A BETTER SPYTRAP
A. B. Cromwell was a mad scientist. Literally mad. When the U.S. Patent Office gave the better mousetrap he had invented a cool reception, he blew his stack and threw it in the lake.
The trouble was, the U.S. government needed Cromwell and his mousetrap. Not to catch mice - but because it was made of a fantastic new alloy that would make a vital difference in the Space Race, and only Cromwell knew its secret.
Naturally, Steve Victor got the job of finding him. His only leads were a strange little man named Velvet... and a wife-swapping club. So, complete with a “wife” procured for the occasion, Steve joined the club-and walked into a trap set just for him. Here's the hilarious story, as only Ted
Mark could have written it!
WOULD YOU BELIEVE . . .
A better mousetrap making a crucial difference in the winning of the race to conquer outer space?
Steve “The Man from O.R.G.Y.” Victor getting married?
A beautiful female campaigner for clean literature wearing a startling bikini?
Steve “The Man from—!” being pursued and shot at by Russians, Americans, and strictly free-lance spies?
It’s all here . . . with much more . . . in Ted Mark’s latest laugh-and-action espionage thriller!
A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT
Ted Mark
1966
chapter ONE
MY FIRST EVENING in Washington, D. C., was a lonely one. I thought about calling the Johnsons, but decided against it. Texas hospitality is renowned, but it wouldn’t have been fair to call even so gracious a hostess as Lady Bird at the last minute that way. And much as I admired Lyndon, I didn’t really want to spend an evening listening to him justify his Vietnam policies -- a topic of conversation which seemed to have become somewhat compulsive with him lately. Besides, to be honest about it, while my status as a taxpayer might entitle me to take potluck at the White House, I’m not what you’d call really close with the President and his lady. The truth is that while I voted for him, we’ve never really met. So I dined alone.
After dinner I killed time by taking a stroll through Rock Creek Park. I Wasn’t due to meet Charles Putnam until after one a. m. and there was nothing to keep me hanging around my hotel. The Windsor was a very nice, quietly plush hostelry, but too conservative for my taste, and definitely not where the action was. Putnam wasn’t staying there himself. Why had he insisted on booking me a room there?
I didn’t know the answer. But then there were lots of answers I didn’t know where Charles Putnam was concerned. For instance, where had he gone after leaving me at the airport when we disembarked from the unmarked and exclusive government plane which had ferried us from Manila? Where was he right now?
The other side of the Looking-Glass -- that was my guess. Holding hands with Alice and sure-footedly picking his way through the Washington wonderland of cloak-and-dagger diplomacy. Yes, I could picture him holding whispered conversations with the white Knight and the Red Queen. I could see him sipping exotic LSD tea with Haigha and Hatta and bouncing the world like a rubber ball as he wended his way back to the Looking-glass exit.
The fantasy suited my opinion of Putnam. Experience had taught me never to take his reality for granted. Even his name, he’d admitted to me once, was an invented monicker. Add a face out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, a physique that was Herculean, an impeccable manner and style of dress worthy of C. Aubrey Smith1 looking down his nose at the Student Prince2 , and you get a picture of the contradictory character I couldn’t quite believe in even when I was face to face with him.
Such occasions added to the feeling of his unreality by reminding me of his nebulous--but extremely important—status in the world of undercover government activity. Charles Putnam had something to do with the State Department, but officially the State Department had never heard of him. He also had something to do with the CIA, but the CIA wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence. He floated in that murky void between diplomacy and espionage, the void encompassing the Bay of Pigs3 and unofficial confabs with the Red Chinese, U-2 flights4 , and quiet, preliminary talks on disarmament points which might be discussed, containment and co-existence. Yes, somewhere between containment and co-existence, Putnam could be found patriotically zigzagging along the Course of U. S. foreign policy and frequently, I suspected, proving instrumental in formulating it.
While there might be some doubt about whether Putnam was a pawn, or a player, or both, in my own case there was no doubt whatsoever. I was a pawn—Putnam’s pawn -- a pawn made willing (if not eager) to be moved about at Putnam’s whim by my own strong feelings of patriotism. Don’t get me wrong. I'm no flag-waver. But, considering the alternatives, I guess I buy the “My country, may she always be right, but right or wrong, etc.” philosophy. Many’s the governmental madness I deplore, but they haven’t yet contrived a Utopia I’d consider swapping for the U. S.
That’s my simple reason for letting myself be used Putnam. His reason for finding me useful stems from my unique line of work. You see, I’m Steve Victor, the man from O. R. G. Y.
Let me explain. O. R. G. Y. is the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth. Some people might consider that mouthful a misnomer, but I'm not one of them. The reason that they might cock a skeptical eyebrow at the name is that the real work of O. R. G. Y. is sex research. It’s a one-man foundation—-the one man being me—which often receives grants for research from wealthier foundations. In exchange for these moneys, O. R. G. Y. conducts surveys and compiles statistics on many aspects of sex in many parts of the world. These statistics, as I see it, often are used for the rational guidance of youth. And they can use whatever rational guidance they can get in today’s mixed up world of sex.
Once, O. R. G. Y. was not only my means of earning a livelihood, but also my prime concern. Since meeting Charles Putnam, that is no longer true. He’d decided my experience and knowledge of the nether worlds of sex could be invaluable to him and therefore to our government. So he’d enlisted me for one adventure after another by appealing to my patriotism. This time he’d practically drafted me, dragging me off from Manila to Washington on short notice and parking me without any explanation save that he’d give me one at our next meeting.
That next meeting was still two hours off, but I’d had enough of the park. It was depressing, strolling about all by myself among the entwined couples on the benches. The sounds of their sighs in the breeze only seemed to increase my feeling of loneliness. I headed back to the Windsor and went up to my room.
Without intending to, I sacked out. A low knocking at the door woke me. I admitted Charles Putnam. “Well, what’s up?” I greeted him as he carefully closed and locked the door behind himself.
“It seems that your government has need of your unique talents again, Mr. Victor. All I knew in Manila was that my instructions were to bring you back to Washington with me. Now I know why.”
“So let me in on the secret.”