Frederik Pohl & Cecil Kornbluth - Gladiator at Law

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Bantam Books by Frederik Pohl and C. M. Kornbluth

GLADIATOR-AT-LAW WOLFBANE

Bantam Books by Frederik Pohl

IN THE PROBLEM PIT

SCIENCE FICTION DISCOVERIES (with Carol Pohl)

GLADIATOR-AT-LAW

FHEDERIK POHL

and C. M. KOMBLUTH

Chapter One

<ajlDIATOR-AT-IAW

A Bantam Book I published by arrangement with

the authors Bantam edition I Jar nary 1977

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by

mimeograph or any other means, without permission,

for information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

ISBN 0-553-06422-3 Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam

Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in

other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA

THE ACCUSED was a tallow-faced weasel with "Constitutional Psychopathic Inferior" stamped all over

him. He wailed to Charles Mundin, LL.B., John Marshall Law School:

"Counselor, you got to get me off 11 been up twice and this time they'll condition me!"

Mundin studied his first client with distaste. "You won't plead guilty?" he asked again,

hopelessly. He had been appointed by the court, and considered that the court had played a filthy

trick on him. This twerp's pore patterns were all over Exhibit A, a tin cashbox fishhooked from a

ticket window at Monmouth Stadium. Modus operandi coincided with that in the twerp's two previous

offenses. An alleged accomplice, who had kept the ticket clerk busy for almost all of the

necessary five minutes, was all ready to take the witness stand— having made his deal with the

prosecutor. And still the twerp was stubbornly refusing to cop a plea.

Mundin tried again. "It won't be so bad, you know. Just a couple of days in a hospital. It's quite

painless, and that's not just talk. I've seen it with my own eyes. They took us around in my

junior year——"

The twerp wailed, "Counselor, you just don't understand. If they condition me, my God, I have to

go to work."

Mundin shrugged. "You're acting against my advice," he said. "I'll do what I can for you."

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But the trial was over in a matter of minutes. Mundin tried for a reversible error by objecting to

the testimony of

the accomplice. He claimed feebly that the moral character of the witness made his testimony

inadmissible in a condition-able offense. The prosecutor, a grandee from Harvard Law, haughtily

smacked him down by pointing out that the essence of the conditioLable offense lay in the

motivation of the accused, not the fact of commission, which was all the accomplice had testified

to. He snapped a series of precedents.

The judge's eyes went blank and distant. Those inside the rail could hear confirmation of the

precedents droning faintly into his ears through the headphones under his elaborate wig. He nodded

and said to Mundin, "Overruled. Get on with it."

Mundin didn't even bother to take an exception.

The prosecution rested and Mundin got up, his throat dry. "May it please the Court," he said. His

Honor looked as though nothing had pleased that Court, ever. Mundin said to the jury box, "The

defense, contending that no case has been made, will present no witnesses." That, at any rate,

would keep Harvard Law from letting the jury know of the two previous convictions. "The defense

rests."

Harvard Law, smiling coldly, delivered a thirty-second summation, which hi three razor-sharp

syllogisms demonstrated the fact that defendant was guilty as hell.

The court clerk's fingers clicked briskly on the tape-cutter, then poised expectantly as Mundin

stood up.

"May it please the Court," said Mundin. That look again. "My client has not been-a fortunate man.

The product of a broken home and the gutters of Belly Rave, he deserves justice as does every

citizen. But hi his case I am impelled to add that the ends of justice can be served only by an

admixture of mercy."

Judge and prosecutor were smiling openly. The hell with dignity! Mundin craned his neck to read

the crisp yellow tape that came clicking out of the clerk's encoding machine. He could more or

less read jury-box code if it was simple enough.

The encoded transcript of his summation was simple enough. The tape said:

o-o . .. o-o . .. o-o ...

"Defense rests," he mumbled and fell into his chair, ignoring a despairing mutter from the twerp.

The judge said, "Mr. Clerk, present the case to the jury box.

The clerk briskly fed in the two tapes. The jury box hummed and twinkled. If only you could fix

one of those things! Mundin thought savagely, staring at the big seal on it. Or if you could get

one of those damned clerks to cut the tape—no, that was out too. They were voluntarily

conditioned. Like voluntary eunuchs in the old days. Gave up manhood for a sure living.

The red window lit up: GUILTY AS CHARGED.

"Work!" the twerp muttered, his eyes haunted.

