3.5 X 1018 + 1 shares would come rolling in on carloads of proxies, all backing Fowler with a mysterious unanimity. Besides, he was loyal.) He seemed to think he was heir-apparent, and some of the more naive Research and Development people were already sucking up to him, more fools they. He was an utterly uncreative, utterly honest wheel horse. Under his heavy hand the delicate thing that was Fowler Schocken Associates would disintegrate in a year. If I were gambling, I would have given odds on Sillery, the Media chief, for copping the Schocken bloc and on down in descending order to myself, on whom I would have taken odds-long, long odds. That obviously was the way most of them felt, except the infatuated Bruner and a few dopes. You could tell. Sillery was surrounded by a respectful little court that doubtless remembered such remarks from Fowler as: “Media, gentlemen, is basic-basic!” and: “Media for brains, copysmiths for talent!” I was practically a leper at the end of the table, with my guards silently eyeing the goings-on. Sillery glanced at them once, and I could read him like a book: “That’s been going on long enough; we’ll knock off that eccentric first thing.” What we had been waiting for came about at last. “The gentlemen from the American Arbitration Association, Probate Section, are here, gentlemen.” They were of the funereal type, according to tradition. Through case-hardening or deficient senses of humor they refrained from giggling while Sillery gave them a measured little speech of welcome about their sad duty and how we wished we could meet them under happier circumstances and so on. They read the will in a rapid mumble and passed copies around. The part I read first said: “To my dear friend and associate Mitchell Courtenay I bequeath and devise my ivory-inlaid oak finger-ring (inventory number 56,987) and my seventy-five shares of Sponsors’ Stock in the Institute for the Diffusion of Psychoanalytic Knowledge, a New York Non-Profit Corporation, with the injunction that he devote his leisure hours to active participation in this organization and the furtherance of its noble aim.” Well, Mitch, I told myself, you’re through. I tossed the copy on the table and leaned back to take a swift rough inventory of my liquid assets. “Hard lines, Mr. Courtenay,” a brave and sympathetic research man I hardly knew told me. “Mr. Sillery seems pleased with himself.”
I glanced at the bequest to Sillery-paragraph one. Sure enough, he got Fowler’s personal shares and huge chunks of stock in Managerial Investment Syndicate, Underwriters Holding Corporation and a couple of others. The research man studied my copy of the will. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Courtenay,” he told me, “the old man could have treated you better. I never heard of this outfit and I’m pretty familiar with the psychoanalytic field.” I seemed to hear Fowler chuckling nearby, and sat bolt upright. “Why the old so-and-so!” I gasped. It fitted like lock and key, with his bizarre sense of humor to oil the movement. Sillery was clearing his throat and an instant silence descended on the Board room. The great man spoke. “It’s a trifle crowded here, gentlemen. I wish somebody would move that all persons other than Board members be asked to leave-” I got up and said: “I’ll save you the trouble, Sillery. Come on, boys. Sillery, I may be back.” I and my guard left. The Institute for the Diffusion of Psychoanalytic Knowledge, a New York Non-Profit Corporation, turned out to be a shabby three-room suite downtown in Yonkers. There was a weird old gal in the outer office pecking away at a typewriter. It was like something out of Dickens. A sagging rack held printed pamphlets with flyspecks on them. “I’m from Fowler Schocken Associates,” I told her. She jumped. “Excuse me, sir! I didn’t notice you. How is Mr. Schocken?” I told her how he was, and she began to blubber. He was such a good man, giving so generously for the Cause. What on Earth would she and her poor brother ever do now? Poor Mr. Schocken! Poor her! Poor brother! “All may not be lost,” I told her. “Who’s in charge here?” She sniffled that her brother was in the inner office. “Please break it to him gently, Mr. Courtenay. He’s so delicate and sensitive-” I said I would, and walked in. Brother was snoring-drunk, flopped over his desk. I joggled him awake, and he looked at me with a bleary and cynical eye. “Washawan?” “I’m from Fowler Schocken Associates. I want to look at your books.”