Network Jungle

By David Levy

Steve Lane, President of FBC-TV is being crucified by a headline-hunting senatorand his business associates are supplying the hammer and nails! Past successes count for nothing, friendships are forgotten, scruples are ignored, as his fellow executives cover their tracks and offer up Steve as a sacrifice to appease the government investigators. At the same time, his marriage is failing, but there is a young and nubile actress standing by hoping to replace his wife. Steve must decide whether to risk his career and buck the system, or play the game and keep his plush office. He must also settle his lovelife before he loses his wife forever. The solution he chooses is spectacular and suprising.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469785172

David Levy

David Levy is an internationally recognized expert on artificial intelligence and the president of the International Computer Games Association. He is also the author of the industry primer Robots Unlimited. He lives in London.

Book preview

One

THE NIGHT HAD BEEN long and frustrating. Steven Lane had spent a good part of it in critical self-evaluation even as his eyes had wandered over the pages of the Durants’ newest book, The Age of Napoleon, while his mind was pierced with subliminal images of two persons who intruded on his thinking.

One was his wife, Mary, whose feline, graceful beauty gave promise of fierce passions that had never been realized. The other was his superior at the Federal Broadcasting Company, its president, Joe Gratton, whose short heavyset figure with its slow, pompous movements, belied his true fast-moving, predatory nature. Mary could torment him by her indifference to his male appetites; Gratton could, with a single glance of his green cat-like eyes, make him bristle with internal hostility.

He knew that in spite of all the civilized veneer of modern life, there lay—just beneath the surface—a menacing jungle. It was there in his delicately furnished bedroom, where he felt rapacious; it was there in the splendid offices of the network, where daily acts of savagery were cloaked in the superficialities of executive etiquette.

He examined his face in the bedroom mirror.

He had nicked his chin with a sudden stroke of his razor. Now he was drawing his silk tie too tightly. In his mind’s eye was a fantasy of his wife curled up on the floor, her arms wrapped about his legs, her face smiling up at him. But in the mirror he could see her lying in bed, her blonde hair swathed in a rainbow-colored turban wrapped around the ever-present curlers, her eyes closed. It was likely she had fallen back to sleep. He inhaled angrily.

In repose Mary Lane always looked enticing to him; he had wanted to be close to her last night, but she was tired; experience had taught him there was no real satisfaction to be found in a woman who kept insisting she was tired. And so he had waited until morning.

Won’t you be late for the committee meeting? she had murmured as he slipped into her bed.

So, I’ll be late, he replied.

You’ll have to rush—Mr. Gratton doesn’t like you to be late for your staff meetings.

The hell with Mr. Gratton.

You won’t say that a half hour from now.

Right. A half-hour from now I’ll be quite a different human being. I’ll be rushing to the office exactly as you say. But I’ve been waiting, and this is the moment of truth. So now—will the real Steven Lane lie down beside his wife, he said, his hands reaching out and touching her firmly, and get on with his appointed duties?

Really, Steve, she had replied, blocking his hands.

Don’t you like the idea of my making love to you?

Of course I do. But it’s late. You have your meeting. You’re going to California. Those things make me tense. Besides, my hair is all in curlers which you hate. And it’s much too light.

He leaped out of bed and drew the drapes. The light I can handle, he said, returning to her side and resuming his advances, and the curlers I can ignore. He knew, sensing her submissiveness, that he was being tolerated. As he lay soon after, expended and silent, she turned towards him and kissed him gently.

I was really still too tired, she said. Carole and Ernie Isen’s parties are always so great, but so wearing. I’ll make it up on your return, darling. I promise.

Now she was asleep again and he was dressed. He had to admit that nothing had happened that hadn’t happened countless times before. Mary couldn’t be rushed. It was a fact that after twenty years of marriage Steve Lane had to conquer her step by step, in the dark, at her own pace—she letting him know that the surrender was gradual, controlled and, though he had tried to overwhelm her, never unconditional.

He toyed with his breakfast, aware that the morning disappointment was more than a passing vexation; he wanted mutuality, not acquiescence. He picked up his brown leather attaché case together with the newspapers and was tempted to slam the front door. He knew the noise would awaken her and speak for itself. But he went quietly.

He walked beneath the glass porte-cochere of his Park Avenue apartment, greeted the doorman who deferentially opened the door of his big black limousine. It was pleasant to have such a car at his command, and he had to admit that he liked it, although when it stopped at a red light and pedestrians stared in, he had a mild sense of discomfiture. To ride down alone in the big car was pretentious; a chauffeur-driven limousine was an anachronism in these days of endless anxiety, conformity, and gasoline shortages.

