Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Twenty-One

Norma Lavin's office was more than comfortable; it was luxurious.

But Norma was not particularly happy in it. Ryan thought it would be better if she didn't venture out of the suite. Her brother Donald, over his spree, was busily engaged in office-managing the hundred employees of Ryan & Mundin. Mundin was busy. There wasn't much for Norma to do but sit and think.

She sat. And she thought.

She thought: G.M.L. Bankruptcy. Melt down the bubble-houses. Destroy Daddy's memorial, tear everything apart. Does it have to be that way? Does everything have to be ripped to pieces and slimied up and all the goodness taken out of it?

She thought rebelliously, They treat me like some sort of degenerate because I'm a woman. Hubble with his crawly, girl-clutching hands. Coett with his fatherly, superior, shut-your-yap-little-girl look. Mundin with his—with his—

She thought wonderingly, Mundin, with his infuriating, aggravating way of treating me as if I were not a woman. . .

She thought about that a great deal; after all, she hadn't much to do but sit and think.

Until she saw the beat-cop in the lobby talking to his night stick.

At first, Norma's reaction was what anybody's reaction would be if they saw someone talking into a nightstick. She thought he was nuts.

But he wasn't being flamboyant about it; he was off in a corner, hidden from sight—except the sight of someone who happened to be staring idly out of a window directly above him, like Norma. Just a few murmured, unselfconicious words. She decided the cop was being whimsical, of course, absent-mindedly rehearsing a speech to the desk sergeant.

Or else he really was nuts. There was some perfectly reasonable explanation; so she forgot about it and went back to sitting and thinking. She thought about the old days, with a touch of wistfulness—not the old old days, but the Belly Rave old days, when she and Mundin had had work to do together. When she was bankrupt and he was a pauper—instead of the way things were now, when she was well-to-do on the verge of billions, and he was busy.

Damn Mundin, she thought wonderingly ... for she had never damned a man for failing to pay attention to her before.

It was three days before Norma's boredom overbalanced the common-sense view about people talking into nightsticks; and it might not have done it then if Miss Elbers hadn't had to take a day off with periodic functional disturbances.

Miss Elbers was the clerk whom Norma had observed talking into a flowerpot.

The vase was on Miss Elbers's desk still; Norma made several trips through the room, peering at it inconspicuously. It looked very much like any other vase with flowers in it.

But she was bored. During the coffee break she photographed it from several angles; a Chinesey thing some eight inches tall. Even then, it took another three days before she got around to taking the photographs to a bric-a-brac dealer with Chinesey things in his window.

He said promptly, "I don't want it, lady. It's a copy, and they copied it wrong."

She handed him money. He looked surprised, but he explained, "It's a copy of a very well-known piece, a Chinese funerary jar. If memory serves—" and it obviously, pridefully did "—from the Fairy Kiln of Wu Chang, near Soo Chou. The proportions of this copy are good, and so are the colors. But the characters on the four medallions and on the band around the shoulder are wrong. Funerary jars always have the characters for 'never,' 'mountain,' 'aging,' and 'green.' I don't know what these characters on the copy are, but they aren't the right ones. I guess you got stuck."

"Thanks," she said thoughtfully.

Further inquiry turned up the name of a man who could translate the characters for her. A professor at Columbia.

She caught the man wiping his television makeup off in his office. He gallantly assured her it would be a pleasure. He wrinkled his brows over the photographs and finally said:

"It's gibberish. Not Chinese of any period, I'll swear to that. Here and there a piece of a character looks like something or other, but that's as far as the resemblance goes. One can easily imagine the layman being fooled, of course. Does it matter? After all, somebody simply faked a vase, and did a poor job of decorating it. Though why he didn't copy authentic characters I don't understand."

"I do," Norma Lavin whispered, her face bloodless.

Ryan and Mundin and her brother shifted impatiently as she tried to explain:

"They must be printed circuits. Maybe the crackle in the glaze is metallic—an antenna. There must be transistors and little silver-acid batteries and God knows what in the body of the thing. We could X-ray it—but anybody who'd make a communicator like that would probably have it booby-trapped."

