"We laid down and spread 'em. We handed it to them. We begged them to take us and all we had. First it was the environment, the air, water and the land. Then it was medical care and the space program, communications and law enforcement. In the end we gave them national defense and finally the real function of government. We sold ourselves out like a whore on a holiday."
Vickers sighed. "You got to admit, Joe, the corporations work. That's it. There's nothing more to say. You can huff and puff but you know I'm right. The system's dog eat dog, but it's a dog eat dog world."
"That's the only way the corporations can deal with the world. That's their sole principle. The human being will always react in the worst possible way. The human being is greedy, treacherous and venal and always will be. That's the only way they can operate."
"For all the corporate evil you talk about, we ain't had a nuclear war."
"We still may, if the Russians decide to go down in a blaze of glory."
"We've had fewer regular wars."
"Of course we have. When the only principle is that the world is rotten, you don't defend it to the last man. You defend it just as long as defense is viable."
Vickers shook his head. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing standing up for the corporations. Contec's never done anything but screw me."
Joe spread a half-inch layer of marmalade on a slice of wheat toast.
"I'm not really attacking the corporations. Any half-bright executive would agree with me. They might object to the way I framed the argument but that's only more of the damned niceties."
A huge blue Persian cat hopped onto Stalin's lap. He automatically petted it.
"The only time that anyone takes any notice of what's going on is when the niceties break down. That's what happened with that mess in front of the Plaza. The veneer wore thin and we had a look at particularly savage reality."
Vickers grunted. "If they let us run the business our way, things like that would never happen. The way the rules stand now, they let the fucking amateurs climb all over us."
"What's all this us and them talk? You're all part of the same thing. Uh-oh, what do we have here?"
Something had caught his eye on one of the security monitors. It was the one that covered the street door. Three people were approaching, two men and a woman. They were anything but neighborhood. They were dressed for the Upper East Side. The men wore wide-brimmed hats and expensive overcoats cut in the current voluminous A-line fashion. The woman was exactly the opposite. She was an inverted triangle. Tailored pinstripes with wide padded shoulders and a narrow slit skirt. Her hair was swept up into a service-style pillbox. The men's outfits were totally unsuitable for the heavy, swampy weather.
"What do we have here."
Some of the local juveniles were slinking along some yards behind, trailing the trio like jackals that are too confused to actually attack. Stalin reached for a remote. He brought up the magnification.
"You know these people? I almost never have visitors, particularly visitors who dress like that."
Vickers sighed. "Yes, I know them. They're for me."
"Who are they?"
"Two ballerinas and a corpse. The ballerinas have been sent to fetch me. The corpse is to make sure I come."
"What the hell are ballerinas?"
"Ballerinas? Internal Security. Corporation secret police. In this case they're the flunkies of the person I work for. They're the two guys in the hats and coats. They're even starting to look like the Gestapo."
"And the woman?"
"She's the corpse. Ilsa van Doren. Nasty Ilsa, our very own she-wolf. She once put a target away by substituting nitric acid for his Visine."
"She's come to kill you?"
Joe Stalin seemed a little anxious. Vickers shook his head.
"No, just to remind me not to play hookey."
By this time the trio had reached the street door and were inspecting its defenses. One of them was looking straight into the camera.
"What do I do with them?"
Vickers smiled. The smile was nasty.
"You can let them inside the first door."
Joe Stalin pushed a button on the remote. The trio looked surprised as the door clicked open. They gingerly eased into the hallway. The Internals drew their weapons. Both had Yashas. They started up the first flight of steps with the woman hanging some way back. Vickers snorted in djsgust.
"Will you look at those ballerinas? Under those coats they're weighted down with body armor. Damnfool incompetents."
"She's a high stepper, though."
"Oh sure, Ilsa's a real high stepper."
The three were moving up the building at a steady rate. Vickers glanced at Stalin.
"Can you hold them up any?"
"Not until they reach the main door on this floor."
"How about annoying them some?"
"Without bodily harm?"
"Something like that."
"I've got a string of pressure horns. I could douse them with noise."
Vickers grinned.
"That would be ideal."
"Say when,"
The three were cautiously climbing the final flight of stairs. At the halfway point, Vickers nodded. Stalin thumbed another button. They could hear the scream of the horns through the steel door. On the monitors, the two corporation cops clapped their hands over their ears and dropped to their knees. The woman, however, stood calmly waiting, four or five stairs behind them.
"The bitch is smart. She came with ear filters." Vickers gestured to Stalin. "Ease up on them a bit."
The two Internals were fumbling in their pockets and stuffing plugs into their ears. Vickers shook his head.
"Cut it off." He stood up. "I'll meet them at the door. You better stay out of the way."
"I don't want any of my stuff damaged."
"I don't want me damaged. Just stand back. Nothing's going to happen."
Vickers faced the door. He had left his Yasha on the table in among the remains of the breakfast. He signaled to Stalin to turn off the locks. He reached forward and snapped back the manual bolts, then hastily retreated a couple of paces. The two ballerinas came in taking Tiger Mountain. They were all over Vickers like a pair of cheap suits. One stuffed his Yasha hard under his chin. They seemed bitter about the blast of pressure noise. Vickers stood perfectly still with a resigned expression on his face. When Ilsa came through the door, he addressed himself exclusively to her.
"Will you call off these idiots before they kill me by accident?"
Ilsa van Doren's lipstick was a contemptuous scarlet, flawlessly applied.
"Accidental death seems to be today's special around you."
Once in the back of the official car, Ilsa revealed a need to maintain brittle, non-stop conversation.
"Do you ever push yourself, Mort?"
Vickers was suddenly very tired. He wasn't actually under arrest, but there was the release of tension. He was no longer responsible for what was going on around him. He hardly had the energy to understand what she was saying. He found himself staring at her legs. Her stockings were patterned with tiny stars.
"You know what I mean?"
Despite the perfect makeup and tailoring, she still chewed gum when she talked.
"Don't you play games? Try and beat your own record, so to speak? You know what I mean, do a hit the hard way to prove something to yourself?"
"I usually find that the easy way's hard enough for me."
"There are times when I just want to do something different, just to see how it would be. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to cause the target any unnecessary pain. I just like to vary the routine so I stay sharp."
Vickers couldn't stand any more of this killer to killer conversation. He locked his fingers like he was handcuffed, bowed his shoulders and pushed his hands down between his knees.