The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories (48 page)

“My grandfather won’t give up with him,” Kathy said meditatively. “And he is alive; he’s a turkey farmer or some such thing, on Io. Perhaps it’s ducks. Anyhow, he’s there. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Kathy said, “For my grandfather to contact him again. As he did before, four years ago, at the Convention then.”

“No one would vote for Gam again!” Repelled, he gazed at her.

Smiling, Kathy said nothing. But she squeezed his arm, hugging him. As if, he thought, she were afraid again, as she had been in the night, when he had talked to her. Perhaps even more so.

The handsome, dapper, middle-aged man wearing vest and narrow, old-fashioned necktie, rose to his feet as Claude St. Cyr entered the outer office of St. Cyr and Faine, on his way to court. “Mr. St. Cyr—”

Glancing at him, St. Cyr murmured, “I’m in a rush; you’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary.” And then he recognized the man. He was talking to Alfonse Gam.

“I have a telegram,” Gam said. “From Louis Sarapis.” He reached into his coat pocket.

“Sorry,” St. Cyr said stiffly. “I’m associated with Mr. Phil Harvey now; my business relationship with Mr. Sarapis was terminated several weeks ago.” But he paused, curious. He had met Gam before; at the time of the national campaign, four years ago, he had seen a good deal of the man—in fact, he had represented Gam in several libel suits, one with Gam as the plaintiff, the other as defendant. He did not like the man.

Gam said, “This wire arrived the day before yesterday.”

“But Sarapis has been—” Claude St. Cyr broke off. “Let me see it.” He held out his hand, and Gam passed him the wire.

It was a statement from Louis Sarapis to Gam, assuring Gam of Louis’s utter and absolute support in the forthcoming struggle at the Convention. And Gam was correct; the wire was dated only three days before. It did not make sense.

“I can’t explain it, Mr. St. Cyr,” Gam said dryly. “But it sounds like Louis. He wants me to run again. As you can see. It never occurred to me; as far as I’m concerned I’m out of politics and in the guinea-fowl business. I thought you might know something about this, who sent it and why.” He added, “Assuming that old Louis didn’t.”

St. Cyr said, “How could Louis have sent it?”

“I mean, written it before his death and had someone send it just the other day. Yourself, perhaps.” Gam shrugged. “Evidently it wasn’t you. Perhaps Mr. Barefoot, then.” He reached out for his wire.

“Do you actually intend to run again?” St. Cyr asked.

“If Louis wants me to.”

“And lose again? Drag the party to defeat again, just because of one stubborn, vindictive old man—” St. Cyr broke off. “Go back to raising guinea fowl. Forget politics. You’re a loser, Gam. Everyone in the party knows it. Everyone in America, in fact.”

“How can I contact Mr. Barefoot?”

St. Cyr said, “I have no idea.” He started on.

“I’ll need legal help,” Gam said.

“For what? Who’s suing you now? You don’t need legal help, Mr. Gam; you need medical help, a psychiatrist to explain why you want to run again. Listen—” He leaned toward Gam. “If Louis alive couldn’t get you into office, Louis dead certainly can’t.” He went on, then, leaving Gam standing there.

“Wait,” Gam said.

Reluctantly, Claude St. Cyr turned around.

“This time I’m going to win,” Gam said. He sounded as if he meant it; his voice, instead of its usual reedy flutter, was firm.

Uneasy, St. Cyr said, “Well, good luck. To both you and Louis.”

“Then he
is
alive.” Gam’s eyes flickered.

“I didn’t say that; I was being ironic.”

Gam said thoughtfully, “But he is alive; I’m sure of it. I’d like to find him. I went to some of the mortuaries, but none of them had him, or if they did they wouldn’t admit it. I’ll keep looking; I want to confer with him.” He added, “That’s why I came here from Io.”

At that point, St. Cyr managed to break away and depart.
What a nonentity,
he said to himself.
A cypher, nothing but a puppet of Louis’s.
He shuddered.
God protect us from such a fate: that man as our President.

Imagine us
all
becoming like Gam!

It was not a pleasant thought; it did not inspire him for the day ahead. And he had a good deal of work on his shoulders.