Mundin asked slowly, "Have you handled the thing?"

"No!"

"Norma's right," Ryan said. "Work through the clerk. The gadget's dynamite. Don, find out who she is."

Don Lavin went to his files. Mundin exploded, "Damn it, I'm not convinced. This thing coming right in the middle of our whole campaign—are Haskell Arnold and his crowd that smart?"

"No," Ryan said gravely. "Not Haskell Arnold and his crowd."

"Here it is." Don Lavin produced a card. "The clerk's name is Harriet Elbers. Single, twenty-six, B.B.A. from Columbia, corporate-case researcher for Choate Brothers three years, discharged in staff reduction on closing a case. Um, efficiency rating high, yes, contract status standard—uh—nothing much else about her. Lives with widowed mother."

"Fine-sounding girl," Ryan said dispiritedly.

"Ryan, if it isn't Arnold——"

Ryan looked at Mundin and shrugged. "Who? Who but Green, Charlesworth? Arnold wouldn't play it this way. He's a slugger, nothing else. Green, Charlesworth—they're judo experts. They wait until we're charging full speed ahead and then they stick one foot out and we go crashing and break our necks. Or—they don't. As they think appropriate. I tangled with them once. You may recall my recent career."

Mundin said, "One thing's for certain. We've got to buzz Hubble, Nelson, and Coett on this. That's orders; and they've been putting up the cash."

"Sure," said Ryan absently. He was staring at the flower vase on his own desk.

The three money-men weren't scared; they were petrified.

Coett said in a rage, "By God, those bastards! Letting us run along like idiots, spending money like water!"

Nelson wailed, "My Coshocton employees! And this damn law-suit against G.M.L.—it's already on the calendar! My God, Mundin, can't there be some mistake?"

Hubble was almost philosophical, as he could afford to be. He had spent least; if anything, he had picked up some change on increased circulation of his publications. "Better lose some than all," he said consolingly. "Anyway, I'm still going to take some convincing that a screwy-looking vase and our— ah—breakdown of communications with Green, Charlesworth means that they're against us. Naturally, when I am convinced, that's that."

Norma Lavin looked thunderstruck. "You'd quit?" she gasped.

They looked at her. "My dear," Harry Coett said, "we remember what happened to your father. Don't you?"

Mundin said furiously, "Damn it, Coett, this is crazy! They're just people. They've got nothing but money. We're people and we've got money too, plenty of it All right, maybe they've got more, but they're not God Almighty! We can lick them if we have to!" He stopped; Hubble, Nelson, and Coett were wincing at every word.

Hubble opened his eyes. "Mundin," he remonstrated faintly. That was all he could manage to say.

Ryan said shakily, the jerks in his hands more visible than Mundin had seen them in weeks, "Maybe if one of us went to see them, Coett. Maybe—" his whole body was shaking, but he said, "I'll do it myself. At the worst they'll refuse to see me. That's happened before, God knows, but I can't see how we'll be any worse off—"

Coett said, "Shut your face, you old fool"

Hubble, more kindly, said, "You know how it is, Ryan. If we sent anyone but a very top man—God!"

"I'm not going," said Nelson very positively.

"I'm not," said Harry Coett.

And Nelson said, "So you see? There's just too much to lose. Sorry."

Norma Lavin, pale and quivering, stood up. "My Daddy invented the bubble-house for—" she began tremblingly, then caught herself. "No! The hell with that. Leaving my Daddy out of this, one-quarter of G.M.L. Homes belongs to Don and myself. It's ours, understand? Ours! Not yours or Green, Charlesworth's. If you yellow bastards want out, you can have out. We're sticking, and I can tell you right now we're sticking until we drop dead, or hell freezes over, or we win—in descending order of probability. It isn't just money, you know. We got along fine on no money. We can do it again. It's people, Coett! It's making life worth living for the poor slobs who buy their bubble-houses with their life's blood! Slavery's against the law. G.M.L.'s been breaking the law, but we are taking over, and we are going to make some changes. You hear me?"

They heard her, and that was the ball game. Seven people were shouting at once, even old Ryan: "—no better than a Republican, young lady!" Nelson was howling; and "For God's sake, let her talk!" screamed Mundin; and Coett was spouting endless obscenities.

