“And of course, that ‘anonymous donor’ would reveal himself as Benedict Howards, along with a copy of the contract to the press, if I sign it and then don’t play ball,” Barron said, feeling the calculus of power filling the air with the gold-stench of necromancy.
Howards smiled professionally. “I’ve got to have some insurance. All right, Barron, just sign on the dotted line, and we can get down to the business of repairing the damage your big mouth has done to the Freezer Utility Bill.”
“That wasn’t the deal we made, and you know it,” Barron told him. “You’re not hiring a flunky, you’re leasing my specific services as, shall we say, a public relations counselor? That’s freelance work, and it means I gotta know everything about the product I’m supposed to peddle. Everything, Howards. And, for openers, I gotta know exactly why you’re so hot for my body.”
“After last night, you ask me that?” Howards snarled. (But Barron saw that the snarl was calculated.) “Thanks to you, the Freezer Bill’s in real trouble. I need that bill, which means I need votes in Congress, which means I need public pressure on my side, which means I need your pipeline to a hundred million votes, which means, unfortunately, that I need you. But don’t misunderstand me, you say ‘no’ to me, then I need your scalp nailed to the barn door—and I’ll get it. You’re in too deep, Barron. You either play my game, or you don’t play any game at all.”
“You’re lying,” Barron said neutrally. “Your Freezer Bill was a shoo-in till I started making waves, and I didn’t make waves till you started playing footsie with me. So it couldn’t have been to save the Freezer Bill that you were after my ass in the first place. Had to be something else, something bigger, and I don’t screw around with anything that big till I know exactly what it is.”
“I’ve had enough of you!” Howards snapped and now Barron was sure he had finally pierced Bennie’s cool. “You spend so much time trying to convince me how dangerous you are, all right, all right, I’m convinced. You know what that gets you? It gets you pounded to a pulp same as I’d smash a scorpion, unless you play ball. Scorpion’s deadly, could kill me if I gave it a chance, but that doesn’t mean that the moment I see it’s really become dangerous I can’t squash it like a bug. ’cause it is a bug, and so are you.”
“Don’t threaten me,” Barron said, half-calculatedly, half-responding to adrenalin-signals. “Don’t give me the idea I’ve got my back to the wall. ’cause if I get to having an itchy back, I’ll do a show on the Foundation that’ll make the last one seem like a Foundation commercial. And the next will be worse than that, and worse, and worse every week till you can get me off the air. And by then, Bennie, it’ll be way too late.”
“You’re bluffing, Barron,” said Howards. “You don’t have the guts to blow your whole career just to get me. And you’re not stupid enough either to throw yourself out in the cold, a ruined nobody, with no place to go.”
Jack Barron smiled. Bennie, he thought, you’ve walked right into it. You’re out of your league after all, bigshot, here comes them four aces in the hole. “Funny you should say that, Bennie,” he drawled, ’cause the fact is I got all kind of people telling me there’s someplace I ought to go.”
“That I can believe,” Howards said dryly,
“Good to see you’ve still got a sense of humor, ’cause you’re gonna need it. Because if you force me to blow the show by knifing the Foundation, it won’t just be crazy revenge. Y’know, I got people asking me to do just that, powerful people like Gregory Morris and Lukas Greene begging me to play their game, and do you in, and to hell with Bug Jack Barron. And they’re offering me something bigger than anything you’ve laid on the table so far to do it, too,” Barron said and waited for the straight line.
“You’re bluffing again,” said Howards, “and this time it’s really obvious. What could anyone offer you that’s bigger than a place in a Freezer, a chance at living forever?”
You’re beautiful, Bennie, show biz all the way, Barron thought as he made with the tailor-made punchline:
“Would you believe the Presidency of the United States?”
“Would I believe what?” Howards goggled, seemed about to say something cute, then Barron sensed him backing off, putting one and one and one together in his head and getting only two and a half, not knowing how to react, whether it was a gag or pure bluff or some weird new equation of power. He sensed that Howards was waiting for him to speak—and sensed status-relationships in a state of uncertain flux.
“Well, would you believe a Presidential nomination?” Barron said, still not quite able to bring himself to use the whole silly schtick seriously. “You know how tight I’ve always been with the SJC, Founding Father and all that crap; well, when Luke Greene saw me dig my spurs into you he figured I could use the show to build myself up as The Hero of the People at your expense, and run for President on the SJC ticket next year. And without my giving him the go-ahead he nosed around, and now he tells me he really can deliver the Social Justice nomination.” Hold the last ace for the showdown, he told himself. Let Bennie walk into it with his jaw.
“So that’s what you mean by a Presidential nomination,” Howards said, smiling easily. “The SJC nomination and a first-class plane ticket just might get you to Washington with a good tail-wind, and you know it. I don’t get it, Barron, you’re not dumb enough to throw away a free Freezer over a chance to lose your show and make a public joke of yourself. That’s not even a decent bluff. You’re slipping, Barron, you’re slipping.”
Barron smiled. This is it, he thought. Now I knock you right on your ass, Howards. “You know, Bennie,” he said, “that’s just about what I told Luke at the time. (He saw Howards relax some more and plunged straight through the hole in the line.) Yeah, I told him kamikaze’s not the name of my game… but, of course, that was before Greg Morris offered me the Republican nomination.”
Howards started, went a trifle pale. “That’s a lie,” he said, but without too much conviction. “You a Republican? With your background? Who they supposed to run on the ticket with you, Joe Stalin? You’ve gotta be stoned to think I’d believe that.”
Barron pushed his vidphone across the desk. “You don’t have to believe anything,” he said. “Call Greene. Call Morris. You’re a big boy, Bennie; I’m surprised no one’s told you the facts of life yet. Add it up. The Republicans have been sliding down the drain since Herbert Hoover, they’re desperate, they’ve gotta win, and, as Morris so flatteringly indicated, they’d run on Adolph Hitler if that’s what a victory would take. The only Chinaman’s chance they have of winning is on a fusion ticket with the SJC, and the only man they can run who could get the SJC nomination is yours truly, Jack Barron.”
“Ridiculous,” Howards said, his voice thin and unconvincing. “The Republicans and the SJC hate each other worse than either of ’em hate the Democrats. They don’t agree on anything. They could never get in bed together.”
“Ah, but they do agree on one thing,” Barron said. “They agree on you. They’re both against the Freezer Utility Bill and the Foundation for Human Immortality—and there’s your fusion platform. They don’t run me against the Pretender or any stooge you may still be able to ram down the Democrats’ throat. I run against you, Howards. I use Bug Jack Barron to hang you around the Democratic candidate’s neck like a rotten albatross stinking from coast to coast, and I run against that. Get the picture? Win or lose, the Foundation gets cut to pieces in the process. And win or lose, it’d mean you couldn’t muscle me off the air because even though the Republicans can’t deliver votes anymore, most of the fat cats in the country are still behind ’em. Pressure my sponsors, and the GOP can line up ten others. Republican-type bread still controls two out of four networks, still has as much leverage with the FCC as you do.”