Chương 24: Interlude: Voice of America

The familiar opening sequence with the spinning globe played its final notes, and the camera found Walter Cronkite behind his desk. He sat the way he always did when the news was serious, hands folded in front of him, head tilted slightly forward.

"Good evening, America. Today, the Senate ratified the second of the two Panama Canal treaties by a margin of just one vote, committing the United States to transfer control of the strategic waterway to Panama by the end of the century. President Carter called it a victory of common sense over fear, while critics have already branded the decision the greatest surrender since Vietnam." The screen filled with footage from the vote: tense faces of senators, raised hands.

"In Italy, the drama surrounding kidnapped former prime minister Aldo Moro continues. The Red Brigades have issued new demands, while the government still refuses to enter into any negotiations. Moro's family is pleading with the authorities to show flexibility, but more than a month has now passed since the kidnapping, and hopes for a peaceful outcome are fading by the day." Moro's photograph gave way to footage of demonstrations in Rome, crowds carrying signs through the streets.

"And in Washington, the Supreme Court is considering the case of Bakke versus the University of California, a case that could redefine the very concept of affirmative action in American education. Allan Bakke, a white man, claims he was twice denied admission to medical school while less-qualified minority applicants were accepted. A decision is expected this summer." Cronkite allowed himself the slightest pause, and his voice warmed a little.

"And now, on to lighter matters." The screen changed to footage from movie theaters: lines at ticket booths, people carrying popcorn.

"Hollywood continues to count its box-office receipts, and the numbers are impressive. Steven Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind is still filling theaters across the country, earning more than one hundred million dollars in its first five months. America, it seems, simply can't get enough of aliens." The famous scene with the mothership flashed across the screen, bathed in the magical light that had already become one of Spielberg's trademarks."

Caravan of the Brave, starring John Wayne, unfortunately failed to meet the studio's expectations. The western, intended as a triumphant return for the genre, has earned barely a third of its budget, and critics are already saying that the age of the cowboy may finally be over. Mr. Wayne, for his part, strongly disagrees." Cronkite leaned forward slightly.

"And while we're on the subject of entertainment, there is another phenomenon worth discussing. One that isn't unfolding on movie screens, but in American living rooms." The AES logo appeared on the screen, a stylized shield with three letters that over the past several months had become nearly as recognizable as the logos of America's largest automobile companies.

"Three letters that, over the past six months, have become perhaps the most talked-about in the entertainment industry: Aegis Entertainment System. Aegis Industries has opened many people's eyes to a new way of entertainment, and experts say this is not simply another video game console. It is a genuine boom, comparable perhaps only to the arrival of color television."

The images changed one after another: children staring spellbound at television screens, stores with lines stretching out onto the sidewalk, boxes of consoles stacked on shelves. A man in his fifties wearing glasses appeared on the screen. The caption below identified him as Howard Lincoln, an entertainment industry analyst.

"I've worked in this business for thirty years," Lincoln began, adjusting his glasses with a practiced gesture.

"I saw television arrive. I saw rock and roll take off. I saw motion pictures go from black and white to color. And I'm telling you, AES is an event on that same scale. They've completely overturned everything we thought we knew about this industry." The camera showed developers at work, monitors covered in diagrams incomprehensible to the average viewer, young men in shirts with rolled-up sleeves concentrating on their work.

"Some of the solutions this company has introduced are so innovative," Lincoln continued, "that competitors still don't understand how they managed to make them work. Using disks instead of cartridges, the ability to save your progress, the quality of the graphics... I have no hesitation in calling AES the greatest technological success of this year. Possibly of the decade." The camera returned to the studio and Cronkite.

"Which makes the story of the man behind it all the more remarkable." A photograph of David Miller appeared on the screen, the same photograph that had graced the covers of dozens of magazines over the past few months. A well-tailored suit and the attentive expression of a man accustomed to dealing with serious matters.

"David Miller, thirty-one years old. Founder and chief executive officer of Aegis Industries. A man who achieved all of this without wealthy parents, without connections on Wall Street, and without a famous family name behind him." The screen changed to a modest office building somewhere in suburban New Jersey, an unremarkable structure of glass and concrete like thousands of others across America.

