“You needn’t feel any responsibility. You’ve done enough for me already.”
“Well, stay. I mean, stay. Stay until... stay a while. Until you’re ready.” He looked at her, feeling silly and awkward. “Okay?”
“Whatever you say, Van,” she said. She turned and walked back into the living room. He did not see the smile on her face.
Chapter 13
As the trial grew closer, there were a million petty details to take care of. Carson Fields worked like a dog, trying to forge his many defendants into a solid steel wall that would withstand the onslaught of Pelazi’s formidable case. Fields worked like the director of a tremendous production, rehearsing and re-rehearsing his clients. His case was based on an open acknowledgement of the fact that Pelazi had indeed attended the benefit. He was shrewd enough to know that Pelazi would have at least one witness to swear to that fact. Fields’ line of attack was a simple one. He would admit that Pelazi had been there, but he would prove that Pelazi had left before the show started, before any portions of the human anatomy were exposed before his eyes. If Pelazi had not been in attendance during such exposure, he could not claim infringment on the Dignity of Man, he could not rely upon 431, nor could he even hope to apply 62-A.
True, another case could follow on the heels of this one, using a totally different plaintiff. But Fields could stall that off until the Statute of Limitations forbade a trial. Such was his reasoning. One case at a time.
But in order to prove that Pelazi had left the benefit before the shooting, so to speak, started, Fields had to develop an intricate network of lies.
He planned his case with ultimate artistry. To hear Fields’ clients tell it, Pelazi had been under constant surveillance since he’d set foot into the theatre on the night of the benefit. There was a copy writer at an advertising agency who was willing to swear Pelazi lit a cigarette for him in the lobby, before the show started. There was a stereo scribe who held a ticket stub for the seat next to the one Pelazi had occupied. (A stunt facilitated by the friendship of the theatre owner, a Vike who’d been forced out of the legitimate stage competition when the Rees cornered the field. A Vike who, incidentally, was also being sued by Pelazi under Section 62-A. It was a simple thing to arrange a false seating plan.)
There were countless agents, actors, scribes, admen, photographers, chorines, and even janitors who were ready to swear that they’d seen Pelazi enter the theatre, take his seat, have a smoke, wander to the window, go to the men’s room, button his fly, adjust his tie, wipe sweat from his forehead, tie his shoelace, blow his nose, anything and everything, every movement accounted for by separate reliable witnesses, and the most important move — the move that had taken him out of the theatre and into a tomicab (the cab driver was willing to swear to this, too) before the show started — this move had been observed, too, by at least a dozen people.
So Van Brant worked; he rehearsed his own little part in the drama Fields directed. Fields was a good lawyer, and an even better director. He knew just what inflection he wanted a voice to carry. He knew just what expression should cross a client’s face, and he knew just how long he wanted that expression to be held. He knew just when any of his clients should hesitate, should stammer, should seem defiant, or embarrassed, or harried. He knew just when to break the proceeding with some welcome comic relief. He knew what he wanted, and he made sure his clients knew what he wanted, and when they complained, he simply asked, “Want to win this case?”
It took time. It took a lot of time, and time was one commodity Van could hardly afford. He knew he was not alone in this one respect. The other defendants hated this as much as he did, and he knew their time was valuable, too. This was little solace, in spite of the feeling of concerted effort Fields managed to kindle. Sure, they were going to give the Ree a tremendous slap in the face, but — as the old joke went — “Who’s watching the store?”
Van tried to watch the store.
When he got home each night, he was ready to pile into bed and sleep through the next week. Instead, he had a hot dinner and then joined Liz to hear her go over the details of the agency’s day. It was usually well past 0200 before he got into bed. He rose again at 0600 each morning, rushed to the office to open the mail and sort it, and then waited for Liz to come in before he left for the studio or Fields’ office, whichever happened to come first. It was on one of those mornings that Liz told him she’d hired Lois Sylvan.
“What for?” he asked.
“Van, we needed the help; we really did. Besides, she’s at loose ends now that the script is in production.”
“Where the hell will we get the money for her salary?”
“Things aren’t that bad, Van.”
“And who gave you the authority to do any hiring around here?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought...”
“Just because you share the apartment, don’t think you own the business! You’re still my alleged secretary!”
“I’m sorry, Van, really. I thought, with you away so much and all, that we could use someone else around here. Someone to handle the small details. It’s really been a drag, Van, believe me. I’m only human.”
“When does she start?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“How much?”
“Forty and morph.”
“That’s not too bad. I’ll be watching her, though; if I think she’s not worth it, out she goes.”
“Grooved.”
He watched Lois, and was surprised, at first, to see the change that had taken place. He hadn’t seen her since the early days of production on the Senso. She’d looked Vike then, yes, and a long way from the stammering Ree who’d first stumbled into his office. But now... now... she was hopelessly hooked. Van had never seen a morphict like her...
She seemed to be efficient, however, if somewhat listless; and she did help Liz — which was all they expected of her. Walt Alloway generally accompanied her to the office in the morning, and called for her after work each evening.
He continued at the grinding pace for a good two weeks, averaging some four hours sleep each night. And one morning, when the mail was especially light, Van wandered into the stock room, and nosed around.
Lois pranced in at nine, her breasts sparkling with an iridescent glow. Her skirt was the most daring thing he’d ever seen in any place of business; it consisted of a single thin strip that hung over her buttocks. Her underwear was transparent, and fully exposed.
“That’s going a little far, isn’t it?” he asked.
She glanced at her near-nudity, lifted her eyes. She shrugged. “Kicks, father.”
“Kicks? What the hell...”
“Look, Van,” she snapped. “You told me how to dress once. I’m a big girl now; don’t try telling me again.”
“I don’t give a damn what you wear on your own time,” he answered. “In this office, though, don’t look as if you’re ready to crawl into some goddamn Ree’s nest.”
“You’re insulting!”
“And so’s that skirt!”
“All right,” she shouted. “Would you like me to go home and change it?”
“No. But there are a few things I’d like to know.”
“Like what?”
“Like who’s in charge of the stock room now?”
“I am.”
“I thought so. What happened to our supply of drugs? Did you forget to reorder, or has someone been using it for private parties?”
“Neither. Swift’s is out.”
“Out of drugs? Are you...”
“Out of drugs, yes.”
“Then why didn’t you order elsewhere?”
“I tried. There seems to be a scarcity of the stuff.”