«Hello,» I said. «Off duty again?»
«Early lunch hour,» he said. «I want to hear the panel.» He added conversationally, «This is the most interesting convention we’ve had during all my stay here at the hotel. May I sit with you, Mr. Just?»
«Why not?» I said. «You’re not going to throw yourself out for not wearing a badge, are you?»
He laughed feebly, and sat down in the seat next to me.
Considering the fact that there were several hundred unoccupied seats in the room, this anxiety of my company betokened either a strong personal affection for me or an order from his boss to keep an eye on me. I had told Sarah I was leaving to attend a panel and there had to be only so many—perhaps only this one—at this time. He had no difficulty finding me.
Strong produced a yellow pad from his jacket pocket, then carefully chose a pen from the inner pocket in clear preparation for taking notes. He was going to play his cover well.
I said, «How’s your boss?»
Strong turned a pair of wide eyes upon me. «In a foul mood, Mr. Just.»
«About me, do you suppose?»
«I don’t know. Why do you think it’s about you?»
«I advanced a theory about that heroin.»
«What heroin? What are you talking about?» He dropped his voice to a low whisper though there was no one within twenty-five feet of us.
I didn’t want to induce apoplexy in the poor fellow, so I lowered my voice, too. «I told Marsogliani,» I said, lying somewhat to see what would happen, «that I was pretty certain that the hotel was a center for drug distribution, and that hotel personnel themselves were involved and that was why he wasn’t reporting it.»
I got what I wanted, for a look of what anyone would interpret as the purest astonishment crossed Strong’s face.
That was it as far as Sarah was concerned in my book.
Strong might be unbrilliant and he was certainly not a man in whom Marsogliani (who, for all his temper, struck me as a fine-edged sharpie) would confide. And I could see they hadn’t bothered telling him what the setup was with respect to me.
But if there was no setup, if there really was a drug problem it was much more likely that Strong had heard the rumors than that Sarah had. So since Sarah reported it and Strong was clearly astonished out of his pants at what I had said, it was a setup.
For once I was proud of my capacity for weaving a logical net.
I said, «How long have you been working here as a guard, Mike?»
«Uh—two and a half years.» He stuttered the phrase badly.
«And in all that time you’ve been aware of no such thing—drugs and matters of that sort?»
«N-no,» he said earnestly, staring at me in horror. «You must have been crazy to say something like that to Mr. Marsogliani.»
«Not if it’s true.»
«But it isn’t true. I’m surprised he didn’t kick your butt.»
«I’m too small a target.»
Strong stared at me in continuing horror. «You haven’t been talking like that to anyone else, have you?»
«Just Marsogliani this morning about nine a.m. and now you.» True enough. I hadn’t told it to Sarah. I had asked her and she had then told me.
He said, «I wouldn’t talk about that if I were you.»
«Bad for the hotel?»
«Sure. Especially when it’s not true.»
«Okay!» I said indifferently, and slumped back in my seat.
Strong said, abruptly and nervously, «You didn’t tell Mr. Marsogliani that I said the powder might belong to a previous occupant like as if,»—he faltered—«like as if it might be a common thing to have that stuff in the place.»
I felt for him. It was quite clear to me (odds a hundred to one at least) that Marsogliani would kick Strong out of the hotel and into the middle of the street on his left ear if he knew of that little remark. I had no intention of losing the poor fellow his job; finding another would be hard work in the Ford recession.
So I said, truthfully and as earnestly as I could, «I did suggest that the powder might have been there all along, but I didn’t say you had suggested that. I didn’t say a word about you. Not a word.»
He looked unconvinced, disturbed, and he stared at me as though he were trying to weigh my integrity. I let him. There was no way in which I could help him convince himself I was an honest man. I would have to throw myself on the mercy of his, perhaps defective, judgment in such matters.
6 ISAAC ASIMOV 10:50 A.M.
A new voice broke in and I looked up. It was Asimov, walking in some ten minutes early.
He said, «Darius! You’ve come to hear me say my piece. I’m touched.»
I think he really was. Why else did he refrain from calling me Darius Dust and then choking himself red in the face on the wit of it? However, fair’s fair. Since he gave up Darius Dust for that one time, I didn’t let on that it was strictly an ulterior motive that had drawn me into the room.
I said, «I can count on you to be interesting, Isaac.»
Apparently that merely heightened his philanthropic mood (which the clear absence of much of an audience did not seem to dampen) and he said, «Would you like to meet the other panelists?»
«Why not?» I said.
I turned to Strong and said, «You’ll pardon me, I hope?»
He mumbled what I thought was an affirmative (what else can anyone give under the circumstances?) and off I went.
Later, when I looked back, I didn’t see him. Clearly, he had left to report to Marsogliani on me. I was vaguely sorry I had had to upset him in my desire to double-check on the duplicity of Sarah Voskovek.
Actually, the panelists were a rather impressive group.
With an air of eager and cheerful proprietorship, Asimov introduced me to Carl Sagan, an astronomer at Cornell, tall and slim with dark hair and dark eyes and a quick way of speaking. Asimov introduced me as a «real writer,» a remark, I presume, designed to elicit assurance that he, too, was a real writer.
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Needless to say, it was not so intended.
Isaac Asimov
Modesty then? Please!
Darius Just
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Sagan nodded amiably but I have a sure instinct for people who have heard of me. Sagan hadn’t.
Walter Sullivan of The New York Times was the moderator. He was even taller than Sagan, and thinner; white-haired, ruddy of complexion, and so eager to please that when I was introduced as a writer, he said, «Oh, yes,» as though he read himself to sleep with me every night. I was nearly fooled.
Asimov didn’t know the other two personally, but they required no real introductions. One was Charles Berlitz, who had just written a book on the «Bermuda Triangle,» tall, round-faced, and gray-haired, and the other was Uri Geller, the Israeli semi-mystic who is supposed to bend keys by telekinesis, to read minds, and so on. Geller was young and very attractive both in appearance and in conversation.
It was clearly Asimov and Sagan versus Berlitz and Geller, with Sullivan trying to remain impartial, but unable to resist toppling over onto the side of rationality. The panel discussion, however, lacked excitement. I don’t know whether the poor attendance dampened the spirits of the panelists, or whether some precognition of the lack of clash had kept the audience down. Either way, it was a quiet hour.
Or most of it was. Toward the end, there was a challenge from the floor when someone dared Geller to subject himself to an audience of magicians, doing so in somewhat provocative language. Geller, who was used to this sort of thing, was careful not to betray himself into losing his temper. He simply stated that he would never do any demonstrations before magicians because it was useless to do so; they would never believe anything he did was anything but trickery, no matter what the circumstances.