Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 7

Jo Houston called Brant at the office the next day, shortly after noon. Van had almost forgotten the Ree incident by that time, though not quite. He had awakened late this morning, still feeling loggy from the triple fix the night before. He remembered the fix, but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact impulse that had prompted it. The Ree boy had still been vivid in his mind when he showered and depilled. After a light breakfast, the image had begun to fade. He’d taken a late fix, and then gone to the office.

He sat now and looked at Jo’s troubled face, his weary eyes. For a moment, he thought Jo had gone without a fix, but then he noticed the empty vial on his accountant’s desk.

“What is it, Jo?” he asked.

“I’m having a rugged go, Van.”

“Spell it.”

“Your holdings. I can’t get rid of them.”

Van looked at Houston’s face hard, to see if he was kidding. “What the hell are you talking about, Jo?”

“The stuff. No buyers.”

“No buyers? Hop down, father, and jest me not! I’m in no mood for...”

“Bible, Van, so help me. I’ve been shagging since God only. The market’s dim.”

“Then you haven’t been shagging hard enough. What the hell’s the matter with you, Jo? The stuff I’ve got is the hottest you can get today.”

“Maybe.”

“Listen, shoot it to me straight.”

“All right.” Jo began ticking the points off on his fingers.

“Item A: three hundred shares Sappho Stereos. Dead ducks.”

“How so?”

“No buyers. Hold it, Van, don’t blowtop. I tried everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Something’s in the wind.”

“What?”

“Who knows? Fear. You can read it in their eyes.”

“What kind of horse are you peddling? Fear? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, Van; just an impression. You know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Well anyway, there were no buyers. I couldn’t even sell them for a fifty percent loss.”

“You mean you offered that?”

“As a last resort. Van, the market is tighter than a Ree’s necktie.”

“More, father.”

“Item B: twenty-two shares Arbac Press. Dead ducks. I shopped all over town. No one’s interested.”

“That’s impossible! Arbac is one of the best paback outfits in the field. You sure this isn’t a gag, Jo?”

“I never kid where it concerns money,” Houston said seriously.

“All right. Read it.”

“Item C: fifty-seven shares Dale Cosmetics. I got rid of twenty. You know what you can do with the other thirty-seven.”

“What’d you raise?”

“One.”

“A thousand? For twenty shares of Dale? Jo, are you losing your marbles?”

“I didn’t say a thousand. I said ‘one.’ One hundred, Van. One clam. Count it.”

“One clam! Look, Jo...”

“I’m lucky I got that. You’ve got no idea what it’s like, Van. So help me. I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it? You don’t like it? It’s only my money you’re throwing around, that’s all. It’s only...”

“Cool, Van.”

“Cool my big keester! Listen, Jo, you’re paid to handle my affairs. If I ever made a deal like that for one of my clients, I’d be hanged in Times Square the next day. What the hell do you think this is, Parchesi?”

“Van, I tell you...”

“You tell me, horse! I’m telling you, goddamnit. And you’d damn well better listen. I’ve got stock worth at least eighteen hundred gee. All I want is nine hundred gee, and a good man should be able to raise that. If you’re not a good man, you’re not the man for me. There are approximately eight thousand accountants in this city, Jo, and...”

“Easy, Van, easy. I’m...”

“Easy, nothing. I’ll give you until tomorrow; that’s Wednesday. If you can’t produce by then, you can close out my account and go back to filing income tax returns at fifty cents a throw!”

“That’s not fair, Van...”

“It may not be fair, but that’s the way it reads. I want at least five hundred gee by tomorrow. If you get that much, I’ll give you ’til Saturday to get the rest. If you can’t, good-bye Jo; it’s been, but it ain’t no mo.”

“Van...”

Brant clicked off before Houston could protest further, and then he went over to the bar and shot up a booster vial. When the buzzer on his desk sounded, he nearly tore off the switch answering. “Yes!” he shouted.

“Oouch!” Lizbeth said.

“What is it, Liz?” he answered harshly.

Her voice was surprised. “I did something, Van?”

