Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Nineteen

The sign on the door said:

Ryan & Mundin, Attorneys-At-Law

The office occupied a solid floor-through of a very good building.

Del Dworcas had to take several long, deep breaths before he pushed the door open and announced himself to a ripely curved blonde receptionist. One of Mundin's minor pleasures these days, when he could spare time for it, was telling salesmen of automatic office equipment just what they could do with their merchandise.

"Pleased be seated, Mr. Dworcas," the girl cooed. "Mr. Mundin asked me to tell you that you'll be the very next person he sees."

The dozen or so other individuals in the waiting room glared at Del Dworcas. However, being a professional politician, he had no difficulty in striking up a conversation with the fellows nearest him. One was a petrochemist who understood there were consultant jobs opening up at Ryan & Mundin. Another was a publisher's bright young man who thought there must be a whale of a story in old man Ryan's sensational comeback, and stood ready to sign it up. The others were easy enough to tag—a couple of crack-pots, two attorneys obviously seeking affiliation with the new firm, a handful of persons who seemed to be in the market for lawyers, and had suddenly come to think that it might be a good idea to retain Ryan & Mundin. Nobody in the waiting room seemed to have any idea what, if anything, was going on in the remainder of the enormous suite.

Dworcas—being a professional politician—was able to absorb information, pump for more, evaluate what he had heard and speculate on its meaning. But the answers were slight and cloudy. All he could make out for sure was: Ryan & Mundin were rising like a rocket; and plenty of shrewd operators were trying to hitch a ride.

At last he got the nod from the receptionist. A hard-faced young man with a badge that said Guide took him in tow.

Ryan & Mundin operated the damnedest law offices that Dworcas, in a full life, had ever seen. Law offices . . . complete with such eccentricities as chemistry labs and kitchens, living quarters and a TV studio, rooms locked off from his view, and open rooms that he could make no sense of.

Dworcas said tentatively, "You must be proud to be working for Mr. Mundin. Of course you know his record with our Party in the 27th—right down the line for Arab rights."

"That's nice," the guide said. "Right in here, mister." He guided Dworcas into a bay; it lit up with a shimmering violet light; the guide scanned a fluoroscope screen. "You're clean," he said. "In that door."

"You searched me!" Dworcas gasped. "Me! Mr. Mundin's oldest friend!"

"That's nice," the Ay-rab said. "In that door."

Dworcas went through the door.

"Hello, Del," Mundin said abstractedly. "What do you want?" He was checking off items on a list; he said, "Excuse me," and picked up an interoffice phone. Five minutes later he put it down, glanced at Dworcas, and turned to another list.

Dworcas, in cello tones, said, "Charlee. . . ."

And waited.

Mundin looked at him, with annoyance on his face. "Well?"

Dworcas waved a finger at him, smiling. "Charlie, you're not treating me right," he said. "You really aren't"

"Oh, the hell I'm not," said Mundin tiredly. "Look, Del. Business has picked up. I'm busy. What do you want?"

Dworcas said, "Nice office you've got G.M.L. fix it for you?"

"What do you think?"

Dworcas retained his smile. "Remember who got you in with G.M.L.?"

"Oh, hell, you've got a point," Mundin conceded unwillingly. "It isn't going to do you much good, though. I haven't got time for favors. Some other time I'll listen closer."

"I want you to listen now, Charlie. I want to retain you for the County Committee."

Mundin stared. "Work for the County Committee?"

"I know it sounds like small potatoes. But it can lead to big ones, Charlie. You can make something out of it. And what about us, Charlie? You owe me—the Party—all of us something for putting you on to the Lavins. Is this the time to let us down? I'm not too proud to beg if I have to. Stick with the Party, boy!"

It wasn't going over. "Sorry, Del," Mundin said.

"Charlie!"

Mundin looked exasperated. "Del, you old crook," he said, "just what are you up to now? I've got nothing to sell you —even if you could outbid my other clients. Which you can't."

