Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“All right, I’ll give the answer you want,” Tom said. “I’d advise him to start a national committee on mental health, or some other public-service thing, and I’d publicize hell out of it.”

“Precisely,” Bill replied, finishing his drink and ordering another one. “You would follow the newest maxim of the public-relations boys: ‘If you want good publicity, do something good!’ It’s all very profound. Want another drink?”

“I think I’d better stay sober,” Tom said. “And I also think there’s something wrong in your theory.”

“You’re going to be a good public-relations man!” Bill said admiringly. “You’re defending him already!”

“Nuts!” Tom replied. “I just want to take all the possibilities into account. You say he’s doing this because he wants publicity — yet all his life, he’s apparently detested publicity. Certainly he could have had it long before now if he’d wanted it. Why has he waited all this time, and what’s made him change?”

“All right, all right, there may be more to all this than meets the eye,” Bill said. “Maybe he personally doesn’t want publicity. But maybe the board of directors is worried about the bad name the company’s getting by making the television shows just as bad as the radio programs. There’s been a rumor going around lately that United Broadcasting is just trying to make money and is half-hearted about improving people’s minds. One thing the company could do is actually to improve the programs, but it would be cheaper to tell all the company’s top executives, and particularly the president, to go out and acquire a reputation for doing good. After all, Hopkins will always be identified as the president of the United Broadcasting Corporation, and if he’s doing something good, and kind of intellectual, that would be about the least expensive way the company could get respectable.”

“Maybe,” Tom said.

“Or perhaps it’s more complicated,” Bill continued. “Hopkins has had a taste of power inside the company. Maybe he likes it and wants more. He can’t get any more inside the company. So it’s just possible that he’s made up his mind to go into politics. He’d have to do some public-service thing first — right now he’d be political poison. But after he was known all over the country as the man who started the very successful mental-health committee, who knows? You may be the first campaign man in the Hopkins-for-President drive!”

“Haven’t we left one possibility out?” Tom asked.

“What?”

“That he might be sincere. That he might want to do some good. That after concentrating on his personal fortune all these years, he may have come to the point where he wants to do something for the public welfare, with no strings attached.”

“It’s possible,” Bill said doubtfully. “But it would be awfully dull if it were true!”

“Do you really know him?” Tom asked. “Do you really know what kind of a guy he is?”

“Hell,” Bill said. “I’ve been working for this damn outfit for four years, and I’ve never laid eyes on the guy. There are all kinds of stories about him — they used to say he had two children and had been home twice in the last twenty years. I think his son was killed during the war — anyway, nobody talks about that any more. They say he needs less sleep than Edison did. They say he’s got his whole filing system memorized, practically, and can quote from any important letter or contract in it. Some say he’s got a little blond girl on Park Avenue. Some say he’s sleeping with some actress who flies in from Hollywood once a month. I’ve even heard it said that he’s queer. But nobody who passes that stuff around really knows him. The only people I know who actually work with him are Walker and Ogden, and of course they never talk about him. To tell the honest truth, I have no idea in the world what kind of man he is, except he must be pretty damn smart to be where he is.”

“He ought to be interesting to work for,” Tom said.

“Maybe,” Bill replied, “but I ought to tell you one more thing: everybody says he’s tough as hell. If you can’t do what he wants, he’ll fire you without batting an eye. I don’t know that’s true, mind you, but it’s what everybody says.”

“Sounds fair enough, if you can do what he wants,” Tom said. “If you do it real well, is he quick with the raises?”

“I don’t know. You’d be surprised how a company this size can pinch pennies — they even got an order out the other day cautioning us all to put our office lights out when we weren’t using them and asking us to quit stealing pencils. But I’d say it’s always a good bet to work for a man making two hundred thousand a year. At least you’ve got a long way to go before you start competing with the boss!”

“If I can get the job, I think I’ll take it,” Tom said.

Bill finished his drink and lit a cigarette. “If you don’t, you’re crazy,” he said.

TOM THOUGHT Betsy would be excited when she heard he had a luncheon date with the president of United Broadcasting, but as soon as he stepped into his house that night he knew something was wrong. The house looked as though a herd of wild horses had stampeded through it. Soiled laundry was scattered about the living room. In the kitchen a mixture of dirty luncheon and breakfast dishes littered the table and counters.

“Betsy!” he called from the living room. “Where are you?”

“Up here,” she said in a weak voice.

He raced up the stairs and found her lying fully clothed on the bed. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I feel awful,” she replied. “It hit me right after you left this morning, but I didn’t want to call you up and bother you. Go see if the kids are all right.”

He stepped into the room the three children shared. The beds were unmade, and a tangle of clothes and toys littered the floor. The three children were crouched over a glass of water paint. Pete was naked, and Barbara and Janey wore only underclothes. All three showed the ravages of chicken pox on both their faces and bodies, but they glanced up at Tom cheerfully.

“Momma’s sick,” Janey said delightedly. “We’ve been taking care of her.”

“You’re not very well yourself,” Tom said. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“We’re painting! ” Janey said indignantly.

Tom went through some drawers and got them pajamas. He helped them put the pajamas on and tucked them into bed before returning to Betsy.

“I went to sleep,” Betsy said. “I was trying to keep an eye on them, but I went to sleep. They’ve really been angels — I told them I wasn’t feeling well, and they’ve been talking in whispers all day.”

Tom felt her forehead and found it was dry and hot. He searched through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and returned carrying a thermometer.

“You’re sure that’s the one you’re supposed to put in your mouth? ” Betsy asked suspiciously.

“Sure,” he said. “Stick it under your tongue.”

While they were waiting the required two minutes, Janey suddenly called in a loud clear voice, “Daddy, is Momma going to die?”

“No,” he said.

“Well, if she does die,” Janey continued speculatively, “who will take care of us?”

“She’s not going to die!” Tom said.

“But if she did. ”

“I’m not going to!” Betsy blurted, trying to keep her lips closed around the thermometer.

“Anyway,” Janey said, “I guess Grandmother would take care of us, wouldn’t she?”

“Don’t worry about me, kids,” Betsy said. “I’m going to be fine.” She held the thermometer up to the light.

“What is it?” Tom asked.