Dr. Nyet tmfo-4 Page 3

  "He's lying! Let's get them! We'll make them talk!" They milled around us, hands outstretched, blood in their eyes.

  "Viet Nam and the Dominican Republic, huh!" Putnam muttered to me out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you think now, Mr. Victor? Do you still think such things can excite people's passions and arouse them to such fury? Not the English, Mr. Victor. They save their mob instinct for the things that really count. And while S.M.U.T. takes over the world, you and I stand here about to be martyred in the name of rock 'n' roll!"

  "Shut up, you! Now, tell us where the Beatles are, or we'll string you up the blinkin' chandelier."

  "I don't know where they are. But I do know they are not on these premises."

  "You puttin' us on, guv? This here is a movie set, hain't it?"

  "Yes. But the Beatles are not in the picture being made."

  "That the truth, now?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, why hain't they?" The crowd grew even uglier with the question.

  "Because it's a motion picture concerned with high-level diplomacy, that's why," Putnam explained. "There are no roles in it which would be suited to the Beatles."

  "And why not? Ask me, that's the trouble with the whole bloody foreign office. The Beatles hain't got a say in makin' policy."

  "He might have something there," I murmured to Putnam.

  "Damn right, guv. Things'd be a lot different if Ringo 'ad 'is say with De Gaulle."

  "They probably would, at that," Putnam granted.

  "These blokes is puttin' us on," someone shouted. "I say rough 'em up a bit an' then they'll tell us where the Beatles is at." Again the crowd pressed around us.

  "Are you with me, Mr. Victor?" Putnam asked.

  "That I am."

  "Then let us go."

  I followed Putnam's lead as he took a step backward and then jumped through the window. I hotfooted it after him as he picked himself up and started running for the street.

  "There they go!" The crowd took up the cry. And behind the leaders still others screamed, "The Beatles! The Beatles!"

  Putnam headed straight for the safety of a parked car, with me in his wake. Only after we were in the back of it did I realize that it was the car I'd come in before. The driver must have been waiting. Now Putnam tapped him on the shoulder. "The airport," he said. "And you'd best get cracking before they tear the car apart," he added.

  The crowd was upon the car now, and I saw that Putnam's warning made sense. Even as we roared away they were clinging to the bumpers and throwing themselves over the roof. And behind us other cars took up the chase.

  "There's a chartered plane waiting for you," Putnam explained. "It will take you straight to New York."

  "You were pretty sure of me, weren't you?" I observed.

  "Yes," he admitted. "I was."

  "I don't suppose there's time for me to stop for a good-bye to Gladys," I said wistfully.

  "I'm afraid not."

  "What about passport papers, clothing, things like that?"

  "All on the plane waiting for you. Everything's been arranged."

  I could only shrug at Putnam's efficiency and lapse into silence. Some twenty minutes later we arrived at the airport. The driver flashed some sort of identification that got us past the guard at the gate and onto the field itself. We drove straight up to the waiting aircraft, and I hopped out of the car and boarded it. It started taxiing across the field immediately. My last view of London as we took off was a mob of wild-eyed, screaming, outraged Beatle fans swarming across the runway and howling their frustration.

  The flight was uneventful. We landed at Kennedy Airport. It took almost half as long to get from there to midtown Manhattan by taxi cab as it had to fly from London to New York. Wedged into crosstown traffic with the meter ticking merrily, I reflected that New York hadn't changed at all since the last time I'd been here; it had only gotten more New Yorkish.

  I grabbed a good night's sleep at the plush hotel where Putnam had made reservations for me. When I woke up, I dawdled over a late breakfast. It was early afternoon when I started out on my campaign to infiltrate S.M.U.T.

  Not wanting to be obvious, I'd decided to start on a local level and then work my way up. So I called the Queens chapter of the organization and asked to speak to the chapter president. Her name was Mrs. Prudence Highman. She was all business and careful elocution over the phone. Still, I sensed an eagerness after I'd explained who I was and how I thought I might be of use to her organization. She readily agreed to an appointment to see me later that same afternoon.

