THE FIRST SIGN THAT FRANCE would bid—yes, definitely bid—came when France began converting paper into gold in countries around the world.
First, it was South Africa from which France demanded, and got, $73 million in gold. And then France’s top fiscal officer called the Secretary of the Treasury and told him that because of certain internal problems, France found it necessary to shore up the value of the franc with more gold. Well, the internal problems were of a secret nature and no, unfortunately, he could not speak about them but the Secretary of the Treasury would understand. Yes, it was just a temporary thing. The secretary need not worry that France was making any effort to undermine the American dollar. The integrity of the franc was all that was being considered at this moment. He could not say any more, which was true for a very good reason: he did not know any more. All he knew were his instructions to begin accumulating more gold.
And soon, two hundred million more in gold was on its way to France’s national bank.
The Secretary of the Treasury was perplexed. Ordinarily, governments conduct business much as bookies do with habitual gamblers—by telephone and pieces of paper and record-keeping—but only rarely by actual exchanges of money. Yet, in the emerging world, France was an ally and allies must be kept happy.
The signs of what France was doing were immediately evident to Mr. Amadeus Rentzel of the House of Rapfenberg, but he was still not happy. On the international scene, France was a putz, epitomized by de Gaulle’s anguished question: “How can one govern a country that produces 117 different kinds of cheese?” On the mind of Mr. Amadeus Rentzel were Great Britain and Russia, which had not yet indicated any real interest in bidding.
It simply would not do to have even one country fail to bid after having been invited, because that country might just alert the United States to what was happening—and that could be disastrous to their plan.
That day, Rentzel began to make discreet inquiries. The answers were quick in coming. England and Russia might indeed be interested in bidding. Yes, the nuclear bomber thing was interesting. So were the revelations by the CIA man. But, after all, they were really in the nature of parlor tricks. What about sea power? What kind of guarantee was there that the package would include control of the U.S. Navy operations? True to its history and its habits, Great Britain looked for control of U.S. Navy strength. And true to its history of seeking sea power and sea ports, Russia wanted to know the same things.
That night, Mr. Amadeus Rentzel, Swiss banker, spoke long distance to a private telephone in the United States.
“John Bull and Ivan are the only holdouts. They won’t bid until we show them something involving the Navy.”
The bored, languid voice answered: “How much do they expect us to show? We’ve gone through the Air Force and the CIA already.”
“I know,” Rentzel said. “I’ve explained that. But they won’t budge.”
There was a pause, then the long sigh of a person much used to being put upon by the world. “All right. We’ll try to do something quickly. The other countries are in line?”
“Yessir. Literally itching to go ahead. I’m sure you’ve noticed the money movements in the financial pages?”
“Yes, yes, of course. All right. We’ll give them something with the Navy.”
· · ·
Dr. Lithia Forrester sat in her domed tenth floor office at the Human Awareness Laboratories pondering a difficult question. Remo Donaldson must go. But how?
The end button on her telephone began to blink on and off, splashing a spray of light onto the darkened desk. She picked up the telephone rapidly.
“Yes?”
“Do something with the Navy.”
“Such as?”
“Such as anything you want, bitch. Just do it big and do it fast. It’s important.”
“Yes, dear, of course.” She paused. “Will I see you tonight?”
“I think we might be doing better on our plans if you thought less about sex and more about our project.”
“That’s not fair,” she said. “I’ve done everything I could do. Everything you wanted me to.”
“Then let your sense of accomplishment serve as your sexual gratification. Just get started. Do something with the Navy.”
The phone clicked off in Lithia Forrester’s ear. She slowly replaced the receiver on the stand. Then she leaned back in her glove-leather chair and looked up at the dome, out at the night sky, the free night sky of America… the sky which, if they had their way, would not be free much longer.
Only three more days, she thought, until the bidding was held. It must be important to be required on such short notice.
Something with the Navy. Something big and fast. But what?
And what of her other problem? Remo Donaldson.
Perhaps something to take care of two birds with one stone?