Never mind that kind of feeling, Joseph Gratton had said to him three years earlier at the time of his promotion, every member of the proletariat would give his left nut to sit in the back and have you looking in from the outside. The car was held up by traffic at the Carlyle. This was where Gratton had asked him to meet him that afternoon three years ago.

He remembered he had arrived first, coming up directly from a tiresome meeting with a group of television station operators. He was sipping a Manhattan when the small but stocky figure of Joseph Gratton pushed in beside him.

Same as Mr. Lane, Gratton had said to the captain in the familiar, hoarse voice. There had been much small talk, about Mary, about their daughter Linda and her dappled grey horse named General. Good thing she didn’t name him Admiral or Skipper, chum, he said, starting on his second Manhattan. Don’t think the chairman of the board would like to think of one of his staff kidding around with his military title.

Gratton screwed up his face as he finished off his drink. Don’t know why I ordered Manhattans when I’m strictly a martini man. Guess maybe it’s because of the new president of the television network. Like to get inside him, drink his drink, he said, twisting a finger into Steve’s side, so I can figure him out all the better later on if I have to.

That was how Steve had learned of his promotion. It was Gratton’s way, to do things unexpectedly. And he had been charming and blunt about it, too. Been watching you, Steve. I figure anyone who can take those cornhusker station managers as long as you have, has got to have iron guts. Now this is a big step up. You get a car and your own driver. Take a hotel suite whenever you travel and to hell with the expenses. Skipper has a Rolls, I have a Cadillac, so you’ll have to make do with a Continental. We don’t want any friend in Detroit to feel he’s being slighted by the Federal Broadcasting Company. Let’s order lunch and fire away with any burning questions…

The big car glided slowly out of the traffic. Steve picked up his paper, turned to the theatre pages of the Times, and saw the name Sandra Markham. The story said she was in town to discuss a part in a new play to be produced by Hal Prince. He had met Sandra at a dinner on his last trip to the Coast; it had been her striking resemblance to Mary that had startled him momentarily and aroused his interest—the same blonde hair, blue eyes, hollow cheeks. At the dinner she had said, casually, that she would visit New York soon, and he offered to show her through Federal Broadcasting’s new building. Now, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself wondering whether she would contact him.

The big car turned over to Fifth and turned again at Central Park South. Then, as a smiling, red-faced traffic cop waved his morning greeting, the chauffeur executed a neat U-turn in a confident defiance of the law, and deposited Steven Lane before the towering sheath of pale-blue glass that housed the Federal Broadcasting Company. The elevator starter, snapping his fingers as soon as Steve entered, gave him express treatment direct to the thirtieth floor, the executive suite of the television network. He slipped past the entrance to the already crowded reception room to the private door of his own office.

Vera James was already busily going through the mail. Joyce Buchman was busy filing yesterday’s memos and his replies; his third secretary, Cerie Elkind, would arrive an hour later.

Good morning, girls, he said, as he halted at the door to his inner office. Anything important?

Miss Buchman smiled. The usual, Vera said, placing the folder on his desk. Complaints, complaints, complaints. Why don’t you buy my show? One from Alan Courtney, another from Chuck Fries. Why can’t I have nine o’clock Wednesday for my client? Why can’t you be reasonable about prices? That’s from Jimmie Komack. And, oh yes, Mr. Gratton asked if you would call him as soon as you arrived.

Steve thumbed through the mail and glanced at the early morning call list. The names were familiar: Mark Goodson, Sid Sheinberg of MCA, Harris Katleman of MGM, Irving Mansfield, Grant Tinker, Sy Salkowitz of Fox, Marty Rackin, Dick Levinson, Al Simon, Lou Greenspan, and a dozen others, all top men with whom he talked programming. Nothing anywhere that required his immediate attention. Nothing to delay the call to Joe Gratton. It was eight forty-five by his onyx desk clock. The weekly staff meeting was due to start in half an hour. He knew that only one other senior executive was on deck as early as Gratton and that would be Max Geller sitting in his office carefully reviewing the minutes of the last meeting. As general counsel, Max had seen echelon upon echelon of executives come and go. He had survived them all, and he had succeeded, he had jokingly said, because he could take shorthand, and had everybody’s skeleton carefully drawn and locked up in his files.

