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"Well, I will admit sales have boomed since he came on. But who bought Bullroar for such a huge price?"
"That was another stroke of Flagrant genius," said Heller. "He sold him to King Charles of England because it was such a short distance to fall off."
"Is that why the corporation is now 'By Appointment to His Majesty'?" said Izzy. "I thought I was just making progress in taking over governments."
"Oh, that, too," said Heller. "So now do you believe it about alligator cavalry?"
I pushed the viewer away. There was no point in getting all confused trying to figure out when Heller was serious and when he was joking. I knew that the spores were serious enough. But they wouldn't hurt Rockecenter: they'd just give industry an excuse not to check any pollution they sent into the air. That would sell even dirtier fuel and make Rockecenter even richer.
I turned my attention to the other viewer.
The Countess Krak was walking down a hall in an apartment building, carrying a plastic shopping bag.
She went out the main entrance door.
I freaked! I had been so engrossed with Heller, I had missed what she must have been doing! That condo scene was unmistakable! It was where Madison's mother lived!
Bang-Bang opened up the door of the old cab and the Countess Krak got in. Bang-Bang started the cab up and drove away.
"Any luck?" said Bang-Bang.
"Oh, he was the man, all right. But she's too naive to live, Bang-Bang. She thinks her son was a sensitive child. She thinks he's dead."
"Well, Jet did find an empty on the dock, that had been fired only minutes before. I think that plain-wrapper whirlybird was trying to arrest him for speeding, all right, and hazed him into the drink. And maybe they fired a shot into him as well. Or maybe they fired the shot, hit him and he went over the edge."
"Well, we're not going to get anything more out of Mrs. Madison."
I flinched. Had the Countess Krak killed her?
"I think Jet's right," said Bang-Bang. "It leads straight to Bury."
"She did mention," said the Countess, "that just before he left that day, he had a call from a Mr. Smith."
My blood congealed. Thank Gods, Mrs. Madison had never seen me personally that I recalled. But this was too close!
"There's a million of those in New York," said Bang-Bang.
"Somebody from Bury's office," said the Countess Krak. "I wish Jettero weren't so set about not taking this
Bury on."
"It would mean a frontal assault on the whole Rockecenter outfit, including the government," said Bang-Bang. "The casualties would be unacceptable."
"Bang-Bang," said the Countess Krak, "pull up beside the next phone kiosk you see. I'm going to phone Swindle and Crouch and ask for Mr. Smith."
He stopped by a delicatessen on East 45th Street and she made the call.
"Smith?" the Swindle and Crouch receptionist said. "We have no Smiths."
The Countess Krak went back to the cab. "The other address I got was 42 Mess Street. Drive down there, Bang-Bang."
This was certainly hard on my exhausted nerves.
Bang-Bang bounced off assorted vehicles and got them to 42 Mess Street.
It was now just a deserted loft. The Countess stirred around through the papers on the floor. It had all manner of scrap Whiz Kid releases. But the furniture, the phones, the news lines all were gone. The place had degenerated to an empty ruin.
As they drove back uptown, the Countess Krak said, "Well, so far as we can tell, J. Walter Madison is dead and we have shut down the operation, at least there in that place. But we do know one thing for sure."
"What's that?" said Bang-Bang.
"Madison's mother states that Madison worked directly under a Mr. Smith from the office of Swindle and Crouch. That office doesn't have a Mr. Smith. Somebody knew Madison was dead or missing and closed 42 Mess Street before anybody else suspected he was gone. I've got the hour and date of the last press releases they issued. That was probably this same Mr. Smith that called his mother. So the one thing we know for sure is that somewhere in this mess there is a man who is using the fictitious name of Smith."
Bang-Bang said, "That's not very much." I disagreed. I thought it was absolutely, HORRIBLY TOO MUCH!
"It's enough to keep me looking," said the Countess Krak.
Oh, Gods, was I glad I was at sea!
But wait. I couldn't stay at sea forever. Even though I had no place to go, I knew that sooner or later I would have to make a stand.
