The gray little man nodded and swallowed a third of his own booze. "You think it'll ever come—at this rate?"
Roy ignored that and focused on his job again with professional ease. "You were going to do a story on the Wobbly movement?"
The other shook his head. "No, actually I just stopped by your meeting from sheer boredom. I had nothing else to do."
Roy was bitter. "The conspiracy of silence, eh? It's like pulling teeth to get any of our meetings or demands into the news. But what should 1 expect? The news media are owned by the enemy."
But Forry Brown shook his head again. "You people overemphasize that. Oh, it applies to a certain extent. Word from above is to not give too much coverage to any minority organizations. Not just your Wobblies, but the Neo-Nihilists, the Libertarians, the Luddites, the Gay Libbers, and all the rest. But there's no taboo, no conspiracy of total silence. The thing is, you people aren't news. Nobody cares about your programs. They want something exciting. You're not exciting. A good murder, some scandal about the latest Tri-Di sex symbol, government corruption, one of the bush wars in Africa or Asia, even a hurricane or earthquake, bring in more viewers than some yawner about a Wobbly meeting attended by fifteen people. But that isn't the big reason I'm not filing a story on you, even after you were attacked by members of your audience. If they'd killed you, maybe somebody would have a story." He took another cigarette and lit it from the butt of his last.
Roy Cos forgot his bruises temporarily and said, "Damn it,
I'd almost be willing. How can we present our program to the people if we can't get any media coverage?"
The little man's grimace was sour. "Wish I could help you, but just this morning the computers spelled me down. I'm surprised that I was able to hang on this long, even as a second-rate legman in a backwater Tri-Di area. It's not enough being selected by the damned computers for a job. Each year a new batch of journalism graduates apply for positions. As you said in your talk, over ninety percent of the population is unemployed. We who have jobs try desperately to hang onto them, and sometimes the experience we've accumulated helps out. But sooner or later some new kid with a higher Ability Quotient steps into your boots." He shrugged. "I've been expecting the axe for a long time."
Roy Cos had never held a job in his life—not that he hadn't religiously applied each year. He said, in compassion, "I'm sorry. What happens now? Do you get a pension or something from your Tri-Di network?"
The other snorted and finished his drink. "Hell, no. I go back on GAS. Theoretically, I should've saved a portion of the pseudo-dollar credits I earned while I was working and invested them in Variable Basic government stock, or one of the private corporations. The dividends would supplement my GAS." He snorted again, took his cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. "I'm afraid I developed some expensive habits. Lady Nicotine doesn't come cheap these days."
The Wobbly organizer took him in. He had never met anyone before who was actually hooked on tobacco. He didn't move in the circles that could afford it. He also had the usual prejudice against the use of the poisonous weed.
Roy said, "Why didn't you ever take the cure?"
Brown laughed dryly. "Because, once you take it, you're allergic to nicotine for the rest of your life. I guess I didn't really want to be cured. I like to eat better than you proles can afford, like to drink better, travel better. I even took a trip around the world once and I've been in Europe a couple of times. Free rocket shuttle fare as a newsman, but the other expenses were largely on me. You ought to see some of the bordellos they have in the East." He sighed. "That's one thing they'll never automate. Knock on wood."
As a Wobbly, Roy Cos didn't approve of prostitution any more than he did of the deadly nicotine, so underneath was a certain smug satisfaction when he said, "So now you're in the same position as all the rest of us. You should join the Wobbly movement."
Brown ground out his cigarette and brought forth another. "Not me," he said. "What I've got to do is dream up some other manner of supporting my vices."
Roy switched subjects, knowing the unlikelihood of the ex-newsman ever accomplishing that. "Any idea how we could get more media coverage? It's a sore point with us. When those old American revolutionists wrote the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, it never occurred to them that freedom of speech and of press and assembly would one day become meaningless. In those days you got up in the village square, or the town meeting, and stated your beliefs. If your program had merit, it was probably accepted. Starting a newspaper was in the range of almost any individual, or certainly of any small group. But today, unless you can get on Tri-Di, you simply aren't heard. Freedom of the press is fine; sure, you're perfectly free to get out a little magazine and circulate it as best you can. But who reads it? A few hundred people, most of whom already have the same beliefs you do. Freedom of speech is meaningless if all you can do is stand on the beach and shout your message to the wind."
Forrest Brown thought about it, squinting through curls of smoke. He said finally, "You've got to have enough money to buy Tri-Di time, but above all, you've got to be newsworthy. You've got to have something that makes people want to listen to you, watch you."
"Great," Roy said sarcastically. "And how do I accomplish that?"
The newsman, half joking, said, "Start a religion. Become a Tri-Di star. Take out a Deathwish Policy."
The Wobbly organizer scowled at him. "What for?"
"You'd have the credits to buy Tri-Di time. Deathwishers are news. Everybody'd be in a tizzy wondering how long it'd be before you got hit. There'd be standing room only at your hall lectures. You'd be out in the open and they'd come in hopes that they'd be there when the Graf's boys, or whoever, got to you. Something like in the old days in Spain and Latin
America, where they'd pony up for bullfight tickets in hopes they'd see the matador gored to death."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Roy said. "What's a Deathwish Policy?"
Forry grunted and dialed another two whiskeys before lighting a new smoke off the old. "Oh," he said, "just a jargon term we use in the news game. You've probably never heard it. You have your life insured in return for having an international drawing account for a million pseudo-dollar credits continually at your disposal—for as long as you live."
"Never heard of… oh, wait a minute. I guess I did. Something in the news about six months ago. Somebody was blown up with a grenade or something. His life had been insured for something like five million pseudo-dollars only a few days before. I forget the details. I don't usually follow crime news."
"It's crime, all right," Forry said, putting his thumbprint on the table's payment screen to pay for the new drinks. His credit card was still in the slot. "The thing is, so far, the law hasn't been able to get at them. It's too complicated. Most of the insured are Americans. But you never sign the policy with an American company. The outfit that's going to collect the benefits is usually based in the Bahamas, or Malta, or Tangier, or somewhere else where practically anything goes. They shop out the deal to Lloyd's of London, where they'll insure anything—dancer's legs, a violinist's fingers. Hell, they'll insure an outdoor entertainment against loss due to rain. So you've got four countries involved: the insured is usually a citizen of the States, the beneficiary is in the Bahamas or wherever, Lloyds of London is in England, and your credits come from Switzerland. For that matter, you might say five different countries are involved, since it's said that the Graf has his headquarters in Liechtenstein."
"Now, wait a minute," Roy Cos said, taking up his new drink and swallowing part of it. For the first time in years, he felt the itch of intrigue. "Start at the beginning."