This was the day that he, as attorney for Phil Harvey, would make Mrs. Kathy Sharp—the former Kathy Egmont—an offer for Wilhelmina Securities. An exchange of stock would be involved; voting stock, redistributed in such a fashion that Harvey gained control of Wilhelmina. The worth of the corporation being almost impossible to calculate, Harvey was offering not money but real estate in exchange; he had enormous tracts of land on Ganymede, deeded to him by the Soviet Government a decade ago in exchange for technical assistance he had rendered it and its colonies.

The chance of Kathy accepting was nil.

And yet, the offer had to be made. The next step—he shrank from even thinking about it—involved a fracas to the death in the area of direct economic competition, between Harvey’s drayage firm and hers. And hers, he knew, was now in a state of decay; there had been union trouble since the old man’s death. The thing that Louis hated the most had started to take place: union organizers had begun to move in on Archimedean.

He himself sympathized with the unions; it was about time they came onto the scene. Only the old man’s dirty tactics and his boundless energy, not to speak of his ruthless, eternal imagination, had kept them out. Kathy had none of these. And Johnny Barefoot—

What can you ask of a noncol?
St. Cyr asked himself caustically.
Brilliant strategy-purse out of the sow’s ear of mediocrity?

And Barefoot had his hands full building up Kathy’s image before the public; he had barely begun to succeed in that when the union squabbles broke out. An ex-narcotics addict and religious nut, a woman who had a criminal record… Johnny had his work cut out for him.

Where he had been productive lay in the area of the woman’s physical appearance. She looked sweet, even gentle and pure; almost saintly. And Johnny had seized on this. Instead of quoting her in the press he had photographed her, a thousand wholesome poses: with dogs, children, at county fairs, at hospitals, involved in charity drives—the whole business.

But unfortunately Kathy had spoiled the image he had created, spoiled it in a rather unusual way.

Kathy maintained—simply—that she was in communication with her grandfather. That it was he who lay a light-week out in space, picked up by Kennedy Slough. She heard him, as the rest of the world did… and by some miracle he heard her, too.

St. Cyr, riding the self-service elevator up to the ‘copter port on the roof, laughed aloud. Her religious crankery couldn’t be kept from the gossip columnists… Kathy had said too much in public places, in restaurants and small, famous bars. And even with Johnny beside her. Even he couldn’t keep her quiet.

Also, there had been that incident at that party in which she had taken off her clothes, declaring the hour of purification to be momentarily arriving; she had daubed herself in certain spots with crimson nail polish, as well, a sort of ritual ceremony… of course she had been drinking.

And this is the woman,
St. Cyr thought,
who operates Archimedean.
The woman we must oust, for our good
and
the public’s.
It was, to him, practically a mandate in the name of the people. Virtually a public service to be performed, and the only one who did not see it that way was Johnny.

St. Cyr thought,
Johnny LIKES her. There’s the motive.

I wonder,
he mused,
what Sarah Belle thinks of that.

Feeling cheerful, St. Cyr entered his ‘copter, closed the hatch and inserted his key in the ignition. And then he thought once again of Alfonse Gam. And his good humor vanished at once; again he felt glum.

There are two people,
he realized,
who are acting on the assumption that old Louis Sarapis is alive; Kathy Egmont Sharp and Alfonse Gam.

Two most unsavory people, too. And, in spite of himself, he was being forced to associate with both of them. It seemed to be his fate.

He thought,
I’m no better off than I was with old Louis. In some respects, I’m even worse off.

The ‘copter rose into the sky, on its way to Phil Harvey’s building in downtown Denver.

Being late, he snapped on the little transmitter, picked up the microphone and put in a call to Harvey. “Phil,” he said, “Can you hear me? This is St. Cyr and I’m on my way west.” He listened, then.

Listened, and heard from the speaker a far-off weird babble, a murmur as if many words were being blended into a confusion. He recognized it; he had come onto it several times now, on the TV news programs.

“…spite of personal attacks, much superior to Chambers, who couldn’t win an election for house of ill repute janitor. You keep up faith in yourself, Alfonse. People know a good man, value him; you wait. Faith moves mountains. I ought to know, look what I’ve accomplished in my life…”

It was, St. Cyr realized, the entity a light-week out, now emitting an even more powerful signal; like sunspots, it beclouded normal transmission channels. He cursed, scowled, then snapped off the receiver.

