Black Genesis

Chapter 1

Heller drove north. He patted the car’s windshield ledge. He said, “Well, you chemical-engined Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance, we got you out of that free and clear.”

I sneered, Fleet officers and their toys. Fetish worship!

Bang-Bang Rimbombo said, “Hey, kid. While in this moment of glory I don’t want to spoil things, I got to point out you are driving on stolen plates and that’s illegal!”

“I’ve got another set of plates, registration card and everything,” said Heller.

“Where’d you get them?”

“Why, from that guy I was going to call.”

“The one you wanted to bump? Listen, kid, there’s a lot you got to learn. The fuzz runs on car plates. If they didn’t have plates, they couldn’t trace nobody. They’d be lost. Their whole system is founded on license numbers. So, if you got dough, I’d advise you to buy a new car. I know a guy…”

“No, I want this one,” said Heller.

“But it’s a gas hog!” said Bang-Bang.

“I know,” said Heller. “I need it.”

Bang-Bang sighed. “All right, I know another guy that can change its motor numbers and get a new license. I owe you. I don’t wanta see you get pinched! Turn left right up ahead onto Tonnelle Avenue. We’re going to Newark!”

They were soon amongst the roar of trucks and gas fumes and, with Bang-Bang’s direction, came to Newark, drove down numerous side streets amongst numerous light and heavy industries but only in heavy polluted air and came at length to the Jiffy-Spiffy Garage. They threaded their way amongst numerous vehicles in various stages of repair and painting.

Bang-Bang leaped out and shortly came back with a portly, greasy Italian in a white foreman’s coat. Heller got out.

“Kid,” said Bang-Bang, “this is Mike Mutazione, the owner, proprietor and big noise of this joint. I told him you was a friend of the family. So, tell him what you want.”

Heller and the man shook hands. “Maybe he better tell me,” said Heller.

Mike looked over the Cadillac. “Well,” he said, “the first thing I would do is run it into the river.”

“Oh, no!” said Heller. “It’s a good car!”

“It’s a gas hog,” said Mike. “A 1968 Cadillac only gets about ten miles to the gallon.”

“That’s what I like about it,” said Heller.

Mike turned to Bang-Bang. “Is this kid crazy?”

“No, no!” said Bang-Bang. “He’s a college kid.”

“Oh, that explains it,” said Mike.

Bang-Bang was hastily tearing something inside the car. He came out with a bottle of Scotch.

“What the hell is this?” said Mike. “Gold Label? I never seen none of this before.”

Bang-Bang wrestled off the top. “It’s so good the Scots guzzle the whole supply of it themselves. Have a gulp.”

“You sure it ain’t poison?” He cautiously took a little. He rolled it around on his tongue. “My God, that’s smooth! I ain’t never tasted anything like that.”

“Just off the boat,” said Bang-Bang. “We brung you a whole case of it.”

“Now, as I was saying, kid,” said Mike, “let’s look over this beautiful car.” Gripping the bottle tenaciously, he raised the hood with the other hand. He got out a flashlight. He was looking at the engine block. Then he shook his head sadly. “Kid, I got bad news. That engine number has been changed too often. And the last ones that did it scored it too deep. It can’t be done again.”

He stood there. “Aw, don’t look so downcast, kid. You must have sentimental attachments for this car. First one you ever stole or something?” He took another sip of Scotch and leaned against the radiator. He was deep in thought. Then he brightened. “Hey, I just remembered. You can buy brand-new engines for a 1968 Cadillac, this model. They been in stock ever since at General Motors. You got money?”

“I got money,” said Heller.

“I’ll check.” Mike went into his office and got on the phone. He came back beaming. “They still got them! You in a hurry or can this job take a few weeks?”

“I’m in no hurry,” said Heller. “That will fit into my plans just fine.”

Suddenly, I was all adrift. I had been so certain he just wanted the car to bash around in New York with, so certain that this was just more Fleet officer fixation on toys that I had not examined the possibility that he had some diabolical plot in mind. I hastily reviewed his actions so far. He was NOT idly drifting as I had thought! He was working! The (bleepard) was plowing straight ahead on his mission! The horrible idea that he might succeed rose over me like Lombar’s specter. What the Devils was he up to?

“All right,” said Mike. “But what do you want out of this car, really? Speed? If it’s speed, I could put new aluminum alloy pistons in the new engine: they get rid of the heat quicker and the engine is less likely to blow up. And you could get a lot more revs out of it.”

“Would that increase or decrease the gas consumption?” said Heller.

“Oh, possibly increase it.”

“Good,” said Heller. “Do it.”

“All right. I could put special carburetors on it,” said Mike.

“Good,” said Heller.

“But if she is going to go faster, she better have a new radiator core and maybe an oil radiator for cooling.”

“Good,” said Heller.

“There may be some worn parts like axle spindles and such that would have to be replaced.”

“Good,” said Heller.

“She better have some new tires. Racing ones that’ll do a hundred and fifty without blowing out.”

“Good,” said Heller.

“Lighter magnesium wheels?” said Mike.

“Would it make her look different?”

“I should say so. Much more modern.”

“No,” said Heller.

Mike had received his first no. He stood back, had a drink, thinking fast.

Bang-Bang interrupted him. “Ain’t that a Corleone pickup truck?” he said, pointing to a newly repainted and now black Ford.

“Ready to go,” said Mike.

“I’ll take it along when I go,” said Bang-Bang and promptly began to remove his cartons from the Cadillac and load the pickup.

Mike, refreshed, returned to the fray. He picked at a fender. “There are some small dents that need body beating. She could use a sandblast and a new coat of paint. Hey, listen kid, we got some original Cadillac paint: we can never use it because it is too showy! I’ll get a card.” He rushed to the office and came back. “Here you are. It’s called ‘Flameglow Scarlet.’ It makes the car shine even in the dark! Real flashy!”

“Good,” said Heller.

I couldn’t track with him. He had originally chosen gray because it was more invisible. Now he was choosing paint that practically burned my viewscreen! What was he up to?

“But,” said Mike, moving to the front seat and picking at it, “this upholstery — yes, and them back curtains — has had it. Now, it just so happens we have some upholstery that was bought and never used. It’s called ‘Snow Leopard,’ white with black spots. Sparkles! It’ll really show up wild against that red body! We can even get it thick enough for floor rugs, too.”

“Great,” said Heller.

Mike couldn’t think of anything else. “Now, was there something special you wanted in addition?”

“Yes,” said Heller. “I want you to fix the hood so it can be locked down all around with keys. And under the car, I want a very light sheet of metal that will seal the engine absolutely.”

“Oh, you’re talking about bomb jobs and armor,” said Mike. “Now, the reason they built these cars with so much horsepower was so they could carry the weight of armor. I can put you in bulletproof windows, armor plate in the side walls…”

At last, I understood. He was afraid his car would be rigged for a blitz again!

“No,” said Heller. “Just a light sheet underneath and locks on the hood so nobody can get to the engine.”

“Burglar alarms?” said Mike hopefully.

“No,” said Heller.

I gave up. The only explanation was that Heller was crazy!

“That’s all?” said Mike.

“That’s about it” said Heller.

“Well,” said Mike, appearing to be a little apprehensive, “that whole lot we been over will add up to about twenty G’s.”

Bang-Bang had been removing the last of the recorders. He dropped the box. “Jesus!” He came over. “Look, kid, I can steal and get converted fifteen up-to-date Cadillacs for that!”

“I’ll throw in the new license,” said Mike. “And honest, Bang-Bang, it will cost that to tailor rebuild this car.”

“I’ll take it,” said Heller. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a roll. He counted and held out ten thousand.

“This kid just knock off Brinks?” Mike demanded of Bang-Bang.

“It’s honest hit money,” said Heller.

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Mike, “I’ll take it on account.” And he went to his office to write out a receipt. “What name?” he called back. “Not that it matters.”

