Warren Murphy: Profit Motive

"Swell," said Remo.

"Do you hold your breath?" asked Chiun. "Ever? Want me to do it again?"

Dr. Keating quickly left the corner laboratory, which he knew he would never get at MUT, and returned to his own office.

Inside the right-hand drawer of his desk was a black metal cylinder. When this cylinder was placed over the speaker of his phone, it beeped out a dialing signal for a number Dr. Keating did not know. He once tried analyzing the beeps, comparing them to the tones of the normal pushbutton telephone. But it was useless. This was an entirely different set of sounds, perhaps a whole separate phone system that the phone company never knew existed.

Dr. Keating made his call and read in the names of the two new professors and his analysis. Yes, they were strange, but he believed they definitely were valid scientists in the discipline of rapid-breeder bacteria.

"Also, according to standing instructions of yours, I have informed them.that they should observe local media for a message of great importance to them," said Dr. Keating before hanging up.

He had done his job. He did not know if anything ever appeared in the local media for rapid-breeder-bacteria scientists, but he did know that for the last four years, any scientists he told to watch the media did not stay long in their jobs.

Sometimes they would disappear. Just pack up of their own free will. Others times, they might be found with their heads caved in or their backs broken.

But that was not Dr. Keating's fault. All he did was telephone information to a number he did not know,

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and also tell scientists about something wonderful for them. Whatever happened after that was not his fault. He had nothing to do with it.

He had enough to keep himself busy. After all, what other professor at MUT had two Rolls Royces and an estate on Cape Cod? And he certainly hadn't earned them on his salary. Those little telephone calls paid for those things.

And if there was a pang of conscience about what he was doing, it was even quieter than the engines of his Rolls Royces. The only thing he heard while driving was the ticking of his solid gold Rolex.

And if he felt he might be betraying his university, that was dispelled immediately by the gross insult of his never having had a corner office.

This insult itself had brought him his new wealth, because after he was turned down the third time, someone phoned him, telling him a bank account had been opened up for him. He didn't believe it until he got a phone call from the bank itself, thanking him for opening the account.

Then he got a phone call commiserating with him on his difficulties and complimenting him on his good fortune with his new-found wealth.

"And by the way, Doctor Keating, we're very interested in one special discipline at your university. And there's a little thing we'd like you to do for us."

"I won't do anything illegal," Dr. Keating had answered.

"We wouldn't think of it."

"Or immoral," Dr. Keating had said.

"We wouldn't think of it," the smooth-voiced caller had responded. "After all, I'm your friend, aren't I?"

And through the years, Dr. Keating had to conclude that he had truly never been asked to do the immoral or the illegal. And this he told himself as he drove to his Cape Cod estate in the money-green Rolls Royce, knowing he probably would never see the two new professors ever again.

Too bad. They had gotten a corner laboratory, and 42

Dr. Keating, after twenty-five years at MUT, had an office that faced onto the parking lot. Where he kept his Rolls Royce.

Bradford Wakefield HI, publisher of The Boston Blade, was eating lunch overlooking his cove on the Massachusetts north shore, when he was disturbed by his butler.

"Your special phone is ringing, sir," said the butler.

Bradford was a portly man, with flesh to his jowls and thinning hair. When he turned his head suddenly, his double chin waffled.

"What you say?" asked Wakefield.

"Your phone, Mr. Wakefield. The special one is ringing. You never let me answer it."

"Right. Don't answer it," Wakefield said.

"But it's ringing, Mr. Wakefield, sir."

"Right," said Wakefield, and offered a hand to be helped up to his feet, whereupon he shuffled off to his study, away from the view of the beautiful rocky cove on his northern shore estate in Mamtasket, Massachusetts. The telephone was ringing. Wakefield knew he didn't have to answer it right away. That phone would keep ringing for a month if he didn't answer it. But he had nothing better to do this afternoon, other than planning the conference on racial justice.

The big problem with that was convincing the local police to allow the black panel members into the quaint village of Mamtasket, from which Wakefield and The Blade led its campaign for racial justice in Boston.

Boston had a deep and grievous racial problem. The Blade, under Wakefield's leadership, fought that prejudice and the bigotry of white Bostonians.

The Blade fought it daily and on Sunday.

Wherever white racism reared its ugly head, The Blade was there to lead the fight against it.

There had been, Wakefield was happy to say, no racial incidents in his own hometown of Mamtasket,

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just outside Boston, for the last fifty years. It was a record he and his family were proud of.

There also had been no blacks in Mamtasket after the sun set. Anyone wanting to hire black help in Mamtasket had better make sure it was not sleep-over.

This contradiction between his paper's policy and his life did not bother him, for it was the Wakefield tradition to lead America in righteousness and also make a buck by doing it.

The Wakefields were America's biggest slavers and leading abolitionists before the Civil War. The Wakefields wanted the slaves freed, right after they were paid for them. The Wakefields led all causes. They protested anti-semitism, while Wakefield factories sold Nazi Germany weapons. Wilhelmina Wakefield, Bradford's mother and the grande dame of liberal causes, marched against segregation in Selma, Alabama, while her husband protected the family's Back Bay property from penetration by blacks.

And of course the family newspaper at that time led the fight for school desegregation in, of course, South Boston, where racism was, of course, fiercest. When some politician with a puckish sense of humor suggested that the Boston schools could be desegregated by busing some black children into Mamtasket schools, The Blade slowed down on its support of busing. But it made sure that politician never ran for office again.

The Wakefields, even down to Bradford's young granddaughter, the famous journalist, Melody Wakefield, all were leaders for social justice. And they all had a healthy respect for a Wakefield dollar. Being rich didn't stop a Wakefield from doing good. Rather, it helped, Bradford Wakefield believed.

He shuffled to the phone and picked it up. Then he dialed a code, and the message that had been recorded repeated itself.

It was Dr. Keating's voice. Bradford scribbled down the message. If his memory wasn't failing him, there should be no scientists left in the rapid-breeder field.

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But here were two at MUT, arriving there out of the blue.

This mildly puzzled Mm, but he was not worried. This was not his problem. A far wiser person than he would know what to do about this. Perhaps the wisest person to whom Bradford had ever spoken.

Bradford dialed another code. He had come to believe that all these calls he made were cleared by some scrambling device because he once queried this wise person about the risk of interception, and the person said he should not worry.

And when this person said one did not have to worry, one did not have to worry.

"Hello," said Bradford.

"Hello," said Friend.