"First of all, the brewery," Cardon began.
Lancedale consigned the brewery to perdition. "That's just your cover;
any money it makes is purely irrelevant. How about the election?"
"Pelton's in," Cardon said. "As nearly in as any candidate ever was
before the polls opened. Three months ago, the Independents were as
solid as Gibraltar used to be. Today, they look like Gibraltar after
that H-bomb hit it. The only difference is, they don't know what hit
them, yet."
"Hamilton's campaign manager does," Lancedale said. "Did you hear his
telecast, this morning?"
Cardon shook his head. Lancedale handed over a little half-inch,
thirty-minute, record disk.
"All you need is the first three or four minutes," he said. "The rest
of it is repetition."
Cardon put the disk in his pocket recorder and set it for play-back,
putting the plug in his ear. After a while, he shut it off and took
out the ear plug.
"That's bad! What are we going to do about it?"
Lancedale shrugged. "What are you going to do?" he countered. "You're
Pelton's campaign manager--Heaven pity him."
Cardon thought for a moment. "We'll play it for laughs," he decided. "Some
of our semantics experts could make the joke of the year out of it by the
time the polls open tomorrow. The Fraternities bribing their worst enemy to
attack them, so that he can ruin their business; who's been listening to a
tape of 'Alice in Wonderland' at Independent-Conservative headquarters?"
"That would work," Lancedale agreed. "And we can count on our friends
Joyner and Graves to give you every possible assistance with their
customary bull-in-a-china-shop tactics. I suppose you've seen these
posters they've been plastering around: _If you can read this,
Chester Pelton is your sworn enemy! A vote for Pelton is a vote for
your own enslavement!_"
"Naturally. And have you seen the telecast we've been using--a view of
it, with a semantically correct spoken paraphrase?"
Lancedale nodded. "And I've also noticed that those posters have been
acquiring different obscene crayon-drawings, too. That's just typical
of the short-range Joyner-Graves mentality. Why, they've made more
votes for Pelton than he's made for himself. Is it any wonder we're
convinced that people like that aren't to be trusted to formulate the
future policy of the Fraternities?"
"Well ... they've proved themselves wrong. I wonder, though, if we can
prove ourselves right, in the long run. There are times when this
thing scares me, chief. If anything went wrong--"
"What, for instance?"
"Somebody could get to Pelton." Cardon made a stabbing gesture with
the stiletto, which he still held. "Maybe you don't really know how
hot this thing's gotten. What we had to cut out of Mongery's report,
this morning--"
"Oh, I've been keeping in touch," Lancedale understated gently.
"Well then. If anything happened to Pelton, there wouldn't be a
Literate left alive in this city twelve hours later. And I question
whether or not Graves and Joyner know that."
"I think they do. If they don't, it's not because I've failed to point
it out to them. Of course, there are the Independent-Conservative
grafters; a lot of them are beginning to hear jail doors opening for
them, and they're scared. But I think routine body-guarding ought to
protect Pelton from them, or from any isolated fanatics."
"And there is also the matter of Pelton's daughter, and his son,"
Cardon said. "We know, and Graves and Joyner know, and I assume that
Slade Gardner knows, that they can both read and write as well as any
Literate in the Fraternities. Suppose that got out between now and the
election?"
"And that could not only hurt Pelton, but it would expose the work
we've been doing in the schools," Lancedale added. "And even inside
the Fraternities, that would raise the devil. Joyner and Graves don't
begin to realize how far we've gone with that. They could kick up a
simply hideous row about it!"
"And if Pelton found out that his kids are Literates--_Woooo!_" Cardon
grimaced. "Or what we've been doing to him. I hope I'm not around when
that happens. I'm beginning to like the cantankerous old bugger."
"I was afraid of that," Lancedale said. "Well, don't let it interfere
with what you have to do. Remember, Frank; the Plan has to come first,
always."
He walked with O'Reilly to the street door, talking about tomorrow's
election; after shaking hands with the saloon keeper, he crossed the
sidewalk and stepped onto the beltway, moving across the strips until
he came to the twenty m.p.h. strip. The tall office buildings of upper
Yonkers Borough marched away as he stood on the strip, appreciatively
puffing at Lancedale's cigar. The character of the street changed; the
buildings grew lower, and the quiet and fashionable ground-floor shops
and cafes gave place to bargain stores, their audio-advertisers
whooping urgently about improbable prices and offerings, and garish,
noisy, crowded bars and cafeterias blaring recorded popular music.
There was quite a bit of political advertising in evidence--huge
pictures of the two major senatorial candidates. He estimated that
Chester Pelton's bald head and bulldog features appeared twice for
every one of Grant Hamilton's white locks, old-fashioned spectacles
and self-satisfied smirk.
Then he came to the building on which he had parked his 'copter, and
left the beltway, entering and riding up to the landing stage on the
helical escalator. There seemed to have been some trouble; about a
dozen Independent-Conservative storm troopers, in their white robes
and hoods, with the fiery-cross emblem on their breasts, were bunched
together, most of them with their right hands inside their bosoms,
while a similar group of Radical-Conservative storm troopers, with
their black sombreros and little black masks, stood watching them and
fingering the white-handled pistols they wore in pairs on their belts.
Between the two groups were four city policemen, looking acutely
unhappy.
The group in the Lone Ranger uniforms, he saw, were standing in front
of a huge tri-dimensional animated portrait of Chester Pelton. As he
watched, the pictured candidate raised a clenched fist, and Pelton's
recorded and amplified voice thundered:
"_Put the Literates in their place! Our servants, not our masters!_"
He recognized the group leader of the Radical-Socialists--the masks
were too small to be more than token disguises--and beckoned to him,
at the same time walking toward his 'copter. The man in black with the
white-handled pistols followed him, spurs jingling.
"Hello, Mr. Cardon," he said, joining him. "Nothing to it. We got a
tip they were coming to sabotage Big Brother, over there. Take out our
sound-recording, and put in one of their own, like they did over in
Queens, last week. The town clowns got here in time to save
everybody's face, so there wasn't any shooting. We're staying put till
they go, though."
"_Put the Literates in their place! Our servants, not our masters!_"
the huge tridianimate bellowed.
Over in Queens, the Independents had managed to get at a similar
tridianimate, had taken out the record, and had put in one: _I am a
lying fraud! Vote for Grant Hamilton and liberty and sound
government!_
"Smart work, Goodkin," he approved. "Don't let any of your boys start
the gunplay. The city cops are beginning to get wise to who's going to
win the election, tomorrow, but don't antagonize them. But if any of
those Ku Kluxers tries to pull a gun, don't waste time trying to wing
him. Just hold on to that fiery something-or-other on his chest and
let him have it, and let the coroner worry about him."
"Yeah. With pleasure," Goodkin replied. "You know, that nightshirt
thing they wear is about the stupidest idea for a storm-troop uniform
I ever saw. Natural target in a gunfight, and in a rough-and-tumble it
gets them all tangled up. Ah, there go a couple of coppers to talk to
them; that's what they've been waiting on. Now they can beat it
without looking like they been run out by our gang."
Cardon nodded. "Tell your boys to stay around for a while; they may
expect you to leave right after they do, and then they'll try to slip
back. You did a good job; got here promptly. Be seeing you, Goodkin."
He climbed into his own 'copter and started the motor.
"_Put the Literates in their place!_" the tri-dimensional colossus
roared triumphantly after the retreating Independents. "_Our servants,
not our masters!_"
* * * * *
At eight thousand, he got the 'copter onto the lower Manhattan beam
and relaxed. First of all, he'd have to do something about answering
Slade Gardner's telecast propaganda. That stuff was dangerous. The
answer ought to go on the air by noon, and should be stepped up
through the afternoon. First as a straight news story; Elliot Mongery
had fifteen minutes, beginning at 1215--no, that wouldn't do.
