Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Eighteen

Mundin said, "You have to be careful. Don't say that you represent G.M.L. You're just acting for a business associate."

"I understand, Mr. Mundin," said Norvie Bligh.

Mundin brooded. "If we could only come out in the open instead of this cloak-and-dagger business. Well, things are looking up. You're sure you've got it straight?"

"Positive, Mr. Mundin," said Norvie. He met the lawyer's doubtful eye and, surprisingly, winked. "Well give 'em hell, pal," he said, and left.

Later on, outside Candella's private office at General Recreations, Norvie wasn't quite so confident. This was the office in which he had had so many difficult days; these were the rooms where young Stimmens had cut his throat; that was the door through which Candella had booted him out.

But the electronic secretary summoned Candella, and Norvie was all right again.

Candella came bustling through the door with a huge, friendly smile plastered on his face. "Norvie, boy!" he yelled. "Damn; but it's good to see you! How the hell have you been?"

Norvell said curtly, "Morning, Candella." He allowed Candella one limp touch of his hand and withdrew it.

"Well," said Candella heartily. "Uh—well!"

Norvie said, "I'll be brief. You got my message."

"Oh, yes, Norvie. Yes, indeed, you're here about—" he looked around him rapidly and said in a lowered tone "—G.M.L."

"Speak up, Candella," Norvell said sharply. "Yes, I'm here about G.M.L. Not officially, mind you. Not at all officially."

"Of course not, Norvie!"

Norvell nodded. "And I have your promise that you'll keep what I say in strict confidence?"

"Oh, certainly, Norv—"

"Not a word to anyone?"

"Of course n—"

"Good. In a word, Candella, we have had complaints."

Candella kept his smile, but it was like the rictus of a loathsome disease. "Complaints?"

"Oh, not about you. I have no idea how well or badly you are doing your job now, and in any case," Norvie said severely, "that would have nothing to do with G.M.L. My associates would never dream of interfering in another corporation's affairs."

Of course not!" Candella agreed.

"The complaints are about the bubble-houses, Candella. One of my associates is a rather substantial holder in G.M.L. We've heard—well, reports. I'll be frank with you; we haven't been able to track them down. But they are alarming, Candella; very alarming. So alarming that I can't repeat them, or even hint at what they concern. You understand that, don't you?"

"Certainly, Mr.—certainly, Norvie!"

Norvell nodded. "I can only ask you a couple of questions, without giving you any clue as to why I ask them. The twenty-eight thousand bubble-houses General Recreations leases are devoted almost entirely to married couples, I believe. How many of these marriages are sterile? Of those where children have been born while living in a bubble-house, what percentage of the children are malformed?"

Candella's eyes were cesspools of curiosity. "I—I don't know off-hand," he said, "but—"

"Of course not," Norvell said impatiently. "I don't want you asking any direct questions, either. No sense starting any rumors. But if you can find out—quietly—I'd appreciate your giving me a ring." He produced the most splashily engraved calling card Mundin's printer had been able to turn out overnight "Here's my number. Remember, I'm not offering you any inducement—that would be unethical. But it would be very much appreciated by me and my associates. We show our appreciation, Candella. Good-by."

He nodded curtly. Candella cried, "Hey, Norvie! Don't— don't run off like that! Can't you stay a little while and have some lunch, or a drink or something?"

"Sorry. Afraid not."

Candella rushed on, "But gee, Norvie, everybody's been looking forward to seeing you again. Stimmens particularly— I don't know what to say if you won't have lunch with us."

Norvell frowned. "Stimmens," he said thoughtfully. "Oh, Stimmens. Sorry, Candella. But do give Stimmens my regards, and tell her that I think of her often."

He left.

Norvell had a busy day. His schedule was General Recreations, Hussein's, and an even dozen bars in Monmouth City. By evening he was tired, happy, and about seventy-five per cent drunk. He approached his last call with a mixture of sadness, anger, and nostalgia.

Arnie Dworcas let him in.

Norvell tried none of the tricks he'd used on Candella with Arnie Dworcas; he was the old Norvell, the true friend, the shy acolyte. Sitting there with Amie, listening to Arnie's explanations of the world's affairs, it seemed to Norvie that Belly Rave was a nightmare and Mundin a figure from a dream; nothing had changed; nothing would ever change, as long as he could sit and drink Arnie's beer.

But there were changes. . . .