"We visited his former place of employment," Cronkite continued in voice-over, "a small insurance company where, just four years ago, Miller worked as an ordinary clerk." A man in his sixties appeared on the screen, red-faced, with heavy bags under his eyes that suggested a long-standing friendship with whiskey. The caption identified him as Harold Hanson, David Miller's former supervisor. His tie sat slightly crooked, and he was clearly uncomfortable in front of the camera.

"David Miller?" Hanson cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, somehow managing to make it even more crooked.

"Yeah. Worked for me for a couple of years." He fell silent, his expression showing just how carefully he was choosing his next words. The camera waited, and the silence stretched.

"He was a good worker," Hanson finally managed.

"Reliable, punctual, did his job well." A reporter off-camera asked a question, and Hanson shrugged.

"Potential?" He gave a short snort, irritation audible in the sound.

"Well, you know... everybody's smart in hindsight. Back then he was an ordinary clerk. I've got a hundred and twenty people like that sitting in my office. Sorting papers, filling out forms. Nothing special." Hanson looked somewhere past the camera.

"But," he cleared his throat again, "I guess there must've been something there. Seeing as now he's... well, you know. On magazine covers." He said the last words with the tone of a man discussing some deep injustice, a mistake in the natural order of things that he personally disapproved of but was forced to acknowledge.

"I always said," Hanson straightened slightly, "that I know how to spot talent. I've got an eye for it. Twenty years in this business. So when he quit, naturally I was..." He hesitated, searching for the right word.

"... not surprised. No. I could tell right away that kid was going places, and I wasn't about to clip his wings by keeping him in that office." He said it with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

"Do I regret not building a stronger relationship with a man like that?" One corner of Hanson's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile.

"Well, who knew? Who knew... Really, I just didn't want to burden the kid with ties to some old man." The camera returned to the studio.

"David Miller," Cronkite said, and there was something almost like respect in his voice.

"A success story unlike anything America has seen in quite some time. In an age when young people prefer to blame the economy, the government, and circumstance for their problems, he simply took his fate into his own hands. As a true American should. Starting with nothing behind him, he built a company generating extraordinary profits." A montage filled the screen. Magazine covers featuring Miller, footage from Aegis factories, happy children with controllers in their hands.

"Many young people already look to him as an example. But perhaps more surprising is that his story resonates not only with the young. We receive letters from viewers of every age, and they all say much the same thing: this young man reminds us that the American Dream is still alive." Cronkite looked directly into the camera, and for a moment his expression softened.

"In a world with so much bad news, David Miller's story is a reminder that one person with an idea and enough determination can still change the world." He paused, in the familiar way millions of Americans had come to know.

"And that's the way it is, Tuesday, April 18th, 1978. This is Walter Cronkite. Good night."

The April morning was cool but sunny, one of those rare New York days when the city looked almost welcoming. Jimmy Cohen walked along Lexington Avenue, weaving between office workers hurrying to work in nearly identical gray suits and housewives carrying paper grocery bags. From the open window of a barbershop came the voice of a newsreader talking about negotiations over the Panama Canal and another rise in gasoline prices.

Near the subway entrance, a hot dog vendor had already fired up his cart, and the smell of fried onions mixed with the exhaust of passing yellow cabs. A bus rumbled past with an advertisement for Close Encounters of the Third Kind. On a poster column nearby hung a campaign ad for Ed Koch, who was running for mayor. Jimmy stopped at the newsstand on the corner, the same one where he had bought the New York Times every morning for the past three years.

The owner, an elderly Italian woman named Maria, was already laying out the fresh papers, their headlines shouting about Aldo Moro and the Red Brigades, inflation, and yet another Yankees loss.

"Morning edition, same as always," Jimmy said, handing her a quarter. He opened the paper right there at the stand and started flipping through it eagerly, clearly looking for something specific. He scanned the front page, then the second, skipped ahead to business, then technology, and finally sighed in disappointment as he folded the paper.

"Good morning, Jimmy!" He turned around. Jane Patterson, an acquaintance from the office building next door, had also come to the stand for a newspaper. She was a red-haired woman in her thirties, wearing a practical beige raincoat.

"Morning, Jane." She took one look at his face and frowned.

