“Make a gesture, as though you were trying to make a strong point,” Westley said.
Don made a gesture, as though trying to cinch a point.
“Hmmm,” Rexford Lucas said. “Have you ever done any public speaking at all, or did you belong to the dramatic club, or take drama, when you were in school?” No.
“Didn’t belong to the debating team or anything like that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Don said, and went back and sat down again.
All regarded him for a long silent moment.
Rexford Lucas said, “For one thing, I think we’d better have a still more military stance and walk. Very straight. The bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor must walk tall.”
One of the writers said to Don, “Let’s hear you talk.”
Don looked at him. “What should I say?”
“Anything. We just want to get a level on your speaking voice. Recite a poem, or something.”
Don thought about that for a long moment. He said finally, “Back when I was a kid in school we had to memorize a poem called, Daffodils.”
“Daffodils!” Rostoff muttered.
“Anything will do. Try it,” the writer said.
Don cleared his throat and began.
He wound up with, “I think there was one more stanza in there but I’ve forgotten it.”
“Jesus,” one of the writers said.
“I thought it was very sweet,” Rexford Lucas simpered.
The writer who had asked him to recite sighed and looked over at Dirck Bosch. He said, “Look, could you get on the data banks screen and get a copy of the Gettysburg Address?”
They stuck to it for two hours or more and then Rostoff and Don left the actors and speech writers to confer on what type of public speaker they were going to convert him into.
Most of them looked a little on the glum side. But Ken Westley waved him a limp wristed bye-bye.
Don and Rostoff got back into the elevator and the interplanetary magnate said, “You’re beginning to get a sample of what you’re in for. This afternoon you’ll meet the writer who’s going to turn out your autobiography. He’s already studying your Dossier Complete.”
“My Dossier Complete! Where’d you get it? Nobody’s allowed to look at my dossier, unless it’s an authorized official, with a court clearance.”
Rostoff sighed. “You’ll learn, you’ll learn. Don’t they have a saying in the military, that rank has its privileges? Well, believe me, they are as nothing to the privileges that wealth has.”
“Damn it!” Don said in protest.
The other ignored him and said, “Demming is turning the whole penthouse over to you. It will be nice and secluded so you won’t be molested by the mob. And it’ll be a good place for doing your autobiography, news conferences, and business in general. You won’t be bothered by anybody except rubbernecks trying to spot you from over flying aircraft. We’ll assign a few heavies to you, to see that nobody gets through that you don’t want to see, or we don’t want to see you.
“ Heavies?”
“Bodyguards.”
“I don’t need bodyguards. I’m the most popular man in the system.”
“That you are, that you are,” the other said with his lupine smile. “But in the near future you’re going to be stepping on some toes. On top of that, there’s always the crackpot. Anybody who shot Donal Mathers would go down in history. Oh, they’d catch him and probably execute him, even though he was as drivel-happy as a loon, but he’d go down in history.”
The compartment stopped and they emerged into the living room of the oversized penthouse chalet.
Rostoff looked at him from the side of his eyes and said, “Are you sleeping with Alicia Demming?”
Don glowered back at him indignantly. “None of your goddamned business.”
“Oh, but it is. Anything about you is my business. So far as Demming is concerned, he probably couldn’t care less. His daughter has slept around before, probably ever since she was about twelve. I’m in favor of it. If you have a bedmate right here in the building, it’ll keep you from prowling the town, looking for it.”
“I don’t have to look very hard,” Don muttered.
“I’ll bet you don’t. Why don’t you get yourself a drink? You look as though you could use one. Your ghost writer is in the library. I’ll go get him. You can have a preliminary talk and then have lunch together.”
“Where’s Demming?”
“I think over in London. He’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”
Rostoff left and Don went over to the autobar. He dialed some of Demming’s ancient Napoleon Brandy. He’d put a hole in that supply, he decided. The son of a bitch would be sorry he’d ever let Don Mathers loose in his fancy guzzle. He amended that. Don and his friends. He’d invite the gang up and there’d be some parties in this penthouse that would make history.
The cognac came and he knocked half of it back, before amending again. He suddenly realized that he, Donal Mathers, didn’t have any real friends. The whole solar system loved him, but, now that he thought about it, he didn’t have any real friends, just acquaintances. People like Eric Hansen? People like the space worshipping bartender, Harry? Nearer to it was Thor Bjornsen, whom he had met exactly twice.
XV
They gave him two full weeks of instructions and rehearsals before clearing him for Tri-Di appearances, news conferences, and making him available to commentators and free lance writers for special articles.
The people had begun to wonder where their new hero was keeping himself but Sid Mullens, the PR chief, and his staff of publicity men leaked just enough material to placate them. For one thing, the holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor was taking a much needed rest after his soul-shattering, exhausting fight with the Kraden which had brought him to the edge of nervous breakdown. For another, Colonel Mathers was embarked upon a project which he would soon reveal to the public, a project even more important, and possibly as daring, as his attack upon the Miro Class cruiser.
Meanwhile, Don stuck largely to the top floors of the Interplanetary Lines Building. Occasionally, he’d take a relaxing flight in one of the hover limousines, invariably accompanied by two of the bodyguards. Except in the privacy of his penthouse quarters, and particularly in his own suite, he was never out of sight of at least a couple of these and usually more. They were supposedly secretaries of his but all of them were professionals, armed with quick-draw laser pistols. Even in the offices of the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation, they were always present. Demming and Rostoff knew all too well that if anything happened to their hero, the whole project was a bust.
The offices were expanding and already took up two floors of the building, and there were thousands of employees, largely busily at work, sworn to secrecy about the soon to be revealed project.