The Moneychangers

Were you wondering who was really behind those Forum Easters who this week brought the proud and mighty First Mercantile American Bank to heel? The Shadow knows It's Civil Rights Lawyer-Feminist

Margot Bracken she of "airport toilet sit-in" fame and other battles for the humble and stepped-on. This time, despite the "bank-in" being her idea, on which she labored, Ms. Bracken kept her activity tiptop secret. While others fronted, she stayed out of sight, avoiding the press, her normal allies. Are you wondering about that, too? Stop wondering! Margot's great and good friend, most often seen with her around town, is Swinging Banker Alexander Vandervoort, exec veep of First Merc Am. If you were Margot and had that connection cooking, wouldn't you stay out of sight? Only thing we're wondering: Did Alex know and approve the siege of his own home plate? "Goddamn', Alex," Margot said, "I'm sorry!" "The way it happened, so am I."

"I could skin that louse of a columnist alive. The only good thing is that he didn't mention I'm related to Edwina."

"Not many know that," Alex said, "even in the bank. Anyway, lovers make livelier news than cousins."

It was close to midnight. They were in Alex's apartment, their first meeting since the siege of FMA's downtown branch began. The item in "Ear to the Ground" had appeared the day before.

Margot had come in a few minutes ago after representing a client in night court a well-to-do habitual drunk, whose habit of assaulting anyone in sight when he was boozed made him one of her few steady sources of income.

'The newspaper writer was doing his job, I suppose," Alex said. "And almost certainly your name would have come out anyway."

She said contritely, "I tried to make sure it didn't. Only a few people knew what I was doing, and I wanted it to stay like that."

He shook his head. "No way. Nolan Wainwright told me early this morning these were his words 'the whole caper had Margot Bracken's handwriting on it. And Nolan had started to quiz people. He used to be a police detective, you know. Someone would have tallied if the news item hadn't appeared first." "But they didn't have to use your name."

"If you want the truth" Alex smiled "I rather liked that 'swinging banker' bit."

But the smile was false and he sensed that Margot knew it. The real truth was that the column item had jolted and depressed him. He was still depressed tonight, though he had been pleased when Margot telephoned earlier to say that she was coming. He asked, "Have you talked to Edwina today?"

"Yes, I phoned her. She didn't seem upset. I suppose we're used to each other. Besides, she's pleased that Forum East is back on the rails again all of it. You must be glad about that, too."

"You always knew my feelings on that subject. But it doesn't mean I approve your shady methods, Bracken."

He had spoken more sharply than he intended. Margot reacted promptly. 'There was nothing shady in what I did, or my people. Which is more than I can say for your goddam bank."

He raised his hands defensively. "Let's not quarrel Not tonight." "Then don't say things like that." "All right, I won't." Their momentary anger disappeared.

Margot said thoughtfully, 'Tell me when it all started, didn't you have some idea I was involved7"

"Yes. Partly because I know you very well. Also, I remembered you clammed up about Forum East when I expected you to tear me and FMA to shreds."

"Did it make things difficult for you while the bank-in was going on, I mean?"

He answered bluntly, "Yes, it did. I wasn't sure whether to share what I'd guessed or to keep quiet. Since bringing in your name wouldn't have made any difference to what was happening, I kept quiet. As it turned out, it was the wrong decision."

"So now some of the others believe you knew all the time."

"Roscoe does. Maybe Jerome. I'm not sure about the rest."

There was an uncertain silence before Margot asked, "Do you care? Does it matter terribly?" For the first time in their relationship her voice was anxious. Concern clouded her face.

Alex shrugged, then decided to reassure her. "Not really, I guess. Don't worry. I'll survive."

But it did matter. It mattered very much at FMA, despite what he had just said, and the incident had been doubly unfortunate at this time.

Alex was sure that most of the bank's directors would have seen the newspaper item which included his name and the pertinent question: Did Alex know and approve the siege of his own home plate? And if there were a few who hadn't seen it, Roscoe Heyward would make certain that they did. Heyward had made his attitude plain.

This morning, Alex had gone directly to Jerome Patterton when the bank president arrived at 10 A.M. But Heyward, whose office was nearer, had got there first.

"Come in, Alex," Patterton had said. "We might just as well have a threesome as two meetings of deuces."

"Before we talk, Jerome," Alex told him, "I want to be the first to bring up a subject. You've seen this?" He put a clipping of the previous day's "Ear to the Ground" on the desk between them.

Without waiting, Heyward said unpleasantly, "Do you imagine there's anyone in the bank who hasn't1"

Patterton sighed. "Yes, Alex, I've seen it. I've also had a dozen people direct my attention to it, and no doubt there'll be others."

Alex said firmly, "Then you're entitled to know that what was printed is mischief-making and nothing more. You have my word that I knew absolutely nothing in advance about what happened at the downtown branch, and no more than the rest of us while it was going on."

"A good many people," Roscoe Heyward commented, "might consider that with your connections" he put sardonic emphasis on the word “connections"such ignorance would be unlikely."

"Any explanations I'm making," Alex snapped, "are directed at Jerome."

Heyward declined to be put off. "When the bank's reputation is demeaned in public, all of us are concerned. As to your so-called explanation, do you seriously expect anyone to believe that through Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, over a weekend and into Monday, you had no idea, no idea at all, your girl friend was involved?" Patterton said, "Yes, Alex; how about that?"

Alex felt his face flush red. He felt resentful, as he had several times since yesterday, that Margot had placed him in this absurd position.

As calmly as he could, he told Patterton of his guess last week that Margot might be involved, his decision that nothing would be gained by discussing the possibility with others. Alex explained that he still had not seen Margot since more than a week ago.

"Nolan Wainwright had the same idea," Alex added. "He told me earlier this morning. But Nolan kept quiet, too, because for both of us it was no more than an impression, a hunch, until the news item appeared."

"Someone will believe you, Alex," Roscoe Heyward said. His tone and expression declared: I don't.

"Now, now, Roscoe!" Patterton remonstrated mildly. "All right, Alex, I accept your explanation. Though I trust you'll use your influence with Miss Bracken to see that in future she directs her artillery elsewhere." Heyward added, "Or better still, not at all."

Ignoring the last remark, Alex told the bank president with a tight, grim smile, "You can count on that." "Thank you."

Alex was certain he had heard Patterton's last word on the subject and that their relationship could revert to normal, at least on the surface. As to what went on beneath the surface, he was less sure. Probably in the minds of Patterton and others including some members of the board Alex's loyalty would, from now on, have an asterisk of doubt beside it. If not that, there could be reservations about Alex's discretion in the company he kept.

Either way, those doubts and reservations would be in the directors' minds near the end of this year, as Jerome Patterton's retirement neared, and the board reopened the subject of the bank presidency. And while directors were big men in some ways, in others, as Alex knew, they could be petty and prejudiced. Why? Why did it all have to happen now?

His dark mood deepened while Margot regarded him, her eyes questioning, her expression still anxious and uncertain.

She said more seriously than before, "I've caused you trouble. Quite a lot I think. So let's both stop pretending that I didn't."

He was about to reassure her again, then changed his mind, knowing this was a time for honesty between them.

"Another thing that has to be said," Margot went on, "is we talked about this, knowing it might happen, wondering whether we could remain the kind of people we are independent yet stay together." "Yes," he told her, "I remember."

"The only thing is," she said wryly, "I didn't expect it all to come to a head so soon."

He reached for her, as he had done so often before, but she moved away from him and shook her head. "No, let's settle this." Without warning, he realized, and without either of them intending it, their relationship had reached a crisis. "It will happen again, Alex. Let's not fool ourselves it won't. Oh, not with the bank, but with other related things. And I want to be sure we can handle it whenever it does, and not just for one time only, hoping it will be the last."

He knew that what she had said was true. Margot's life was one of confrontations; there would be many more. And while some would be remote from his own interests, others would not.

It was equally true, as Margot had pointed out, that they had spoken of this before just a week and a half ago. But then the discussion had been in abstract, the choice less clear, not sharply defined as events of the past week had made it.

"One thing you and I could do," Margot said, "is call it quits now, while we've had fun, while we're still ahead. No hard feelings either side; just a sensible conclusion. If we did that, stopped seeing each other and being seen together, word would travel quickly. It always does. And while it wouldn't wipe out what happened at the bank, it could make things easier for you there."

That, too, was true, Alex knew. He had a swift temptation to accept the offer, to exorcise cleanly and swiftly a complication from his life, a complication likely to become greater, not less, as years went by. Again he wondered: Why did so many problems, pressures come together Celia worsening; Ben Rosselli's death; the struggle at the bank; the undeserved harassment today. And now Margot and a choice. Why?

The question reminded him of something which happened years before when he once visited the Canadian city of Vancouver. A young woman had jumped to her death from a 24th floor hotel room and, before jumping, scrawled in lipstick on the window glass, “Why, oh why?” Alex had never known her, or even learned later what were her problems which she believed beyond solution. But he had been staying on the same floor of the hotel and a talkative assistant manager had shown him the sad, lipsticked window. The memory always stayed with him.

Why, oh why, do we make choices that we do? Or why does life make them? Why had he married Celia? Why had she become insane? Why did he still hold back from the catharsis of divorce? Why did Margot need to be an activist? Why would he consider losing Margot now! How much did he want to be president of FMA? Not that muchl

He made a forceful, self-controlled decision and thrust his gloom away. The hell with it all, Not for FMA, nor boards of directors, or personal ambition, would he surrender, ever, his private freedom of action and independence. Or give up Margot.

"The most important thing is," he told her, "do you want it to be the way you said just now a 'sensible conclusion'?" Margot spoke through tears. "Of course not."

"Then I don't either, Bracken. Or am I ever likely to. So let's be glad this happened, that we've proved something, and that neither of us has to prove it any more. "

This time, when he put out his arms, she did not hold back.

6

"Roscoe, my boy," the Honorable Harold Austin said on the telephone, sounding pleased with himself. "I've been talking with Big George. He's invited you and me to play golf in the Bahamas next Friday."

Roscoe Heyward pursed his lips doubtfully. He was at home, in the study of his Shaker Heights house, on a Saturday afternoon in March. Before taking the phone call he had been examining a portfolio of financial statements, with other papers spread on the floor around his leather armchair.

"I'm not certain I can get away that soon or go that far," he told the Honorable Harold. "Couldn't we try for a conference in New York?"

"Sure we could try. Except we'd be stupid, because Big George prefers Nassau; and because Big George likes doing business on a golf course, your kind of business that he attends to personally."

It was unnecessary for either of them to identify "Big George." For that matter, few others in industry, banking, or public life would have needed to.

G. G. Quartermain, board chairman and chief executive of Supranational Corporation,SuNatCo was a bravura bull of a man who possessed more power than many heads of state and exercised it like a king. His interests and influence extended worldwide, like those of the corporation whose destiny he directed. Inside SuNatCo and out he was variously admired, hated, courted, lionized, and feared.

His strength lay in his record. Eight years earlier on the basis of some previous financial wizardry G. G. Quartermain had been summoned to the rescue of Supranational, then ailing and debt ridden. Between then and now he had restored the company's fortune, enlarged it to a spectacular conglomerate, thrice split its shares and quadrupled its dividend. Shareholders, whom Big George had made wealthy, adored him; they also allowed him all the freedom of action he desired. True, a few Cassandras argued he had built an empire of cardboard. But financial statements of SuNatCo and its many subsidiaries which Roscoe Heyward had been studying when the Honorable Harold telephoned resoundingly contradicted them.

Heyward had met the SuNatCo chairman twice: once briefly in a crowd, the second occasion in a Washington, D.C., hotel suite with Harold Austin.

The Washington meeting came about when the Honorable Harold reported to Quartermain on the subject of a mission he had carried out for Supranational. Heyward had no idea what the assignment was the other two had completed the main part of their conversation when he joined them except that in some way it involved government.

The Austin Agency handled national advertising for Hepplewhite Distillers, a large SuNatCo subsidiary, although the Honorable Harold's personal relationship with G. G. Quartermain appeared to extend beyond this.

Whatever the report was, it appeared to have put Big George in a jovial humor. On being introduced to Heyward, he observed, "Harold tells me he's a director of your little bank and you'd both like a spoonful of our gravy. Well, sometime soon we'll see about it."

The Supranational chieftain had then clapped Heyward across the shoulders and talked of other things.

It was his Washington conversation with G. G. Quartermain which prompted Heyward in mid-January two months ago to inform the FMA money policy committee that doing business with SuNatCo was a probability. Later, he realized he had been premature. Now it seemed the prospect was revived.

"Well" Heyward conceded on the telephone, "perhaps I could get away next Thursday for a day or two."

"That's more like it," he heard the Honorable Harold say. "Whatever you might have planned can't be more important to the bank than this. And, oh yes, one thing I haven't mentioned Big George is sending his personal airplane for us."

Heyward brightened. "Is he now? Is it big enough for a fast trip?"

