They canvassed the bus companies by phone, without luck. Outside the railroad station, at the head of the cab rank, Lana began to cry.
"There, little girl," one of the hackies soothed glaring at Mundin and Bligh. A fatherly type. "What's the matter?"
"It's my daddy," Lana bawled heartrendingly. "He's in that terrible place an' he's lost an' my mommy said we should go help him. Honest, mister, just take us to the edge, please? Please? An' Uncle Norvie and Uncle Charlie won't let anything bad happen if those bas—if those bad men in Morristown try anything. Honest!"
He broke down and agreed to take them to the edge. It was a two-hour drive over bad roads.
The hackie let Lana ride next to him in the front. Swinging her little handbag gaily, with the volatility of a child, she chattered, all smiles, all the way. Uncle Norvie and Uncle Charlie exchanged looks. They knew what was in the little handbag.
Morristown, being older, was better organized than Belly Rave. The driver stopped a couple of weed-grown blocks from the customs barrier.
"Here we are, little girl," he said tenderly.
The little girl reached into her handbag. She took out her busted bottle and conversed earnestly with the driver. He cursed, whined, and then drove on.
At the gate, a couple of men looked genially in. Lana whispered something—Mundin caught the words "Wabbits" and "Itty-Bitties"—and the men waved them on. A block past the gate, on Lana's orders, the driver stopped at another checkpoint, manned by a pair of dirty-faced nine-year-olds with carbines.
They got a guide; an Itty-Bitty with a carbine. On their way through the busy, brawling streets to the Administration Building, not a few grown-ups turned white and got out of sight when they saw him clinging to the cab.
At the Ad Building Lana said curtly to me driver, "Wait." Mundin shook his head. "No," he told her, pointing to the rank of steel-plated wheeled and tracked vehicles drawn up in the building's parking lot. "We get out of here in one of those or not at all."
Lana shrugged. "I don't get it, but all right."
She told the Itty-Bitty, "Pass the cab out, will you? And whenever you guys need something in Belly Rave, you know who to come to."
It was one o'clock; the meeting was scheduled for one-thirty.
The check-point in the lobby passed Mundin and Bligh on the strength of Mundin's stock certificate. Lana was to wait in the visitors' room.
Room 2003 was a suite—perhaps the whole floor, Mundin suspected. He told the receptionist, "Stockholders' meeting. G.M.L. Homes." The receptionist passed them on, with a thoughtful stare.
Some twenty men filled the meeting room. Quite obviously, they were Titans. Beside these richly, quietly dressed folk, Mundin and Bligh were shabby interlopers. They were also ridiculously young and awkward.
From here on it gets hard, Mundin told himself. Corporate law!
The vision blinded him with its brightness.
Another new arrival was greeted cheerfully by the Titans. "Bliss, old man! Never thought you'd turn up for this nonsense. Old Arnold's just going to tramp all over you again, as usual."
Bliss was thin and younger man most of them. "If a couple of you gutless wonders would back me up we'd stop him," he said cheerfully. "Anyway, what else have I got to do with my time?"
Archly: "I did hear something or other about a Miss Laverne—" It broke up in laughter.
Mundin dove into the breach. "How do you do, Mr. Bliss," he said breathlessly, taking the man's hand. "I'm Charles Mundin, former Regular Republican candidate in the 27th District—and a small stockholder here."
The thuvman gently disengaged his hand. "It's Bubble, Mr. Urmurm, Bliss Hubble. How do you do." He turned to one of the Titans and demanded with mock belligerence, "Didn't you get my wire, Job? Then why haven't I got your proxy for the contract thing?"
Job seemed to be a cautious cuss. "Because," he said slowly, "I like old Arnold's policies so far. You'll rock the boat, one of these days, Bliss. Unless we kick you out of it first"
"Mr. Hubble," Mundin said insistently.
Hubble said absently, "Mr. Urmurm, I assure you I'd vote for you if I lived in the 27th District, which thank God I don't." His eyes were wandering; he headed across the room to buttonhole another Titan. Mundin followed him in time to hear, "—all very idealistic, I'm sure, my dear Bliss. But many an idealistic young man has turned out to be a hard taskmaster. I mean no offense."
Bliss Hubble was off again. Mundin judged that this last Titan was angry enough to talk to him; a vein was throbbing nicely in his reddened temple. Mundin asked in tones of deep disapproval, "Same old scheme, eh?"
The Titan said angrily, "Of course. The fool! When young Hubble's seen as many raids on management as I have, he'll think twice before he tries to pull wool over my eyes. The contract thing! Indeed! He's trying to shake the faith of all us in the present management, stampede a board election, bribe— oh, bribe in a gentlemanly way, of course—bribe himself onto the board and then do as much damage as he can. But by Godfrey it won't work! We're keeping a solid front against him—" His eyes focused. "I don't believe I know you, sir. I'm Wilcox."
"Delighted. Mundin. Attorney."
"Oh—proxies, eh? Whom do you represent? Most of the chaps seem to be here."
"Excuse me, Mr. Wilcox." Mundin followed Bliss Hubble, who had thrown himself into a chair after another rebuff. He handed him the power of attorney from Don Lavin that Ryan had prepared.
"Hey? What's this?"
"I suggest you read it," Mundin said shortly.
There was a patter of applause as half a dozen men came in. One of them—Arnold?—said, "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I suggest we all be seated and proceed."
Mundin sat beside Hubble, who was mechanically reading. One of the new arrivals began to drone out the minutes of the last meeting. Nobody was paying a great deal of attention.
Hubble finished reading, handed the document back to Mundin and asked with an amused smile, "Just what am I supposed to do about it?"
Mundin said sharply, "Looks foolish, doesn't it?"
The tactic worked. Disconcerted, Hubble said, "I didn't say that. And—well, there have been rumors. Rumors to which you might have just as much access as I."
Mundin looked knowing. "We're not going to be greedy, Mr. Hubble," he said, wondering what he was talking about. "Assuming that I'm not a swindler and that this isn't forged, how would you like to be on the board?"
"Very much," Hubble said simply.
"We can put you there." Mundin measured him. "That should be obvious, Mr. Hubble. Our twenty-five per cent voting stock plus your—?"
"It's a matter of record. Five and a half per cent."
"As much as that?"
"As much as that I vote the family holdings."
Mundin did sums in his head. Thirty and a half per cent. If they could take Hubble into camp, and then swing twenty per cent more——
He faced front. Let Hubble think it over for a while.
The minutes were accepted as read, in a bored mumble. One of the new arrivals grinned. "Now, gentlemen, to business. Election of a board member to replace Mr. Fenelly, to begin with."
Somebody proposed Mr. Harry S. Wilcox, the gentleman with the throbbing vein in his temple. Somebody else proposed a Mr. Benyon and nominations were closed. Secretaries moved among the stockholders with ballots, which they filled out after an inspection—brief and with deferential smiles—of the stockholders' proxies and share certificates. Mundin blandly presented his one share to a secretary's horrified gaze; the man gave him his ballot as if he were passing alms to a leper.
Wilcox won, and there was a social round of applause and back-patting. From certain broad smiles Mundin suspected the result of the balloting was as fixed as the morrow's rising of the sun. He grinned at Hubble, who didn't seem to think it was at all funny.