Dworcas leaned forward, his face completely changed. "I underestimated you, Charlie," he admitted. "I'll tell you the God's truth. No, haven't anything to sell, right now. But— something's on the fire. I smell it, Charlie. I never miss on something like this. I feel it through the soles of my feet."

He had Mundin's full attention now. "What do you feel?"

Dworcas shrugged. "Little things. Jimmy Lyons, for instance. Remember him, the captain's man at the precinct?"

"Sure."

"He isn't, any more. Captain Kowalik transferred him out to Belly Rave. He's been knifed twice. Why? I don't know why, Charlie. Jimmy was a bastard, sure; he had it coming to him. But why did it happen? And what's happening to Kowalik? He's losing weight. He can't sleep nights. I asked him why, and he wouldn't tell me. So I asked somebody else, and I found out. Kowalik's trouble is that Commissioner Sabbatino doesn't talk to him any more."

"And what's the matter with Sabbatino?" Mundin was playing with a pencil.

"Don't kid me, Charlie. Sabbatino's trouble is a man named Wheeler, who had a long, long talk with him one day. I don't know what about. But I know something, Charlie. I know Wheeler works for Hubble, and Hubble is one of your clients."

Mundin put the pencil down. "So what else is new?" he asked.

"Don't joke, Charlie. I never used to kid you—well, I mean, not much, you know. Don't you kid me. The folks in the 27th are all upset. There's a crazy rumor they're all going to be moved into G.M.L. Homes. They don't like the idea, the old folks don't. Some of the young folks do, so there's family fights. Every day, all day, all night, yelling and screaming, sometimes knives. A dozen riot calls a day in the 27th. So I asked my brother Arnie, the mechanic with G.M.L. You met him, you know what a fathead he is. But even he feels something in the organization. What?"

A secretary-ish person—with a start, Dworcas saw it was his brother's friend, Bligh—put his head in the door. "Excuse me, but they phoned from the landing stage, they're holding the D.C. copter for you."

"Hell," said Mundin. "Look, Norvie, thank them and ask them if they can give me five more minutes. I'll be free shortly." He glanced at Del Dworcas.

Dworcas stood up. "You're pretty busy. Just one more thing. What did you want with my brother Arnie?"

Mundin stood, thoughtful and relaxed, the very model of a man who is trying to remember the answer to an unimportant question for courtesy's sake.

"Never mind," said Dworcas. "I'll ask you some other time. I just want you to remember, I'm leveling with you."

"Good-by, Del," Mundin said cordially.

"Thanks, Norvie," he said a moment later. "You were very smooth. I wonder what the hell he meant by that business about Arnie."

"I guess Arnie mentioned I'd been to see him."

Mundin nodded thoughtfully. "Well, the hell. Let's walk over to Ryan's office. We'd better hurry; the copter really does leave in twenty minutes."

Ryan, as usual, was snoozing with great dignity at his desk. He looked good, considering. His opium was diluted and rationed to him these days; and he took it with good grace. "As long as you know you can get it, you can say 'no' to it most of the tune," he said. As a consequence his very able brain had cleared and he was able to work as much as an hour at a time. He personally had evolved most of the seventy-eight steps in wobbling G.M.L.

Mundin reported Del's conversation carefully. Ryan rubbed his hands. "In effect, steps one through twenty-four are clicking nicely, hey?" he beamed. "The absolutely trustworthy G.M.L. begins to look a little shoddy at the seams for the first time; we begin to feel the unrest that will bring the whole structure down."

Mundin flicked a teletype message. "It ties in with the story from Princeton Junction, I suppose," he said without enthusiasm. "The little piece about the doctorate thesis on Homeostasis in Housing: An Investigation into Potential Drawbacks of Controlled-Climate Dwellings."

Ryan nodded. "The first effects," he said. "People are questioning what has never been questioned before. But Dworcas is more significant. There is no public-opinion poll as sensitive as the judgment of a practical politician." He chuckled. "A very pleasant miasma of doubt and confusion. The spreading rumors about the possibility of sterility in G.M.L. homes—a wonderful touch. Yours, my boy, I am gratified."

