The first edition of the city’s afternoon paper reached the stands at eleven forty-five. And already there were tremors beginning to shake the financial heart of the country. Grain was off unexpectedly and disastrously. Steel had gone on a rampage, but unaccountably two major stocks of automobile concerns were splitting wide open.
Morgan and Jim didn’t need the papers report to tell them what was happening. They could sense it from the buyers they gave their orders to, and feel it in the tension that was beginning to grip the members of Morgan’s firm who hurried in and out of the office, looking alternately worried and elated.
Everyone knew a giant push was coming from some direction. A terrible pressure was working against the normal strength of the exchange’s financial structure with results that were miraculously efficient. When a company attempted to bolster its stock by buying, such quantities of the stock were dumped on the market that they were swamped. Selling bids were ignored or snapped with such ferocity that speculators were baffled.
At twelve o’clock Morgan’s real assets were thrown into the fight, converted now into cash. The scope of the operations was trebled within the half hour, and a panic began to grip the financial powers of the exchange.
The small investor saw his holdings fluctuate in a dizzy, patternless manner. Selling was useless; buying was dangerous. The force that was smashing the ordered economy of a nation seemed blind and arbitrary, but experienced observers began to see the development of a design that was staggering in size and ruthlessly destructive in nature.
JIM felt himself caught in the power of what they were doing. He had never known such a sensation in his life. Now he felt the elixir of power and strength coursing through his veins. When he spoke crisp words into a telephone the results would shake vast cartels throughout the world.
He was so engrossed that he hardly understood the secretary who came to tell him his wife was outside.
He stared at her, dazed, as if he’d been brought back to a land he had once known but hadn’t seen in years.
Finally his eyes cleared. “Please send her in.”
When Rita entered she stared about the huge room with undisguised amazement. Jim took her to a chair, feeling slightly patronizing, although he had been as impressed the first time.
“I’ve—I’ve been worried, Jim. Sitting at home listening to the radio frightened me. I don’t know what you’re doing, but it seems to be upsetting everybody.”
“You’re damn right it is,” Jim said. “Jim, didn’t that old man tell you not to use your wish to hurt anyone else?”
“Oh, that nonsense!” He waved a hand irritably. “Someone has to be hurt in this sort of thing.” He was learning rapidly.
“Jim, there have been suicides! Companies have failed! Are you and Mr. Morgan responsible for that?”
“No. We can’t be held accountable for what some weak minded moron does. Now just don’t worry about it. Honey, we’ll never have another worry in our life after today.”
Morgan called him and he hurried back to the desk. “We’ve made history today,” Morgan said. “But let’s keep making it.”
They continued their operations, basing their computations on the guaranteed figures they had listed before them; and when the day ended Morgan and Jim Ward knew no way to compute their wealth. They had wrecked many industries, driven small investors into bankruptcy, ruined lives and fortunes, but they had made staggering fortunes for themselves in the process.
When trading stopped, Morgan hung up his phone with a long sigh. He looked at Him and winked. “My boy, we’ve done it. I intend to call our firm Morgan and Ward from now on, and with this start there’s nothing will ever stop us.”
Morgan, events proved, was a good prophet.
Within six months the firm of Morgan and Ward was a colossus such as never had been seen or known in the market. Their business expanded, and with their power and wealth came a new way of life for Jim Ward that was as different from his old as life might have been on another planet.
There was a seventeen room duplex apartment in the city, a town house, in Bar Harbor and an estate in Florida which he had never seen. Chauffeurs, maids and business managers took the load of detail from his shoulders.
THERE was one flaw in his happiness and that was Rita. She had not come along with him in his existence. She had made no definite break with him, but each month their relationship became more formal, more stiff and unsatisfying.
Jim reasoned that her withdrawal from him had dated from the occasion when she lost her baby. That had been a great blow to her and he believed she hadn’t recovered.
She had been alone when it happened and he had been in Bar Harbor. When he returned it was all over and Rita had never been the same again. He was unhappy for a while but there was so much to engross him now that he didn’t let it make him gloomy. There was the fascinating work of manipulation and calculation in the market, and that had become a compensation for everything. He had never lost the relish for power. It became his life, his motivation in a very short time.
One night Rita urged him to quit. He stared at her as if she’d gone mad.
“You don’t understand what you’re saying,” he protested.
“I understand you have wrecked the life we once had,” she answered.
‘That’s sheer nonsense. I don’t want to hear it mentioned again, do you understand?”
She smiled at that, but there was no humor in her smile. There was nothing but sadness and resignation. “You will not hear it mentioned again Jim,” she said quietly.
“Good,” he said abruptly.
The next morning he was driven to work at the usual hour. Sitting in the rear of his custom built town car with the morning papers on his knee, a expensive cigar in his hand, he thought about Rita and wondered why she was so unreasonable. Entering his office at nine he found Morgan there waiting for him. With Morgan was a slim, graying man of perhaps forty, with a lean cautious mouth and eyes that were the color of steel on a frosty morning.
Jim noticed that something was wrong with Morgan. He looked gray, ill.
