Walton looked up at the public relations man and said, "How much do you
know about kaleidowhirls, Lee?"
"Not a hell of a lot. I never watch the things, myself. They're bad for
the eyes."
Walton smiled. "That makes you a nonconformist, doesn't it? According
to the figures I have here, the nightly kaleidowhirl programs are
top-ranked on the rating charts."
"Maybe so," Percy said cautiously. "I still don't like to watch them.
What goes, Roy?"
"I've suddenly become very interested in kaleidowhirls myself," Walton
said. He leaned back and added casually, "I think they can be used as
propaganda devices. My brother's reaction to one gave me the idea,
couple days ago, at the Bronze Room. For the past hour or so, I've been
studying kaleidowhirls in terms of information theory. Did you know
that it's possible to get messages across via kaleidowhirl?"
"Of course," Percy gasped. "But the Communications Commission would
never let you get away with it!"
"By the time the Communications Commission found out what had been
done," Walton said calmly, "we wouldn't be doing it any more. They
won't be able to prove a thing." Sarcastically he added, "After
spending a lifetime in public relations, you're not suddenly getting a
rush of ethics, are you?"
"Well ... let's have the details, then."
"Simple enough," Walton said. "We feed through a verbal
message--something like _Hooray for Popeek_ or _I Don't Want War With
Dirna_. We flash it on the screen for, say, a microsecond, then cover
it up with kaleidowhirl patterns. Wait two minutes, then flash it
again. Plenty of noise, but the signal will get through if we flash it
often enough."
"And it'll get through deep down," Percy said. "Subliminally. They
won't even realize that they're being indoctrinated, but suddenly
they'll have a new set of opinions about Popeek and Dirna!" He
shuddered. "Roy, I hate to think what can happen if someone else gets
to thinking about this and puts on his own kaleidowhirl show."
"I've thought of that. After the Dirna crisis is over--after we've put
over our point--I'm going to take steps to make sure no one can use
this sort of weapon again. I'm going to frame someone into putting on a
propaganda kaleidowhirl, and then catch him in the act. That ought to
be sufficient to wise up the Communications Commission."
"In other words," Percy said, "you're willing to use this technique
_now_. But since you don't want anyone else to use it, you're willing
to give up future use of it yourself as soon as the Dirna trouble is
over."
"Exactly." Walton shoved the stack of textbooks over to the PR man.
"Read these through first. Get yourself familiar with the setup. Then
buy a kaleidowhirl hour and get a bunch of our engineers in there to
handle the special inserts. Okay?"
"It's nasty, but I like it. When do you want the program to begin?"
"Tomorrow. Tonight, if you can work it. And set up a poll of some kind
to keep check on the program's effectiveness. I want two messages
kaleidowhirled alternately: one supporting Popeek, one demanding a
peaceful settlement with the aliens. Have your pulse takers feel out
the populace on those two propositions, and report any fluctuation to
me immediately."
"Got it."
"Oh, one more thing. I suspect you'll have some extra responsibilities
as of tomorrow, Lee."
"Eh?"
"Your office will have one additional medium to deal with. Telefax. I'm
buying _Citizen_ and we're going to turn it into a pro-Popeek rag."
Percy's mouth dropped in astonishment; then he started to laugh.
"You're a wonder, Roy. A genuine wonder."
* * * * *
Moments after Percy departed, Noel Hervey, the security and exchange
slyster, called.
"Well?" Walton asked.
Hervey looked preoccupied. "I've successfully spent a couple of hundred
million of Popeek's money in the last half-hour, Roy. You now own the
single biggest block of _Citizen_ stock there is."
"How much is that?"
"One hundred fifty-two thousand shares. Approximately thirty-three
percent."
"Thirty-three percent! What about the other eighteen percent?"
"Patience, lad, patience. I know my job. I snapped up all the small
holdings there were, very quietly. It cost me a pretty penny to farm
out the purchases, too."
"Why'd you do that?" Walton asked.
"Because this has to be handled very gingerly. You know the ownership
setup of _Citizen_?"
"No."
"Well, it goes like this: Amalgamated Telefax owns a twenty-six percent
chunk, and Horace Murlin owns twenty-five percent. Since Murlin also
owns Amalgamated, he votes fifty-one percent of the stock, even though
it isn't registered that way. The other forty-nine percent doesn't
matter, Murlin figures. So I'm busy gathering up as much of it as I
can for you--under half a dozen different brokerage names. I doubt
that I can get it all, but I figure on rounding up at least forty-nine
percent. Then I'll approach Murlin with a Big Deal and sucker him into
selling me six percent of his _Citizen_ stock. He'll check around, find
out that the remaining stock is splintered ninety-seven different ways,
and he'll probably let go of a little of his, figuring he still has
control."
