Butterworth. I listen to his commentaries every day.'
Jet Peters swigged at his highball. Sitting around waiting for the broadcast, he'd already had enough to still the characteristic tremor of his hands. He said, 'Ken is Roy's announcer. Forry ponied up fifty thousand to get him for just a few minutes. Nothing but the best for Roy Cos. That Brit shyster in Nassau will be sweating thirty-eight caliber turdlets at the rate Forry goes through that million pseudo-dollars a day. Christ only knows what we're paying for fifteen minutes of prime time on an international hookup.'
The life-size figure seated behind the desk said, 'Folks, this is Ken Butterworth, yours truly. Tonight, I have a surprise for you. If you follow the news at all, you know that Roy Cos has gained instant fame as the Deathwish Wobbly. Roy Cos, a dedicated idealist, is risking his life—perhaps sacrificing it—to bring you the message of the Industrial Workers of the World—the Wobblies. Mr. Cos is unsusal for a man with a message. He doesn't insist that you subscribe to his admittedly radical view—only that he be granted the opportunity to say it and allow you to make your own decisions.
'Roy Cos's life has been insured for an unbelievable sum. So long as he lives, he has a very large credit line. Unlike others who sign Deathwish Policies, Roy Cos is devoting his credits to spreading his message. His life expectancy might be measured in hours. But tonight he will bring you his program of basic changes to our social system. He plans further broad casts…'the news commentator paused dramatically '… if he survives. Folks, I present Mr. Roy Cos, the Deathwish Wobbly.'
Ken Butterworth faded out and Roy came on lens, sitting at i similar desk. Flanking him and behind stood Billy Tucker and Ron Ellison, their faces alert, their eyes periodically roaming.
Ferd's plump mouth seemed to pout. 'What the hell are
Jet Peters laughed. 'One of Forry's ideas to emphasize Roy's continual danger. They're in a little studio in one of the smaller Tri-Di stations about fifty miles from here. I don't know where. There's not a chance that anybody knows where they are, and even if they did, they couldn't get into that studio. But it looks authentic. Roy is being guarded every minute.'
Mary Ann said, even as Roy started his talk. 'He looks awful. His face is too pale.'
'Too heavy, too,' Ferd said. 'Put some of the cosmetic boys to work on him, Mary Ann. He needs to cut a sympathetic figure. Kind of romantic.'
Roy was reading his speech somewhat stiffly. He'd never appeared on the airwaves before. The three watching had heard the speech a dozen times before and had all had a hand in its final polishing, so they didn't bother to listen too closely.
Jet said, 'He needs coaching. Forry ought to hire a couple of actors to give him some pointers.' He looked at Ferd. 'Where do we meet the rest of them after the broadcast?'
'Search me,' Ferd said. He looked at Mary Ann.
Mary Ann said, 'No. That's why I had you pack, ready to go. We're to meet Roy and the others at a prearranged street corner, ditch our car there, and then go on. I don't know where.'
'I hope the hell we don't get separated from them,' the publicity man growled.
Ferd took a sip from his glass of beer. 'Well, from now on, the credits start accumulating,' he said in his fat man's voice. 'Now we come out from cover and start spending that money. Do you realize we've already made seventy thousand apiece? We've been on the payroll a week and Forty hasn't allowed him to use his credit card at all. Man, when he does—it'll all hit the fan at once.'
The secretary put her elbows tight against her sides in feminine rejection. 'Don't talk about the money we're making,' she said. 'It sounds ghoulish.'
Jet said to her, 'Where are we going to meet them?'
'On a street corner.'
He scowled impatiently. 'What street corner?'
She was embarrassed. 'Forry told me not to tell anyone.'
The publicity man didn't get it and said, 'You mean he doesn't even trust us?'
'Oh, don't be a cloddy, Jet. It's not just us. He didn't tell anybody where we were to rendezvous, except me. Only one of us needs to know. The fewer people who know, the less chance there is for an accidental leak.'
Roy Cos finished his talk and Forry Brown took over, seated in Ken Butterworth's place, lending him a spurious celebrity. The scrawny little newsman was more at home on lens than Roy. He said, squinting his faded gray eyes, 'Thanks to all you people for listening. As Ken Butterworth said, Roy will have more to say—if he survives. It's rumored that the contract for his death—his murder—is in the hands of the legendary Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, of Mercenaries, Incorporated. In short, it's just a matter of time now. Roy Cos and his staff are on the run. But I'm going to let you listeners in on something: we are not going to give advance notice of Roy's broadcasts. Instead, we're going to spring them at just about any time, any place. You might even keep your video recorders taping. Tomorrow or the next day, just by chance, you might come onto another Wobbly broadcast. If and when you do, phone three of your friends who might be interested, and tell them that the Deathwish Wobbly is again hurrying through one of his talks before the Grafs killers can catch up to him.' A one-beat pause before Forry delivered his clincher: 'They just might catch him while he's on camera.'
Jet came to his feet and said, 'I'll finish packing my bags. Got some things I've got to cram into them.' He left the room.
Mary Ann looked after him thoughtfully.
Forry, on the Tri-Di screen, was continuing. 'We applied to the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation for protection and were ignored. The only guards Roy has are four friends, fellow Wobblies. They are unarmed. They applied for permits to carry weapons but were denied. I suggest that any listener who is indignant over this get in touch with his congressman and senator. Demand that Roy's guards be allowed weapons! The Grafs gunmen will be armed to the teeth. Of course, most of you do not yet support the Wobbly cause. I, Roy Cos's manager, am not a Wobbly. But we all subscribe to the American tradition of fair play. We all believe that this dedicated man
The screen faded.
Suddenly, Mary Ann was on her feet, hurrying from the room. She went down the hall to Jet Peter's bedroom. It was closed but there was no lock.
She pushed through and entered briskly.
The publicity man was standing in the middle of the room, a pocket transceiver held to his mouth. His habitually bleary eyes widened, and for the briefest of split seconds it looked as though he was going to hide what he was doing. But that was nonsense.
Her eyes accused him silently.
He looked at her. 'One of my publicity outlets. I thought of one last thing I could plant in a…'
Mary Ann said crisply, 'No. All evening long you've been trying to find out where Roy is—where we were to meet and where we were going.''
'Don't be a mopsy,' he said contemptuously, deactivating the transceiver and returning it to a side pocket.
'I want to know to whom you were talking.'
'None of your goddam business.'
'I want to know, too,' a voice said from behind her. Ferd Feldmeyer stepped into the room.
Mary Ann said to him, 'I passed his room earlier and saw his bags there on the floor. He was already packed. His excuse for leaving while we were still listening to the broadcast wasn't valid. And now I caught him phoning somebody.'
Ferd looked at the publicity man wearily. 'What the hell's the matter, Jet? Wasn't ten thousand a day enough to keep you honest?'
Jet Peters stared at him. 'Ten thousand a day? Don't be silly. He won't last the next twenty-four hours— especially after that broadcast roasting the contracting corporation and the Graf. You two ought to come in with me. I was offered a quarter of a million pseudo-dollars, tax free, just for fingering him. They'll boost that now, if all three of us cooperate.'
'What some assholes will do for money,' Feldmeyer said, shaking his head. 'I always thought you were a square guy in a sloppy sort of way, Peters. You and Forty and I have known each other for a long time. You