Arnie drained his glass of beer, wiped his mouth and dialed another. "No, Norvell," he said meditatively, "I wouldn't say that you have succeeded. Not as We Engineers understand success. To Us Engineers, a mechanism—and all of us are mechanisms, Norvell, I, you, everybody—a mechanism is a success when it is functioning at maximum efficiency. Frankly, in my little experiment of suggesting that you try Belly Rave I was attempting to perform what we call 'destructive testing'—the only way in which maximum efficiency can be determined. But what happened? You didn't rise through your own efforts, Norvell. By pure fortuitousness you made a connection and are now a really able man's secretary." He sipped his beer sorrowfully. 'To use an analogy," he said, "it's as if my slipstick were to take credit for the computations I make on it."

"I'm sorry, Arnie," Norvell said. It was very difficult to decide whether he wanted more to laugh in Arnie's face or take out some of his front teeth with a beer glass. "Mr. Mundin thinks a great deal of you and your brother too, you know."

"Naturally,'' Arnie said severely. "That's one of the things you'll have to learn. Like seeks like, in human relations as well as electrostatics."

"I thought in electrostatics like repelled—"

"There you go!" yelled Arnie violently. "The layman! The quibbler! It's people like you that—"

"I'm sorry, Arnie!"

"All right. Don't get so excited. Really able people never lose control of themselves, Norvell! That was a stupid thing for you to get all upset about."

"I'm sorry, Arnie. That's what I was telling Mr. Mundin."

Arnie, raising his glass irritatedly, stopped it in mid-air. "What were you telling Mr. Mundin?" he asked suspiciously.

"Why, that you never lost control in an emergency. That you would be a damned good man to put in charge of—oh, God, Arnie, I shouldn't have said anything!" Norvell covered his mouth with both hands.

Arnie Dworcas said sternly, "Norvell, stop stammering and come out with it! In charge of what?"

Norvie, who had been fighting back a tendency to retch, removed his hands from his mouth. He said, "Well—well, it isn't as if I couldn't trust you, Arnie. It's—it's G.M.L."

"What about G.M.L.?"

Norvie said rapidly, "It's too soon to say anything definite and, please, Arnie, don't let a word of it get out But you've heard the rumors about G.M.L., naturally."

"Naturally!" Arnie said, though his eyes were vacant.

"Mr. Mundin is associated with the—uh—the Coshocton bunch, Arnie. And he's looking around, quietly, you know, for key men to replace some of the old duffers. And I took the liberty of mentioning you to him, Arnie. The only thing is, Mr. Mundin doesn't know much about the technical end, you see, and he wasn't sure just how much experience you had had."

"My record is in the professional journals, Norvell. Not that I would feel free to discuss it in this informal manner in any case, of course."

"Oh, of course! But what Mr. Mundin asked me was just what G.M.L. Homes models you had worked on—serial numbers and locations and so on. And I had to tell him that all that information was locked up, and you couldn't possibly get your hands on it."

Arnie shook his head wonderingly. "Laymen," he said. "Norvell, there is no reason in the world why I can't get microfilms of all that information. It's only corporate fiddle-faddle that causes all the secrecy; We Engineers are accustomed to cutting right through the red tape."

Norvell looked worshipful. "You mean you can?" he cried.

"I have already said so, have I not? It's just a matter of going through the records and picking out the units I've worked on myself, then making microfilms—"

"Better microfilm everything, Arnie," Norvell suggested. "It'll help Mr. Mundin understand the Broad Picture."

Arnie shrugged humorously. "Why not?"

"Don't forget the serial numbers," Norvell said.

Norvell met Mundin at Hussein's late that night, by arrangement, and made his report.

Mundin's expression began to relax. "So far," he said, "so good. And I've done my rounds too; and I imagine Hubble and Coett and Nelson are right on schedule. Let's have a drink."

"Thanks, no," said Norvell Bligh. "It's a long way to Belly Rave and my wife's all alone, except for the kid."

Mundin said, "Look, Bligh, why do you stick to Belly Rave? If it's money——"

Norvie shook his head. "You're paying me plenty for right now. Tell you the truth, I'm getting so I kind of like Belly Rave. As long as I don't have to stay there, you know, there's a lot to be said for it."

"There is?" Mundin asked.

Norvie laughed. "Maybe not a lot. Anyway, I'll stick a while; and I better get along. The Wabbits are supposed to be watch-dogging the house, but they don't think much of Sandy—that's my little girl—and I don't feel right without a man in the house at night."

A vagrant memory stirred in Mundin's mind. "I thought you had a kind of bodyguard?"

"Who? You mean Shep? He doesn't work for me any more." Norvie's expression was unreadable. "He had an accident with a lead pipe."