“I’m Gwendoline Earnest, Gregory’s wife. I was just taking Gulliver and Gertrude to the skating rink....”
Two more Eskimos appeared. Little ones, round and furry in their plastiskin parkas. It wasn’t that cold outside, Monteplier realized. Maybe Eskimo is the next big style trend.
Gwendoline Earnest shooed her two little ones out and down the driveway. “Greg’s down in the study, waiting for you,” she said, squeezing past Montpelier at the doorway. She started down the driveway toward the minibus parked at the curb. “And thank you,” she called over her shoulder, “for taking him away from his eternal digging for one Sunday! It’s such a pleasure not to hear the pounding and the swearing!”
She waved a cheery “Ta-ta!” and pushed the kids into the yawning side door of the minibus.
With a bewildered shake of his head, Montpelier stepped inside what he thought would be the house’s living room. It looked more like an attic. There were bicycles, toys, crates, suitcases, piles of books and spools of videotape. Another jetliner roared overhead; even with the front door closed, the ear-splitting sound made Montpelier’s teeth ache.
He threaded his way through the maze of junk, looking for a living area. The entire house seemed to be cluttered with storage materials.
It took ten minutes of shouting back and forth before Montpelier tumbled to the fact that Earnest—and the real living quarters—were downstairs in the erstwhile basement.
Another few minutes to find the right door and the stairs leading down, then the usual meaningless words of greeting, and Montpelier found himself sitting in a comfortable panelled den, in a large overstuffed chair, with a beer in his hand.
Gregory Earnest sat across the corner from him, equally at ease with a beer mug in one hand. It had an old corporation logo on it: GE. Gregory, Gwendoline, Gulliver and Gertrude Earnest, Montpelier reflected. He must’ve bought a case of those mugs when the antitrust boys broke up old GE.
In the opposite corner of the den, the three-dee set was tuned to the National Football League’s game of the week. Montpelier couldn’t tell who was playing: all he saw was a miniature set of armored players tumbling and grunting across the other side of Earnest’s den, like Lilliputian buffoons who’d been hired to entertain a sadistic king. Only the scintillations and shimmerings of the imperfect three-dee projection betrayed the fact that they were watching holographic images, rather than real, solid, miniature figures.
Earnest touched a button in the keyboard that was set into the arm of his recliner chair and the sound of pain and cheering disappeared. But the game went on.
“Imagine how terrific the games will look,” Earnest said in his nasal, oily way of speaking, “when Oxnard’s new system is used. Then you can buy giant-sized three-dee tubes. It’ll look like you’re right there on the field with them.”
Montpelier nodded. There was something about Earnest that always disturbed him. The man was too sly, too roundabout. He’d fit in well at Titanic.
Earnest was wearing a pullover sweater and an ancient pair of patched jeans. He seemed utterly at ease, smiling. Montpelier was reminded of the cobra and the mongoose, but he didn’t know who was supposed to be which.
“You look relaxed and happy,” Montpelier said.
Earnest’s smile showed more teeth. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
After a sip of beer, Montpelier said, “If I were the producer of a show that started off as disastrously as ‘The Starcrossed’ did last week....”
“Oh that.” Earnest made a nonchalant gesture. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“No?”
“Why worry? Is B.F. worried?”
“He sure is,” Montpelier said. “He almost went into shock when I told him what happened in the studio.”
“Really?”
Earnest’s voice got so arch that Montpelier found himself getting angry, something he never did with a potential ally. Or enemy. It was a luxury you couldn’t afford in this business. Not if you wanted to survive.
“What are you driving at?” Montpelier asked, trying to keep his voice level.
Earnest nodded toward the three-dee game that still rolled and thudded across the far side of the den.
“The Pineapples,” he said. “They’re winning.”
“So?”
“So long as they keep winning, B.F.’s money is safe. Right?”
Montpelier fought down a gnawing panic. Either Earnest had completely flipped, which was not too unlikely, and was now certifiably insane—or he knew something that he himself didn’t know, which was a very dangerous position for Montpelier to be in.
“Are, ah... you betting on the Pineapples?” he fished.
“Sure I am. Especially since I found out that B.F. is sinking almost all his cash into them. When they win the title, we can forget about ‘The Starcrossed.’ Won’t matter if the show never goes beyond the first seven weeks.” Slowly, without revealing how little he actually knew, Montpelier coaxed the story out of Earnest. It wasn’t difficult. The Canadian was very proud of himself. He had some friends in the local phone company tap all the special three-dee phones that Finger had installed in the various hotel suites. Montpelier was suddenly grateful that he didn’t rank high enough for such luxury. Only Westerly, Gabriel and Yearling had them. And Gabriel got one only because he screamed and threw tantrums until Brenda put through a call to Finger’s office.
“You should hear the conversations between Rita and B.F.,” Earnest said, licking his chops. “And see the display she puts on for him. In three-dee yet! I’ve got some of them taped, you know.”
Montpelier guided him back to the main subject. “So as long as the Pineapples keep winning their football games, Titanic’s cash is safe.”
“Right,” Earnest answered. “And ‘The Starcrossed’ is just a front operation to keep those New York bankers convinced that B.F. has invested their money in a show.”
“So the show gets as little money as possible....”
“Sure. Just enough to keep it going. Oh, I think B.F. really wants to make Rita into a star... but that doesn’t mean he’s going to spend more than he has to. Just enough to get her on The Tube for a few weeks and see how the public reacts to her.”
“Yeah, that sounds like B.F.’s way of doing business,” Montpelier agreed.
But Earnest had turned his attention to the football game. One of the miniature players was scampering like mad and other players were chasing after him while the background whizzed past. Yet none of them actually moved very far across Earnest’s floor. It was like watching midgets struggling on a treadmill.
“The Pineapples just intercepted another pass!” Earnest was chortling. “I knew those Mexicans couldn’t play our style of football!”
Montpelier leaned over and nudged his shoulder. “I didn’t come here to watch a football game. You said you had something important to tell me.”