Mundin said glumly, "Wonderful. Doubt and confusion. Knifings every night in the twenty-seventh ward." He felt regret as he saw the old man's face droop. "Excuse me, Mr. Ryan—"

"No, no." Ryan hesitated. "You remember the state I was in when we first met?" Mundin did. "It was partly Green, Charlesworth that brought me to it—partly them, and partly conscience. Don't strain yours too far, Charles. . . ."

They flew in the whirring copter to Washington, Mundin and Bligh. Mundin said fretfully, "We ought to have a couple of executive ships of our own. There's going to be more and more ground to cover. Put some one on it, will you, Norvie?"

Bligh made a note.

Mundin asked, "What about Del's brother? We can't stall on it. We've got to have those serial numbers, or today's work —and this whole buildup—is down the drain."

"Tomorrow all right?"

"Fine, fine," said Mundin dispiritedly. He took a briefcase out, shuffled through reports he ought to read, memoranda he ought to sign, notes he ought to expand. Irritably he stuffed them back into the case.

Bligh said, incredibly, "Conscience, Charles." And winked.

Mundin said glumly, "Don't try to kid me out of it, Norvie. You don't know what it's like. You don't have the responsibility." He tossed the briefcase down. "Let's just talk; I don't have to be a louse again until we get to the museum. How've things been with you?"

Bligh considered. "Well," he said, "Virginia's pregnant."

Mundin was genuinely shocked. "Norvie, I am sorry!" he exclaimed. "I hope you're not going to do anything fool—"

Bligh grinned. "Oh, no, nothing like that," he said cheerfully. "The kid's mine. First thing I did was drag her to an immunochemist and get that settled. Good thing; I would've broken her back. And how's your girl?"

"Huh?"

"Norma. Or Lavin."

"Oh, no, Norvie. You're dead wrong there. We can't stand each other and—"

"Sure, boss," said Bligh soothingly. "Say, Charles, can we raise the allowance for the Wabbits? Lana's been hinting. And my kid says they've really been working."

"Why not? How is your foster-daughter, by the way?"

Bligh grinned. "I'm almost proud of her. Came home five days running, beaten to a pulp. Sixth day, not a mark on her. She's a Burrow Leader in the Wabbits now. And she closes her mouth when she chews, and she calls me sir."

Mundin felt a sudden flash of insight. "That's why you're still living in Belly Rave, isn't it?"

Bligh got defensive. "Well, now, maybe that's part of it. But actually there's something to be said for Belly Rave. When you can install a water tank and a generating system and fix your place up—it's kind of lively." His voice rang with civic pride. "I'm looked on as a kind of community leader, Charles. We've organized a real volunteer police force in our block—not one of those shakedown squads. And—"

Mundin, grinning, said, "Who knows? One day it may be Norvell Bligh, first mayor of New Belly Rave!"

The little man was suddenly gray. He fiddled defensively with the earpiece of his hearing aid. "Well, make a joke out of it if you want to," he said slowly. "The fact is they like me, I'm doing something for them, in a small way, sure, but something. And something has got to be done for these millions of outcasts. From the inside, Charles! I'm a funny-looking little man and I'm deaf and you automatically thought Virginia put the horns on me when I said she was pregnant. So what are you doing for Belly Rave, big man?"

Mundin choked and started to apologize; but Bligh waved him to silence. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Here's Washington."

The Museum of the National Association of the Builders of the American Dream was the by-blow of a long forgotten public-relations campaign with an added dash of non-profit-foundation tax evasion. The slickers who had sold the campaign to the businessmen were dust; the inspirational ads forgotten; but what can you do with a granite building full of junk and professors and janitors? You can ignore it and go your sensible business way. Of all this Mundin was reminded as he entered the shabby anteroom of the director's office.