Mongery's sponsor for that time was Atomflame Heaters, and Atomflame
was a subsidiary of Canada Northwest Fissionables, and Canada
Northwest was umbilicus-deep in that Kettle River lease graft that
Pelton had sworn to get investigated as soon as he took office.
Professional ethics wouldn't allow Mongery to say anything in Pelton's
behalf on Atomflame's time. Well, there was Guthrie Parham, he came on
at 1245, and his sponsor was all right. He'd call Parham and tell him
what he wanted done.
[Illustration:]
The buzzer warned him that he was approaching the lower Manhattan
beacon; he shifted to manual control, dropped down to the
three-thousand-foot level, and set his selector beam for the signal
from Pelton's Purchasers' Paradise. Down toward the tip of the island,
in the section that had been rebuilt after that Stalin Mark XV
guided missile had gotten through the counter-rocket defenses in 1987,
he could see the quadrate cross of his goal, with public landing
stages on each of the four arms, and the higher central block with its
landing stage for freight and store personnel. Above the four public
stages, helicopters swarmed like May flies--May flies which had
mutated and invented ritual or military drill or choreography--coming
in in four streams to the tips of the arms and rising vertically from
the middle. There was about ten times the normal amount of traffic for
this early in the morning. He wondered, briefly, then remembered, and
cursed. That infernal sale!
Grudgingly, he respected Russell Latterman's smartness, and in
consequence, the ability of Wilton Joyner and Harvey Graves in
selecting a good agent to plant in Pelton's store. Latterman gave a
plausible impersonation of the Illiterate businessman, loyal Prime
Minister of Pelton's commercial empire, Generalissimo in the perpetual
war against Macy & Gimbel's. From that viewpoint, the sale was
excellent business--Latterman had gotten the jump on all the other
department stores for the winter fashions and fall sports trade. He
had also turned the store into a madhouse at the exact time when
Chester Pelton needed to give all his attention to the election.
Pressing the button that put on his private recognition signal, he
rose above the incoming customers and began to drop toward the
private landing stage, circling to get a view of the other four
stages. Maybe the sale could be turned to some advantage, at that. A
free souvenir with each purchase, carrying a Pelton-for-Senator
picture-message--
He broke off, peering down at the five-hundred-foot-square landing stage
above the central block, then brought his 'copter swooping down rapidly.
The white-clad figures he had seen swarming up the helical escalator
were not wearing the Ku Klux robes of the Independent-Conservative storm
troops, as he had first feared--they were in Literate smocks, and among
them were the black leather jackets and futuristic helmets of their
guards. They were led, he saw, by Stephen S. Bayne, the store's Chief
Literate; with him were his assistant, Literate Third Class Roger B.
Feinberg, and the novices carrying books and briefcases and cased
typewriters, and the guards, and every Literate employed in the store.
Four or five men in ordinarily vivid-colored business suits were
obviously expostulating about something. As he landed and threw back the
transparent canopy, he could hear a babel of voices, above which
Feinberg was crying: "Unfair! Unfair! Unfair to Organized Literacy!"
He jumped out and hurried over.
* * * * *
"But you simply can't!" a white-haired man in blue-and-orange business
clothes was protesting. "If you do, the Associated Fraternities'll be
liable for losses we incur; you know that!"
Bayne, his thin face livid with anger--and also, Cardon noticed, with
what looked like a couple of fresh bruises--ignored him. Feinberg
broke off his chant of "Unfair! Unfair!" long enough to answer:
"A Literate First Class has been brutally assaulted by the Illiterate
owner of this store. Literate service for this store is, accordingly,
being discontinued, pending a decision by the Grand Council of the
local Fraternity."
Cardon grabbed the blue-and-orange clad man and dragged him to one
side.
"What happened, Hutschnecker?" he demanded.
"They're walking out on us," Hutschnecker told him, unnecessarily.
"The boss had a fight with Bayne; knocked him down a couple of times.
Bayne tried to pull his tablet gun, and I grabbed it away from him,
and somebody else grabbed Pelton before he could pull his, and a
couple of store cops got all the other Literates in the office
covered. Then Bayne put on the general-address system and began
calling out the Literates--"
"Yes, but why did Pelton beat Bayne up?"
"Bayne made a pass at Miss Claire. I wasn't there when it happened;
she came into the office--"
Cardon felt his face tighten into a frown of perplexity. That wasn't
like Literate First Class Stephen S. Bayne. He made quite a hobby of
pinching salesgirls behind the counter which was one thing; the boss'
daughter was quite another.
"Where's Latterman?" he asked, looking around.
"Down in the office, with the others, trying to help Mr. Pelton. He's
had another of those heart attacks--"
Cardon swore and ran for the descending escalator, running down the
rotating spiral to the executive floor and jumping off into the
gawking mob of Illiterate clerks crowded in the open doors of Pelton's
office. He hit and shoved and elbowed and cursed them out of the way,
and burst into the big room beyond, and then, for a moment, he was
almost sorry he had come.
Pelton was slumped in his big relaxer chair, his face pale and twisted
in pain, his breath coming in feeble gasps. His daughter was beside
him, her blond head bent over him; Russell Latterman was standing to
one side, watching intently. For an instant, Cardon was reminded of a
tomcat watching a promising mouse hole.
"Claire!" Cardon exploded, "give him a nitrocaine bulb. Why are you
all just standing around?"
Claire turned. "There are none," she said, looking at him with
desperate eyes. "The box is empty; he must have used them all."
He shot a quick glance at Latterman, catching the sales manager before
he could erase a look of triumph from his face. Things began to add
up. Latterman, of course, was the undercover man for Wilton Joyner and
Harvey Graves and the rest of the Conservative faction at Literates'
Hall, just as he, himself, was Lancedale's agent. Obsessed with
immediate advantages and disadvantages, the Joyner-Graves faction
wanted to secure the re-election of Grant Hamilton, and the way things
had been going in the past two months, only Chester Pelton's death
could accomplish that. Latterman had probably thrown out Pelton's
nitrocaine capsules and then put Bayne up to insulting Pelton's
daughter, knowing that a fit of rage would bring on another heart
attack, which could be fatal without the medicine.
"Well, send for more!"
"The prescription's in the safe," she said faintly.
The office safe was locked, and only a Literate could open it. The
double combination was neatly stenciled on the door, the numbers
spelled out as words and the letters spelled in phonetic equivalents.
All three of them--himself, Claire, and Russell Latterman--could read
them. None of them dared admit it. Latterman was fairly licking his
chops in anticipation. If Cardon opened the safe, Pelton's campaign
manager stood convicted as a Literate. If Claire opened it, the gaggle
of Illiterate clerks in the doorway would see, and speedily spread
the news, that the daughter of the arch-foe of Literacy was herself
able to read. Maybe Latterman hadn't really intended his employer to
die. Maybe this was the situation he had really intended to contrive.
Chester Pelton couldn't be allowed to die. If Grant Hamilton were
returned to the Senate, the long-range planning of William Lancedale
would suffer a crushing setback, and the public reaction would be
catastrophic. _The Plan comes first_, Lancedale had told him. He made
his decision, and then saw that he hadn't needed to make it. Claire
had straightened, left her father, crossed quickly to the safe, and
was kneeling in front of it, her back stiff with determination, her
fingers busy at the dials, her eyes going from them to the printed
combination and back again. She swung open the door, skimmed through
the papers inside, unerringly selected the prescription, and rose.
"Here, Russ; go get it filled at once," she ordered. "And hurry!"
Oh, no, you don't, Cardon thought. One chance is enough for you, Russ.
He snatched the prescription from her and turned to Latterman.
"I'll get it," he told the sales manager. "You're needed for the sale;
stay on the job here."
"But with the Literates walked out, we can't--"
Cardon blazed: "Do I have to teach you your business? Have a sample of
each item set aside at the counter, and pile sales slips under it.