“You did naught. You buzzing to be sociable, or have you got something on your mind?”

“Van...”

“Come on, Liz, I haven’t got all day.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice was shocked now, and a little hurt. “You asked me to remind you about marketing at 1215. It’s 1225 now.”

“What about marketing?”

“There’s some stuff back; I thought you might want to remarket it.”

“Bring it in,” he snapped.

He walked to the window, thinking of the preposterous manner in which Jo was handling a simple thing like...

“Mr. Brant?”

Van whirled from the window. “Don’t be so damned formal. My name is still Van.”

“Sorry,” Liz said. She put a pile of manuscripts in thin plexoid folders on the desk. He walked over to them quickly, lifting the first script from the pile.

“This dog bounce again? Send it over to Arbac. Tell these illidges I own stock there, and they’d damn well better buy a few of these, or...”

“You really want me to say that?”

“Of course not; give them the usual pitch. If that one sells, I’ll eat it.”

He picked up the next manuscript. “What’s this?”

“Returned from Specialties, Inc. Bark Addams called on it. Said there wasn’t enough sex.”

“Listen, let this damned stuff wait for later; I’m not in the mood. Get me Lana Davis. Walt gave her the zero sign and I want to hold her foot.”

“All right,” Liz said. She walked toward the door, still obviously hurt by Van’s brusque treatment.

“Hey,” he called after her.

She turned. “Yes?”

“Take this junk with you. I don’t like a cluttered desk when I’m on the Vid. It looks sloppy. You should know that by now.”

“I’m sorry,” Liz said coldly. “It slipped my mind.”

She scooped up the manuscripts and walked stiffly to the door. Van sat at his desk, and in a few moments, Liz buzzed.

“I’ve got Miss Davis on six.”

“Thank you.”

Van clicked on and focused. Lana’s heart-shapped face filled the screen.

“Van, my God, do you know what Walt did, and right in the middle of a goddamned production who the hell does he think he’s dealing with some crumb who’s never been in the big city be...”

“Hold it, honey.”

Lana subsided, her breasts quivering with rage. “You’d better make it good, Van.”

Brant shrugged. “The guy’s a delegate for the hatch. I’ve got a better scribe for you.”

“Who?” Lana asked suspiciously.

“Clark Talbot.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Can I help it if you’re illiterate? You ever hear of Stolen Desire?”

“Vaguely.”

“He wrote it. I’ll send him up later. You talk to him. He’s a good man.”

“He’d better be. You hand me another lemon like Walt, and I’ll...”

“Cool it, hon. I’ll send him up. 1500 all right?”

“All right.”

“Fine. So long.”

“So long.”

Brant clicked off and began pacing the rug. He was still thinking of Houston’s blunder. “How the hell was a man supposed to get anything done when he was surrounded by idiots? Imagine selling twenty shares of Dale for a clam. A clam! And Jo called himself an accountant. A shoe shine boy could have gotten at least five, and...”

The buzzer sounded, and he reached for the instrument viciously.

“Yes!”

“There’s someone to see you, Van.”

“I’m not in.”

“She said it was important.”

“I’m still not in.”

“Sir, she...”

“Listen, Liz, do I have to send a diagram with everything I say? I’m not in! That goes for this chick, and the President, and even Dino Pelazi. I’m not in; I’m out. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine, fine. I’m glad I still speak English.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that all?”

“Y...”

“All right. Don’t disturb me for the next hour or so.”

He clicked off angrily. Of all the stupid things. First Jo with his admission of gross incompetence, and then a secretary who couldn’t keep an unwanted visitor away from her boss when he didn’t want company. And a man was supposed to conduct a business this way. A man was supposed to pretend everything was grooved, just blithely sail along until his nose smashed into...

The door behind him opened swiftly, and he turned with his fists clenched as it slid shut again.

“I thought I told you not to...”

The girl standing there was not Lizbeth. She was tall, with her red hair pulled to one side of her neck, trailing down over one bare breast. Her breasts were firm and high, concentrically ringed in various hues. Her stomach was bare and flat, etched with a deeply-shadowed navel. Her skirt was shorter than a good many skirts he’d seen, and she wore six inch spikes with ankle straps.