His withered secretary said to the gentlemen from Monmouth, "Dr. Proctor is a very busy man. You must go away and telephone for an appointment."

Mundin said gently, "Please tell the director that it is in connection with a rather substantial donation. We don't expect to be in the city long. . . ."

The director came flying out of his office, beaming.

The attorney introduced himself. "Of the law firm of Ryan and Mundin," he explained.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Munsen! Even here, even in our remote and dedicated corner of the world, we have heard of your firm! Might one ask the name of—?"

"Sorry."

"Oh, I quite understand, Mr. Munchkin! And the, ah, amount—?"

"Flexible," Mundin said firmly. "My client has commissioned me to inspect the museum and report to him on which departments seem most deserving of additional support."

"Ah! Pray allow me to guide you, sir. Just through here is the Collection of Coelenterates—"

Mundin said blandly, "I think we would prefer to see the Hall of Basics first."

Dr. Proctor very nearly frowned. At the last minute he changed and merely looked confidential. "For the general public," he said, nudging Mundin. "Mere engineering. Gimmicks and gadgets, eh? Not important, though perhaps of some limited interest to the engineer, the sociologist, that sort of quasi-scientist Now, our Collection of Coelenterates, just through—"

"The Hall of Basics, please?"

"Mr. Monkton! A tourist trap, I assure you. On the other hand, the Coelenterata—which happen to be my specialty, I might add—"

Mundin said sadly, "Norvell, I'm afraid Dr. Proctor isn't really interested in our client's bequest."

Bligh said, "Too bad. Well, luckily the copter's waiting."

Dr. Proctor sputtered and led them to the Hall of Basics. They gravely studied the spinning jenny, the first sewing machine, the first telegraph, the first telephone, the first airplane, the first Model T, the first atomic pile, the first G.M.L., the first segment of Belt Transport.

They stopped before the G.M.L. bubble-house, beaming approvingly—except for Dr. Proctor. Tourists were ambling through it. It was a minute or so before they could get close enough to read the plaque.

#342371

The First G.M.L. Home Ever Erected Donated by Mr. Hamilton Moffatt, "Father of the Bubble-House."

This G.M.L. Home, moved to the Institution from its original site in Coshocton, Ohio, was fabricated in the plastics factory of Donald Lavin. Electrical circuitry and mechanisms are designed and installed by Bernard Gorman. It has stood for more than five decades without a scar or a malfunction. Chemists and Engineers estimate that, without any sort of maintenance, it will last at least 1,000 more years, standing virtually forever as a tribute to the immortal genius of—

Mr. Hamilton Moffatt

"Do tell," murmured the attorney. The crowds of tourists began to thin out and the director glumly started to lead them through the bubble-house.

"Hell with it," said Mundin. "Let's go back to your place."

In Dr. Proctor's private office Mundin looked at the small, dusty, and dubious bottle the director exhumed from an umbrella rack, and shuddered. He said decisively, "No, nothing to drink. Dr. Proctor, I think I can definitely state that my client would be interested in donating one hundred thousand dollars as a fund to be divided at your discretion between the Hall of Basics and the Coelenterata."

"Dear me!" Dr. Proctor leaned back in his chair, fondling the bottle, his face wreathed in smiles. "Dear me! Are you sure you wouldn't care to—just a very small—no? Perhaps, do you know, perhaps I will, just to celebrate. A very wise decision, sir! It is, believe me, most unusual to find a layman who, like yourself, can at once perceive the ecological significance and thrilling morphology of the humble coelenterate!" He tipped the bottle into a dusty water tumbler and raised ft in toast. "The Coelenterata!" he cried.

Mundin was fumbling in his briefcase. He produced a check, already made out, a typed document in duplicate and a flat can that gurgled. "Now," he said matter-of-factly, "pay close attention, doctor. You, personally, are to dilute the contents of this can with one quart of ordinary tap water. Fill an ordinary garden sprayer with the solution and spray the G.M.L. Home in the Hall of Basics with it, covering all plastic parts from the outside. It shouldn't take ten minutes, if you have a good sprayer. Naturally, you will make sure nobody sees you doing it. That should be easy enough, in your position; but make sure of it. And that will be that."

