The Crack In Space Read Online Free PDF Page A

slightly back. George Walt tended to look slightly over whomever they were talking to, and this added to the unique impression; it made them seem formidable, as if their attention could not really be engaged. The head was normal size, however, as were both bodies. The body to the left—Sal did not recall which of them it was—wore informal clothing, a cotton shirt and slacks, with sandals on the feet. The right hand body, however, was formally dressed in a single-breasted suit, tie and buttoned gray cape. And the hands of the right body were jammed deep into the trouser pockets, a stance which gave to it an aura of authority if not age; it seemed distinctly older than its twin.
    ‘This is George,’ the head said, pleasantly. ‘How are you, Sal Heim? Good to see you.’ The left body extended its hand. Sal walked toward the two of them and gingerly shook hands. The right hand body, Walt, did not want to shake with him; its hands remained in its pockets.
    ‘This is Walt,’ the head said, less pleasantly, then. ‘We wanted to discuss your candidate with you, Heim. Sit down and have a drink. Here, what can we fix for you?’ Together, the two bodies managed to walk to the sideboard, where an elaborate bar could be seen. Walt’s hands opened a bottle of Bourbon while George’s expertly fixed an old fashioned, mixed sugar and water and bitters together in the bottom of a glass. Together, George Walt made the drink and carried it back to Sal.
    ‘Thanks,’ Sal Heim said, accepting the drink.
    ‘This is Walt,’ the common head said to him. ‘We know that if Jim Briskin is elected he’ll instruct his Attorney General to find ways to shut the satellite down. Isn’t that a fact?’ The two eyes, together now, fixed themselves on him in an intense, astute gaze.
    ‘I don’t know where you heard that,’ Sal said, evasively.
    ‘This is Walt,’ the head said. ‘There’s a leak in your organization; that’s where we heard it. You realize what this means. We’ll have to throw our support behind Schwarz. And you know how many transmissions we make to Earth in a single day.’
    Sal sighed. The Golden Door kept a perpetual stream of junk, honky-tonk stag-type shows, pouring down over a variety of channels, available to and widely watched by almost everyone in the country. The shows—especially the climactic orgy in which Thisbe herself, with her famous display of expanding and contracting muscles working in twenty directions simultaneously and in four colors, appeared—were a come-on for the activity of the satellite. But it would be duck soup to work in an anti-Briskin bias; the satellite’s announcers were slick prose.
    Downing his drink he rose and started toward the door. ‘Go ahead and stick your stag shows on Jim; we’ll win the election anyhow and then you can be sure he’ll shut you. In fact, I personally guarantee it right now.’
    The head looked uneasy. ‘Dirty p-pool,’ it stammered.
    Sal shrugged. ‘I’m just protecting the interests of my client; you’ve been making threats toward him. You started it, both of you.’
    ‘This is George,’ the head said rapidly. ‘Here’s what I think we ought to have. Listen to this, Walt. We want Jim Briskin to come up here to the Golden Door and be photographed publicly.’ It added, in applause for itself, ‘Good idea. Get it, Sal? Briskin arrives here, covered by all the media, and visits one of the girls; it’ll be good for his image because it’ll show he’s a normal guy—and not some creep. So you benefit from this. And, while he’s here, Briskin compliments us.’ It added, ‘A good final touch but optional. For instance, he says the national interest has—’
    ‘He’ll never do it,’ Sal said. ‘He’ll lose the election first.’
    The head said, plaintively, ‘We’ll give him any girl he wants; my lord, we have five thousand to choose from!’
    ‘No luck,’ Sal Heim said. ‘Now if you were to make that offer to me I’d take you up on