The judge said, shifting his wig and showing a bit of earphone under it, "Mr. Bailiff, take charge

of the prisoner. Sentencing tomorrow at eleven. Court's adjourned."

The twerp moaned, "I hate them damn machines. Couldn't you have got me a human jury, maybe get an

injunction——"

Mundin said wearily, "A human jury would have crucified you. Why did you have to steal from the

Stadium? Why not pick on something safe like the Church or the judge's piggy bank? See you

tomorrow." He turned his back on the defendant and bumped into Harvard Law.

"Nice try, young man." The grandee smiled frostily. "Can't win them all, can we?"

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Mundin snarled, "If you're so smart why aren't you a corporation lawyer?" \and stamped out of the

courtroom.

He was on the street before he regretted the crack. Harvard's face had fallen satisfactorily, but

the jibe was another O-O. Why, indeed? The same reason Mundin himself wasn't, of course. He hadn't

inherited one of the great hereditary corporation-law practices and he never would. Even grinding

through Harvard Law School can't get you conveniently reborn into the Root, or Lincoln, or Dulles,

or Choate families. Not for Harvard (or for Charles Mundin) the great reorganizations,

receiverships, and debenture issues. Not for them the mergers and protective committees. Not for

them the golden showers that fell when you pleaded before human judges and human juries, human

surrogates and human commissions. For them—the jury box and the trivia of the criminal law.

A morose fifteen-minute walk through Monmouth's sweltering, rutted streets brought bun to his

office building. His wallet

nerve twinged as his eye fell on the quietly proud little plaque beside the door of the building.

It announced that its rental agents were sorry but could offer no vacancies. Mundin hoped it would

stay that way, at least as far as bis own office was concerned.

He got an elevator to himself. "Sixteen," he told it. He was thinking of his first client, the

twerp. At least he would get a fee; you got a fee on conditionable cases. The twerp was terrified

that he'd find himself unable to steal. Maybe Counselor Mundin himself might soon be driven to

dangling a hook and line over the wall of a ticket window at Monmouth Stadium. ...

Or he might get really desperate, and find himself one of the contestants in the Field Day inside.

His mail hopper was empty, but his guaranteed fully automatic Sleepless Secretary—he was still

payihg for it—was blinking for his attention. The rental agents again? Lawbook salesman? Maybe

even a client? "Go ahead," he said.

In its perfect voice the machine said: 'Telephone call, 1205 hours. Mr. Mundin is out, Madam. If

you wish to leave a message I will take it down."

The voice was the voice of Del Dworcas, chairman of the County Committee and purveyor of small

favors. It said: "Who the hell are you calling madam, sister?"

The secretary: "Gug-gug-gug—ow-wooh. Sir."

Dworcas, his voice annoyed: "What the hell——? Oh. One of those damn gadgets. Well, listen,

Charlie, if you ever get this. I sent somebody over to see you. Named Bligh. Treat him right. And

give me a call. Something to talk about with you. And you better get that damn machine fixed

unless you want to lose some business."

The secretary, after a pause: "Is that the end of your message, madam?"

Dworcas: "Damn your guts, yes! And stop calling me madam!"

The secretary: "Gug-gag-gug—ow-woooh." And click.

Oh, fine, thought Mundin. Now Dworcas was sore at him and nothing could be done about it. The

secretary's confusion between the sexes and banshee howl didn't seem to be covered by the service

contract.

And Dworcas was chairman of the County Committee,

which handed out poll-watching assignments to deserving young attorneys.

The mailtube popped while he was blaspheming Dworcas and the salesman who had flattered him into

buying the secretary. He eagerly fished the letter from its hopper, but when he caught sight of

the return address he dropped it unopened. The Scholarship Investors' Realization Corporation

could have nothing of interest to say to him; he knew he owed them the money, and he knew by

virtue of the law course they had paid for that they couldn't do anything drastic to make him pay.

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Then there was nothing to do until someone showed up— this Bligh or the man from the sheriff's

office. Sing hey for the life of a lawyer, gabbling at machines you naggingly suspected thought

you were not so bright as they were.

The Sleepless Secretary said: "Sir or madam as the case may be. Gug-gug-gug. Regret to advise."

Mundin kicked it savagely. It burped and said: "A gentleman is in the outer office, Mrs. Mundin."

"Come in!" Mundin yelled at the door. Then he said, "Oh, excuse me. Mr. Bligh?"