And for unique items, just detach the tag and put it with the sales
slip. Now get out of here, and get cracking with it!" He picked up the
pistol that had been taken from Pelton when he had tried to draw it on
Bayne, checking the chamber and setting the safety. "Know how to use
this?" he asked Claire. "Then hang onto it, and stay close to your
father. This wasn't any accident, it was a deliberate attempt on his
life. I'll have a couple of store cops sent in here; see that they
stay with you."
He gave her no chance to argue. Pushing Latterman ahead of him, he
drove through the mob of clerks outside the door.
"... Course she can; didn't you see her open the safe?" he heard.
"... Nobody but a Literate--" "Then she's a Literate, herself!"
A couple of centuries ago, they would have talked like that if it had
been discovered that the girl were pregnant; a couple of centuries
before that, they would have been equally horrified if she had been
discovered to have been a Protestant, or a Catholic, or whatever the
locally unpopular religion happened to be. By noon, this would be all
over Penn-Jersey-York; coming on top of Slade Gardner's accusations--
* * * * *
He ran up the spiral escalator, stumbling and regaining his footing as
he left it. Bayne and his striking Literates were all gone; he saw a
sergeant of Pelton's store police and went toward him, taking his
spare identity-badge from his pocket.
"Here," he said, handing it to the sergeant. "Get another officer, and
go down to Pelton's office. Show it to Miss Pelton, and tell her I
sent you. There's been an attempt on Chester Pelton's life; you're to
stay with him. Use your own judgment, but don't let anybody, and that
definitely includes Russell Latterman, get at him. If you see anything
suspicious, shoot first and ask questions afterwards. What's your
name, sergeant?"
"Coccozello, sir. Guido Coccozello."
"All right. There'll be a medic or a pharmacist--a Literate,
anyhow--with medicine for Mr. Pelton. He'll ask for you, by name, and
mention me. And there'll be another Literate, maybe; he'll know your
name, and use mine. Hurry, now, sergeant."
He jumped into his 'copter, pulled forward the plexiglass canopy, and
took off vertically to ten thousand feet, then, orienting himself,
swooped downward toward a landing stage on the other side of the East
River, cutting across traffic levels with an utter contempt for
regulations.
The building on which he landed was one of the principal pharmacies;
he spiraled down on the escalator to the main floor and went directly
to the Literate in charge, noticing that he wore on his Sam Browne not
only the badges of retail-merchandising, pharmacist and graduate
chemist but also that of medic-in-training. Snatching a pad and pencil
from a counter, he wrote hastily: _Your private office, at once;
urgent and important._
Looking at it, the Literate nodded in recognition of Cardon's
Literacy.
"Over this way, sir," he said, guiding Cardon to his small cubicle
office.
"Here." Cardon gave him the prescription. "Nitrocaine bulbs. They're
for Chester Pelton; he's had a serious heart attack. He needs these
with all speed. I don't suppose I need tell you how many kinds of hell
will break loose if he dies now and the Fraternities are accused, as
the Illiterates' Organization will be sure to, of having had him
poisoned."
"Who are you?" the Literate asked, taking the prescription and
glancing at it. "That,"--he gestured toward Cardon's silver-laced
black Mexican jacket--"isn't exactly a white smock."
Cardon had his pocket recorder in his hand. He held it out, pressing a
concealed stud; the stylus-and-tablet insignia glowed redly on it for
a moment, then vanished. The uniformed Literate nodded.
"Fill this exactly; better do it yourself, to make sure, and take it
over to Pelton's yourself. I see you have a medic-trainee's badge. Ask
for Sergeant Coccozello, and tell him Frank Cardon sent you." The
Literate, who had not recognized him before, opened his eyes at the
name and whistled softly. "And fix up a sedative to keep him quiet
for not less than four nor more than six hours. Let me use your
visiphone for a while, if you please."
The man in the Literate smock nodded and hurried out. Cardon dialed
William R. Lancedale's private number. When Lancedale's thin, intense
face appeared on the screen, he reported swiftly.
"The way I estimate it," he finished, "Latterman put Bayne up to
making a pass at the girl, after having thrown out Pelton's nitrocaine
bulbs. Probably told the silly jerk that Claire was pining away with
secret passion for him, or something. Maybe he wanted to kill Pelton;
maybe he just wanted this to happen."
"I assume there's no chance of stopping a leak?"
Cardon laughed with mirthless harshness. "That, I take it, was
rhetorical."
"Yes, of course." Lancedale's face assumed the blank expression that
went with a pause for semantic re-integration. "Can you cover yourself
for about an hour?"
"Certainly. 'Copter trouble. Visits to campaign headquarters. An
appeal on Pelton's behalf for a new crew of Literates for the store--"
"Good enough. Come over. I think I can see a way to turn this to
advantage. I'm going to call for an emergency session of the Grand
Council this afternoon, and I'll want you sitting in on it; I want to
talk to you about plans now." He considered for a moment. "There's
too much of a crowd at O'Reilly's, now; come the church way."
Breaking the connection, Cardon dialed again. A girl's face, over a
Literate Third Class smock, appeared in the screen; a lovely golden
voice chimed at him:
"Mineola High School; good morning, sir."
"Good morning. Frank Cardon here. Let me talk, at once, to your
principal, Literate First Class Prestonby."
* * * * *
Ralph Prestonby cleared his throat, slipped a master disk into the
recording machine beside his desk, and pressed the start button.
"Dear Parent or Guardian," he began. "Your daughter, now a third-year
student at this school, has reached the age of eligibility for the
Domestic Science course entitled, 'How To Win and Hold a Husband.'
Statistics show that girls who have completed this valuable course are
sooner, longer, and happier married than those who have not enjoyed
its advantages. We recommend it most highly.
"However, because of the delicate nature of some of the visual
material used, your consent is required. You can attach such consent
to this disk by running it for at least ten seconds after the sign-off
and then switching from 'Play' to 'Transcribe.' Kindly include your
full name, as well as your daughter's, and place your thumbprint on
the opposite side of the disk. Very sincerely yours, Literate First
Class Ralph C. Prestonby, Principal."
He put the master disk in an envelope, checked over a list of names
and addresses of parents and girl students, and put that in also. He
looked over the winter sports schedule, and signed and thumbprinted
it. Then he loaded the recorder with his morning's mail, switched to
"Play," and started it. As he listened, he blew smoke rings across the
room and toyed with a dagger, made from a file, which had been thrown
down the central light-well at him a few days before. The invention of
the pocket recorder, which put a half-hour's conversation on a
half-inch disk, had done more to slow down business and promote inane
correspondence than anything since the earlier inventions of
shorthand, typewriters and pretty stenographers. Finally, he cleared
the machine, dumping the whole mess into a basket and carrying it out
to his secretary.
"Miss Collins, take this infernal rubbish and have a couple of the
girls divide it between them, play it off, and make a digest of it,"
he said. "And here. The sports schedule, and this parental-consent
thing on the husband-trapping course. Have them taken care of."
"This stuff," Martha Collins said, poking at the pile of letter disks.
"I suppose about half of it is threats, abuse and obscenities, and the
other half is from long-winded bores with idiotic suggestions and
ill-natured gripes. I'll use that old tag line, again--'hoping you
appreciate our brevity as much as we enjoyed yours--'"
"Yes. That'll be all right." He looked at his watch. "I'm going to
make a personal building-tour, instead of using the TV. The animals
are sort of restless, today. The election; the infantile compulsion to
take sides. If you need me for anything urgent, don't use oral call.
Just flash my signal, red-blue-red-blue, on the hall and classroom
screens. Oh, Doug!"
Yetsko, his length of rubber hose under his arm, ambled out of
Prestonby's private office, stopping to stub out his cigarette. The
action reminded Prestonby that he still had his pipe in his mouth; he
knocked it out and pocketed it. Together, they went into the hall
outside.
"Where to, first, captain?" Yetsko wanted to know.
"Cloak-and-Dagger Department, on the top floor. Then we'll drop down
to the shops, and then up through Domestic Science and Business and
General Arts."
"And back here. We hope," Yetsko finished.