“Jerome Terrance Wister,” said Heller.

Now I knew he was crazy. Bury could find out he was alive and could trace him! And with a flashy, different car like that…

Bang-Bang had finished loading the pickup. He presented a grateful Mike with the case of Johnny Walker Gold Label. “Get in, kid. Where do I drop you?”

“I’m going over to Manhattan,” said Heller.

“In that event, I’ll take you to the train station. It’s quicker.”

He did so and when Heller got out, Bang-Bang said, “Is that your real name, kid? Jerome Terrance Wister?”

“No,” said Heller. “I’m really Pretty Boy Floyd.”

Bang-Bang laughed uproariously and so did Heller. I was offended. Pretty Boy Floyd was a very famous gangster, too famous to be joked about. Sacred.

“What do I owe you?” said Heller.

“Owe me, kid?” said Bang-Bang. He pointed through the back window at his cargo. “For six months up the river, I been dreaming of a drink of Scotch! Now I’m going to swim in it!” And he drove off singing.

I wasn’t singing. I was in new trouble just when I thought it couldn’t get worse. Heller was going to pull Bury straight back in on him by using that name and I didn’t have the platen. But at the same time, Heller was sailing ahead on his job. I could feel it! He might make it!

The whole thing had me spinny. On the one hand, Heller must NOT get himself killed before I had the means of forging his reports to Captain Tars Roke. On the other hand, a very great danger loomed that he was up to some dastardly plot to succeed in his mission and definitely had to be put away or killed.

I went out and laid down in the yard and buried my face in my hands. I had to be calm. I had to think logically. This was no time to go off my rocker just because I had to keep a man from being killed that would have to be killed. I had to think of something, something to do!

And that (bleeped) wild canary kept trilling at me from a tree. Mockery. Sheer mockery!

Chapter 2

Heller clickety-clacked across the drive at the Gracious Palms and trotted into the lobby. It was still afternoon, and in the hot off-season of late summer the place was deserted.

He was about to mount the steps to the second floor when one of the tuxedoed guards stepped into view and stopped him. “Wait a minute. You don’t have your room anymore, kid.”

Heller had stopped dead.

“The manager wants to see you,” said the hood. “He’s pretty upset.”

Heller turned to go to the manager’s office.

“No,” said the guard. “Get in here. He’s waiting for you.” He pushed Heller toward an elevator. They got in and the hood pushed the top floor button.

They got out into a padded, soundproofed hallway. The hood walked behind Heller, shoving him along with little pushes that made my screen jolt.

From an open door at the end of the long, long hall, the manager’s voice could now be heard. He was cursing at people in Italian. He sounded absolutely livid!

There were others in the room, throwing things about, rushing around.

The hood shoved Heller into the hubbub. “Here he is, boss.”

Vantagio Meretrici gave a cleaning woman a shove out of his way and came stamping up to Heller.

“You’re trying to get me in trouble!” he shouted. “You’re trying to cost me my job!” His hands, Italian-like, were flying about. He made a gesture across his own throat as though to cut it. “You could have cost me my life!”

He stopped to scream something in Italian at two cleaning women and they rushed into each other, one dropping a stack of sheets.

Italians. They are so excitable. So theatrical. I turned down my sound volume.

Sure enough, he came nearer and was louder!

“That was not a nice thing to do!” cried Vantagio. “To sneak in here like that!”

“If you could tell me what you think I did…” began Heller.

“I don’t think! I know!” cried Vantagio.

“If I did something…” Heller tried.

“Yes, you did something!” shouted Vantagio. “You let me put you in that old second-floor maid’s room! You didn’t say a word! She was absolutely livid! She practically burned out my phone!”

He put his hands on Heller’s shoulders and looked up at him. His voice was suddenly pleading. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a friend of Babe’s?”

Heller drew a long breath. “I actually didn’t know she owned this place. I do apologize.”

“Now, look, kid. In the future, speak up. Now, will this do?”

Heller looked around. It was a two-room suite. The huge living room had walls of black onyx tile adorned with paintings. The rug, wall to wall, was beige, covered with scatter rugs of expensive weave and patterns of gold. The furniture was light beige modern with seductive curves. The lamps were statues of golden girls completely naked. A garden balcony was outside and wide glass doors showed a view of the United Nations Building, its park and the river beyond.

Vantagio turned Heller in the other direction. There was a beige, leather-covered bar and gold shelves and scrollwork behind it. A barman was hastily emptying it of hard liquor and putting the bottles in cartons.

“I’m sorry, I can’t leave the liquor here. It would cost us our license, you being a minor. But,” he rushed on hastily, “we’ll fill the fridge with soft drinks of every kind you can imagine. And we’ll leave the jumbo glasses and you can fill them from the ice machine there. And we’ll put fresh milk here every day. And ice cream?” he pleaded.

Then Vantagio was showing Heller the various hidden closets and drawers around the bar. He stopped and came close to him. “Listen, I was only kidding about sandwiches. We don’t have a dining room because it’s all room service. But we got the fanciest chefs and kitchen in New York. You can order anything you like. You want anything now? Pheasant under glass?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He yelled into the bedroom and the cleaning people came hurrying out. He escorted Heller in, throwing his hands to indicate the place. “I hope this is all right,” he pleaded.

It was a vast bedroom. The entire ceiling was mirrors. The walls were all mirrors, set in black onyx edging. The enormous bed was circular. It occupied the center of the room. It was covered with a black silk spread that had gold hibiscus worked into it in patterns. There were red, low footstools all around the bed. The carpet was wall-to-wall scarlet.

There was an inset of sound speakers, quad, around which curled naked girls in a golden frieze. Vantagio rushed to the wall and showed Heller buttons and selections: Drinking Music, Sensual, Passionate, Frenzy, Cool Off.

Vantagio rushed Heller into the bathroom. It was rug-covered. It had a huge Roman bathtub, big enough for half a dozen people. It had separate massage showers. It had lots of cabinets with things to be explored. And it had a toilet and two bidets surrounded with various douche devices. Heller was looking at Automatic Hot Towel and pushed it. A steaming hot towel came out in his hand and he wiped his face.

Vantagio led him back to the sitting room. “Now, is it all right? This was the suite that was made up for the Secretary General, the old one, before he got assassinated. I know it’s a little plain but it’s more spacious. We almost never use it, so you won’t be moved around. It hasn’t been used for so long, we had to clean it up quick. The others are fancier but I thought, for a kid, this would be better for you. Do you think it will do?”

“Gods, yes,” said Heller.

Vantagio whistled with relief. Then he said, “Look, kid, all will be forgiven and we can be friends if you get on that phone and call Babe. She’s been waiting to hear all afternoon!”

Heller almost got run into by a houseman who was responding to a signal from Vantagio and rushing a cart with Heller’s baggage into the room.

He picked up the phone. The switchboard immediately connected him to Bayonne, evidently on a lease-line.

“This is me, Mrs. Corleone.”

“Oh, you dear boy. You dear, dear boy!”

“Vantagio told me to call and tell you that the new suite was okay, Mrs. Corleone. And it is.”

“Is it the Secretary General’s suite? The one with the original paintings of Polynesian girls on the walls?”

“Oh, yes, it’s quite beautiful. A lovely view.”

“Hold on a minute, dear. Someone is at the door.”

The sound of voices in the room, dimly heard through a covering palm. A sort of squeaking, “He what?” Then very rapid Italian, which was also too muffled to be heard clearly.

But then Babe was back on the line. “That was Bang-Bang! He just arrived here! I can’t BELIEVE it! Oh, you dear, dear, dear boy! Oh, you dear, dear, dear, dear boy! Thank you, thank you! I can’t discuss it on an open line. But, oh, you dear boy, THANK YOU!” The sound of a torrent of kisses being shot along the wire! Then a sudden roar, “Put that Vantagio back on!”

