bottom line, he described what happened.”
“Because he wasn’t restricted by fact. Chancellor approaches a concept, finds a basic situation, and extracts
selected
facts and rearranges them to suit the reality as he perceives it. He is not bound by cause and effect; he
creates
it. You say he frightened a lot of people over in Langley. I believe that; he has a wide readership. And he researches in depth. Suppose it was known that he was researching a book on Hoover, on his last days.”
“On the
files,”
added Varak, sitting forward. “Use Chancellor as the blind. Tell him the files disappeared. When he starts probing, he’ll set off alarms, and we’ll be there.”
“Go to New York, Mr. Varak. Find out everything you can about him. The people around him, his life-style, his methods of work. Everything current. Chancellor has a conspiracy complex. We’re going to program him with a conspiracy he’ll find irresistible.”
6
“Mr. Peter Chancellor?” asked the operator.
Peter lifted his hand above the covers and tried to focus on his wristwatch. It was nearly ten o’clock; the morning breezes were billowing the drapes through the open doors of the porch.
“Yes?”
“Long distance from New York. Mr. Anthony Morgan calling. One moment, please.”
“Sure.” There was a click and a hum on the line. It stopped.
“Hi, Mr. Chancellor?”
Peter would know that voice anywhere. It belonged to his editor’s secretary. If she ever had a discouraging day, no one ever knew about it. “Hello, Radie? How are you?” Chancellor hoped she was better than he was.
“Fine. How’s California these days?”
“Bright, humid, shiny, green. Take your choice.”
The girl laughed. It was a pleasant laugh.
“We didn’t wake you, did we? You’re always up so early.”
“No, Radie, I was in the surf,” lied Chancellor for no reason.
“Hold on. Here’s Mr. Morgan.” There were two clicks.
“Hello, Peter?”
“How are you, Tony?”
“Christ, forget about me, how are
you?
Marie said you called last night. Sorry I wasn’t home.”
Chancellor remembered. “I apologize. I was drunk.”
“She didn’t mention that, but she said you were mad as hell.”
“I was. I am. I was also drunk. Apologize to Marie for me.”
“No need to. What you told her made her angry, too. I was greeted at the door with a lecture about protecting my authors. Now, what’s this about
Counterstrike!?”
Peter adjusted his head on the pillow and cleared his throat. He tried to rid his voice of bitterness. “At four thirty yesterday afternoon a studio messenger brought methe completed first draft of the screenplay. I didn’t know we’d started.”
“And?”
“It’s been turned around. It’s the opposite of what I wrote.”
Morgan paused, then replied gently. “Wounded ego, Peter?”
“Good God, no. You know better than that. I didn’t say it was badly written; a lot of it’s pretty damned good. It’s effective. I’d feel better if it wasn’t. But it’s a lie.”
“Josh told me they were changing the agency’s name—?”
“They’ve changed everything!” interrupted Chancellor, his eyes blinking in pain with the rush of blood to his head. “The government people are all on the side of the angels. They don’t have an impure thought in their heads! The manipulators are …
‘them.’
Weird exponents of violence and revolution and—so help me God—with ‘faintly European accents.’ Whatever the book said has been turned inside out. Why the hell did they buy it in the first place?”
“What does Josh say?”
“As I remember, and I do vaguely, I reached him around midnight my time. I guess it was about three this morning in New York.”
“Stay around the house. I’ll speak to Josh. One of us’ll get back to you.”
“All right.” Peter was about to offer a last apology to Morgan’s wife when he realized the editor was not finished. It was one of those silences between them that meant there
“Because he wasn’t restricted by fact. Chancellor approaches a concept, finds a basic situation, and extracts
selected
facts and rearranges them to suit the reality as he perceives it. He is not bound by cause and effect; he
creates
it. You say he frightened a lot of people over in Langley. I believe that; he has a wide readership. And he researches in depth. Suppose it was known that he was researching a book on Hoover, on his last days.”
“On the
files,”
added Varak, sitting forward. “Use Chancellor as the blind. Tell him the files disappeared. When he starts probing, he’ll set off alarms, and we’ll be there.”
“Go to New York, Mr. Varak. Find out everything you can about him. The people around him, his life-style, his methods of work. Everything current. Chancellor has a conspiracy complex. We’re going to program him with a conspiracy he’ll find irresistible.”
6
“Mr. Peter Chancellor?” asked the operator.
Peter lifted his hand above the covers and tried to focus on his wristwatch. It was nearly ten o’clock; the morning breezes were billowing the drapes through the open doors of the porch.
“Yes?”
“Long distance from New York. Mr. Anthony Morgan calling. One moment, please.”
“Sure.” There was a click and a hum on the line. It stopped.
“Hi, Mr. Chancellor?”
Peter would know that voice anywhere. It belonged to his editor’s secretary. If she ever had a discouraging day, no one ever knew about it. “Hello, Radie? How are you?” Chancellor hoped she was better than he was.
“Fine. How’s California these days?”
“Bright, humid, shiny, green. Take your choice.”
The girl laughed. It was a pleasant laugh.
“We didn’t wake you, did we? You’re always up so early.”
“No, Radie, I was in the surf,” lied Chancellor for no reason.
“Hold on. Here’s Mr. Morgan.” There were two clicks.
“Hello, Peter?”
“How are you, Tony?”
“Christ, forget about me, how are
you?
Marie said you called last night. Sorry I wasn’t home.”
Chancellor remembered. “I apologize. I was drunk.”
“She didn’t mention that, but she said you were mad as hell.”
“I was. I am. I was also drunk. Apologize to Marie for me.”
“No need to. What you told her made her angry, too. I was greeted at the door with a lecture about protecting my authors. Now, what’s this about
Counterstrike!?”
Peter adjusted his head on the pillow and cleared his throat. He tried to rid his voice of bitterness. “At four thirty yesterday afternoon a studio messenger brought methe completed first draft of the screenplay. I didn’t know we’d started.”
“And?”
“It’s been turned around. It’s the opposite of what I wrote.”
Morgan paused, then replied gently. “Wounded ego, Peter?”
“Good God, no. You know better than that. I didn’t say it was badly written; a lot of it’s pretty damned good. It’s effective. I’d feel better if it wasn’t. But it’s a lie.”
“Josh told me they were changing the agency’s name—?”
“They’ve changed everything!” interrupted Chancellor, his eyes blinking in pain with the rush of blood to his head. “The government people are all on the side of the angels. They don’t have an impure thought in their heads! The manipulators are …
‘them.’
Weird exponents of violence and revolution and—so help me God—with ‘faintly European accents.’ Whatever the book said has been turned inside out. Why the hell did they buy it in the first place?”
“What does Josh say?”
“As I remember, and I do vaguely, I reached him around midnight my time. I guess it was about three this morning in New York.”
“Stay around the house. I’ll speak to Josh. One of us’ll get back to you.”
“All right.” Peter was about to offer a last apology to Morgan’s wife when he realized the editor was not finished. It was one of those silences between them that meant there
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