* * * * *
They took a service elevator to the top floor, emerging into a
stockroom piled with boxes and crates and cases of sound records and
cans of film and stacks of picture cards, and all the other
impedimenta of Illiterate education. Passing through it to the other
end, Prestonby unlocked a door, and they went down a short hall, to
where ten or fifteen boys and girls had just gotten off a helical
escalator and were queued up at a door at the other end. There were
two Literate guards in black leather, and a student-monitor, with his
white belt and rubber truncheon, outside the door.
Prestonby swore under his breath. He'd hoped they'd miss this, but
since they hadn't, there was nothing for it but to fall in at the tail
of the queue. One by one, the boys and girls went up, spoke briefly to
the guards and the student-monitor, and were passed through the door,
Each time, one of the guards had to open it with a key. Finally, it
was Prestonby's turn.
"B, D, F, H, J, L, N, P, R, T, V, X, Y," he recited to the guardians
of the door.
"A, C, E, G, I, K, M, O, Q, S, U, W, Y," the monitor replied solemnly.
"The inkwell is dry, and the book is dusty."
"But tomorrow, there will be writing and reading for all," Prestonby
answered.
The guard with the key unlocked the door, and he and Yetsko went
through, into an utterly silent sound-proofed room, and from it into
an inner, noisy, room, where a recorded voice was chanting:
"Hat--_huh-ah-tuh._ H-a-t. Box--_buh-oh-ksss_. B-o-x.
Gun--_guh-uh-nnn_. G-u-n. Girl--_guh-ih-rrr-lll_," while pictures were
flashed on a screen at the front, and words appeared under them.
There were about twenty boys and girls, of the freshman-year
age-bracket at desk-seats, facing the screen. They'd started learning
the alphabet when school had opened in September; now they had gotten
as far as combining letters into simple words. In another month,
they'd be as far as diphthongs and would be initiated into the
mysteries of silent letters. Maybe sooner than that; he was finding
that children who had not been taught to read until their twelfth year
learned much more rapidly than the primary grade children in the
Literate schools.
What he was doing here wasn't exactly illegal. It wasn't even against
the strict letter of Fraternity regulations. But it had to be done
clandestinely. What he'd have liked to have done would have been to
have given every boy and girl in English I the same instruction this
selected group was getting, but that would have been out of the
question. The public would never have stood for it; the police would
have had to intervene to prevent a riotous mob of Illiterates from
tearing the school down brick by brick, and even if that didn't
happen, the ensuing uproar inside the Fraternity would have blown the
roof off Literates' Hall. Even Lancedale couldn't have survived such
an explosion, and the body of Literate First Class Ralph N. Prestonby
would have been found in a vacant lot the next morning. Even many of
Lancedale's supporters would have turned on him in anger at this
sudden blow to the Fraternities' monopoly of the printed Word.
So it had to be kept secret, and since adolescents in possession of a
secret are under constant temptation to hint mysteriously in the
presence of outsiders, this hocus-pocus of ritual and password and
countersign had to be resorted to. He'd been in conspiratorial work of
other kinds, and knew that there was a sound psychological basis for
most of what seemed, at first glance, to be mere melodramatic
claptrap.
He and Yetsko passed on through a door across the room, into another
sound-proofed room. The work of soundproofing and partitioning the old
stockroom had been done in the last semester of his first year at
Mineola High, by members of the graduating class of building-trades
students, who had then gone their several ways convinced that they had
been working on a set of music-class practice rooms. The Board of
Education had never even found out about it. In this second room, a
Literate teacher, one of the Lancedale faction, had a reading class of
twenty-five or thirty. A girl was on her feet, with a book in her
hand, reading from it:
"We are not sure of sorrow;
And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure."
Then she handed the book--it was the only copy--to the boy sitting in
front of her, and he rose to read the next verse. Prestonby, catching
the teacher's eye, nodded and smiled. This was a third-year class, of
course, but from h-a-t spells hat to Swinburne in three years was good
work.
There were three other classes, a total of little over a hundred
students. There was no trouble; they were there for one purpose
only--to learn. He spoke with one of the teachers, whose class was
busy with a written exercise; he talked for a while to another whose
only duty at the moment was to answer questions and furnish help to a
small class who were reading silently from a variety of smuggled-in
volumes.
"Only a hundred and twenty, out of five thousand," Yetsko said to him,
as they were dropping down in the elevator by which they had come.
"Think you'll ever really get anything done with them?"
"I won't. Maybe they won't," he replied. "But the ones they'll teach
will. They're just a cadre; it'll take fifty years before the effects
are really felt. But some day--"
The shops--a good half of the school was trades-training--were noisy
and busy. Here Prestonby kept his hand on his gas-projector, and
Yetsko had his rubber hose ready, either to strike or to discard in
favor of his pistol. The instructors were similarly on the alert and
ready for trouble--he had seen penitentiaries where the guards took it
easier. Carpentry and building trades. Machine shop. Welding. 'Copter
and TV repair shops--he made a minor and relatively honest graft
there, from the sale of rebuilt equipment. Even an atomic-equipment
shop, though there was nothing in the place that would excite a Geiger
more than the instructor's luminous-dial watch.
Domestic Science--Home Decorating, Home Handicrafts, Use of Home
Appliances, Beautician School, Charm School. He and Yetsko sampled the
products of the Cooking School, intended for the cafeteria, and found
them edible if uninspired.
Business--classes in recording letters, using Illiterate
business-machines, preparing Illiterate cards for same, filing
recordings--always with the counsel, "When in doubt, consult a
Literate."
General Arts--Spanish and French, from elaborate record players, the
progeny of the old Twentieth Century Linguaphone. English, with
recorded-speech composition, enunciation training, semantics, and what
Prestonby called English Illiterature. The class he visited was
drowsing through one of the less colorful sections of "Gone With The
Wind." World History, with half the students frankly asleep through an
audio-visual on the Feudal System, with planted hints on how nice a
revival of same would be, and identifying the clergy of the Middle
Ages with the Fraternities of Literates. American History, with the
class wide awake, since Custer's Massacre was obviously only moments
away.
"Wantta bet one of those little cherubs doesn't try to scalp another
before the day's out?" Yetsko whispered.
Prestonby shook his head. "No bet. Remember that film on the Spanish
Inquisition, that we had to discontinue?"
It was then that the light on the classroom screen, which had been
flickering green and white, suddenly began flashing Prestonby's
wanted-at-office signal.
* * * * *
Prestonby found Frank Cardon looking out of the screen in his private
office. The round, ordinarily cheerful, face was serious, but the
innocent blue eyes were as unreadable as ever. He was wearing one of
the new Mexican _charro_-style jackets, black laced with silver.
"I can't see all your office, Ralph," he said as Prestonby approached.
"Are you alone?"
"Doug Yetsko's all," Prestonby said, and, as Cardon hesitated, added:
"Don't be silly, Frank; he's my bodyguard. What could I be in that he
wouldn't know all about?"
Cardon nodded. "Well, we're in a jam up to here." A handwave conveyed
the impression that the sea of troubles had risen to his chin. He
spoke at some length, describing the fight between Chester Pelton and
Stephen S. Bayne, the Literate strike at Pelton's Purchasers'
Paradise, Pelton's heart attack, and the circumstances of Claire's
opening the safe. "So you see," he finished. "Maybe Latterman tried to
kill Pelton, maybe he just tried to do what he did. I can't take
chances either way."
Prestonby thought furiously. "You say Claire's alone at the store with
her father?"
"And a couple of store cops, sterling characters with the hearts of
lions and the brains of goldfish," Cardon replied. "And Russ
Latterman, and maybe four or five Conservative goons he's managed to
infiltrate into the store."
Prestonby was still thinking, aloud, now. "Maybe they did mean to kill
Pelton; in that case, they'll try again. Or maybe they only wanted to
expose Claire's literacy. It's hard to say what else they'd try--maybe
kidnap her, to truth-drug her and use her as a guest-artist on a
Conservative telecast. I'm going over to the store, now."