I suddenly figured it out. She had just learned of the destruction of two million dollars’ worth of her rival’s booze, etc., and the demise of Oozopopolis, her nemesis!

Vantagio had evidently not liked what he could hear from his end. He timidly took the phone. “…si… gia… si, Babe.” He looked a bit haggard. “…no… non… si… Grazie, mia capa!” He hung up.

He took the hot towel out of Heller’s hand and wiped his own face. “That was Babe.” Then he looked at Heller, “Kid, I don’t know what you did now but it must have been something! She said I could keep my job, but, kid, I don’t think I’ll really hear the last of putting you in a maid’s back room.” He braced up. “But she’s right. I wasn’t grateful enough and you did save the place and my life. I didn’t show respect. So, I apologize. All right, kid?”

They shook hands.

“Now,” said Vantagio, “about this other thing. This is the best suite we can offer you but she says you haven’t got a car. So, you’re to go out and buy any car you want. We have a basement garage, you know. And I told her you didn’t have many clothes. So, we have a great tailor and I’ll get him in and you’re to be measured up for a full wardrobe. Real tailored clothes of the best fabrics. Will that be all right?”

“I really shouldn’t accept…”

“You better accept, kid. We’re friends. Don’t get me in more trouble! Now, is there anything else you can think of that you want?”

“Well,” said Heller, “I don’t see any TV.”

Vantagio said, “Jesus, I’m glad you didn’t tell her I’d forgotten that! Nobody looks at TV in a whorehouse, kid. It just never occurred to me. I’ll send out somebody to rent one. All right, kid?”

Heller nodded. Vantagio went to the door and then came back. “Kid, I know what you did here. You saved the joint. But you must have done something else. But even that… She treats you so different. Could you let me in on what you and she talk about?”

“Genealogy,” said Heller.

“And that’s the whole thing?”

“Absolutely,” said Heller. “That’s all that happened today.”

Vantagio looked at him very seriously. Then he burst out laughing. “You almost took me in for a minute. Well, never mind, I’m lucky to have you for a friend.”

He started toward the door again but once more stopped. “Oh, yes. She said you could have any of the girls you wanted and to hell with the legality. See you later, kid.”

Chapter 3

My concentration on the viewscreen was jarred by a knock on the secret passage door that led to the distant office. I had raised so much pure Hells with Faht that he had finally gotten it through his lard-padded skull that he must send an Apparatus messenger with any reports that came in from America. And here was one! I removed it from the door slit. I opened it with trembling fingers. Possibly Raht and Terb had gotten smart. Perhaps they would be of help!

I read:

We think he is done for. We traced him to the city garbage scows and he’s now somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic. Be assured we’re on the job.

The idiots! That shop had simply thrown away those bugged clothes!

But the surge of anger hardened my resolve to act. I would carefully survey the Gracious Palms area and his rooms, note exactly where he put things, exactly what his routine was. Then I would disguise myself as a Turkish officer assigned to the UN, penetrate the place, pick his room locks, get the platen out of his baggage, plant a bomb and escape. It was a brilliant plan. It came to me in a flash. If I could do that, Heller would be dead, dead, dead and I would be alive!

Sternly, I went back to the viewscreen. He would unpack shortly, of that I was sure, for the houseman had left the baggage on the cart.

Heller was still walking around his suite. While it might not be up to his rooms at the Voltar Officers’ Club, it had its own peculiar charm: girls! Each lamp stand was a naked torso, each throw rug had a golden girl in its pattern.

He walked up to one of several paintings on the wall and stopped and stared at it and said something in Voltarian I didn’t get. It was a beautiful painting. A brown-skinned girl, dressed mainly in red flowers, was posed against palm trees and the sea. It was, if you know painting, a conceptual representation, which tends to dominate the modern school.

He bent close to look at the signature. It was Gauguin.

I know painting values: one does when he is interested largely in cash. If that painting were an original, it was worth a fortune!

I hastily played back what he had first said. I knew my own reaction would have been to steal it. Maybe I would include that in my planning. I must know what his own intentions were with regard to it.

He had said, “The boat people!” Ah. One of the Atalanta races he and Krak had talked about.

He had moved on to a second Gauguin.

A new voice penetrated the room. “No, no, no!” It was Chief Madame Sesso. Her mustache was bristling. She was wagging a finger at him, very disapproving. “No! Young-a boys should-a not-a look at-a dirty pictures! You not-a goin’ to do-a nasty things-a here! If-a the young-a signore, he’s-a want to look at-a the naked women, he’s-a goin’ to-a do-a it right!”

She fixed him in place with a finger, grabbed the phone and spoke an avalanche of Italian into it. She slammed it down. “Right away, you gonna get me-a in-a bad trouble if-a it ever gotta out I taught-a you to look at-a dirty pictures! Mama mia! What would-a the customers theenk!”

There was a running patter of footsteps. A small woman burst into the room in a near panic!

She had a short nose, beautiful teeth, raven black hair, high, firm breasts. She was a golden brown. She had European stockings and a chemise on and was holding a silk robe about her. She was obviously a Polynesian!

Luscious!

“Wot ees eet?”

“I catch-a this-a young signore, he’s-a look at the dirty pictures on th’ wall. Now, Minette, you go right-a now and you jump in-a his bed. Quick-quick!”

“No, no,” said Heller. “I just want to look!”

“Aha!” said Minette. “A voyeur.”

“No, no,” said Heller. “There are some people in… in my native land that look exactly like you. I just wanted to look…”

“Aha, you zee, Madame Sesso,” said Minette. “A voyeur! He get hees keeks by the look, so!”

Madame Sesso walked sternly up to her. “So you-a let-a the young signore look!” And she snatched at the robe. It came half off, baring Minette’s firm, uplifted breast. Like a golden melon!

But Minette stepped back. “Madame Sesso. You air crooel! Zee business she is nothing, nothing. For t’ree week, I have no man. Zee bed ees empty. I go half mad. All zee girls, zey talk about thees boy. Eef I do zee strip, I go wil’ for heem, Madame Sesso.”

Madame Sesso was upon her. Her hand seized the shoulder of the silk robe and gave it a yank. It flew up to block Heller’s vision. “You-a will do-a the strip right-a now!” bawled Madame Sesso.

Heller was trying to get the silk robe off his face.

“Aw right!” shrieked Minette. “I go get zee grass skirt, I go get zee flowerz een my hair. Zen I do zee strip. But only on zee one condeetion zat afterwards he…”

The picture went into streaks! The sound became a roar!

I could not see what was going on! I could hear only that roar!

What a shock!

Interference of some sort!

It was the first interference I had seen on this system.

The equipment had failed!

I checked power. All fine. I turned up pin. I only got more roar. It was not the quiet blackness when he was asleep.

I wondered for a moment if it were an emotional overload in the subject.

I tried to think of everything I could, made all the guesses of which I was capable. Finally, I dug out the instruction book. I had never read all of it.

Finally, on the next to the last page, I found an entry:

As the equipment is used in a carbon-oxygen body, it must, of necessity, be hypersensitive to the carbon atom and molecule wave configuration.

The only known disturbance of the double-wave pattern employed can come from carbon spectrum emitters. These are extremely rare devices but the spy should be warned to stay at least a hundred feet from such an energy emission source if present in the culture where the spy is being employed.

And that was all it said. And as Heller did not know he was being employed, one could not, of course, warn him.

But warn him of what? What in Hells was a carbon spectrum emitter? It was one of the few times I was sorry I had not done something to stay awake in Academy classes. There must be one now within a hundred feet of Heller! But on an electronically primitive planet like Earth?

Whatever it was, it had me boxed! I turned down the gain. I looked at the jagged mess on the screen. Haggardly, I slumped over the equipment, helpless.

It was midnight where I was. The days of strain were telling on me.

