"A Mr.Towbee here. He says he's sure Mr.Edge will want to see him."
"Towbee?" the facelift said. "Did you say Towbee?"
"Yes, uh, T-O-W-B doubleE."
"Does he have four arms and a moustache and speak in rhymes?"
This has got to be a test, Jan thought. Keep your cool, girl. "Yes, he does," Jan said.
"Stand by a second." The screen flashed a test pattern, Jan heard shuffling and some sort of clanking down the hall and she smiled at the minstrel's pleasantly grotesque face.
The test pattern was replaced by the facelift with a smile clamped to her cheeks. "Jan, please direct Mr.Towbee to Mr.Edge's office."
She told Towbee to turn left at the corner and go through the door at the far end of the corridor. He followed her directions, and she allowed herself a wide grin while no one was looking. Her job was secure.
The five minute news summery that originated sixteen floors below Jan three hours earlier at 11:00 A.M. was videotaped in Luthor's penthouse and now he was watching it. B.J. sat behind the television as he watched, reading from a red file folder.
Jimmy Olsen was on the screen saying, "You may remember that Towbee was the name of an alien who loosed an apparently harmless flying lizard on Metropolis some years ago. The only one who actually met that Towbee at the time was Superman, and there has been no word from him as to whether that alien and the space minstrel who appeared in the city today are one and the same. But here is what the minstrel had to say today."
"Underground with the diesel mole?" B.J. asked.
"No," Luthor answered. "He's on an upper level."
"Shatter the wall with a sonar gun?"
"No, too spectacular."
"Disguise him as a guard?"
"Needs too much planning."
Towbee was on the screen now, singing, "And a path to arm's rule he is treading..."
"Smuggle in jet boots?" B.J. asked.
"He's not athletic enough."
"Hot-dogging with a helicopter?"
Luthor thought a second. "Simple, direct, not something I would be immediately suspect of, maybe. Yes. Who's the best pilot not serving time?"
"Macduff."
"Give him a schematic of their prison and send him in here for his working orders," Luthor said, as Towbee was replaced on the screen by the face of Jimmy Olsen, "and rewind that tape. I want to hear what the spaceman said again. The part about a prophesy or something."
Edge was close to fifty, everyone knew, but no one would have guessed that. He smiled a lot, the way a cobra smiles. A few strands of gray salted his brown hair. He affected a holder with a cigarette, which he occasionally lit. He was quite experienced in dealing with potential recording stars, and he considered the fact that this one was alien to the planet irrelevant.
"Quite a show you put on today, Mr. Towbee."
"The show's not the important part. I need a stage to make my art."
"Of course. And you feel the recording division of galaxy is the proper forum for that art."
"To Galaxy I'd make a gift of songs and tales your souls to lift."
"A gift. Of course." He wasn't so different from artists and creators Edge already knew. Talking about bestowing their vision upon the world like a gift from Heaven. In the halls of this building Towbee and his kind were just talent. Not talented people, just talent, a commodity. Talent had a market value based on demand, like eggs or cars or information or any of the other commodities in which merchants dealt.
"Just show me to a microphone, I'll sing and show you worlds unknown."
"Yes. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to work out the particulars with Clete Mavis, the president of our recording division. He's on the west coast right now, but I will direct him to work out a deal with you as to—"
"You speak to me of deals, good man? Vulgarity is not my plan."
The preposterous little creature was offended. He was standing up, ready to leave when Edge's business sense piped up with, "That's just an expression we use. A euphemism. Deal. Like in a card game." Edge wasn't sure of what he meant by that, but
"Towbee?" the facelift said. "Did you say Towbee?"
"Yes, uh, T-O-W-B doubleE."
"Does he have four arms and a moustache and speak in rhymes?"
This has got to be a test, Jan thought. Keep your cool, girl. "Yes, he does," Jan said.
"Stand by a second." The screen flashed a test pattern, Jan heard shuffling and some sort of clanking down the hall and she smiled at the minstrel's pleasantly grotesque face.
The test pattern was replaced by the facelift with a smile clamped to her cheeks. "Jan, please direct Mr.Towbee to Mr.Edge's office."
She told Towbee to turn left at the corner and go through the door at the far end of the corridor. He followed her directions, and she allowed herself a wide grin while no one was looking. Her job was secure.
The five minute news summery that originated sixteen floors below Jan three hours earlier at 11:00 A.M. was videotaped in Luthor's penthouse and now he was watching it. B.J. sat behind the television as he watched, reading from a red file folder.
Jimmy Olsen was on the screen saying, "You may remember that Towbee was the name of an alien who loosed an apparently harmless flying lizard on Metropolis some years ago. The only one who actually met that Towbee at the time was Superman, and there has been no word from him as to whether that alien and the space minstrel who appeared in the city today are one and the same. But here is what the minstrel had to say today."
"Underground with the diesel mole?" B.J. asked.
"No," Luthor answered. "He's on an upper level."
"Shatter the wall with a sonar gun?"
"No, too spectacular."
"Disguise him as a guard?"
"Needs too much planning."
Towbee was on the screen now, singing, "And a path to arm's rule he is treading..."
"Smuggle in jet boots?" B.J. asked.
"He's not athletic enough."
"Hot-dogging with a helicopter?"
Luthor thought a second. "Simple, direct, not something I would be immediately suspect of, maybe. Yes. Who's the best pilot not serving time?"
"Macduff."
"Give him a schematic of their prison and send him in here for his working orders," Luthor said, as Towbee was replaced on the screen by the face of Jimmy Olsen, "and rewind that tape. I want to hear what the spaceman said again. The part about a prophesy or something."
Edge was close to fifty, everyone knew, but no one would have guessed that. He smiled a lot, the way a cobra smiles. A few strands of gray salted his brown hair. He affected a holder with a cigarette, which he occasionally lit. He was quite experienced in dealing with potential recording stars, and he considered the fact that this one was alien to the planet irrelevant.
"Quite a show you put on today, Mr. Towbee."
"The show's not the important part. I need a stage to make my art."
"Of course. And you feel the recording division of galaxy is the proper forum for that art."
"To Galaxy I'd make a gift of songs and tales your souls to lift."
"A gift. Of course." He wasn't so different from artists and creators Edge already knew. Talking about bestowing their vision upon the world like a gift from Heaven. In the halls of this building Towbee and his kind were just talent. Not talented people, just talent, a commodity. Talent had a market value based on demand, like eggs or cars or information or any of the other commodities in which merchants dealt.
"Just show me to a microphone, I'll sing and show you worlds unknown."
"Yes. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to work out the particulars with Clete Mavis, the president of our recording division. He's on the west coast right now, but I will direct him to work out a deal with you as to—"
"You speak to me of deals, good man? Vulgarity is not my plan."
The preposterous little creature was offended. He was standing up, ready to leave when Edge's business sense piped up with, "That's just an expression we use. A euphemism. Deal. Like in a card game." Edge wasn't sure of what he meant by that, but
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