If the Countess Krak was allowed to go on running around loose, one day she would connect it all up to me and then, no matter where I was, I would be a goner.
It was her fault, after all, that I was at sea.
And only because, through incompetent help, I had not nailed her before.
If I were ever to get out of this, I would have to overcome all odds, forget past failures and finish off the Countess Krak.
That was as vivid to me as the ache which plagued my bones.
I was not just sitting here, helpless.
I glared at the two-way-response radio. With it I could issue an order to Raht.
If I gave him a wrong order and he missed, she would kill him and then I really would be helpless. So I had to be very careful if I told Raht to do anything.
So the question remained: What could I tell Raht to do that would GUARANTEE her end? I must think of something.
Chapter 5
Day followed day as we made our way across the smooth and picturesque sea. It was progressing toward the end of April, a calm part of the year, and we were in the calmest part of the Atlantic. The water was blue, the sky was blue, the yacht was white, the clouds were white. Captain Bitts, when I commented to him that I saw no ships, informed me that this was the most unfrequented belt in the whole ocean. Even the whales had a chance, he said, and sure enough, on the fifth day we saw one-a monster-much to Teenie's delight.
And that wasn't all that was delighting Teenie. That very night she plagued me with questions about how could whales possibly do it? Was their equipment in proportion to the rest of them?
"They lay eggs," I said.
"They do not," she said. "They are mammals. They do it just like we do."
"No you don't, Teenie," I said. "I am exhausted. Go to your room and sleep just this one night. Between you and the sports director I don't know whether I'm going or coming."
"Well, all right," she said. "But just let me settle this one question of zoology. I found this book in the library and it simply did not show the vital elements. On such subjects I am quite an expert, you know: it was my major at Bassar. To complete my education, I must establish the relative proportions of whales."
"Oh, Gods," I said. "What now? Teenie, will you PLEASE go to bed and stop pestering me!"
She was standing there with the end of a white-edged ruler thoughtfully caressing her lower lip. "If I could establish your relative proportions, I could get some idea of that of whales. So if you will just let me measure you, I promise faithfully to go to bed."
Oh, Gods. "Well, (bleep) it, go ahead then," I said, "but don't be all night."
Her robe fell on the floor as she said, "Oh, fiddlesticks, Inky. I can't do it. It wouldn't be fair to whales. You're just a dishcloth."
The starburst chandelier glowed dimly in the ceiling. "To keep my part of the bargain and go to bed," she said, "you'll have to cooperate. Take a few puffs of this Hawaiian. That won't hurt you."
A cloud of marijuana smoke rose up.
The ruler was lying on the floor. I said, "Wait! Wait! You have a bargain to keep!"
The stars
shone through the open port. "Ooooooh!" groaned Teenie in a shuddering voice as marijuana smoke poured out.
The curtain was hanging very still. I said, my breath short, "You didn't keep your part of the bargain!"
The ruler was lying there on the floor. "Oh, I'm keeping it," she said, and her hand reached for it and picked it up.
A bowl of fruit in a silver basket shone in the light from the nightstand. "Oh, hell, Inky. You're not cooperating at all! You're just a punctured balloon."
My hand was dangling down toward the floor. "Teenie, please go to bed."
The bhong was sitting on the table. Her fingers applied a lighted match to it. "Just another puff or two, Inky, and I'll be able to finish it and complete my bargain."
The ship's wake hissed as it purled by. "Oh, Inky, aaaaaaahhhhhh!" came Teenie's shuddering moan.
She was in my bathroom, combing her ponytail at my mirror. "Aren't I being a good girl these days, Inky? I'm not even scratching your face the way I used to." She admired herself in the glass. "And I'm putting on some fat now that I'm not eating out of garbage cans." She was fixing the rubber band around her ponytail. "I don't even bruise you anymore. You should appreciate me, Inky."
I yelled at the ceiling, "(Bleep) you! GO TO BED!"
