THE MAN WHO JAPED

CHAPTER 21

The next morning Allen arrived promptly at eight o'clock at his office in the Telemedia building. As the staff appeared for work, he called them into his office until all thirty-three of them were present. The hundreds of assignment workers continued at their desks throughout the building as Allen addressed their executive department heads.

"Yesterday my resignation was requested. It's involved with the fracas that took place here Monday afternoon. I refused to resign, so I'm still Director, at least until the Committee can assemble and fire me."

The staff took the news with aplomb. One member, head of the layout department, asked: "How long will you remain in your estimation?"

"A week or so," Allen answered. "Maybe a little longer."

"And you intend to continue work during that time?"

"I'll work to the best of my ability," Allen said. "There's plenty to do and I want to get into it. But you're entitled to know the situation."

Another member of the staff, a trim woman with glasses, asked: "You're the legal Director, is that correct? Until they fire you—"

"Until dismissal papers are served, I'm the sole legal Director of this Trust; I'm your boss, with the powers im- plicit and explicit in that capacity. Naturally my policies here will be highly suspect. Probably the next Director will cancel them all, straight across the board."

The staff murmured among themselves.

"You should meditate over that," Allen said, "as I give you your assignments. How much trouble you'll get into for obeying and working with me I can't say. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the next Director will fire the lot of you. Probably not."

"It's unlikely," a staff member said.

"I'm going to give you a few hours to talk it over among yourselves. Let's say until noon. Those of you who would prefer not to take the risk can go home and wait out the period of my directorship. I'm positive that won't get you into trouble with the Committee; they may even suggest it."

One staff member asked: "What are your policies going to be? Maybe we should hear them before we decide."

"I don't think you should," Allen said. "You should make your decision on other grounds. If you stay, you'll have to follow my orders no matter what they are. This is the important thing for you to decide: do you care to work for a man who's out of favor?"

The staff left his office, and he was alone. Outside in the corridor their mumbles reached him dully through the closed door.

By noon virtually all the department heads had discreetly gone home. He was without an executive staff. The various operations went on, but the ranks were thinning. An unearthly loneliness hung around the building. The din of machines echoed in the empty offices and halls, and nobody seemed to feel like talking.

To the intercom he said: "Vivian, come in here a moment."

A rather drab young woman entered with pencil and pad. "Yes, Mr. Purcell. My name is Nan, Mr. Purcell. Vivian left."

"You're staying?" he asked.

"Yes sir." She put on her thick glasses and made ready to take dictation.

"I want you to canvass the departments. It's noon, so presumably those remaining will be with us during the next week. Find out where the depletions are."

"Yes sir." She scribbled notes.

"Specifically I'll need to know which departments can function and which can't. Then send me the highest ranking staff member left. If no staff members are left, send in whoever you think is most familiar with general operations."

"Yes sir." She departed. An hour later a tall, gangling middle-aged party entered shyly.

"Mr. Purcell," he said. "I'm Gleeby. They said you wanted me. I'm head of music." He tilted his right ear with his thumb, conveying the interesting bit of news that he was deaf.

"Sit down," Allen said, pleased by the man, and pleased, also, that one of the staff remained. "You were in here at eight? You heard my speech?"

"Yes. I heard." Evidently the man lip-read.

"Well? Can we function?"

Gleeby pondered and lit his pipe. "Well, that's hard to say. Some departments are virtually closed down. We can redistribute personnel. Try to even up the losses. Fill in some of the widest gaps."

Allen asked: "Are you really prepared to carry out my orders?"

"Yes. I am." Gleeby sucked on his pipe.

"You may be held Morecly responsible."

"I'd become psychotic loafing around my apartment a week. You don't know my wife."

"Who here does the research?"

Gleeby was puzzled. "The Agencies handle that."

"I mean real research. Checking for historical accuracy. Isn't machinery set up to go over projections point by point?"

"A gal named Phyllis Frame does that. She's been around here thirty years. Has a big desk down in the basement, millions of files and records."

"Did she leave? If not, send her up."

Miss Frame hadn't left, and presently she appeared. She was a heavy, sturdy-looking, iron-haired lady, formidable and taciturn. "You wanted me, Director?"

"Be seated." He offered her his cigarette case, which she declined. "You understand the situation?"

"What situation?"

He explained. "So bear that in mind."

"I'll bear it in mind. What is it you want? I'm in a hurry to get back to my work."

"I want," Allen said, "a complete profile of Major Streiter. Not derived from packets or projections, but the actual facts as are known about his life, habits, character, and so forth. I want unbiased material. No opinions. Material that is totally authentic."

"Yes, Director."

"How soon can you have the profile?"

"By six." She was starting from the office. "Should this project include material on the Major's immediate family?"

Allen was impressed. "Yes. Very good."

"Thank you, Director." The door closed and she was gone.

At two o'clock Gleeby re-appeared with the final list of workers remaining. "We could be worse off. But there's almost nobody capable of making decisions." He rattled the list. "Give these people something to do and they'll go into action. But what'll we give them?"

"I have some ideas," Allen said.

After Gleeby had left the office, Allen phoned his old Agency.