I went through the secret door into my bedroom. I made the cook get up and fix me some hot soup. At length, I dropped into a restless sleep.

Suddenly, I woke up. It was the silent hours of the night. Silence! The small ragged roar from my secret room was missing.

I sprang through the back of the closet.

And there was a picture as nice as you please!

Heller was sitting there in his suite, watching TV! I looked at my watch. It must be about seven in the evening there. The news was on.

What had happened to or with Minette?

Had she gotten her way?

Had Heller let her do a striptease and then taken her to bed as she had demanded?

I did not know. I could not tell.

A Hispanic-looking newscaster was going on and on about murders, and then he said, “New York motorists exiting from the Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel, today were entertained by a massive fireball, rising into the sky. The telephone company was besieged by callers wanting to know if World War III had begun.” He laughed lightly. “They were reassured to find that it was only the Acme Car Painting Company blowing up. Inventories showed thousands of gallons of stored paint were on the premises. The origin of the blaze was labelled arson by the insurance underwriters, as a hundred-thousand-dollar policy had recently been taken out. Eleven bodies, none of whom have been identified, were found in the vicinity.” The newscaster smiled. “But that is life on the Jersey side.” I surmised this must be a Manhattan channel!

Wait, what was that? A shadow? No, a black hand and arm close to Heller’s face! Coming in from Heller’s left! He wasn’t focused on it. It held some sort of implement!

A fork!

Somebody was feeding him something as he watched TV!

The hand vanished and my sound was blurred by crunchy chewing.

There was somebody with him! Minette?

Had she won after all?

The newscaster was droning on about some celebrities that had been mugged. It was quite a list.

Heller turned his head slightly to the right. Wait! What was that? Something white over to the right of the TV!

In his peripheral vision, I managed to make it out. Two pairs of white feet! One in slippers with lace puffs, the other set bare!

And there was a low murmur over to his right. I had missed it in amongst the news. I hastily replayed the auxiliary screen, turning up its gain. Two girls’ voices! Was one Minette?

I made one out amongst the news overplay. A middle-western accent. “…and honey, let me tell you, he was very, very good! I think he was the best…”

Then the other girl’s murmur. Was this Minette? I turned the gain higher and changed the tone controls. “…well, I really thought it was quite impossible to have that many orgasms in one…” An English accent! These were two entirely different girls!

The newscaster was continuing. He went through some stock-exchange data. Then he said, “A Treasury Department spokesman stated this afternoon that the New Jersey BAFT chief, Oozopopolis, and several other revenooers are missing. Shortages in their accounts were denied although it is well known that Oozopopolis had extensive banking connections in the Bahamas. Airports on this side of the river are being watched.” He chuckled again. “But that’s life in Jersey, isn’t it, folks.”

Heller leaned forward and pushed a button to turn it off. The automatic gain control made my screen go more normal. He turned to his left. Sitting across the side table from him was a gorgeous, slinky, high-yellow girl! She had on next to nothing! A flimsy scarf was draped over her shoulders, her breasts clearly visible through it.

Where was Minette?

What was this girl doing here?

She was laughing, her beautiful teeth flashing. “And so, honey, you better believe him. Stay away from that Jersey side. Just cuddle around here.” She made a sensuous movement with her breasts. She pushed a fork into a huge Caesar salad in a crystal bowl. She brushed the mouthful against her lips and then pushed it seductively across the table to him. “When you is done eating, pretty boy, would you like me to demonstrate how it’s done in Harlem?” She laughed a low, seductive laugh. Utterly tantalizing! Then her eyes went hot. “In fac’, I think that’s enough supper.” She put down the fork and began to stand up.

She only had on that flimsy scarf.

She was wearing nothing else!

She reached out her hand…

The interference hit again!

I moaned. I waited for it to die down.

It didn’t.

After a couple of minutes, very upset, I went back to my sleeping room and lay down in my bed.

Flesh can only stand so much!

After a little, I got hold of my spinning wits and emotions.

One thing was very plain. There was interference. It came on and off.

He had probably unpacked his baggage and put it in several of the many cubicles and closets. If I were patient, no matter how long it took, I could piece out exactly where he must have put the platen.

I would still carry out my plan!

Chapter 4

In the other room, the equipment stopped buzzing. Led by a dreadful fascination, I tottered back in to see what was going on now.

Heller was just stepping out of the elevator into the lobby.

I looked at my watch. It must be wrong. I have trouble with time conversion from one part of a planet to another but I couldn’t be that wrong. Only ten minutes ago, I had seen the slinky high-yellow girl standing up in invitation. Yet here was Heller in the lobby.

Let’s see. It would have taken him a few minutes to dress. Say a minute to come down in the elevator…

Well, let’s say he was awfully fast.

It was early evening in New York. There were quite a few people in the lobby, mostly in Western business suits but with the multihued faces of many lands. Prosperous looking, debonair men about town from deserts and mountains and villages on stilts — the typical UN crowd. They were piled up a bit at the desk, making appointments, sitting about until they heard their number called or sauntering around trying to work up a new appetite.

I realized Heller was putting in the agreed-upon lobby appearance to discourage certain visitors. I could see in a reflecting mirror that he did not yet have his new clothes — he was wearing his plain blue suit. At least he didn’t have his baseball cap on. But when he walked on bare floor, I could tell he still wore those baseball shoes.

He sat down in a chair where he could be seen from the door and where he could see the office entrance of the “Host.” Almost at once, a houseman entered the lobby from the street. He was carrying a pile of magazines and newspapers. He walked straight to Heller, gave him the pile. Heller handed him a twenty-dollar bill and waved away the change.

Wait! Heller must have called him from his suite! So subtract that, too, from the ten minutes! What had happened with that slinky high-yellow girl?

Casting an eye now and then on the street entrance and the manager’s door, Heller settled down to read. Ah, I would have a clue as to what his plans were by analyzing what he was reading.

Racing magazines!

The American Hot Rod, Racing Today, The Blowout, Hot Stock Cars. He leafed through them but, knowing Heller, he was reading every page. Sneaky. But I had learned his habits. When he was really interested, he would pause and stare at a page and think about it.

He halted his leafing. The magazine had a picture of an old Pontiac sedan. The article was “Out of the Pit to Glory.”

Of course! Heller the speedophile! Heller the stopwatch-oriented lunatic. Heller, an obvious case of velocity dementia in its last stages of progressive terminalization!

But wait. As he paused, his eye was on a figure and stayed on the figure. The last sentence of the article read:

“And so, for the pittance of $225,000 in expenses, we were able to cover the entire stock-car circuit for one whole season and wound up with all bills paid, which is glory enough for anybody!”

His eyes kept straying back to that “$225,000.”

He watched the crowd for a while. Not much of a throng as the UN wasn’t in session. One of the tuxedoed security guards drifted over beside his chair and said, out of the corner of his mouth, “Watch out for that deputy delegate from Maysabongo. He just came in, there. The one with the opera cloak and top hat. He carries a kris up his sleeve. Must be two feet long. Runs amok now and then.” The guard drifted away.

Heller yawned, a sure sign of tension. He opened a newspaper, the Wall Street Journal. He wandered through it. He paused on a page of box ads featuring real estate offerings. He examined the “ex-urban” ones — those way past the suburbs and out of town entirely. They had them for Bucks County, Pennsylvania, for Vermont and for various counties in Connecticut. All ideal for the executive weekend. He began to stare at one. It said:

His eye was stuck on the $300,000.

He opened the paper to other sections. He looked over “Commodity Markets” with all their vast rows of figures for the various futures for the day. He inspected the stock market with all its tangles of incomprehensible abbreviations.

A movement over at the “Host” door. A huge, dark-complected man in a turban came out with Vantagio. They stood on the lobby side of the door, completing their discussion. I hastily turned up my gain.

It was in English. The turbaned one was thanking Vantagio for straightening out the bill. Then, he looked around and saw Heller.