The basket of fruit, minus half its contents, gleamed in the dim light. "Oh, Inky!" she said reprovingly. "Strictly dishrag again."
The bhong teetered on the side table. Her hand steadied it and, with the other, she applied a match. "Well,
I can remedy that! Just a couple more puffs, Inky, and then I can apply the ruler and go to bed."
A horizontal beam of sunlight coming in through the port pried at my eyelids. I woke with a start.
The bedside clock said 7:00 A.M.!
Teenie's head on the other pillow didn't move. Lying on her side, turned away from me, she was sleeping with a smile upon her lips.
I shook her shoulder savagely. "Wake up, (bleep) you!"
She turned her head in my direction. An oversize grin sprang to her oversize lips.
"Oh, you (bleep)!" I snarled.
The sun was doing a crazy circle just above the horizon.
The bowl of fruit exploded.
Her hand picked up her robe and ruler from the floor. "Inky, how can a girl keep a bargain like that when you just keep attacking her?"
She gave her ponytail a fluff. "I would have completed the measurements and gone to bed but you just never gave me a chance."
Her hand was upon the doorhandle to her room. "Now I will never know if whales have the correct proportions." She passed through and slammed the door.
"Have a nice sleep?" the steward said a few minutes later as he opened all the ports and began to air the marijuana smoke out of the room, a thing he had to do each morning.
I had a bath and breakfast and in no good mood went topside. Madison was by himself in the squash court, batting one of these balls that come back on a rubber band. The very sight of him made me furious.
The sports director had not come up to tear my muscles and limbs apart yet. I stalked over to Madison.
He looked fresh and handsome, a very collar-ad of a man, the kind girls are supposed to pant after and scream about. Teenie, liar that she was, had obviously been maligning him.
"Why don't you do something about Teenie!" I snarled.
He looked at me with those sincere and honest brown eyes of his. "But I do do something about Teenie. I race with her with her new bikes against a miniature car. She's even tried to teach me how to skateboard and I have a scraped knee to prove it. I swim with her. I dance with her and try to show her the latest steps. I resent your implications, Smith. I'm doing all I can to bring her up and help you make a lady out of her."
"You know (bleeped) well what I mean," I grated. "Madison, are you a mother lover?"
"Smith, time after time I have noticed that you have no real idea of PR."
"Jesus, Madison," I said, "Don't try to change the subject on me."
"I'm not changing the subject. It just proves that you are ignorant of the whole field. I'll have you know that the whole popularity of Sigmund Freud came about because he married into a New York advertising firm."
"Good Christ, Madison! What does that have to do with it?"
"It has everything to do with it," said Madison. "The whole fields of advertising and PR would be helpless if it were not for Sigmund Freud. If I went against his teachings, I could be thrown completely out of the field-excommunicated!"
"I can understand that," I said. "I myself have every reverence for Sigmund Freud. But I cannot possibly see – "
"Smith, once again, I have to point out that you are NOT a professional PR man. If it got out in the field that I was not following the orders of a Freudian psychoanalyst, I would be absolutely ruined-financially, socially and in every other way."
"Madison..."
"Smith," he said, "I am not being fair to you, ignorant as you are. I was very well brought up. My mother is quite wealthy and the children of the rich, you know, must all be psychoanalyzed. It is a caste mark, so to speak. When I was five, I had nightmares. My analyst prescribed that I must sleep with my mother. This was many years before my father committed suicide, so that has nothing to do with it. I am simply carrying out the accepted prescription."
"You mean you make love to your mother?" I said, aghast.
"Tut, tut," said Madison. "All little boys love their mothers. The psychoanalyst was simply prescribing what was natural."
He had conned me clear off the subject!"(Bleep) it, Madison! We're talking about Teenie. Are you or are you not going to start making love to her and get her the Hells off my hands? Don't tell me that you're allergic to sex with girls!"
He looked at me. The paddle fell out of his fingers. His jaw dropped. "Girls? Sex with girls? Oh, good heavens, Smith, that's obscene!" He went pale green. He staggered to the rail.