"I have vacancies here," he said, "that need to be filled. I think I'll draw from the Agency. I'll put our people on the T-M payroll and try to get funds from the paymaster. If not, then I'll cover with Agency funds. Anyhow, I want people over here, and I'm sending my want-list to you."

"That'll deplete us," Harry Friar pointed out.

"Sure. But it's only for a week or so. Give our people the situation about me, see who's willing to come. Then fill as best you can. A dozen should do. What about you personally?"

"I'll work for you," Priar said.

"I'm in big disfavor."

Priar said: "When they ask, I'll say you brainwashed me."

Toward four in the afternoon the first trickle of Agency personnel began to show up. Gleeby interviewed each person and assigned him to a department. By the end of the day a make-shift working staff had been built up. Gleeby was optimistic.

"These are policy-making people," he said to Allen. "And they're used to working with you. We can trust them, too. Which good is. I suppose the Committee has a few of its creatures lurking around. Want us to set up some sort of loyalty review board?"

"Not important," Allen said. "As long as we see the finished products." He had studied the statement of projections in process; some were now scratched off, some had been put ahead, and most had been rerouted into dead-ends. The assembly lines were open and functioning, ready to undertake fresh material.

"What's that?" Gleeby asked, as Allen brought out sheets of lined paper.

"My preliminary sketches. What's the normal span required from first stage to last?"

"Well," Gleeby said, "say a packet is approved on Monday. Usually we take anywhere from a month to five months, depending on the medium it's to be projected over."

"Jesus," Allen said.

"It can be cut. For topical stuff we prune down to—" He computed. "Say, two weeks."

Allen turned to Harry Priar, who stood listening. "How's that strike you?"

"By the time you're out of here," Priar said, "you won't have one item done."

"I agree," Allen said. "Gleeby, to be on the safe side we'll have to prune to four days."

"That only happened once," Gleeby said, tugging at the lobe of his ear. "The day William Pease, Ida Pease Hoyt's father, died. We had a huge projection, on all media, within twenty-four hours."

"Even woven baskets?"

"Baskets, handbills, stenciled signs. The works."

Priar asked: "Anybody else going to be with us? Or is this the total crew?"

"I have a couple more people," Allen said. "I won't be sure until tomorrow." He looked at his watch. "They'd be at the top, as original idea men."

"Who are they?" Gleeby asked. "Anybody we know?"

"One of them is named Gates," he said. "The other is a man named Sugermann."

"Suppose I asked you what you're going to do?"

Allen said: "I'd tell you. We're going to do a jape on Major Streiter."

He was with his wife when the first plug was aired. At his direction a portable TV receiver was set up in their one-room apartment. The time was twelve-thirty at night; most of Newer York was asleep.

"The transmitting antenna," he told Janet, "is at the T-M building." Gleeby had collected enough video technicians to put the transmitter—normally closed down at that hour—back on the air.

"You're so excited," Janet said. "I'm glad you're doing this; it means so much to you."

"I only hope we can pull it off," he said, thinking about it.

"And afterward?" she said. "What happens then?"

"We'll see," he said. The plug was unfolding.

A background showed the ruins of the war, the aftermath of battle. The tattered rags of a settlement appeared; slow, halting motion of survivors creeping half-starved, half-baked through the rubble.

A voice said: "In the public interest a Telemedia discussion program will shortly deal with a problem of growing importance for our times. Participants will analyze the question: Should Major Streiter's postwar policy of active assimilation be revived to meet the current threat? Consult your area log for time and date."

The plug dissolved, carrying the ruins and desolation with it. Allen snapped off the TV set, and felt tremendous pride.

"What'd you think of it?" he asked Janet.

"Was that it?" She seemed disappointed. "There wasn't much."

"With variations, that plug will be repeated every half hour on all channels. Mavis' hit ‘em, hit ‘em. Plus plants in the newspapers, mentions on all the news programs, and minor hints scattered over the other media."

"I don't remember, what ‘active assimilation' was. And what's this ‘current threat'?"

"By Monday you'll have the whole story," Allen said. "The slam will come on ‘Pageant of Time.' I don't want to spoil it for you."

Downstairs on the public rack, he bought a copy of tomorrow's newspaper, already distributed. There, on page one, in the left-hand column, was the plant developed by Sugermann and Priar.

TALK OF REVIVING ASSIMILATION

Newer York Oct 29 (T-M),: It is reliably reported that a number of persons high in Committee circles who prefer to remain anonymous at this time, favor a revival of the postwar policy of active assimilation developed by Major Streiter to cope with the then- extensive threats to Moral Reclamation. Growing out of the current menace this revived interest in assimilation expresses the continued uneasiness of violence and lawlessness, as demonstrated by the savage assault on the Park of the Spire momument [sic] to Major Streiter. It is felt that the therapeutic method of Mental Health, and the efforts of the

Mental Health Resort to cope with current insta- bility and unrest, have failed to

Allen folded up the newspaper and went back upstairs to the apartment. Within a day or so the domino elements of the Morec society would be tipped. "Active assimilation" as a solution to the "curent [sic] threat" would be the topic of discussion for everybody.

"Active assimilation" was his brain child. He had made it up. Sugermann had added the idea of the "current threat." Between them they had created the topic out of whole cloth.

He felt well-pleased. Progress was being made.