She didn’t. There was not crisis in sex or family relations.
“Mr. James,” said the Boss, like a bell tolling for a funeral.
I wasn’t entitled to a power name, since I had only recently been appointed to the board. My predecessor, Marcus Welby, had keeled over right at this conference table the previous month when he realized that there was no medical crisis in sight. His heart broke, literally. It had been his fourth one, but this time the rescue team was just a shade too late to pull him through again.
Thomas K. James is hardly a power name. But it was the one my parents had bestowed on me, and I was determined not to disgrace it. And in particular, not to let anyone know that someone in this conference room thought I was corruptible.
“Mr. James,” asked a nearly-weeping All-American Boy, “is there anything on the medical horizon—anything at all—that may be useful to us?”
It was clear that Boss Armstrong did not suspect me of incipient treason. Nor did he expect me to solve his problem. I did not fail him in that expectation.
“Nothing worth raising an eyebrow over, sir, I regret to say.” Remarkably, my voice stayed firm and steady, despite the dervishes dancing in my stomach.
“There are no new diseases,” I went on, ” and the old ones are all in rapid retreat. Genetic technicians can correct every identifiable malady in the zygotes, and children are born healthy for life.” I cast a disparaging glance at Mr. Cosby, our black environmentalist, and added, “Pollution-related diseases are so close to zero that most disease centers around the world no longer take statistics on them.”
“Addiction!” he blurted, the idea apparently springing into his mind unexpectedly. “There must be a new drug on the horizon!”
The board members stirred in their chairs and looked hopeful. For a moment.
I burst their bauble. “Modern chemotherapy detoxifies the addict in about eleven minutes, as some of us know from first-hand experience.” I made sure not to stare at Matt Dillon or Alexis Carrington-Colby, who had fought bouts with alcohol and chocolate, respectively. “And, I must unhappily report, cybernetic neural programming is mandatory in every civilized nation in the world; once an addictive personality manifests itself, it can be reprogrammed quickly and painlessly.”
The gloom around the table deepened into true depression, tinged with fear.
Jack Armstrong glanced at the miniature display screen discreetly set into the table top before him, swiftly checking on his affirmative actions, then said, “Ladies and gentleman, the situation grows more desperate with each blink of the clock. I suggest we take a five-minute break for R&R (he meant relief and refreshment) and then come back with some new ideas!”
He fairly roared out the last two words, shocking us all.
I repaired to my office—little more than a cubicle, actually, but it had a door that could be shut. I closed it carefully and hauled the unnerving note out of my pocket. Smoothing it on my desk top, I read it again. It still said:
“Make big $$$. Tell all to Feds.”
I wadded it again and with trembling hands tossed it into the disposal can. It flashed silently into healthful ions.
“Are you going to do it?”
I wheeled around to see Mary Richards leaning against my door. She had entered my cubicle silently and closed the door without a sound. At least, no sound I had heard, so intent was I on that menacing message.
“Do what?” Lord, my voice cracked like Henry Aldrich.
Mary Richards (nee Stephanie Quaid) was a better physical proximation to her power name than anyone of the board members, with the obvious exception of our revered Boss. She was the kind of female for whom the words cute, pert, and vivacious were created. But beneath those skin-deep qualities she had the ruthless drive and calculated intelligence of a sainted Mike Wallace. Had to. Nobody without the same could make it to the CCC board. If that sounds self-congratulatory, so be it. A real Mary Richards, even a Lou Grant, would never get as far as the front door of the CCC.
“Tell all to the Feds,” she replied sweetly.
The best thing I could think of was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The note you just ionized.”
“What note?”
“The note I put in your pocket before the meeting started.”
“You?” Until that moment I hadn’t known I could hit high C.
Mary positively slinked across my cubicle and draped herself on my desk, showing plenty of leg through her slitted skirt. I gulped and slid my swivel chair into the corner.
“It’s okay, there’s no bugs operating in here. I cleared your office this morning.”
I could feel my eyes popping. “Who are you?”
Her smile was all teeth. “I’m a spy, Tommy. A plant. A deep agent. I’ve been working for the Feds since I was a little girl, rescued from the slums of Chicago by the Rehabilitation Corps from what would have undoubtedly been a life of gang violence and prostitution.”
“And they planted you here?”
“They planted me in Cable News when I was a fresh young thing just off the Rehab Farm. It’s taken me eleven years to work my way up to the CCC. We always suspected some organization like this was manipulating the news, but we never had the proof . . . .”
“Manipulating!” I was shocked at the word. “We don’t manipulate.”
“Oh?” She seemed amused at my rightful ire. “Then what do you do?”
“We select. We focus. We manage the news for the benefit of the public.”
“In my book, Tommy old pal, that is manipulation. And it’s illegal.”
“It’s . . . out of the ordinary channels,” I granted.
Mary shook her pretty chestnut-brown tresses. “It’s a violation of FCC regulations, it makes a mockery of the antitrust laws, to say nothing of the SEC, OSHA, ICC, WARK and a half a dozen other regulatory agencies.”
“So you’re going to blow the whistle on us.”