Steve snapped down the key under Geller’s name on his communication box. Steve Lane, Max. Steve knew he could trust Max Geller. He left a message for me to call as soon as I got in. Pretty rare for him.

Oh, I see. There was another pause. The reference to him was crystal clear to the upper echelon of Federal Broadcasting. It meant Joe Gratton. I saw him for a minute when I came in about eight. You know I always look in just to see if he’s there, and I’ll be damned, he always is. But as far as anything special, I don’t have a clue, not a single, solitary clue.

Will you study the minutes and buzz me if you come on something?

Sure. I’ll call you if I get any bright ideas.

Right.

There was no point now in delaying the return call to Gratton. Steve reached over and flipped down the key under his name. He knew that a little red flag would show instantly under his own name on Joseph Gratton’s box. Only Mr. Gratton, president of the parent company, and James Otis, chairman of the board and chief executive officer, had this distinctive touch in the communication system.

Morning, Steve, came the raspy voice of Joseph Gratton, I just wanted you to know that I’m going to have to give you a little bit of hell at the meeting this morning, and I didn’t want you to get mad at me when I shoot off my mouth.

Steve tensed. Mind telling me what it’s about?

Hell, yes. If I tell you, you’ll be trying to talk me out of it. Just don’t let it bother you. The Old Man’s on me and I got to get on you. It’s that simple. The intercom went dead and Steve knew the discussion was over.

A single knock on the door ended his speculation as Nat Ford pushed his head in. Everything all right? Heard the prexy was bugging you. Anything you want me to do? Nat edged all the way into the office. He stood there shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a body movement that advertised his constant nervousness.

Not a thing. The Old Man is bugging him and he says he has to bug me.

Oh? Wonder what that can be all about? Nat struck his sharp little chin in rapid succession with the knuckle of his right index finger, a gesture that always indicated his own concern. And his concern for the past five years had been Steven Lane. As Steve had progressed to the post of operating the television network of the giant company, he had risen right along with him as executive assistant.

Don’t worry about it, Nat. I’ve got to go through my notes so that I can perform at the meeting.

Yeah, Nat said as he walked to the door, if he lets you.

What do you mean—if he lets you’?

I know how you feel about Gratton, and don’t get me wrong, I like him, too. But that bastard would sell his sister into white slavery if he thought the Old Man would feel better about it.

Look, so he’s rough. But let’s remember he put me in this job and ever since he’s been at Federal, the company’s been doing fine and I’ve been moving.

And I’ve been floating there right beside you, buddy boy. The only thing I want to be sure is that we keep going up. Not out.

Steve smiled. Come on, Nat, you’re a pessimist.

You’re next in line to Mr. Gratton, Steve, and if I remember my Shakespeare, which I never read, the next in line always get it from the top of the line just in time to keep the top of the line tops. Know what I mean? he asked, his grey eyes narrowing.

Steve began to put his papers into a manila folder.

And don’t forget, Nat persisted, if the top doesn’t zing you, you can get it from your own next in line. That’s why you got to keep your eyes open every minute in this goddam jungle. Remember the key word—survival. Survival, Steve.

I’ve been here twenty-two years.

There’s always a first time, pal.

I’ve got you to watch out for booby traps, traitors, and deserters. Right? Isn’t that the way you described your job?

I’m watching, pal. I’m always watching. And listening.

Good. Now I better get going. He hurried from his office, Nat following him out.

In the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor Steve greeted Bert Wald, the program chief. Hi, boy, he said with a friendly slap on the back, you all set to spell out the case for drama?

Bert tapped his high-domed forehead. "It’s all in here ready to go. We’ll kill them, Steve, we’ll just kill them. You know, the atmosphere is really just right for unadulterated drama, purposeful drama that has something to say. And, by the way, I snared Dick Colla for

the pilot."

Thirty-five, the elevator man said as the doors opened.

They headed down the long hall to the board room. The kind of drama I mean is the kind that basically is a reflection of our own times, Bert was saying, the kind that deals with the urgent problems we all live with, and Christ knows, this country has problems—race, energy, domestic spying—

One suggestion, Bert, Steve interrupted, pausing for a moment in the hall. I’d drop the word problem. Hit on the kind of drama you advocate as entertainment—but a kind of drama that stays with you, hopefully, through the commercials, past the station breaks into tomorrow’s small talk at lunch, the supermarket, the bridge game or what have you.