He stared at her for an instant. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.

“Lois.”

“Who?”

“Lois Sylvan.”

“Do you know what doors are for, Miss Sylvan? They keep people out. I told my secretary I wasn’t to be disturbed; I wasn’t kidding. Now if you’ll swing your keester out of here, I’ll be much obliged.”

“I thought you’d be interested,” she said archly.

Van looked her over again. “You dress Vike,” he said, “but your talk is strictly Ree. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“We’re even; I’m not selling.”

He looked at her again. “Am I supposed to know you or something? I’m not good at guessing games.”

“Lydia Silverstein,” she said quickly.

“Lydia wh...” He closed his mouth fast and looked her over again. Yes, the red hair was certainly hers, and the long legs, and... but...

“Well. You’ve changed.”

“My name, too. Not legally yet. I’ve assumed it by common law, and I’ve already got a shyst to bring it to court.”

“Good. So?”

“I’ve bared my... I’ve taken off my blouse, and I’ve shortened my skirt. I’m using cosmetics, and I tried... morphine today. I did just what you said.”

“So?”

“Well... I... I’m ready to begin.”

“Begin what?”

“You said...”

“Miss Silverstein, or Sylvan, or whatever-the-hell, this is not a Ree Convertorium. I run a business, and I don’t have to...”

“But you said...”

“I know what I said. I also told you to kick out your mate. Did you do that?”

His eyes began to cloud, and her lower lip trembled a little. “I... I didn’t have one!”

“Fine! You had nothing to lose then, did you? The fact remains that I can’t play father-confessor to every Ree who decides to chuck it all. Miss, I’m right now in the middle of something...”

She started to cry. Just like that. It had been such a long time since he’d seen any woman cry, that he almost didn’t believe it.

“Hey!” he said.

“Oh, shut up,” she blubbered.

“Well, look...”

“Don’t talk to me,” she said between sobs.

“Well, don’t cry,” he offered lamely. “Save that for the stereo-soaps. Come on now, Miss. Miss, you shouldn’t...”

“I did what you said,” she blubbered. “I did just what you said. Now I’m here, and I feel so cheap and so... so... naked, and you don’t even... you don’t even...”

He walked over to her and put his arm around her shoulder comfortingly. “Look, Miss, please don’t cry; there’s no need for that, really. Please, now, please.”

“I feel awful,” she whimpered. “I even got thrown out of my apartment.”

“There, there, I’ll help you. Don’t worry. I said I’d help you, and I will.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will. We can use good female scribes. I said I’d help, and I’ve never gone back on my word. I was just feeling sort of grumpy, that’s all.”

“You’ll really help me write?” she asked. She looked for a pocket in which she undoubtedly hoped to find a handkerchief, found none, and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Yes, I’ll help you write,” Bran said. “Yes, I most cert...” A thought hit him. Full-blown. It dropped right out of the air and into his head, and his eyes opened wide, and his mouth fell open. “Yes, by God,” he said. “Yes, I will!”

The thought had concerned a certain twenty gee being paid a certain Walt Alloway to scribe the show. And Hayden was looking to cut costs. Van grinned amiably and said, “Miss Sylvan... Lois... how would you like to earn a cool five gee?”

She blinked her long lashes, stared at him incredulously. “Five... five...?”

“Five gee. Five thousand skins. All yours. All for your hot little hands. How about it?”

She gulped hard. “For writing?”

“What else?” he asked.

For a moment, he thought she would faint. Instead, she gulped again, and her eyes were incredibly green and incredibly wet behind their thick lashes. She opened her mouth to answer, but when no words came, she simply nodded her head weakly.

“Fine!” Van shouted. “Terrific.”

He stabbed the button on his desk, and Liz came on.

“Sir?”

“Liz, honey,” he said warmly, “I want you to call Hayden Thorpe for me.”

“Sir?” Her voice brightened.

“I want you to call him, sweetness, and tell him I’ve got the two scribes he wanted. Tell him one of them is Walt Alloway, and reel off Walt’s credits to him... mention the After Dark thing, Liz. That was really big.”