The man blinked at him and came in cautiously. He looked around and picked out a chair. He wore a

hearing aid, Mundin noticed;- perhaps that was why he cocked his head a little.

He said, "That's right; Norvell Bligh. I—uh—asked Mr. Dworcas if he could recommend a first-class

attorney and he—uh—suggested you."

Mundin said aloofly, "What can I do for you?"

"Well." Bligh's eyes roamed nervously around the room. "My wife—that is, I would like to get some

information on adoption. I have a step-daughter—my wife's daughter by her first marriage, you

see—and, well, my wife thinks we should arrange about adopting her."

Good old Del Dworcas, Mundin thought savagely. He knows I belong to the Criminal Bar, and he goes

right ahead ——He said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Bligh. I can't help you. You'll have to find a civil

attorney to handle that for you."

Bligh touched the control of his hearing aid. "Beg pardon?"

"I said," Mundin enunciated loudly, "I—can't—do—it."

"Oh, I know you can't," Bligh said. "Mr. Dworcas explained that. But he said that the civil

attorneys would charge an

lot, and you—— That is, since you were a friend of his and I was a friend of his brother, it would

be done on a friendly basis. All I need to know, really, is what to do. I don't think I'd have to

have a lawyer in court, do you?"

Mundin pondered hopefully. "Maybe not." It was questionable practice, no doubt of it, and small

thanks to Dworcas for getting him into it Still, if it was just a matter of advice and

information—thank God, the corporation boys didn't have that sewed up yet

He leaned back, covertly looking Bligh over. Not the most imposing figure he had seen, but

tolerably well dressed, certainly not a deadbeat. He'd be some land of contract worker, no doubt,

getting his regular pay, living hi a G.M.L. house, suffering his wife's obvious nagging. Mundin

said:

'Tell me the story. First of all, how much—? That is, the court will want to be sure you can earn

enough to support the child."

"Well, I've been supporting her for three years. Excuse me, Mr. Mundin, but can we keep this

short? I'm on my lunch hour, and Mr. Candella is very fussy about that"

"Certainly. Just give me the facts—age of the child, where the father is and so on."

Bligh coughed self-consciously. He said, "My name is Nor-vell Bligh. I'm an associate producer for

General Recreations, hi charge of Field Day procurement, mostly. My wife is named Virginia. She

was married before I met her to a man named Tony Elliston. They—uh—didn't get along too well. It

was a pretty tough experience for her. They had one daughter, Alexandra. Virginia and her first

husband, they got divorced, but I understand he's dead now. Anyway, she got custody, complete. I

have the papers here. Alexandra is ten now. Is that all?"

Mundin scribbled rapidly—purely pretense, since the Sleepless Secretary was recording the whole

thing automatically. On second thought, he told himself, maybe not pretense at that. "That's

enough for the time being," he said. "I'll have to look up—have to discuss this matter with one of

my colleagues. If you would care to come back, say, Friday at this time? Fine."

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As Bligh left, looking vaguely alarmed, the Sleepless Sec-

retary told him. "Pending the receipt. Ow-wooo/z. Mrs. Mundin is out of town."

Mundin turned it off.

Two clients in one day, he thought wonderingly. Anything was possible. Perhaps he wouldn't, after

all, have to let the factory reclaim the secretary and the Scholarship people garni-shee his

salary and the landlord toss him out on the street

Perhaps. ••

Chapter Two

HE DIDN'T seem to be much of a lawyer, Norvie Bligh told himself on the way back to his office,

but at least this fellow Mundin probably wouldn't charge much. Arnie had as much as promised him

that; Arnie had said, "You go see my brother, Norvie. Del's quite an important man and, if you

don't mind my saying so, one of the most powerful minds in government today. He'll put you on the

track of somebody good. And he'll make the price right, too."

Anyway, who needed a legal eagle to put adoption papers through? The whole thing was pretty silly.

If only Ginny weren't so touchy lately, you could explain to her that it was just an unwarranted

expense, nobody was going to take Alexandra away from them; there wasn't even any question about

inheriting if he died.

He tasted that for a moment. Virginia had certainly seemed to take that part of it seriously, he

thought. She had mentioned it half a dozen times: "Don't forget to ask him about inheriting." And,

of course, he had forgotten. Well, there would be another chance on Friday.

