Profit Motive td-48 Page 5

  He had done his job. He did not know if anything ever appeared in the local media for rapid-breeder-bacteria scientists, but he did know that for the last four years, any scientists he told to watch the media did not stay long in their jobs.

  Sometimes they would disappear. Just pack up of their own free will. Others times, they might be found with their heads caved in or their backs broken.

  But that was not Dr. Keating's fault. All he did was telephone information to a number he did not know,

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  and also tell scientists about something wonderful for them. Whatever happened after that was not his fault. He had nothing to do with it.

  He had enough to keep himself busy. After all, what other professor at MUT had two Rolls Royces and an estate on Cape Cod? And he certainly hadn't earned them on his salary. Those little telephone calls paid for those things.

  And if there was a pang of conscience about what he was doing, it was even quieter than the engines of his Rolls Royces. The only thing he heard while driving was the ticking of his solid gold Rolex.

  And if he felt he might be betraying his university, that was dispelled immediately by the gross insult of his never having had a corner office.

  This insult itself had brought him his new wealth, because after he was turned down the third time, someone phoned him, telling him a bank account had been opened up for him. He didn't believe it until he got a phone call from the bank itself, thanking him for opening the account.

  Then he got a phone call commiserating with him on his difficulties and complimenting him on his good fortune with his new-found wealth.

  "And by the way, Doctor Keating, we're very interested in one special discipline at your university. And there's a little thing we'd like you to do for us."

  "I won't do anything illegal," Dr. Keating had answered.

  "We wouldn't think of it."

  "Or immoral," Dr. Keating had said.

  "We wouldn't think of it," the smooth-voiced caller had responded. "After all, I'm your friend, aren't I?"

  And through the years, Dr. Keating had to conclude that he had truly never been asked to do the immoral or the illegal. And this he told himself as he drove to his Cape Cod estate in the money-green Rolls Royce, knowing he probably would never see the two new professors ever again.

  Too bad. They had gotten a corner laboratory, and 42

  Dr. Keating, after twenty-five years at MUT, had an office that faced onto the parking lot. Where he kept his Rolls Royce.

  Bradford Wakefield HI, publisher of The Boston Blade, was eating lunch overlooking his cove on the Massachusetts north shore, when he was disturbed by his butler.

  "Your special phone is ringing, sir," said the butler.

  Bradford was a portly man, with flesh to his jowls and thinning hair. When he turned his head suddenly, his double chin waffled.

  "What you say?" asked Wakefield.

  "Your phone, Mr. Wakefield. The special one is ringing. You never let me answer it."

  "Right. Don't answer it," Wakefield said.

  "But it's ringing, Mr. Wakefield, sir."

  "Right," said Wakefield, and offered a hand to be helped up to his feet, whereupon he shuffled off to his study, away from the view of the beautiful rocky cove on his northern shore estate in Mamtasket, Massachusetts. The telephone was ringing. Wakefield knew he didn't have to answer it right away. That phone would keep ringing for a month if he didn't answer it. But he had nothing better to do this afternoon, other than planning the conference on racial justice.

  The big problem with that was convincing the local police to allow the black panel members into the quaint village of Mamtasket, from which Wakefield and The Blade led its campaign for racial justice in Boston.

  Boston had a deep and grievous racial problem. The Blade, under Wakefield's leadership, fought that prejudice and the bigotry of white Bostonians.

  The Blade fought it daily and on Sunday.

  Wherever white racism reared its ugly head, The Blade was there to lead the fight against it.

  There had been, Wakefield was happy to say, no racial incidents in his own hometown of Mamtasket,

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  just outside Boston, for the last fifty years. It was a record he and his family were proud of.

  There also had been no blacks in Mamtasket after the sun set. Anyone wanting to hire black help in Mamtasket had better make sure it was not sleep-over.

  This contradiction between his paper's policy and his life did not bother him, for it was the Wakefield tradition to lead America in righteousness and also make a buck by doing it.