Dr. Proctor, eyes bulging, coughed and spluttered four ounces of tinted grain neutral spirits over his desk. Choking and wheezing, at last he got out, "My dear sir! What on earth are you talking about? What is in that container? Why should I do any such preposterous thing?"

Mundin said calmly, "I'll take your questions in order. I am talking about one hundred thousand dollars. What is in that container is something worth one hundred thousand dollars. You should do it because of one hundred thousand dollars."

Dr. Proctor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, almost speechless. "But—but—if you assured me that the fluid would be entirely harmless—"

"I'll do no such thing! Where I come from you can get away with doing quite a lot of harm for one hundred thousand dollars." Mundin smiled frostily. "Come now, doctor. Think of one hundred thousand dollars! Think of the ecological significance and the thrilling morphology. And then sign this receipt, and then take the check."

Dr. Proctor looked at the check. "It's post-dated a month," he said tremulously.

Mundin shrugged and began to repack his briefcase. "Well, if you're going to quibble—"

Dr. Proctor snatched the check. He scribbled his name on the receipt and, with a quick, furtive movement, dropped the flat can of fluid into his desk.

In the copter Mundin and Bligh looked at each other. "Right on schedule, Charles," Norvie Bligh said gravely.

The attorney shook his head, marveling. "Yes, Norvie. Right on schedule."

They were back in the offices of Mundin & Ryan, Attorneys-at-Law, before close of business. And Norvie Bligh had not yet sat down when Mishal came hunting him with news that he had a visitor. "Bring him in, Mike," Norvie ordered the Ay-rab. "No, wait a minute. I'll get him."

Norvie flustered out to the waiting room. "Arnie!" he said eagerly. "Come in, come in, come in!" He piloted Arnie by the elbow down the halls, around the corners, through the labs and recreation rooms, chattering and ignoring Arnie's bulging eyes. There was a shorter way; but it didn't lead past the labs and recreation rooms.

"Beer, Arnie?" Norvell asked, in his own office. He pushed a button; Miss Prawn came in and dailed the beer for them. "Not those chairs, please; something more comfortable." Miss Prawn dialed two enormous armchairs.

Arnie said, swallowing his beer with some difficulty: "I imagine you realize that I've gone pretty far out on a limb for you."

"Oh, no, Arnie! Please! How do you mean?"

Arnie shrugged, covertly looking around the enormous room. "Oh, nothing I begrudge you," he said. "After all, friendship is what really counts. As We Engineers say, 'You brace my buttress, and I'll brace yours.'" He set his glass down. "And when you asked me, as a friend, to get you the file numbers and locations of the G.M.L. units, why naturally I did it. Though I confess I never expected," he went on moodily, "to stir up such a ridiculous fuss about perfectly trivial records. Corporate secrecy that hampers an able technological man is inefficiency, and inefficiency is a crime. Still, anything to oblige you and Charles Mundin."

"I never expected you'd have any difficulty!" Norvie lied. "But you got them?"

Arnie raised his eyebrows. "Naturally, Norvell. And microfilmed them. I have them right here. But—"

"Let's see them," Norvell said bluntly.

He finally got his hands on the microfilm and riffled through the index tables. All there, on film—lots of it. Serial numbers. Dates. Locations. Maintenance histories. "Arnie," he said gently, "stand up, will you, please?"

The engineer frowned, "What's the matter?" He stood up.

Norvell Bligh put the microfilm in his desk. He said, "Arnie, you didn't get those as a favor to me. You got them because you thought it would get you a better job."

Arnie flushed and said severely, "Norvell, a friend doesn't—"

"Shut up, Arnie. Remember what you said about 'destructive testing' the other day?" Bligh demanded. "Well, let's try some."

