"This discovery is so world-shaking that two days ago, industry thieves broke into the new Dynacar Industries building here in Detroit and made off with what they believed was the only existing prototype of this new car," Lavallette said. He smiled broadly. "They were wrong."
He lifted his hands to still the shouted barrage of questions.
"Tomorrow in the new Dynacar building, I will unveil this great discovery. I am herewith extending an invitation to the heads of General Autos, American Autos, and National Autos-the Big Three--to attend so they can personally see what the future will be like. I will take no questions now; I will see you all tomorrow. Thank you for coming. "
He turned and stepped down from the podium.
"What did he say?" asked a reporter from GQ who had been busy taking notes on what Lavallette was wearing and had not listened to what he said.
"He said the press conference is tomorrow," said another reporter.
"Tomorrow? Then what was this?"
"Search me."
"Hey. What was this if it wasn't the press conference?" the GQ reporter called out to Miss Blaze as she walked away behind Lavallette.
She started to shrug. But instead she screamed. She screamed because, as the news people surged to record Lyte Lavallette leaving the room, two shots rang out and Lavallette was slammed against the wall.
"He's been shot. Someone shot Lavallette."
"What? Shot?"
"Someone call an ambulance," shrieked Miss Blaze.
"Where's the gunman? He must be in this room. Find him. Get his story."
A network newsman jumped up behind the podium and waved his arms frantically. "If the gunman is still in this room, I can offer an exclusive contract to appear on Nightwatch. We'll also pick up your legal fees."
"I'll double that offer," yelled someone from a cable news system.
"I didn't mention a price," said the network man. "How can you double it?"
"I'm offering a blank check," the cable man said loudly. He jumped up onto the small stage at the front of the room, yanked his checkbook from his pocket, and waved it around his head, hoping the gunman would see him. "Name your price," he shouted. "A blank check."
"A credit card," the network man shouted back. "I'm offering a network credit card. That's better than his blank check."
"Oooooh," groaned Lyle Lavallette on the floor.
"Can we quote you on that?" a woman with a microphone asked him.
The television news people had their cameras aimed in all directions. They filmed Lyle lavallette lying on the gold rug with a stupid expression on his face. They filmed Miss Blaze, his secretary, with her Grand Canyon cleavage and hot tears streaming down her cheeks. They filmed each other. They missed nothing.
Except the gunman.
After firing two shots point-blank at Lyle Lavallette's chest, the gunman had slipped his Beretta Olympic into the hollow compartment built into his video camera and pretended to shoot more footage. He did not try to run away because he knew he would not have to. In the entire history of the universe, no newsman confronted with disaster, whether natural or man-made, had ever offered assistance. They filmed people burning to death and never made an attempt to throw a blanket over the flames. They interviewed mass killers, on the run from the police, and never made any attempt to have the criminals arrested. They seemed to believe that the only people who should be apprehended and put in jail were Presidents of the United States and people who did not support school busing.
So the gunman waited until the ambulance came and took Lyle Lavallette away. He waited around while the police were there, and pretended to take film of them. When the police were done interviewing people and taking down everyone's name, he left with the other newsmen.
He heard one of them say, "It's awful. It would only happen in America. Who'd shoot a Maverick Car Genius?"
"They must have thought he was a politician. Probably the President shot him because he thought Lavallette was going to run for President."
"No," another one said. "It was big business. The capitalists. The Big Three had him shot because he was going to hurt their car sales."
The man with the scar who had shot Lyle Lavallette listened to all of them and he knew they were all wrong. Lyle Lavallette was shot simply because his was the first name on the list.
That afternoon; the Detroit Free Press received an anonymous letter. It said simply that Lavallette was only the first. One by one, the automakers of America would be killed before they had a chance to totally destroy the environment. "Enough innocent people have already died from air-polluting infernal machines," the letter said. "It is time some of the guilty died too. And they will." Harold Smith took another swig of Maalox. Beyond the big picture windows of his office, looking out on Long Island Sound, a skiff tacked close to the wind. Strong gusts blew up and pushed against the sail and the skiff listed so sharply it looked ready to capsize. But Smith knew that sailcraft were balanced so that the sail above and the keel below formed a single vertical axis. The wind could push the sail over only so far, because of the counterpressure from the keel below the water. When the sail reached its maximum tilt, the wind glanced harmlessly off. Perfect equilibrium.
Sometimes Smith felt CURE was like that. A perfectly balanced keel for the sailboat that was the United States government. But sometimes just as a really rough sea could capsize a sailboat if it was struck in just the wrong way at the wrong time-even CURE could not always hold America on an even keel.
It felt that way right now. Smith had just gotten off the telephone with the President.
"I know I can only suggest missions," the President had said. His voice was as cheerful as if he had just finished his favorite lunch.
"Yes, sir," Smith said.
"But you know about this Detroit thing."
"It looks as if it might be serious, Mr. President."
"Darned tootin' it's serious," said the President. "The car industry is just getting back on its feet. We can't have some environment cuckoo killing everybody in Detroit."
"Fortunately, Lavallette is still alive," Smith said. "He was wearing a bulletproof vest."
"I think all the rest of them need more than a bulletproof vest," the President said. "I think they need your two special men."
"I'll have to make that decision, Mr. President. This might just be the work of a vicious prankster."
"I don't think it is, though. Do you?"
"I'll let you know. Good-bye, Mr. President," Smith said and disconnected the telephone that connected directly with the White House.
Smith had disliked being abrupt but it was the tone he had taken with all the previous Presidents who had turned to CURE to solve a problem. It had been written into the initial plans for CURE: a President could only suggest assignments, not order them. This was to prevent CURE from ever becoming a controlled wing of the executive branch. There was only one presidential order that Smith would accept: disband CURE.
Smith had been abrupt for another reason too. Remo had not yet reported in after his last assignment against the Ravine Rapist on the airplane, but while checking the reports of the Lavallette assault, Smith had run across his name.
The police at the scene had dutifully taken down the name of everyone in the room where the automaker was shot.
And at the bottom of the list was printed the name of Remo Williams, photographer.
It was not the kind of name like Joe Smith or Bill Johnson that someone would just make up out of the air. Anyone who wrote down the name "Remo Williams" had to know Remo Williams . . . or be Remo Williams.
And no one knew Remo Williams.
Smith shook his head and drank some more Maalox. The conclusion was inescapable. For some reason, Remo was free-lancing and it was time for Smith to act.