"It's a 707. I thought that would please you." Harold Austin chuckled. "So we'll fly from here Thursday at noon, have all of Friday in the Bahamas, and be back on Saturday. By the way, how do the new SuNatCo statements look?"

"I've been studying them." Heyward glanced at the mess of financial data spread around his chair. "The patient appears healthy; very healthy indeed."

"If you say so," Austin said, "that's good enough for me." As he replaced the telephone, Heyward permitted himself a slight, sly smile. The impending trip, its purpose, and the fact of traveling to the Bahamas by private plane, would make a pleasant item to drop casually in conversation next week. Also, if anything came of it, it would enhance his own status with the board something he never lost sight of nowadays, remembering the interim nature of Jerome Patterton's appointment as FMA president.

He was pleased, too, about the scheduled return by air next Saturday. It meant he would not have to miss an appearance in his church St. Athanasius's where he was a lay reader and delivered the lesson, clearly and solemnly, every Sunday.

The thought reminded him of tomorrow's reading which he had planned to go over in advance, as he usually did. Now he lifted a heavy family Bible from a bookshelf and turned to a page already flagged. The page was in Proverbs where tomorrow's reading included a verse which was a Heyward favorite: Righteousness exalteth a nation. but sin is a reproach to any people.

To Roscoe Heyward, the Bahamas excursion was an education.

He was not unfamiliar with high living. Like most senior bankers, Heyward had mingled socially with customers and others who used money freely, even aggressively, in achieving princely comforts and amusements. Almost always, he envied their financial freedom. But G. G. Quartermain outdid them all.

The 707 jet identified by a large Q on fuselage and tail, landed at the city's international airport precisely as scheduled, to the minute. It taxied to a private terminal where the Honorable Harold and Heyward left the limousine which had brought them from downtown and were whisked aboard, entering at the rear.

In a foyer like a miniature hotel lobby, a quartet greeted them a middle-aged man, graying and with the mix of authority and deference which stamped him a majordomo, and three young women. "Welcome aboard, gentlemen," the majordomo said.

Heyward nodded, but scarcely noticed the man, his attention being distracted by the women breathtakingly beautiful girls in their twenties who were smiling agreeably. It occurred to Roscoe Heyward that the Quartermain organization must have assembled the most comely stewardesses from TWA, United, and American, then skimmed off these three, like cream from richest milk. One girl was honey-blonde, another a striking brunette, the third a long-haired redhead. They were long-legged, willowy, healthily suntanned. The tans contrasted against their stylish but abbreviated pale beige uniform

The majordomo's uniform was of the same smart material as the girls'. AU four had an embroidered Q on the left breast pocket.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Heyward," the redhead said. Her voice, pleasantly modulated, had a soft, almost seductive quality. She went on, "I'm Avril. If you'll come this way, I’ll show you to your room."

As Heyward followed her, surprised at the reference to a "room," the Honorable Harold was being greeted by the blonde.

The elegant Avril preceded Heyward down a corridor extending part way along the aircraft on one side. Several doors opened from it.

Over her shoulder, she announced, "Mr. Quartermain is having a sauna and massage. He'd join you later in the lounge." "A sauna? Aboard here'

"Oh, yes. There's one directly behind the flight deck. A steam room, too. Mr. Ouartermain likes either a sauna or a Russian bath wherever he is, and he has his own masseur always with him." Avril flashed a dazzling smile. "Ill you'd like a bath and massage there'll be plenty of time on the flight. I'll be glad to attend to it. "No, thank you."

The girl stopped at a doorway. "This is your room, Mr. Heyward." As she spoke, the aircraft moved forward, beginning to taxi. At the unexpected movement, Heyward stumbled. "Oops!" Avril put out her arm, steadying him, and for a moment they were close. He was conscious of long slim fingers, bronze-orange polished nails, a light firm touch and a waft of perfume.

She kept her hand on his arm. "I'd better strap you in for takeoff. The captain always goes quickly. Mr. Quartermain doesn't like lingering at airports."

He had a quick impression of a small, sumptuous parlor into which the girl led him, then he was seated on a softly comfortable settee while the fingers he had already become aware of deftly fastened a strap around his waist. Even through the strap he could feel the fingers moving. The sensation was not disagreeable.

"There!" The aircraft was taxying fast now. Avril said, "If you don't mind, I'll stay until we're airborne." She sat beside him on the settee and fastened a strap herself.

"No," Roscoe Heyward said. He felt absurdly dazed. "I don't mind at all."

Looking around, he took in more details. The parlor or cabin, such as he had seen on no aircraft before, had been designed to make efficient but luxurious use of space. Three of the walls were paneled in teak, with carved Q motifs embellished in gold leaf. The fourth wall was almost entirely mirror, ingeniously making the compartment seem larger than it was. Recessed into the wall on. his left was a compactly organized office bureau, including a telephone console and glass-shielded teletype. Nearby a small bar was stocked with an array of miniature bottles. Built into the mirror wall, which faced Heyward and Avril, was a TV screen with duplicate sets of controls, reachable from either side of the settee. A folding door behind was presumably to a bathrooms

"Would you like to watch our takeoff' Avril asked. Without waiting for an answer, she touched the TV controls nearest her and a picture, clear and in color, sprang to life. Obviously a camera was in the aircraft nose and, on the screen, they could see a taxiway leading to a wide runway, the latter coming fully into view as the 707 swung onto it. With no time wasted, the aircraft moved forward, simultaneously the runway began to rush beneath them, then the remainder of it tilted downward as the big jet angled up and they were airborne. Roscoe Heyward had a sense of soaring, not merely because of the TV image. With only sky and clouds ahead, Avril snapped it off.

"The regular TV channels are there if you need them," she informed him, then motioned to the teleprinter. "Over there you can get the Dow Jones, AP, UPI, or Telex. Just phone the flight deck and they'll feed in whichever you say."

Heyward observed cautiously, "All this is a little beyond my normal experience."

"I know. It has that effect on people sometimes, though it's surprising how quickly everyone adapts." Again the direct look and dazzling smile. "We have four of these private cabins and each one converts to a bedroom quite easily. You just push some buttons. I’ll show you if you like." ~ He shook his head. "It seems unnecessary now." "Whatever you wish, Mr. Heyward."

She released her seat belt and stood up. "If you want Mr. Austin, he's in the cabin immediately behind. Up forward is the main lounge you're invited to when you're ready, then there's a dining room, offices, and beyond that Mr. Quartermain's private apartment."

"Thank you for the geography." Heyward removed his rimless glasses and took out a handkerchief to wipe them.

"Oh, please let me do thatl" Gently but finely Avril took the glasses from his hand, produced a square of silk and polished them. Then she replaced the glasses on his face, her fingers traveling lightly behind his ears in doing so. Heyward had a feeling he should protest, but didn't.

"My job on this trip, Mr. Heyward, is to take care of you exclusively and make sure you have everything you want."

Was it imagination, he wondered,or had the girl placed subtle emphasis on the word "everything"? He reminded himself sharply that he hoped not. If she had, the implication would be shocking.

'Two other things," Avril said. Gorgeous and slender, she had moved to the doorway, preparing to leave. "If you want me for anything at all, please press button number seven on the telephone."

Heyward answered gruffly, 'Thank you, young lady, but I doubt if I'll do that."

She seemed unperturbed. "And the other thing: On the way to the Bahamas we'll be landing in Washington briefly. The Vice-President is joining us there." "A Vice-President from Supranational?"

Her eyes were cocking. "No, silly. The Vice-President of the United States."

Some Sfteen minutes later, Big George Quartermain demanded of Roscoe Heyward, "For Chrissakesl Whatinhellzat you're drinking? Mother's milk?

"It's lemonade." Heyward held up his glass, inspecting the insipid liquid. "I rather enjoy it.

The Supranational chairman shrugged his massive shoulders. "Every addict to his own poison. Girls taking care of you both?"

"No complaints from this quarter," the Honorable Harold Austin offered with a chuckle. Like the others, he was reclining comfortably in the 707's splendidly appointed main lounge with the blonde, who had revealed her name as Rhetta, curled on the rug at his feet.

Avril said sweetly, "We're trying our best." She was standing behind Heyward's chair and let a hand travel lightly across his back. He felt her angers touch the base of his neck, linger momentarily, then move on.

Moments earlier, G. G. Quartermain had come into the lounge, resplendent in a crimson towel robe with white piping, the inevitable Q embroidered largely. Like a Roman senator, he was attended by acolytes a hardfaced, silent man in gym whites, presumably the masseur, and still another hostess in trim beige uniform, her features delicately Japanese. The masseur and the girl supervised Big George's entry into a broad, throne-like chair, clearly reserved for him Then a third figure the original majordomo as if by magic produced a chilled martini and eased it into G. G. Quartermain's awaiting hand.

Even more than on previous occasions they had met, Heyward decided, the name "Big George" seemed apposite in every way. Physically their host was a mountain of a man at least six and a half feet in height, his chest, arms, and torso like a village blacksmith's. His head was half the size again of most other men's and his facial features matched prominent, large eyes, swift-moving and darkly shrewd, the mouth wide-lipped and strong, as accustomed to issuing commands as a Marine drill sergeant's, though on larger issues. Equally clearly, surface joviality could be banished instantly by powerful displeasure.

Yet he stopped short of coarseness, nor was there any sign of overweight or nab. Through the enfolding towel robe, muscles bulged. Heyward observed, too, that Big George's face betrayed no fat layers, his massive chin no jowls. His belly appeared flat and taut.

As to other bigness, his corporate reach and appetite were reported daily in the business press. And his living style aboard this twelve-million-dollar airplane was unabashedly royal.

The masseur and majordomo quietly disappeared. Replacing them, like one more character emerging on stage, was a chef a pale, worried pencil of a man, immaculate in kitchen whites with a high chef's hat which brushed the cabin ceiling. Heyward wondered just how big the onboard staff was. Later, he learned it totaled sixteen.

The chef stood stiffly beside Big George's chair, proffering an out-size black leather folder embossed with a golden Q. Big George ignored him.

"That trouble at your bank." Quartermain addressed Roscoe Heyward. "Demonstrations. All the rest. Is everything settled? Are you solid?"

"We were always solid," Heyward answered. 'That was never in question." "The market didn't think so."

"Since when was the stock market an accurate barometer of anything?"

Big George smiled fleetingly, then swung to the petite Japanese hostess. "Moonbeam, get me the latest quote on FMA.

"Yes, Mister Q." the girl said. She went out by a forward door.

Big George nodded in the direction she had gone. "Still can't get that tongue of hers around Quartermain. Always calls me 'Mister Q.' " He grinned at the others. "Manages nicely elsewhere, though."

Roscoe Heyward said quickly, "The reports you heard about our bank concerned a trifling incident, magnified beyond importance. It happened also at a time of management transition."

"But you people didn't stand firm," Big George insisted. "You let outside agitators have their way. You went soft and surrendered."

"Yes, we did. And I'll be frank to say I didn't like the decision. In fact, I opposed it.

"Stand up to 'em! Always clobber the bastards one way or another! Never back down" The Supranational chairman drained his martini and the majordomo appeared from nowhere, removed the original glass and placed a fresh one in Big George's hand. The drink's perfect chill was apparent from its outside frosting.

The chef was still standing, waiting. Quartermain continued to ignore him.

He rumbled reminiscently, "Had a sub-assembly manufacturing plant near Denver. Lots of labor trouble. Wage demands beyond all reason. Early this year, union called a strike, the last of many. I told our people the subsidiary which ran it warn the sons of bitches we'll close the plant down. Nobody believed us. So we made studies, planned arrangements. Shipped tools and dies to one of our other companies. They took up the manufacturing slack. At Denver we closed. Suddenly no plant, no jobs, no payroll. Now, the lot of 'em employees, union, Denver city, state government, you name it are down on their knees pleading with us to reopen." He considered his martini, then said magnanimously, "Well, we may. Doing other manufacturing, and on our terms. But we didn't back down."

"Good for you, George!" the Honorable Harold said. "We need more people to take that kind of stand. The problem at our bank, though, has been somewhat different. In some ways we're still in an interim situation which began, as you know, with Ben Rosselli's death. But by spring next year a good many of us on the board hope to see Roscoe here firmly at the helm."

"Glad to hear it. Don't like dealing with people not at the top. Those I do business with must be able to decide, then make decisions stick."

"I assure you, George," Heyward said, "that any decisions you and I arrive at will be adhered to by the bank."

In an adroit way, Heyward realized, their host had maneuvered Harold Austin and himself into the stance of supplicants a reversal of a banker's usual role. But the fact was, any loan to Supranational would be worry-free, as well as prestigious for FMA. Equally important, it could be a precursor of other new industrial accounts since Supranational Corporation was a pacesetter whose example others followed.

Big George snapped abruptly at the chef. "Well, what is it?"

The figure in white was galvanized to action. He thrust forward the black leather folder he had been holding since his entry. "The luncheon menu, monsieur. For your approval."

Big George made no attempt to take the folder but scanned its contents held before him. He stabbed with a finger. "Change that Waldorf salad to a Caesar." "Oui, monsieur."