And you couldn't blame Virginia if she was a little, well, insecure. Life with that Tony must have

been pure hell, living in Belly Rave from hand to mouth, no future, no security. That was why she

was such a devoted wife now.

Of course she was a devoted wife now, he told himself.

Right now, though, the important thing was whether Candella was going to say anything about his

being fifteen minutes

late. Candella was pretty difficult lately. Of coufte, you couldn't blame him; he was naturally

jumpy with the big fall Field Day coming up and all.

Of course you couldn't blame Candella. Of course you couldn't blame Virginia, or Arnie when his

promises didn't jell, or Alexandra when she was a little touchy, like any ten-year-old, of course.

Of course you couldn't blame anybody for anything. Not if you were Norvell Bligh.

Fortunately, Candella didn't notice what time he came back from lunch. But hi the middle of the

afternoon his secretary came worriedly out to Nome's desk and said, "Mr. Candella would like to

discuss your Field Day program with you."

He went in with a feeling of uneasiness, well justified.

Old Man Candella slapped the papers down and roared:

"Bligh, maybe you think a Field Day is a Boy Scout rally where the kids shoot arrows and run

footraces around the tennis court. Is that right? Maybe you think it's a Ladies' Aid pink tea.

Maybe you just don't know what a Field Day is supposed to be, Bligh. Is that it?"

Norvie swallowed. "No, sir," he whispered.

" 'No, sir,'" Candella mimicked. " 'No, sir.' Well, if you do know what a Field Day is, why

doesn't it show? Why isn't there at least one good, exciting idea in this whole bloody script? I

take back that word 'bloody,' Bligh. I got to give you that, nobody would say this script was

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bloody. There might be some complaints in the other directioivbut I guarantee there wouldn't be

any complaints that tl^^^was too much blood." He jabbed at the program with S^ajry forefinger.

"Listen to this. 'Opening pageant: Procession of jeeps through gauntlet of spearmen. First

spectacle. Fifty girl wrestlers versus fifty male boxers. First duet: Sixty-year-old men with

blowtorches.' Ah, what's the use of going on? This is supposed to be the big event of the year,

Bligh, did you know that? It isn't a Friday-night show in the off season. This is the one that

counts. It's got to be special."

Norvie Bligh shifted miserably. "Gosh, Mr. Candella, I—I thought it was. It's a classical motif,

do you see? It's like——"

"I can tell what it's like," Candella bellowed. "I've been producing these shows for fifteen

years. I don't need anybody to tell me whether a script will play or it won't And I'm

telling you this one won't." He stabbed a button on his console. Norvie felt the seat lurch

warningly underneath him, and scrambled to his feet as it disappeared into the wall. 'Take this

script away," Candella growled. "We've got to start casting on Monday. Let's see if we can have

something above the level of an Odd Fellows' smoker tomorrow night." He didn't even look up as

Norvie cringed out the door.

The whole afternoon was like that.

Norvie dictated and erased five tapes. He sent his- three assistants on three different errands of

research, to find the best spectacle on the highest-rated Field Days in every major city. Nothing

they brought back was any help. When Miss Dali came in to pick up the afternoon's dictation and he

had to face the fact that there was no afternoon's dictation, he grumbled to her:

"What do they expect in that moldy gym they call a stadium here? Look at Pittsburgh—we're twice as

big, and they have armored halftracks."

"Yes, sir," said Miss Dali. "Mr. Stimmens would like to see you."

"All right," he said ungraciously, and dialed a chair for his junior scriptwriter.

"Excuse me, chief," Stimmens said hesitantly. "Can I see you for a moment?"

"You're seeing me," Norvie had picked that bon mot up from Candella the week before.

Stimmens hesitated, then spoke much too rapidly. "You've got a great organization here, chief, and

I'm proud to be a part of it. But I'm having a little trouble—you know, trying to get ahead, hah-

hah—and I wonder if it wouldn't be better for you chief, as well as me if——" He went through a

tortuous story of a classification clerk's mistake when he finished school and an opening in

Consumer Relations and a girl who wouldn't marry him until he got a Grade Fifteen rating.

Long before Stimmens had come anywhere near the point, Norvie knew what he wanted and knew what

the answer had to be; but Candella's bruises were fresh on his back and he let Stimmens go on till

he was dry. Then, briskly:

"Stimmens, if I'm not in error, you signed the regular contract before you joined us. It has——"

"Well, yes sir, but——"

"It has, I say, the usual provision for cancelation. I believe you know the company's policy in

regard to selling contracts. We simply cannot afford to sell unless the purchase price is high

enough to reimburse us for the employee's training time —which, I might say, in your case is all

the time you've spent with us, since you have clearly failed to master your job. I'm surprised you

come to me with a request like that."