Okay. I’ll buy that.

Let’s hope he does.

Mr. Gratton? Bert asked with a touch of sarcasm. I’m sick of his damn formula: broads, guns, fights, chases, period. It’s trash. All trash.

It’s worked for the competition, Bert, so just don’t knock it when you plug our case. There’s room for both.

In moderation, yes.

And I’ll buy that.

The board room had always disturbed Steve with its profusion of leather and mahogany. The huge circular mahogany table was too pretentious. So was each man’s chair, with its brass nameplate. On his retirement, he could take the chair with him. But if he resigned or was fired, he could have only the brass plate; otherwise it went into the nearest wastebasket. A leather folder, stamped in gold with each man’s name and set before each chair, contained the agenda for the day’s meeting.

James Harnwell Otis, the chairman of the board, stood to one corner immediately beneath an oil painting of himself in the uniform of an admiral. The painting had been presented to him on his return to the company six months after the end of the Korean War. Talking to him in a hoarse whisper was Gratton, president of the parent company. The two presented an almost comic contrast. Otis at seventy-seven had an imperious bearing; he was tall, slender, and, despite his years, moved with a bounce and tempo that out-distanced many who were younger. Joe Gratton, on the other hand, was small and round, bald and flabby. His cheeks were too puffy, his eyes too small, nose spread too wide, lips too pendulous. An ugly whitish scar, a memento of the day shrapnel had caught up with him at Anzio, cut across the ridge of his chin. Twenty years younger than the chairman, Joe Gratton would never compete on a physical score with the elegant James Harnwell Otis. In fact, in the ten years that Gratton had been president of Federal, his physical deterioration had been notable. He brushed off all references to it by saying that he was in good shape and wasn’t out to win prizes for his looks, his wardrobe, or his manners. He wanted respect only for his contributions to the television medium. And even his worst enemies had to acknowledge that no one worked at a more maniacal pace than chubby, squat, balding Joe Gratton. And no one had made a greater contribution to the success of the company. Anyone who made the fundamental error of underestimating him only because he gave the impression of overestimating himself would soon discover the folly of that judgment.

Steve moved around the paneled room. He stuck his index finger into the arched back of wiry, aging Max Geller. Geller turned. Steve, Max said, his long, deeply lined face breaking into a smile, revealing the warmth he felt for the younger man.

Got anything, Max?

Max frowned slightly and shook his head.

Tom Morgan, the head of sales, was chatting with Harvey MacNaughton, head of research. Morgan towered over all the others in the room. His bulky, tweedy figure was topped by an enormous glowering head marked by an eagle-like nose, an unruly head of reddish hair, and little eyes that sparkled with a friendly warmth that completely charmed Madison Avenue. MacNaughton was small, young, a walking advertisement of the Brooks Brothers look. As Steve approached, he heard the two discussing their sailing experiences during the weekend.

Harvey, one of the bright young mathematicians from Yale, who had deserted science for research in human behavior, said cheerfully, Got a big one, this weekend, Steve. Almost a foot. He laughed as he said it, as did everyone else in range, for Harvey was no fisherman.

Fine. How about our own numbers? The ratings show anything?

The smile disappeared from Harvey’s boyish face. He shook his head and the tip of his tongue barely showed. Not biting too good. But it’s still a little early.

The ratings were a menace and a blessing, Steve thought. You did your best. But no individual’s word meant a damn thing, no compliment in the papers, no approval from Washington, no gratifying note from a famous actress who loved her part, no citation from school authorities, no opinion from anyone. You waited for the ratings, whether they came from machines, whether they were tabulations from telephone calls, from diaries, from interviews. You studied demographics, new classifications such as Working Women. You poured over the Metered Market Service in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, because twenty-five percent of all monies spent for national or regional television advertising was spent in those three top markets. TV sets in thirteen hundred homes in those three cities were constantly measured by special devices whose findings were assembled over special phone lines by Nielsen’s Central Office Computer. Among the lawmakers Nielsen was supreme. Its national findings were based on the viewing habits of some fourteen hundred homes, each equipped with a small device that automatically recorded each turn of the channel selector. The fact that Nielsen itself was careful to point out that its ratings did not isolate program popularity was ignored by many professional television leaders. And ignored, too, for the most part was the fact that each rating was a distinct entity. Each was the result of a variety of differing elements such as the nature of a specific program, the quality of the station line-up as well as its numbers, the time of the broadcast, the program environment—the program preceding and following as well as those in direct competition, the weather and a host of other variables. Busy executives had only time to look at the end figure—and for them the ratings were law.

