Memoirs Of An Invisible Man (6 page)

“Pity. What will they do?”

“They’re searching for a stand-in. They would probably welcome the opportunity to use you, if you’re interested. Shouldn’t we go in? It’s starting to rain.”

“By all means, let’s go in… Tell me, do you have any idea what Carillon’s people are doing in that electrical shed or whatever it is?” The door of the concrete hut with all the electric lines was open now, and one of the students was standing in the doorway holding what appeared to be a toolbox.

“I think,” said Anne, without bothering to look, “they’re going to shut off power to the building as part of their demonstration or something. So everyone will have to come out and watch. Have you seen anyone else from the press?”

“No, I haven’t. You mean they’re going to just shut off all power to a laboratory with God only knows what kind of equipment running in it? Don’t you think that’s a bit irresponsible?”

“You think anyone is irresponsible who thinks about anything more than making a profit,” Anne said good-naturedly.

“Not at all. They’re welcome to think about absolutely anything they—”

“And as usual you’re more concerned with private property than with people.”

“This particular private property is about to contain people. Us, to be precise. They’re going to blow us up after all. Look, I’m completely new to terrorism. Isn’t the warning phone call before the explosion one of the conventions? Maybe we should let the police or the folks at Micro-Magnetics know what—”

“We’re journalists, not police informers,” Anne said, beginning to heat up again. “It’s not our job to tell anyone anything. It’s a question of First Amendment rights—”

“It’s kind of you to include me in the ‘we’ of journalists, but I’m actually only a plain citizen without special rank or privilege. I’m just concerned—”

“You know perfectly well they aren’t going to harm anyone. But you do have a point about the police,” she said, abruptly becoming pensive. “They ought to have police here. I’ve never seen one of these nuclear demonstrations come off properly without police.” She frowned, genuinely troubled.

“Look, Anne, rather than having to choose between the ignominy of being police informers and the inconvenience of being innocent victims of a brutal act of terrorism, why don’t we just cut short our stay here? We’ll go in right now, pick up whatever printed material they have, and call a cab. We can rent a car in Princeton and drive—”

“Nick, I’m absolutely going to stay through the press conference and the demonstration. And then we both have appointments with Wachs afterward. After that, I should really get back to New York for—”

“I’ll tell you what. We’ll go in and see Wachs together now. Then we won’t have to hang around afterwards.”

“The press conference is going to begin in twenty minutes. We’ll never get at him before—”

“I’ll get at him.”

I took her decisively by the arm and started across the lawn toward the building to find Wachs. At that moment I believed I was going to get my way with everyone and have the day I wanted, and although my stomach seemed to be having a difficult crossing, and the light, of which there was very little, hurt my eyes, a final wave of euphoria swept over me. It may have been the last benign effect of the alcohol I had consumed the night before, but I felt that I had taken control of the situation.

“We’ll be gone by noon,” I said.

(I would be gone by noon all right.)

As we strode across the lawn, the sky turned almost black, and my jacket was mottled with raindrops. Anne waved cheerfully at the revolutionaries as we passed. They had set up a little metal table on the grass, and behind it they had strung between two poles a hand-lettered banner which read:

THE
DESTRUCTION
BY
NUCLEAR
HOLOCAUST
OF A
GUINEA
PIG

REPRESENTING
ALL
INNOCENT
VICTIMS
OF

CAPITALIST
OPPRESSION
AND
NUCLEAR
DEATH
TECHNOLOGY
.

WE
ARE
ALL
GUINEA
PIGS!

“Good slogan,” I muttered to Anne. “Catchy.”

Other people were arriving, and as they walked past to the entrance, they glanced without concern or even much interest at the demonstrators. Perhaps people expect a few demonstrators everywhere nowadays.

Carillon, sweeping his hand through his long blond hair, called out, “Anne, have you seen any other media here?”

The familiarity annoyed me, and before she could reply, I called back, “I
think
I saw someone from the
Washington Post.
And maybe someone from
Newsweek.
But I haven’t seen any sign of the network crews yet.”