"And dessert. Not Glazed Martinique. A Souffle Grand Marnier." "Certainly, monsieur."

A nod of dismissal. Then, as the chef turned away, Big George glared. "And when I order a steak, how do I like it….”

"Monsieur" the chef gestured imploringly with his free hand "I have already apologize twice for the unfortunate last night." "Never mind that. The question was: How do I like it..'

With a Gallic shrug, repeating a lesson learned, the chef intoned, "On the slightly well-done side of medium-rare." "Just remember that." The chef asked despairingly, " 'Ow can I forget, monsieur?" Crestfallen, he went out.

"Something else that's important," Big George informed his guests, "is not to let people get away with things. I pay that frog a fortune to know exactly how I like my food. He slipped last night not much, but enough to ream him out so next time he'll remember. What's the quote?" Moonbeam had returned with a slip of paper.

She read out in accented English, "FMA trading now at forty-five and three quarters."

"There we are," Roscoe Heyward said, "we're up another point."

"But still not as high as before Rosselli bit the bullet," Big George said. He grinned. "Though when word gets out that you're helping finance Supranational, your stock'll soar."

It could happen, Heyward thought. In the tangled world of finance and stock prices, inexplicable things occurred. That someone would lend money to someone else might not seem to mean much yet the market would respond.

More importantly, though, Big George had now declared positively that some kind of business was to be transacted between First Mercantile American Bank and SuNatCo. No doubt they would thrash out details through the next two days. He felt his excitement rising.

Above their heads a chime sounded softly. Outside, the jet thrum changed to lower tempo.

"Washington" Avril said. She and the other girls began fastening the men to their seats.

The time on the ground in Washington was even briefer than at the previous stop. With a 14-carat-VIP passenger, it seemed, top priorities for landing, taxiing, and takeoff were axiomatic.

Thus, in less than twenty minutes they had returned to cruising altitude en route to the Bahamas.

The Vice-President was installed, with the brunette, Krista, taking care of him, an arrangement which he patently approved.

Secret Service men, guarding the Vice-President, had been accommodated somewhere at the rear.

Soon after, Big George Quartermain, now attired in a striking cream silk one-piece suit, jovially led the way forward from the lounge into the airliner's dining room a richly decorated apartment, predominantly silver and royal blue. There, the four men, seated at a carved oak table beneath a crystal chandelier, and with Moonbeam, Avril, Rhetta, and Krista hovering deliciously behind, lunched in a style and on cuisine which any of the world's great restaurants would have found it hard to equal.

Roscoe Heyward, while relishing the meal, did not share in the several wines or a thirty-year-old Cognac brandy at the end. But he did observe that the heavy, gold-rimmed brandy goblets omitted the traditional decorative N of Napoleon in favor of a Q. Warm sunshine from an unbroken azure sky shone on the lush green fairway of the long par-5 fifth hole at the Bahamas' Lordly Cay Club golf course The course and its adjoining luxury club were among the half dozen most exclusive in the world.

Beyond the green, a white sand beech, palm-fringed, deserted, extended like a strip of Paradise into the distance. At the edge of the beach a pellucid turquoise sea lapped gently in tiny waveless. A half mile out from shore a line of breakers creamed on coral reefs.

Nearer to hand, beside the fairway, an exotic crazy quilt of flowers hibiscus, bougainvillea, poinsettia, frangipani competed in belief-defying colors. The fresh, clear air, moved agreeably by a zephyr breeze, held a scent of jasmine. "I imagine," the Vice-President of the United States observed, "that this is as close to heaven as any politician gets."

"My idea of heaven," the Honorable Harold Austin told him, "would not include slicing." He grimaced and swung his four iron viciously. 'There must be some way to get better at this game." The four were playing a best-ball match Big George and Roscoe Heyward against Harold Austin and the Vice President.

"What you should do, Harold," the Vice-President, Byron Stonebridge, said, "is get back into Congress, then work your way to the job I have. Once there, you'd have nothing else to do but golf; you could take all the time you wanted to improve your game. It's an accepted historical fact that almost every Vice-President in the past half century left office a better golfer than when he entered it."

As if to confirm his words, moments later he lofted his third shot a beautiful eight iron straight at the flagstick.

Stonebridge, lean and lithe, his movements fluid, was playing a spectacular game today. He had begun life as a farmer's son, working long hours on a family small holding, and across the years had kept his body sinewy. Now his homely plainsman's features beamed as his ball dropped, then rolled to within a foot of the cup.

"Not bad," Big George acknowledged as his cart drew even. "Washington not keeping you too busy, eh, By?"

"Oh, I suppose I shouldn't complain. I ran an inventory of Administration paper clips last month And there's been a news leak from the White House it seems there's a chance I'll sharpen pencils over there quite soon."

The others chuckled dutifully. It was no secret that Stonebridge, ex-State governor, ex-Minority Leader in the Senate, was fretful and restless in his present role. Before the election which had thrust him there, his running mate, the presidential candidate, declared that his Vice-President would in a new post-Watergate era play a meaningful busy part in government. As always after inauguration, the promise stayed unfulfilled.

Heyward and Quartermain chipped onto the green, then waited with Stonebridge as the Honorable Harold, who had been playing erratically, shanked, laughed, flubbed, laughed, and finally chipped on.

The four men made a diverse foursome. G. G. Quartermain, towering above the others, was expensively immaculate in tartan slacks, a Lacoste cardigan, and navy suede Foot-Joys. He wore a red golf cap, its badge proclaiming the coveted status of a member of Lordly Cay Club.

The Vice-President portrayed stylish neatness double knit slacks, a mildly colorful shirt, his golfing footwear an ambivalent black and white In dramatic contrast was Harold Austin the most flamboyant dresser and a study in shocking pink and lavender. Roscoe Heyward was efficiently practical in dark gray slacks, a white, short-sleeved "dress" shirt and soft black shoes. Even on a golf course he looked like a banker.

Their progress since the first tee had been something of a cavalcade. Big George and Heyward shared one electric golf cart; Stonebridge and the Honorable Harold occupied another. Six more electric carts had been requisitioned by the Vice-President's Secret Service escort and now surrounded them on both sides and fore and aft like a destroyer squadron.

"If you had free choice, By," Roscoe Heyward said, "free choice to set some government priorities, what would they be?"

Yesterday, Heyward had addressed Stonebridge formally as "Mr. Vice-President,', but was quickly assured, "Forget the formality; I get weary of it. You'll find I answer best to 'By.' " Heyward, who cherished first name friendships with important people, was delighted.

Stonebridge answered, "If I had my choice I'd concentrate on economics restoring fiscal sanity, some balanced national bookkeeping."

Big G. Quartermain, who had overheard, remarked, "A brave few tried it, By. They failed. And you're too late." "It's late, George, but not too late."

"I’ll debate that with you." Big George squatted, considering the line of his putt. "After nine. Right now the priority is sinking this."

Since the game started, Quartermain had been quieter than the others, and intense. He had his handicap down to three and always played to win. Winning or turning in a sub-par score pleased him (so he said) as much as acquiring a new company for Supranational.

Heyward was playing with consistent competence, his performance neither flashily spectacular nor anything to be ashamed of.

As all four walked from their carts at the sixth tee, Big George cautioned: "Keep your banker's eye on the scores of those two, Roscoe. To a politician and an advertising man, accuracy's not a natural habit."

"My exalted status requires that I win," the Vice-President said. "By any means."

"Oh, I have the scores." Roscoe Heyward tapped his forehead. "They're all in here. On 1, George and By had fours, Harold a six, and I had a bogey. We all had pars on 2 except for By with that incredible birdie. Of course, Harold and I had net birds there, too. Everyone held par on 3 except Harold; he had another six. The fourth hole was our good one, fours for George and me (and I had a stroke there), a five for By, a seven for Harold. And, of course, this last hole was a real disaster for Harold but then his partner comes through with another bird. So as far as the match is concerned, right now we're even."

Byron Stonebridge stared at him. "That's uncanny! I'll be damned."

"You have me wrong for that first hole," the Honorable Harold said. "I had a five, not a six." '

Heyward said firmly, "Not so, Harold. Remember, you drove into that palm grove, punched out, hit your fairway wood short of the green, chipped long and two-putted." "He's right," Stonebridge confirmed. "I remember."

"Goddamn', Roscoe," Harold Austin grumbled, "whose friend are you?"

"Mine, by Godl" Big George exclaimed. He draped a friendly arm over Heyward's shoulders. "I'm beginning to like you, Roscoe, especially your handicap!" As Heyward glowed, Big George lowered his voice to a confidential level. "Was everything satisfactory last night?"

"Perfectly satisfactory, thank you. I enjoyed the journey, the evening, and I slept extremely well."

He had not slept well at first. In the course of the previous evening at G. G. Quartermain's Bahamas mansion it had become evident that Avril, the slim and lovely redhead, was available to Roscoe Heyward on any terms he chose. That was made plain both by innuendo from the others and Avril's increasing nearness as the day, then night, progressed. She lost no opportunity to lean toward Heyward so that sometimes her soft hair brushed his face, or to make physical contact with him on the slightest pretext. And while he did not encourage her, neither did he object.

Equally clear was that the gorgeous Krista was available to Byron Stonebridge and the glamorous blonde Rhetta to Harold Austin.

The exquisitely beautiful Japanese girl Moonbeam was seldom more than a fey: feet away from G. G. Quartermain.

The Quartermain menage, one of a half dozen owned by the Supranational chairman in various countries, was on Prospero Ridge, high above Nassau city and with a panoramic view of land and sea The house was in landscaped grounds behind high stone walls. Heyward's room on the second floor, to which Avril escorted him on arrival, commanded the view. It also afforded a glimpse, through trees, of the house of a near-neighbor the prime minister, his privacy protected by patrolling Royal Bahamian Police.

In late afternoon they had drinks beside a colonnaded swimming pool. Dinner followed, served on a terrace out of doors, by candlelight. This time the girls, who had shed their uniforms and were superbly gowned, joined the men at table. Hovering white-gloved waiters sewed while two strolling players added music. Companionship and conversation flowed.

After dinner, while Vice-President Stonebridge and Krista elected to stay on at the house, the others entered a trio of Rolls-Royces cars which had met them at Nassau Airport earlier and were driven to the Paradise Island gambling casino. There Big George played heavily and appeared to win. Austin participated mildly, Roscoe Heyward not at all. Heyward disapproved of gambling but was interested in Avril's description of the finer points of chemin de fer, roulette, and blackjack, which were new to him. Because of the hum of other conversations, Avril kept her face close to Heyward's while she talked and, as on the airplane earlier, he found the sensation not unpleasing

But then, with disconcerting suddenness, his body began taking greater cognizance of Avril so that ideas and inclinations which he knew to be reprehensible were increasingly hard to banish. He sensed Avril's amused awareness of his struggle, which failed to help. Finally, at his bedroom door to which she escorted him at 2 A.M., it was with the greatest effort of will particularly when she showed a willingness to linger that he did not invite her in.

Before Avril left for wherever her own room was, she swirled her red hair and told him, smiling, "There's an intercom beside the bed. If there's anything you want, press button number seven and I’ll come." This time there was no doubt of what "anything" meant. And the number seven, it seemed, was a code for Avril wherever she might be.

Inexplicably his voice had thickened and his tongue seemed oversized as he informed her, "Thank you, no. Good night." Even then his inner conflict was not over. Undressing, his thoughts returned to Avril and he saw to his chagrin that his body was undermining his will's resolve. It had been a long time since, unbidden, it had happened.

It was then that he had fallen on his knees and prayed to God to protect him from sin and relieve him of temptation. And after a while, it seemed, the prayer was answered. His body drooped with tiredness. Later still, he slept.

Now, as they drove down the sixth fairway, Big George volunteered, "Look, fella, tonight if you like I’ll send Moonbeam to you. A man wouldn't believe the tricks that little lotus blossom knows."

Heyward's face flushed. He decided to be firm "George, I'm enjoying your company and I'd like to have your friendship. But I must tell you that in certain areas our ideas differ." The big man's features stiffened. "In just what areas?" "I imagine, moral ones."

Big George considered, his face a mask. Then suddenly he guffawed. "Morals what are they?" He stopped the cart as the Honorable Harold prepared to hit from a fairway bunker on their left. "Okay, Roscoe, cut it your way. Just tell me if you change your mind."

Despite the firmness of his resolution, over the next two hours Heyward found his imagination turning to the fragile and seductive Japanese girl.

At the end of nine holes, on the course, Big George resumed his fifth hole argument with Byron Stonebridge.

"The U.S. goverurnent and other governments," Big George declared, "are being run by those who don't, or won't, understand economic principles. It's a reason the only reason we have runaway inflation. It's why the world's money system is breaking down. It's why everything moneywise can only get worse."

"I'll go part way with you on that," Stonebridge told him. "The way Congress is spending money, you'd think the supply is inexhaustible. We've supposedly sane people in the House and Senate who believe that for every dollar coming in you can safely put out four or five."