And the door opened. Mishal, the guide, stared in, looking upset. "Visitor," he got out, and disappeared.

"Oh, hell," said Mundin in the sudden silence, starting toward the door, "I told those idiots—oh, it's you!" He looked irritatedly at the figure of William Choate IV, now entering. "Hello, Willie. Look, I'm awfully busy right now."

Willie Choate's lower lip was trembling. "Hello, old man," he said dismally. "I have a—uh—message for you."

"Later, Willie. Please." Mundin made pushing motions.

Willie stood his ground. "Here."

He handed Mundin a square white envelope. Mundin, torn between annoyance and hysteria, opened it and glanced absently at the little white card inside.

Then he glanced at it again.

Then he stared at it until Coett came to life and leaped forward to take it out of his hand. It said in crabbed handwriting:

Messrs. Green, Charlesworth request the appearance of Mr. Charles Mundin and Miss Norma Lavin when convenient

It was a long ride.

Willie apologetically took out a magazine as soon as they settled down in the car. "You know what Great-Great-Grand-daddy Rufus said, 'Charles, Happy is he who has laid up in his youth, and held fast in all fortune, a genuine and passionate love for reading.' I always like to—"

"Sure, Willie," said Mundin. "Look, what's all this?"

Willie smiled regretfully. "Of course," he explained, "he wasn't my real Great-Great-Granddaddy; Granpap just kind of took that name when he bought into the firm. It's just a way of—"

Mundin said urgently, "Willie, please. Remember how it was in law school?"

Willie seemed about to cry. "Gee, Charles! What can I say?"

"You can tell me what this is all about!"

Willie looked at Mundin. Then he looked all around him, at Norma, at the fittings of the car. Then he looked at Mundin again. The implication was unmistakable.

"At least tell me what your connection is," Mundin begged.

"Gee, Charles!" But the answer to that one, at least, was plain, written in those soft cow's eyes, spelled out in that trembling lip. Willie was what God had made him to be: an errand boy, and doubtless knew little more than Mundin about what, why, or wherefore. Mundin gave up and let Willie read his magazine, while he stared morosely at the crumbled city they were driving through.

The building smelled old. Mundin and Norma and Willie stepped into a creaking elevator and slowly went up fifty floors. A long walk, and then another elevator, even smaller, even creakier.

Then a small room with a hard bench. Willie left them there; all he said was "See you."

Then—waiting. An hour, then several hours. They didn't talk.

Mundin thought he was going to flip.

Then he thought that that was what Green, Charlesworth wanted him to think, and got a grip on himself.

And by and by a small, quiet man came and led them into another room.

There was no place to sit, and no place for Mundin to hang his coat. Mundin draped his coat over his arm, and stood, staring back into the unblinking eyes of the man seated at the desk. He was an imposing figure of a man, lean-featured, dark-haired, temples shot with silver. He leaned forward, comfortably appraising; his chin was in one cupped hand, the fingers covering his lips. His eyes followed Mundin, and his chest rhythmically rose and fell; otherwise he was stock-still.

Mundin cleared his throat. "Mr.—ah—Green?" he inquired.

The man said emotionlessly, "We despise you, Mr. Mundin. We are going to destroy you."

Mundin cried, "Why?"

"You are Rocking the Boat, Mundin," the man said through his fingers, the piercing eyes locked with Mundin's own.

Mundin cleared his throat "Look, Mr. Green—you are Mr. Green?"

"You are Our Enemy, Mundin."

"Now, wait a minute!" Mundin took a deep breath. Please, he silently begged his adrenal gland. Gently! he ordered the pounding sensation in his skull. He said temperately, "I'm sure we can get together, Mr.—sir. After all, we're not greedy."

The figure said steadily, "Men Like You would Ruin the World if we let them. We won't."

Mundin swept his eyes hopelessly around the room. This man was obviously mad; someone else, anyone else— But there was no one. Barring the desk and the man, there was nothing in the room but a pair of milky, glassy cabinets and Mundin and the girl. He said, "Look, did you call me down here just to insult me?"