"Suppose he doesn't?" Walton asked.
"Don't worry," Hervey said confidently. "He will. I've got a billion
smackers to play with, don't I? I'll cook up a deal so juicy he can't
resist it--and all he'll have to do to take a flyer will be to peel off
a little of his _Citizen_ stock. The second he does that, I transfer
all the fragmented stock to you. With your controlling majority of
fifty-one percent, you boot Murlin off the Board, and the telefax sheet
is yours! Simple? Clear?"
"Perfectly," Walton said. "Okay. Keep in touch."
He broke contact and walked to the window. The street was packed with
people scrambling in every direction, like so many ants moving at
random over the ground. Many of them clutched telefax sheets--and the
most popular one was the _Citizen_. Many of them would gape and goggle
at kaleidowhirl programs, come evening.
Walton suddenly tightened his fist. In just that way, he thought,
Popeek was tightening its hold on the public by capturing the mass
media. If Hervey's confidence had any justification in truth, they
would own the leading anti-Popeek telefax sheet by tomorrow. With
subtle handling over the course of several days, they could swing
the slant of _Citizen_ around to a pro-Popeek stand, and do it so
surreptitiously that it would seem as though the sheet had never had
any other policy.
As for the kaleidowhirl subterfuge--that, Walton admitted, was hitting
below the belt. But he had resolved that all would be fair during the
current crisis. There would be time enough for morality after war had
been averted.
At about 1430 that day, Walton took advantage of a lull in activities
to have a late lunch at the Bronze Room. He felt that he had to get
away from the confining walls of his office for at least some part of
the afternoon.
The Bronze Room had adopted cerise as its color scheme for the day.
Walton selected a private room, lunched lightly on baked chlorella
steak and filtered rum, and dialed a twelve-minute nap. When the alarm
system in the foamweb couch stirred him to wakefulness, he stretched
happily, some of the choking tension having been washed out of him.
Thoughtfully, he switched on the electroluminescent kaleidoscope and
stared at it. It worked on the same principle as the kaleidowhirl
programs beamed over the public video, except that the Bronze Room
provided closed-channel beaming of its own kaleidoscopic patterns;
tending more to soft greens and pale rose, they were on a higher
esthetic plane, certainly, than the jagged, melodramatic purples and
reds the video channels sent out for popular consumption.
But it was with a certain new apprehension that Walton now studied the
kaleidoscopic pattern. Now that he knew what a dangerous weapon the
flashing colors could be, how could he be certain that the Bronze Room
proprietors were not flashing some scarcely seen subliminal command at
him this very moment?
He turned the set off with a brusque gesture.
_The ends justify the means._ A nice homily, he thought, which allowed
him to do almost anything. It brought to mind the rationale of Ivan
Karamazov: without God, everything is permissible.
But both God and Dostoevski seem to be obsolete these days, he reminded
himself. God is now a lean young man with an office on the twenty-ninth
floor of the Cullen Building--and as for Dostoevski, all he did was
write books, and therefore could not have been of any great importance.
He felt a tremor of self-doubt. Maybe it had been unwise to let
kaleidowhirl propaganda loose on the world; once unleashed, it might
not be so easily caged again. He realized that as soon as the Popeek
campaign was over, he would have to make sure some method was devised
for pre-checking all public and closed-channel kaleidoscopic patterns.
The most damnable part of such propaganda techniques, he knew, was that
you could put over almost any idea at all without arousing suspicion on
the part of the viewer. He wouldn't know he'd been tampered with; you
could tell him so, after the new idea had been planted, and by then he
wouldn't believe you.
Walton dialed another filtered rum, and lifted it to his lips with a
slightly shaky hand.
* * * * *
"Mr. Ludwig of the United Nations called while you were out, sir,"
Walton was told upon returning to his office. "He'd like you to call
him back."
"Very well. Make the connection for me."
When Ludwig appeared, Walton said, "Sorry I missed your call. What's
happening?"
"Special session of the Security Council just broke up. They passed
a resolution unanimously and shipped it on to the Assembly. There's
going to be an immediate hearing to determine the new permanent head of
Popeek."