When Joe Gratton spotted Steve, he sat down on one side of Mr. Otis—this was the signal for all of the others to do the same. Arthur Styne, the elderly pot-bellied head of finance, sat next to Avery Williams, head of public relations, who, in turn, sat on the other side of Mr. Otis.

Everyone knew that Avery was the prize sycophant of the whole company. He was responsible for the operations of the publicity department and for the relations of the company with the industry, with the public, and with Washington. But no one had to tell Avery Williams that his number one job was to build, to maintain, to extol the service, the image, the contribution that James Harnwell Otis made to the company, to the world of communications, to the economy, to free enterprise, to the nation. Tucking his yellow Italian silk handkerchief into the breast pocket of his grey-plaid, Bond Street-tailored suit, Avery Williams, glistening as the best dressed, best turned out, best preserved fifty in the group, folded his hands in characteristic fashion and, hawk-like, waited for the meeting—to which like the dozens before he had attended, he would make no contribution—to be called to order.

Harry Trent, the bustling head of news and public service program, slouched into his chair. He cupped his chin in his right hand and stared at Steve with his customary, smug look f superiority. It wasn’t that he had any personal antipathy towards Steve; he simply knew that his end of the vast mechanism which made up Federal Broadcasting was not subject to the same harsh measurements of the rating world. News was news. And even if it was getting more and more dressed up like show business, his job still had its roots in the news and public service areas, where he could plan programs that even if they contributed only modest audiences, added to the image of the company and won the personal approval of the only audience that finally mattered— James Harnwell Otis and Joe Gratton.

Last to settle down to his chair was Pandro Heflin, the head of the West Coast office, responsible for all of the operations of the network on the Coast. He was tall, angular, a tough product from the streets of New York, his blue eyes constantly darting like tiny minnows from one face to another. Under his suitcoat was a mark of the Coast elite, a Dick Dorso designed black cashmere sweater-vest trimmed in red, worn to set himself apart and to establish a symbol of creativity versus the dark greys and blues of management.

Pandro, who had once been just plain Paul, had mastered the art of corporate survival by turning the West Coast machine into an intricate device to cater to the special interests of the group, to flatter any and all visitors from the East, from the chairman who got the supreme treatment, to anyone with the title of vice-president, and even to those whom Pandro felt were comers. If he had sufficient advance warning, he would provide a limousine at the airport to meet the visitor, and make certain that his particular brand of liquor awaited him in his hotel room. The other specialties that Pandro furnished ranged from books to little dinner parties, from trips to Vegas, to flattering attention from Hollywood’s press, and to females of the species of the height, color, nationality, age, and talent desired.

Steve opened the folder on his desk and, as he did so, the other eleven folders opened with his. He glanced across the table directly into the heavy-lidded eyes of Joe Gratton. Gratton had assumed his characteristic air of half-slumbering, with a benign half-smile that was meant neither to warm nor to alarm. Looking at Gratton, the image of a slumbering crocodile—its thick, horny skin of plates and scales, its massive jaws closed tightly—came into Steve’s mind. He was determined to be on guard for he knew how deceptive the stillness was, and the speed with which a flesh-eating, lizard-like reptile could strike. Gratton was always a danger.

Two

STEVEN LANE PRESIDED over the weekly staff meeting of the television network. The parent company had been splintered into a number of subsidiaries when Joe Gratton became president, each division having its own head, with Steve in charge of network television activities, and separate officers operating the radio network, the owned and operated television and radio stations, international operations, theatrical investments, in-house production, and other activities.

Externally, this decentralization had been hailed as one indicating the rapid growth of the giant fourth network, and had been interpreted as a sign of the managerial skill and efficiency that Joe Gratton had brought to a sprawling operation.

It was Max Geller, though, who had shrewdly observed to Steve, One thing about our Mr. Gratton is that he know the secret of setting himself apart. Yesterday, the president of this company ran the works; today he’s got six or seven divisional presidents supposedly running it for him. Yesterday, if something went wrong, he was visible and vulnerable. Today, if something goes wrong, he has six or seven other fellows who are visible and vulnerable. And expendable, he added, very expendable.

Steve opened the meeting officially. Good morning, gentlemen. The first item on the agenda is the renewal of the contract involving Jack Standish. Mr. Geller will address himself to that item.