"That's a good idea, Ralph. If you hadn't thought of it, I was going
to suggest it. Land on the central stage, ask for Sergeant Coccozello
of the store police, and give my name. Even aside from everything
else, it'd be a good idea to have somebody there who can read and
dares admit it, till a new crew of Literates can get there. You were
speaking about the possibility of kidnaping; how about the boy? Ray?"
Prestonby nodded. "I'll have him come here to my office, and stay
there till I get back; I'll have Yetsko stay with him." He turned to
where the big man in black leather stood guard at the door. "Doug, go
get Ray Pelton and bring him here. Check with Miss Collins for where
he'd be, now." He turned back to the screen. "Anything else, Frank?"
"Isn't that enough?" the brewer-Literate demanded. "I'll call you at
the store, after a while. 'Bye."
The screen darkened as Cardon broke the connection. Prestonby got to
his feet, went to his desk, and picked up a pipe, digging out the
ashes from the bowl with an ice pick that one of the teachers had
taken from a sixteen-year-old would-be murderer. He checked his tablet
gun, made sure that there was an extra loaded clip in the holster, and
got two more spare clips from the arms locker. Then, to make sure, he
called Pelton's store, talking for a while to the police sergeant
Cardon had mentioned. By the time he was finished, the door opened and
Yetsko ushered Ray Pelton in.
"What's happened?" the boy asked. "Doug told me that the Senator ...
my father ... had another heart attack."
"Yes, Ray. I don't believe he's in any great danger. He's at the
store, resting in his office." He went on to tell the boy what had
happened, exactly and in full detail. He was only fifteen, but
already he had completed the four-year reading course and he could
think a great deal more logically than seventy per cent of the people
who were legally entitled to vote. Ray listened seriously, and proved
Prestonby's confidence justified by nodding.
"Frame-up," he said succinctly. "Stinks like a glue factory of a
put-up job. Something's going to happen to Russ Latterman, one of
these days."
"I think you'd better let Frank Cardon take care of him, Ray,"
Prestonby advised. "I think there are more angles to this than he told
me. Now, I'm going over to the store. Somebody's got to stay with
Claire. I want you to stay here, in this room. If anybody sends you
any message supposed to be from me, just ignore it. It'll be a trap.
If I want to get in touch with you, I'll call you, with vision-image."
"Mean somebody might try to kidnap me, or Claire, to force the Senator
to withdraw, or something?" Ray asked, his eyes widening.
"You catch on quickly, Ray," Prestonby commended him. "Doug, you stay
with Ray till I get back. Don't let him out of your sight for an
instant. At noon, have Miss Collins get lunches for both of you sent
up; if I'm not back by fifteen-hundred, take him to his home, and stay
with him there."
* * * * *
[Illustration:]
For half an hour, Frank Cardon made a flying tour of
Radical-Socialist borough headquarters. Even at the Manhattan
headquarters, which he visited immediately after his talk with
Prestonby, the news had already gotten out. The atmosphere of
optimistic triumph which had undoubtedly followed Mongery's telecast
and his report on the Trotter Poll, had evaporated. The Literate
clerical help was gathered in a tight knot, obviously a little
worried, and just as obviously enjoying the reaction. In smaller and
constantly changing groups, the volunteers, the paid helpers, the
dirt-squirters, the goon gangs, gathered, talking in worried or
frightened or angry voices. When Cardon entered and was recognized,
there was a concerted movement toward him. His two regular bodyguards,
both on leave from the Literate storm troops, moved quickly to range
themselves on either side of him. With a gesture, he halted the
others.
"Hold it!" he called. "I know what you're worried about. I was there
when it happened, and saw everything."
He paused, to let them assimilate that, and continued: "Now get this, all
of you! Our boss, and--_if he lives_--our next senator, was the victim of
a deliberate murder attempt, by Literate First Class Bayne, who threw out
his supply of nitrocaine bulbs and then goaded him into a heart attack
which, except for his daughter, would have been fatal. Claire Pelton
deserves the deepest gratitude of every Radical-Socialist in the state.
She's a smart girl, and she saved the life of her father and our leader.
"But--she is _not_ a Literate!" he cried loudly. "All she did was
something any of you could have done--something I've done, myself, so
that I won't be locked out of my own safe and have to wait for a
Literate to come and open, it for me. She simply kept her eye on the
Literates who were opening the safe, and learned the combination from
the positions to which they turned the dial. And you believe, on the
strength of that, that she's a Literate? The next thing, you'll be
believing that professional liar of a Slade Gardner. And you call
yourselves politicians!" He fairly gargled obscenities.
Looking around, he caught sight of a pair who seemed something less
than impressed with his account of it. Joe West, thick-armed,
hairy-chested, blue-jowled; Horace Yingling, thin and gangling. They
weren't Radical-Socialist party people; they were from the Political
Action Committee of the Consolidated Illiterates Organization, and
their slogan was simpler and more to the point than Chester
Pelton's--the only good Literate is a dead Literate. He tensed himself
and challenged them directly.
"Joe; Horace. How about you? Satisfied the Pelton girl isn't a
Literate, now?"
Yingling looked at West, and West looked back at him questioningly.
Evidently the _suavitor in modo_ was Yingling's province, and the
_fortior in re_ was West's.
"Yeh, sure, Mr. Cardon," Yingling said dubiously. "Now that you
explain it, we see how it was."
* * * * *
It was worse than that in some of the other boroughs. One fanatic,
imagining that Cardon himself was a crypto-Literate, drew a gun.
Cardon's guards disarmed him and beat him senseless. At another
headquarters, some character was circulating about declaring that not
only Claire Pelton but her younger brother, Ray, as well, were
Literates. Cardon's two men hustled him out of the building, and,
after about twenty minutes, returned alone. Cardon hoped that the body
would not be found until after the polls closed, the next day.
Finally, leaving his guards with the 'copter at a public landing
stage, he made his way, by devious routes, to William R. Lancedale's
office, and found Lancedale at his desk, seeming not to have moved
since he had showed his agent out earlier in the day.
"Well, we're in a nice puddle of something-or-other," Cardon greeted
him. "On top of that Gardner telecast, this morning--"
"Guthrie Parham's taking care of that, and everything's going to be
done to ridicule Gardner," Lancedale told him. "And even this business
at the store can be turned to some advantage. Before we're through, we
may gain more votes than we lose for Pelton. And we had an informal
meeting--Joyner for Retail Merchandising, Starke for Grievance
Settlements, and four or five others including myself, to make up a
quorum. We had Bayne in, and heard his story of it, and we got a
report from one of our stoolies in the store. Bayne thought he was
due for a commendation; instead, he got an eat-out. Of course, it was
a fact that Pelton'd hit him, and we can't have Literates punched
around, regardless of provocation. So we voted to fine Pelton ten
million for beating Bayne up, and to award him ten million for losses
resulting from unauthorized withdrawal of Literate services. We
ordered a new crew of Literates to the store, and we exiled Bayne to
Brooklyn, to something called Stillman's Used Copter and Junk Bazaar.
For the next few months, the only thing he'll find that's round and
pinchable will be second-hand tires. But don't be too hard on him; I
think he did us a favor."
"You mean, starting a rift between Pelton and the Consolidated
Illiterates' Organization, which we can widen after the election?"
"No. I hadn't thought of it that way, Frank," Lancedale smiled. "It's
an idea worth keeping in mind, and we'll exploit it, later. What I was
thinking about was the more immediate problem of the election--"
The buzzer on Lancedale's desk interrupted, and a voice came out of
the commo box:
"Message, urgent and private, sir. Source named as Sforza."
Cardon recognized the name. Maybe the Independent-Conservatives have
troubles, too, he thought hopefully. Then Lancedale's video screen
became the frame for an almost unbelievably commonplace set of
features.
