“Getting arrogant?” Braithgale laughed bitterly.
“…He’s beginning to feel his oats.” Ed swung on Hopkins. “He started off innocent. Not knowing what he was doing. Evidently, one of his first curses was brought on by some teenager practicing hillbilly music on his guitar. Tubber broke the guitar strings…”
“What’s miraculous about that?” the general rumbled.
“…at a distance. Then there was something else that brought him to wrath, as his daughter calls it. A neon sign, or something. So he laid a curse on it. What happened, I don’t know. Maybe it stopped flickering.”
From the background Colonel Williams said, “I wish he’d lay a hex on the neon sign across from my house. The darn thing…”
General Crew looked at him and the colonel shut up.
Ed said desperately, “When he laid that Homespun Look hex on women, he didn’t know he had done it. Evidently when he gets really wrathed up, he forgets what he says. He was astonished when I told him he’d cursed radio. As surprised as anybody else that it’d worked. But look at this now. He’s cursed all light reading. All fiction—except what he likes. Listen, I’ll bet you he wasn’t even sore when he laid that one on.”
Dwight Hopkins frowned. “I’m becoming more convinced by the moment,” he said. “And Wonder, you’re our man.”
“I am not. I keep telling you. This kook is as nutty as almond cookies. Suppose he spots me and is reminded all over again of some of the arguments I’ve had with him, remembers that hardly anybody’ll listen to him. Suppose he gets wrathful again and lays down a hex on all unbelievers. You know what that’d mean? He doesn’t have more than a couple of hundred believers all together. I tell you, that twitch is more dangerous than the H-Bomb.”
General Crew said thoughtfully, “A sniper. The best marksman in the service. Posted on a hill, with a Winchester Noiseless and a Mark 8 telescopic sight. This Elysium, from what De Kemp has said, is in the hills. A small community, away from any city. A sniper…”
Buzz grinned at him. “And how about this possibility, General? Suppose something goes wrong and Zeke lays a spell on gunpowder? Better still, all explosives? What would happen to the Cold War thaw if all of a sudden no explosives would work?”
The general scowled at him. “The curses are universal. In that case, explosives wouldn’t work for the Commies, either.”
Buzz took his stogie from his mouth and examined the tip, which was burning unevenly. “They wouldn’t need explosives,” he said. “The Chinese alone could overrun us with butcher knives made in those backyard steel mills of theirs.”
Helen said, “Besides, assassination is out of the question. Actually, like Buzz was saying the other day, Tubber is a kindly old gent who just happens…”
“Kindly old gent,” Ed muttered bitterly.
“…to have some powers we simply don’t understand. He isn’t seem to understand them either. Very well. I think Little Ed should go and confront him. There’s nothing to suggest he has anything against Ed personally. Besides, he dotes on that daughter of his and she has a crush on Little Ed.”
Silence dropped. All eyes went to Ed Wonder.
Ed lowered his lids in utter suffering. “That’s a lie!” he wailed.
“Buzz?” Helen said.
Buzz De Kemp had been trying to get his stogie to burn straight. Now he nodded and said with a twang, “Yep, right as rain. Nice curvy little wench, blue eyeballs, cheeks shiny as red apples, set up real nice. Any sapsucker can see there’s nothing better she’d like to do than spoon with Little Ed Wonder.”
“Oh, great,” Ed moaned. “Funnies.”
Dwight Hopkins said, “Wonder, I’ll have an office and staff assigned to you.”
“No,” Ed said.
Dwight Hopkins looked at him deliberately. “I can pick up this phone, Mr. Wonder and in moments have a presidential order drafting you into the armed forces. In which case you will be under the orders of General Crew, here, and will do as you are told.”
Ed muttered, “The old army volunteer system. You, you, and you.”
The general beamed at him.
Ed surrendered. “All right,” he said. “How about another drink?”
For approximately thirty of his thirty-three years, Edward Wonder had wanted to be a big executive. He had wanted it so badly he could taste it distinctly. To the extent possible in a stratified, stagnant society he had worked to that end. He had been raised in the folklore of his people including that wheeze about any citizen of the welfare state being just as good as any other citizen of the United Welfare States and with an equal chance of working his way up to the presidency, or wherever. Unfortunately, he discovered that it’s hard working one’s way up, when there is precious little work to do, and the overwhelming majority displaced by automation. Those who did still maintain jobs, and hence had higher incomes than those on the unemployment lists, clung to them. Cherished them with a bitter jealousy, and to the extent possible passed them on to progeny, relatives, or at least friends.
No. As he had grown older, it had become increasingly obvious just how small a chance Ed Wonder had of ever becoming a big executive with underlings to do his bidding, telephones and intercoms in which to snap his profound orders. In fact, at the time of his first confronting of Ezekiel Joshua Tubber, he had about decided that his sole chance was going to be through marriage with Helen Fontaine.
But now he was a big executive.
And Helen Fontaine was one of his assistants.
So was Buzz De Kemp, and Ed was acquiring more assistants by the minute. In fact, he was swamped with them and couldn’t remember the names of a fraction.
Dwight Hopkins’ promise of resources couldn’t have been more highly fulfilled. Within a quarter hour, Ed Wonder had been assigned a suite of offices. Within the hour, his staff was moving in. Among others were Mr. Yardborough, whose first name turned out to be Cecil, and Bill Oppenheimer and Major Leonard Davis. Two of the leg men were Johnson and Stevens, and Ed’s liaison man with Dwight Hopkins was Colonel Fredric Williams. Hopkins had decided that Project Tubber should be on the ultra-hush side, in view of its nature, and assigned to it anyone who had already anything to do with Wonder’s investigation. Had the story broken in the newspapers, Hopkins suspected even his gilt-edge reputation wouldn’t have been done any good.
Ed stared gloomily at his desk screen.
He hadn’t the vaguest idea where to begin. In his files were nothing more than his own report on Tubber, Buzz’s report and that of Helen Fontaine. It was no use looking at them. He knew everything covered. Which was precious little.
He flicked the screen to life and cleared his throat. “Miss… ah—” He had forgotten his receptionist’s name.
“Randy, sir. Randy Everett.”
Ed looked at her and sighed. “Randy, on you the Homespun Look is unfortunate.”
“Well, yes sir. But to tell you the truth, if I wear cosmetics…”
“You itch.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I’m a crystal gazer,” Ed told her. “Look, send in Mr. De Kemp.” He flicked off the intercom. It was his first act as head of Project Tubber.
Buzz came shambling in, stogie at the tilt. He looked about the office appreciatively and whistled softly between his teeth. “So, at long last Little Ed Wonder is a big shot. Work hard, save your money, and vote straight Democratic Republican and you too can get to the top. Shucks, you didn’t even have to marry the boss’ daughter.”
“Shut up,” Ed told him, “or I’ll get General Crew to draft you into the service.” He grunted at the picture. “Buzzo De Kemp, the sloppiest yardbird in the army.”