Free Mr. Adam by Pat Frank Page B

trouble.”
    It turned out that Nate was Gableman, the Assistant Director for Public Relations, a dark and cadaverous young man with his hair two inches longer than the barber ordinarily allows, and fingernails that matched his hair, both in length and color. His eyes ran over me in quick speculation and appraisal, he listened to Pumphrey’s account of what had happened thus far, and he said, “I should have been cut in on this right away. What do you think a Public Relations man is for?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Nate,” Pumphrey said. “But it happened so fast.”
    â€œYou haven’t written that memorandum for Phelps-Smythe yet?”
    â€œOh, no. He just left.”
    Gableman’s dark eyes came alive behind his spectacles. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll move in a hurry. I’ll get out a special press release right away. You hold that memorandum until I’m ready. We’ll get our story out first.”
    â€œWhat is our story, Nate?” Pumphrey asked.
    â€œWhy, it’s very simple. Abel Pumphrey, Director of the National Re-fertilization Project, today announced that N.R.P. had taken over complete personal control of Mr. Adam from the War Department, at the President’s request. You see, that puts the onus on the War Department. They can’t buck the President. He’s Commander in Chief. Then we say that Mr. Adam wasn’t getting sufficient personal freedom under present conditions. He should have all the rights and freedoms of every other American. That gets us in good with the Liberals. Then we say that Steve Smith here has been appointed a Special Assistant to Mr. Pumphrey and entrusted with the safety of Adam. Smith and Adam are personal friends—you are, aren’t you?”
    â€œHardly old friends,” I said.
    â€œWell, anyway, personal friends. That shows we have Adam’s best interests at heart.”
    I could see that Gableman was a pretty smooth customer around the edges. He may have learned all his newspapering as a government press agent, but he was an expert in mimeograph warfare. “We might also hint,” he went on, “just to get in a dig at the War Department, that Adam hasn’t been doing so hot under the previous arrangement.”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t do that!” Pumphrey protested. “It might bounce back on us as well as the War Department.”
    â€œI should say not,” said Klutz.
    â€œIt could start rumors,” said Pumphrey. “It could start a panic. Why you ought to see the letters I get from really big businessmen—I mean the very biggest—on the importance of Adam. Do you know what would happen if anything happened to Adam? Why the insurance companies would go bust. The effect on the market—inconceivable—”
    â€œOkay,” Gableman agreed. “I hadn’t considered that angle. I’ll get to work.”
    Klutz wanted me to take a look at my office, complete withsecretary, but I insisted on seeing Adam immediately. Pumphrey told me there would be plenty of room for me in Adam’s suite. There would be plenty of room for a company of Marines, I gathered from the description.
    This was correct. The Army hadn’t yet withdrawn its security patrols when I arrived at the Shoreham. There was an armored car, and two weapon carriers mounting .50 calibre machine guns, strategically placed in the hotel’s driveway. It turned out that Adam occupied the entire fifth floor of F wing. I had some trouble getting up there, because there were MP’s posted in all the hallways and at the elevators, but the captain in charge had been informed I was on the way, and he finally agreed to let me go up a few minutes before six, when the Army’s Operation Adam officially ended.
    I found Adam in the living room customarily given over to the Duke of Windsor, visiting Indian rajahs, and presidents from the banana republics. For a hotel it is quite