"Sforza, sir," the man in the screen said. "Sorry I'm late, but I was
able to get out of the building only a few minutes ago, and I had to
make sure I wasn't wearing a tail. I have two new facts. First, the
Conservatives have been bringing storm troops in from outside, from
Philadelphia, and from Wilkes-Scranton, and from Buffalo. They are
being concentrated in lower Manhattan, in plain clothes, with only
concealed weapons, and carrying their hoods folded up under their
coats. Second, I overheard a few snatches of conversation between two
of the Conservative storm troop leaders, as follows: '... Start it in
China ... thirteen-thirty,' and '... Important to make it appear
either spontaneous or planned for business motives.'"
"Try to get us more information, as quickly as possible," Lancedale
directed. "Obviously, we should know, by about thirteen hundred,
what's being planned."
"Right, sir." Lancedale's spy at Independent-Conservative headquarters
nodded and vanished from the screen.
"What does it sound like to you, Frank?" Lancedale asked.
"China is obviously a code-designation for some place in downtown
Manhattan, where the Conservative goon gangs are being concentrated.
The only thing I can say is that it probably is not Chinatown. They'd
either say 'Chinatown' and not 'China,' or they would use some
code-designation that wasn't so close to the actual name," Cardon
considered. "What they're going to start, at thirteen-thirty, which is
only two hours and a half from now, is probably some kind of a riot."
"A riot which could arise from business motives," Lancedale added.
"That sounds like the docks, or the wholesale district, or the garment
district, or something like that." He passed his hand rapidly over the
photoelectric eye of the commo box. "Get me Major Slater," he said;
and, a little later, "Major, get a platoon out to Long Island, to
Chester Pelton's home; have the place searched for possible booby
traps, and maintain guard there till further notice. You'll have no
trouble with the servants, they're all in our pay. That platoon must
not, repeat not, wear uniform or appear to have any connection with
the Fraternities. Put another platoon in Pelton's store. Concealed
weapons, and plain clothes. They should carry their leather helmets in
shopping bags, and roam about in the store, ostensibly shopping. And a
full company, uniformed and armed with heavy weapons, alerted and
ready for immediate 'copter movement." He went on to explain about the
intelligence report and the conclusions drawn from it. The guards
officer repeated back his instructions, and Lancedale broke the
connection.
"Now, Frank," he said, "I told you that this revelation of Claire
Pelton's Literacy can be turned to our advantage. There's to be a full
Council meeting at thirteen hundred. Here's what I estimate Joyner and
Graves will try to do, and here's what I'm going to do to counter
it--"
* * * * *
A couple of men in the maroon uniform of Pelton's store police were
waiting as Prestonby's 'copter landed on the top stage; one of them
touched his cap-visor with his gas-billy in salute and said: "Literate
Prestonby? Miss Pelton is expecting you; she's in her father's office.
This way, if you please, sir."
He had hoped to find her alone, but when he entered the office, he saw
five or six of the store personnel with her. Since opening her
father's safe, she had evidently dropped all pretense of Illiteracy;
there was a mass of papers spread on the big desk, and she was
referring from one to another of them with the deft skill of a regular
Fraternities Literate, while the others watched in fascinated horror.
"Wait a moment, Mr. Hutschnecker," she told the white-haired man in
the blue and orange business suit with whom she had been talking, and
laid the printed price-schedule down, advancing to meet him.
"Ralph!" she greeted him. "Frank Cardon told me you were coming. I--"
For a moment, he thought of the afternoon, over two years ago, when
she had entered his office at the school, and he had recognized her as
the older sister of young Ray Pelton.
"Professor Prestonby," she had begun, accusingly, "you have been
teaching my brother, Raymond Pelton, to read!"
He had been prepared for that; had known that sooner or later there
would be some minor leak in the security screen around the classrooms
on the top floor.
"My dear Miss Pelton," he had protested pleasantly. "I think you've
become overwrought over nothing. This pretense to Literacy is a phase
most boys of Ray's age pass through; they do it just as they play
air-pirates or hi-jackers a few years earlier. The usual trick is to
memorize something heard from a record disk, and then pretend to read
it from print."
"Don't try to kid me, professor. I know that Ray can read. I can prove
it."
"And supposing he has learned a few words," he had parried. "Can you
be sure I taught him? And if so, what had you thought of doing about
it? Are you going to expose me as a corrupter of youth?"
"Not unless I have to," she had replied coolly. "I'm going to
blackmail you, professor. I want you to teach me to read, too."
Now, with this gang of her father's Illiterate store officials
present, a quick handclasp and a glance were all they could exchange.
"How is he, Claire?" he asked.
"Out of danger, for the present. There was a medic here, who left just
before you arrived. He brought nitrocaine bulbs, and gave father
something to make him sleep. He's lying down, back in his rest room."
She led him to a door at the rear of the office and motioned him to
enter, following him. "He's going to sleep for a couple of hours,
yet."
The room was a sort of bedroom and dressing room, with a miniscule
toilet and shower beyond. Pelton was lying on his back, sleeping; his
face was pale, but he was breathing easily and regularly. Two of the
store policemen, a sergeant and a patrolman, were playing cards on the
little table, and the patrolman had a burp gun within reach.
"All right, sergeant," Claire said. "You and Gorman go out to the
office. Call me if anything comes up that needs my attention, in the
next few minutes."
The sergeant started to protest. Claire cut him off.
"There's no danger here. This Literate can be trusted; he's a friend
of Mr. Cardon's. Works at the brewery. It's all right."
The two rose and went out, leaving the door barely ajar. Prestonby and
Claire, like a pair of marionettes on the same set of strings, cast a
quick glance at the door and then were in each other's arms. Chester
Pelton slept placidly as they kissed and whispered endearments.
It was Claire who terminated the embrace, looking apprehensively at
her slumbering father.
"Ralph, what's it all about?" she asked. "I didn't even know that you
and Frank Cardon knew each other, let alone that he had any idea about
us."
Prestonby thought furiously, trying to find a safe path through the
tangle of Claire Pelton's conflicting loyalties, trying to find a path
between his own loyalties and his love for her, wondering how much it
would be safe to tell her.
"And Cardon's gone completely cloak-and-dagger-happy," she continued.
"He's talking about plots against my father's life, and against me,
and--"
"A lot of things are going on under cloaks, around here," he told her.
"And under Literate smocks, and under other kinds of costume. And a
lot of daggers are out, too. You didn't know Frank Cardon was a
Literate, did you?"
Her eyes widened. "I thought I was Literate enough to spot Literacy in
anybody else," she said. "No, I never even suspected--"
Somebody rapped on the door. "Miss Pelton," the sergeant's voice
called. "Visiphone call from Literates' Hall."
Prestonby smiled. "I'll take it, if you don't mind," he said. "I'm
acting-chief-Literate here, now, I suppose."
She followed him as he went out into Pelton's office. When he snapped
on the screen, a young man in a white smock, with the Fraternities
Executive Section badge, looked out of it. He gave a slight start when
he saw Prestonby.
"Literate First Class Ralph N. Prestonby, acting voluntarily for
Pelton's Purchasers' Paradise during emergency," he said.
"Literate First Class Armandez, Executive Section," the man in the
screen replied. "This call is in connection with the recent attack of
Chester Pelton upon Literate First Class Bayne."
"Continue, understanding that we admit nothing," Prestonby told him.
"An extemporary session of the Council has found Pelton guilty of
assaulting Literate Bayne, and has fined him ten million dollars,"
Armandez announced.
"We enter protest," Prestonby replied automatically.
"Wait a moment, Literate. The Council has also awarded Pelton's
Purchasers' Paradise damages to the extent of ten million dollars, for
losses incurred by suspension of Literate service, and voted censure
against Literate Bayne for ordering said suspension without consent of
the Council. Furthermore, a new crew of Literates, with their novices,
guards, et cetera, is being sent at once to your store. Obviously,
neither the Fraternities, nor Pelton's, nor the public, would be
benefitted by returning Literate Bayne or any of his crew; he has been
given another assignment."