“New face,” said the turbaned giant.

“Oh, that youngster,” said Vantagio. “It’s in confidence. His father is a very important man, a Moslem. Married an American movie actress. That’s the son. He’s going to go to college and his father insisted he live here. We couldn’t say no. Would have caused endless diplomatic repercussions had we refused.”

“Ah,” said the turbaned one. “I can clear up that puzzle for you. You have to understand the Mohammedan religion. You see,” he continued learnedly, “in the Middle East, it is tradition that the children, including boys, are raised in, and have to live in, the harem. And this whorehouse is probably as close as his father could come to a harem in the United States. Quite natural, really.”

“Well, thank you for clearing up my confusion,” said Vantagio, the master of political science.

“I’ll just go over and greet him in his native tongue,” said the turbaned giant. “Make him feel at home.”

Here he came! He stopped in front of Heller. He went through the elaborate hand ritual of the Arab greeting. He said something that sounded like “Aliekoom sala’am.” And then a long rigmarole. Arabic!

Yikes! Heller didn’t speak Arabic!

Heller rose. With elaborate politeness, he copied the hand motions and bow exactly. Then he said, “I am dreadfully sorry but I am forbidden to speak my native tongue while I am in the United States. But I am doing fine and I truly hope you have a nice evening.”

They both bowed.

The turbaned giant went back to Vantagio. “A well-brought-up youth, obviously raised in a harem like I said. I can tell by his accent. But I will keep your secret, Vantagio, especially since he is the son of the Aga Khan.”

Leaving Vantagio, the huge turbaned man went promptly over to a little group by the door and whispered to them. Their eyes flicked covertly toward Heller. The secret was being well kept. By everybody.

A half an hour passed and Heller’s perusal of the papers had exhausted them. He was sitting there quietly when the deputy delegate from Maysabongo came out of the elevator and rushed over to the desk. He slammed his top hat down on the counter.

“Where is that pig Stuffumo?” he demanded of the clerk.

The clerk looked anxiously around. There were no security guards in the lobby at the moment.

“I demand it! I demand you tell me!” The deputy delegate was gripping the clerk’s coat.

Heller stood up. The fool. He had been told the man had a kris in his sleeve! A kris is the wickedest short sword there is! And I didn’t have that platen!

“Harlotta was not there!” snarled the deputy delegate. “She is with Stuffumo! I know it!”

The elevator door opened and a very fat brown man in a business suit walked out.

“Stuffumo!” screamed the deputy delegate. “Enemy of the people! Capitalistic warmonger! Death to aggressors!”

He raced across the room. The clerk was madly pushing buzzers. Stuffumo flinched, tried to get back into the elevator.

The deputy delegate whipped the kris out of his sleeve, two feet of wavy steel!

He made a slash through the air. The blade whistled!

The top of Stuffumo’s waistcoat gapped!

The deputy delegate drew back the blade to strike again.

Suddenly, Heller was in front of him!

The blade swished as it began the second slash.

Heller caught the man’s wrist!

He pushed his thumb into the back of the man’s hand. The blade fell.

Heller caught it by the handle before it hit the floor.

Two security guards were there. Heller waved them back. Heller gently pushed the deputy delegate and Stuffumo into a corner of the elevator.

“What room is Harlotta in?” said Heller, hand poised over the elevator buttons.

Both Stuffumo and the deputy delegate stared at him. Heller was hefting the kris. “Come, come,” he said. “At least tell me what floor. We can find her.”

“What do you mean to do?” said the deputy delegate.

“Why,” said Heller, “she has caused two important men embarrassment. She’ll have to be killed, of course.” And he hefted the kris.

“No!” cried Stuffumo. “Not Harlotta!”

“NO!” cried the deputy delegate. “Not my darling Harlotta!”

“But I am sure it is house rules,” said Heller. “She could have caused you both to kill each other. It isn’t permitted!”

“Please,” said Stuffumo.

“Please don’t,” said the deputy delegate.

“I’m afraid there’s no other way,” said Heller.

“Oh, yes, there is!” cried the deputy delegate, triumphantly. “We can have a conference about it!”

“Correct!” said Stuffumo. “The proper solution to all international disputes!”

The two promptly sat down in the corner of the elevator, facing each other.

“First, the agenda!” said the deputy delegate firmly.

Heller pushed the out-of-operation button and walked out, leaving them in the elevator.

One of the Italian security guards said, “Thank you, kid. That was good knife work. But you should pay attention when I tip you off. They have diplomatic immunity, you know, and can’t be arrested for anything, no matter what they do. But law-abiding Americans like you and me can be. We usually don’t stick around when that one arrives. Maybe he’ll be good now.”

Vantagio came out. Heller handed him the kris.

The two ex-combatants walked out of the elevator. “We have come to an accord,” said Stuffumo. “Bilateral occupation of territory.”

“I will have Harlotta Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He will have her Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays,” said the deputy delegate.

“We have to spend Sunday with our wives,” added Stuffumo.

“Vantagio,” said the deputy delegate, “may we borrow your office for the formal ratification and signing of the treaty?”

Heller watched them until they vanished into Vantagio’s office. He yawned. He gathered up his papers, entered the elevator and exited at the top floor.

As he passed down the hall to his room, a nearby door opened and a girl rushed out. She had on a silk robe but it wasn’t tied and her forward motion blew it back and exposed everything she had. She was a beautiful brunette!

“Oh, there you are, pretty boy. Business is too slack tonight. Some of the girls say you have something beautifully new.” She looked at him seductively, stroking his arm. “Please, pretty please, can I come in with you and we…”

My screen flashed out. The interference roared.

But I had a lot of other things to puzzle over. He was interested in his usual hobby, speed. He was interested in an executive retreat in the wilderness. I felt I should be able to piece it together.

But even though I labored into the Turkish dawn, I could not figure out how you would run a racing car in a tree-infested wilderness. Or why.

Chapter 5

It was three in the afternoon in Turkey when I arose. Not really thinking, still numb with sleep, I walked into my secret office and, like a fool, looked into the view-screen.

I nearly fainted!

I was staring twenty stories straight down!

I felt like I was going to fall!

The people were small spots in the street below; the cars were toys!

The strain I had been under was telling. The shock was too much. I pulled my eyes away and shuddered into a chair. After a few minutes, I got control of my stomach and dared take another look.

What in Hells was he up to?

He was on a cupola that crowned the Gracious Palms. Fifteen feet below him, firmly on the asphalt roof, a whore in a green jump suit was steadying a line up to him.

He was rigging a TV antenna kit! That’s what it read on the top of the box he was steadying on his knees:

He had inset the feet into the concrete top of the cupola. He was now adjusting the booster. He glanced around and it was visible that several nearby buildings had them. He must have had it sent out for the day before.

Oho! So he was having signal trouble, too! But wait, this must mean that the TV wasn’t working when my equipment wasn’t working, so those girls in his room weren’t there to watch TV!

He completed the upper installation and then, box under his arm, he started down a line.

I had him. Code break! It was a spacer safety line! He was carrying Voltarian gear in his suitcases!

He was working with a stapler, fastening the TV cable to the stone as he descended.

He got to the bottom and turned toward the woman. There she was, a New York whore, holding a spacer safety line manufactured in Industrial City, Voltar! I watched like a hawk. Did she realize it? Everything depended on that! I could simply order him off the mission and court-martialed!

“Here’s your clothesline, honey,” she said. “Now, what do I do?”

He took it, gave it the snap that causes it to come loose at the top and caught it in coils around his wrist as it fell — a typical show-off spacer gesture: I don’t know how they do it.

“You just uncoil this reel, Martha. Just walk along and I’ll fasten it down as we go.”

“Okay, dearie,” she said. And along they went. She had a stick through the reel and Heller was snubbing it under the parapet with the stapler.

