And his initial act had been to clap Jim-Jam in jail.
"Has Art Heaviside, my attorney, seen you?" Hada asked.
"No," Briskin said shortly.
"Listen, my friend," Hada said, "without my help you'll be in prison forever, or at least until Max Fischer dies. This time he isn't making the mistake of allowing Unicephalon 40-D to be repaired; it's out of action for good."
Briskin said, "And you want me on your network in exchange for getting me out of here." He smoked rapidly at his cigarette.
"I need you, Jim-Jam," Hada said. "It took courage for you to expose President Fischer for the power-hungry buffoon he is; we've got a terrible menace hanging over us in Max Fischer, and if we don't join together and work fast it'll be too late; we'll both be dead. You know – in fact you said it on TV – that Fischer would gladly stoop to assassination to get what he wants."
Briskin said, "Can I say what I want over your facilities?"
"I give you absolute freedom. Attack anyone you want, including me."
After a pause, Briskin said, "I'd take your offer, Hada… but I doubt if even Art Heaviside can get me out of here. Leon Lait, Fischer's Attorney General, is conducting the prosecution against me personally."
"Don't resign yourself," Hada said. "Billions of your viewers are waiting to see you emerge from this cell. At this moment all my outlets are clamoring for your release. Public pressure is building up. Even Max will have to listen to that."
"What I'm afraid of is that an 'accident' will happen to me," Briskin said. "Just like the 'accident' that befell Unicephalon 40-D a week after it resumed functioning. If it couldn't save itself, how can -"
"You afraid?" Hada inquired, incredulous. "Jim-Jam Briskin, the ranking news clown – I don't believe it."
There was silence.
Briskin said, "The reason my sponsors, Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics, haven't been able to get me out is" – he paused – "pressure put on them by President Fischer. Their attorneys as much as admitted that to me. When Fischer learns you're trying to help me, he'll bring all the pressure he has to bear directly on you." He glanced up acutely at Hada. "Do you have the stamina to endure it? I wonder."
"Certainly I have," Hada said. "As I told Dr. Yasumi -"
"And he'll put pressure on your wives," Jim-Jam Briskin said.
"I'll divorce all eight of them," Hada said hotly.
Briskin held out his hand and they shook. "It's a deal then," Jim-Jam said. "I'll go to work for CULTURE as soon as I'm out of here." He smiled in a weary but hopeful way.
Elated, Hada said, "Have you ever heard of Rags Park, the folk and ballad singer? At three today I'm signing him, too."
"There's a TV set here and now and then I catch one of Park's numbers," Briskin said. "He sounds good. But do you want that on CULTURE? It's hardly educational."
"CULTURE is changing. We're going to sugarcoat our didacticisms from now on. We've been losing our audience. I don't intend to see CULTURE wither away. The very concept of it -"
The word "culture" stood for Committee Utilizing Learning Techniques for Urban Renewal Efforts. A major part of Hada's real estate holdings consisted of the city of Portland, Oregon, which he had acquired – intact – ten years ago. It was not worth much; typical of the semiabandoned slum constellations which had become not only repellent but obsolete, Portland had a certain sentimental value to him because he had been born there.
However, one notion lingered in his mind. If for any reason the colonies on the other planets and moons had to be abandoned, if the settlers came streaming back to Earth, the cities would be repopulated once more. And with the alien ships flitting about the farther planets, this was not as implausible as it sounded. In fact, a few families had emigrated back to Earth already…
So, underneath, CULTURE was not quite the disinterested public service nonprofit agency that it appeared. Mixed in with the education, Hada's outlets drummed away at the seductive idea of the city, how much it could offer, how little there was to be had in the colonies. Give up the difficult, crude life of the frontier, CULTURE declared night and day. Return to your own planet; repair the decaying cities. They're your real home.
Did Briskin know this? Hada wondered. Did the news clown understand the actual purpose of his organization?
Hada would find that out – if and when he managed to get Briskin out of jail and before a CULTURE microphone.
At three o'clock Sebastian Hada met the folksinger Ragland Park at the Havana office of CULTURE.
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance," Rags Park said shyly. Tall, skinny, with his huge black mustache hiding most of his mouth, he shuffled about self-consciously, his blue eyes gentle with authentic friendliness. He had an unusual sweetness about him, Hada noted. Almost a saintly quality. Hada found himself impressed.
"And you play both the guitar and five-string banjo?" Hada said. "Not at once, of course."
Rags Park mumbled, "No, sir. I alternate. Want me to play something right now for you?"
"Where were you born?" Nat Kaminsky asked. Hada had brought his production chief along; in matters such as this, Kaminsky's opinion was valuable.
"In Arkansas," Rags answered. "My family raises hogs." He had his banjo with him and now, nervously, he twanged a few notes. "I know a real sad song that'll break your heart. It's called 'Poor Old Hoss.' Want me to sing it for you?"
"We've heard you," Hada said. "We know you're good." He tried to imagine this awkward young man twanging away over CULTURE in between lectures on twentieth-century portrait sculptors. Hard to imagine…
Rags said, "I bet there's one thing you don't know about me, Mr. Hada. I make up a lot of my own ballads."
"Creative," Kaminsky said to Hada straight-faced. "That's good."
"For instance," Rags continued, "I once made up a ballad about a man named Tom McPhail who ran ten miles with a bucket of water to put out the fire in his little daughter's crib."
"Did he make it?" Hada asked.
"Sure did. Just in time. Tom McPhail ran faster and faster with that bucket of water." Chanting, Rags twanged in accompaniment.
"Here comes Tom McPhail
Holdin' on tight to that great little pail.
Holdin' on tight, boys, here he come.
Heart full of fear, faculties numb."
Twang, twang, sounded the banjo, mournfully and urgently.
Kaminsky said acutely, "I've been following your shows and I've never heard you sing that number."
"Aw," Rags said, "I had bad luck with that, Mr. Kaminsky. Turned out there really is a Tom McPhail. Lives in Pocatello, Idaho. I sang about ol' Tom McPhail on my January fourteenth TV show and right away he got sore – he was listenin' – and got a lawyer to write me."
"Wasn't it just a coincidence in names?" Hada said.
"Well," Rags said, twisting about self-consciously, "it seems there really had been a fire in his home there in Pocatello, and McPhail, he got panicky and ran with a bucket to the creek, and it was ten miles off, like I said in the song."
"Did he get back with the water in time?"