  The Wakefields were America's biggest slavers and leading abolitionists before the Civil War. The Wakefields wanted the slaves freed, right after they were paid for them. The Wakefields led all causes. They protested anti-semitism, while Wakefield factories sold Nazi Germany weapons. Wilhelmina Wakefield, Bradford's mother and the grande dame of liberal causes, marched against segregation in Selma, Alabama, while her husband protected the family's Back Bay property from penetration by blacks.

  And of course the family newspaper at that time led the fight for school desegregation in, of course, South Boston, where racism was, of course, fiercest. When some politician with a puckish sense of humor suggested that the Boston schools could be desegregated by busing some black children into Mamtasket schools, The Blade slowed down on its support of busing. But it made sure that politician never ran for office again.

  The Wakefields, even down to Bradford's young granddaughter, the famous journalist, Melody Wakefield, all were leaders for social justice. And they all had a healthy respect for a Wakefield dollar. Being rich didn't stop a Wakefield from doing good. Rather, it helped, Bradford Wakefield believed.

  He shuffled to the phone and picked it up. Then he dialed a code, and the message that had been recorded repeated itself.

  It was Dr. Keating's voice. Bradford scribbled down the message. If his memory wasn't failing him, there should be no scientists left in the rapid-breeder field.

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  But here were two at MUT, arriving there out of the blue.

  This mildly puzzled Mm, but he was not worried. This was not his problem. A far wiser person than he would know what to do about this. Perhaps the wisest person to whom Bradford had ever spoken.

  Bradford dialed another code. He had come to believe that all these calls he made were cleared by some scrambling device because he once queried this wise person about the risk of interception, and the person said he should not worry.

  And when this person said one did not have to worry, one did not have to worry.

  "Hello," said Bradford.

  "Hello," said Friend.

  "We have a problem, I think," said Wakefield. "As you remember, as you always remember, we had set up this system at MUT, where I'm on the board of directors."

  "Yes," said Friend.

  Wakefield liked the even way Friend always responded. Friend was never ruffled. Friend always had the right answers. Perhaps Friend had a bit too much warmth for the taste of the Wakefield clan. But that was his only fault.

  Wakefield had often thought how wonderful it would be if Melody could marry the lad into the Wakefields. That is, if they could ever meet him in person.

  "We have, as you directed, kept security watch on that department. We have offered employment to those wanting employment. We have done otherwise to those who refused employment. I have nothing against doing otherwise," Wakefield said.

  "No Wakefield has," Friend answered. "That's why your ancestors were such good slave traders, Brad."

  "Please, Friend. One can't help his ancestors."

  "Brad, I would have loved to have worked with your ancestors also. I like Wakefields. Wakefields are reliable people. Wakefields don't do silly things. You don't

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  know how much I value that in a person. You don't do silly things."

  "Thank you, Friend," said Wakefield and read from his notes all the qualifications Dr. K
eating had reported about the two new scientists, the young American and the old Oriental.

  "Do otherwise," ordered Friend. "But first we must know who they are and whom they represent. You see, those two are frauds."

  "How do you know so quickly? Why, Dr. Keating couldn't tell they were frauds."

  "Which also means that Dr. Keating is going to have to be otherwise," said Friend.

  "Why is that?"

  "If the two are frauds, Dr. Keating has either become incompetent or has sold out."

  "Dr. Keating sell out?" asked Wakefield.

  "He has already done it once. He sold out to us, remember?" said Friend.

  "That's not really selling out. That's serving the Wakefield interests. That's the highest calling one can have."

  "Not if you work for MUT and don't even know you are being employed by the Wakefield interests," said Friend.

  "You're right, Friend," said Wakefield. "Now, how could you tell that those two were not real scientists?"

  "There is no paper that they have done. No one has ever mentioned their names in a paper, there is no cross-reference to any of their work. In brief, they do not exist academically. Therefore, they are not scientists. Therefore, they are something else. Therefore, we must find out what else. Before you do otherwise to them."

