"Yes, sir. It was purposely made so, to attract attention to your case."
"It'll never be paid. But I'll tell you, Tommy, on my word of honor, that if you can get me out of here, I'll give you five million pseudo-dollars, all tax-free. All deposited to your account, no questions asked, say, in Switzerland or Nassau. My word of honor."
"Sir," the other said sadly, "you don't understand. Even if I did need the money—and I don't—it wouldn't interest me. I'm a devoted member of the Nihilists, and though I'm sorry that you are in this position, I'm dedicated to ending this social system. I'm willing to participate in the liquidating of others, if required to accomplish our ends."
Dunninger glowered at him. "You're completely around the bend. You're crazy."
"I don't think so, sir. The world's in need of change. The overwhelming majority of the race is living in misery and degradation."
The tycoon said impatiently, "What the hell do you think you'd replace our system with?"
"We differ on that question. You see, Nihilists don't ever expect to come to power ourselves. We're basically anti-organization, if you can comprehend that. We're against the status quo, but we don't offer a definitive alternative system. We believe production should be democratically owned and we believe in world government, but not of the present systems."
Dunninger groaned in the face of what he thought sheer madness. "But what do you think you're doing? You assassinate people, especially rich or powerful people. You commit arson and sabotage. What's that got to do with reforms? You're nothing but terrorists."
"No, sir. Our basic goal is to spur the people into alterna-lives to capitalism and communism. Most people never consider the possibility of a basic change in their own system. The system tells them that what prevails has always been and will always be. They fail to realize that nothing changes as steadily as social systems."
Dunninger was in despair. "You'd prefer what they've got in the Soviet Complex?"
"We're against them both. In the West, production means are owned by a few private individuals. In the East, it is in the hands of the State. To the rank-and-file citizen, it makes comparatively little difference. In short, we're trying to goose the world's population into thinking about change."
"So you're actually willing to murder me, to gain what you think are desirable ends."
"Yes, sir, we are," the boy said simply.
"It's not fair; I've never killed anybody in my life!"
The boy looked at him and took a deep, unhappy breath. "Haven't you? Maybe you never pulled a trigger, but the blood on the hands of your social system is unbelievable. Millions have died due to pollution and disease brought about by your rampaging industry. Millions have died from poisonous foods and drugs that were continued because they made a profit. Why has cancer erupted geometrically over the last century and a half? Mr. Dunninger, you don't even know how many deaths you've caused."
Dunninger tipped up the whiskey bottle once again. The boy was a wild-eyed unthinking fanatic. Given time, he might have been able to get through to him, convince him how wrong he was, how misguided. But he, Harold Dunninger, didn't have time. He had less than twenty-four hours now.
Harold Dunninger upended the bottle, killing it.
"Can you get me another one of these?" he slurred.
Chapter Thirteen: Roy Cos
Roy's secretary Mary Ann, publicity man Jet Peters, and writer Ferd Feldmeyer sat in a row on a couch before the Tri-Di screen in the luxurious winter villa of some absent northerner. The variable-image Tri-Di screen was set into the wall of the living room. At the moment, it was just large enough so that the people on lens were life-size. There were some uncanny attributes. Though the trio had been exposed to Tri-Di projections all their lives, the illusion was as though they could have spoken back and forth with Roy Cos and the others being shown.
The face of a well-known commentator was smiling as though earnest, sincere, and oh-so-friendly.
Mary Ann frowned, her plain face impatient. She said, "You've got the wrong station, Ferd. That's Ken 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 they doing there?" he said.
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."