"Thank you. And when can we expect this new crew of Literates?"
Prestonby asked.
The man in the screen consulted his watch. "Probably inside of an
hour. We've had to do some re-shuffling; you know how these things are
handled. And if you'll pardon me, Literate; just what are you doing at
Pelton's? I understood that you were principal of Mineola High
School."
"That's a good question." Prestonby hastily assessed the circumstances
and their implications. "I'd suggest that you ask it of my superior,
Literate Lancedale, however."
The Literate in the screen blinked; that was the equivalent, for him,
of anybody else's jaw dropping to his midriff.
"Well! A pleasure, Literate. Good day."
* * * * *
"Miss Pelton!" The man in the blue-and-orange suit was still trying to
catch her attention. "Where are we going to put that stuff? Russ
Latterman's out in the store, somewhere, and I can't get in touch with
him."
"What did you say it was?" she replied.
"Fireworks, for the Peace Day trade. We want to get it on sale about
the middle of the month."
"This was a fine time to deliver them. Peace Day isn't till the Tenth
of December. Put them down in the fireproof vault."
"That place is full of photographic film, and sporting ammunition, and
other merchandise; stuff we'll have to draw out to replace stock on
the shelves during the sale," the Illiterate objected.
"The weather forecast for the next couple of days is fair," Prestonby
reminded her. "Why not just pile the stuff on the top stage, beyond
the control tower, and put up warning signs?"
The man--Hutschnecker, Prestonby remembered hearing Claire call
him--nodded.
"That might be all right. We could cover the cases with tarpaulins."
A buzzer drew one of the Illiterates to a handphone. He listened for a
moment, and turned.
"Hey, there's a Mrs. H. Armytage Zydanowycz down in Furs; she wants to
buy one of those mutated-mink coats, and she's only got half a million
bucks with her. How's her credit?"
Claire handed Prestonby a black-bound book. "Confidential
credit-rating guide; look her up for us," she said.
Another buzzer rasped, before Prestonby could find the entry on
Zydanowycz, H. Armytage; the Illiterate office worker, laying down one
phone, grabbed up another.
"They're all outta small money in Notions; every son and his brother's
been in there in the last hour to buy a pair of dollar shoestrings
with a grand-note."
"I'll take care of that," Hutschnecker said. "Wait till I call control
tower, and tell them about the fireworks."
"How much does Mrs. H. Armytage Zydanowycz want credit for?" Prestonby
asked. "The book says her husband's good for up to fifteen million, or
fifty million in thirty days."
"Those coats are only five million," Claire said. "Let her have it; be
sure to get her thumbprint, though, and send it up here for
comparison."
"Oh, Claire; do you know how we're going to handle this new Literate
crew, when they get here?"
"Yes, here's the TO for Literate service." She tossed a big chart
across the desk to him. "I made a few notes on it; you can give it to
whoever is in charge."
* * * * *
It went on, like that, for the next hour. When the new Literate crew
arrived, Prestonby was delighted to find a friend, and a
fellow-follower of Lancedale, in charge. Considering that Retail
Merchandising was Wilton Joyner's section, that was a good omen.
Lancedale must have succeeded to an extraordinary degree in imposing
his will on the Grand Council. Prestonby found, however, that he
would need some time to brief the new chief Literate on the
operational details at the store. He was unwilling to bring Claire too
prominently into the conference, although he realized that it would be
a matter of half an hour, at the outside, before every one of the new
Literate crew would have heard about her Literate ability. If she'd
only played dumb, after opening that safe--
Finally, by 1300, the new Literates had taken over, and the sale was
running smoothly again. Latterman was somewhere out in the store,
helping them; Claire had lunch for herself and Prestonby sent up from
the restaurant, and for a while they ate in silence, broken by
occasional spatters of small-talk. Then she returned to the question
she had raised and he had not yet answered.
"You say Frank Cardon's a Literate?" she asked. "Then what's he doing
managing the Senator's campaign? Fifth-columning?"
He shook his head. "You think the Fraternities are a solid,
monolithic, organization; everybody agreed on aims and means, and
working together in harmony? That's how it's supposed to look, from
the outside. On the inside, though, there's a bitter struggle going on
between two factions, over policy and for control. One faction wants
to maintain the _status quo_--a handful of Literates doing the reading
and writing for an Illiterate public, and holding a monopoly on
Literacy. They're headed by two men, Wilton Joyner and Harvey Graves.
Bayne was one of that faction."
He paused, thinking quickly. If Lancedale had gotten the upper hand,
there was likely to be a revision of the Joyner-Graves attitude toward
Pelton. In that case, the less he said to incriminate Russell
Latterman, the better. Let Bayne be the villain, for a while, he
decided.
"Bayne," he continued, "is one of a small minority of fanatics who
make a religion of Literacy. I believe he disposed of your father's
medicine, and then deliberately goaded him into a rage to bring on a
heart attack. That doesn't represent Joyner-Graves policy; it was just
something he did on his own. He's probably been disciplined for it, by
now. But the Joyner-Graves faction are working for your father's
defeat and the re-election of Grant Hamilton.
"The other faction is headed by a man you've probably never heard of,
William R. Lancedale. I'm of his faction, and so is Frank Cardon. We
want to see your father elected, because the socialization of Literacy
would eventually put the Literates in complete control of the
government. We also want to see Literacy become widespread, eventually
universal, just as it was before World War IV."
"But Wouldn't that mean the end of the Fraternities?" Claire asked.
"That's what Joyner and Graves say. We don't believe so. And suppose
it did? Lancedale says, if we're so incompetent that we have to keep
the rest of the world in ignorance to earn a living, the world's
better off without us. He says that every oligarchy carries in it the
seeds of its own destruction; that if we can't evolve with the rest of
the world, we're doomed in any case. That's why we want to elect your
father. If he can get his socialized Literacy program adopted, we'll
be in a position to load the public with so many controls and
restrictions and formalities that even the most bigoted Illiterate
will want to learn to read. Lancedale says, a private monopoly like
ours is bad, but a government monopoly is intolerable, and the only
way the public can get rid of it would be by becoming Literates,
themselves."
She glanced toward the door of Pelton's private rest room.
"Poor Senator!" she said softly. "He hates Literacy so, and his own
children are Literates, and his program against Literacy is being
twisted against itself!"
"But you agree that we're right and he's wrong?" Prestonby asked. "You
must, or you'd never have come to me to learn to read."
"He's such a good father. I'd hate to see him hurt," she said. "But,
Ralph, you're my man. Anything you're for, I'm for, and anything
you're against, I'm against."
He caught her hand, across the table, forgetful of the others in the
office.
"Claire, now that everybody knows--" he began.
* * * * *
"_Top emergency! Top emergency!_" a voice brayed out of the alarm box
on the wall. "_Serious disorder in Department Thirty-two! Serious
disorder in Department Thirty-two!_"
The voice broke off as suddenly as it had begun, but the box was not
silent. From it came a medley of shouts, curses, feminine screams and
splintering crashes. Prestonby and Claire were on their feet.
"You have wall screens?" he asked. "How do they work? Like the ones at
school?"
Claire twisted a knob until the number 32 appeared on a dial, and
pressed a button. On the screen, the Chinaware Department on the third
floor came to life in full sound and color. The pickup must have been
across an aisle from the box from whence the alarm had come; they
could see one of Pelton's Illiterate clerks lying unconscious under
it, and the handphone dangling at the end of its cord. The aisles were
full of jostling, screaming women, trampling one another and fighting
frantically to get out, and, among them, groups of three or four men
were gathered back to back. One such group had caught a store
policeman; three were holding him while a fourth smashed vases over
his head, grabbing them from a nearby counter. A pink dinner plate
came skimming up from the crowd, narrowly missing the wired TV pickup.
