With a sense of the sky falling in on him, Philon found himself out on
the street. No one could be trusted nowadays and he shouldn't have
been surprised at the MacDonalds. Everyone had a little sideline, a
gimmick, to put one over on whoever was gullible enough to swallow it.
Why should he assume a hillbilly family from way out in Oregon was any
different? This was probably Bill MacDonald's little racket and it was
just Philon's bad luck to stumble on it. MacDonald probably peddled
his spurious first editions down on Front Street for a few hundred
dollars to old bookstores unable to afford radiocarbon dating.
For awhile he stared out his office window, brooding. The fifty grand
just wasn't to be had--legally or illegally. And when he recalled
Feisel's little gem about the man falling out his office window Philon
was definitely ill.
Then the cunning that comes to the rescue of all scheming gentry who
depend on their wits emerged from perverse hiding. An ingenious idea
to solve the nagging problem of the fifty thousand arrived full-blown.
Grinning secretively to himself, he walked into the telecommunications
room.
He got the Technical Reference Room at the Public Library and asked
for the detailed plans of the big electronic National Vote Tabulating
machine in Washington. At the other end a microfilm reel clicked into
place, ready to obey his finger-tip control.
For two hours he read and read, making notes and studying the circuits
of the complicated machine. Then, satisfied with his information, he
returned the microfilm.
Leaving the office he descended to the streets and set out for the
party headquarters. Now if only he could sell the neat little idea to
the hierarchy....
At the luxurious marbled headquarters he asked to be let into the
general chairman's office. The receptionist announced him and Philon
walked in to find Rakoff awaiting him behind his beautiful carved
desk.
Rakoff's dead-white cheeks never stirred and his stiff blond hair
stood up in a rigid crew cut. He rolled his cigar in his big mouth.
"Hello, Miller. What's on your mind?"
Philon took a breath and it seemed to him now that this idea was a
crazy one. "I came to tell you I'm unable to raise my fifty grand
quota, Rakoff."
The man's brows moved slightly and his eyes narrowed significantly.
With a rasp in his voice he said deliberately, "That's too bad, Mr.
Miller--for you."
The rasping tongue put a faint quaver in Philon's voice but he went
on. "However, I've brought you an idea that's worth more than fifty
grand. It's worth millions."