Max carefully adjusted his glasses. Well now, he said, glancing about the room, I’ll give you just the major facts. The renewal of Jack Standish’s contract calls for us to make a firm pickup of five years, with our right to use him in not less than five specials and not more than eight, each to be of one hour duration. Mr. Standish is to be guaranteed, according to the contract, a minimum sum of one million dollars for his personal services for each year of the contract; the budgets of the specials will not be less than four hundred and fifty thousand dollars each, with escalations of thirty-five thousand annually. We are to provide him with program development funds of not less than two hundred fifty thousand annually, reserving for ourselves all of the usual rights that we would want; he has the right to at least two outside guest appearances per year.

While Max continued to talk, Pandro slid a folded note across the table to Steve. It read, Good morning. Sandra Markham called me and said to say hello. So, hello. Any message? Steve felt a sting of annoyance. It was quite possible that Sandra had never called Pandro; it was a typical Pandro Heflin ploy, to inject himself into the privacy of other lives. It was true he had introduced Steve to her; it was equally true that Pandro’s curiosity sometimes drove him to invention. Steve scribbled. Thanks. No message, and passed the note back across the table.

Then as Max droned on, he found himself wondering how long she would be staying in New York, and he felt a keen sense of frustration that he would be in California while she was East. That evening, some months ago, when Pandro had invited him for dinner, had remained vivid in his memory. He had been chatting with producer David Dortort, director George Schaefer, and novelist David Charnay as he spotted Pandro and Sandra walking towards him at the bar in Chasen’s. As Pandro started through the introductory formalities, he had felt an intuitive communication with her the moment their hands touched. He had experienced nothing like it since the day he had first met Mary years before, at a weekend party in Easthampton. That was a glow that had slowly diminished as the years had passed and then, suddenly, there it was, reappearing in a California restaurant with a simple touch of another’s hand. He remembered how Pandro had said that Sandra Markham was interested in television and that was reason enough for Pandro to set up the dinner date.

When Pandro suggested that they go to the Top of the Hillcrest for a nightcap, he had hesitated, but then he thought he detected a look of wistful pleading in her eyes. They had gone to the hotel, and while Pandro was dancing with her, Steve had time to study her in the dim light. She seemed to remain aloof as well as apart from Pandro; they gave no sign of conversation.

Then, when Steve had taken his turn, he had moved out to the floor feeling self-conscious and awkward. As his hand took Sandra’s and he placed an arm about her, he thought that she had reacted with a slight tremor. Was she acting or had something really happened? Neither one had spoken, and as the music played and the pastel spotlights circled about the room, he had forgotten the other dancers and those seated at the tables by the edge of the floor. He had pulled back to look at her, and studied the hesitant smile playing on her lips. Then he slowly drew her firmly back into his arms and she had come willingly. Her hair was against his cheek and he had said, I don’t know exactly what to talk about with you, Sandra. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I only know I’m glad. Impulsively, he had brushed his lips against her cheek. I hope you don’t mind. Call it a sudden compulsion.

I didn’t mind, she said simply. After the music ended Pandro offered to drive Steve out to the airport and Sandra agreed to come along. They had stood together for a few brief moments as Pandro took care of Steve’s luggage.

She had seemed nervous as the moment arrived for parting. It may surprise you, but I’m not one for much going out, she said, and I really don’t like Pandro Heflin, but he was persuasive.

For once I appreciate his talent for talking, Steve had said, but you and I didn’t get enough time to talk—

Pandro was striding towards them when she said hurriedly, Steve, I had a wonderful evening, quite unexpected. You’re rather an unusual human being.

How would you know? he said.

I don’t. I just felt it when we met.

Pandro had looked at them both with his customary sly smile, his eyes flitting from one to the other, and said, I hate to break this up—I mean listening to you two quoting philosophy all night: Moore, Hegal and Santayana and God knows who else—when I got my hands full keeping up with Barry Diller, Aaron Spelling and Lee Rich, not to mention Bud Austin and Frank Price. But the time has come to get you on that plane. Steve had reached out his hand and had felt the firm pressure of response in her grip. Then he had turned and left.

Now, seated in Federal’s board room, he reasoned that if Sandra had wished to contact him, perhaps it had been her decision to do it in the most casual way, to send out a thin thread of communication through the single contact between them.

For a moment he was troubled by this preoccupation with Sandra, by his mental attitude towards Mary, by the flash review