Jubal nodded to her and wrote below it: "Larry - panic button?" then said to the screen, "Tom, sorry to bother you again."
"A pleasure, Jubal."
"Tom, if you wanted to talk to Secretary General Douglas, how would you go about it?"
"Eh? I'd phone his press secretary, Jim Sanforth. Or possibly Jock Dumont, depending on what I wanted. But I wouldn't talk to the Secretary General at all. Jim would handle it."
"But suppose you wanted to talk to Douglas himself."
"Why, I'd tell Jim and let him arrange it. Be quicker just to tell Jim my problem, though; it might be a day or two before he could squeeze me in� and even then I might be bumped for something more urgent. Look, Jubal, the network is useful to the administration - and we know it and they know it. But we don't presume on it unnecessarily."
"Tom� assume that it is necessary. Suppose you just had to speak to Douglas. Right now. Not next week. In the next ten minutes."
Mackenzie's eyebrows went up. "Well - if I just had to, I would explain to Jim why it was so urgent-"
"No."
"Be reasonable."
"No. That's just what I can't be. Assume that you had caught Jim Sanforth stealing the spoons, so you couldn't tell him what the emergency was. But you had to speak to Douglas immediately."
Mackenzie sighed. "I suppose I would tell Jim that I simply had to talk to the boss - and that if I wasn't put through to him right away, the administration would never get another trace of support from the network, Politely, of course. But make him understand that I meant it. Sanforth is nobody's fool; he would never serve his own head up on a platter."
"Okay, Tom, do it."
"Huh?"
"Leave this call on. Call the Palace on another instrument - and have your boys ready to cut me in instantly. I've got to talk to the Secretary General right now!"
Mackenzie looked pained. "Jubal, old friend-"
"Meaning you won't."
"Meaning I can't. You've dreamed up a hypothetical situation in which a - pardon me - major executive of an intercontinental network could speak to the Secretary General under conditions of dire necessity. But I can't hand this entre over to somebody else. Look, Jubal, I respect you. Besides that, you are probably four of the six most popular writers alive today. The network would hate to lose you and we are painfully aware that you won't let us tie you down to a contract. But I can't do it, even to please you. You must realize that one does not telephone the World chief of government unless he wants to speak to you."
"Suppose I do sign an exclusive seven-year contract?"
Mackenzie looked as if his teeth hurt, "I still couldn't do it. I'd lose my job - and you would still have to carry out your contract."
Jubal considered calling Mike over into the instrument's visual pickup and naming him. He discarded the idea at once. Mackenzie's own programmes had run the fake 'Man from Mars' interviews - and Mackenzie was either crooked and in on the hoax� or he was honest, as Jubal thought he was, and simply would not believe that he himself had been hoaxed. "All right, Tom, I won't twist your arm. But you know your way around in the government better than I do. Who calls Douglas whenever he likes - and gets him? I don't mean Sanforth"
"No one."
"Damn it, no man lives in a vacuum! There must be at least a dozen people who can phone him and not get brushed off by a secretary."
"Some of his cabinet, I suppose. And not all of them."
"I don't know any of them, either; I've been out of touch. But I don't mean professional politicos. Who knows him so well that they can call him on a private line and invite him to play poker?"
"Umm� you don't want much, do you? Well, there's Jake Allenby. Not the actor, the other Jake Allenby. Oil."
"I've met him. He doesn't like me. I don't like him. He knows it."
"Douglas doesn't have very many intimate friends. His wife rather discourages- Say, Jubal� how do you feel about astrology?"
"Never touch the stuff. Prefer brandy."
"Well, that's a matter of taste. But- see here, Jubal, if you ever let on to anyone that I told you this, I'll cut your lying throat with one of your own manuscripts."
"Noted. Agreed. Proceed."
"Well, Agnes Douglas does touch the stuff�, and I know where she gets it. Her astrologer can call Mrs. Douglas at any time - and, believe you me, Mrs. Douglas has the ear of the Secretary General whenever she chooses. You can call her astrologer� and the rest is up to you."
"I don't seem to recall any astrologers on my Christmas card list," Jubal answered dubiously. "What's his name?"
"Her. And you might try crossing her palm with silver in convincing denominations. Her name is Madame Alexandra Vesant. Washington Exchange. That's V, E, S, A, N, T."
"I've got it," Jubal said happily. "And, Tom, you've done me a world of good!"
"Hope so. Anything for the network soon?"
"Hold it." Jubal glanced at a note Miriam had placed at his elbow some moments ago. It read: "Larry says the transceiver won't trans - and he doesn't know why." Jubal went on, "That spot coverage failed earlier through a transceiver failure here - and I don't have anyone who can repair it."
"I'll send somebody."
"Thanks. Thanks twice."
Jubal switched off, placed the call by name and instructed the operator to use hush amp; scramble if the number was equipped to take it. It was, not to his surprise. Very quickly Madame Vesant's dignified features appeared in his screen. He grinned at her and called, "Hey, Rube!"
She looked startled, then looked more closely. "Why, Doe Harshaw, you old scoundrel! Lord love you, it's good to see you. Where have you been hiding?"
"Just that, Becky - hiding. The clowns are after me."
Becky Vesey didn't ask why; she answered instantly, "What can I do to help? Do you need money?"
"I've got plenty of money, Becky, but thanks a lot. Money won't help; I'm in much more serious trouble than that - and I don't think anyone can help me but the Secretary General himself, Mr. Douglas. I need to talk to him - and right away. Now� or even sooner."
She looked blank. "That's tall order, Doc."
"Becky, I know it is - because I've been trying for a week to get through to him� and I can't. But don't you get mixed up in it yourself, Becky� because, girl, I'm hotter than a smoky bearing. I just took a chance that you might be able to advise me - a phone number, maybe, where I could reach him. But I don't want you to mix into it personally. You'd get hurt - and I'd never be able to look the Professor in the eye if I ever meet him again� God rest his soul."
"I know what the Professor would want me to do!" she said sharply. "So let's knock off the nonsense, Doc. The Professor always swore that you were the only sawbones fit to carve people; the rest were butchers. He never forgot that time in Elkton."
"Now, Becky, we won't bring that up. I was paid."
"You saved his life."
"I did no such thing. It was his rugged constitution and his will to fight back - and your nursing."
"Uh� Doc, we're wasting time. Just how hot are you?"
"They're throwing the book at me� and anybody near me is going to get splashed. There's a warrant out for me - a Federation warrant - and they know where I am and I can't run. It will be served any minute now� and Mr. Douglas is the only person who can stop it."
"You'll be sprung. I guarantee that."
"Becky, I'm sure you would. But it might take a few hours. It's that 'back room' I'm afraid of, Becky. I'm too old for a session in the back room."
"But- Oh, goodness! Doe, can't you give me some details? I really ought to cast a horoscope on you, then I'd know what to do. You're Mercury, of course, since you're a doctor. But if I knew what house to look in to find your trouble, I could do better."