"What happened? You look miserable." Jimmy waved it off.

"Nothing serious. I was looking for news about Aegis smoke detectors. I've been following the subject because it's useful for me and the guys at work. We're in a related field. But there's nothing today." Jane rolled her eyes as she dug for change in her purse.

"God, Aegis. I'm already sick of Aegis. Everybody's gone crazy over them. Aegis this, Aegis that, like nothing else is happening in the world. Turn on the television, Aegis. Open a magazine, Aegis. The kid next door talks about nothing but his AES, and I can't even sleep with all that beeping through the wall."

"That's exactly the point," Jimmy objected.

"Most of what's happening around us is depressing. I'd rather read about some guy who started from nothing and built all this cool stuff. At least that's inspiring. Breaks up the gray routine a little." Jane frowned and looked at him suspiciously.

"Wait. You play that stuff too? Those video games?"

"No, of course not!" Jimmy even threw up his hands.

"AES is definitely impressive, but I'm more interested in their smoke detectors. You read the papers, right? Their detectors have already saved at least two hundred families. Two hundred! Those are real people who woke up and got out of burning houses instead of…" He stopped himself.

"Even with the profits and all that, the guy is actually saving lives."

"The young man's right," Maria said, having pricked up her ears and joined the conversation without stopping her work arranging the magazines.

"I had one of their systems installed too. Aegis Sentinel, that's what it's called. Costs next to nothing, takes five minutes to put up. My son-in-law came over, hung it on the ceiling, didn't even have time to finish his beer. Excellent quality, and you can feel it in everything. I don't know how they make them, but even the plastic feels good in your hand, and don't get me started on how well thought out it is. Not the crap their competitors sell, excuse my language.

My sister had one from some other company, and six months later the thing started screaming in the middle of the night for no reason. Battery was dying and it never even warned her. This one—" She jabbed a finger into the air.

"—starts blinking a week before the battery runs out." Jimmy nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly! That's exactly what I mean. I got curious and looked at what else they sell. And I have to say, I was pretty surprised." Another customer approached the stand, a heavyset man in a plaid shirt and work boots. He picked up a copy of the Daily News but didn't leave, listening to the conversation.

"Did you know," Jimmy continued, "that they make a really good car alarm? I had one installed as soon as I found out about it. Couldn't believe I'd somehow missed it when it first came out. I've got a '75 Chevy Nova, nothing special, but in my neighborhood they steal those too. And that alarm…" He shook his head appreciatively.

"It has a backup battery. Even if somebody cuts the wires under the hood, it'll still start screaming. Really well-made piece of equipment."

"Well, those are pretty well-known products, kid. Don't know how you missed them," the man in the plaid shirt said with a chuckle.

"What surprised me was finding out those reflectors were theirs. My girls have those things hanging off their schoolbags, and I feel a lot better about it. And now they're finally shipping enough reflective vests too. Makes working the night shift a lot easier. Less chance somebody gets run over."

"If you think about it," Maria said, wiping the counter with a rag, "Aegis is a good name for them. Means protection, doesn't it? Smoke detectors against fire, alarms against thieves, reflectors against cars. And those little keychains, what are they called? Panic alarms? Very useful things. Nice to know somebody out there isn't just counting money but actually thinking about people."

"Exactly," Jimmy agreed.

"The keychains. I'd bet they've already helped quite a few people. Women especially, these days…" He stopped, remembering the headlines from the previous year about the Son of Sam and how women had been afraid to go outside after dark.

"My brother's a cop," the man in the plaid shirt said.

"He says assaults have gone down since those things started showing up. Not by a huge amount, but enough to notice. Muggers aren't idiots either. Why go after someone who can make enough noise to wake the whole block in one second?" Jane, who had been listening in silence with her arms crossed, finally softened.

"All right," she admitted.

"Maybe I wasn't being entirely fair. I'm just tired of hearing about AES from my nephew. That's all he talks about. Eats in front of the television, stopped doing his homework…"

"That sounds more like a parenting problem," Maria observed philosophically.

"People complained about television when it first appeared too. Kids will always find something to obsess over. Better he sits at home playing than wanders the streets." Jimmy suddenly glanced at his watch and went pale.