  It was almost four when the cab dropped me off in Forest Hills to keep the appointment. The S.M.U.T. regional office was in a luxury apartment building. Later I learned that the Highman living quarters were part of the same premises.

  A male receptionist greeted me. He had acne and sweaty palms. His gait was suspiciously mincing as he went to tell Mrs. Highman's secretary that I had arrived. Maybe it was unfair, but I pigeonholed him as the sort of sexual reject who just naturally seeks an outlet with an outfit like S.M.U.T. A moment later he returned and led me into an inner room where Mrs. Highman's secretary was waiting.

  The secretary was a dried fig labeled female by the clothing she wore, but decidedly asexual otherwise. She was juiceless and overage, joyless and as gray and drab inside – I would have bet – as was the shapeless knot of hair topping her wrinkled features. Her voice was chalk-on-a-blackboard as she told me Mrs. Highman would see me immediately. Her step was a geriatric hobble as she led the way into yet another room.

  Up to then, the personnel of S.M.U.T. was just about what I would have expected. But Mrs. Prudence Highman was something else again. My first glance told me she was no stereotype of comstockery. And a second look confirmed that I had no ready pigeonhole for her.

  She was younger than I had expected, although the clothes she wore were obviously intended to stress her more solid matronly qualities. Her hair as brown with just a hint of a red glow which had been played down but not snuffed out altogether. She wore no make-up, but there was something sensual about her face. The horn-rimmed glasses she wore couldn't conceal a certain subdued joie de vivre glinting in the depths of her deepset green eyes. And the fullness of her lips couldn't be hidden by her habit of pressing them tightly together.

  Her age was a well-kept secret. She might have been as young as 25, or as old as her late thirties. It was impossible to tell.

  My observation that she had a good figure was at least half a guess. The suit jacket buttoned over her bosom couldn't conceal its largeness, but it revealed nothing of its shape. The way it hung over her hips told nothing about them or of the waist above them. Her skirt was worn longer than the current style, and while her calves were admirable, any judgment of her legs was impossible.

  Her voice was as it had been over the phone, formal and with each syllable enunciated with a bell-like clarity. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Victor?" As I took her up on it, she turned to the secretary. "That will be all, Eloise," she said, dismissing her.

  The secretary shot me a look which said I wasn't to be trusted, and then left us alone.

  "So you are the man from O.R.G.Y.," Mrs. Highman said when we were alone. She pronounced each letter individually, rather than speaking them as one word.

  "And you are the lady from S.M.U.T." I pronounced it as a word.

  Her forehead creased with distaste, but she ignored it. "As I understood you over the phone, Mr. Victor, you are anxious to enlist in our cause and you feel that your special field of knowledge might be helpful to us. Is that correct?"

  "That's the general idea."

  "Why, Mr. Victor?"

  Well, she was obviously no fool. It was a good question, and it demanded an answer. A very careful answer. "Because my researches have convinced me of the tightness of your cause," I said cautiously. It was more of a feeler than an answer.

  "Have they, Mr. Victor? I should have thought that someone in your profession would automatically be against our
work."

  "But why?" Now it was my turn to play cat-and-mouse.

  "By studying and reporting frankly on sexual practices, there can be no doubt that you tend to encourage them."

  She didn't know it, but she'd pointed the way for me with that statement. "What you say has been true," I granted. "But it is a side effect, rather than anything which was planned. Pure research knows no consequences, only truth. It was in this spirit that I have always conducted my activities. Still, I have been increasingly aware of what you just pointed out. It has disturbed me greatly. That's why I would like to work with your organization. I would like to redress the balance of permissiveness which I have been instrumental in creating."

  "If you are sincere, Mr. Victor -" she looked at me shrewdly – "then there can be no doubt that you can be extremely helpful to us. As one who has been identified with the other side, your remorse would have great publicity value. Not just locally with the chapter I head, either," she mused. "Your importance could be countrywide, even worldwide, to our organization. Just how far are you willing to go with your public support of our case?"

  "I'm not sure." I didn't want to appear over-eager. "That will depend on just how much is asked of me."

  The caution implicit in my answer seemed to reassure her. "That's understandable," she agreed. "Then perhaps we should start out small, limit your activities to the local level at first. There will always be time to enlarge them."

