Warren Murphy: Union Bust

Smith turned off the terminal and watched the electric disposal pull the last few paragraphs into its blades. Wood pulp returned to wood pulp, with its interim existence as a communication form gone forever.

He looked out at the Sound, then checked his watch. Remo would be phoning in five hours and twelve minutes, when the juxtaposition of the special circuits was right. Not enough time to go home and sleep. Better to sleep here in the chair. Perhaps there would be new information in the morning, and he would not have to tell Remo what at this point he must tell him. Perhaps the problem-solving team, which worked with symbols, would come up with a different answer. After all, they were at Folcroft as a human check on a mechanical function.

They were never informed as to what the symbols really meant, of course, but they had often produced creative ideas—ideas beyond the capability of the computer—never knowing how these management theory ideas would be translated into action.

Smith closed his eyes. Yes, maybe the problem-solving team would come up with a different solution.

Long Island Sound was gray-blue and white, sparkling in the sun, when Smith awoke. It was 8 a.m.; the problem-solving team would have its overnight report in a few minutes. He had asked for it early. The buzzer was ringing on his desk. He pushed intercom.

"Yes?" he said.

"We got it, sir," came the voice.

"Come on in." said Smith. He pressed another button and the large oak door silently unlocked. As the door opened, the computer panel shut automatically, catching Smith's elbow and giving him a nasty pain.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked the member of the problem-solving team. He was in his late thirties and worry showed very well on his face.

"No. No. I'm all right," said Dr. Smith grimacing. "What do you have?"

"Well, sir. According to the relationships of all the groups in this contract to buy and sell grain, we get, considering all variables, a breakdown in the bargaining process."

"I see," said Dr. Smith.

"No way around it, sir. If there is no other major basic staple on the market, the person who represents the multitude of heretofore loosely connected grain sellers, has got a gun at the buyer's head. He doesn't ask for a price, he sets it."

"There's no other way around it?"

"No. Not offhand. But you see, with the increasing price there will be a fall in demand and the price will settle. Settle high, but settle."

"And what if the grain-seller doesn't want to sell?"

"That's absurd, sir. He's got to want to sell. Otherwise, why corner the market? That's the purpose, isn't it?"

"Yes. I guess so. Thank you. Thank you."

"Glad to be of help."

"You have been, thank you."

When the man left the office, Dr. Smith slammed the arm of his chair again.

"Damn. Damn. Damn."

Remo's call came through at 8.15.

"Remo?" said Dr. Smith.

"No. Candace Bergen," came Remo's voice.

"I'm glad you're in fine spirits. You can move to the next stage now. It looks as though we are going to the extreme plan."

"The one you said you were sure we wouldn't have to use?"

"That's right."

"Why don't you just bomb the convention hall and have done with it?"

"I am in no mood for your humour now, young man. No mood at all."

"Look. Feed this into your computers. I'm not going to do it. Work out something else. Or I will."

"Remo. This is a hard, hard thing for me to ask. But you must prepare for the extreme plan. There just isn't anyone else."

"Then there isn't anyone else."

"You will do it."

"As a matter of fact, I won't. As a matter of fact, since I recovered from that little incident, I have been depressed as I have never been depressed before. But that's a human emotion and you wouldn't understand that. I am a human being, you sonuvabitch. Do you hear that. I am a human being."

The receiver clicked dead. It had been hung up in Chicago. Dr. Smith drummed his fingers on the chair arm. It had sounded foreboding, but it was really not. Remo would do what he would have to do. There was no way he could not carry out his function, any more than he could eat a hamburger laced with monosodium glutamate.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The convention buzzed and roared and yelled and clapped and paraded up and down the aisles for candidates, beer, and washrooms, the last receiving less vocal but more sincere enthusiasm. There were three nominations for president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers at convention hall, and after each name, the delegates flooded the center aisle, placards aloft, as if it were a political convention. They went onto a frenzy of screaming, as though victory depended upon decibel instead of delegate count.

When Jethro's name went into nomination, Abe 'Crowbar' Bludner grabbed a two-by-four with a poster stapled to it and led the local delegates and the New York City joint council delegates into the stream of driver delegates demonstrating for the young man from Nashville. Remo did not rise with the delegation. He did not move. He crossed a leg and rested his chin on his hand.

This quiet meditation in a section of empty seats stood out like Stations of the Cross at an orgy. It did not go unnoticed. Gene Jethro, beaming from the platform and waving to supporters, said over his shoulder to Negronski:

"Who's that?"

"That's the guy who did the job on the sergeant of arms, guards, and the Arizona delegates."

"So that's him," said Jethro. "When you can get to him unnoticed, tell him I want to see him."

All this did Gene Jethro say while his face to the crowd beamed happy enthusiasm. He noticed the false lack of concern of his opponent's face and gave him an extra Gene Jethro grin, this one broader, fuller. The opponent grinned back.

"I'm gonna run you out of the union," yelled the opponent, his face apparent joy.

"You're through, old man," Jethro yelled back, his face even more an explosion of joy and happiness. "You're dead. Let the dead bury the dead."

From the floor it looked like a friendly interchange between two friendly rivals. Remo did not watch it. He felt the yelling, felt the movement, felt the excitement, but he did not watch it or listen to it. He thought about himself and knew he had been lying to himself for the past few years. It took a simple, plain, American hamburger, which millions of people ate and he could not, to show him up, to strip him of years of self-deception.

When he had first consented to work for the organization, he had entertained the thought of one day going on assignment and keeping on going. He was always going to quit next month or the month after that. A few times he was going to take the walk in the afternoon.

And these afternoons were followed by months which became years, and years. And each day, the training progressed. Each day Chiun had worked on his mind, and his mind had worked on his body. And he had not noticed the change. He knew that he was a little bit different—a little bit faster than boxers, a little bit stronger than weightlifters, and a little bit more shifty than running backs—and that his body was a little bit more attuned than the best in most of the rest of the world. But he had thought, and had fiercely supported this thought, that he was not really different.

He had believed that some day he might have a family, a home, and maybe even a nine-to-five job somewhere. And if he watched himself carefully, perhaps, although this was doubtful, just perhaps he would have ten or fifteen years before someone from the organization would knock on his door and put a bullet in his face. (If it were a successor, it would be a hand in the face.)

Ten or fifteen years of belonging, of existing, of having people need you in their lives, and of you needing them. The only person he cared about now would kill him on orders—because that was the business. And what bothered Remo now was that he knew he, too, on orders, would kill Chiun—because that was the business. He would do it and, incidentally, find out if he could take the Master of Sinanju, his teacher.