Big George said impatiently, "Every businessman knows that. Known it for a generation. The question is not if, but when, will the American economy collapse?" "I'm not convinced it has to. We could still avert it."

"Could, but won't. Socialism which is spending money you don't have and never will is too deep-rooted. So there comes a point when government runs out of credit. Fools think it can't happen. But it will."

The Vice-President sighed. "In public I'd deny the truth of that. Here, among us privately, I can't."

"The sequence which is coming," Big George said, "is easy to predict. It'll be much the way things went in Chile. A good many think that Chile was different and remote. It wasn't. It was a small-scale model of the U.S.A. and Canada and Britain."

The Honorable Harold ventured thoughtfully, "I agree with your point about sequence. First a democracy solid, world-acknowledged, and effective. Then socialism, mild at first but soon increasing. Money spent wildly until nothing's left. After that, financial ruin, anarchy, dictatorship."

"No matter how much in a hole we get," Byron Stonebridge said, "I'll not believe we'd go that far."

"We wouldn't need to," Big George told him. "Not if some of us with intelligence and power think ahead, and plan. When financial collapse comes, in the U.S. we've two strong arms to stop us short of anarchy. One is big business. By that I mean a cartel of multi-national companics like mine, and big banks like yours and others, which could run the country financially, exerting fiscal discipline. We would be solvent because of worldwide operation; we'd have put our own resources where inflation didn't swallow them. The other strong arm is the military and police. In partnership with big business, they'd keep order."

The Vice-President said drily, "In other words, a police state. You might encounter opposition."

Big George shrugged. "Some maybe; not much. People will accept the inevitable. Especially when democracy, so-called, has split apart, the money system shattered, individual purchasing power nil. Besides that, Americans don't believe in democratic institutions any more. You politicians undermined them."

Roscoe Heyward had kept silent, listening. Now he said, "What you foresee, George, is an extension of the present military-industrial complex into an elitist government."

"Exactly! And industrial-military I prefer it that way is becoming stronger as American economics wealcen. And we've organization It's loose, but tightening fast."

"Eisenhower was first to recognize the military-industrial structure," Heyward said. "And warn against it," Byron Stonebridge added.

"Hell, yes!" Big George agreed. "And more fool him! Ike, of all people, should have seen the possibilities for strength. Don't you?"

The Vice-President sipped his Planter's Punch. "This is off the record. But yes, I do."

"I’ll say this," Big George assured him, "you're one who should be joining us."

The Honorable Harold asked, "How much time, George, do you believe we have?"

"My own experts tell me eight to nine years. By then, collapse of the money system is inevitable."

"What appeals to me as a banker," Roscoe Heyward said, "is the idea of discipline at last in money and government."

G. G. Quartermain signed the bar chit and stood up. "And you'll see it. That I promise you." They drove to the tenth tee.

Big George called over to the Vice-President, "By, you've been playing way over your head and it's your honor. Tee it up and let's see some disciplined and economic golf. You're only one-up and there are nine tough holes to go."

Big George and Roscoe Heyward waited on the cart path while Harold Austin looked over his lie on the fourteenth hole; after general searching, a Secret-Service man had located his ball beneath a hibiscus bush. Big George had relaxed since he and Heyward had taken two holes and were now one-up. As they sat in the cart, the subject which Heyward had been hoping for was raised. It happened with surprising casualness. "So your bank would like some Supranational business."

"The thought had occurred to us." Heyward tried to match the other's casualness.

"I'm extending Supranational's foreign communications holdings by buying control of small, key telephone and broadcast companies. Some owned by governments, others private. We do it quietly, paying off local politicians where we have to; that way we avoid nationalistic fuss. Supranational provides advanced technology, efficient service, which small countries can't afford, and standardization for global linkage. There's good profitability for ourselves. In three more years we'll control through subsidiaries, forty-five percent of communications linkages, worldwide. No one else comes close. It's important to America; it'll be vital in the kind of industrial-military liaison we were talking about."

"Yes," Heyward agreed, "I can see the significance of that."

"From your bank I'd want a credit line of fifty million dollars. Of course, at prime."

"Naturally, whatever we arranged would be at prime." Heyward had known that any loan to Supranational would be at the bank's best interest rate. In banking it was axiomatic that the richest customers paid least for borrowed money; highest interest rates were for the poor. "What we would have to review," he pointed out, "is our bank's legal limitation under Federal law."

"Legal limit, hell There are ways around that, methods used every day. You know it as well as I do." "Yes, I'm aware that there are ways and means."

What both men were speaking of, and fully understood, was a U.S. banking regulation forbidding any bank to loan more than ten percent of its capital and paid-in surplus to a single debtor. The purpose was to guard against bank failure and protect depositors from loss. Inthe case of First Mercantile American, a fifty-million dollar loan to Supranational would substantially exceed that limit.

'The way to beat the regulation," Big George said, "is for you to split the loan among our subsidiary companies. Then we'll reallocate it as and where we need."

Roscoe Heyward mused, "It could be done that way." He was aware that the proposal violated the spirit of the law while remaining technically within it. But he also knew that what Big George had said was true: Such methods were in everyday use by the biggest, most prestigious banks.

Yet even with that problem handled, the size of the proposed commitment staggered him. He had envisaged twenty or twenty-five million as a starting point, with the sum increasing perhaps as relationships between Supranational and the bank developed.

As if reading his mind, Big George said flatly, "I never deal in small amounts. If fifty million is bigger than you people can handle, let's forget the whole thing. I'll give it to Chase."

The elusive, important business which Heyward had come here hoping to capture seemed suddenly to be slipping away. He said emphatically, "No, no. It's not too large."

Mentally he reviewed other FMA commitments. No one knew them better. Yes, fifty million to SuNatCo could be managed. It would necessitate turning off taps within the bank cutting back drastically on smaller loans and mortgages, but this could be handled. A large single loan to a client like Supranational would be immensely more profitable than a host of small loans, costly to process and collect.

"I intend to recommend the line of credit strongly to our board," Heyward said decisively, "and I'm certain they'll agree." His golfing partner acknowledged curtly, "Good."

"Of course, it would strengthen my position if I could inform our directors that we would have some bank represensation on the Supranational boards"

Big George drove the golf cart up to his ball, which he studied before replying. "That might be arranged. If it was, I'd expect your trust department to invest heavily in our stock. It's time some fresh buying pushed the price up."

With growing confidence, Heyward said, 'the subject could be explored, along with other matters. Obviously Supranational will have an active account with us now, and there's the question of a compensating balance…"

They were, Heyward knew, going through a banker-client ritualistic dance. What it symbolized was a fact of banking-corporate life: You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.

G. G. Quartermain, jerking an iron from his alligator bag, said irritably, "Don't bother me with details. My financial man, Inchbeck, will be here today. He'll fly back with us tomorrow. You two can get together then." Plainly, the brief business session was concluded.

By this time the Honorable Harold's erratic game seemed to have affected his partner. "You're psyching me," Byron Stonebridge complained at one point. At another: "Dammit, Harold, that slice of yours is contagious as smallpox. Anyone you play with should be vaccinated." And for whatever reason, the Vice-President's swing, shots and poise began to go awry for costly strokes.

Since Austin did not improve, even with the chiding, by the seventeenth hole Big George and short-but-straight Roscoe remained one up in the lead. This suited G. G. Quartermain and he crunched his tee shot on eighteen about two hundred and seventy yards, straight down the middle, then proceeded to birdie the hole, giving his side the match.

Big George was jovial at his victory and clasped Byron Stonebridge around the shoulders. "I guess that makes my credit balance in Washington even better than before."

"Depends on what you want," the Vice-President said. He added pointedly, "And how discreet you are."

Over drinks in the men's locker room, the Honorable Harold and Stonebridge each paid G. G. Quartermain a hundred dollars a bet they had agreed on before the game began. Heyward had demurred from betting, so was not included in the payoff.

It was Big George who said magnanimously, "I like the way you played, partner." He appealed to the others. "I think Roscoe ought to get some recognition. Don't you two?"

As they nodded, Big George slapped his knee. "I got it, A seat on the Supranational board. Howzat for a prize?" Heyward smiled. "I'm sure you're joking."

Momentarily, the smile left the SuNatCo chairman's face. "About Supranational I never joke."

It was then Heyward realized that this was Big George's way of implementing their earlier conversation. If he agreed, of course, it would mean accepting the other obligations…

His hesitation lasted seconds only. "If you do mean it, I'll be delighted to accept." "It will be announced next week."

The offer was so swift and staggering that Heyward still had difficulty believing. He had expected that someone else from among the directors of First Mercantile American Bank would be invited to join the board of Supranational. To be chosen himself, and personally by G. G. Quartermain, was an accolade of accolades. The SuNatCo board' as composed now, read like a blue ribboned Who's Who of business and finance.

As if reading his mind, Big George chuckled. "Among other things, you can keep an eye on your bank's money."

Heyward saw the Honorable Harold glance his way questioningly. As Heyward gave a small slight nod, his fellow FMA director beamed.

8

The second evening at G. G. Quartermain's Bahamas mansion held a subtly different quality from the first. It was as if all eight of them the men and girls shared a relaxed intimacy, lacking the night before. Roscoe Heyward, aware of the contrast, suspected he knew the reason for it.

Intuition told him that Rhetta had spent the previous night with Harold Austin, Krista with Byron Stonebridge. He hoped the two men did not believe the same was true of himself and Avril. He was sure that his host did not; his remarks of this morning indicated it, probably because Big George was kept informed about what went on, or didn't, within this house.

Meanwhile, the evening gathering again around the pool and on the terrace at dinnertime was delectable for its own sake. Roscoe Heyward allowed himself to be an untautened, cheerful part of it.

He was enjoying, quite frankly, the continued attentions of Avril who showed no sign of resenting his rejection of her last night. Since he had proven to himself that he could resist her ultimate temptations, he saw no reason to deny himself Avril's pleasant companionship now. Two other reasons for his euphoric state were the pledge of Supranational business for First Mercantile American Bank and the unexpected, dazzling trophy of a seat for himself on the SuNatCo board. He had no doubt whatever that both would enhance his own prestige importantly at FMA. Already his succession to the bank's presidency seemed nearer. Earlier, he had had a short meeting with the Suprational comptroller, Stanley Inchbeck, who had arrived, as Big George said. Inchbeck was a balding, bustling New Yorker and he and Heyward arranged to work out details of the SuNatCo loan on the flight northward tomorrow. Apart from his meeting with Heyward, Inchbeck had been closeted through most of the afternoon with G. G. Quartermain. Although he was apparently staying somewhere in the house, Inchbeck did not appear for drinks or dinner.

Something else Roscoe Heyward had noticed earlier, from the window of his second-floor room, was G. G. Quartermain and Byron Stonebridge strolling in the grounds for almost an hour in the early evening, deep in conversation. They were too far from the house for anything they said to be overheard but Big George appeared to be talking persuasively, with the Vice-President interrupting occasionally with what probably were questions. Heyward remembered this morning's remark on the golf course about "a credit balance in Washington," then wondered which of Supranational's many interests were being discussed. He decided he would never know.

Now, after dinner, in the cool, sweet-scented darkness out of doors, Big George was once more the genial host. Cupping his hands around a Q emblazoned brandy glass, he announced, "No excursions tonight. Well keep the party here."

The majordomo, waiters, and musicians had discreetly slipped away.

Rhetta and Avril, who were drinking champagne, chorused, "A party here!"

By Stonebridge raised his voice to match the girls'. "What kind of party?"

"A swinging partyl" Krista declared, then corrected herself, her speech slurred slightly from dinner wine and champagne. "No, a swimming party, I want to swim." Stonebridge challenged her, "What's stopping you?"

"Nothing, By, darling! Absolutely nothing!" In a series of swift movements, Krista set down her champagne glass, kicked off her shoes, unfastened straps on her dress and wiggled. The long green dinner gown she had been wearing cascaded to her feet. Beneath it was a slip. She

pulled that over her head and tossed it away. She had been wearing nothing else.

Naked, smiling, her exquisitely proportioned body with high firm breasts and jet black hair making her like a Maillot sculpture in motion, Krista walked with dignity from the terrace, down steps to the lighted swimming pool, and dived in. She swam the length of the pool, turned and called to the others, "It's glorious! Come in!"

"By Godl" Stonebridge said, "I reckon I will." He tossed off his sport shirt, slacks and shoes, and naked as Krista, though less alluring, padded over and dived.

Moonbeam, with a small high giggle, and Rhetta were already taking off their clothes.

"Hold onl" Harold Austin called. "This sport's coming too."

Roscoe Heyward, who had watched Krista with a mixture of shock and fascination, found Avril close beside him. "Rossie, sweetie, undo my zipper." She presented him her back. Uncertainly, he tried to reach the zipper from his chair.

"Stand up, you old silly," Avril said. As he did, with her head half turned she leaned against him, her warmth and fragrance overpowering. "Have you done it yet?"

