Trevayne stood in his bathrobe in front of the miniature French door that opened on the impractical balcony. It was one o’clock in the morning; he and Phyllis had watched an old movie on the bedroom television set. It was a bad habit they’d gotten into. But it was fun; the old films were sedatives in their way.
«What’s the matter?» asked Phyllis from the bed.
«Nothing. I just saw the car go by; Webster’s men.»
«Aren’t they going to use the cottage?»
«I told them it was all right. They hedged. They said they’d probably wait a day or so.»
«Probably don’t want to upset the children. It’s one thing telling them that routine precautions are taken for subcommittee chairmen; it’s quite another to see strangers prowling around.»
«I guess so. Steve was pretty outspoken, wasn’t he?»
«Well …» Phyllis fluffed her pillow and frowned before answering. «I don’t think you should put too much emphasis on what he said. He’s young. He’s like his friends: they generalize. They can’t—or won’t—accept the complications. They prefer ‘spiked brooms.’»
«And in a few years they’ll be able to use them.»
«They won’t want to then.»
«Don’t bank on it. Sometimes I think that’s what this whole thing’s all about… There goes the car again.»
PART 2
13
It was nearly six-thirty; the rest of the staff had left over an hour ago. Trevayne stood behind his desk, his right foot carelessly on the seat of his chair, his elbow resting on his knee. Around the desk, looking at the large charts scattered over the top, were the subcommittee’s key personnel, four men reluctantly «cleared» by Paul Bonner’s superiors at Defense.
Directly in front of Trevayne was a young lawyer named Sam Vicarson. Andrew had run across the energetic, outspoken attorney during a grant hearing at the Danforth Foundation. Vicarson had represented—vigorously—the cause of a discredited Harlem arts organization reapplying for aid. The funds, by all logic, should have been denied, but Vicarson’s imaginative apologies for the organization’s past errors were so convincing that Danforth resubsidized. So Trevayne had made inquiries about Sam Vicarson, learned that he was part of the new breed of socially conscious attorneys, combining «straight,» lucrative employment during the daytime with ghetto «storefront» work at night. He was bright, quick, and incredibly resourceful.
On Vicarson’s right, bending over the desk, was Alan Martin, until six weeks ago the comptroller of Pace-Trevayne’s New Haven plants. Martin was a thoughtful, middle-aged former stats analyst; a cautious man, excellent with details and firm in his convictions, once they were arrived at. He was Jewish and given to the quiet humor of ironies he’d heard since childhood.
On Vicarson’s left, curling smoke out of a very large-bowled pipe, stood Michael Ryan, who, along with the man next to him, was an engineer. Both Ryan and John Larch were specialists in their fields—respectively aeronautical and construction engineering. Ryan was in his late thirties, florid, convivial, and quick to laugh but deadly serious when faced with an aircraft blueprint. Larch was contemplative, sullen in appearance, thin-featured, and always seemingly tired. But there was nothing tired about Larch’s mind. In truth, each of these four minds worked constantly, at very high speeds.
These men were the nucleus of the subcommittee; if any were equal to the Defense Commission’s objectives they were.
«All right,» said Trevayne. «We’ve checked and re-checked these.» He gestured wearily at the charts. «You’ve each had your part in compiling them; all of you studied them individually, without the benefit of one another’s comments. Now, let’s spell it out.»
«The moment of truth, Andrew?» Alan Martin stood up. «Death in the late afternoon?»
«Bullshit.» Michael Ryan took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled. «All over the arena.»
«I think we ought to bind these and offer them to the highest bidder,» said Sam Vicarson. «I could develop a penchant for the good life in Argentina.»
«You’d end up in the Tierra del Fuego, Sam.» John Larch moved slightly away from Ryan’s pipe smoke.
«Who wants to begin?» asked Trevayne.
A quartet of statements was the reply. Each voice assertive, each expecting to dominate the others. Alan Martin, by holding up the palm of his hand, prevailed.
«From my point of view, there are holes in all the replies so far. But since the audits generally concern projects with subcontracting fluctuations, it’s expected. Subsequent staff interviews are generally satisfactory. With one exception. In all cases of any real magnitude, bottom-line figures have been given. I.T.T. was reluctant, but they came over. Again, one exception.»
«Okay, hold it there, Alan. Mike and John. You worked separately?»
«We cross-checked,» said Ryan. «There was—and is—a lot of duplication; as with Alan, it’s in the subcontracting areas. Ticking off: Lockheed and I.T.T. have been cooperative down the line. I.T.T. presses computer buttons, and out shoot the cards; Lockheed is centralized and still gets the shakes—»
«They should,» interrupted Sam Vicarson. «They’re using my money.»
«They told me to thank you,» said Alan Martin.
«GM and Ling-Tempco have problems,» continued Ryan. «But to be fair about it, it’s not so much evasion as it is just plain tracing who’s responsible for what. One of our interviewers spent a whole day at General Motors—in the turbine engineering offices—talking to a guy who was trying to locate a unit design head. Turned out it was himself.»
«There are also the usual corporation tremors,» added John Larch. «Especially at GM; conformity and inquiry aren’t happy bedfellows.»
«Still, we generally get what we want. Litton is crazy. Smart-like-a-fox crazy. They finance; that puts them one to ten places removed from any practical application. I’m going to buy stock in those boys. Then we come to the big enigma.»
«We’ll get to it.» Trevayne removed his foot from the chair and picked up his cigarette. «How about you Sam?»
Vicarson mocked a bow to Andrew. «I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the gods for bringing me in contact with so many prestigious law firms. My modest head is swimming.»
«Translated,» said Alan Martin, «he stole their books.»
«Or the silver,» said Ryan between puffs on his pipe.
«Neither. I have, however, juggled many offers of employment… There’s no point in recapping what’s come in on a relatively satisfactory basis. I disagree with Mike; I think there’s been a hell of a lot of evasion. I agree with John; corporation tremors—or delirium tremens—are everywhere. But with enough perseverance, you get the answers; at least enough to satisfy. With all but one… It’s Alan’s ‘exception’ and Mike’s ‘enigma.’ For me it’s a legal jigsaw never covered in Blackstone.»
«And there we are,» said Trevayne, sitting down. «Genessee Industries.»
«That’s where it’s at,» replied Sam. «Genessee.»
«Leopards and spots and nothing changes.» Andrew crushed out his hardly smoked cigarette.
«What’s that mean?» asked Larch.
«Years ago,» answered Trevayne, «twenty, to be exact, Genessee waltzed Doug Pace and me around for months. One presentation after another. I’d just gotten married; Phyl and I traveled out to Palo Alto for them. We gave them everything they wanted. So well, they threw us out and used variations on our designs and went into production for themselves.»
«Nice people,» said Vicarson. «Couldn’t you get them for patent theft?»