A pale, bespectacled youth in a Stanford University sweatshirt jeered,
"Get stuffed, you greedy capitalist!"
Another among the arrivals-a youngish, attractive woman-retorted, "Maybe if some of you worked harder and saved a little .
She was drowned out by a chorus of, "Screw the profiteers!" and "Power belongs to the people!"
The woman advanced on the shouters, a fist raised. "Listen, you bums! I'm no profiteer. I'm a worker, in a union, and . . ."
"Profiteer!" . . . "Bloodsucking capitalist!” . . . One of the waving signs descended near the woman's bead. A police sergeant stepped forward, shoved the sign away and hurried the woman, along with the man with the hearing aid, into the hotel. The shouts and jeering followed them. Once more the demonstrators surged forward; again the police held firm.
The TV crews had now been joined by reporters from other media among them, Nim saw, Nancy Molineaux. But he had no wish to meet her.
Harry London observed quietly, "You see your friend Birdsong over there, masterminding this?"
"No friend of mine," Nim said. "But yes, I see him."
The bulky, bearded figure of Davey Birdsong-a broad smile on his face as usual-was visible at the demonstration's rear. As the two watched, Birdsong raised a walkie-talkie radio to his lips.
"He's probably talking to someone inside," London said, "He's already been in and out twice; be has one share of stock in his name. I checked."
"One share is enough," Nim pointed out. "It gives anyone a right to be at the annual meeting."
"I know. And probably some more of his people have the same. They've something else planned. I'm sure of it."
Nim and London returned inside the hotel unnoticed. Outside, the demonstrators seemed noisier than before.
* * *
In a small private meeting room off a corridor behind the ballroom stage, J. Eric Humphrey paced restlessly, still reviewing the speech he would shortly make. Over the past three days a dozen drafts had been typed and retyped, the latest an hour ago. Even now, as be moved, silently mouthing words and turning pages, be would pause occasionally to pencil in a change.
Out of deference to the chairman's concentration, the others present-Sharlett Underhill, Oscar O'Brien, Stewart Ino, Ray Paulsen, a half-dozen directors-bad fallen silent, one or two of the directors mixing drinks at a portable bar.
Heads turned as an outside door opened. It framed a security guard and, behind him, Nim, who came in, closing the door.
Humphrey put down the pages of his speech. "Well?"
"It's a mob scene out there." Nim described tersely his observations in the ballroom, overflow hall and outside the hotel.
A director inquired nervously, "Is there any way we can postpone the meeting?"
Oscar O'Brien shook his head decisively. "Out of the question. It's been called legally. It must go on."
"Besides," Nim added, "if you did there'd be a riot."
The same director said, "We may have that anyway."
The chairman crossed to the bar and poured himself a plain soda water, wishing it were a scotch but observing his own rule of no drinking by officers during working hours. He said testily, "We knew in advance this was going to happen so any talk of postponement is pointless. We simply have to do the best we can." As he sipped his soda: "Those people out there have a right to be angry-at us, and about their dividends. I'd feel the same way myself. What can you tell people who put their money where they believed it was safe, and suddenly find it isn't after all?"
"You could try telling them the truth," Sharlett Underhill said, her face flushing with emotion. “The truth that there isn't any place in this country were the thrifty and hard-working can put their money with an assurance of preserving its value. Not in companies like ours anymore; certainly not in savings accounts or bonds where the interest doesn't keep pace with government-provoked inflation. Not since those charlatans and crooks in Washington debased the dollar and keep right on doing it, grinning like idiots while they ruin us. They've given us a dishonest fiat paper currency, unbacked by anything but politicians' worthless promises. Our financial institutions are crumbling. Bank insurance-the FDIC-is a facade. Social Security is a bankrupt fraud; if it were a private concern those running it would be in jail. And good, decent, efficient companies like ours are pushed to the wall, forced into doing what we've done, and taking the blame unfairly."
There were murmurs of approval, someone applauded, and the chairman said drily, "Sharlett, maybe you should make the speech instead of me." He added thoughtfully, "Everything you say is true, of course. Unfortunately most citizens aren't ready to listen and accept the truth, not yet."
"As a matter of interest, Sharlett," Ray Paulsen asked, "where do you keep your savings?"
The financial vice president snapped back, "In Switzerland-one of the few countries where there's still financial sanity-and the Bahamas -in gold coins and Swiss francs, the only honest currencies left. If you haven't already, I advise the rest of you to do the same."
Nim was looking at his watch. He went to the door and opened it. "It's a minute to the hour. Time to go."
"Now I know," Eric Humphrey said as he led the way out, "how the Christians felt when they had to face the lions."
* * *
The management representatives and the directors filed quickly onto the platform, the chairman going directly to a podium with a lectern, the others to chairs on his right. As they did so the hubbub in the ballroom stilled briefly. Then, near the front, a few scattered voices shouted, "Boo!" Instantly the cry was taken up until a cacophony of boos and catcalls thundered through the hall. On the podium J. Eric Humphrey stood impassively, waiting for the disapproving chorus to subside. When it lessened slightly he leaned forward to the microphone in front of him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my opening remarks on the state of our company will be brief. I know that many of you are anxious to ask questions . ."
His next words were drowned out in another uproar. amid it were cries of "You're damned right!" . . . "Take questions now!" "Cut the horseshit!" . . . "Talk dividend!"
When he could make himself heard again, Humphrey countered, "I certainly do intend to talk about dividends but first there are some matters which must . . ."
"Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman, on a point of order!"
A new, unseen voice was booming through the PA system. Simultaneously a red light glowed on the chairman's lectern, indicating that a microphone in the overflow room was being used.
Humphrey spoke loudly into his own mike. "What is your point of order?"
"I object, Mr. Chairman, to the manner in which .
Humphrey interrupted. "State your name, please."
"My name is Homer F. Ingersoll. I am a lawyer and I hold three hundred shares for myself, two hundred for a client."
"What is your point of order, Mr. Ingersoll?"
"I started to tell you, Mr. Chairman. I object to the way in which inadequate, inefficient arrangements were made to hold this meeting, with the result that I and many others have been relegated, like second class citizens, to another hall where we cannot properly participate . . ."
"But you are participating, Mr. Ingersoll. I regret that the unexpectedly large attendance today . ."
"I am raising a point of order, Mr. Chairman, and I hadn't finished."
As the booming voice cut in again, Humphrey said resignedly, "Finish your point of order, but quickly, please."
"You may not know it, Mr. Chairman, but even this second ball is now jampacked and there are many stockholders outside who cannot get into either one. I am speaking on their behalf because they are being deprived of their legal rights."
"No," Humphrey acknowledged, "I did not know it. I am genuinely sorry and I concede our preparations were inadequate."