“A legal entity,” guessed Mundin. “A fictive person.”
“No, boy.” The old eyes were gleaming in the ruined face. “Forget that. Think of an oriental court. A battlefield; a government; a poker game that never ends. The essence of a corporation is the subtle flux of power, now thrusting this man up, now smiting this group low. You can’t resist power, boy, but you can guide it.” He reached shakily for the battered tin of pills. “Oh, you’ll manage,” he said. “The thing for you to do now is to vanish. Get lost. Don’t be seen anywhere until you turn up at the meeting. I wouldn’t go to my office or my apartment if I were you.” He glanced at Don Lavin, and Mundin cringed.
“What then,” Mundin demanded. “You want me to stay here?”
“Anywhere. Anywhere out of sight.”
Mundin looked at his watch. If he could sleep——if he
could go to bed now, and wake up just in time to start for the meeting. But it was far too early for that;^and besides, he would scarcely be able to sleep. He had nearly twenty-four hours to kill. Twenty-four hours in which to think and get nervous and lose the sharp edge of his determination.
“I’m going out,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll see you before the meeting or not.”
Mundin said good-by to Don Lavin, who never noticed him, and wandered through the growing dusk of Belly Rave. It was relatively safe until dark; he changed direction a couple of times when he caught sight of what looked like purposeful groups of men or children ahead, but there was actually small chance of attack before the sun went down.
He found himself nearing the General Recreations recruiting station, and felt somewhat more secure in the shelter of the inviting, pink-spun-candy-looking structure. General Recreations policed its area with its own guards; it was a good place to get a cab to go into Monmouth City.
But there was no hurry. Mundin studied the gaudy posters and the shuffling, gossiping men and women. It was the first time he had got really close to the raw material that Stadium shows were made of, and he felt a little like an intruder. He had seen the shows themselves, of course. Plenty of them, in his time. He had gone religiously to the Kiddies’ Days back in Texas. As an adolescent, he had been a rootin’, tootin’ red-hot fan, as able as any to spout the logbook records on hours in combat, percentage kills, survival quotients and so on. Naturally, his enthusiasm had quieted down when the Scholarship people approved his application and he started law school, and he had never quite picked it up again. It didn’t seem to go too well with membership at the bar—nothing against the games, of course; but an attorney was expected to go in for more cerebral forms of amusement.
Like dodging creditors, he told himself bitterly.
Somebody called from the shuffling mob, “Mr. Mundin! Hey, Mr. Mundin!”
He started, half ready to run.
But it was only whatsisname—Norvell Bligh, that was it The client Dworcas had sent. But so shabby!
Then Mundin remembered: Bligh had quit on his contract
A contract with General Recreations, ironically enough—and then to find him here!
The little man panted up to Mundin and wrung his hands. There was moisture in his eyes. “Mr. Mundiny my God it’s good to see a friendly face! Were you—were you looking for me, maybe?”
“No, Mr. Bligh.”
Bligh’s face fell. Almost inaudibly he said, “Oh. I—uh— thought perhaps you might have a message for me—as my attorney, you know—maybe the company. . . . But they wouldn’t, of course.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” Mundin said gently. He looked around; he couldn’t stand the little man’s misery, nor could he wound him by walking away cold. He said, “Is there any place we can have a drink around here?”
“Is there!” Mundin thought he was going to cry. “My God, Mr. Mundin, the things I’ve seen in the week I’ve been here——”
He looked around to get his bearings and led off, Mundin following. It was only half a block to the nearest blind pig. Bligh knocked on an unlit door. “Shep sent me,” he told a bitter-faced woman through a peephole.