He swung. In the next three minutes he took quite a clobbering about the head and ears, but when the three minutes were up Arnie was on the floor, trying to stanch a nose that ran with blood, and Norvell was still on his feet.

"Good-by, Arnie," he said, happily, ringing for the guide. "Mishal will show you the way out."

He made his way to the chem lab that operated behind locked doors and tossed the film onto the desk where Mundin was sitting, watching the flow of golden fluid into enamel-lined cans. Mundin snatched it up testily. "Keep it away from that stuff, for God's sake!" he cried.

Norvell grinned. "I guess we better," he agreed. "If this gets ruined we'll have trouble getting any more out of Arnie. I beat him to a pulp."

Which was a considerable exaggeration; but pardonable under the circumstances.

Mundin, holding tight to the arms of the seat, said, "Norvell, are you sure you can fly this thing? After all, it's a lot bigger than the ones General Recreations—"

Norvie Bligh said briefly, "Don't worry about a thing." The helicopter zoomed straight up from the landing stage into the night. Apparently from sheer joy of living, Norvie buzzed the tallest nearby building before locking the course for Coshocton, Ohio.

He turned around casually in the pilot's seat. "Well, that's that. Play a game of cards? It's a long trip."

Mundin shook his head. "I'm a little jumpy," he admitted.

"Oh, everything's going to go off all right," Norvie said reassuringly.

The little man had changed more than somewhat in a few weeks. Now all Mundin hoped was that The New Norvell Bligh really could fly a copter as advertised, well enough, at least, to get the night's dirty work out of the way.

Bligh cheerfully switched on a dome light and began reading a magazine. Mundin leaned back and tried to relax, thinking about the things that had happened in one crowded, tense week.

Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Ryan, packed to the eyebrows with new and expensive drugs, walked and talked like a man, though collapse would come, sooner or later. Still, he was happy; and, more important, he was keeping the Lavins under control. Nonna Lavin was even helping, to some small extent; and Don was catching up on his months of quiescence with a protracted bout of hell-raising. Still, he was always on hand when needed; Norma made sure of that.

And the three silent partners—Hubble, Coett, and Nelson— had complimented Mundin on the way he was spending their money. At the last meeting Hubble had been worried by only one thing, he said.

"Speak up, Bliss," Mundin smiled. "We'll certainly try to straighten it out."

"Oh, it's not your end of it, Charles," Hubble said slowly. "Actually, it's ours. We can't get through to Green, Charlesworth."

Coett scowled; Hubble turned on him warningly. "Now, Harry, don't start that again. How can Charles run things intelligently unless we level with him?"

Green, Charlesworth, thought Mundin. Again. "Level with me about what, Bliss?" he asked.

Hubble shrugged. "It's just some kind of an abnormal situation, Charles, that's all. The three of us just don't seem to be getting through to Green, Charlesworth. Oh, we're doing business with them. But not, you know, any kind of real communication."

Mundin thought of Captain Kowalik, unnerved and jittery because Commissioner Sabbatino didn't talk to him any more. He said: "Do I run into Green, Charlesworth anywhere along the line?"

They smiled politely and said no, that wouldn't be likely. Green, Charlesworth did nothing on the operating or manufacturing end. They were money men. "But," Buss Hubble said, trying to appear unconcerned, "if they should show up, Charles, don't try to handle it yourself. Get in touch with us."

Nelson nodded worriedly. "Frankly," he said, "we don't know where they stand on this thing, Charles. Bliss and I rather think they wouldn't give a damn one way or the other. Harry thinks they'd be all for us, not that they vote any G.M.L. stock, you know, but they have, well, moral influence." He swallowed. "But we can't get through to them."

Mundin asked, "Want me to go calling on them?"

They smiled ghastlily and shook their heads. Hubble said abruptly, "My guess is that they're onto us. That they know every move we make and just haven't committed themselves. Yet."

Mundin looked around at the three Titans, wonderingly. He asked, "When you say 'they,' who do you mean, exactly?"

