"Smith?" a familiar nasal voice asked.
"Mr. President, you are undoubtedly aware of the situation on Wall Street."
"From what I understand, it's not just Wall Street. It's the whole world."
"I cannot affect the global market, but I may be able to arrest the dropping Dow. Before trading is halted again."
"You, Smith? How?"
"During the near-crash of '87 I worked out a system to counter the effects of computerized trading, which was approved by your predecessor."
"Correct me if I'm off base here," the President said, "but didn't they abolish computerized trading last year?"
"That's the popular belief. In fact, what was done was this: the computerized stock-trading programs were augmented with warning points. If a program was set to sell when a stock price dropped to sixteen and one-eighth per share, for example, the computers would flash a warning at sixteen and three-eighths.
"Then they would shut down, is that it?"
"No, Mr. President. They would not shut down. They simply flashed the warning. The sell-off would still kick in at the designated price.
"That's pointless."
"No, Mr. President. That's Wall Street."
"I don't understand. The problem is still there. We just get a warning. Is that it?"
"Precisely. And the first lag warnings have flashed to my computers."
"How much time do we have?"
"None," Smith said flatly. "In the time it has taken me to explain, several of those programs have already executed. If this continues, there will be more stocks being sold than there are buyers for them."
"Meltdown," the President said in a sick voice. Then, his voice rallying, he added, "You said something about a plan."
"After 87, I set up a shell corporation called Nostrum, Inc. It exists purely for this eventuality. Using CURE's financial resources, I can begin buying up large blocks of the afflicted stocks. It's a gamble. But the stock market is driven by rumor and trend. If Nostrum's purchases reach Wall Street ears in time, it might affect the panic psychology prevailing down there. Other buyers may jump in and help avert this rout."
"A rally?"
"That may be too much to expect. Arresting the decline is my hope."
"I can see why you had to ask me, Smith, even though CURE has autonomy in most operational tasks. If you fail-"
"If I fail," Smith said quickly, his eyes flicking to his watch, the stock market will be no worse off. But the United States government will technically own all the depressed stock. I'll be buying it with the CURE operating budget. If that's not enough, I'll be forced to siphon funds from the Social Security Trust Fund. This is your choice. "
"My God," the President said tightly. "I can't let the market fall apart like this, but if this goes wrong, we will have bankrupted the government on top of everything else."
"This is why the previous President approved oversight on this decision. You must decide now, Mr. President."
There was silence over the line. Harold Smith heard the President of the United States' shallow breathing. He said nothing. This was not his decision. He did not wish to influence it in any way.
"Do it," the chief executive said, and hung up.
"Thank you, Mr. President," Harold W. Smith told the dead line, and replaced the receiver. It was the decision he had hoped for but dared not ask. His fingers flew to the keyboard. The computer logged off its current feeds, and the words "Nostrum, Inc.," in ragged black letters on a green screen, flashed across the top.
Smith began transmitting buy orders to the headquarters of Nostrum, Inc., where its employees-none of whom had ever heard of Folcroft Sanitarium, never mind CURE-shook their heads and began buying up blocks of stock in quavering voices. They began with the most troubled stock, the rapidly declining Global Communications Conglomerate.
South of Rye, New York, nervous stock traders watched their overhead Quotron tubes with sick, shocked eyes. Every few seconds prices dropped another point or two. It was a rout.
Then, buy orders began coming in on Global Communications.
"GLB'S going up!" someone shouted above the roar. His voice was not heard. But the Quotron's silence spoke louder than any voice in the pit.
Global stopped dropping. Then other buy orders began coming in. The price stabilized at fifty-eight and five-eighths, climbed to sixty, and dropped briefly to fifty-eight and five-eighths again.
Back in Rye, Dr. Smith watched his Quotron window and allowed himself a dryish smile. It was a long way to the closing bell, but it was a start. He ordered Nostrum to buy another block of GLB and to pick up other bargains. He hoped that by day's end they would be bargains. He had spent most of his adult life serving his country. He didn't want to go down in history as the man who single-handedly bankrupted the United States of America.
Chapter 4
P. M. Looncraft whispered old money, from the cut of his Savile Row suit to his tasteful Rolex watch. He lounged in the back of his white Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud as it turned the corner of Broad Street onto Wall. As the Rolls slithered past the statue of George Washington, its brass plaque commemorating the spot where, in 1787, he was inaugurated as the fledgling nation's first chief executive, Looncraft's prim mouth curled disdainfully.
Reaching into a leather cupboard, Looncraft lifted a pocket memo recorder to his long, lantern-jawed face.
"Memo," he said in a precise adenoidal honk. "When this is over, have that infernal statue taken down and demolished. Perhaps broken into pieces and turned into something useful. Such as a fireplace."
Almost soundlessly the Rolls whispered to the curb in front of Looncraft Tower.
"Call for me at seven sharp, Mipps," Looncraft said, alighting from the car. Briskly he strode into the marble lobby, pleased to see the uniformed guards posted by the elevators.
He nodded to them as one obligingly pressed the up button and reached in to hit the button marked: "LD&B."
The elevator was empty as it whisked P. M. Looncraft to the thirty-fourth floor. Two additional guards met him at the glass-walled foyer. They tipped their caps smartly, and Looncraft allowed them a curt nod as he swept past.
"No problems, I trust," he said smoothly.
"A few upset customers, sir. That's all."
"Carry on," P. M. Looncraft returned as he walked past the gold lettered wall that said "Looncraft, Dymstar d, Investment Brokers." He stepped onto the trading floor, where short-sleeved brokers worked their phones, banks of blinking buttons flashing insistently.
"Get off my back!" one shouted at another. " I don't have to take anything off you!"
Looncraft strode up to him and laid a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. He turned, his face angry. His features quickly softened as he recognized his employer's dour face.
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Looncraft," he muttered. "It's pure pandemonium, sir. The Dow's off three hundred points. It's a bloodbath out there. "
"Stay the course, young man," Looncraft said soothingly. "Stay the course."
"I will. Thank you, sir," the broker said, wiping his brow with a striped shirtsleeve.