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11. OLIVE OR TWIST?

HE HAD TO KNOCK on the door for several minutes before anyone answered. And then it was Jerry, pulling the bathrobe around his waist, looking tired and cross.

“Jerry, I have to talk to you.”

Jerry Barnes blinked in the light of the hallway. “Rog? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Clark said. “Listen, I have to talk to you, it’s important.”

“Rog…” Jerry fumbled with the robe, pulling back one sleeve to look at his watch. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know,” Clark said, walking into the apartment “I’ll barely have time to pack.”

“Pack?” Jerry was scratching his head, looking at him. “Pack what?”

Clark went into the living room, sat down, and turned on a light. Jerry winced.

“Jerry,” he said, “you’re a stockbroker, and I need—”

“I’m a stockbroker,” Jerry said, “from nine to five. Less, if I can help it. At three in the morning I’m—”

“Jerry,” called a sleepy voice from the bedroom. “Is something wrong?”

“No, love,” Jerry said, frowning at Clark. He moved close and whispered: “Can’t we make it another time, Rog? Huh?”

“Who is it?” Clark said.

“Linda. A little dividend.” Jerry managed a sleepy grin. “She just split three for two.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“Tiring,” Jerry said, rubbing his face. “Very tiring.”

“You selling long or short these days, Jerry?”

“Rog,” he said, “for Pete’s sake, it’s three in the morning—”

“I need information. About a corporation.”

“Jer-ry,” called the sleepy voice. “Come back home to momma.”

Jerry rolled his eyes and looked at Clark. “This really is a bad time, Rog, no kidding.”

Clark got up and went to the refrigerator. Jerry Barnes always had a pitcher of martinis in the refrigerator. He poured himself one, looked inquiringly at Jerry, who nodded; he poured a second one.

“Make it quick, huh?”

“Okay, Jerry. Very quick. I want to know about a corporation in Santa Monica called Advance.”

Jerry Barnes gulped his drink and said, “Oh no. Not another one. You too? How about an olive?”

“Twist,” Clark said, swirling the cold liquid in the glass.

Jerry dropped a twist of lemon into it. “Everybody wants to know about Advance.”

“Everybody?”

“At least six people have called me in the last month. They’ve seen the building, or heard about the corporation, and they’re interested. I checked it out a while ago.”

“And?”

He shook his head. “Not for sale. Private corp. It’s not on the big board, it’s not on the American, it’s not anywhere. The stock is all privately held.”

“What else do you know?”

Jerry Barnes took a long gulp of the drink, and rubbed his face again. He seemed to be waking up. “It’s a funny bunch, Advance. Started two years ago with a handful of wizard-types, doing biological research. They were located in Florida then. The original group, which includes the president, this guy Harvey Blood, was all marine scientists.”

“No kidding.”

“And they were doing government research. They discovered a thing called SVD.”

“Which is?”

“A viral disease of sharks, transmitted in the, uh, sexual secretions or whatever it is that sharks do.”

“SVD?”

“Stands for shark venereal disease. Locally known as the finny clap.”

“Jerry, are you pulling my leg?”

“At three in the morning? Come on.”

“Jer-ry, ba-by…”

“In a minute, love,” Jerry said, pouring himself another martini. “Jeez, Rog, she really is something,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it. I used to hear stories about girls like this—”

“Advance,” Clark reminded him.

“Yeah, Advance. Anyway, they discovered this fish disease and isolated the virus, or some damned thing, and sold it to the government for a big fee. It was going to be a huge new breakthrough in biological warfare. From there, they went on to investigate Arizona Sleeping Sickness.”

“Arizona—”

“Shhhhh. Yeah. Arizona Sleeping Sickness. Another new disease they invented. Carried by the eight-legged nymph of the sagebrush caterpillar in northwest Ariz—”

“I hope,” said a voice, “that I’m not breaking up the party.”

Clark turned. There was a girl standing in the doorway to the bedroom, wearing a man’s pyjama top and a sleepy frown.

“Linda, this is Roger.” Jerry sighed. “Roger is a crazy doctor.”

“Oh,” Linda said. She padded across the room to the refrigerator and poured herself a drink. “He must be crazy,” she said.

“He’s also leaving,” Jerry said, with a stern look at Clark, who was staring at the girl’s legs. They were very nice legs.

“Yes, just leaving,” Clark said. “But about Advance—”

“All right, look: the thing about Advance is that they got started with these two diseases, sold them to the government for a big fee, and then moved into the private sector. Completely. They’re doing other things now.”

“Like what?”

Jerry shrugged. “Nobody seems to know, really. There are rumors about thought control, and drugs, and test-tube engineering…. wild stuff. But nobody knows for sure.” He sighed. “And anyway, it’s not for sale. Okay?”

“Okay,” Clark said. He finished his martini and stood.

“Good night, crazy doctor,” Linda said, with a sleepy smile. “Nice having you.”

“You haven’t had him yet,” Jerry said.

“Yes,” Linda said, “but you never can tell.”

12. TRIPPYTIME

“ONE MORE! HOLD IT!”

The flashbulbs popped.

“Now around, that’s it. A little leg, Miss Wilder!”

Flashbulbs, white silent explosions in the air. The photographers scurrying, moving around her.

“Give us a smile, Sharon! Good! Another!”

She turned, waved, and smiled once more, then walked up the steps to the airplane. “That’s it, boys.”

“Aw, Sharon.”

“Just one, Sharon.”

“Miss Wilder…”

But she was climbing the steps, and a moment later ducked through into the interior of the airplane, and moved down the aisle to her seat in the first-class section.

Roger Clark was waiting. He had watched it all from the window seat.

“God, photographers,” Sharon said, dropping into her seat. “I hate posing,” she said, “in all these clothes. Is the suit all right?”

She wore a severely cut suit of black leather, with a red scarf at her throat.

“The suit is fine,” Clark said.

“You’re such a dear,” Sharon said, and kissed his cheek. She settled back in the seat and buckled her belt. “Well,” she said. “At last: it’s trippytime, darling.”

“So it appears.”

“It was good of you to come,” she said, “on short notice. I felt terrible about calling you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

There was a whine as the jet engines were started. The few remaining passengers filed down the aisle to their seats; up in front, they could see the stewardess closing the door. The steps were wheeled away.

“This is going to be a marvelous flight,” Sharon said. “I’ve decided.”

Clark said, “What exactly do we do?”

“It’s very simple,” she said. “We fly direct to Miami. Then we have a little stopover, and get the plane to Nassau. From there, we go by seaplane to San Cristobal.”

“Which is where?”