They'd Rather Be Right (28 page)

“Trees,” Steve reminded Joe dryly.

“We have always thought that immortality would be valuable because it would preserve the great minds, give them a longer span to carry on their work. But that would be making a mind perpetually green, to tower over others, to prevent the growth of unlike ideas.

“When a thing stops growing, reaches its maximum growth, it starts to die. Any single-valued idea is limited to a given set of frameworks, but a man who holds to a single-valued idea tries to make it fit all frameworks. He warps it and twists it into a monstros-ity, until it defeats its own purpose and denies its own validity. Its own warp and tension destroys it, and him with it.

“One of the laws of life, of the universe since life is of the universe and not an exception to it, is that change takes place. But a single-valued idea, by definition, denies the possibility of change. Bossy is a scientific instrument. Scientific instruments do not work through denying the basic laws of matter-energy.

Bossy cannot work to restore an organism which de-nies them.

“Through statements he made the night before, I suspected Dr. Billings couldn’t shed the old and worn-out single values upon which he had built his life. But, you see, all this was only theory. And I couldn’t know what would happen until it was put to the test. I don’t trust theories which can’t be demonstrated, particularly when they depend upon the support of other theories which also can’t be demonstrated. I had to see if Bossy worked at a basic level, or if she was simply a super gook gadget, hypnotizing the cells into renewing themselves.”

“I can just see myself selling all this to the public,” Steve said gloomily. “Oh, brother!”

Kennedy’s lips twitched in a smile.

“Evergreen trees,” Steve mourned on, “deciduous trees, civilizations, forty million years, laws of matter-energy, single-value ideas—oh, brother!”

He took out a cigarette and even his lighter seemed to lack its usual loud snap.

“And right now, the way things have gone, the public wouldn’t touch Bossy with a ten-foot pole, any-how.”

But a good night’s sleep was all Steve Flynn really needed. He awoke the following morning filled with optimism and wonder that he had even temporarily felt set back.

That was the trouble with being around Brains. They were so confused themselves that they got everybody else confused. Just being around them, listening to them talk, made a man forget what was important and what wasn’t. Being around these guys had made him forget he had a simple job to do. He had to make the public like Bossy, that was all.

He had been just plain nuts. The big copy, the real copy, the kick with all the oomph in it was Mabel.

And he hadn’t played her up hardly at all. The gal had legs, she had teeth, what more could a publicity man want? Just smile at ’em, sister, and show ’em your gams, and they’ll buy.

By the time he reached his office in the Kennedy Building, he already had a campaign mapped out.

And he had a staff, a real staff of upbeat boys and gals to carry out the details. The public wanted Mabel? The public would get Mabel! It was that simple.

He was whistling through his teeth and snapping his gold lighter loudly when his Publicity Department heads trouped in for the conference he summoned. Their faces showed an appreciation of his mood.

All day yesterday they had not known what to do. They were like dancers frozen into still poses by sud-den silence as the desperate music was cut off. Everything had come to an end with the failure of Bossy, and the empty pause had been ghastly. By evening they had been ready to cut their own throats, and only the stupor of Brady’s tall cool ones had got them through the night. But now all was well. The boss was whistling through his teeth and snapping his lighter.

Flynn needed to give them only the bare outlines of the campaign. They could pick up a beat and knew what to do with it. The music was starting up again around the public relations offices.

As complementary to one another as an expert jam session they trouped out of his office, anxious to get the variations on the theme suggested. Steve signaled to the head production man to wait while he made a phone call. There might be further things to be picked up.

His upbeat mood was running so strong that Steve was not even set back when Joe refused to allow Mabel to be disturbed.

Mabel wasn’t able to see photographers and reporters? Swell, kid! Wonderful. Great copy! By the way, what was wrong with her? A sort of shock? Stupen-dous! This was more like it. Couldn’t be better! Kid, why didn’t you tell me all this before? Kid, you’re just plain nuts! Can’t you see it, fella?

MABEL ROUSED FROM DEEP COMA TO APPEAR BEFORE WORLD SCIENTISTS! You Brains, you kill me!

Don’t you know a dramatic punch when it’s smacking you right in the nose? Oh, brother! I’ll play that angle up in such a way that they’ll forget all about Billings. Billings? Who’s Billings? That’s what they’ll be saying by this time tomorrow, fella.

Now look here, Joe. I got a job to do. They
gotta
forget about Billings. I can’t sell Bossy by playing up how she failed on him! Man, use some sense. You gotta have positive! You can’t sell negative! Look, boy, I don’t care one blasted thing about whether the public gets educated or not. Kennedy says make ’em like Bossy. Kennedy’s my boss. I’m gonna make ’em like Bossy. It’s that simple!

He felt like slamming down the phone, but he was a publicity man and years of training turned on an automatic charm, instead.

“O.K., fella? Sure, sure. I see your point. Sure, Joe, anything you want. O.K.? O.K., then.”

He put the phone receiver down and grimaced up to his waiting production man.

“No fresh pics,” he said.

The production man shrugged. There were plenty of studies from the newsreels taken at the show yesterday. The boss knew they could be superimposed over any background needed. It wasn’t a calamity.

“Whatever you say, boss,” he agreed. “Just so I know what I got to work with.” He’d sold ’em high, he’d sold ’em low. He’d built one thing up today, and built something else up tomorrow to top it. It was all in the day’s work for him. All he asked was to be let in on what was going on, what was wanted.

He’d produce it.

Thin, blond, deceptively mild, infinitely obliging, he was ideal for his job. He was like Toledo steel, pliable enough to bend in any direction required, and then snapping right back as soon as the pressure eased. Like Steve, he agreed with his opposition, and then did it his own way, anyhow.