She sounded quite happy now, almost as if she were smiling. “Yes, Van.”

“And then tell him I’ve discovered a fabulous new female scribe. Tell him she’s the greatest thing since transundies...”

“Van!”

“...the best damned scribe since Shakespeare, the biggest discovery since Corradon. Tell him she’s starting at once, and that I’ve had to go to five gee, but that she’s worth every penny. Tell him I’m clearing up the other details now, and that we’ll be ready to roll on Sunday.”

“Yes, Van.”

“And tell him, Liz; tell him her name is...” He snapped his fingers, and the redhead fluttered her eyelashes.

“Lydia,” she said. She sat up abruptly. “No, Lois! Lois Sylvan.”

“Lois Sylvan, Liz.”

“Lois Sylvan,” Liz repeated.

“Remember that name, Liz; remember it well. This little lady is going to have that name in lights soon. Lois Sylvan.” He tasted the words. “Magnificent.” He stood with his head cocked to one side for a brief moment, and then snapped, “Make that call now, will you, Liz, and double it!”

“Grooved.”

She clicked off, and Brant turned to the redhead.

“Well, Miss Sylvan,” he said, “this is the beginning. You’re on your way.”

Miss Sylan did not answer. Miss Sylvan was too busy holding her breath and giving herself a great big healthy mental pinch.

Hunt Laker was a literary agent who specialized chiefly in paperbacks. He had been drawn into the June thirtieth benefit strictly by chance, when one of his scribes — a recent addition to Lake’s stable — decided to write a bit for a chick with more frontage than brains. The chick stopped the show cold with the material Lake’s scribe had provided. Lake, as the scribe’s agent, had his name listed on the program, along with the other agents who’d contributed to the show. That listing had not added any moo to his dusty coffers, because the show was a benefit, and no one was paid for his services. The listing had, however, enabled Laker to become the reluctant recipient of something other than moo. And that something was a Suzy Q from Dino Pelazi.

He sat next to Van Brant on the hard wooden bench now, alternately belching and complaining. Van listened because there was nothing better to. do. He knew Laker only slightly, and he considered a man who specialized in paperbacks something of a pariah.

“What gets me,” Laker said, “is that I got absolutely naught from the whole bit. My scribe gets a pat on the back. The chick gets a chance to show frontage out of this world. She lands a spot on a good stereo because of that. Me, I get listed, and I get a Suzy Q.”

“Didn’t the scribe and the chick get them, too?” Van asked politely.

“Sure,” Laker agreed, “but you don’t groove me.”

“Straighten me then,” Van said.

“Gone,” Laker answered, nodding. “This is my point. My scribe got four paback offers after they saw what he did for that show. Four offers. The chick lands a stereo. Me, I get a Suzy Q.”

“You already said all this,” Van said. “Your scribe got a Suzy Q, and so did the chick. What’s your beef? You’re getting ten percent on the four pabacks, aren’t you?”

“Well, sure.”

“So stop batting the ball. You may get off without having to pay a cent.”

“That’s not my point,” Laker argued.

“Then what is your point, man?” Van asked. “Spit it out.”

“Hell, I don’t even know what the benefit was for!” Laker said. “I didn’t even go to the show. Now I’m getting sued; it isn’t fair.”

“The benefit was for a guy named Parke Reggery. He was once a top scribe, but he was blinded by a Ree fanatic who thought his work was degenerate. That’s who the benefit was for.”

“He doesn’t scribe any more?” Laker asked.

“No. He was a see it scribe; had to see that word appear on the page as he typed it. Couldn’t get used to audio methods.”

“Well,” Laker said sourly, “at least it was for a good cause.” He belched and Van turned his head away. “Still, I don’t see why I got a Suzy Q. Man, you know how many times I’ve been down here so far?”

“How many?”

“This makes four.”

“What?” Van asked, surprised.

“Yeah, yeah, four times. That cuts into your business, father. How can you keep your mind on an agency when you’ve got this damn thing hanging over your head.”