  I guessed that she was thinking it would be a feather in her cap to be able to use me under her personal sponsorship as a spokesman for her particular chapter of S.M.U.T. "That sounds like a good idea," I agreed. Her next words confirmed my guess.

  "I shall have to work very closely with you myself," she said. "And I think we should keep your activities secret at first so that the impact will be greater when we do make your participation public. Yes, there are many things we should discuss, you and I." She glanced at her wristwatch. "The office will be closing soon," she told me. "I wonder if you might take dinner with me tonight, Mr. Victor?"

  "I'd be delighted."

  "Good. My quarters lie just beyond these offices. We may as well go in now."

  Dinner was to be promptly at six. I mention that because the cooking of it was something to behold. It began, in a sense, when Prudence Highman led me from the office to the apartment behind it.

  The apartment was quietly expensive. The furnishings were utilitarian with no frills. There was nothing at all frivolous about them. Everything was functional in the living room to which I was first conducted. Even the landscapes on the walls contained hidden light tubes to justify their having been hung.

  It was dusk when we entered, and the room was dim. Mrs. Highman clapped her hands and immediately there was light. "They call it Sonuswitch," she explained. "It reacts to certain sounds and turns on lights and sets all sorts of electrical appliances in motion." She consulted her watch. "Come into the kitchen and you'll see," she told me. "My husband is about to cook dinner."

  I followed her into the kitchen. There was a telephone on the wall nearest to the stove. As we entered, it started to ring. Mrs. Highman stood half-smiling as it rang fifteen times. As the last ring sounded, a tray with a roast on it slid into the oven. The oven door closed, and the electric stove went into action. One of the burners on top grew red, and a fry-pan containing potatoes slid into place atop another burner which was heating. And a gadget beside the stove began tossing a salad positioned beneath it.

  "I thought you said your husband was cooking dinner," I said to Mrs. Highman.

  "He is. That was him on the phone. By the time he gets home there will be nothing for him to do but put the food on dishes and serve it. I think you'll find our household very well-organized, Mr. Victor. Sonuswitch has enabled us to regulate almost all of the tasks of daily living." She led me back into the living room. "Would you like a cocktail?" she asked.

  The question took me by surprise. I would have bet Mrs. Highman was teetotal. Still, never look a gift drink in the mouth. "Yes," I nodded.

  She walked over to a massive buffet and snapped her fingers. I stared at it as she returned to me. Two bottles and a cocktail shaker had popped to the surface of it. Now metal fingers picked up the bottles and poured. The shaker was capped and began to agitate itself. After a moment two cocktail glasses snapped into place and the shaker uncapped itself and poured its contents neatly into the tumblers.

  "Well, I'll be damned!" I exclaimed as Mrs. Highman went to fetch the drinks.

  "Please, Mr. Victor," she said sternly. "If you are to join S.M.U.T., you must renounce the use of all profanity."

  "Sorry. I promise I'll be more careful." I accepted the drink she handed me and took a hearty swallow.

  "Gosh darn it to heck and back!" I exploded, still managing to remember to restrain my natural profanity. "What the blue blazes is this stuff?"

  "Sauerkraut juice, Mr. Victor. With a dash of attar of wheat germ. It's a health cocktail. I'm sorry if it isn't to your taste."

  "Oh, it's fine," I lied. "It's just than when you said a cocktail, I naturally thought -

  "That it would be alcoholic. I'm sorry, Mr. Victor, but I don't believe in indulging in alcoholic beverages. It's against my principles. Against S.M.U.T.'s too. That's something else you'll have to curb if you are to join with us. Also, your smoking. I have noticed that you smoke a great deal. We shall have to cure you of that, too."

  "How about sex?" The question sprang to my lips before I could stop it.

  "My husband and I are content with a relationship of courtly love," she informed me primly.

  "And he doesn't object?" I asked.

  "Not at all. You can ask him for yourself when he arrives."

  Over dinner later, I did just that. Peter Highman was pretty much what I expected. He was a scrawny man with a nervous tic and a Caspar Milquetoast habit of looking to his wife for approval every time he spoke. Still, I sensed something brooding under his surface.