A three-cornered wrangle developed. Coett believed that Green, Charlesworth was essentially the top men in the Memphis crowd plus the organic solvents crowd and the New England utilities. He himself was, actually, most of the Southwest crowd and practically all of the inorganic chemicals crowd.

Nelson, who was New England and nonferrous metals, believed that Green, Charlesworth was, essentially, California, coal-oil-steel and mass media.

Hubble, who was mass media and New York, said that couldn't be. He thought that Green, Charlesworth was essentially money.

On that everybody agreed. Worriedly.

"Look," said Mundin, "I just want to get this straight in my mind. Would we scuttle this whole project if Green, Charlesworth came out against it?"

They looked at him as though he were a two-year-old. "If we could, boy," Harry Coett said grimly. "Don't even talk about it. I doubt it could be done; unscrambling eggs is child's play compared to stopping a thing like this. At the very least, we'd lose really serious amounts of money. . . . But I'm confident that it's simply a matter of getting in touch with them. After all, we're taking a step forward. And Green, Charlesworth has always been on the side of progress."

"Reaction," said Nelson.

"Middle-of the-roaders," Hubble insisted.

Mundin demanded, "But who are they? Where are they? Is there a real man named Green and a real man named Charlesworth?"

Hubble said, "Their offices are in the Empire State Building —the whole building." He coughed. "I fibbed to you that time we passed the Empire State Building. I apologize. I didn't know you very well in those days."

Mundin's eyebrows climbed. "But in New York? I thought the whole city was condemned after the bombing."

Hubble shook his head. "I suppose that's what they want one to think, Charles. They're there, all right. You can see the lights in the building at night—the only one in the city. It isn't a beacon as most people suppose. And as for a real Mr. Green and a real Mr. Charlesworth—no. Or I should say, probably no. The firm name is a couple of hundred years old, so—— But I admit I'm not sure. When you go there you never see anyone important. Clerks, junior executives, department heads. You do business with them; and there are long waits, weeks sometimes, while they're 'deciding policy questions.' I suppose that means while they're getting their instructions. Well—congratulations, Charles. Now you know as much about Green, Charlesworth as anybody else. Just remember, if they turn up anywhere, or you encounter anything, well, anomalous that makes you suspect they're turning up, blow the whistle. We'll handle it."

Harry Coett said, "But this is just a precaution. There won't be any trouble, I'm confident. They'll go along with us when the chips are down. Fundamentally, after all, they're progressive."

"Reactionary!" said Nelson.

"Middle-of-the-roaders!" Hubble insisted.

Norvie Bligh sang out: "Coshocton! End of the line!'' Mundin jumped in his seat, and looked around dazedly. The copter was turning and swooping low.

He peered out. There below lay Coshocton, the most average city in the most average state in the union. Fifty years before, Hamilton Moffatt, "father of the bubble-house," had signed the first of the industrial-lease G.M.L. contracts with the Federated Casket Company of Coshocton. Mundin asked, "Can you find the bubble-city?" "We're over it now. Get out your squirt sun." It wasn't a squirt gun; it was a belly tank pressurized with freon. Mundin pushed on a bowden wire to open the nozzle; the needle on the gauge before his eyes quivered to show that the "squirt gun" was squirting. "Make your first pass," Mundin ordered. The coptor fluttered over the bubble-city at a thousand feet, trailing a falling plume of golden fluid. The drops partly vaporized; but the fluid was heavy, and the liquid reached the bubble-houses in quantity large enough to film them.

Four times Norvell Bligh quartered the bubble-city, until all of the fluid was gone. Then he set course for the long trip home, leaving behind the glittering domes which had been leased to Federated Casket for its contract employees; which had been duly absorbed by General Foundries when Federated Casket went under in the big switch to cremation; which had been duly swallowed by National Nonferrous; which was Mundin's friend Mr. Nelson, who was at home gritting his teeth as he counted the cost of the night's work that Mundin and Bligh were putting in.