“Try Corradon,” Van said wearily. He thought over what Laker had told him, and then asked, “How come four times?”

“Do I know? Do I understand the law? I submit stuff to the pabacks. They send me contracts, and my scribes sign them. Do I ever get involved in lawsuits? Not me, not Hunt Laker. My nose is clean, Brant, believe me. Only once, some jerk maligned the president in a novel, and I missed it — mainly because I didn’t read the book before it went out. A rush job, you know, one of those things. Even then, it was the scribe got sued, and not me. I dropped him cold. So what do I know about the law? All I know is I’ve been here four times; and each time Pelazi was here, and each time they read off different charges, and Pelazi affirmed the charges. Man, I’m lucky if they don’t give me the chair for this. And all I did was say ‘Okay, write for the chick.’ That’s all.”

“Pelazi was here, you say?” Van asked.

“Sure. They read off the complaint, and then they ask if the complaint is correct. Pelazi stands there like some ghoul and he says, ‘Yes, the complaint is correct’ and then they let you go. The whole thing takes about five seconds. It’s this waiting that’s killing me. How am I supposed to run my business, sitting here in a courthouse?”

A man in uniform walked to the rail and said, “We are ready to verify complaints now. Will you step behind the railing when your name is called, show the recording clerk your summons, and then go directly to Room Fourteen? Thank you.” The uniformed man consulted a typewritten sheet, coughed, looked up, and then said, “Adams. Terr Adams.”

Laker belched. “You’re lucky, Brant; you got a B. I’m an L; I won’t get in there until midnight.”

“L of a thing,” Van said, and then he winced at his own pun. Laker didn’t even seem to notice. The uniformed man called off two more A’s, a B, and then he said, “Brant. Van Brant.”

Van rose and said good-bye to Laker, walking directly to the railing, opening the gate there, and then stepping behind it. He handed his summons to the recording clerk, and the clerk stamped it, and then checked off Van’s name on another typewritten list. He pointed toward a closed door, and Brant went to the door quickly, opening it manually, and stepping into a small room.

The room was bare, except for a desk and several chairs lined up on the wall opposite the desk. There was a bank of windows on one wall, and a man was seated in front of those windows, looking out, his back to Van. A second man sat at the desk, and Van walked to him, handed him the summons, and then waited.

The man studied it for a moment. He looked up disinterestedly, wet his lips, and said, “Dino Pelazi versus Van Brant, violation of Statute 431, Section 62-A, on June thirtieth. You are Van Brant, sir?”

“I am,” Van said.

“The charge is hereby repeated for verification by the plaintiff. Violation of Statute 431, Section 62-A, on June thirtieth. Is that correct, sir?”

“That’s...” Brant started.

The man seated at the window did not turn. He kept his back to Van, and said, “Yes, that is correct.”

“Are there no further charges?” the man at the desk asked.

“Not at this time,” the man at the window answered. “Plaintiff requests the right to further verify and validate the charges, as provided in Section 63-C on the Statute, before case is brought to trial.”

“Request granted,” the man at the desk said.

Van craned his neck for a better view of the man seated at the window. He could see nothing but a mane of white hair and a rather broad back.

“Is that Mr. Pelazi?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man at the desk answered.

Van turned toward Pelazi, his hands automatically moving to his hips. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Pelazi,” he said.

“Have you, Mr. Branoski?”

“Brant,” Van corrected.

“Brant, of course. Forgive me.”

“Do I get to see your face, or has that been censored by the Rees, too?” Van asked.

“I find the view here quite pleasant,” Pelazi answered. “Forgive me if I do not turn.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to Ree rudeness,” Van said stiffly.

“Then you certainly won’t mind a little more of it.”

“Do you really hope to win this case, Pelazi?”

“Naturally.”

“You haven’t a leg to stand on. I’m surprised at you, really, wasting your time like this. We’ll get a thousand people to swear you were nowhere near that benefit on June thirty.”

“And I’ll get one person to swear I was there all night. One person is all I need, Mr. Branoski.”

“Brant,” Van said more firmly.

“Brant, of course.”