Fouling up communications,
he said to himself.
Must be against the law; I ought to consult the FCC.

Shaken, he piloted his ‘copter on, across open farm land.

My God,
he thought,
it did sound like old Louis!

Could Kathy Egmont Sharp possibly be right?

At the Michigan plant of Archimedean, Johnny Barefoot appeared for his appointment with Kathy and found her in a state of gloom.

“Don’t you see what’s happening?” she demanded, facing him across the office which had once been Louis’s. “I’m not managing things right at all; everybody knows that. Don’t you know that?” Wild-eyed, she stared at him.

“I don’t know that,” Johnny said. But inside he did know it; she was correct. “Take it easy and sit down,” he said. “Harvey and St. Cyr will be here any minute now, and you want to be in command of yourself when you meet with them.” It was a meeting which he had hoped to avoid. But, he had realized, sooner or later it would take place, and so he had let Kathy agree to it.

Kathy said, “I have something terrible to tell you.”

“What is it? It can’t be so terrible.” He set himself, waiting in dread to hear.

“I’m back on drugs, Johnny. All this responsibility and pressure; it’s too much for me. I’m sorry.” She gazed down at the floor sadly.

“What is the drug?”

“I’d rather not say. It’s one of the amphetamines. I’ve read the literature; I know it can cause a psychosis, in the amounts I’m taking. But I don’t care.” Panting, she turned away, her back to him. He saw, now, how thin she had gotten. And her face was gaunt, hollow-eyed; he now understood why. The overdosage of amphetamines wasted the body away, turned matter into energy. Her metabolism was altered so that she became, as the addiction returned, a pseudo-hyperthyroid, with all the somatic processes speeded up.

Johnny said, “I’m sorry to hear it.” He had been afraid of this. And yet when it had come he had not understood; he had had to wait until she told him. “I think,” he said, “you should be under a doctor’s care.” He wondered where she got the drug. But probably for her, with her years of experience, it was not difficult.

“It makes a person very unstable emotionally,” Kathy said. “Given to sudden rages and also crying jags. I want you to know that, so you won’t blame me. So you’ll understand that it’s the drug.” She tried to smile; he saw her making the effort.

Going over to her he put his hand on her shoulder. “Listen,” he said, “when Harvey and St. Cyr get here, I think you better accept their offer.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “Well.”

“And then,” he said, “I want you to go voluntarily into a hospital.”

“The cookie factory,” Kathy said bitterly.

“You’d be better off,” he said, “without the responsibility you have, here at Archimedean. What you need is deep, protracted rest. You’re in a state of mental and physical fatigue, but as long as you’re taking that amphetamine—”

“Then it doesn’t catch up with me,” Kathy finished. “Johnny, I can’t sell out to Harvey and St. Cyr.”

“Why not?”

“Louis wouldn’t want me to. He—” She was silent a moment. “He says no.”

Johnny said, “Your health, maybe your life—”

“My sanity, you mean, Johnny.”

“You have too much personally at stake,” he said. “The hell with Louis. The hell with Archimedean; you want to find yourself in a mortuary, too, in half-life? It’s not worth it; it’s just property, and you’re a living creature.”

She smiled. And then, on the desk, a light came on and a buzzer sounded. The receptionist outside said, “Mrs. Sharp, Mr. Harvey and Mr. St. Cyr are here, now. Shall I send them in?”

“Yes,” she answered.

The door opened, and Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey came swiftly in. “Hey, Johnny,” St. Cyr said. He seemed to be in a confident mood; beside him, Harvey looked confident, too.

Kathy said, “I’ll let Johnny do most of the talking.”

He glanced at her.
Did that mean she had agreed to sell?
He said, “What kind of deal is this? What do you have to offer in exchange for a controlling interest in Wilhelmina Securities of Delaware? I can’t imagine what it could be.”

“Ganymede,” St. Cyr said. “An entire moon.” He added, “Virtually.”

“Oh yes,” Johnny said. “The USSR land deed. Has it been tested in the international courts?”

“Yes,” St. Cyr said, “and found totally valid. Its worth is beyond estimate. And each year it will increase, perhaps double, in value. My client will put that up. It’s a good offer, Johnny; you and I know each other, and you know when I say it that it’s true.”