He looked at me blankly at first, unsure of how to take my reply. “Well, let’s hope,” he said coldly.

“I suppose you really shouldn’t begin until the network crews are here—”

Anne had a ferocious grip on my arm and was dragging me in through the entrance door. We found ourselves standing in a small reception room with a couch and a table and, facing us, a large desk with a typing stand to one side. Behind the desk sat a woman in her forties whose natural expression of truculent dissatisfaction had been highlighted with the careful application of great quantities of make-up. She took a brief, disapproving look at Anne, and then fixed her gaze on me.

“Take one press kit and go through the door to your left, then straight down the corridor to the conference room at the end. We’ll be beginning in a few minutes.” Her voice had no warmth in it.

I picked up a press kit. “Thank you. That’s extremely kind. I wonder if you could let Dr. Wachs know that Mr. Halloway of Shipway & Whitman is here.”

“Professor Wachs can’t be disturbed now. You’ll have to go through the door to your left and down to the conference room.”

“And this is Miss Epstein, from the
Times,”
I continued. I was sure that a mention of the
Times
would bring her around.

“If you’ll both go down to the conference room, Professor Wachs will be right along.” Her brow furrowed momentarily, and she looked suspiciously at Anne. “I believe we already have you down for an appointment” — she peered at a book on her desk — “at two o’clock. And we have
you
down too, for—”

“Actually,” I said, “I was hoping we could get a few words privately with Professor Wachs now, before the press conference — in a preliminary sort of way…” My voice trailed off. I had been gazing at the press kit as if it were some entirely baffling artifact which had unexpectedly come into my possession, and now I turned it over and examined the back. It was a glossy white and red folder which — just like the one in my briefcase — would contain Xerox copies of a press release, an uninformative fact sheet, and a curriculum vitae of Bernard Wachs, Ph.D. Staring at it studiously but still not opening it, I twisted the folder slowly around so that it was upside down and squinted at it, as if hoping that from this new angle its significance might be revealed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you’ll both have to go to the conference room with everyone else.” I remained where I was, studying the folder intently. “The door to your left,” she said severely.

I carefully opened the folder and peered inside. My brow furrowed as I studied the top sheet, which, being upside down, was indecipherable. I pulled it out, carefully turned it around, and returned it to the folder. The woman watched me in a state of mounting agony until she could no longer contain herself. “You’ve got it upside down.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria.

I looked up at her and blinked. “Got what upside down?”

“The folder.”

“Oh, the folder,” I said, looking down at it in amazement. “You’re quite right. I do.” I turned it back around and looked at it. “I think it’s possible that he would want to see us…”

“He’s far too busy now.”

“Yes, of course he is. All the same he might want to see us. I don’t know, I think he
would
want to see us probably…” I opened the folder again carefully and furrowed my brow in puzzlement when I encountered the top sheet, which I had reversed before. “You know, I’m not sure this
was
upside down.”

Her eves widened with outrage and contempt. She made an abortive movement with her right hand as if to snatch the press kit from me, but thought better of it. I began pulling the sheets from the folder one at a time and, after careful consideration, reinserting them in what she clearly felt to be the wrong order or the wrong orientation. The whole process seemed to upset her quite a lot.

“Do you think he might still be in his office?” I asked.

Her eyes darted momentarily to a closed door in the wall to my right.

“You’ll have to go in with everyone else now.”
She was almost shouting.

“Yes, of course.” I carefully put the press kit back on top of the pile on her desk, where she regarded it as if it were a live explosive. “The door to my left, you said?” I pointed to the door on my right.

“No… yes… no!”

I walked distractedly over to the door on my right and pushed it open.

“You can’t go in there!”