Stimmens looked at him. "You won't let me go?"

"I can't let you go. You're at liberty to cancel your contract."

Stimmens laughed shortly. "Cancel! And go back to Belly Rave? Mr. Bligh, have you ever been in

Belly Rave?" He shook his head like a man dispelling a nightmare. "Well, sorry, Mr. Bligh," he

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said. "Anything else for me to do today?"

Norvie looked undecided at his watch. "Tomorrow," he growled. As Stimmens slumped away, Norvie,

already feeling ashamed of himself, petulantly swept the chair back into the wall.

It was almost quitting time.

He made a phone call: "Mr. Arnold Dworcas, please. Arnie? Hello; how're you? Fine. Say, I saw that

attorney of your brother's today. Looks like everything will be all right. Uh-huh. Thanks a lot,

Arnie. This evening? Sure, I was hoping you'd ask me. All right if I go home first?—Ginny'll want

'to hear about the lawyer. About eight, then. S'long. . . ."

Arnie Dworcas had a way of interminably chewing a topic and regurgitating it in flavorless pellets

of words. Lately he had been preoccupied with what he called the ingratitude of the beneficiaries

of science. At their frequent get-togethers he would snarl at Norvie:

"Not that it matters to Us Engineers. Don't think I take it personally just because I happen to be

essential to the happiness and comfort of everybody in the city. No, Norvie, We Engineers don't

expect a word of thanks. We Engineers work because there's a job to do, and we're trained for it.

But that doesn't alter the fact that people are lousy ingrates."

At which point Norvie would cock his head a little in the nervous reflex he had acquired with the

hearing aid and agree: "Of course, Arnie. Hell, fifty years ago when the first bubble-

cities went up women used to burst out crying when they got a look at one. My mother did. Coming

out of Belly Rave, knowing she'd never have to go back—she says she bawled like a baby when the

domes came in sight."

And Arnie: "Yeah. Not that that's evidence, as We Engineers understand evidence. It's just your

untrained recollection of what an untrained woman told you. But it gives you an idea of how those

lousy ingrates nettled down and got smug. They'd change their tune damn fast if We Engineers

weren't on the job. But you're an artist, Norvell. You can't be expected to understand." And he

would gloomily drink beer.

Going home from work and looking forward to seeing his best friend later that night, Norvie was

not so sure he didn't understand. He even felt a little grieved that Arnie had insisted on it. He

even felt inclined to argue that he wasn't an artist like some crackpot oil painter or novelist in

a filthy Belly Rave hovel, but a technician in his own right. Well, kind of; his medium was the

emotional fluxes of a Field Day crowd rather than torques, forces, and electrons.

He had an important job, Norvie told himself: Associate Producer, Monmouth Stadium Field Days. Of

course, Arnie far outstripped him in title. Arnie was Engineer Supervising Rotary and Reciprocal

Pump Installations and Maintenance for Monmouth G.M.L. City. . . .

Not that Arnie was the kind of guy to stand on rank. Hell, look at how Arnie was always doing

things for you—like finding you a lawyer when you needed one—and—well, he was always doing things

for you. It was a privilege to know a man like Arnie Dworcas.

Knowing a fellow like Arnie made life a great deal more enjoyable for a fellow like Norvie.

Norvie smiled internally at the thought of Arnie, right up to the moment when he arrived at the

door of his bubble-bouse and the scanner recognized him and opened the door, and he went in to

join his wife and child.

Chapter Three

CHARLES MUNDIN, LL.B., entered Republican Hall through the back way.

He found Del Dworcas in the balcony—the Hall was a busted, slightly remodeled movie house—telling

the cameramen how to place their cameras, the sound men how to line up their parabolic mikes and

the electricians how to use their lights. For that was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was.

Mundin stood on the sidelines faintly hoping that one of the cameramen would take out a few of

Dworcas's front teeth with a tripod leg, but they kept their tempers admirably. He sighed and

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tapped the chairman on the shoulder.

