Mackenzie looked pained. “Jubal, old friend—”

“Meaning you won’t.”

“Meaning I can’t. You’ve dreamed up a hypothetical situation in which a—pardon me—major executive of an intercontinental network could speak to the Secretary General under conditions of dire necessity. But I can’t hand this entrée over to somebody else. Look, Jubal, I respect you. Besides that, you are probably four of the six most popular writers alive today. The network would hate to lose you and we are painfully aware that you won’t let us tie you down to a contract. But I can’t do it, even to please you. You must realize that one does not telephone the World chief of government unless he wants to speak to you.”

“Suppose I do sign an exclusive seven-year contract?”

Mackenzie looked as if his teeth hurt. “I still couldn’t do it. I’d lose my job—and you would still have to carry out your contract.”

Jubal considered calling Mike over into the instrument’s visual pickup and naming him. He discarded the idea at once. Mackenzie’s own programmes had run the fake ‘Man from Mars’ interviews—and Mackenzie was either crooked and in on the hoax . . . or he was honest, as Jubal thought he was, and simply would not believe that he himself had been hoaxed. “All right, Tom, I won’t twist your arm. But you know your way around in the government better than I do. Who calls Douglas whenever he likes—and gets him? I don’t mean Sanforth.”

“No one.”

“Damn it, no man lives in a vacuum! There must be at least a dozen people who can phone him and not get brushed off by a secretary.”

“Some of his cabinet, I suppose. And not all of them.”

“I don’t know any of them, either; I’ve been out of touch. But I don’t mean professional politicos. Who knows him so well that they can call him on a private line and invite him to play poker?”

“Um . . . you don’t want much, do you? Well, there’s Jake Allenby. Not the actor, the other Jake Allenby. Oil.”

“I’ve met him. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. He knows it.”

“Douglas doesn’t have very many intimate friends. His wife rather discourages—Say, Jubal . . . how do you feel about astrology?”

“Never touch the stuff. Prefer brandy.”

“Well, that’s a matter of taste. But—see here, Jubal, if you ever let on to anyone that I told you this, I’ll cut your lying throat with one of your own manuscripts.”

“Noted. Agreed. Proceed.”

“Well, Agnes Douglas does touch the stuff . . . and I know where she gets it. Her astrologer can call Mrs. Douglas at any time—and, believe you me, Mrs. Douglas has the ear of the Secretary General whenever she chooses. You can call her astrologer . . . and the rest is up to you.”

“I don’t seem to recall any astrologers on my Christmas card list,” Jubal answered dubiously. “What’s his name?”

“Her. And you might try crossing her palm with silver in convincing denominations. Her name is Madame Alexandra Vesant. Washington Exchange. That’s V, E, S, A, N, T.”

“I’ve got it,” Jubal said happily. “And, Tom, you’ve done me a world of good!”

“Hope so. Anything for the network soon?”

“Hold it.” Jubal glanced at a note Miriam had placed at his elbow some moments ago. It read: “Larry says the transceiver won’t trans—and he doesn’t know why.” Jubal went on, “That spot coverage failed earlier through a transceiver failure here—and I don’t have anyone who can repair it.”

“I’ll send somebody.”

“Thanks. Thanks twice.”

Jubal switched off, placed the call by name and instructed the operator to use hush & scramble if the number was equipped to take it. It was, not to his surprise. Very quickly Madame Vesant’s dignified features appeared in his screen. He grinned at her and called, “Hey, Rube!”

She looked startled, then looked more closely. “Why, Doc Harshaw, you old scoundrel! Lord love you, it’s good to see you. Where have you been hiding?”

“Just that, Becky—hiding. The clowns are after me.”

Becky Vesey didn’t ask why; she answered instantly, “What can I do to help? Do you need money?”

“I’ve got plenty of money, Becky, but thanks a lot. Money won’t help; I’m in much more serious trouble than that—and I don’t think anyone can help me but the Secretary General himself, Mr. Douglas. I need to talk to him—and right away. Now . . . or even sooner.”