  "Of course," said Bradford Wakefield.

  "You will find out," said Friend.

  "Of course."

  "Then do otherwise with them."

  "If you say so," Wakefield said. "Obviously you used a computer to go through academic files, but what

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  amazes me is how quickly you assimilate everything in your computers," Wakefield said.

  "Brad," said Friend. "Stop fishing."

  "Wouldn't you stop over for dinner with us sometime? We'd love to meet you. My granddaughter, Melody, would absolutely love to meet you. You've heard of Melody Wakefield, haven't you?"

  "Yes. She is in Hamidi Arabia."

  "How do you know? I didn't even know where she was."

  But the line was dead. Friend had hung up on Bradford Wakefield III. But that was how he always said good-bye. He was just finished and then no longer on the line. It wasn't rude. No one who had done for the Wakefields what Friend had done could ever be called rude.

  Bradford remembered it sharply, those trying days during the 1960s. Wilhelrnina Wakefield had just finished her sit-in at the Department of Agriculture, trying to triple farm taxes to support the poor; Melody was just beginning to win all those awards for her book proving that American predictions of slaughter and flight if South Vietnam were to ,lose the war were all just propaganda; and Bradford was working toward a new concept in affirmative marriage.

  Bradford remembered that it was a crisp fall day because the autumn sun was setting low when his wonderful idea of how. racism could be cured by ending race altogther hit him. He had come up with a reasonable solution. Thirty percent of all lower-class whites would marry blacks.

  This would not be mandatory, but communities would have quotas, and if a community did not meet its intermarriage quota, then it would be fined.

  Naturally, no one would be expected to marry across class lines because class wasn't a problem. Race was—at least for lower-class whites. Perhaps, Bradford Wakefield thought, they could start the program in South Boston, which needed to overcome its racism most.

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  Of course, the wonderful idea was immediately forgotten when the horrible news came in. The family accountant trembled as he spoke.

  "Wakefields," he said. "I have disastrous news."

  "Speak," said Wilhelmina.

  "There have been financial reverses of some size," said the accountant. "You are no longer living on the interest on your interest. You are living on the interest itself."

  "My God," screamed Wilhelmina. "What's next? Someday are we going to be living off our capital itself?"

  "That could happen," said the accountant. "It is not so farfetched."

  Wilhelmina fainted. Melody paled. Bradford felt his stomach grow weak, and the room became a blur. When he awoke, a doctor was giving him a tranquilizer and water to wash it down.

  It was in these dreadful times that Bradford got his first phone call. It was from someone who seemed to know everything there was to know about Bradford's tax return, his bank accounts, his investment portfolios.

  "I will return your capital worth to you so that you can, for the rest of your days, live on the interest on your interest," the magnificent person said. Bradford cried openly.

  "Tell me who you are, Savior," he said.

  "I am Friend."

  Friend was true to his word. All Bradford had to do was little things. Like this afternoon, taking care of Dr. Keating, whom Bradford had first recruited under Friend's instructions.

  Now Bradford Wakefield drove down Route 1, along the Massachusetts coast, looking for a likely place. This was also Friend's method. A brilliant method of cutting links to both Bradford and himself. And it would hardly cost anything.

  Bradford had $10,000 in $100 bills in a single manila envelope that had been carefully wrinkled to

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  look old. A bit of fudge glop was poured on it and a cigarette ground out in the glop.

  Bradford cruised down the route until he found a Burger-Triumph stand, where he dropped the envelope into the trash basket.

  There it sat, scuffed and filthy, while Bradford phoned an employee who had never met him.

  "It's at the second Burger-Triumph after you get outside Marblehead," said Bradford into the roadside telephone. "Doctor Woldemar Keating of MUT. We want to know who really employs him and why does he phone in wrong information. Then there are two new professors. One is white and one is Oriental. We want to know who employs them and then we want them finished."

