Program for a Puppet

by Roland Perry

  “No we are not!” the Old Man said, slamming a clenched fist into an open hand. “We’ve got about two and a half billion dollars’ worth of contracts that will be waiting on the President’s desk for a countersignature by February. If Rickard’s in, we’ll never get them. If Mineva’s in, they’re ours. There is so much riding on this for our plans we can’t afford to be complacent.”

  “Look, I don’t see what you’re worried about. The PPP says Mineva will win. I believe it’s right.”

  “You honestly believe that goddamn thing is infallible, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing constructed by man is infallible!”

  “This can be. You’ve never really had the faith in computers I have, have you?”

  “Computers didn’t make me in the twenties and thirties! Hard man-made sweat, and selling, and selling and more selling, did!”

  “But they’ve made this corporation. And you damn well know it.”

  Instead of launching into the chicken-and-egg argument the two of them had been through many times before, the Old Man changed the subject.

  “I spoke to Strasburg this afternoon,” he said coolly. “After all the assurances, the promises, the predictions, he still couldn’t tell me categorically if Judge Shaw was going to come down on our side. After six years’ litigation, we’ve still got to wait until he enters that courtroom tomorrow to see if the government has managed to ruin us.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the case is ours. It’s all sewn up.”

  “But we haven’t actually heard it from Shaw himself.”

  “I think we near as damn well have.”

  “You mean the way he acted at the country club the other night when he met Mineva?”

  “Yes. According to one of Mineva’s aides, the candidate gave a virtuoso performance, as if he were already President. Over dinner he spoke of the nation ‘moving forward with a powerful enforcement of the law and the Constitution.’ Somehow he got around to speaking about how he planned to work with Congress, the unions and the ‘mighty’ forces of big business.”

  The Old Man liked what he was hearing.

  “Apparently the conversation got around to the Supreme Court, and Judge Rathbone’s imminent death. Shaw’s old tongue was really hanging out. Then Mineva skipped the conversation away again and began to compliment the judge on his long career. Late in the dinner he actually dropped a few words of praise for Lasercomp! He said he hoped our profits would soar in his first year in office!”

  “I’d still be happier with a categorical thumbs-up from Shaw now….”

  “Don’t worry. We will get that tomorrow.”

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29

  “All rise and remain silent,” a bailiff cried clearly from the rear of the New York Southern District courtroom as Judge Shaw shuffled his way down a corridor to a side entrance. The press, lawyers, students, housewives, businessmen and politicians who had gathered midmorning, waited. Shaw entered, face solemn. All eyes were fixed on him as he paused before the bench for a continuation of the bailiff’s chant: “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, the United States Court for the Southern District of New York is now in session. Draw near that you may be heard. God save the United Stats and this honorable court. Please take your seats.”

  “God save the United States” … the words echoed in Revel’s brain as he resumed his seat at the head of the prosecution table, never taking his eyes off the judge’s face.

  Shaw flopped in his chair behind the bench. He cleared his throat to indicate he was about to commence his judgment.

  “Have you got the courage?” Revel felt like yelling, as Shaw said: “In 99 Civ. 500, the United States of America versus the Lasercomp Corporation …”

  … Lasercomp, the world’s biggest computer manufacturer, today won its historic court battle with the U.S. Government when Judge Peter K. Shaw brought down a decision overwhelmingly in the corporation’s favor.…”

  Graham switched off the 6:00 P.M. news report in disgust and paced his Washington hotel room.

  He could feel the pressure of Lasercomp’s power. It had proved invicible in the courts. It had moved relentlessly forward, as Graham had witnessed in the Philpott-Haussermann television interview, in its efforts to denigrate Rickard. Now the arrests of the eight scientists suddenly seemed such a small, even hollow victory. The great weight of information supplied by Gordon showed the strength of Lasercomp’s all-encompassing plans for absolute power. It had taken the Australian three days to wade through the details on the Cheetah design, plans to sell a computer network first to the Soviet Union and, piece by piece, a similar system to government agencies, and also the original PPP program for Mineva’s run to the White House.

  Graham now had a great base of information and felt the urgency of getting back to the relative sanctity of London, locking himself away and writing the whole story, before the corporation caught up with him….

  He put a call through to Sir Alfred in London.

  “I’m catching the night flight back. I’ve got everything I want from here.”

  “See me as soon as you’ve slept off your jet lag,” Sir Alfred said. “I have something urgent to tell you … also you’ve had several calls from Huntsman of Lasercomp….”

  “What did he want?” Graham asked edgily.

  “He wants you to ring him in New York….”

  “Christ! That’s all I need. Sir Alfred, I’ll see you tomorrow.…”

  Graham put down the receiver and sat for a minute pondering Huntsman’s attempt to speak to him. The Australian was tempted to confront the corporation and see if he could learn something that would connect Lasercomp to the deaths of Jane Ryder and Ronald MacGregor. Yet confrontation was dangerous. Gordon had done this and there had been an attempt on his life.

  Graham decided to return Huntsman’s call to at least gauge some reaction. He knew that if he kept the call to less than three minutes it would be difficult to trace.

