In the reception room, Johnson and Stevens shot to their feet and came forward.
The major said, “You’re Mr. Wonder’s guards?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major beckoned to two of the other guards present. “You’re released from your present assignment. You’ll help guard Mr. Wonder. With your lives, if necessary. This is crash priority.”
“Yes, sir.” All four of the guards brushed back coattails so that quick draw holsters were revealed on their hips, and now instantly available.
“What the devil,” Ed protested. He was ignored.
“Come along,” the major said again, and led the way. This time they ascended to the above floor. The bustle here was considerably less. They went through this hall, through that. Finally winding up before a door where a guard stood. As they approached, his hand went to his gun and remained there until the major and Oppenheimer identified themselves.
Oppenheimer said to him, “Another guest. There are six of you now. You’ll take it in shifts. One man outside, one in at all times. I’ll send lientenant Edmonds to arrange details. Until he turns up, all six of you stand by.”
He got a chorus of yes sirs, then opened the door and led the way inside. It was a lavish suite.
Buzz De Kemp looked up from the chair in which he was sitting reading a paperback novel. He grinned, took his stogie from his mouth and said, “Hi, Little Ed. So they picked you up too.”
Ed Wonder was beyond surprise by now. He sat down on the couch and closed his eyes.
Oppenheimer and the major looked at the newspaperman. The former said, “We’ve just read your report on the Tubber affair. Largely, you corroborate what Wonder has just told us. That ups you from ‘AA’ priority to crash.”
“Well, good for us,” Buzz beamed. “How many other crash prforities are there?”
“Several hundred, at least, in the United Welfare States. How many in England, Common Europe and the Soviet Complex, I’d have to check again to find out. Possibly by this time the Allied Neutral States have gotten underway as well.”
Buzz whistled silently. “This thing is getting really big.”
“It’s as big as a war,” the major said flatly.
Ed was beginning to adjust. He said peevishly, “When do we eat around here? If I’ve got to be a prisoner, I ought to be fed once in a while.”
Oppenheimer said to him. “You’re not a prisoner. You’re a volunteer, working for the government.”
“There’s a difference?”
“We’ll get in touch with you shortly.”
It wasn’t shortly. It wasn’t until the next morning. Meanwhile their guard system had been perfected and their needs met. They had spent several hours checking with each other, but it was largely a rehashing. Buzz De Kemp on the whole had had a similar experience to that of Ed Wonder. He’d been picked up by two agents and whisked to the New Woolworth Building. They had picked him up as the writer of the articles on Tubber. When he stuck to his guns, his priority rose from ‘C to ‘AA’ and then, when Ed Wonder’s story corroborated his, to crash.
They came for Ed and Buzz in the morning. Not Oppenheimer and Major Davis. Evidently, they were being dealt with by higher echelons now. It was a colonel with two aides who showed up to escort them to their next interview. Colonel Fredric Williams of Air Force Intelligence.
Buzz stuck his paperback in his jacket pocket, saying, “Just in case we run into the usual bureaucratic redtape. You know, hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait—I’ll take along something to read.”
The colonel glared at him. Buzz leered back, scooped up a handful of the stogies he had ordered the night before and jammed them into a jacket breast pocket. “I’ll need fuel, too.”
They followed the colonel and his aides, and the guards brought up the rear, coats still brushed back so that guns were readily handy. Ed wondered what they thought the potential danger might be, tucked away here on the top floors of Ultra-New York’s tallest skyscraper and surrounded by what seemed to be hundreds of security men.
Their destination was up still another floor, and this time there were two reception rooms, rather than one. The first was king-size, with a dozen busy desks and as many offices beyond. The second was small and presided over by a single middle-aged, less than matronly looking efficiency machine.
She said crisply, “Mr. Hopkins is waiting for you, Colonel. The others have arrived.”
“Thank you, Miss Presley.”
The colonel himself opened the inner door.
Whoever the architect who had designed the New Woolworth Building might have been, he had surely realized that the ultimate floor was meant for ultimate authority of one sort or another. This office bore that fact out.
Ed Wonder had never been in such an establishment in his life. Only Hollywood had prepared him for it. Even then, he looked about in amazement.
There was but one desk, which seemed to be suspended by one thin rod from the ceiling, rather than being supported on the floor. Behind it obviously sat Mr. Hopkins. The reality of who Mr. Hopkins was came immediately home to both Ed Wonder and Buzz De Kemp, the latter of whom reacted by whistling softly between his teeth.
Dwight Hopkins, the Great Compromiser. Dwight Hopkins, the power behind the throne. Dwight Hopkins who dominated western politics like a colossus.
Dwight Hopkins avoided publicity. He had no need of it. However, the right hand man, the one man brain trust, some said the alter ego, of President Everett MacFerson could not remain completely unknown to the knowledgeable citizen. President MacFerson might be, and was, a figurehead, a symbol, a public image whose actual efforts so far as governing the nation was concerned, went little beyond those of the ruling monarch of Great Britain. But while the MacFerson glamour type politicians might possess whatever it is which draws the votes of the populace, there still must be the Dwight Hopkinses behind the scenes. He had survived three administrations, having been handed down from the Democratic Republicans to the Liberal Conservatives and then back again, without change in either their policies—or his. There were seldom issues between the two parties under the Welfare State; it wasn’t considered the thing to attempt to influence the voters by raising issues. You voted for the man you liked best, not for principles.
Dwight Hopkins sat behind the small desk. To one side of him, in an easy chair, legs crossed, was a major general To the other, a tall, gray civilian. Across from him, in a row, were Jensen Fontaine, Helen Fontaine and Matthew Mulligan.
Ed shot his eyes around the room again. No mistake. The Tubbers were conspicuously absent.
Hopkins nodded to the newcomers. “You must be Buzz De Kemp, you look like a newspaperman. And you’re Edward Wonder. Why do they call you Little Ed?” The Hopkins voice was firm but the urgency in it had a strange easygoing quality, as though there wasn’t really any great hurry, now that Hopkins had taken over.
“I don’t know,” Ed said.
Mulligan blurted, “See here, Wonder, if all this is your…”
The major general rumbled, “That will be enough, Mr. Mulligan. Mr. Wonder is in the same position as you are. You’ve been brought here to help us clear up a matter that is of first importance to the nation.”
“To the world,” the tall gray civilian said mildly.
Jensen Fontaine said hotly, “I demand to know if those Communists down in Greater Washington think they can pick up citizens of good repute and…”
Dwight Hopkins was looking at the small town magnate expressionlessly. He interrupted to say, “Mr. Fontaine. In your belief, what is the cause of the disruption of radio and TV and, further, of motion picture projectors?”