He was having difficulty concentrating. "No, it seems to be. .."

Adroitly, Avril reached behind her. "Here, let me." Finishing what he had begun, she tugged the zipper down. With a shrug of her shoulders, her dress fell away.

She swirled her red hair in the gesture he had come to know. "Well, what are you waiting for? Undo my bra."

His hands were trembling, his eyes riveted on her, as he did as he was told. The bra dropped. His hands did not.

With a minimal, graceful movement, Avril pivoted. She leaned forward and kissed him fully on the lips. His hands, remaining where they were, touched the forward thrusting nipples of her breasts. Involuntarily, it seemed, his fingers curled and tightened. Electric, sensual waves shot through him. - "Um," Avril purred. "That's nice. Coming swimming?" He shook his head.

"See you later, then." She turned, walking away like a Grecian goddess in her nudity, and joined the other five cavorting in the pool.

G. G. Quartermain had remained seated, his chair pushed back from the dinner table. He sipped his brandy, eying Heyward shrewdly. "I'm not much for swimming either. Though once in a while, if he's sure he's among friends, it's good for a man to let himself go."

"I suppose I should concede that. And I certainly do feel among friends." Heyward sank down into his chair again; removing his glasses, he began to polish them. He had control of himself now. The instant of mad weakness was behind him. He went on, "The problem is, of course: one occasionally goes slightly further than intended. However, if one maintains over-all control, that's really the important thing." Big George yawned.

While they talked, the others, by this time out of the water, were toweling themselves and slipping on robes from a pile beside the pool.

Two hours or so later, as she had the night before, Avril escorted Roscoe Heyward to his bedroom doorway. At first, downstairs he had decided to insist that she not accompany him, then changed his mind, confident of his reasserted strength of will and positive now he would not succumb to wild, erotic impulses. He even felt assured enough to say cheerfully, "Good night, young lady. And, yes, before you tell me, I know your intercom number is seven, but I assure you there is nothing that I'll need."

Avril had looked at him with an enigmatic half smile, then turned away. He immediately closed and locked the bedroom door, afterward humming softly to himself as he prepared for bed. But, in bed, sleep eluded him.

He lay awake for nearly an hour, the bedclothes thrown back, the bedding soft beneath him. Through an open window he could hear a drowsy hum of insects and, distantly, the sound of breakers on the shore.

Despite his best intentions, the focus of his thoughts was Avril

Avril… as he had seen and touched her… breathtakingly beauteous, naked and desirable. Instinctively he moved his fingers, reliving the sensation of those full, firm breasts, their nipples extended, as he had cupped them in his hands.

And all the while his body… striving, burgeoning… made mock of his intended righteousness.

He tried to move his thoughts away to banking affairs, to the Supranational loan, to the directorship which G. G. Quartermain had promised. But thoughts of Avril returned, stronger than ever, impossible to eclipse. He remembered her legs, her thighs, her lips, her soft smile, her warmth and perfume. .. her availability.

He got up and began pacing, seeking to redirect his energy elsewhere. It would not be redirected.

Stopping at the window) he observed that a bright three-quarter moon had risen. It bathed the garden, beaches, and the sea in white ethereal light. Watching, a longf-orgotten phrase returned to him: The night was made for loving… by the moon.

He paced again, then returned to the window, standing there, erect.

Twice he made a move toward the bedside table with its intercom. Twice, resolve and sternness turned him back.

The third time he did not turn back. Grasping the instrument in his hand, he groaned a mixture of anguish, self-reproach, heady excitement, heavenly anticipation. Decisively and firmly, he pressed button number seven.

9

Nothing in Miles Eastin's experience or imagination, before entering Drummonburg Penitentiary, had prepared him for the merciless, degrading hell of prison.

It was now six months since his exposure as an embezzler, and four months since his trial and sentencing.

In rare moments, when his objectivity prevailed over physical misery and mental anguish, Miles Eastin reasoned that if society had sought to impose savage, barbaric vengeance on someone like himself, it had succeeded far beyond the knowing of any who had not endured, themselves, the brutish purgatory of prison. And if the object of such punishment, he further reasoned, was to push a human being out of his humanity, and make of him an animal of lowest Instincts, then the prison system was the way to do it.

What prison did not do, and never would Miles Eastin told himself was make a man a better member of society than when he entered it. Given any time at all, prison could only degrade and worsen him; could only increase his hatred of "the system" which had sent him there; could only reduce the possibility of his becoming, ever, a useful, law-abiding citizen. And the longer his sentence, the less likelihood there was of any moral salvage.

Thus, most of all, it was time which eroded and eventually destroyed any potential for reform which a prisoner might have when he arrived.

Even if an individual hung on to some shards of moral values, like a drowning swimmer to a life presenter, it was because of forces within himself, and not because of prison but despite it.

Miles was striving to hang on, straining to retain some semblance of the best of what he had been before, trying not to become totally brutalized, entirely unfeeling, utterly despairing, savagely embittered. It was so easy to slip into a garment of all four, a hair shirt which a man would wear forever. Most prisoners did. They were those either brutalized before they came here and made worse since, or others whom time in prison had worn down; time and the cold-hearted inhumanity of a citizenry outside, indifferent to what horrors were perpetrated or decencies neglected all in society's name behind these walls.

In Miles's favor, and in his mind while he clung on, was one dominant possibility. He had been sentenced to two years. It made him eligible for parole in four more months.

The contingency that he might not receive parole was one he did not dare consider. The implications were too awful. He did not believe he could go through two years of prison and fail to emerge totally, irreparably, debased in brain and body.

Hold on! he told himself each day and in the nights Hold on for the hope, the deliverance, of parole!

At first, after arrest and detention while awaiting trial, he had thought that being locked into a cage would send him mad. He remembered reading once that freedom, until lost, was seldom valued. And it was true that no one realized how much their physical freedom of movement meant even going from one room to another or briefly out of doors until such choices were denied them totally.

Just the same, compared with conditions in this penitentiary, the pre-trial period was a luxury.

The cage at Drummonburg in which he was confined was a six-by eight foot cell, part of a four-tiered, X shaped cell house. When the prison was built more than half a century ago, each cell was intended for one person; today, because of prison overpopulation, most cells, including Miles's, housed four. On most days prisoners were locked into the tiny spaces for eighteen hours out of twenty-four.

Soon after Miles had come here, and because of trouble elsewhere in the prison, they had remained locked in "lock-in, feed-in," the authorities called it for seventeen whole days and nights. After the first week, the desperate cries of twelve hundred near-demented men made one more agony piled upon the others.

The cell to which Miles Eastin was allotted had four bunks clamped to walls, one sink and a single, seatless toilet which all four inmates shared. Because water pressure through ancient, corroded pipes was poor, water supply cold only to the sink was usually a trickle; occasionally it stopped entirely. For the same reason, the toilet often wouldn't flush It was bad enough to be confined in the same dose quarters where four men defecated with a total lack of privacy, but staying with the stench long after, while waiting for sufficient water to remove it, was a disgusting, stomach-heaving horror.

Toilet paper and soap, even when used sparingly, were never enough.

A brief shower was allowed once weekly; in between showers, bodies grew rancid, adding to close quarters misery.

It was in the showers, during his second week in prison, that Miles was gang raped. Bad as other experiences were, this had been the worst.

He had become aware, soon after his arrival, that other prisoners were attracted to him sexually. His good looks and youthfulness, he soon found out, were to be a liability. Marching to meals or at exercise in the yard, the more aggressive homosexuals managed to crowd around and rub against him. Some reached out to fondle him; others, from a distance, pursed their lips and blew him kisses. The first he squirmed away from, the second he ignored, but as both became more difficult his nervousness, then fear, increased. It became plain that inmates not involved would never help him. He sensed that guards who looked his way knew what was happening. They merely seemed amused.

Though the inmate population was predominantly black, the approaches came equally from blacks and whites.

He was in the shower house, a single-story corrugated structure to which prisoners were marched in groups of fifty, escorted by guards. The prisoners undressed, leaving their clothing in wire baskets, then trooped naked and shivering through the unheated building. They stood under shower heads, waiting for a guard to turn on the water.

The shower-room guard was high above them on a platform, and control of the showers and water temperature was under the guard's whim. If the prisoners were slow in moving, or seemed noisy, the guard could send down an icy blast of water, raising screams of rage and protest while prisoners jumped around like wild men, trying to escape. Because of the shower-house design, they couldn't. Or sometimes the guard would maliciously bang the hot water dose to scalding, to the same effect.

On a morning when a group of fifty which included Miles was emerging from the showers, and another fifty, already undressed, were waiting to go in, Miles felt himself surrounded closely by several bodies. Suddenly his arms were gripped tightly by a half dozen hands and he was being hustled forward. A voice behind him urged, "Move your ass, pretty boy. We ain't got long." Several others laughed.

Miles looked up toward the elevated platform. Seeking to draw the guard's attention, he shouted, "Sir! sir!"

The guard, who was picking his nose and looking elsewhere, appeared not to hear.

A fist slammed hard into Miles's Abs. A voice behind him snarled, "Shaddup!"

He cried out again from pain and fear and either the same fist or another thudded home once more. The breath went out of him. A fiery hurt shot through his side. His arms were being twisted savagely. Whimpering now, his feet barely touching the floor, he was hustled along.

The guard still took no notice. Afterward, Miles guessed the man had been tipped off in advance and bribed. Since guards were abysmally underpaid, bribery in the prison was a way of life.

Near the exit from the showers, where others were begining to dress, was a narrow open doorway. Still surrounded, Miles was shoved through. He was conscious of black and white bodies. Behind them, the door slammed shut.

The room inside was small and used for storage. Brooms, mops, cleaning materials were in screened and padlocked cupboards. Near the room's center was a trestle table. Miles was slammed face downward on it; his mouth and nose hit the wooden surface hard. He felt teeth loosen. His eyes filled with tears. His nose began to bleed.

While his feet stayed on the floor, his legs were roughly pulled apart. He fought desperately, despairingly, trying to move. The many hands restrained him.

"Hold still, pretty boy." Miles heard grunting and felt a thrust. A second later he screamed in pain, disgust, and horror. Whoever was holding his head seized it by the hair, raised and slammed it down. "Shaddupl" Now pain, in waves, was everywhere.

"Ain't she lovely?" The voice seemed in the distance, echoing and dreamlike.

The penetration ended. Before his body could know relief, another began. Despite himself, knowing the consequences, he screamed again. Once more his head was banged.

During the next few minutes and the monstrous repetition, Miles's mind began to drift, his awareness waned. As strength left him, his struggles lessened. But the physical agony intensified a searing of membrane, the fiery abrasion of a thousand sensory nerve ends.

Consciousness must have left him totally, then returned. From outside he heard a guard's whistle being blown. It was a signal to hurry with the dressing and assemble in the yard. He was aware of restraining hands withdrawn. Behind him a door opened. The others in the room were running out.

Bleeding, bruised, and barely conscious, Miles staggered out. The merest movement of his body caused him suffering.

"Hey, you!" the guard bawled from the platform. "Move ass, you goddam pansyl"

Groping, only half aware of what he was doing, Miles took the wire basket with his clothes and began to pull them on. Most of the others in his group of fifty were already outside in the yard. Another fifty men who had been under the showers were ready to transfer to the dressing area.

The guard shouted fiercely for the second time, "Shithead! I said move!"

Stepping into his rough drill prison pants, Miles stumbled and would have fallen, but for an arm which reached out, holding him.

'make it easy, kid," a deep voice said. "Here, I’ll help.. The first hand continued to hold him steady while a second aided in putting the pants on.

The guard's whistle blasted shrilly. "Nigger, you hear met You an' that pansy get the hell outside, or be on report." "Yassir, yassir, big boss. Right away, now. Let's go, kid."

Miles was aware, hazily, that the man beside him was huge and black. Later, he would learn the other's name was Karl and that he was serving a life sentence for murder. Miles would wonder, too, if Karl had been among the gang which raped him. He suspected that he was, but never asked, and never knew for sure.

What Miles did discover was that the black giant, despite his size and uncouthness, had a gentleness of manner and a sensitive consideration almost feminine.

From the shower house, supported by KarL Miles walked unsteadily outdoors.

There were some smirks from other prisoners but on the faces of most Miles read contempt. A wizened old-timer spat disgustedly and turned away.

Miles made it through the remainder of the day back to his cell, later to the mess hall where he couldn't eat the slop he usually forced down from hunger, and finally to his cell again, with help along the way from Karl. His other three cell companions ignored him as if he were a leper. Racked by pain and misery he slept, tossed, woke, lay fitfully awake for hours suffering the fetid air, slept briefly, woke again. With daybreak, and the clangor of cell doors opening, came renewed fear: When would it happen again? He suspected soon. In the yard during "exercise" period during which most of the prison population stood around aimlessly Karl sought him out. "How y' feel, kid?"

Miles shook his head dejectedly. "Awful." He added, "Thanks for what you did." He was aware that the big black had saved him from being on report, as the shower room guard had threatened. That would have meant punishment probably time in the hole and an adverse mark on his record for parole.