"Damn! I'm late for work! Sorry, I…" He was already backing away, stuffing the newspaper under his arm.

"Good talking to you! See you around!" Then he took off down Lexington Avenue, weaving between pedestrians, jumping over a puddle beside a fire hydrant and nearly knocking over a pizza delivery cyclist. Maria watched him go and shook her head.

"Good kid. Buys his paper here every morning, always polite. You don't see enough of that anymore." The man in the plaid shirt paid for his Daily News and went on his way as well. Jane remained by the stand, looking thoughtfully at the display. Among the newspapers and magazines, she noticed an Aegis advertising leaflet showing that same smoke detector.

"How much is it?" she asked suddenly.

"Twelve ninety-nine," Maria replied.

"Sears on Thirty-Fourth. Tell them Maria sent you. Won't get you a discount, but maybe they'll smile." Jane gave a small snort, took her newspaper, and headed toward the subway. The spring sun was rising over New York, and an ordinary day went on as usual, full of ordinary conversations and ordinary people who were slowly beginning to acknowledge what one millionaire had accomplished.

The studio was decorated in the typical PBS style: modest, but tasteful. Three armchairs stood around a low table, the lighting was subdued, and a stylized Wall Street skyline filled the background. The host, Larry Greenberg, a balding man with shrewd eyes and a reputation as a provocateur, sat between his two guests.

To his left was Howard Steinberg, a sixty-two-year-old Merrill Lynch analyst in an eight-hundred-dollar suit and a red bow tie, his look completed by the expression of a man accustomed to regarding everyone around him from above. To his right sat Rachel Cohen, a forty-five-year-old economics professor at Columbia University with sharp eyes, short hair, and a reputation for never being afraid to argue with anyone.

The two had already been going at each other for ten minutes, and Greenberg was enjoying every second of it.

"I'm telling you," Steinberg said, stabbing a finger into the air, "this business model is going to end in disaster. He's rebuilding Ford's old model! Every production chain is under the control of his company. Vertical integration at its worst!"

"So what?" Cohen shot back.

"Ford built its empire on exactly that model."

"And where did that get Ford?" Steinberg leaned back triumphantly in his chair.

"Have you heard about the Pinto scandal? People are burning alive in those cars, and the company knew about the defect and decided it would be cheaper to pay out lawsuits than recall the vehicles! That's what you get with your precious vertical integration. When everything is under your control, there's nobody left to say stop." Greenberg leaned forward with poorly concealed delight.

"Interesting argument, Howard. Rachel?" Cohen shook her head.

"You're just changing the subject, Howard. We got the Pinto precisely because their production chain was no longer fully under their control. Ford outsourced parts of the fuel-system design and cut development time to save money. That isn't too much control, it's too little. A classic corporate mistake: cut costs everywhere you can and pray nothing goes wrong."

"All right, all right." Steinberg raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"Maybe that kind of production model makes sense in theory. But do you understand the enormous amount of money it took just to get everything started? MOS Technology, Shugart, licensing deals, hiring the right specialists. We're talking millions upon millions of dollars. And there's no guarantee any of it will ever pay off!"

"With that approach, their long-term profits will be much higher," Cohen countered.

"When you control the entire production chain, you don't pay a middleman's markup, you don't depend on suppliers changing their minds, and you can react to the market much more quickly. Every dollar they spend on acquisitions now is a dollar that can stay inside the company and generate more value later."

"Later!" Steinberg scoffed.

"Assuming that later ever comes!"

"The initial costs are an investment," Cohen said with a shrug.

"Risky? Absolutely. But if his calculations are right, the return will be enormous."

"If!" Steinberg raised a finger.

"If his calculations are right. And if they aren't, he'll go bankrupt so loudly they'll hear it across America. Fine, let's leave the production model aside. What do you say about their policy of moving into completely different fields? How many do they have now? Three? Four? Office supplies, security products, games, and now footwear? It's inefficient. They're spreading themselves too thin. Any management textbook will tell you the same thing: focus on your core competencies.

Don't jump into industries you know nothing about." Greenberg turned to Cohen.

"Fair point?" Cohen thought for a second.

