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 must be heard, before his inevitable fate overtakes him. Good night, fellow members of the human race. If you see us again, all of us will have been very, very lucky"
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 shouldn't have sold Forry out. You undoubtedly contacted the Graf's people on your own. They wouldn't have known how to get in touch with you, or even that you were working for Roy."
The other said in a quick rage, "Poor Cos is going to get it anyway! What difference does a few days make? We'll collect our ten thousand a day as long as he lasts and then, when they get to him, we'll get a bonus of maybe another half million from the Graf when they burn him. The Graf never reneges on a deal."
"No," Mary Ann said bitterly. "And neither do I, you cynical gob of snot."
Ferd Feldmeyer held out a hand. "No more reports, Peters. Give me your transceiver."
"Get screwed, you fat jerk."
Ferd's eyebrows went up in his lardy face. "Peters, I'm twice your weight and ten years younger. Do you really wanta try me?"
Jet glared but finally dipped a hand into his side pocket and brought forth the communications device. The speechwriter took it, dropped it to the floor, and ground it under his heel. "You stupid, greedy bastard," he said. "You not only don't get the seventy thousand pseudo-dollars, but you won't get anything from the Graf's outfit, either." He turned to Mary Ann. "Let's go. We don't want to keep them waiting."
Carrying their bags, Mary Ann and Ferd piled into the car parked in the driveway. In actuality, it was Jet Peters's vehicle, which bothered them not at all. Mary Ann drove.
Under way, Ferd Feldmeyer growled, "The idiot. Didn't it ever occur to him that when the Graf's boys finally polished off Roy, some of us might go, too? They might just toss a grenade, getting us all. Then the Graf wouldn't have to renege on the quarter of a million he promised Jet. There wouldn't be any Jet to pay off."
Mary Ann said, "Well, at least we learned one thing."
He looked over at her, still disgusted at the defection of his friend. "What?"
"It's definite that it's the Graf's contract."
"A hell of a lot of good that does us," he said. "The Graf's men are far and away the most efficient in their rotten business."
The corner where they were scheduled to rendezvous wasn't far. The small Tri-Di station couldn't have been many miles away. Forry wasn't telling anything he could withhold.
Mary Ann parked, and within three minutes another car pulled up alongside them. Les Bates was at the wheel, Forry beside him. The rest were in the back.
Forry called over, "Hurry it up. Let's get out of here."
Mary Ann and Ferd brought their luggage over and stuffed it into the large compartment of the limousine. Ferd crowded into the front with Forry and Les; Mary Ann got into the back with Roy and the three other guards, taking a jump seat.
Roy said, "Where the devil's Jet?"
Ferd answered wearily, "He sold out to the Graf. Mary Ann caught him reporting. Evidently, he'd promised to finger you."
Les took off, accelerating rapidly.
"Damn," Forry said angrily. "I didn't expect any of the team to get the gimmes this soon."
They rode in silence for a moment.
Les said to Forry, "Where are we going?"
And Forry said, "I don't know."
They all looked at him blankly.
He said impatiently, "Don't you get it? None of us knows where we're going now. So at least we're sure that the Graf's gang won't be there waiting for us. Anybody have any ideas? One thing, from now on we have to be more out in the open. We've got to have as much security as possible, but with Roy available to the media. He's got to give interviews, issue statements, keep in the public eye. We can buy media time, but that doesn't mean that we can ignore free publicity. So, any ideas?"