Dworcas gave him the big hello and asked him to wait in the manager's office for him—he had to get

these TV people squared away, but it wouldn't take more than a few minutes. "Did you see that

fellow Bligh?" he asked. "Yeah? Good. Soak him, Charlie; you got to make a living, you know. Some

friend of my kid brother's. Now go on down to the office. Couple of people there for you to talk

to." He looked palpably mysterious.

Mundin sighed again; but that, too, was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was. At the foot of the

stairs he yelled in astonishment: "Great God Almighty! Prince Wilhelm the Fourth!"

William Choate IV jerked around and looked confused, then stuck out a hand for Mundin to grasp. He

was a pudgy little man of Mundin's age, classmate from John Marshall, heir to a mighty corporate

practice, tidy dresser, former friend, solid citizen, four-star jerk. "Why, hello, Charles," he

said uncertainly. "Good to see you."

"Likewise. What are you doing here?"

Choate made a mighty effort and produced a shrug. "Oh," he said, "you know."

"Meaning that even a corporation lawyer has political dealings once in a while?" Mundin helped him

out.

"That's it exactly!" Choate was pleased; it was just like old times. Mundin had always helped him

out, all the way through John Marshall Law.

Mundin looked at his former prot6g6 with emotions that were only distantly related to envy. "It's

a pleasure to run into you, Willie," he said. "They keeping you busy?"

"Busy? Whew! You'll never know, Charles." That was an unfortunate remark, Mundin admitted to

himself. Busy—— "You know the I. G. Farben reorganization?"

"By reputation," Mundin said bitterly. "I'm in criminal practice right now. Incidentally, I had an

interesting case today——"

"Yes," Choate said. "Well, you might say I've won my spurs. The old man made me counsel for the

Group E Debenture Holder's Protective Committee. Old Haskell died in harness, you know. Think of

it—forty years as counsel for the Protective Committee! And with a hearing before the Referee in

Receivership coming up. Well, I won my spurs, as you might say. I argued before the referee this

morning, and I got a four-year stay!"

"Well," Charles Mundin said. 'To use a figure of speech, you certainly won your spurs, didn't

you?"

"I thought you'd see it that way," Choate beamed. "I simply pointed out to old Rodeheaver that

rushing through an immediate execution of receivership would work a hardship on the committee, and

I asked for more time to prepare our roits for the trust offices. Old Rodeheaver just thought it

over and decided it would be hi the public interest to grant a stay. And, Charles, he

congratulated me on my presentation! He said he had never heard the argument read better!"

"Well done," said Charles. It was impossible to resent this imbecile. A faint spark of technical

interest made him ask, "How did you prove hardship?"

Choate waved airily. "Oh, that was easy. We have this smart little fellow in the office, some kind

of cousin of mine, I guess. He handles all the briefs. A real specialist; not much at the "big

picture," you know, but very good in his field. He could prove old Green, Charlesworth were

starving in the gutter if you told him to. I'm joking, of course," he added hastily.

Poor Willie, thought Mundin. Too dumb for Harvard Law,

too dumb for Columbia, though he was rich enough to buy and sell them both. That's how he wound up

at John Marshall, a poor man's school which carried him for eight years of conditions and repeats

until sheer attrition of memorizing had worn grooves in his brain that carried him through his

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exams. Mun-din had written most of his papers, and nothing but good-heartedness and a gentle,

sheep's gaze had got him through the orals.

And poor dumb Willie glowed, "You know what that little job is worth? The firm's putting in for

two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, Charlesl And as counsel for record I get half!"

That did it. Mundin licked his lips. "Willie," he said hoarsely, "Willie——"

He cut it oft there. His mind played out the conversation to its end: The abject begging, Willie,

you owe me something, give me a job, I can be a smart little fellow as well as anybody's cousin.

And the dismally embarrassed, Gosh, Charles, be fair, the old man would never understand, what

would you do if you were in my place? _

Hopeless, Mundin knew the answer. In Willie's place, he would keep the lucrative practice of

corporate law right in the grip of the Choate family. He would sit on top of his practice with a

shotgun in his lap. And if anybody tried to take it away from him he would blast with both barrels

and then club him with the butt until he stopped twitching. . . .

"Yes, Charles?" Willie was patient and expectant.

"Nothing," said Mundin heavily. "You were saying there's more work to do?"

"More work?" Willie beamed. "Why, with any luck I'll hand the Group E Debenture Holders'

Protective Committee down to William Choate the Fifth! The reorganization's only been going for

forty-three years. Soon lots of principals in the case will be dead, and then we'll have trusts

and estates in the picture. Sub-committees! Sub-sub-committees! I tell you, Charles, it's great to

be on the firing line of the law."