Then, I realized something else. Heller must know where the interference was coming from. The roof he was laying the cable on was about three hundred and fifty feet long, perhaps double the building width. The antenna was outside the interference zone. I tried to plot from this where and what the interference might be, for I was not only very curious about what he did in that suite, I also had to know where he could have hidden the platen. I got all tangled up.

The girl had come to the far end of the roof. “Now what do I do, pretty boy?”

“You go down to my room and open the double doors and stand on the balcony and steady the safety line again.”

She ran off. Heller tied the reel to the safety line and then paid it out so that it landed on his balcony below. The girl came out on the balcony and got the reel.

He pegged the upper end of the safety line into the stone parapet, stepped over the edge…

I turned my face away. This guy was driving me mad! He had no sense. He didn’t give a (bleep) about height or his neck. I heard the staples going into the vertical wall but I wouldn’t look. I knew I would see the tiny people and cars far too far below!

The sound of a disintegrator drill. I dared look. He had snapped the spacer safety line loose and was putting a cable hole in the wall. With a Voltarian disintegrator drill!

I watched intently to see if I got a reaction from the whore. There she was watching a tiny palm-sized gadget, with nothing spinning, bite the exact sized hole through the wall. No chips or sparks. A miracle on this planet. All she had to say was “Hey, man, look at that gimmick eat up stone!” and I had him!

She said, “I’ll go call room service to send you some breakfast, dearie.” And she went inside the living room. It depressed me.

Heller went inside, put the base plate together and shortly had it all connected with the TV. He turned the set on. He fiddled with the radio antenna rotator. The difference in reception showed it was turning.

“Hey, great picture,” said the whore. “We done it! They’ll send breakfast up right away.”

Heller neated up his kit. Aha, now I would see where he stowed his gear. He certainly would hide a safety line and disintegrator drill! And I had no interference!

He was fastening the tool kit up. OH! Right on the face of the kit, big as life, it said:

It said it in Voltarian script but it said it, just like that!

He tossed the kit on the sofa. It landed face up!

He went into the bathroom and kicked off his tennis shoes and the baseball exercise suit. He stepped into the massage shower.

The massage drops were hammering at him but I could hear somebody banging cabinets in the bathroom. All that woman, Martha, had to do was notice that kit and come in and say “Hey, what’s this writing? It looks like something not of this planet,” and he would be open to being shot!

The shower door opened. Her hand was in view. She didn’t have her jump suit on. She was holding a cake of soap. She said, “Honey, let me wash your back before we…”

The interference came on!

I railed around. The screen simply flashed in jagged lines and the sound roared. It was actively preventing me from getting enough data on that suite and where he stowed his gear and thus blocking me from embarking on my raid for the platen and the end of Heller. The minutes stretched agonizingly into half an hour.

Then, it was off!

Heller was sitting on the couch drinking coffee. He was all alone in the suite.

There was a knock on the door and Heller said, in that penetrating Fleet voice, “Come in, it isn’t locked.”

In came a mob of tailors!

They started displaying bolts of fine fabrics, summer silk and mohair, tweeds, gabardine, shirt silk, passing each one under Heller’s nose.

The lead tailor, with Heller’s permission, sat down on the couch with a book of styles. He found he was sitting on something, reached under him and picked up the tool kit. All he had to do was inspect the inscription and some of those odd tools and he would know he was talking to an extraterrestrial!

“Now, we’ve brought a throwaway suit you can wear today, young sir. But we must choose both a society wardrobe and a college wardrobe. Now, it so happens that the styles this autumn will be ever so slightly gauche. Neat but gauche. In this Ives St. Giles book, we can see that the collar…”

Sickening. Who cared about all these fancy styles and the pant width in the mode. There was a gabardine trench coat with innumerable straps and a gun pocket that I liked, however. It looked very like one Humphrey Bogart used to wear. But the rest of it… then I realized the true source of my antipathy. It wasn’t the styles, it was the tailor. He was a homo. If there is anything I can’t stand, it’s a gay!

“Now, could you please stand up, young sir?”

And he was kneeling in front of Heller, measuring him for trousers. He seemed to be having trouble with his tape. He kept stretching it.

“Oh,” said the lead tailor, giggling, “you’re really built!”

“What’s the matter?” said Heller. “Hips too narrow?”

“Oh, no, young sir. I wasn’t talking about hips.”

On went the interference!

Off went my patience!

I stood up. I was being personally and vindictively harassed! Harassed? If I did not get that platen, I was dead!

There was a knock on the tunnel door to Faht’s office. Another Raht and Terb message slid under. I snatched it up.

It said:

Have our eye on that spot offshore. We’re standing by in case he surfaces.

That did it!

I bolted out of the house and walked agitatedly around the garden.

That (bleeped) screaming canary! Trilling and whistling gaily in the tree! A party to all this!

I went inside and got a twelve-gauge shotgun. I loaded it. I saw a flutter of yellow on a limb.

I fired both barrels!

The roar was deafening.

A hole had been blown through an ornamental tree.

One solitary feather came floating slowly down in the utter silence.

It made me feel immensely better.

A guard car came dashing up, of course, but I laughed and sent it away.

I felt better. I could think. I sat down on a bench.

What did I actually know? Aha, I had learned one vital thing so far today. The whore had not had the slightest recognition that she was handling a Voltarian safety line. The tailor had even sat on a Fleet tool kit, plainly labelled, and had simply tossed it aside. The people around Heller’s place of residence were totally incapable of observation! Perhaps it would be different when he got into a college. But nobody would notice anything at all anywhere around the Gracious Palms!

I went to my desk. I wrote a brutal communication to be transmitted at once to the New York office. I said:

RAHT AND TERB ARE SOMEWHERE IN THE NEW YORK AREA. FIND THEM AND FORCE THEM TO REPORT IN. IF THIS ORDER IS NOT PROMPTLY EXECUTED THE ENTIRE PERSONNEL OF YOUR OFFICE WILL BE.

SULTAN BEY.

When they reported in, I would direct them to get all plans of that building and pave the way.

With that backup, I would get this handled once and for all. And before I myself started to show signs of a nervous breakdown.

I phoned for a messenger and got the message on its way.

I got a pitcher of sira and went back to the viewer.

The interference was off. Heller was on his way downstairs in an elevator.

Chapter 6

Heller was wearing the new “throwaway” suit, I saw in an elevator mirror by peripheral vision. It was a light blue summer weight and it fitted for a change, but its pockets were bulging. He had on a blue shirt with a wide collar spread over the jacket lapels, the gauche look, I suppose, but it still made him look awfully young. However, whatever the tailor was trying to achieve was spoiled utterly by the fact that he still wore his red baseball cap on the back of his blond head and when he went across the lobby, I could hear that he still wore baseball spikes! He might be clean and neat, some might think him very handsome, but he still didn’t have a clue about espionage and looking the part! The baseball cap was easy to explain — he considered himself to be working. The spikes, just because he didn’t have comfortable shoes. An idiot!

But I could be tolerant. He was a marked man.

He went to the safes and halted before his personal one. I noted the combination.

He spread out his money inside the safe.

I became aware of other voices, an undertone in the otherwise quiet area. I turned up the gain. Somebody on a speaker-phone! I could hear both sides! They were speaking Italian.

“…so that is no excuse to let him sleep late!” It was Babe Corleone’s voice!

“But, Babe,” said Vantagio, “it didn’t have anything to do with the girls. Those two UN bigwigs spend half their countries’ UN appropriations in this place and it’s a good thing he didn’t let them kill each other.”

“Vantagio, are you trying to pretend I didn’t appreciate that?”

“No, no, mia capa!”

“Vantagio, are you trying to stand in the way of this boy’s career?”

Heller was counting out his money, bill by bill. He seemed to think a few of the bills were counterfeit.

Vantagio had apparently been struck speechless. Finally, gasping, he said, “Oh, mia capa, how could you say such an awful thing!”