The sports director, when he came up to torture me, gave Madison a Dramamine and sent him below to his bunk. "I can't understand it," he said. "Flat calm sea,
the ship stabilized like a billiard table and I have a seasick passenger throwing up his boots. Shows you what a mental problem can do. That fellow needs to be psychoanalyzed."
"He has been," I said bitterly, "that's the trouble." And I settled down to hours on exercise machines to get rid of the pot.
Chapter 6
It was the twelfth day out of Bermuda when we sighted the low sand coast, the white mosques and hills of Casablanca. For the last day or so we had seen the occasional ship north and south bound on the frequented routes. The sea had become somewhat more choppy and I was very happy of the chance to get ashore.
We were piloted and tugged to a fuel dock and I looked around. What on Earth were we doing here? The name might sound romantic but Casablanca looked awfully dirty and threadbare to me.
Madison was up and at it promptly. "I've got to study this king," he said. "He sounds like a real first-grade outlaw. His name is Hussan-Hussan. When his father got independence from the French, they say Hussan-Hussan murdered him. He also murdered the man who had effected the real revolution and took the credit. He is held in power by the United States and he banks all the mineral receipts of the country in Switzerland in his own name. He keeps the majority of the population, who are Berbers, in total repression and perpetuates the minority rule by the Arabs with violence and force. He's worse many times over than South Africa in racial subjugation and yet he gets away with it all. I've read all I can find in our library. Now I've got to find if he is a true outlaw and, if he is, study his approaches. So I'm going to be quite busy."
He grabbed a taxi and was gone.
Teenie trotted down the gangway dressed in pony-tail, sandals and shorts. A dock policeman sent her back to get a bra. She trotted down again and she was gone.
I wandered up and down the pier. The town certainly didn't look very inviting. Dust and Arabs with dust on them whining and begging through the dust. They we
re trying to sell me anything from donkeys to their sisters.
We were finished fuelling and moved to another dock. It was just as dirty as the first. Arabs hopefully spread their wares on the pier, thinking we were a cruise liner. When nobody came off to be robbed, they spotted me sitting in a deck chair and shook their fists and went away.
I wondered where Charles Boyer was. Or maybe Humphrey Bogart. It didn't look like the kind of place either one would frequent.
Suddenly a cab came tearing along the railroad rails on the pier. It braked to a halt. Teenie leaped out. She came tearing up the gangway and dashed into the ship. She went tearing up the ladder to the bridge and then shortly came tearing down.
She saw me. She was holding a yellow card.
"Oh, Inky!" she said. "The nicest thing has happened. I had to come back to tell you. I am flying down to Marrakech. I also had to get a landing card as a sailor because I don't have any passport."
"Where," I said, "is Marrakech?"
"It's only about 140 miles to the south and in the interior. And they have beautiful scenery and cloth and camels and everything. Real sheiks. I'm going in a special plane and will be back tomorrow morning."
"Hey!" I said. "You can't go travelling in the desert in sandals and shorts! At least pack a grip!"
But she was running down the gangway. She wasn't even carrying a purse! Well, great, I told myself. At least this is one night I'll have some rest instead of exercise.
Then suddenly I looked at the cab. The shadow in it? Yes, it was the black-jowled man from Bermuda! What the Hells was this? How did he get here?
Teenie got in and the black-jowled man closed the door and off the cab sped.
I went over to town and ate something called couscous, which consisted of balls of some cereal. Pretty tasteless, even though it was the national dish. The Turks should have taught these Arabs how to cook.
Madison dragged aboard about ten, all disillusioned. He found me in the salon listening to something besides Neo Punk Rock.
"He's not a real outlaw," said Madison. "He doesn't take from the rich and give to the poor. He takes it from the poor and gives it to himself. He's just a cheap crook, really. And he's got lousy PR. Every time I mentioned his name to anybody, they spat at me. Hussan-Hussan isn't even worth helping. I'm going to bed."
Mission: Earth Voyage of Vengeance Page 16
