Vickers (Corp.s.e.)

"That's a lot of crap. You never had compassion for anyone. You don't do compassion."

"We can't just let those people loose. A lot of them are crazy. They need all the help they can get."

"Sure, and you're going to keep them pe

"You're not thinking. I'm telling you we can't just turn them loose. The problem of who actually employs them and who owes them back pay is almost insurmountable."

"I knew it would all come down to money in the end."

"You've been taken care of. Contec's picking up your tab without question."

"They damn well better."

Victoria did her best to look placating. It hardly suited her.

"Try and look at it from our point of view. There's no way we can just dump nearly four thousand badly fucked up individuals back into the world without credit lines, jobs or anything. The first stop would be Las Vegas. Can you imagine how the Vegas authorities would react if we did that?"

Vickers very carefully put down his fork.

"And who are the Las Vegas authorities these days?"

Victoria looked at him sharply.

"What?"

"I was wondering who was minding the shop now that Herbie Mossman's dead."

For a moment she avoided his eyes.

"As a matter of fact, we are."

"Contec?"

"Without Mossman and the personal loyalty he commanded from his staff, Global Leisure started to come unglued. There was a merger."

"How convenient."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I was never too happy about the Mossman assassination. I was also struck by the fact that when I came out the first time, nobody was particularly interested in what had happened."

Victoria's answer came a little too quickly and neatly.

"It was old news by then."

"I got the impression that everyone knew about it. When I asked about it, the army told me to go see Contec and Contec just got close-mouthed."

Victoria Morgenstern looked as though she was sucking on a lemon.

"You know the story. Herbie Mossman got into the bunker at the start of the crisis. You know what he was like. He was so pathological about preserving himself that he wouldn't even breathe the air. Lloyd-Ransom thought that he'd try and take over and had him killed."

"That's what Lloyd-Ransom told me. I didn't believe him, either."

Morgenstern's face became properly impassive.

"So what outrageous theory do you have, Mort?"

"I figure Lloyd-Ransom was doing his last job for the old firm. It's my guess that Contec, probably you, either stampeded or lured Herbie into the bunker and Lloyd-Ransom had instructions to kill him, thus opening the way for the takeover. Of course, Lloyd-Ransom had his own plans but that's history. Nobody knew what he had in mind when the original orders were given. Even as things turned out, it must have worked quite well. Sure you lost a bunker for eighteen months, but you got Global."

Victoria's mouth curled into a tight little smile.

"That's quite fantastic."

"Isn't it just?"

"And complete nonsense."

"Maybe."

"You don't have any bright ideas of circulating this wild tale, do you? Like giving it to the media or anything?"

Vicker gri

"Who? Me? You know I wouldn't do a thing like that. I'm a good Contec corpse; I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"I'm very glad of that." Victoria stood up. "I'll leave you to finish your meal in peace."

Vickers looked down at his plate. His appetite wasn't what it had been when he'd started. "Yeah."

"You're taking some time off?"

"I figure I deserve it."

"You'll find that your credit's been taken care of."

"That's nice of you."

"It's the least I could do."

"Right."

"I'll expect you back in New York in a month. I hope you can manage not to get into trouble."

Vickers sat in the cocktail bar in the Las Vegas airport. He was working on his fourth large scotch. For the first time in as long as he could remember he had absolutely nothing to do. He felt lost. He was very aware that he was pouring booze into himself to fill a yawning psychological emptiness. He couldn't quite grasp the fact that it was all over. The idea of time off was meaningless. He had homed in on the airport almost by instinct, but beyond that he didn't have a clue where he wanted to go. His only solid idea was, after all that had happened, he absolutely didn't want to stay in Las Vegas. There was something horrifying about the moving crowd in the Hawaiian shirts and leisure clothes. They were so dumbly, obliviously alive.

Not that he'd made any real effort to get out of town. He hadn't booked a ticket, he hadn't even looked at schedules. His first impulse had been to head back to New York. New York, however, meant work, maybe another contract, the possibility of more deaths. For the moment that was out of the question. He'd considered staying with Joe Stalin, except that Joe Stalin probably thought that he was dead. He couldn't face the prospect of explaining all that had happened since they'd last seen each other. At the same time, the idea of a holiday was totally absurd. A week earlier, he firmly believed that the world had been burned to a nuclear crisp. It was nearly impossible to accept the idea of laying on a beach somewhere sipping some misbegotten drink that came with a baby umbrella in it while looking at women in tans and bikinis. He felt hollow and the only available solution seemed to be to fill the hollowness with whiskey.

"Give me another, will you?"

The bartender looked doubtful.

"Are you sure about that, pilgrim?"

Vickers' eyes became don't-mess-with-me slits.

"Sure I'm sure."

"Suit yourself."

The bartender poured him another double shot and ran Vickers' credit card through the machine for the fifth time. The Las Vegas airport dressed their bartenders like parodies of Mississippi gamblers, string ties and brocade vests. Vickers wasn't prepared to take flack from anyone in a string tie. As he filled the hollowness with more scotch, it was replaced by hostility. He had a suspicion that as well as being in some kind of delayed shock, he was probably also suffering a multiple comedown from all the mind alterers he'd been fed in the bunker. Why else would the bartender sound like John Wayne? John Wayne hovered protectively.

"Don't care to fly, huh?"

"I don't even have a ticket."

"Think maybe you ought to go home or something?"

Home? For Vickers the concept was weird. The hollowness expanded as he realized that the bunker was the only place that he could think of as home. He was like an ex-con, just out of the penitentiary. Somehow he had to get a grip on himself. His first task was to deal with Big John.

"Listen, I'm just sitting here in your bar getting drunk as a skunk. If you don't like it just tell me and I'll go someplace else, otherwise just keep pouring and if I get out of line, call the cops."

The bartender seemed to be weighing Vickers in the balance. Finally he made up his mind. John Wayne ran out and he was nothing but cold.

"I'm sorry, sir. I really don't think I can serve you any more."

Vickers had a compact.32 auto in a shoulder holster under the jacket of his brand new suit. For a moment he was tempted to shoot the bartender. In an instant of clarity he realized that there was a certain logic in not turning the entire bunker population loose en masse. They were all at least as crazy as he was. He resisted the urge to homicide and instead swallowed what was left of his drink in one burning gulp.

"If that's the case, fuck you."

"You have a nice day too, sir."

He slid off the barstool and started a little unsteadily in the direction of the check-in machines. The Intercontinental Pyramid dominated the skyline beyond the nearest expanse of panoramic glass. He remembered how he'd rappeled down from the fifty-fifth floor and the urge to get the hell out of Las Vegas became overwhelming. Then the voice came from behind.