“Nothing.”
“But he heard the whole conversation?”
“Thats right.”
“What did you say?”
“I clammed up.”
“All right. Ill take care of it. Come on.” The tycoon got up and headed for the office room’s elevator.
“Come on where?” he said now, following the other.
They got into the compartment and Rostoff gave the screen orders. Then he said to Don, “We’ve got a half dozen speech writers for you and a couple of coaches. They’re going to make you the best public speaker since William Jennings Bryan.”
Don had never heard of Bryan. He said, “Six speech writers? Why so many?”
“One is actually the head of your public relations staff. Each is a specialist in some field. One in radio-actives, one on the Jupiter satellites, one in religion, one in corporation law, and so forth. Every time you open your trap, the words that come out will indicate you’re one of the most erudite men in the system.”
The internal transport system of this portion of the Interplanetary Lines Building—call it an elevator if you will—took them this way and that and finally up to the next floor. They stopped, the door opened and they emerged into a moderately-sized conference room. There were nine men seated around the heavy table, coffee or drinks before them. One of them was Dirck Bosch, Demming’s secretary. The others Don didn’t recognize.
He took that back. He did recognize two of them. They were top Tri-Di actors. They were both sympathetic, he-man types, both in Don’s age group and both approximately his own size.
All came to their feet when Don and Rostoff entered, and all gathered around to be introduced and to congratulate the hero. The whole group of sophisticates were as gushing as the crowds that gathered whenever he got into public. He didn’t catch any of their names, save those of the two actors, and he knew them already, of course; Ken Westley and Rexford Lucas. It came as a shock to realize that both were homosexuals, and neither bothered to disguise the fact off-lens as they were now. Both even had limp handshakes and he suspected that both would like to get him into bed.
When they found seats again—Don being given the place of honor at the head of the table—Dirck looked at first at Rostoff and then quickly to Don. Don was inwardly amused, sourly. The Belgian was in on the whole secret but was going to have to continually remind himself that in public Don was the big cheese.
Dirck Bosch said, “I have been briefing these gentlemen on the whole project, stressing the fact that in the past Colonel Mathers was a space pilot, as we are all so admiringly aware, but that he is inexperienced in addressing the public.”
“I’m afraid it’s Mr. Mathers now, Dirck,” Don said. “You see, in order that I would be able to devote full time to the corporation and its, uh, ideals, I resigned my commission this morning.”
There was some surprise at that and a few raised eyebrows.
One of the writers said, “Ummm. Couldn’t you have simply taken an indefinite leave of absence?”
But Maximilian Rostoff pursed his lips and put in, “No, I think Donal was correct. It will be more dramatic if he renounces his promotion and throws his whole weight into the defense preparations. However, I think it might be well to continue to call him Colonel in our press dispatches.”
The wolfish looking tycoon turned to one of the other writers, the PR man, and said, “Mullens, when we get out a press release on this, you might stress the fact that the Colonel resigned his commission since he thought himself unworthy of such a rank at his age and with his lack of experience. He didn’t choose to be a meaningless figurehead, in these pressing times.”
“Right.” The other made some quick notes on the pad before him.
One of the actors, Rexford Lucas said, “To get down to the nitty-gritty and gather some material on Don’s style-to-be, I think at first we should have him walk about the room.”
Rostoff looked at the space hero. “Do you mind, Don?”
More mystified than anything else, Don got up and walked around the room a couple of times.
“And just stand there for a moment, as though you were facing a microphone,” Ken Westley said.
Don just stood there for a moment, looking back at them, and feeling like a damn fool.
“Make a gesture, as though you were trying to make a strong point,” Westley said.
Don made a gesture, as though trying to cinch a point.
“Hmmm,” Rexford Lucas said. “Have you ever done any public speaking at all, or did you belong to the dramatic club, or take drama, when you were in school?” No.
“Didn’t belong to the debating team or anything like that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Don said, and went back and sat down again.
All regarded him for a long silent moment.
Rexford Lucas said, “For one thing, I think we’d better have a still more military stance and walk. Very straight. The bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor must walk tall.”
One of the writers said to Don, “Let’s hear you talk.”
Don looked at him. “What should I say?”
“Anything. We just want to get a level on your speaking voice. Recite a poem, or something.”
Don thought about that for a long moment. He said finally, “Back when I was a kid in school we had to memorize a poem called,
“Daffodils!” Rostoff muttered.
“Anything will do. Try it,” the writer said.
Don cleared his throat and began.
He wound up with, “I think there was one more stanza in there but I’ve forgotten it.”
“Jesus,” one of the writers said.
“I thought it was very sweet,” Rexford Lucas simpered.
The writer who had asked him to recite sighed and looked over at Dirck Bosch. He said, “Look, could you get on the data banks screen and get a copy of the Gettysburg Address?”
They stuck to it for two hours or more and then Rostoff and Don left the actors and speech writers to confer on what type of public speaker they were going to convert him into.
Most of them looked a little on the glum side. But Ken Westley waved him a limp wristed bye-bye.
Don and Rostoff got back into the elevator and the interplanetary magnate said, “You’re beginning to get a sample of what you’re in for. This afternoon you’ll meet the writer who’s going to turn out your autobiography. He’s