I found myself looking into an enormous, carpeted, corner office. The furnishings were undistinguished, but through the many windows there were wonderfully pleasant views of the lawn, the trees, and the fields beyond. In the center of the room was a large desk, in front of which stood a short, plump, rodentlike man. His suit had evidently been purchased thirty pounds earlier, and his belt creased deeply into a large paunch. He seemed startled to see us in the doorway, but then, in the brief time I knew him, he seemed continuously startled, always looking about with nervous little inquisitive movements of his head, as if he were some giant squirrel searching for a place to store nuts. His jumpy gaze darted back and forth between us, but he seemed understandably to be particularly taken with Anne, and his eves kept returning to her breasts.

“You wouldn’t be Dr. Wachs, would you?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I am. How do you do?” He spoke with extraordinary rapidity, shifting his weight constantly from one foot to the other.

“I’m Nick Halloway, with Shipway and Whitman. The investment firm.”

“Oh, you’re just the person I want to see. I’m very interested right now in money. Capitalization—”

“Professor Wachs,” called out the receptionist ominously, “these people—”

“And this,” I went on, “is Anne Epstein from the
Times.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful that you were able to be here. The
Times.
Come in, come in. I think you’re going to be very excited by the work we’re doing here.” He gazed intently at Anne’s breasts. “Is there anything I can tell you—”

“Professor Wachs,” insisted the receptionist, “it’s very late. You have to—”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. We can’t spend more than a moment now. Come in for just a moment. You say you’re with an investment bank? Raising capital is our first priority. While I’ve got you here, maybe I can get you to recommend a good book on that.”

“Perhaps it would be more useful to sit down and talk about your capital needs sometime when—”

“Professor Wachs.” The receptionist was still glowering in the doorway behind us. “It’s almost time. You have to—”

“Amazing facility you have here,” I said to Wachs as I shut the door behind me in the face of the receptionist. “Really very impressive — far more extensive than I ever would have imagined.”

He seemed pleased. “Yes, you know I designed the whole thing myself. There was nothing here but an old farmhouse. I mean with the builder— Fucini Brothers, Builders. They’re very good — if you’re ever thinking of doing anything. Very good. It’s extraordinary how complex a structure even the simplest building is. Fascinating. They built all of Kirby Park,” he added by way of explanation.

“Did they really?” I responded. I had no idea what or where Kirby Park might be, but I thought I should try to gain some sort of tenuous handhold on the conversation. “Did you design the logo yourself too?”

“Yes. What do you think of it?” he asked earnestly.

“Extremely compelling. My compliments,” I replied.

“You don’t think it looks like an M&M?” There was a troubled expression on his face.

“An M&M?” I asked blankly.

“Yes. You know — the little round candies.”

“Oh, of course: M&M’s… Does it remind me of M&M’s? … No. Is it meant to?” I asked earnestly

“No, no, no. I only wondered if it looked like that to you. Something someone said.” He seemed reassured by my response.

“The whole effect is really quite striking,” I assured him. “The corporate name in red letters, the logo, the columned facade. And the trees,” I added as an afterthought.

“The trees. Extraordinary, the trees. We were able to save most of the trees. No need at this stage to get rid of the trees. Wait. I want you to see… If you come over here, I can show you the view I have from my desk. You see that beech tree?” He was hopping around the desk excitedly. I did as I was told and went to his desk to stare out the window at the vast copper beech, but he was already chattering on to other topics.

“Here’s something that would interest you, Nick. I designed this telephone myself. Far beyond anything on the market. It automatically stores the last five numbers you’ve dialed. Up to twenty digits—”

“I know you’re terribly busy today,” I said, “but I just wondered if we could get some information before you get completely tied up with this press conference—”

“Yes, yes. Absolutely—”

“I wonder,” Anne interrupted to my irritation, “if you could tell us how you feel about the conflicting needs of society for expanded energy sources and for protection of the environment, as they bear on the issue of nuclear power?”

That stopped him. But before he could waste much effort trying to figure it out, I intervened.

“Exactly,” I said. “Specifically, we were wondering why in your press release there was no real mention of magnetic containment. So much of the work you’re known for has, of course, been related to the problem of containment—”