne district. If you must order Richebourg it is worthy of a much greater dish, such as Venison Grand Veneur or Lievre a la Royale."
"I see," he said coldly. "And what else?"
"None of the cheeses were from Burgundy. A Brillat Savarin or ripe Epoisse would have been preferable. And Rose d'Anjou, a suspect wine at best, is anathema to both Burgundy food and any cheese and most certainly should never do for the crepes, which were excellent, as I told the maitre d'. By the way, his French has a horrible Brooklyn accent."
"
I see," he said. "Shall we go?" He stood, tossing his napkin to the table.
She looked up at him. "Why? My one assignment for the Race Research Foundation came a cropper. I should have looked further into the whole thing before undertaking it. If I had, possibly I would have refused the job. I was too thrilled at the prospect of actually being employed when the computer selected me to work for you, Mr. McBride. Now, even if you did have some position I could hold down, I'm not sure I would choose to be associated with such a pompous superior.''
He grinned suddenly, which completely altered his face. He said, "Good. We've got some things to discuss."
She shrugged in resignation, dropped her own napkin to the table, and stood. "I can't imagine what," she murmured.
Dean Ing & Mack Reynolds Page 10