He left Steve’s office and began to go from department to department, coordinating, sparking, blending ideas, giving in to arguments without expressing any opposition and then winning the argument in the long run through the sheer power of flexibility and resil-ience; he began to get releases on the wires, layout copy to printers, setting up conferences, arranging influence dates, wheedling or requiring cooperation as the circumstances indicated.

The communications systems got some new things to talk about.

For three days Steve’s office kept Mabel hovering on the thin edge between life and death. Her fever was up, it was down. She was conscious, she was in a coma. She could eat, she had to be fed intravenously. Breath by faltering breath, she fought a valiant battle for her life in the columns of the press.

And throughout it all she was still
young,
still beautiful, still able to flash her teeth and show her gams, still gloriously photogenic.

As Steve Flynn had predicted, the public forgot all about Billings. This was more like it. Now the full story was being told. Nurtured on soap opera, their concepts shaped by Hollywood’s interpretation of what constitutes drama, which had not changed except in techniques from the days of Pearl White and the Key-stone Cops, at last the public was getting a full-course dinner of sloppy sentimentalism and ersatz amusement park thrills.

The principal commentators who dealt in like material saw rich fare for their audiences and the public went on a dizzying binge of concern. Mabel was nobly forgiven for the past life that she had led, and everyone enjoyed that feeling of personal stature by admitting that there might be some good in the worst of us.

Yet not everyone. For all his knowledge of his business of how to play upon public emotion like an artist at a console organ, Steve slipped. The very bulletins which were selling the public on Mabel, and through her on Bossy, in the way a car is sold by showing a woman’s legs as she climbs into it, also provided the opposition with the material it had been needing.

The time has passed when a company may hand down an edict that no employee below the rank of top executive may own certain exclusive makes of cars, or royalty say that certain thrills are too good for com-moners. The time has passed, but the motivation be-hind it has not. The more the common public exulted, the more the elite ground its teeth in rage. How dare this stupid machine grant immortality to a common prostitute and deny it to a man of their own class, Billings? The more the public wallowed in its binge of emotionalism, the more the intellectuals held aloof in disdain.

Some of Joe’s discussion had crept into Steve’s campaign. Gradually the public began to realize that Mabel had gone through a form of dying and being reborn. They saw danger where there had been no danger, because they preferred it that way.

And life and death was the sole prerogative of the medical profession. By the admission of Bossy’s own protectors, submission to Bossy was a matter of life and death.

They stormed upon Washington in concerted protest. And they provided the hook which Washington had been seeking. The legislative, the administrative, the judicial branches of government had all been ask-ing the same question of themselves.

“Who deserves to be perpetuated, made immortal?”

And the answer had been obvious to them.

This was something clearly too good for the com-moners, but they had not dared impound the machine for this reason. They had needed as always, some other reason quite remote from their true motive. The medical profession proved it; Bossy was too dangerous to be left in irresponsible hands.

Still, this was election year. The administrative and the legislative branches were directly dependent upon votes, and the judicial was indirectly dependent as even a cursory glance at history would show.

And while Steve Flynn was playing with artistry and mastery upon his console, making the public laugh and weep, hope and fear, the three forces of government drew together, and with one accord turned their eyes toward the Pentagon. The military was not dependent upon votes. And Bossy was obviously a dangerous weapon of war.

It took little to convince the Chiefs of Staffs of this; for the Chiefs were still seeing the glorious vision of endless ranks of perpetually young men marching into beautiful flaming holocausts of destruction.

Yet even they had learned caution. If someone is to be court-martialed for a mistake, then let it be an enlisted man, or at least an officer of lower rank; one, of course, which had generously been elevated from the ranks and not from an academy.

Kennedy was having breakfast with Joe and Mabel, Carney and Flynn, Billings and Hoskins.

“Who is going to be next to try Bossy, Joe?” Kennedy asked. He noticed that Joe had fallen silent a few moments ago, as if he were thinking deeply on something.

But Joe answered easily, with a light laugh. “No one has volunteered as yet,” he said.

“isn’t that rather an unorganized way of going about it, Joe?” Kennedy asked.

There was a sharp exclamation of surprise, alarm, from Mabel. Kennedy caught a fleeting glance in her direction from Joe. There had been almost a warning in the glance. Suddenly for no apparent reason, the room chilled. Mabel’s face was pale, but she forced a smile and tried to urge more coffee on Flynn.

Perhaps the most curious expression was Carney’s. Up until Kennedy had asked the question about who was going to be next to try Bossy, Carney had obviously been minding his manners, and trying to make light chitchat in the manner of Brains. But now the man’s face was contorted, as if he were fighting some inner battle with himself, as if he had a great fear and was trying to tell himself that it was groundless.

And over it all lay bewilderment and yearning, and loneliness.

Joe did not answer Kennedy’s question. Kennedy was watching him closely. He saw Joe’s eyes lift to the door behind where Kennedy sat. He saw Mabel’s eyes go to the same spot.

It was after both of them were looking at the door that the knock came. And then the door opened without waiting for invitation. Superintendent Jones stuck his head in the door.

“There are soldiers at the gate,” he quavered. “They say if we don’t let them in they’ll shell the gate down. They’re here to take over Bossy.”

Joe had just switched off his bed lamp and was settling back into his pillow when a warning came to him. The premonition was as clear and distinct as the ringing of a bell.

He swung his feet to the floor and in the darkness groped for his robe and slippers. Someone was stealing down the corridor in this wing of the Margaret Kennedy Clinic, and was making a great effort not to be heard. It was the intense concentration on avoiding attention which had telepathed the warning to Joe.