“You know an education is important. You are jealous and you want him to wind up like some of these bums?”

“Oh, no!” wept Vantagio.

“Then please explain to me. I will listen. I will not yell at you. I will listen with patience. Answer this one question: I see in the Sunday paper two days ago, Vantagio, that Empire University began registering yesterday. And when I ask you, patiently and quietly, Vantagio, the simple question, ‘Is the boy properly registered now and starting school?’ I get a stupid answer that he slept late.”

Vantagio tried to talk. “Mia capa….”

“Now, you know and I know and the good God himself knows that boys hate to go to school,” continued Babe. “You know that they have to be driven, Vantagio. You know they have to be forced. My brothers, God rest their souls, had to be beaten so there is no reason to explain that to me.”

“Mia capa, I swear…”

“So the one question I want answered, Vantagio, if you will only let me speak, is why haven’t you asserted your authority and control over this boy? Why is he not obeying your orders? Now, do not bother to argue. Just phone me up in exactly one half an hour and tell me he has started to school.” There was a sharp click. She had hung up.

Heller had decided that just because some bills had Benjamin Franklin on them, they were not counterfeit. He had packaged the money up neatly. But he was not happy with what he had counted. He was shaking his head.

He put fifteen thousand in his pocket, already bulging with Gods knew what. He closed and locked his safe and was about to leave the Gracious Palms when Vantagio’s voice arrested him, calling from the office.

“Can I see you a minute, kid?”

Heller went in. Vantagio’s brows were lowered. He looked very down. He gestured to a chair. But like any Italian, he did not come right to the point. They think it impolite.

“Well, kid, how are you getting along with the girls?” He said it very glumly.

Heller laughed. “Oh, it’s fairly easy to handle women.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you had my job,” said Vantagio.

Aha, I was on the trail of something here. Vantagio was jealous of Heller. He was afraid Heller was going to get his job!

“Say,” said Heller. “You may be the very one I should be seeing about this.”

“What?” he said, very guarded, very defensive. Yes, something was biting Vantagio.

“Well, actually,” said Heller, “I’ve got quite a bit of money but I think I will need much more.”

“For what?”

“Well, I’ve got to do something about the planet.”

“You mean you’re planning to take over the whole planet? Look, kid, you’ll never do that without a diploma.”

“Oh, that’s true,” said Heller. “But also, things like that take money. And I wanted to ask you if you could tell me where the gambling is in this area.”

Vantagio blew up. “Gambling! You must be crazy! We run the numbers racket and let me tell you, kid, you’d lose your shirt! They’re crooked!”

Oho, Vantagio was antagonistic! Was he jealous of Heller?

“All right, then,” said Heller. And he took out a copy of the Wall Street Journal and opened it. It was the Commodity Futures Market page. “I make out that you buy and sell these as they go up and down, day by day.”

Vantagio brushed it aside. “That’s a good way to lose an awful lot of money, kid!” He was glowering.

It occurred to me right that moment that maybe I had an ally in Vantagio. He was obviously hostile to Heller. I began to work out why.

Heller was unfolding another spread of paper. “Then how about these? They apparently change in price, day to day.”

“That’s the stock market!” said Vantagio. “That’s a great way to go bankrupt!”

“Well, how do you buy and sell them?” said Heller.

“You need a broker. A stockbroker.”

“Well, could you recommend one?”

“Those crooks,” said Vantagio. Quite obviously, he did not want Heller to get ahead. He was nervous, edgy. I became more convinced there was something here — that maybe I could cultivate an ally.

“You know of one?” said Heller.

“Aw, look in the phone book classified. But I don’t want anything to do with it. And listen, kid, you don’t either. Listen, kid, you told me you were going to go to college.”

“Yes,” said Heller. “Nobody will listen to you if you don’t have a diploma.”

“Right,” said Vantagio. But he was edgy. “That’s why I called you in here, kid. You know what day this is?” And to Heller’s head shake, “It’s the second day of registration week at Empire College. You got your papers?”

“Right here,” said Heller, tapping his pocket. “But if it’s a whole week…”

“You,” said Vantagio harshly, “have got to go up there right now and register!”

“But if I have a whole week…”

“Be quiet!” said Vantagio. He reached into a drawer and got out a book, Curriculum, Empire College, Fall Term. “Geovani Meretrici” was on the catalogue. I thought his name was Vantagio. “What subject is your major?”

“Well, engineering, I suppose,” said Heller.

“What kind?” demanded Vantagio.

“Well, if you give me the book there, I can study it over and maybe in a couple of days…”

Vantagio was really cross now. What was this temper all about? He was reading from the book, ‘Aerospace Science and Engineering’? ‘Bioengineering’? ‘Civil Engineering and Engineering Mechanics’? ‘Electrical Engineering and Computer Science’? ‘Mineral Engineering’? ‘Nuclear Science and Engineering’? Just plain ‘Engineering’?”

“Nuclear Science and Engineering,” said Heller. “That sounds about right. But…”

Vantagio raised his voice. “They have a Bachelor,

Master, Doctorate and other degrees in it. So, that’s it! Nuclear Science and Engineering! Sounds impressive.”

“However,” said Heller, “I would like to look…”

“All right!” said Vantagio. “Now, here is a map of Empire University. See, here is the library and all that. But this is the administration building and this is the entrance. And here is a map of subways. You walk over to this station near here. Then, you go across town. And you transfer at Times Square to Number 1 and you get off at Empire University at 116th Street and you walk along here and right into that administration building and you sign up! You got it?”

“Well, yes. And I appreciate your help. But if there is a whole week…” He trailed off because Vantagio was sitting there looking at him in a strange way.

Vantagio started up again. “Kid, have you lived around New York before?”

“No,” said Heller.

Vantagio assumed a confidential air. “Then you don’t know the customs. Now, kid, when you’re in a strange place, it is absolutely fatal not to follow the customs.”

“That is true,” said Heller.

“Now, kid,” said this master of political science, “it so happens that there is a mandatory, American Indian custom regarding saving a man’s life. And Indian law remains in full force by prior sovereignty. Did you know that when you save a man’s life that man is responsible for you from there on out?”

I boggled! Vantagio was telling Heller an Earth Chinese custom! And he was telling Heller absolutely backwards! In old China, according to our Apparatus surveys, when you saved a man’s life you were then and there responsible for that man forevermore! So we warned operatives never to save anyone’s life in China! Vantagio was using his learning with a twist and he must know very well he was lying!

“Are you sure?” said Heller.

Vantagio looked at him, smug and superior. “Of course, I am sure. I am a master of political science, ain’t I?”

“Yes,” said Heller doubtfully.

“And you saved my life, didn’t you?” said Vantagio.

“Well, it seems so,” said Heller.

I suddenly got it! Vantagio! He was a tiny man, only five feet two inches tall. Right next door to Sicily lies Corsica, same people. And a small man in Corsica named Napoleon also felt inferior to everyone. Vantagio was suffering from an inferiority complex in the face of Heller’s deeds and acclaim! The things Heller had done had the Sicilian writhing with insecurity. And then I really got it: Vantagio was not his given name — it was his nickname! It means “Whiphand” in Italian!

Vantagio rose to his full five feet two and looked sternly at the seated Heller almost at eye level. And then this master of political science said, “You saved my life, so therefore you have to do absolutely everything I tell you! And that’s the way it is now from here on out!”

Heller must have looked contrite. “I see that that’s the way it seems.”

Suddenly, Vantagio was all smiles and cheer. “So, we have settled that! Have a cigar. No, I forgot, you mustn’t smoke. Here, have some mints.” And he shoved a box at Heller.

Heller took one and Vantagio came around and patted him on the back. “So, now we know where we stand. Right?”

“Right,” said Heller.

“So, you go straight down to the subway and go register right now!” But he said it with cheer.