"It's okay, kid. One thing, though, you gotta figure. One time, like yesterday, ain't gonna satisfy them guys. They like dogs now, with you a bitch in heat. They'll be after you again."

"What can I do?" The confirmation of Miles's fears made his voice quaver and his body tremble. The other watched him shrewdly.

"What you need, kid, is a protector. Some stud to look out for you. How'd you like me for yours?" "Why should you do that?"

"You start bein' my regular boy friend, I take care o' you. Them others know you 'n me's steady, they ain't gonna lay no hand on you. They know they do, there's me to reckon with." Karl curled one hand into a fist; it was the size of a small ham.

Though he already knew the answer, Miles asked, "What would you want?"

"Your sweet white ass, baby." The big man dosed his eyes and went on dreamily. "Your body just for me. Any time I need it. I'll take care of where." Miles Eastin wanted to be sick. "How 'bout it, baby? Waddya say?"

As he had so many times already, Miles thought despairingly: Whatever was done before, does anyone deserve this?

Yet he was here. And had learned that prison was a jungle debased and savage, lacking justice where a man was stripped of human rights the day he came. He said bitterly, "Do I have a choice?"

"Put it that way, no I guess you ain't." A pause, then impatiently, "Well, we on?" Miles said miserably, "I suppose so."

Looking pleased, Karl draped an arm proprietorially around the other's shoulders. Miles, shriveling inside, willed himself not to draw away.

"We gotta git you moved some, baby. To my tier. Maybe my pad." Karl's cell was in a lower tier than Miles's, in an opposite wing of the X-shaped cell house. The big man licked his lips. "Yeah, man." The hand on Miles was already wandering. Karl asked, "You got bread?"

"No." Miles knew that if he had had money it could have eased his way already. Prisoners with financial resources on the outside, and who used them, suffered less than prisoners with none.

"Ain't got none neither," Karl confided. "Guess I'll hafta figure sumpum."

Miles nodded dully. Already, he realized, he had begun to accept the ignominious "girl friend" role. But he knew, too, the way things worked here, that while the arrangement with Karl lasted he was safe. There would be no further gang rape. The belief proved correct.

There were no more attacks, or attempted fondlings, or kisses blown. Karl had a reputation for knowing how to use his mighty fists. It was rumored that a year ago he had used a shiv to kin a fellow prisoner who angered him, though officially the murder was unsolved.

Miles also was transferred, not only to Karl's tier, but to his cell. Obviously the transfer was a result of money changing hands. Miles asked Karl how he had managed it.

The big black chuckled. "Them guys in Mafia Row put up the bread. Over there they like you, baby." "Like me?"

In common with other prisoners, Miles was aware of Mafia Row, otherwise known as the Italian Colony. It was a segment of cells housing the big wheels of organized crime whose outside contacts and influence made them respected and feared even, some said, by the prison governor. Inside Drummonburg their privileges were legendary. Such privileges included key prison jobs, extra freedom

of movement, and superior food, the latter either smuggled in by guards or pilfered from the general ration system. The Mafia Row inhabitants, Miles had heard, frequently enjoyed steaks and other delicacies, cooked on forbidden grills in workshop hideaways. They also managed extra comforts in their cells among them, television and sun lamps. But Miles himself had had no contact with Mafia Row, nor been aware that anyone in it knew of his existence. "They say you're a stand-up guy," Karl told him.

Part of the mystery was resolved a few days later when a weasel-faced, pot-bellied prisoner named LaRocca sidled alongside Miles in the prison yard. LaRocca, while not part of Mafia Row, was known to be on its fringes and acted as a courier.

He nodded to Karl, acknowledging the big black's proprietorial interest, then told Miles, "Gotta message for ya from Russian Ominsky."

Miles was startled and uneasy. Igor (the Russian) Ominsky was the loan shark to whom he had owed and still owed several thousands. He realized, too, there must also be enormous accrued interest on the debt.

Six months ago it was Ominsky's threats which prompted Miles's six-thousand-dollar cash theft from the bank, following which his earlier thefts had been exposed.

"Ominsky knows ye kept ya trap shut," LaRocca said. "He likes the way ya did, 'n figures ya for a stand-up guy."

It was true that during interrogation prior to his trial, Miles had not divulged the names, either of his bookmaker or the loan shark, both of whom he feared at the time of his arrest. There had seemed nothing to be gained by doing so, perhaps much to lose. In any event he had not been pressed hard on the point either by the bank security chief, Wainwright, or the FBI.

"Because ya buttoned up," LaRocca now informed him, "Ominsky says to tell ya he stopped the clock while you're inside." What that meant, Miles knew, was the interest on what he owed was no longer accumulating during his time in prison. He had learned enough of loan sharks to know the concession was a large one. The message also explained how Mafia Row, with its outside connections, knew of Miles's existence.

"Tell Mr. Ominsky thanks," Miles said. He had no idea, though, how he would repay the capital sum when he left prison, or even earn enough to live on.

LaRocca acknowledged, "Someone'll be in touch before ya get sprung. Maybe we can work a deal." With a nod which included Karl, he slipped away.

In the weeks which followed, Miles saw more of the weasel-faced LaRocca who several times sought out his company, along with Karl's, in the prison yard. Something which appeared to fascinate LaRocca and other prisoners was Miles's knowledge about the history of money. In a way, what had once been an interest and hobby achieved for Miles the kind of respect which prison inmates have for those whose background and crimes are cerebral, as opposed to the merely violent. Under the system a mugger is at the bottom of the prison social scale, an embezzler or con artist near the top.

What intrigued LaRocca, in particular, was Miles's description of massive counterfeiting, by governments, of other countries' money. "Those have always been the biggest counterfeit jobs of all," Miles told an interested audience of half a dozen one day.

He described how the British government sanctioned forgery of great quantities of French assignats in an attempt to undermine the French Revolution. This, despite the fact that the same crime by individuals was punishable by hanging, a penalty which continued in Britain until 1821. The American Revolution began with official forgery of British banknotes. But the greatest counterfeit venture of all, Miles reported, was during World War II when Germany forged over 40 million in British money and unknown amounts of U.S. dollars, all of highest quality. The British also printed German money and so, rumor said, did most of the other Allies.

"Wouncha know it!" LaRocca declared. "Them's the kinda bastards put us in here. Betcha they're doing some o' the same right now."

LaRocca was appreciative of the cachet which attached to himself as a result of Miles's knowledge. He also made it clear that he was relaying some of the information to Mafia Row.

"Me and my people'll take care of ya outside," he announced one day, amplifying his earlier promise. Miles already knew that his own release from prison, and La Rocca's, could occur about the same time.

Talking money was a form of mental suspension for Miles, pushing away, however briefly, the horror of the present. He supposed, too, he should feel relief about the stopping of the loan clock. Yet neither talking nor thinking of other things was sufficient to exclude, except momentarily, his general wretchedness and self-disgust. Because of it, he began to consider suicide.

The self-loathing focused on his relationship with Karl. The big man had declared he wanted, "Your sweet white ass, baby. Your body just for me. Any time I need it." Since their agreement, he had made the promise come true with an appetite which seemed insatiable.

At the beginning Miles tried to anesthetize his mind, telling himself that what was happening was preferable to gang rape, which because of Karl's instinctive gentleness fit was. Yet disgust and consciousness remained. But what had developed since was worse.

Even in his own mind Miles found it hard to accept, but the fact was: he was beginning to enjoy what was occurring between himself and Karl. Furthermore, Miles was regarding his protector with new feelings… Affection? Yes… Love? Sol He dared not, for the moment, go that far.

The realizations shattered him. Yet he followed new suggestions which Karl made, even when these caused Miles's homosexual role to become more positive.

After each occasion questions haunted him. Was he a man any longer? He knew he had been before, but now could not be sure. Had he become perverted totally? Was this a way it happened? Could there ever be a turnabout, a reversion later, canceling out the tasting, savoring, here and now? If not, was life worth living? He doubted it.

It was then that despair enveloped him and that suicide seemed logical a panacea, an ending, a release. Though difficult in the crowded prison, it could be done by hanging. Five times since Miles's arrival there had been cries of "hang-up!" usually in the night when guards would rush like storm troopers, cursing, pulling levers to unlock tiers, "cracking" a cell open, racing to cut down a would be suicide before he died. On three of the five occasions, cheered on by prisoners' raucous cries and laughter, they were too late. Immediately after, because suicides were an embarrassment to the prison, night guard patrols were increased, but the effort seldom lasted.

Miles knew how it was done. You soaked a length of sheet or blanket so it wouldn't tear urinating on it would be quieter then secured it to an overhead beam which could be reached from a top bunk. It would have to be done silently while others in the cell were sleeping.. .

In the end one thing, and one thing only, stopped him. No other factor swayed Miles's decision to hang on.

He wanted, when his time in prison was done, to tell Juanita Nunez he was sorry.

Miles Eastin's penitence at his time of sentencing had been genuine. He had felt remorse at having stolen from First Mercantile American Bank where he had been treated honorably, and had given dishonor in return. In retrospect he wondered how he could have stifled his conscience as he did.

Sometimes, when he thought about it now, it seemed as if a fever had possessed hirn. The betting, socializing, sporting events, living beyond his means, the insanity of borrowing from a loan shark, and the stealing, appeared in hindsight like crazily mismated parts of a distemper. He had lost touch with reality and, as with a fever in advanced stages, his mind had been distorted until decency and moral values disappeared. How else, he had asked himself a thousand times, could he have stooped so despicably, have been guilty of such vileness, as to cast blame for his own offense on Juanita Nunez?

At the trial, so great had been his shame, he could not bear to look Juanita's way.

Now, six months later, Miles's concern about the bank was less. He had wronged FMA but in prison would have paid his debt in full. By God, he had paid!

But not even Drummonburg in all its awfulness made up for what he owed Juanita. Nothing ever would. It was why he must seek her out and beg forgiveness. Thus, since he needed life to do it, he endured.

10

"This is First Mercantile American Bank," the FMA money trader snapped crisply into the telephone; he had it cradled expertly between his shoulder and left ear so his hands were free. "I want six million dollars overnight. What's your rate?"

From the California West Coast the voice of a money trader in the giant Bank of America drawled, "Thirteen and five eighths." 'that's high," the FMA man said. 'Tough titty."

The FMA trader hesitated, trying to outguess the other, wondering which way the rate would go. From habit he filtered out the persistent drone of voices around him in First Mercantile American's Money Trading Center a sensitive, security-guarded nerve core in FMA Headquarters Tower, which few of the bank's customers knew about and only a privileged handful ever saw. But it was in centers like this that much of a big bank's profit was made or could be lost.

Reserve requirements made necessary for a bank to hold specific amounts of cash against possible demand, but no bank wanted too much idle money or too little. Bank money traders kept amounts in balance.

"Hold, please," the FMA trader said to San Francisco. He pressed a "hold" button on his phone console, then another button near it.

A new voice announced, "Manufacturers Hanover Trust, New York." "I need six million overnight. What's your rate?" "Thirteen and three quarters." On the East Coast the rate was rising.

"Thanks, no thanks." The FMA trader broke the connection with New York and released the "hold" button where San Francisco was waiting. He said, 'I guess I’l1 take it."

"Six million sold to you at thirteen and five eighths," Bank of America said. "Right."

The trade had taken twenty seconds. It was one of thousands daily between rival banks in a contest of nerve and wits, with stakes in seven figures. Bank money traders were invariably young men in their thirties bright and ambition, quick-minded, unflustered under pressure. Yet, since a record of success in trading could advance a young man's career and mistakes blight it, tension was constant so that three years on a money-trading desk was considered a maximum. After that, the strain began to show.

At this moment, in San Francisco and at First Mercantile American Bank the latest transaction was being recorded, fed to a computer, then transmitted to the Federal Reserve System. At the "Fed," for the next twenty-four hours, reserves of Bank of America would be debited by six million dollars, the reserves of FMA credited with the same amount. FMA would pay Bank of America for the use of its money for that time.

All over the country similar transactions between other banks were taking place. It was a Wednesday, in mid-April.

Alex Vandervoort, visiting the Money Trading Center, a part of his domain within the bank, nodded a greeting to the trader who was seated on an elevated platform surrounded by assistants, the latter funneling information and completing paper work. The young man, already immersed in another trade, returned the greeting with a wave and cheerful smile.

Elsewhere in the room the size of an auditorium and with similarities to the control center of a busy airport were other traders in securities and bonds, flanked by aides, accountants, secretaries. All were engaged in deploying the bank's money lending, borrowing, investing, selling, reinvesting.

Beyond the traders, a half-dozen financial supervisors worked at larger, plusher desks.

Traders and supervisors alike faced a huge board, running the trading center's length and giving quotations, interest rates and other information. The remote-controlled figures on the board changed constantly.