“Jim, this is Mr. Stevens from the Federal Security Exchange Commission. Mr. Stevens is going to investigate some of our recent activities. Ah . . . a formality eh, Mr. Stevens?”
“I trust so,” Mr. Stevens said drily. “However, until the investigation is complete I am sealing your books. I will let you know later what our findings are.”
He nodded to them and left the office.
“What’s up?” Jim demanded angrily. “What did he mean?”
“We—have taken some chances,” Morgan said heavily. “The Federal Government doesn’t approve of people who take chances.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Sit down, Jim,” Morgan said. He rubbed a hand wearily over his forehead. “I must have been mad,” he said in a whisper.
“Something seems to have taken hold of me since I met you. I—I’ve done crazy things.”
“Tell me everything,” Jim said harshly. “How deeply are we in?”
“All the way.”
Morgan talked for ten minutes and the picture he painted shocked Jim. He had known what they were doing was ruthless, but he “hadn’t realized that it was also illegal.
When Morgan finished he walked to the door. “I am going to my office, Jim. I don’t wish to be disturbed.” Jim watched him leave and he suddenly felt himself shaking. He sat down and tried to remain calm . . .
When the office manager came hurrying in an hour later Jim knew from the expression on his face that something had happened.
“What is it?” he said, forcing his voice to remain normal.
“It’s Mr. Morgan, sir. He—fell from his window. He must have been looking out and lost his balance.” Jim felt a great cold fist closing over his stomach. “Very well,” he said.
The office manager was staring at him bewilderedly, completely baffled by his lack of reaction.
“I’ll take care of everyt
hing,” he said, finally.
“Very well,” Jim said.
When the man left his control broke. He jumped to his feet and began pacing the great office. He felt trapped by its size and luxury.
What was he doing here? Why was he in this office that bought and sold pieces of paper and people’s lives and fortunes? This wasn’t a place for Jim Ward.
He glared about frantically. There was Mr. Stevens! There was the investigation.
He beat his fist against his forehead.
WHAT did that mean to him?” This wasn’t his life; this was a dream he had dreamt. His life was with Rita. It was simple life, with simple pleasures and simple worries. Where had he lost that life?
“It’s not too late!” he muttered. “It can’t be.”
He sprang to the phone, dialed his apartment. When the butler answered he snapped: “Get Mrs. Ward immediately.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. Mrs. Ward has left.” The butler’s voice was dry, impersonal. “She told me to tell you, sir, that she has arranged everything with her lawyer. She caught the nine thirty plane for Reno, sir.”
Jim put the phone down slowly. For moments he sat on the comer of his desk, staring sightlessly at the great framed charts on the wall.
Finally he put on his coat and left the office. He had no idea of where he was going but must get away from this place. Down on the street he walked aimlessly, dazedly, until he reached the intersection of Adams street.
He stopped at the curb, although the light was green. Memories came to him of another morning he had stood at this intersection. He had saved a white-bearded old man that morning.
“. . . as long as it harms no one else.”
He thought for a moment he had spoken the words aloud. But they were merely burning his mind. Those were the words of the, old man.
The light changed to red!
Jim Ward stepped forward.
A hand reached for his elbow, but fell away, slowly, regretfully.
Brakes shrieked protestingly; and then a woman screamed. Traffic stopped sand a policeman ran toward the scene shouting orders.
The man who had reached for Jim Ward’s elbow sighed softly, sadly. Turning he shuffled away and the cold, lonely wind blew in from the sea, whispering in his white beard, misting his dark glasses.
THE RING OF FAITH
First published in the November 1948 issue of Fantastic Adventures.
Jim Ward needed one thing for success—someone with confidence in him—so he bought the ring—
JIM WARD walked down Michigan Boulevard on a cheerfully sunny winter morning, but the bracing weather failed to put life in his stride or a sparkle in his eye. He walked like a man starting the Last Mile.
There were reasons for his gloom. Under his arm was an advertising presentation over which he had labored for two weeks; ahead of him was an interview with J. Darrel Fallonsby, president of Magic-Moment perfumes, a domineering, hysterically unreasonable character who reputedly existed on a diet of carrots and raw advertising men.
Jim Ward’s job was to convince J. Darrel that his program would cause women to buy Magic-Moment perfumes by the hogshead and to use it instead of bath water. This was not an original idea with him; other account executives had tried it before and their bones were now bleaching under therapeutic lamps in mental sanitaria throughout the country.
There were other considerations. His own boss, David Dewitt David, expected him to return with J. Darrel’s signature and an initial billing of several million a year for the agency. Also, David Dewitt David’s daughter Davina, had hinted that her interest in Jim might be quickened if he closed the deal.
All of this was bad, but it wasn’t the worst.
The worst angle to the deal was that the copy and art work under his arm was hopelessly lousy. It wouldn’t sell perfume to a stockyard worker at a dime a gallon. It just didn’t have it.
He had written the copy himself, selected the art work personally, but it added up to nothing. Now he was walking into the lion’s den with his job and romantic expectations hanging in the balance and instead of a ripe red steak he had nothing but a stale hamburger to toss the growling animal.