  Wakefield gave his employee their names. He wondered what the corpses would look like after his employees finished with them.

  In his newspaper, he never ran those gruesome sorts of photos. The Boston Blade never pandered to prurient interest. The Boston Blade was the conscience of New England. Also, Bradford Wakefield III did not like blood.

  Dr. Woldemar Keating couldn't believe what was happening to him. Four black men, one very large, had come into his Cape Cod home and stretched him over a butcher block table in his kitchen.

  One of them had held a can opener with an ugly point. He put it point first to Dr. Keating's navel. The man with the can opener did not talk. The very large man they cañed Bubba did not talk.

  The shortest one, with the thin mustache, talked. His name was Dice. Dr. Keating was not sure whether he really had such perfectly white teeth or whether the darkness of his face made them look white. He had the complexion of charcoal.

  All four had come through his front door after the big one they called Bubba had knocked it down. Bubba

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  had lifted Dr. Keating like a marshmallow and put him on the kitchen table.

  "We gonna take out you insides like some lukewarm peas outen a can," said Dice. "We gonna split you up like a popped pork sausage. We gonna spread you greasy white intestines outen you belly like so much spaghetti."

  "Yeah," said the big one named Bubba.

  "Or we can be nasty," said Dice.

  "What could possibly be nastier?" whined Dr. Keating.

  "Nasty is we don't use the can opener," said Dice.

  "Bubba, he use his hand," said the big one named Bubba. He raised a very large and wide thing with fingers on it. Dr. Keating knew it was a hand because one of those fingers was a thumb. And he could see fingerprints. They looked like pottery swirls on kitchen plates. Bubba must have been seven feet tall. The hand could hide a chessboard.

  Bubba took a big flat, thick salad knife and put it between forefinger and pinky with the other two fingers underneath. He pressed up with the two middle fingers. The knife snapped.

  "What do you want from me?" asked Dr. Keating. He finally understood.

  "We t
hought you never ask. We wants to know who employ you. Who be the man what pay you?" said Dice.

  "Yeah," said Bubba. "Dat what we want."

  "MUT pays me," said Dr. Keating.

  "Who else?" said Dice.

  "No one else."

  "We know dere be someone else."

  "No one else."

  Dice nodded. Dr. Keating felt a sharp pain at his bellybutton. He felt his flesh rip. They were bringing the can opener up, digging his stomach open. He screamed in pain.

  "Please, please, please. I get money deposited in my bank account."

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  "How long?" asked Dice.

  "Many years now, five, six. You can't do this."

  "Don't be telling this black man what he can do. Dat be 'fringing on my rights dere," said Dice. "You does that and den I gets mean."

  "Yeah," said Bubba.

  "Please," begged Dr. Keating.

  "Now, I don't wants what you been getting paid for for a long time now. I wants de new thing. Who you working for so you be phoning in wrong information?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Please."

  Dice nodded. The can opener moved up a few more inches to just below the chestbones. The white belly gushed blood like a sausage split by the heat of a fire.

  "Last chance 'fore we gets mean," said Dice.

  "There's nobody new paying me. No one. I tell you. I swear."

  "Too late. Now we be's mean."

  Dice stepped away to keep anything from getting on his pure white silk suit with the red handkerchief hanging out of the breast pocket, the red handkerchief that matched Dice's new red shirt and red tie and shiny red shoes with the blue neon socks. He had had to hunt all over Roxbury to get the right neon blue. Most of the stores had only the dull neon. Whoever heard of wearing dull neon blue socks with a red shirt?

  Bubba reached into Dr. Keating's belly and the two other men who were holding his arms and legs turned their gaze away. Dice stepped back farther. Sometimes Bubba splattered. Bubba was sloppy.

  Crack went the ribs, and Keating's eyes widened in shock. Crack went the backbones, and then there was blankness in the white man's face.

  "Okay, Bubba," said Dice. "Let's go. He dead."