A bond trader at a desk not far from where Alex was standing rose to his feet and announced loudly, "Ford and United Auto Workers just announced a two-year contract." Several other traders reached for telephones. Important industrial and political news, because of its instant effect on securities prices, was always shared this way by the first in the room to hear of it.

Seconds later, a green light above the information board winked off and was replaced by flashing amber. It was a signal to traders not to commit themselves because new quotations, presumably resulting from the auto industry settlement, were coming in. A flashing red light, used rarely, was a warning of more cataclysmic change.

Yet the money-trading desk, whose operation Alex had been watching, remained a pivot point.

Federal regulations required banks to have seventeen and a half percent of their demand deposits available in liquid cash. Penalties for non-compliance were severe. Yet it was equally poor banking to leave large sums uninvested, even for a day.

Therefore banks maintained a continual tally of all money moving in and out. A central cashier's department kept a finger on the flow like a physician on a pulse. If deposits within a banking system such as First Mercantile American's were heavier than anticipated, the bank through its money trader promptly loaned surplus funds to other banks who might be short of their reserve requirements. Conversely, if customer withdrawals were unusually heavy, FMA would borrow.

A bank's position changed from hour to hour, so that a bank which was a lender in the morning could be a borrower at midday and a lender again before the close of business. This way, a large bank might trade better than a billion dollars in a day.

Two other things could be said and often were about the system. First, banks were usually faster in pursuing earnings for themselves than for their clients. Second, banks did far, far better in the way of profit for themselves than they achieved for outsiders who entrusted money to them.

Alex Vandervoort's presence in the Money Trading Center had been partly to keep in touch with money flow, which he often did, partly to discuss bank developments in recent weeks which had distressed him.

He was with Tom Straughan, a senior vice-president and fellow member of FMA's money policy committee. Straughan's office was immediately outside. He had walked into the Money Trading Center with Alex. It was young Straughan who, back in January, had opposed a cutback of Forum East funds but now welcomed the proposed loan to Supranational Corporation. They were discussing Supranational now.

"You're worrying too much, Alex," Tom Straughan insisted. "Besides being a nil-risk situation, SuNatCo will be good for us. I'm convinced of it."

Alex said impatiently, "There's no such thing as nil-risk. Even so, I'm less concerned about Supranational than I am about the taps we'll have to turn off elsewhere."

Both men knew which taps, within First Mercantile American, Alex was referring to. A memorandum of proposals, drafted by Roscoe Heyward and approved by the bank's president, Jerome Patterton, had been circulated to members of the money policy committee a few days earlier. To make possible the fifty million dollar Supranational line of credit, it was proposed to cut back drastically on small loans, home mortgages and municipal bond financing.

"If the loan goes through and we make those cutbacks," Tom Straughan argued, "they'll be only temporary. In three months, maybe less, our funding can revert to what it was before." "You may believe that, Tom. I don't."

Alex was dispirited before he came here. His converser lion with young Straughan now depressed him further.

The Heyward-Patterton proposals ran counter, not only to Alex's beliefs, but also his financial instincts. It was wrong, he believed, to channel the bank's funds so substantially into one industrial loan at the expense of public service, even though the industrial financing would be far more profitable. But even from a solely business viewpoint, the extent of the bank's commitment to Supranational through SuNatCo subsidiaries made him uneasy.

On the last point, he realized, he was a minority of one. Everyone else in the bank's top management was delighted with the new Supranational connection and Roscoe Heyward had been congratulated effusively for achieving it. Yet Alex's uneasiness persisted, though he was unable to say why. Certainly Supranational seemed to be sound financially; its balance sheets showed the giant conglomerate radiating fiscal health. And in prestige, SuNatCo rated alongside companies like General Motors, IBM, Exxon, Du Pont, and U. S. Steel.

Perhaps, Alex thought, his doubts and depression stemmed from his own declining influence within the bank. And it war declining. That had become evident in recent weeks.

In contrast, Roscoe Heyward's star was high in the ascendant. He had the ear and confidence of Patterton, a confidence expanded by the dazzling success of Heyward's two-day sojourn in the Bahamas with G. G. Quatermain

Alex's own reservations about that success were, he knew, regarded as sour grapes.

Alex sensed, too, that he had lost his personal influence with Straughan and others who formerly considered themselves on the Vandervoort bandwagon.

"You have to admit," Straughan was saying, "that the Supranational deal is sweet. You've heard that Roscoe made them agree to a compensating balance of ten percent?"

A compensating balance was an arrangement, arrived at after tough bargaining between banks and borrowers. A bank insisted that a predetermined portion of any loan be kept on deposit in current account, where it earned no interest for the depositor yet was available to the bank for its own use and investment. Thus a borrower failed to have full use of all of his loan, making the real rate of interest substantially higher than the apparent rate. In the case of Supranational, as Tom Straughan had pointed out, five million dollars would remain in new SuNatCo checking accounts very much to FMA's advantage.

"I presume," Alex said tautly, "you're aware of the other side of that cozy deal."

Tom Straughan appeared uncomfortable. "Well, I've been advised there was an understanding. I'm not sure we should call it ithe other side.'"

"Dammit, that's what it is! We both know that SuNatCo insisted, and Roscoe agreed, our trust department would invest heavily in Supranational common stock." "If they did, there's nothing down on paper."

"Of course not. No one would be that foolish." Alex eyed the younger man. "You've access to the figures. How much have we bought so far?"

Straughan hesitated, then walked to the desk of one of the Trading Center supervisors. He returned with a penciled notation on a slip of paper.

"As of today, ninety-seven thousand shares." Straughan added, 'The latest quote was at fifty-two."

Alex said dourly, "There'll be a rubbing of hands at Supranational. Our buying has already pushed up their price five dollars a share." He calculated mentally. "So in the past week we've bulldozed nearly five million dollars of trust clients' money into Supranational. Why?"

"It's an excellent investment." Straughan tried a light touch. "We'll make capital gains for all those widows and orphans and educational foundations whose money we take care of."

"Or erode it while abusing our trust. What do we know about SuNatCo, Tom any of us that we didn't two weeks ago? Why, until this week, has the trust department never bought a single Supranational share?"

The younger man was silent, then said defensively, "I suppose Roscoe feels that now he'll be on the board he can watch the company more closely."

"I'm disappointed in you, Tom. You never used to be dishonest with yourself, especially when you know the real reasons as well as I do." As Straughan flushed, Alex persisted, "Have you any idea what kind of scandal would blow up if SEC stumbled onto this? There's conflict of interest; abuse of lending limitation law; the use of trust funds to influence the bank's own business; and I've not the least doubt there's agreement to vote the Supranational stock with management at the next SuNatCo annual meeting."

Straughan said sharply, "If it's so, it wouldn't be the first time - even here."

"Unfortunately that's true. But it doesn't make this smell any sweeter."

The question of trust department ethics was an old one. Supposedly, banks maintained an internal barrier sometimes called a Chinese Wall between their own commercial interests and trust investments. In fact, they didn't.

When a bank had billions of dollars in clients' trust funds to invest, it was inevitable that the "clout" this gave should be employed commercially. Companies in which a bank invested heavily were expected to respond with reciprocal banking business. Often, too, they were pressured into having a bank director on their board. If they did neither, other investments would speedily replace their own in trust portfolios, with their stock nudged downward as the result of a bank sell-off.

As well, brokerage houses which handled the huge volume of trust department buying and selling were expected to maintain large bank balances themselves. They usually did. If not, the coveted brokerage business went elsewhere.

Despite banks' public relations propaganda, the interests of trust department clients, including proverbial widows and orphans, often rated second to a bank's own interests. It was one reason why trust department results were generally so poor.

Thus, Alex knew, the Supranational-FMA situation was not unique. Just the same, the knowledge did not make him like it any more.

"Alex," Tom Straughan volunteered, "I may as well tell you that at the money committee tomorrow I intend to support the Supranational loan." "I'm sorry to hear that."

But the news was not unexpected. And Alex wondered how much longer it would be before he would stand so alone and isolated that his position in the bank would be untenable. It could happen soon.

After tomorrow's money policy committee meeting, where the proposals concerning Supranational were certain to be approved by a majority, the full board of directors would meet next Wednesday with Supranational on its agenda too. At both meetings, Alex was sure, his would be a lone, dissenting voice.

He surveyed, once more, the ever-busy Money Trading Center, dedicated to wealth and profit, unchanged in principle from the ancient money temples of Babylon and Greece. Not, he thought, that money, commerce, and profit were in themselves unworthy. Alex was dedicated to all three, though not blindly, and with reservations involving moral scruples, the reasonable distribution of wealth, and banking ethics. Yet, when exceptional profit was in prospect, as all history showed, those with such reservations were shouted down or swept aside.

Facing the powerhouse forces of big money and big business exemplified now by Supranational and a majority in FMA what could one individual, alone in opposition, hope to do?

Little, Alex Vandervoort concluded dismally. Maybe nothing.

11

The meeting of the Board of Directors of First Mercantile American Bank, in the third week of April, was memorable on several counts.

Two major items of bank policy were the subject of intense discussion one, the Supranational line of credit, the other a proposed expanding of the bank's savings activity and the opening of many new suburban branches.

Even before proceedings began, the meeting's tone was evident. Heyward, unusually jovial and relaxed, and wearing a smart new light gray suit, was on hand early. He greeted other directors at the boardroom door as they arrived. From the cordial responses it was clear that most members of the board had not only heard of the Supranational agreement through the financial grapevine but were heartily in favor of it.

"Congratulations, Roscoe," Philip Johannsen, president of MidContinent Rubber, said, "you've really moved this bank into the big league. More power to you, fellal"

A beaming Heyward acknowledged, "I appreciate your support, Phil. I'd like you to know I've other targets in mind." "You'll hit them, never fear."

A beetle-browed director from upstate, Floyd LeBerre, board chairman of General Cable and Switchgear Corporation, came in. In the past LeBerre had never been especially cordial to Heyward, but now he shook-the other's hand warmly. "Delighted to hear you're going on the Supranational board, Roscoe." The General Cable chairman lowered his voice. "My switchgear sales division is putting in some bids for SuNatCo business. Sometime soon I'd like to talk about them."

"Let's make it next week," Heyward said agreeably. "You can be sure I'll help all I can." LeBerre moved on, his expression pleased.

Harold Austin, who had heard the exchange, winked knowingly. "Our little trip paid off. You're riding high."

Today, the Honorable Harold looked more than ever the aging playboy: a colorful plaid jacket, brown bell-bottom trousers, his gaily patterned shirt sporting a cerulean blue bow tie. The white flowing hair was newly trimmed and styled.

"Harold," Heyward said, "if there's anything at all I can do in return."

"There will be," the Honorable Harold assured him, then strolled to his seat at the boardroom table.

Even Leonard L. Kingswood, the energetic chairman of Northam Steel and Alex Vandervoort's most fervent supporter on the board, had a good word as he passed by. "Hear you corralled Supranational, Roscoe. That's first-class business." Other directors were equally complimentary.

Among the last arrivals were Jerome Patterton and Alex Vandervoort. The bank president, his white-fringed, bald head gleaming, and looking as usual like a gentleman farmer, went at once to the head of the long, elliptical boardroom table. Alex, carrying a folder of papers, took his regular seat midway on the left-hand side.

Patterton gaveled for attention and speedily disposed of several routine matters. Then he announced, "The first main item of business is: Loans submitted for board approval."

Around the table a flurry of turning pages signaled the opening of FMA's traditional blue, confidential loan folders, prepared for directors' use. "As usual, gentlemen, you have in front of you details of management's proposals. What's of special interest today, as most of you know already, is our new account with Supranational Corporation. Personally, I'm delighted with the terms negotiated and strongly recommend approval. I'll leave it to Roscoe, who's responsible for bring.ing this new, important business to the bank, to fill in background and answer any questions."

"Thank you, Jerome." Roscoe Heyward eased on his rimless glasses which he had been polishing out of habit and leaned forward in his chair. When he spoke his manner seemed less austere than usual his voice pleasant and assured.

"Gentlemen, in embarking on any large loan commitment, it is prudent to seek assurance of the borrower's financial soundness, even when that borrower has a triple A credit rating, as Supranational does. In appendix 'B' of your blue folders" around the table there was again a rifling of pages "you will find a summary I have personally prepared of assets and projected profits of the SuNatCo group, including all subsidiaries. This is based on audited financial statements plus additional data supplied at my request by Supranational's comptroller, Mr. Stanley Inchbeck. As you can see, the figures are excellent. Our risk is minimal."

"I don't know Inchbeck's reputation," a director interjected; he was Wallace Sperrie, owner of a scientific instrument company. "But I know yours, Roscoe, and if you approve these figures then they're quadruple-A for me." Several others chimed in their assent,

Alex Vandervoort doodled with a pencil on a pad in front of him.

"Thank you, Wally, and gentlemen." Heyward permitted himself a slight smile. "I'm hopeful your confidence will extend to the concomitant action I have recommended."