"Thank you, Willie," Mundin said gently. "Must you go now?"

Willie said, "Must I? Oh. Yes, I guess I must. It's been good seeing you, Charles. Keep up the

good work."

Mundin stared impotently at his pudgy back. Then he

turned wearily and went on to Dworcas's office, not very optimistically. But it was the only thing

he could think of to do, apart from suicide. And he wasn't ready for that, yet.

Dworcas had still not arrived. The manager's office, back of the closed-up ticket booth, was tiny

and crowded with bales of literature. The people waiting there were a young man and a young woman,

obviously brother and sister. Big sister, kid brother; they were maybe twenty-eight and twenty-

two.'

The girl got up from behind one of the battered desks. Mannish. No lipstick, cropped hair, green

slacks, a loose plaid shirt. She gripped his hand crunchingly.

"I'm Norma Lavin," she said. "Mr. Mundin?"

"Yes." Mannish. Now, why was good old Del passing this screwball on to him?

"This is my brother Don."

"Pleased to meet you." Don Lavin had something weird and something familiar about him. Kis eyes

drew attention. Mundin had often read of "shining eyes" and accepted it as one of those things you

read that don't mean anything. Now he was disconcerted to find that he was looking into a pair of

eyes that did shine.

"Please sit down," he said to them, clearing a chair for himself. He decided it was simply Lavin's

habit to blink infrequently. It made his eyes look varnished, gave the youngster • peering,

fanatic look.

The girl said, "Mr. Dworcas tells us you're a lawyer, Mr. Mundin, as well as a valuable political

associate."

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"Yes," he said. He automatically handed her one of the fmcy penny-each cards from his right breast

pocket. Don Lavin looked somewhat as if he had been conditioned. That was it. Like a court clerk

or one of the participants hi a Field Day—or, he guessed, a criminal after the compulsory third-

rep treatment.

"Yes," he said. "I'm a lawyer. I wouldn't swear to that other part"

"Umph," she said. "You're the best we can do. We got nowhere in Washington, we got nowhere in

Chicago, we got nowhere in New York. We'll try local courts here. Dworcas passed us on to you.

Well, we have to start somewhere."

"Somewhere," her brother dreamily agreed.

"Look, Miss Lavin," Mundin began.

"Just Lavin."

"Okay. Lavin, or Spike, or Butch, or whatever you want me to call you. If you're through with the

insults, will you tell me what you want?"

Del Dworcas stuck his head in the door. "You people getting along okay? Fine!" He vanished again.

The girl said, "We want to retain you as attorney for a stockholders' committee. The G.M.L. Homes

thing."

G.M.L. Homes, Mundin thought, irritated. That's silly. G.M.L.—why, that means the bubble-houses.

Not just the houses, of course—the bubble-cities, too; the real estate in practically continental

lots; the private roads, the belt lines, the power reactors. . . .

"Nonsense." It wasn't a very funny joke.

The shiny-eyed boy said abruptly, "The 'L' stands for Lavin. Did you know that?"

Something kicked Mundin in the stomach. He grunted. Suppose—just suppose, now—that maybe it isn't

a joke, he thought detachedly. Ridiculous, of course, but just suppose——

G.M.L. Homes.

Such things didn't happen to Charles Mundin, LL.D. To squash it once and for all, he said, flat

out, "I'm not licensed to practice corporate law, you know. Try William Choate the Fourth; he

was——"

"We just did. He said no."

They make it sound real, Mundin thought admiringly. Of course, it couldn't be. Somewhere in the

rules it was written down inexpungibly: Charles Mundin will never get a fat case. Therefore this

thing would piffle out, of course.

"Well?" demanded the girl.

"I said I'm not licensed to practice corporate law."

"That's all right," the girl said contemptuously. "Did you think we didn't know that? We have an

old banger we dug up who still has his license. He can't work, but we can use his name as attorney

of record."

Well. He began hazily. "It's naturally interesting——"

She interrupted. "Naturally, Mundin, naturally. Will you get the hell off the dime? Yes or no.

Tell us."

Dworcas stuck his head in again. "Mundin. I'm awfully

sorry, but I've got to have the office for a while. Why don't you and your friends go over for a

cup of coffee?"

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