Heller got up and walked to the door with Vantagio, who opened it for him and gave him another pat.

When Heller glanced back, Vantagio was all beaming and waving good-bye.

Well, it is very hard to understand Sicilians. This Vantagio appeared pretty treacherous, changeable. I had reservations about trusting him and including him in my plans. Still, there was a chance I could turn that burning jealousy and inferiority to account.

Chapter 7

Expecting, of course, that Heller would now do everything Vantagio had told him to do, I was not paying much attention. Heller went down into a subway station and looked into a phone book. I thought he might be calling the college.

He got on a subway and roared along. He seemed to be interested in the people. It was a hot New York day and in such weather the subways are very, very hot. The people were sweaty, soggy.

I was not being any more alert than they were. I suddenly saw a station sign flash by that said:

Then one went by which said:

Hey, he was on the wrong subway. He was going DOWNtown, not UPtown! And he wasn’t on the proper line! He was on the Lexington Avenue subway!

Hastily, I backtracked on the second screen. He had changed, not at Times Square, but before that, at Grand Central! I backtracked further. I got to the phone book he had looked at. He had found Stocks and Bonds Brokers in the yellow pages. Then his finger had halted at Short, Skidder and Long Associates, 81 1/2 Wall St.

He was playing hooky!

Oho, maybe all that with Vantagio was not in vain. Maybe I could gather data and show Vantagio that Heller was not obeying him and Vantagio would let me into Heller’s room. A beautiful daydream of a smiling Vantagio, waving an arm to bid me go in and saying, “Yes, Officer Gris. Feel free! Ransack the place! I’ll even call housemen to help you find the platen! And it serves this disobedient young kid right, doesn’t it, Officer Gris.” A beautiful dream!

But back to reality.

Heller, red baseball cap on the back of his head, trotting along on baseball spikes, found 81 1/2 Wall Street and by means of elevators was very shortly breasting a counter at Short, Skidder and Long Associates. There were big blackboards with current prices on them. Ticker tapes were chattering.

A gum-chewing girl said, “Yeah?”

“I want to see somebody about buying stocks,” said Heller.

“New account? See Mr. Arbitrage in the third cubicle.”

Mr. Arbitrage was immaculately groomed and all dried up. He remained seated at the cubicle desk. He looked Heller up and down as though somebody had thrown a fish into the room, a fish that smelled bad.

“I want to see somebody about buying stocks,” said Heller.

“Identification, please,” said Mr. Arbitrage, going through the motions out of habit.

Heller, unbidden, sat down across from him. He pulled out the Wister driver’s license and social security card.

Mr. Arbitrage looked at them and then at Heller. “There is probably no need to ask for credit references.”

“What are those?” said Heller.

“My dear young man, if this is some kind of a school assignment, I am afraid I have no time to teach the young. That is what we pay taxes for. The exit is the same door you came in.”

“Wait,” said Heller. “I have money.”

“My dear young man, please do not trifle with me. My time is valuable and I have a luncheon appointment with the head of J. P. Morgan. The exit door…”

“But why?” demanded Heller. “Why can’t I buy stocks?”

Mr. Arbitrage sighed noisily. “My dear young man, to deal in stocks, you must open an account. You must be of age to do so. Over twenty-one in our firm. To open an account, you must have credit references. You obviously have none. Could I suggest that you get your parents to accompany you the next time you call? Good day.”

“My parents aren’t on Earth,” said Heller.

“My condolences. Please hear me when I say you have to have a person, over twenty-one, who is responsible for you before you can deal with this firm. Now, good day, please.”

“Do all firms have this restriction?”

“My dear young sir, you will find all firms will slam their doors in your face even harder than I am doing! Now, good day, young sir. Good day, good day, good day!” And he reached up and got his bowler and left for lunch.

Heller went down to the street. The luncheon mobs were beginning to boil out of the buildings — luncheon on Wall Street looks like a full-fledged riot in progress.

Thoughtfully, Heller bought a hot dog from a pushcart and drank some orange pop on the sidewalk. He noticed that Mr. Arbitrage was doing the same thing further along.

Heller looked at the towering, cold buildings, the hot and sweating throngs. He checked the pollution dirt on the building sides. He seemed to find it of great interest. He took some pages from a notebook, wrote an address on one and wiped it against a building. Of course it came out black. He trotted through the throngs and took a similar sample on another building. Then he went back down into the subway station and reached over the platform edge and did the same thing. He put the carefully folded and labelled papers away.

He studied the subway map, apparently decided you couldn’t get from Wall Street over to Chambers by subway, caught a train to Grand Central, shuttled over to Times Square, transferred to a Number 1 and was soon roaring north.

At 116th Street he debarked and was shortly trotting along College Walk through mobs of students of every color and hue, a throng that was going here and coming from there or standing about. It was a drably somber crowd.

A young man walked up to Heller and said, “What should I take this term?”

“Milk,” said Heller. “Highly recommended.”

Like someone who knew where he was going amongst a lot of people who didn’t know where they were going, Heller went up steps and found himself in a hall where registration was being administered to long lines. Registrars sat at temporary desks, barricaded in paper. He looked at his watch and it winked the time at him. He looked at the long lines.

A young man, apparently clerical help and a student at the same time, entered, carrying a huge stack of computer printouts of class assignments. Heller walked over to him and said with the ring of Fleet authority, “Where are you taking these?”

“Miss Simmons,” said the young man, timidly, nodding toward one of the registrars at a temporary desk. “You should be on time,” said Heller. “I’ll take these. Go back and get some more.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man and left. Heller stood back until the girl Miss Simmons was interviewing and registering began to gather up her things to depart. Heller went over and put the stapled computer printout booklets down on Miss Simmons’ desk and sat down in the chair, bypassing the unattentive waiting line. He took out his own papers and handed them to Miss Simmons.

Miss Simmons did not look up. She was a severe-looking young woman, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. She had thick glasses and began to paw about the desk in front of her. Then she said, “You haven’t made out your application form.”

“I didn’t know how,” said Heller. “Oh, dear,” said Miss Simmons, wearily. “Another one that can’t read or write.” She got a blank and started to fill it in from Heller’s papers. She wrote and wrote. Then, she said, “Local address, Wister.”

“Gracious Palms,” said Heller and gave her the street and house number.

Miss Simmons gave him an invoice. “You can pay the cashier. But I don’t think it will do any good. Payment of fees does not guarantee enrollment.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” mimicked Miss Simmons. “There is always something wrong. But that’s beside the point. It’s these grades, Wister. It’s these grades — a D average? They clearly show that your only A was for sleeping in class. And in a practically unknown school. Now, what major are you demanding?”

“Nuclear Science and Engineering,” said Heller.

Miss Simmons gave a shocked gasp like a bullet had hit her. She glared. She ground her teeth. When she had recovered enough to continue, she said in a level, deadly voice, “Wister, some of the prerequisites are missing for that. I do not see them on your transcript of grades. I am afraid all this is irregular. It does not conform. You are seeking to enroll here for your senior year. It does not conform, Wister.”

“All I want is a diploma,” said Heller.

“Ah, yes,” said Miss Simmons. “Wister, you are demanding that at commencement next May, Empire University certify on a diploma that you are a Bachelor of Nuclear Science and Engineering, lend you its prestige and send you out, a totally uneducated savage, to blow up the world. Isn’t that what you are demanding, Wister? I thought as much.”

“No, no,” said Heller. “I’m supposed to fix it up, not blow it up!”

“Wister, the only thing I can do is take this application under advisement. There must be other opinions gotten, Wister. So be back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I can offer no hope, Wister. NEXT!”

It was a bright moment for me. Heller always had such a marvelous opinion of himself, always bragging. And here was a sensible person who saw through him completely. And Bury was a very clever fellow to lay such an adroit trap. I drank a whole glass of sira straight down in a toast to Bury.

Heller was slowed to a crawl!