  Packing quickly, he reserved a taxi for the airport and then phoned the PR man at Lasercomp’s Black Flats HQ.

  “Yes, Mr. Graham, there are a couple of things … are you in New York?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, uh … we wondered why you had not been in contact.”

  “I changed my mind about writing for you.”

  “Uh, if it’s money we can go higher …”

  “It wouldn’t matter what you offered.”

  “Isn’t that being a little unreas—”

  “What else did you ring me about?” Graham said curtly, as he looked at his watch. Forty-five seconds.

  Graham heard Huntsman’s hand go over the receiver as he spoke in a muffled tone to someone.

  The Australian was about to hang up when Huntsman said, “Sorry, I was distracted for a moment … uh, our management wants to make a statement about its marketing inside the Soviet Union.” The temperature of his voice had dropped considerably. “We want you to have an exclusive.”

  “Why me?”

  “We know that you’re behind the attacks on our Soviet marketing. We want you to have a better perspective … the full story behind our operations there.”

  Graham looked at his watch again. One minute thirty-five seconds.

  “How?”

  “It depends on where you are. Are you planning to stay in the U.S.?”

  “No.”

  “Then if you’re going to be in England we could arrange that you meet with Jean Marie Cheznoir …”

  “Cheznoir?” Graham sounded interested. But all the danger signals were flashing.

  “Yes, as you know he is the brain behind our day-to-day dealing with the Soviet Union. It would be a world exclusive for you….” Huntsman could see the chance to set Graham up for the Director.

  “I don’t want to waste my time with your usual PR crap.”

  “I assure you this will be big news. Very big. Uh, he is of course Paris-based, could you make it there? I’ll be there myself tomorrow for a w
eek.…”

  “I’ll phone you in Paris …”

  Graham replaced the receiver abruptly. The call had lasted two minutes fifty-five seconds. He heard the taxi outside and decided to call Revel in New York from the airport.

  Revel got himself drunk with his prosecution team in the Hotel Intercontinental in New York City after Judge Shaw’s decision, which allowed Lasercomp to continue expanding unhindered.

  There were a few minor directives from the judge, such as Lasercomp having to sell off all its noncomputer lines like typewriters and copying machines. There were also a few sober admonishments for its “ruthless treatment of some competition.” But in essence the judgment was one of overwhelming support for the corporation and its activities at home and abroad in computer marketing.

  Revel could not remember hearing the uproar in the courtroom when the main thrust of the judgment became clear. Nor had he felt the wringing hands of consolation or seen the triumphant and relieved faces of Lasercomp’s defense, led by Strasburg and Cartwright. He had just wanted to sink into a hole in the courtroom floor.

  Following a sad three-hour lunch, a boozed and bewildered Revel staggered to his room and slept it off. He was awakened by the telephone. It was Graham calling from Washington, minutes before his flight to London.

  After a few words of consolation, he said, “I’ve spent the best part of the last three days going through Gordon’s information and the PPP. If it’s accurate, Lasercomp is probably going to use Philpott’s last show before the election to crush Rickard.”

  “How?”

  “It could have something to do with the Haussermann tape. The original PPP of ten years ago allows for the ‘Philpott factor.’ It even measures the impact of his TV programs, and their influence on an audience before an election.”

  “But he only has two shows left.”

  “Right. Consider how much more important those two shows are now compared to when the original PPP was made—particularly when he claims to have a tape where the President of the United States is supposed to be admitting responsibility for assassinating a rival.”

  “I’m seeing the attorney general on Saturday to present my part of PICS. Maybe I could persuade him to look into it.”

  “If you could only see Philpott’s script for his last program before the election. That’s the one I think could do the most damage to Rickard.”

  A weak, gaunt and disgruntled Everett Rickard propped himself up in his hospital bed among the myriad red roses and get-well cards and began his first piece of presidential business since his heart attack three days earlier.

  This consisted of a one-hour conference call to the Vice-President, attorney general, Secretary of State and his campaign managers, who informed him of his wife’s brave thirty-hour vote-catching foray to the Southern states and New York on his behalf.

  Rickard’s doctor warned him that even these conversations could cause a relapse. But he informed the Vice-President that vital national and international decisions were still to be made by Rickard himself.

  Rickard insisted that his press secretary brief him fully on media matters. Rickard was particularly concerned with clearing up the continued attacks on him by FBS, and some sections of the press.

  The President munched gently on a salad dinner as Emmery explained what steps he had taken since Rickard had ordered him to take action on the FBS bias. “I’ve been in touch with every member of the FBS board …”

  “And?”

  “There was a general consensus that you seemed to be coming in for an unnecessary attack. But they didn’t know why.” “Surely they have editorial control!”

  “They do. However, they said they tried to keep from meddling in day-to-day programming trends.”

  “Passing the buck,” the President mumbled.

  “Maybe, but several of them, including FBS Vice-President Jack Carruthers, appear to be sympathetic to your position.”

  “Why aren’t we seeing it on television?”

  “Carruthers said he intended to call a special board meeting to look at the coverage of the election and your complaint.”