Although the recommendations were listed in the blue folder, he described them anyway the fifty-million-dollar line of credit to be granted in full to Supranational and subsidiaries immediately, with financial cutbacks in other areas of the bank to become effective at the same time. The cutbacks, Heyward assured the listening directors, would be restored "as soon as possible and wise," though he preferred not to specify when. He concluded, "I recommend this package to the board and I promise that, in light of it, our own profit figures will look very good indeed."

As Heyward leaned back in his chair, Jerome Patterton announced, 'The meeting is open for questions and discussion." "frankly," Wallace Sperrie said, "I see no need for either. Everything's clear. I think we're witnesses to a masterstroke of business for the bank and I propose approval." Several voices together called out, "Second!"

"Proposed and seconded," Jerome Patterton intoned. "Are we ready to vote?" He obviously hoped so. His gavel was poised.

"No," Alex Vandervoort said quietly. He pushed his pencil and doodling away. "Nor do I think anyone else should vote without a great deal more discussion."

Patterton sighed. He set the gavel down. Alex had already warned him, as a courtesy, of his intentions, but Patterton had hoped that Alex, sensing the near-unanimous mood of the board, would change his mind.

"I genuinely regret," Alex Vandervoort was saying now, "to find myself before the board in conflict with my fellow officers, Jerome and Roscoe. But I cannot, as a matter of duty and conscience, conceal my anxiety about this loan and my opposition to it."

"What's the trouble? Doesn't your girl friend like Supranational?" The barbed question came from Forrest Richardson, a longtime PMA director; he was brusque mannered, had a reputation as a martinet, and was a crown prince of meat-packing.

Alex flushed with anger. No doubt directors remembered the public linking of his name with Margot's "bank-in" campaign three months earlier; just the same, he was not prepared to have his personal life dissected here. But he withheld a strong retort and answered, "Miss Bracken and I rarely discuss banking nowadays. I assure you we haven't this."

Another director asked, "Just what is it you don't like about the deal, Alex?" "Everything."

Around the table there was a restless stirring and exclamations of annoyed surprise. Faces which had turned toward Alex betrayed a lack of friendliness.

Jerome Patterton advised curtly, "You'd better lay the whole thing out."

"Yes, I will." Alex reached into the file folder he had brought and extracted a single page of notes..~

"To begin with, I object to the extent of the commitment to a single account. And not only is it an ill-advised concentration of risk, in my opinion it is fraudulent under Section 23A of the Federal Reserve Act."

Roscoe Heyward leaped to his feet. "I object to that word 'fraudulent."' "Objecting doesn't change the truth," Alex said calmly.

"It is not the truth! We have made plain that the full commitment is not to Supranational Corporation itself, but to its subsidiaries. They are Hepplewhite Distillers, Greenpastures Land, Atlas Jet Leasing, Caribbean Finance, and International Bakeries." Heyward snatched up a blue folder. "The allocations are spelled out specifically in here."

"All those companies are controlled subsidiaries of Supranational."

"But also long-established, viable companies in their own right."

"Then why, today and all other times, have we been speaking solely of Supranational?" "For simplicity and convenience." Heyward glowered.

"You know as well as I do," Alex insisted, "that once the bank's money is in any of those subsidiaries, G. G. Quartermain can, and will, move it around any way he chooses."

"Now hold everything!" The interruption came from Harold Austin who had leaned forward, slapping a hand on the table for attention. "Big George Quartermain is a good friend of mine. I won't sit quietly hearing an accusation of bad faith."

"There was no accusation of bad faith," Alex responded. "What I'm talking about is a fact of conglomerate life. Large sums of money are transferred frequently between Supranational subsidiaries; their balance sheets show it. And what that confirms is we'll be lending to a single entity."

"Well," Austin said; he turned from Alex, addressing other members of the board, "I'll simply repeat that I know Quartermain well, and Supranational too. As most of you here are aware, I was responsible for the Bahamas meeting between Roscoe and Big George where this line of credit was arranged. In view of everything, I say it's an exceptionally good deal for the bank."

There was a momentary silence which Philip Johannsen broke.

"Could it be, Alex," the MidContinent Rubber president inquired, "that you're just a little sore because Roscoe, and not you, was invited to that Bahamas golf game?"

"No. The point I'm making has nothing to do with personalities. "

Someone else said skeptically, "It sure doesn't look that ways,

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Jerome Patterton rapped sharply with his gavel.

Alex had expected something of this kind. Keeping his cool, he persisted, "I repeat, the loan is too big a commitment to one borrower. Furthermore, pretending it isn't to a single borrower is an artful attempt to circumvent the law, and, all of us in this room know it." He threw a challenging glance around the table.

"I don't know it," Roscoe Heyward said, "and I say your interpretation is biased and in error."

By now it was obvious this had become an extraordinary occasion. Board meetings normally were either rubber-stamp affairs or, in event of mild disagreement, directors exchanged polite. gentlemanly comments. Angry, acerbic argument was virtually unknown.

For the first time Leonard L. Kingswood spoke his voice was conciliatory. "Alex, I'll admit there's some substance to what you say, but the fact is what's being suggested here is done all the time between big banks and large corporations."

Intervention by the Northam Steel chairman was significant. At last December's board meeting Kingswood had been a leader in urging Alex's appointment as chief executive officer of FMA. Now he went on, "Frankly, if there's anything to be guilty of with that kind of financing, my own company has been guilty of it too."

Regretfully, knowing it was costing him a friend, Alex shook his head. "I'm sorry, Len. I still don't believe that it's right, any more than I think we should leave ourselves open to a conflict-of-interest charge by Roscoe going on the Supranational board."

Leonard Kingswood's mouth tightened. He said nothing more.

But Philip Johannsen did. He told Alex sourly, "If, after that last remark, you expect us to believe there is nothing personal here, you're crazy." Roscoe Heyward tried, but failed, to conceal a smile.

Alex's face was set grimly. He wondered if this was the last FMA board meeting he would attend, though whether it was or wasn't he would complete what he had begun. Ignoring Johannsen's remark, he declared, "As bankers we just don't learn. From all sides Congress, consumers, our own customers, the press we're accused of perpetuating conflict of interest through interlocking directorates. If we're honest with ourselves, most accusations are on target. Everyone here knows how the big oil companies liaise with each other by working closely on bank boards, and that's only one example. Yet we continue and continue with this same kind of inbreeding: You be on my board, I'll be on yours. When Roscoe is a director of Supranational, whose interests will be put first? Supranational's? Or First Mercantile American's? And on our board here will he favor SuNatCo over other companies because of his directorship over there? The shareholders of both companies are entitled to answers to those questions; so are legislators and the public. What's more, if we don't provide some convincing answers soon, if we don't cease being as high-handed as we are, all of banking will be faced with tough, restrictive laws. And we'll deserve them."

"If you followed through logically on all that," Forrest Richardson objected, "half the members of this board could be accused of conflict of interest."

"Precisely. And the time is dose when the bank will have to face that situation and amend it."

Richardson growled, "There may be other opinions on that score." His own meat-packing company, as they all knew, was a large borrower from FMA and Forrest Richardson had participated in board meetings where loans to his company were approved.

Disregarding the growing hostility, Alex plowed on. "Other aspects of the Supranational loan disturb me equally. To make the money available we're to cut back mortgage lending and small loans. In these two areas alone the bank will be defective in its public service."

Jerome Patterton said huffily, "It's been dearly stated that those cutbacks are temporary."

"Yes," Alex acknowledged. "Except no one will say just how temporary, or what happens to the business and goodwill the bank will lose while the ban is on. And then there's the third area of cutback which we haven't touched on yet municipal bonds." Opening his file folder, he consulted a second sheet of notes. "In the next six weeks, eleven issues of county and school district bonds within the state will be up for bid. If our bank fails to participate, at least half those bonds are certain to remain unsold." Alex's voice sharpened. "Is it the board's intention to dispense, so quickly after Ben Rosselli’s death, with a tradition spanning three Rosselli generations?"

For the first time since the meeting began directors exchanged uneasy glances. A policy established long ago by the bank's founder, Giovanni Rosselli, had First Mercantile American Bank taking the lead in underwriting and selling bond issues of small municipalities in the state. Without such aid from the state's largest bank, such bond issues never large, important, or well known might go unmarketed, leaving financial needs of their communities unmet. The tradition had been faithfully adhered to by Giovanni's son, Lorenzo, and grandson Ben. The business was not especially profitable, though neither did it represent a loss. But it was a significant public service and also returned to small communities some of the money their own citizenry deposited in FMA.

"Jerome," Leonard Kingswood suggested, "maybe you should take another look at that situation." There were murmurs of assent.

Roscoe Heyward made a swift assessment. "Jerome… if I may." The bank president nodded.

"In view of what seems a sentiment of the board," Heyward offered smoothly, "I'm certain we can make a fresh appraisal and perhaps restore a portion of municipal bond funding without impeding any of the Supranational arrangements. May I suggest that the board, having made its feelings clear, leaves details to the discretion of Jerome and myself." Notably, he did not include Alex. Nods and voices signified agreement.

Alex objected, "That's not a full commitment, nor does it do anything to restore home mortgages and small loans." The other board members were pointedly silent.

"I believe we've heard all viewpoints," Jerome Patterton suggested. "Perhaps we can now vote on the proposal as a whole." "No," Alex said, "there's still one other matter."

Patterton and Heyward exchanged glances of half-amused resignation.

"I've already pointed to a conflict of interest," Alex stated somberly. "Now I warn the board of an even larger one. Since negotiation of the Supranational loan, and up to yesterday afternoon, our own trust department has bought" he consulted his notes "one hundred and twenty-three thousand Supranational shares. In that time, and almost certainly because of the substantial buying with our trust clients' money, the SuNatCo share price has risen seven and a half points which I'm sure was intended and agreed to as a condition…"

He was drowned out by protesting voices Roscoe Heyward's, Jerome Patterton's, and those of other direct tors.

Heyward was on his feet again, eyes blazing. "That's a deliberate distortion!" Alex slammed back, 'The purchasing is no distortion."

"But your interpretation is. SuNatCo is an excellent investment for our trust accounts." "What makes it suddenly so good?"

Patterton protested heatedly, "Alex, specific transactions of the trust department are not a matter for discussion here." Philip Johannsen snapped, "I agree with that."

Harold Austin and several others called out loudly, "So do I!"

"Whether they are or aren't," Alex persisted, "I warn you all that what is happening may be in contravention of the Glass-Steagall Act of 1933, and that directors can be held responsible…"

A half dozen more voices erupted angrily at once. Alex knew he had touched a sensitive nerve. While board members were undoubtedly aware that the kind of duplicity he had described went on, they preferred not to know of it specifically. Knowledge implied involvement and responsibility. They wanted neither.

Well, Alex thought, like it or not, they knew now. Above the other voices he continued firmly, "I advise the board that if it ratifies the Supranational loan with all its ramifications, we'll regret it." He leaned back in his chair. 'That’s all."

As Jerome Patterton pounded with his gavel, the hubbub quietened.

Patterton, paler than before, announced, "If there is no further discussion we will record a vote."

Moments later the Supranational proposals were approved, with Alex Vandervoort the sole dissenter.

12

A coolness toward Vandenoort was evident when the directom resumed their meeting after lunch. Normally a two-hour morning session disposed of all board business. Today, however, extra time had been allotted.

Aware of the board's antagonism, Alex had suggested to Jerome Patterton during lunch that his presentation be deferred until next month's meeting. But Patterton told him curtly, "Nothing doing. If the directors are in a surly mood, you made them that way and you can damn well take your chances."

It was an extraordinarily strong statement for the mild-mannered Patterton, but illustrated the tide of- disfavor now running against Alex. It also convinced him that the next hour or so would be an exercise in futility. His proposals seemed certain to be rejected out of perversity, if for no other reason.

As directors settled down, Philip Johannsen set the mood by pointedly consulting his watch. "I've already had to cancel one appointment this afternoon," the MidContinent Rubber chief grumbled, "and I've other things to do, so let's keep it short." Several others nodded agreement.

"I'll be as brief as possible, gentlemen," Alex promised vLen Jerome Patterton had introduced him formally. "My intention is to make four points." He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke.

"One, our bank is losing important, profitable business by failing to make the most of opportunities for savings growth. Two, an expansion of savings deposits will improve the bank's stability. Third, the longer we delay, the harder it will be to catch up with our many competitors. Fourth, there is scope for leadership which we and other banks should exercise in a return to habits of personal, corporate, and national thrift, neglected far too long."

He described methods by which First Mercantile American could gain an edge over competitors a higher savings interest rate, to the top legal limit; more attractive terms for one-to-five-year certificates of deposit; checking facilities for savings depositors as far as banking law allowed; gifts for those opening new accounts; a massive advertising campaign embodying the savings program and the nine new branches.

For his presentation Alex had left his usual seat to stand at the head of the boardroom table. Patterton had moved his own chair to one side. Alex had brought in, also, the bank's chief economist, Tom Straughan, who had prepared charts displayed on easels for the board to view.

Roscoe Heyward had eased forward in his seat and was listening, his face expressionless.