A moment later, a blue-and-white sugar bowl, thrown with better aim,
came curving at them in the screen. It scored a hit, and brought
darkness, though the bedlam of sound continued.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
Cardon looked at his watch as he entered the Council Chamber at
Literates' Hall, smoothing his smock hastily under his Sam Browne.
He'd made it with very little time to spare, before the doors would be
sealed and the meeting would begin. He'd been all over town, tracking
down that report of Sforza's; he'd even made a quick visit to
Chinatown, on the off chance that "China" had been used in an attempt
at the double concealment of the obvious, but, as he'd expected, he'd
found nothing. The people there hardly knew there was to be an
election. Accustomed for millennia to ideographs read only by experts,
they viewed the current uproar about Literacy with unconcern.
At the door, he deposited his pocket recorder--no sound-recording
device was permitted, except the big audio-visual camera in front,
which made the single permanent record. Going around the room
counterclockwise to the seats of his faction, he encountered two other
Lancedale men: Gerald K. Toppington, of the Technological Section,
thin-faced, sandy-haired, balding; and Franklin R. Chernov, commander
of the local Literates' guards brigade, with his ragged gray mustache,
his horribly scarred face, and his outsize tablet-holster almost as
big as a mail-order catalogue.
"What's Joyner-Graves trying to do to us, Frank?" Chernov rumbled
gutturally.
"It's what we're going to do to them," Cardon replied. "Didn't the
chief tell you?"
Chernov shook his head. "No time. I only got here fifteen minutes ago.
Chasing all over town about that tip from Sforza. Nothing, of course.
Nothing from Sforza, either. The thing must have been planned weeks
ago, whatever it is, and everybody briefed personally, and nothing on
disk or tape about it. But what's going to happen here? Lancedale
going to pull a rabbit out of his hat?"
Cardon explained. Chernov whistled. "Man, that's no rabbit; that's a
full-grown Bengal tiger! I hope it doesn't eat us, by mistake."
Cardon looked around, saw Lancedale in animated argument with a group
of his associates. Some of the others seemed to be sharing Chernov's
fears.
"I have every confidence in the chief," Toppington said. "If his
tigers make a meal off anybody, it'll be--" He nodded in the direction
of the other side of the chamber, where Wilton Joyner, short, bald,
pompous, and Harvey Graves, tall and cadaverous, stood in a
Rosencrantz-Guildenstern attitude, surrounded by half a dozen of their
top associates.
The Council President, Morehead, came out a little door onto the
rostrum and took his seat, pressing a button. The call bell began
clanging slowly. Lancedale, glancing around, saw Cardon and nodded. On
both sides of the chamber, the Literates began taking seats, and
finally the call bell stopped, and Literate President Morehead rapped
with his gavel. The opening formalities were hustled through. The
routine held-over business was rubber-stamped with hasty votes of
approval, even including the decisions of the extemporary meeting of
that morning on the affair at Pelton's. Finally, the presiding officer
rapped again and announced that the meeting was now open for new
business.
At once, Harvey Graves was on his feet.
"Literate President," he began, as soon as the chair had recognized
him, "this is scarcely _new_ business, since it concerns a problem, a
most serious problem, which I and some of my colleagues have brought
to the attention of this Council many times in the past--the problem
of Black Literacy!" He spat out the two words as though they were a
mouthful of poison. "Literate President and fellow Literates, if
anything could destroy our Fraternities, to which we have given our
lives' devotion, it would be the widespread tendency to by-pass the
Fraternities, the practice of Literacy by non-Fraternities people--"
"We've heard all that before, Wilton!" somebody from the Lancedale
side called out. "What do you want to talk about that you haven't
gotten on every record of every meeting for the last thirty years?"
"Why, this Pelton business," Graves snapped back at him. "You know
what I mean. Your own associates are responsible for it!" He turned
back to face the chair, and, with a surprising minimum of invective,
described the scene in which Claire Pelton had demonstrated her
Literacy. "And that's not all, brother Literates," he continued.
"Since then, I've been receiving reports from the Pelton store. Claire
Pelton has been openly doing the work of a Literate; going over the
store's written records, checking inventories, checking the credit
guide, handling the price lists--"
"What's that got to do with Black Literacy?" Gerald Toppington
demanded. "Black Literacy is a term which labels the professional
practice of Literacy, for hire, by a non-Fraternity Literate, or
Literate service furnished for criminal or politically subversive
purposes, or the betrayal of a client by a Fraternity Literate.
There's nothing of the sort involved here. This girl, who does appear
to be Literate, is simply looking after the interests of her family's
business."
"She was taught by a Literate, a Fraternities-member, under, to say
the very least, irregular circumstances, and without payment of any
fee. Any fee, that is, that the Fraternities can collect any
percentage on. And the Literate who taught her also taught her younger
brother, Ray Pelton, and this Literate, who is known to be her
lover--"
"Suppose he is her lover, so what?" one of Lancedale's partisans
demanded. "You say, yourself, that she's a Literate. That ought to
remove any objection. Why, if she were to come forward and admit and
demonstrate her Literacy, there'd be no possible objection from the
Fraternities' viewpoint to her marrying young Prestonby."
"And as for Prestonby's action in teaching Literacy to her and to her
brother," Cardon spoke up, "I think he deserves the thanks and
commendation of the Fraternities. He's put a period to four
generations of bigoted Illiterates."
Wilton Joyner was on his feet. "Will Literate Graves yield for a
motion?" he asked. "Thank you, Harvey. Literate President, and brother
Literates: I yield to no man in my abhorrence of Black Literacy, or in
my detestation for the political principles of which Chester Pelton
has made himself the spokesman, but I deny that we should allow the
acts and opinions of the Illiterate parent to sway us in our
consideration of the Literate children. It has come to my notice, as
it has to Literate Graves', that this young woman, Claire Pelton, is
Literate to a degree that would be a credit to any Literate First
Class, and her brother can match his Literacy creditably against that
of any novice in our Fraternities. To show that we respect Literate
ability, wherever we find it; to show that we are not the monopolistic
closed-corporation our enemies accuse us of being; to show that we are
not animated by a vindictive hatred of anything bearing the name of
Pelton--I move, and ask that my motion be presented for seconding,
that Claire Pelton, and her brother, Raymond Pelton, be duly elected,
respectively, to the positions of Literate Third Class and Literate
Novice, as members of the Associated Fraternities of Literates!"
From the Joyner-Graves side, there were dutiful cries of, "Yes! Yes!
Admit the young Peltons!" and also gasps of horrified surprise from
the rank-and-filers who hadn't been briefed on what was coming up.
Lancedale was on his feet in an instant. "Literate President!" he
cried. "In view of the delicate political situation, and in view of
Chester Pelton's violent denunciation of our Fraternities--"
"Literate Lancedale," the President objected. "The motion is not to be
debated until it has been properly seconded."
"What does the Literate President think I'm doing?" Lancedale
retorted. "I second the motion!"
Joyner looked at Lancedale in angry surprise, which gradually became
fearful suspicion. His stooge, who had already risen with a prepared
speech of seconding, simply gaped.
"Furthermore," Lancedale continued, "I move an amendment to Literate
Joyner's motion. I move that the ceremony of the administration of the
Literates' Oath, and the investiture in the smock and insignia, be
carried out as soon as possible, and that an audio-visual recording be
made, and telecast this evening, before twenty-one hundred."
Brigade commander Chernov, prodded by Cardon, jumped to his feet.
"Excellent!" he cried. "I second the motion to amend the motion of
Literate Joyner."
If there were such a thing as a bomb which would explode stunned
silence, Lancedale and Chernov had dropped such a bomb. Cardon could
guess how Joyner and Graves felt; they were now beginning to be afraid
of their own proposition. As for the Lancedale Literates, he knew how
many of them felt. He'd felt the same way, himself, when Lancedale had
proposed the idea. He got to his feet.
"Literate President, brother Literates," he raised his voice. "I call
for an immediate vote on this amended motion, which I, personally,
endorse most heartily, and which I hope to see carried unanimously."