Subversive | Page 4

at the mid-century type office building. He was
somewhat surprised that the edifice still remained. Where did the
owners ever find profitable tenants? What business could be so small
these days that it would be based in such quarters? However, here it
was.
The lobby was shabby. There was no indication on the list of tenants of
the firm he was seeking, nor was there a porter. The elevator was out of
repair.
He did it the hard way, going from door to door, entering, hat in hand,
apologetically, and saying, "Pardon me. You're the people who sell the
soap?" They kept telling him no until he reached the third floor and a
door to an office even smaller than usual. It was lettered Freer
Enterprises and even as he knocked and entered, the wording rang a
bell.
There was only one desk but it was efficiently equipped with the latest
in office gadgetry. The room was quite choked with files and even a
Mini-IBM tri-unit. The man behind the desk was old-fashioned enough
to wear glasses, but otherwise seemed the average aggressive executive
type you expected to meet in these United States of the Americas. He
was possibly in his mid-thirties and one of those alert, over-eager
characters irritating to those who believe in taking matters less than
urgently.
He looked up and said snappily, "What can I do for you?"
Tracy dropped into an easy-going characterization. "You're the people
who sell the soap?"
"That is correct. What can I do for you?"
Tracy said easily, "Why, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the

enterprise."
"To what end, sir? You'd be surprised how busy a man I am."
Tracy said, "Suppose I'm from the Greater New York News-Times
looking for a story?"
The other tapped a finger on his desk impatiently. "Pardon me, but in
that case I would be inclined to think you a liar. The News-Times
knows upon which side its bread is spread. Its advertisers include all
the soap companies. It does not dispense free advertising through its
news columns."
Tracy chuckled wryly, "All right. Let's start again." He brought forth
his wallet, flicked through various identification cards until he found
the one he wanted and presented it. "Frank Tracy is the name," he said.
"Department of Internal Revenue. There seems to be some question as
to your corporation taxes."
"Oh," the other said, obviously taken aback. "Please have a chair." He
read the authentic looking, but spurious credentials. Tracy took the
proffered chair and then sat and looked at the other as though it was his
turn.
"My name is Flowers," the Freer Enterprises man told him, nervously.
"Frederic Flowers. Frankly, this is my first month at the job and I'm not
too well acquainted with all the ramifications of the business." He
moistened his lips. "I hope there is nothing illegal--" He let the sentence
fade away.
Tracy reclaimed his false identity papers and put them back into his
wallet before saying easily, "I really couldn't say, as yet. Let's have a
bit of questions and answers and I'll go further into the matter."
Flowers regained his confidence. "No reason why not," he said quickly.
"So far as I know, all is above board."
Frank Tracy let his eyes go about the room. "Why are you established,

almost secretly, you might say, in this business backwoods of the city?"
"No secret about it," Flowers demurred. "Merely the cheapest rent we
could find. We cut costs to the bone, and then shave the bone."
"Um-m-m. I've spoken to one of your salesmen, a Warren Dickens, and
I suppose he gave me the standard sales talk. I wonder if you could
elaborate on your company's policies, its goals, that sort of thing."
"Goals?"
"You obviously expect to make money, somehow or other, though I
don't see that peddling soap at three cents a bar has much of a future.
There must be some further angle."
Flowers said, "Admittedly, soap is just a beginning. Among other
things, it's given us a mailing list of satisfied customers. Consumers
who can then be approached for future purchases."
* * * * *
Frank Tracy relaxed in his chair, reached for pipe and tobacco and let
the other go on. But his eyes had narrowed, coldly.
Flowers wrapped himself up in his subject. "Mr. Tracy, you probably
have no idea of the extent to which the citizens of Greater America are
being victimized. Let me use but one example." He came quickly to his
feet, crossed to a small toilet which opened off the office and returned
with a power-pack electric shaver which he handed to Tracy.
Tracy looked at it, put it back on the desk and nodded. "It's the brand I
have," he said agreeably.
"Yes, and