“You must be pretty hard up, father,” Van said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To pull a petty stunt like this one. All you’re doing is annoying us. Like mosquitoes. Like a bunch of mosquitoes bothering a lion. So you’ll disrupt our businesses for a while, so what? So you’ll take us away from them, and drag us down here while you verify and validate, and whatever the hell, so what? So you’ll bog us down in what you undoubtedly hope will be a long trial. So what? The trial will pass, too; if you win you’ve got a few hundred gee, and if you lose, you’ve got beans. In any case, we go right back to work again, as strong as ever.”

“Perhaps,” Pelazi said.

“No perhapses, Pelazi. Why don’t you smarten up? Why don’t you drop the whole thing, forget all this nonsense?”

“I prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

“That, Mr. Brant, is my business.”

“And my business is selling literary material, and your goddamned business is disrupting mine!” Van said heatedly.

“Mr. Brant,” Pelazi said, “I am not of a mind to argue my case outside the courtroom. You will have ample opportunity to establish your innocence when the time comes. In the meantime...”

“This has nothing to do with your case, Pelazi. I just don’t like your tactics, that’s all. And I don’t like your sitting there with your back to me. For two cents, I’d...”

“If you are innocent, Mr. Brant, if you indeed have not violated Section 62-A of Statute 431, then you have nothing to fear. If I’ve taken you away from your business, I’m sorry, but those are the rules of the game. And if your time is really quite so valuable, then shouldn’t you be leaving, rather than wasting it by talking to someone’s back?”

“You sap,” Van said. “We’re going to make you wish you never heard of the Belly...”

“Good day, Mr. Brant,” Pelazi said.

Van took a step forward, clenching his fists. He saw Pelazi’s back, saw the white hair above the high collar of the Ree’s shirt.

“Awh, go to hell,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked from the room.

Jo Houston called Van at thirteen that day, after Brant had killed most of the morning at the courthouse.

“Hello, Van,” he said. He was beaming broadly, and good news was scrawled all over his face.

“What’s the snap, Pap?”

“I’ve got a buyer.”

“Good. How much did you raise?”

“You sitting, Van?”

“Why?”

Jo grinned secretively. “How much did you want me to raise? For the lot, I mean.”

“You know how much. Stop catenmousing.”

“You wanted nine hundred gee, right? Well, I got a stone and two.”

“What!”

“A stone and two gee, that’s right. And I managed to buy back that twenty shares of Dale to toss into this package at a gain. Who’s the hottest accountant in town, boy?”

“A stone and two! Jo, how’d you do it?”

Jo smiled obliquely. “Trade secrets, son.”

“Well, who’s the buyer?”

“An outfit called Pall Associates.”

Van thought this over for a moment. “You mean Jerr Pall? That illidge will never make good, Jo; he hasn’t got a cent to his...”

“No, not Jerr Pall; this is a new outfit. I checked them thoroughly, Van. They’ve got more moo than Fort Knox.”

“You sure?”

“Positive; I saw their books. They’re loaded, Van.”

“A corporation?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not too good.”

“Why not? You say the word, and I’ll have their check in ten minutes.”

“A stone and two, huh?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Who’s behind the corp?”

“I couldn’t find out. Listen, their money is good; what the hell are you worried about?”

“I just don’t like doing business with shadows. Whom do I sue it the check hops?”

“It won’t hop; I’ll have it certified.”

“Mmmm.”

“What do you say, Van? This is damned good money. You said yourself you only expected to realize...”

“And I was shooting high,” Brant said, “just to get you to push.”

“So there. A stone and two is fabulous. Shall I close it?”

“Pall Associates, huh?”

“Pall Associates.”

“Okay, Jo, close it. I want the check by seventeen tonight, and certified. I’ll deposit it first thing in the morning. No delivery until I hear from the bank.”

“Even with a certified check?” Jo protested.

“I’m cautious, father.”

“Cautious? Father, you’re paralyzed!”

“Close the deal, Jo. And good work.”

“Thanks,” Houston said drily. “You’ll have the check by seventeen tonight. One stone and two. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Real. See you, Van.”