"On that one, I might actually agree with you, Howard. By every textbook, it really does look insane. But…"

"But?"

"But the results aren't exactly disastrous." She spread her hands.

"Maybe geniuses simply think differently. Maybe the stars aligned. But Aegis, without being a giant in any one of those fields, is competing at a respectable level with the giants in each of them and gradually taking market share."

"Gradually?" Steinberg snorted.

"Twenty percent of the smoke-detector market in two years is what you call gradual?"

"There, you see? You're contradicting yourself," Cohen said with a smile.

"First they're spreading themselves too thin and being inefficient, now they're taking markets too quickly. Make up your mind." Greenberg laughed.

"One-zero to the professor. Howard?" Steinberg grimaced but refused to give ground.

"All right, I'll admit their smoke detectors took off. But that's a niche market, and one that's only expanding because of new federal requirements. Anybody could have…"

"Anybody could have, but Miller did," Cohen interrupted.

"Take their office supplies. Their notepads and page flags have won over millions of customers. That isn't a niche market. That means competing with 3M and Avery, monsters of the industry. And that's without even mentioning cold lamination, which is only now starting to gain real momentum. Schools, small businesses, everybody wants to protect documents, but not everybody can afford expensive equipment. And SafeGlow? Their reflectors are on every other schoolbag now."

"Maybe so," Steinberg replied stubbornly.

"But if they had put all their resources into one field, the results might have been much better. That's basic business. Concentrate your resources." Cohen leaned forward, and a spark of excitement appeared in her eyes.

"If they hadn't jumped from one field to another, we probably never would have heard of them. Have you actually followed their development strategy?"

"Strategy?" Steinberg repeated skeptically.

"Office supplies gave them a foundation: low barriers to entry, fast turnover, steady cash flow. That gave them the time and resources to learn manufacturing, logistics, and sales." She raised one finger.

"Security products—smoke detectors, alarms, panic keychains—helped them build capital. Higher margins than office supplies, while also producing something with obvious social value. Excellent public relations, consumer loyalty, government contracts." She raised a second finger.

"And entertainment, AES, took them to a completely different level. That isn't just a business anymore, it's a cultural phenomenon. Brand recognition you simply can't buy for any amount of money." She leaned back.

"Each step prepared the ground for the next. That isn't spreading yourself too thin. It's a carefully structured development system with moderate risks."

"A development system?" Steinberg was clearly irritated now.

"I don't see a damn thing connecting notepads and video games! They could have stayed in office supplies and achieved the same result."

"The same result?" Cohen raised an eyebrow.

"You're conveniently ignoring how long that would have taken. The company entered the right industries at the right time with the right products, and that takes extraordinary foresight from the team they assembled, and from Mr. Miller in particular. How long would it have taken them to grow through office supplies alone? Ten years? Twenty? Instead, they built a conglomerate with several independent sources of income in three." Greenberg decided to throw some more fuel on the fire.

"Howard, what about footwear? Aegis recently bought Hyer Boots and several other shoe companies. Does that fit into your criticism?" Steinberg immediately perked up.

"There! Exactly! Footwear! How does an entirely unfamiliar business fit into this so-called strategy? Miller has lost his mind, and sooner or later we're going to see the results of that insanity."

"Or perhaps he sees something we don't," Cohen replied calmly.

"The hiking-footwear market is growing by fifteen percent a year. Americans are getting out of the cities, going hiking, discovering the national parks. Outdoor recreation may become a major trend, and the company saw it and decided to take another calculated risk."

"Seeing a trend is one thing. Making good footwear is another. That takes generations of experience!"

"Generations of experience didn't stop Hyer Boots from going bankrupt," Cohen shot back.

"Maybe a fresh perspective is exactly what they need."

"Or it'll finish them off for good." They fell silent, staring each other down, and Greenberg let the pause linger, enjoying the tension.

"Well," he finally said, "it's obvious we're not going to reach a consensus tonight. But there is one thing you both seem to agree on: David Miller is a phenomenon that cannot be ignored. Whether he's right or wrong, time will tell."

"Time will show that I was right," Steinberg muttered.

"Time will show that you missed your chance to invest while the stock was cheap," Cohen said with a smirk.