  FBS’s board attended a meeting in the conference room of the network’s Fifth Avenue New York offices. It had spent the last six hours watching reruns of excerpts from Philpott’s recent program. Jack Carruthers, a granite-faced nuggety little man of forty-five, who was not known for mincing his words, opened the meeting.

  “Everyone wants to know what we are going to do about this anti-Rickard bias.”

  “Look, Jack, we all know we get this sort of criticism every goddamn election,” Cary Bilby said, looking around at the other six board members. “It’s no different. I can’t see what all the fuss is about.”

  “I don’t agree. We’ve just seen Philpott’s performance.”

  “He’s the best goddamn asset this network has!” Bilby said defensively.

  “No one is disputing that, but if he continues to slant his programs, FBS will lose credibility.”

  Phil Roberts, a quiet-spoken retired stockbrocker, said, “That’s what we want to discuss. That’s the issue.”

  “It seems that you’re the only one who doesn’t think he is out to break Rickard,” Carruthers said to Bilby.

  “So what am I supposed to do? Tell Philpott how to run his show? His ratings are higher than anyone ever before. Advertising revenue is rocketing because of his shows. We’ve never had to interfere in editorial programming.”

  “Let’s not get our priorities mixed,” Helen Masters, a forty-five-year-old former newspaper owner, said, patting her swept-back, blue-rinsed hair. “This network has had a reputation for integrity. We don’t want to sacrifice that for advertising revenue. Newscasters and advertisers come and go.”

  “It’s things like the Haussermann ‘tape affair,’ as Philpott calls it,” Carruthers said. “I don’t like it. There are too many unsubstantiated inferences for my liking!” There were mumbles of agreement around the table. “Rickard is quite entitled to sue us for libel.”

  “I think you are showing your political bias!” Bilby said to Carruthers. “You want Rickard to win.”

  “I want this network to present the truth! That’s what’s at stake here!” Carruthers said angrily.

  “I agree!” Helen Masters said.

  “Now hold on,” Bilby said. “Just who do you want to win, Jack, who?”

  “I’ve made no secret of my feelings. Rickard’s record is good. He deserves to carry on. And I think he is personally a far better bet than Mineva to run this country! But that has nothing at all to do with this meeting!”

  “I think it has a big goddamn bearing on our attitudes!” Bilby said.

  “I think Jack is right,” Helen Masters said. “Rickard is the better man. He’s a tough, but good and intelligent President. Mineva’s too plastic.”

  “Now we’re getting personal!” Bill Cookson, the oldest member of the board, said. “But Philpott is persecuting Rickard and helping Mineva. It stand out a mile in those reruns.”

  There was a sudden nervous lull in the conversation as Bilby realized he was outnumbered. “All right! I’ll have a word with Philpott, if you all think it’s that bad!” He picked up a folder and stormed out of the meeting.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30

  Mineva and his entourage made a triumphant drive down Fifth Avenue in crisp autumn sunshine to a welcome by around two hundred throusand people. As their route took them down Fifth Avenue, along Forty-second Street past the porn movie houses and down Seventh Avenue to the heart of the garment district, many people broke through the police barriers and ran alongside Mineva’s open car. Bands played and there was something of a carnival atmosphere in spite of the cold as the candidate’s campaign reached its peak and took the media limelight almost completely.

  By contrast, everything seemed to be going wrong for Rickard’s support team. While the President languished helplessly in his hospital bed, Vice President Cosgrove had made a speech the night before in Chica
go but found his flight delayed for two hours because of snow at the city’s airport the next morning. He had been doing his best. But there was little doubt that Rickard’s sudden illness had caused his campaign to falter badly. On top of this, he seemed to be coming under terrific attack for his handling of the Sino-Soviet flare-up, which had reached a dangerous point. Both Peking and the Kremlin were threatening each other with all-out attack. There was also a continual barrage about the Haussermann tape affair and accusations about his President’s income tax returns, and alleged sexual misadventures. All his staff could do was issue bland denials. Without the tough-minded Rickard to easily field and turn aside the criticisms of his presidency and himself, his campaign had gone very much on the defensive.

  A distinct feeling of loneliness crept over Graham as he entered the stark suite at hotel hideout in Hampstead after his rough flight from Washington. Françoise had left him.

  There was a note on the bedside table: “I love you. Regret au revoir. Françoise.”

  The Australian slumped on the bed and stared at the note. The cold emptiness without her made him realize how much through the hell of the last two months he had grown dependent on her nearness, the anticipation of her touch … her warmth…. He looked at the telephone and was in two minds whether or not to call her and plead with her to come back. Then he shook his head in disgust.

  To drag her back to the dangers would be cowardly and selfish. Instead he vowed to keep his promise to see her when the investigation was over….

  He slept soundly for six hours and awoke fresh. His first thought was to call Sir Alfred. His private secretary told him the publisher would be waiting at his Pall Mall club at 6:00 P.M. Graham had just enough time to shower and dress.

  He took twenty minutes to brief Sir Alfred on his latest findings and then asked, “What’s the information you have for me?”

  “Gould says the KGB has a contract out on you after your Soviet escapade.”

  “How did he learn that?”