  "You don't smoke?" I tried it on him for openers.

  "No, Mr. Victor. I did try a cigarette once. I found no joy in it. So I never tried it again."

  Prudence Highman nodded approval.

  "And you don't drink, either?"

  "That is correct," he said. "I indulged myself in a glass of wine once. It made me ill. I've never touched alcohol since."

  Again his wife's nod said that his course was wise.

  "How about gambling?" I asked.

  "No." He shook his head. "I played poker once. I lost. Since then I have never touched a card."

  His wife's nod was peremptory this time. Her mind had strayed. "Did you look in on Oscar when you came home?" she asked.

  "Of course, my dear. Oscar," he explained to me, "is our son."

  "Your only child, I presume," I responded.

  "Yes." Now there was more than a trace of wistfulness in Peter Highman's tone as he explained. "Since Oscar's conception, my wife and I have lived together in blissful chastity."

  "Blissful?" Somehow I managed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  "Blissful," he repeated staunchly. But there was a quaver in his voice.

  "You see," Prudence Highman told me. "We don't just talk S.M.U.T. We live it. We live by our principles."

  "Yes, I see. Very laudable," I assured her. "Quite admirable."

  "And now, Peter," she said, turning to her husband, "Mr. Victor and I have business to discuss. You can do the dishes while I take him into the study."

  "Maybe first I can give you a hand with the dishes," I offered.

  "That won't be necessary," he told me. "All I have to do is tack them in the dishwasher and whistle. Sonuswitch will se that the washer and dryer does the rest. We're completely automated here," he told me proudly.

  "It's really more than human," his wife agreed.

  "Or less," I muttered, but not loudly enough to be heard. I was thinking more of their "blissful chastity" than of Sonuswitch, tough. "Then why don't you join us in the study?" I
asked Highman aloud.

  He didn't answer. But the look he shot his wife was the equivalent of a child begging to be allowed to stay up for the grown-ups' party.

  "That won't be possible." Prudence Highman scotched his hopes firmly. "You see, Mr. Victor, Peter is only a lay member of S.M.U.T. The library contains much confiscated material which I, as an official of the organization, am responsible for holding. It's the hardest part of my job, having to study such filth. But my position obliges me to do it, and so I do. However, I would never subject Peter to such material."

  "Then do you think it's really all right to let me -" I started to say.

  "Your case is different, Mr. Victor. I'm sure that you have seen many such examples in your work. Like myself, I'm sure that you are able to control your disgust while viewing the real enemy."

  "Well, I'll certainly try," I assured her, noticing that Peter Highman looked disappointed but resigned as he started to clear the table. I got to my feet as his wife did and followed her to the library.

  Outside the door she paused, mouthed a whistle which had been hanging on a chain from around her neck, and blew it. There was no audible sound. Yet the door swung open and closed behind us as we entered. "I keep it locked because of the salacious nature of the material stored here," Mrs. Highman explained. "It will only open if the proper ultrasonic pitch is sounded outside the door. And this is the only existing whistle capable of reaching that inaudible pitch. That way I'm sure that no one can sneak in here."

  "You mean Peter might try -?"

  "I would hope not. But one can never be sure. He is made of flesh as we all are, and flesh is weak. That's why it's so important that the work of S.M.U.T. be carried forward to fight the temptations of the flesh. Here, let me give you some idea of what I mean." She crossed over to a row of filing cabinets and stopped in front of one of them. She snapped her fingers and a drawer slid open. She took out a folder and came back to me. "It will be more comfortable if we sit down," she said, leading me over to a couch. "Now, just look at this." She handed me the folder.

  I took it and looked at the outside of it. A small ad was neatly pasted on the tab, evidently to identify it. "GENUINE FRENCH POSTCARDS" was the heading on the ad. I glanced casually at the first three subheads underneath it. "A Sight for the Discriminating and Knowing Tourist in Paris!" the first announced. "The Hottest Picture in Montmartre!" the second blurb read. "A Stimulating Close-Up of a Magnificent French Organ!" the third promised. There was more, but I didn't read further. Curious, I opened the folder instead.