"Aegis is privately held. There is no stock."

"Not yet." Greenberg smiled into the camera.

"And on that intriguing note, we'll end tonight's edition of Business Hour. I'm Larry Greenberg. My thanks to our guests, Howard Steinberg of Merrill Lynch and Professor Rachel Cohen of Columbia University. We'll see you next week."

The grand ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria glittered beneath thousands of lights. Enormous crystal chandeliers scattered rainbow reflections across snow-white tablecloths and evening gowns, while waiters in immaculate tuxedos moved between the tables carrying champagne and canapés.

Seated around the round tables throughout the hall was the cream of New York society: Wall Street bankers, heirs to old money, politicians, actors, philanthropists, everyone who could afford a five-hundred-dollar ticket and still consider it pocket change. The evening's host, Howard Cosell, the famous sports commentator whose unmistakable voice was known across America, took the stage to applause. He had been invited precisely because he knew how to hold an audience's attention even when the subject wasn't boxing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice carried across the ballroom, "good evening, and welcome to the twelfth annual Heart of New York Gala!" Applause.

"Every year, we gather here to honor those who make our city a better place. Those who do more than simply make money, but know how to share it. Those who remember that true success is measured not by the size of your bank account, but by the number of people you've helped." He paused and looked over the room.

"There are many people here tonight who have made enormous contributions to the well-being of this city. I see faces known all across America. I see people whose donations have built hospitals, schools, shelters. Every one of you deserves recognition." Cosell picked up a small crystal statuette from the table beside the podium, a stylized heart mounted on a marble base.

"But this award, the Pure Heart, goes to only one person each year. Someone whose generosity goes beyond ordinary charity. Someone who doesn't simply write checks, but changes the world through his actions." The ballroom quieted. Even the clinking of glasses faded as everyone waited.

"This year, we would like to present the Pure Heart to a man whose intentions have proven remarkably pure indeed. A man who has not only made enormous financial contributions to programs supporting low-income families, children's hospitals, and education, but has directed the very work of his company toward saving human lives." Cosell raised the statuette.

"Consider SafeGlow reflective patches alone. They have already saved the lives of children across America and, I'm told, around the world as well. Children whom drivers can now see in the dark. Children who make it home alive. If that isn't charity in its highest form, when the very business you build saves lives, then what is?" A murmur passed through the room. Many had already guessed who he was talking about.

"And the smoke detectors? More than two hundred families who escaped burning homes because of a simple device mounted on the ceiling. Two hundred families who are alive, whole, and together today because one man decided that something could be done better than it had been before." Cosell smiled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the star of tonight's evening, a man who at thirty-one has achieved what many can only dream of: David Miller!" The hall erupted in applause, and a spotlight swept toward one of the tables near the center. A man rose from his seat. Even from a distance, it was obvious he was tired.

The dark circles beneath his eyes had practically become part of his public image, but his suit fit flawlessly, emphasizing an athletic build, and when he began walking toward the stage, there was a particular confidence in every step that came only with genuine authority. Camera flashes went off by the dozen. Women at the tables followed him with their eyes: young, successful, unmarried. The men watched with different expressions—some with respect, some with envy, others with poorly concealed irritation.

Miller stepped onto the stage, shook Cosell's hand, accepted the statuette, and turned toward the audience. For several seconds, he simply stood there, looking out over the sea of faces before him. Then he began to speak, quietly, though the microphone carried every word.

"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to what is certainly a wonderful event." His voice was calm, without any show of false modesty.

"I don't think I need to say how grateful I am to the people who decided I was worthy of such an honorable award." He looked down at the statuette in his hands." Pure Heart. An award that tells me I'm moving in the right direction. But tonight, I would first like to thank the people we rarely hear about at events like this." The room listened.

"The people who make sure the money they receive actually reaches those who need it. The people who organize help for the poor, the sick, and everyone else who needs it. Volunteers who go to shelters after finishing their regular jobs. Social workers who are paid next to nothing and keep doing their work anyway. Nurses in free clinics. Teachers in schools in poor neighborhoods. People who, every day, without cameras or applause, make this city a little better." He raised the statuette.

