Roy Cos was frowning. He said in complaint, "Forry, what the hell do I need with a secretary?" He sent his eyes over to the young woman. "Not that I have anything against you."
"Are you kidding?" Forry said to him. "When this thing starts, you won't even be able to handle your mail. If you last the first week out, she'll be needing stenographers to help her."
"I'm highly experienced, Mr. Cos," Mary Ann said briskly. "Forry has explained the situation to me and my duties. I'm not too keen on the physical danger, but—well, ten thousand pseudo-dollars a day…"she hesitated for a moment, then, "… buys me a lot of courage."
Roy made a gesture of acceptance. "It's all right with me. Forry's the organizer of this scheme. I suppose he knows what he's doing."
Billy Tucker came hurrying into the room. His eyes swept quickly over the new secretary but then went on to Roy Cos. He said, "Roy, there's a car coming down the road. At least two men in it."
"Probably Ferd and Jet," Forry said, putting down his glass and grinding out his cigarette. "We don't really have to start worrying until after midnight, Billy. Then this guard duty becomes serious." He stood and headed for the door.
The younger man said after him, "Yeah. And I wish to hell you hadn't made us throw away those guns."
"We'll see about that soonest," the ex-newsman said over his shoulder. "As soon as the publicity starts, we'll put in a demand for gun permits through our law firm. We've got a law firm on retainer, too, Roy. If they refuse to issue gun permits for the bodyguard of the Deathwish Wobbly, a howl will go up that'll mean just that much more publicity."
He left the room to go for the front door. Billy went over to the bar, poured himself a ginger ale, and carried it with him to his post.
Roy Cos said to his brand new secretary, "Do you know anything at all about the Wobblies, Ms. Elwyn?"
"Mary Ann," she said. "I knew practically nothing, until
Forry brought up the matter of a temporary job…" She flushed, then quickly added "… or maybe not so temporary, with you. I looked your organization up in the National Data Banks but I'm afraid that it's not my cup of tea. I've never been interested in political economy."
Forry re-entered, followed by two newcomers. Both carried portable typewriters—one a late-model voco-typer and, by the looks of the case, the other an old electric.
Roy and his three bodyguards stood for introductions, and again, Forry did the honors.
Roy looked at the two blankly, not having the vaguest idea why either of them were present. But Forry took over, first sending Les for drinks for the newcomers and then for refills for the rest of them.
When all were seated again, he said, "Jet Peters is your publicity man, Roy. He used to work for one of the big cosmocorps, a multinational corporation specializing in uranium. But he was spelled down, the same as I was, by the computers. A younger guy got his position."
Roy could see that possibility. The other was somewhere in his early fifties and looked both tired and cynical. He was sloppily dressed, a bit bleary of eye, a tremor in his hands. A drinker, the Wobbly decided.
Roy said, "Publicity? I thought you were handling publicity, Forry."
"I am," the ex-newsman said, getting out his cigarettes again. "But I won't be able to handle it all. Jet's an old pro. He'll come up with dozens of ideas that wouldn't occur to me. He's got a lot of contacts, too. He'll earn his ten thousand."
All eyes went to the second of the two newcomers, who had been introduced as Ferd Feldmeyer. He was not just overweight, but almost obscenely fat. Like many fat men, he bought his clothes too small so that he bulged in them. He was pale of face, thin of dirt-blond hair, and his small mouth seemed to pout. Ferd Feldmeyer was less than handsome.
Forry said, "Ferd is your speechwriter."
"Speechwriter! Holy smog, Forry, I don't need a speech-writer. I do my own speeches, usually off the cuff. Why, this guy isn't even a Wobbly, so far as I know. How could he write my speeches, even if I wanted him to?"
Ferd Feldmeyer might not have been much for looks but his voice was deep and had a ring of sincerity. He said, "Since Forry approached me on this, I've been reading up on your movement day and night—including your own publications, not just the material in the National Data Banks. I'll tell you something about political organizations and religions, or philosophies, for that matter. You should be able to sum yours up in two hundred words. If you can't, something's wrong with your movement. Right now, I could sit down and tear off a speech for you that would give the Wobbly position— maybe better than you've ever presented it. On top of that, I'd drop in a little humor, some good quotations, and wind it up with a blockbuster of a gimmick ending that'd have them anxious to tune in to your next broadcast."
Forry said reasonably, "You're not going to be able to give your standard talks off the cuff on Tri-Di, Roy. They've got to be written out, and you're going to have too many to write yourself. You're not only going to speak often on Tri-Di, TV, and even radio, but we're going to line you up for personal appearances, lectures, and so forth. Ferd and Jet are also going to double for you as your ghosts."
Roy stared at him. "My what? That's one thing that nobody else can do for me… die."
The former newsman said, "Sorry, Roy; poor choice of words. I meant ghost writers. If this publicity hits the way I think it will, there'll be calls for articles from all sorts of periodicals from all over the world. Maybe we'll even do a book." He squinted his eyes and said thoughtfully, "That reminds me of something. Do you speak Spanish?"
"No."
The little man turned his eyes to Mary Ann Elwyn, who had been sitting quietly, primly, her hands in her lap. She had refused the drink Les offered. Forry said, "Make a note, Mary Ann. We need computer translators to put Roy's speeches into Spanish, French, and Italian."
The secretary quickly opened her attache case, brought forth a stylo and notepad, and scribbled away.
Jet said, "How about Russian and Mandarin?"
Forry thought about that but then shook his head. "Not yet. For the time being, the Wobbly movement is aimed at the West. Maybe later, if I understand the program correctly, it might spread to the Soviet Complex and China. Okay, Roy?"
"I suppose so," the Wobbly said. This whole thing seemed to be getting more and more out of his hands. The ineffective-looking little Forrest Brown was taking over with a vengeance. Thus far, Roy Cos had precious little to do—except to stay alive as long as possible.
Forry spoke through the smoke that dribbled from his mouth. "We'd better get down to definite plans. Like I said, we start the publicity tomorrow. We also wrap up the arrangements for the first Tri-Di talk, nationwide, beamed worldwide from satellites. When Roy's made that first speech, the publicity will really hit. He'll be big news. Everybody in the country will be on the edge of their chairs waiting for the Deathwish Wobbly…" He broke off and looked at Jet Peters. "I think we ought to use that bit of business in our publicity. The Deathwish Wobbly. The revolutionist so sincere that he's willing to die for the chance of spreading it." He looked back to Roy and the others. "They'll be sitting on the edges of their chairs, waiting to see how long it'll take for the Grafs men to get to you."
He ground out his current cigarette and took up the drink sitting on the cocktail table before him. "Until the first Tri-Di broadcast, we won't show. We'll not leave this house. Nobody here will use their credit cards, on the off chance that the enemy might have connected one of us with Roy. I'll pay all expenses, as I did for renting this place, with my card. It's an unnumbered account and they won't be able to trace me with it. The moment we make that broadcast, Roy will begin to use the million pseudo-dollars a day available to him on his Swiss International Credit Card. And from then on we're on the defensive. But the more this pyramids, the more publicity Roy gets, the better his chances are of avoiding the Graf's hit men. There'll be mobs wherever he goes, making it difficult for assassins to get through to him. I hope. A good many of those people are going to be on Roy's side. He's the underdog, and fighting against terrible odds. They'll be out to get any assassins who turn up. And these men of the Graf's are pros, not fanatics. They're not interested in making martyrs out of themselves. That'll be one of the biggest advantages