"You put your Fingers in the Buzz-Saw, Mundin. They will be Lopped Off."

"Insane," Norma murmured faintly.

"Dammittohell!" Mundin yelled. He hurled his coat violently to the floor, but it did nothing to calm him. "If you're crazy say so and let me get out of here! I never came across such blithering idiocy in my life!"

He stopped in the middle of a beginning tirade; stopped short.

The man wasn't looking at him any more. The same unblinking and unwavering gaze that had been on Mundin was now piercingly directed at the coat on the floor. To the coat the motionless man said, "We brought you here, Mundin, to See Infamy with Our Own Eyes. Now we have seen it and we will Blot It Out." And then, startlingly, shrilly, "Hee!"

Mundin swallowed and stepped gingerly forward. Three paces and he was at the desk, leaning over, looking at what should be the neatly tailored trousers of the man's modest suit.

The personnel of Green, Charlesworth were not wearing trousers this year. The personnel of Green, Charlesworth were wearing bronze pedestals with thick black cables snaking out of them, and brass nameplates that read:

WESTERN ELECTRIC SLEEPLESS RECEPTIONIST

115 Volt A.C. Only

"Hee!" shrilled the motionless lips, just by Mundin's ear. "That's far enough, Mundin. You were right, I suppose, Mrs. Green."

Mundin leaped back as though the 115 volts of A.C. had passed through his tonsils. A flicker of light caught his eye; the two milky glass cabinets had lighted up. He looked, peripherally aware that Norma had crumpled beside him.

He wished he hadn't.

The contents of the cabinets were: Green and Charlesworth. Green, an incredibly, impossibly ancient dumpy-looking, hairless female. Charlesworth, an incredibly, impossibly ancient string-bean-looking, hairless male. Mercifully, the lights flickered out.

Another voice said, but from the same motionless lips, "Can we kill him, Mr. Charlesworth?"

"I think not, Mrs. Green," the Sleepless Receptionist answered itself in the first voice.

Mundin said forcefully, "Now, wait a minute." It was pure reflex. He came to the end of the sentence, and stopped.

The female voice said sadly, "Perhaps he will commit suicide, Mr. Charlesworth. Tell him what he is up against."

"He knows what he is up against, Mrs. Green. Don't you, Mundin?"

Mundin nodded. He was obsessed by the Sleepless Receptionist's eyes, now piercingly aimed at him again—attracted, perhaps, by the movement.

"Tell him!" shrieked Mrs. Green. 'Tell him about that girl! Tell him what well do to her!"

"A Daughter of Evil," the voice said mechanically. "She wants to take G.M.L. away from us."

Mundin was galvanized. "Oh, no!" he cried. "Not you! Just Arnold and his crowd!"

"Are Our Fingers Us?" the voice demanded. "Are Our Arms and Legs Us? Arnold is Us!"

The female voice piped, "The girl, Mr. Charlesworth. The girl!"

"Painted courtesan," observed the male voice. "She wants to free the slaves, she says. Talks about Mr. Lincoln!"

"We Fixed Mr. Lincoln's Wagon, Mr. Charlesworth," chortled the female voice.

"We did, Mrs. Green. And we will Fix Her Wagon too."

Mundin, thinking dazedly that he should have been more careful where he put Ryan's yen pox, it was stupid of him to get it mixed up with his vitamin pills, said feebly, "Are you that old?"

"Are we that old, Mrs. Green?" asked the male voice.

"Are we!" shrilled the female. "Tell him! Tell him about the girl!"

"Perhaps not now, Mrs. Green. Perhaps later. When we have softened them up. You must go now, Mundin."

Mundin automatically picked up his coat and helped Norma to her feet. He turned dazedly to the door. Halfway he stopped, staring at the milky glass. Glass, he thought. Glass, and quivering, moving corpses inside, that a breath of air might—

'Try it, Mundin," challenged the voice. "We wanted to see if you would try it."

Mundin thought, and decided against it

'Too bad," said the voice of Charlesworth. "We hate you, Mundin. You said we were not God Almighty." "Atheist!" hissed the voice of Mrs. Green.