When he got to the Y.M.C.A. where he lived, Ovid Ross telephoned a White Plains number and got an answer in a strong Russian accent:
"Who is cullink, pliz?"
"Mr. Ross would like to — uh — speak to Miss La Motte."
"Oh. Vait." Then after a long pause: "Is that you, Ovid?"
"Uh. Sure is. Know what? I got the job!"
"Splendid! Are you working now?"
"Yeah. It's a high-powered place as trade journals go. I only hope I can stick the boss."
"Don't you like him?"
"No, and neither does anybody else. But it's money. Say, Claire!"
"Yes?"
"I met a swell guy. Name of Falck. A real man-of-the-world. Knows his way around."
"Good. I hope you see more of him."
"How are the wild Russians?"
"About the same. I had a terrible row with Peshkova."
"Yeah? How come?"
"I was teaching the boys American history, and she claimed I wasn't putting enough dialectical materialism into it. I should have explained that the American Revolution was a plot by the American bourgeoisie to acquire exclusive exploitation of the masses instead of having to share it with the British aristocracy. And I said a few things about if even the Russians had given up that line, why should I teach it? We were yelling at one another when Peshkov came in and made peace."
"Has he made any more passes?" asked Ross anxiously.
"No, except to stare at me with that hungry expression all the time. It gives me the creeps."
"Well, some day ..." Ross's voice trailed off. He wanted to say something like: "Some day I'll marry you and then you won't have to tutor an exiled ex-commissar's brats any more."
But, in the first place, he was too shy; in the second, he did not know Claire La Motte well enough;' and, in the third, he was not in a position to take on costly commitments.
"Did you say something?" inquired Claire.
"No — that is — uh — I wondered when we'd get together again."
"I know! Are you busy Sunday?"
"Nope."
"Then come on up here. The Peshkovs will be gone all weekend, and the hired couple are going down to Coney. Bring your friend Mr. Falck, and his girl-friend if he has one."
"Uh? Swell idea! I'll ask him."
Claire La Motte gave Ross directions for reaching the estate which the Peshkovs had bought in Westchester County. After they had hung up, Ovid Ross sat staring at the telephone. He had been hoping for such an invitation. Ever since he had met Claire the previous winter, she had promised to have him to the Peshkovs' place in May or June, and now June was almost over. The Peshkovs had never absented themselves long enough.
Then his old fear of embarrassment — erythrophobia, a psychologist had told him — rose up to plague him. Suppose Falck rebuffed his invitation? The thought gave him shivers. If only he could tender the invitation while under telagog control! But since Falck was his regular controller, he could hardly work it that way. And, having promised Claire, he would have to go through with this project.
Through Wednesday and Thursday, orientation continued at The Garment Gazette. Ross read proof, helped Sharpe with makeup, and wrote heads: AUSTRALIAN WOOL DOWN; FALL FASHIONS FEATURE FUCHSIA; ILGWU ELECTS KATZ. Friday morning Addison Sharpe said:
"We're sending you out this afternoon to interview Marcus Baffin."
"The Outstanding Knitwear man?"
"Yes."
"What about? Anything special?"
"That's what you're to find out. He called up to say he was planning something new in shows. First he talked to Mr. Hoolihan, who got mad and passed the call on to me. Baffin asked if we'd like to run a paragraph or two on this show, so
I said I'd send a man. Heffernan's out so you'll have to take care of it."
"I'll do my best," said Ross.
Sharpe said: "It's about time we ran a feature on Marcus anyway. Quite a versatile and picturesque character."
"What's his specialty?"
"Oh, he plays the violin. He once went on an expedition he financed himself to find some bug in South America. Take the portrait Leica along and give him the works. His place is at 135 West Thirty-seventh Street."
Ovid Ross telephoned the Telagog Company and made a luncheon date with Gilbert Falck. During lunch he told what he knew of his impending ordeal. Falck found a spot on his schedule when he could take charge of the interview.
Ross also screwed up his nerve to pass on Claire's proposal for the week-end to Falck, who said:
"Thanks, rather. I shall be glad to. Shall we go in your car or mine?"
"Mine, since I made the invitation."
"Fine. I'll get a girl."
"Hey!" said Ross. "If you come along to Westchester you can't be in your booth controlling me if I run into an embarrassing situation."
Falck raised his blond eyebrows. "What's embarrassing about a picnic with your best girl?"
"Oh, you know."
"No I don't, unless you tell me."
Ross twisted his fingers. "I don't know her awfully well, but I think she's — she's — uh — well, I suppose you'd say I was nuts about her. And — and I always feel like I'm making a fool of myself."
Falck laughed. "Oh, that. Jerry Bundy's on Sunday, so I'll tell him to monitor you and be ready to take over."
Ross said: "You should call yourselves the John Alden Company."
Falck smiled. "Bring on your Priscilla, and we'll bundle her for you."
They parted, and Ross plunged back into the swarming garment district. He killed time, watching sweating shipping clerks push hand trucks loaded with dresses, until his controller returned to his booth and came on the hypospace. Then Ross sent in the signal.
Marcus Ballin (Outstanding Knitwear: sweaters, T-shirts, bathing suits) was a medium-sized man with sparse gray hair and somewhat the air of one of the more amiable Roman emperors. Ovid Ross soon learned that his trepidations about having the man insult him or clam up had been needless. Marcus Ballin loved to talk, he was a fascinating talker, and best of all he loved talking about himself.
Over the background noise of the knitting machines in the suite of lofts that comprised his empire, Ballin, with eloquent gestures of his cigar, poured into Falck-Ross's ears the story of his many activities. He told of his travels, his fun with his airplane and his violin, his charitable and settlement work, until Ross, a prisoner for the nonce in his own skull, wondered how this man of parts found time to be also one of the most successful garment manufacturers in New York.
Falck-Ross said: "But, sir, how about that special show?"
"Oh, that." Ballin chuckled. "Just a little stunt to help my fall line. Fm putting on a show for the buyers with a contest."
"A contest?"
"Absolutely. To choose the most beautiful bust in America."
"What? But Mr. Ballin, won't the cops interfere?"
Ballin laughed. "I wasn't intending to parade the girls in the nude. Nobody in the garment trade would encourage nudism; he'd be ostracized. They'll all be wearing Outstanding sweaters."
"But how can you be sure some of 'em aren't — ah — boosting their chances by artificial means?"
"Not this time. These sweaters will be so thin the judges can tell."
"Who are the judges?"
"Well, I'm one, and I got the sculptor Joseph Aldi for the second. The third I haven't picked out. I called that stuffed-shirt publisher of yours, but he turned me down. Let me see ..."
"Mr. Ballin," Ross to his horror heard himself say, "I'm sure I should make a good judge."
Ovid Ross was horrified for three reasons: first, to judge so intimate a matter in public would embarrass him to death; second, he thought it would impair his standing with Claire La Motte if she found out; finally, he would never, never come right out and ask anybody for anything in that crass way. He struggled to get his hand on the switch, but Gilbert Falck kept the bit in his teeth.