He wondered vaguely how his life had gotten so involved. When he came out of the army he had one thing in mind; to use advertising honestly and truthfully to raise the standards of the people, emotionally, culturally and spiritually. He intended to fight ignorance and prejudice with advertising. Instead he was using what little skill he had to cater to the sensual appetites of pampered women.
The thing started when he went to work with David Dewitt David. There was no room for truth and honesty there, he discovered in a hurry. Then came Davina, a slim, exciting girl with a face like an angel and tastes that could hardly be catered to on a copy writer’s salary. So he worked harder, forgot about his idealistic plans, and in a year’s time he was on the agency’s planning staff, with a salary that could keep Davina in the diamond clips and terrapin she loved with every fibre of her simple soul.
Once you started, he learned, you had to keep going. Now he was at the logic brink; J. Darrel Fallonsby ahead of him, David Dewitt David at his rear. That left no place for Davina, he decided rather gloomily, unless she stood on his shoulders.
When he stopped at a red light his eye was caught by an interesting display of jewelry in a novelty shop at the corner. Since he was not anxious to hurry he stepped over and looked in the window. There were zircons, trick bracelets made of chain and jade, and a large tray of rings.
The rings interested him for some reason. They were obviously cheap, with imitation stones and crude settings. But they caught his eye.
After a moment or so he realized that his attention had been caught by one particular ring. It was made of heavy brass and there was a figure of a girl carved on its surface. He stared at it for several minutes, curious as to why it caught his eye. There was nothing distinctive about it, but he didn’t seem to look at any of the other rings.
HE GLANCED at his watch and realized reluctantly that he’d have to be getting on. Turning he started away, but he felt a curious tugging at his sleeve.
He stopped abruptly. Looking around he saw no one, but his eyes were again caught by the ring.
“This is foolishness,” he said, half aloud.
He stood indecisively for an instant, then walked into the shop. He felt like a complete fool.
A smiling young clerk came up to him and said, “Can I help you?”
“Well, I just thought I’d look around.”
“Perhaps you’d like to see a ring?”
Jim stared at him. “What gave you that idea? I’m certainly not interested in rings.”
“We have some very nice ones,” the clerk said. “Sure you won’t have a look?”
Jim felt caught in the grip of destiny. It bothered him. He couldn’t breathe so well.
“All right,” he said, feeling strangely helpless.
As he half feared and half hoped, the clerk went to the window and returned with the tray of rings. “This just came in,” he said. “A gypsy who is going out of business delivered them yesterday.”
Jim wondered vaguely how a gypsy went about going out of business, but he said nothing. He looked at the rings carefully. He reached for an imitation ruby, but a curious thing happened. Something deflected his hand and his fingers picked up the heavy brass ring with the figure of the girl on its surface.
“Now, that’s a beauty,” the clerk said, smiling.
Jim studied it thoughtfully. The figure of the girl was perhaps a half inch high. She was slim, exquisitely formed and attired in nothing but a primitive G string. Her eyes were closed and her face looked calm and composed. He slipped the ring on his finger and it fitted perfectly.
“How much?” he asked quietly. He knew when he was beaten. But he didn’t know how.
Twenty minutes later he stepped into J. Darrel Fallonsby’s conference room. The sight of J. Darrel, himself, surrounded by his various
satellites, minions and apple polishers, did nothing to improve the condition of his ulcers. J. Darrel was not an impressive figure of a man. But he had impressive figures in banks and deposit vaults where it meant more. His stomach protruded, his eyes looked like nervous oysters and his complexion was a nice tint of purple, the result of high blood pressure irritated by chronic bad temper.
There were no pleasantries, no greetings. J. Darrel said, “Let me have the presentation, Ward.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said. He took his work from the manilla folder, passed it to J. Darrel. “If I may say so, sir, it’s quite an unusual idea.”
“Hrrmph,” J. Darrel said.
He settled back in his chair, put pince-nez glasses on his crimson button of a nose and peered balefully at the copy.
“Naturally,” Jim said, “this is a rough draft, sort of talking things over on paper.”
“I see what it is,” J. Darrel said, enigmatically.
Jim waited tensely. Across from him J. Darrel’s brother-in-law, a mouse-like little man watched J. Darrel carefully for sign of a reaction. J. Darrel’s brother-in-law had sold vacuum cleaners without particular success until his sister’s fortunate marriage had relieved him of the necessity of making a living.
THE other men at the table were there for the sole purpose of inflating J. Darrel’s already dangerously enlarged ego. They would not squeak until he gave them a cue.
“Hmmmmm,” J. Darrel said.
His brother-in-law looked doubtful. The proper reaction to a “Hmmmmm!” was something he hadn’t learned.
J. Darrell cleared his throat and put the copy and art work on the table. “This stinks,” he said, gently.
There was a very definite flood of relief on the faces of his minions. They had the compass reading now; they knew the direction. They all stared at Jim haughtily, coldly.
“Sir, don’t you think—”
“I do think,” J. Darrel said. “Arc you implying I don’t?”
“Nothing of the sort, sir, only—”
“Let me finish, please. This copy is quite bad. I know of no way to tell you precisely how bad it is without wasting two or three hours of my time. However—”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 247