"Thank you. You are the ones here with the purest hearts. I just sign the checks while you do the real work." Applause followed, and when it died down, Miller looked around the room.

"We're sitting here in tuxedos and evening gowns, drinking hundred-dollar champagne and applauding one another for being generous. That's good. It matters. Money is necessary. But let's not forget that the real heroes are outside the walls of this hotel. On the streets, in hospitals, in schools, in shelters. They don't get awards. They simply do what needs to be done." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. He raised the statuette once more.

"This award belongs to them. I'll just hold onto it while they're busy doing the actual work." The room rose to its feet. The ovation went on for a long time. Miller nodded, gave a brief smile, and left the stage without any extra words or drawn-out thanks. Cosell watched him return to his table, then lifted the microphone again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, David Miller. A rising star of New York and, as we've just seen, a man with a very big heart." At the table Miller returned to sat an elderly woman in a modest black dress. Sister Margaret had worked at one of the city's shelters for thirty years and had devoted everything she had to it. Miller had personally insisted that she be invited.

"That was a good speech, son," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief when he sat down.

"It really was. But why am I here? I don't belong among all these people." Miller smiled, for what seemed like the first genuinely sincere time that evening.

"Of everyone at this gathering, Sister, you're the only one who unquestionably belongs here."

"Oh, stop that." She waved him off, though it was obvious the words had touched her.

"What I should tell you is that those dark circles under your eyes are not healthy. And you've lost weight. Are you even eating properly?" At the neighboring tables, people worth millions watched a nun from a shelter scold one of the country's most successful young businessmen for not eating enough. And those among them whose money had not completely burned the soul out of them found the warm little scene rather charming.

The camera shook slightly; the cameraman was clearly holding it on his shoulder while standing at the edge of a dusty road. Behind him stretched the kind of industrial landscape familiar to anyone from the Rust Belt: brick factory buildings, water towers, railroad tracks. Usually, footage like this came with stories about closures, layoffs, and decline. Today was different.

Workers in coveralls were coming out through the gates of one of the buildings, not with the defeated expressions of men who had just lost their jobs, but with the ordinary faces of people finishing a shift. Dozens of cars filled the parking lot, and smoke rose from a stack above the plant. The reporter, a young woman of about twenty-five with chestnut hair, stood in front of the camera holding a microphone. Her business suit looked slightly out of place against the industrial backdrop.

"My name is Linda Carson, and we're reporting from a place where local residents have witnessed what some are already calling a small miracle, courtesy of Aegis Industries." She gestured toward the scene behind her.

"Only six months ago, these workshops stood dead. The windows were boarded up, the gates were locked, and the walls were covered in graffiti and years of neglect. Youngstown, like dozens of other cities across the Rust Belt, was slowly dying. Young people were leaving, stores were closing, houses stood empty." The camera showed the contrast. Beside the operating plant stood an abandoned building with broken windows and the crooked remains of an old steel-company sign.

"It is still unclear exactly what this eccentric millionaire intends to show us here," Linda continued, professional curiosity audible in her voice.

"David Miller, founder of Aegis Industries, is well known for his secrecy, but in towns that had nearly emptied out, hope has returned." The footage changed to a small-town street, several open stores, children riding bicycles.

"Abandoned factories are coming back to life, and people who refused to leave their hometowns, those who kept believing that better times might return, have found work again." Linda frowned slightly.

"Unfortunately, no one is willing to tell us what these plants will actually be producing. The company cites trade secrets and refuses to comment, but my money is on footwear." She smiled faintly, almost conspiratorially.

"Legendary Hyer Boots, a company that had been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, was recently purchased by this very same millionaire. Hyer has more than a century of history behind it, making cowboy boots worn all the way back in the days of the Old West. And now, perhaps right here in Ohio, that old name is about to be given a second life…" She suddenly stopped, looking off to the side.

"Hold on. Wait a second." The camera jerked as it followed her gaze. A battered SUV pulled into the parking lot beside the factory, and a man in his fifties climbed out. He wore work coveralls and a baseball cap. After slamming the door shut, he headed toward the gatehouse. Linda nearly ran after him, the cameraman following close behind.

"Excuse me! Sir! Could we have a minute?" The man stopped, turned around, saw the camera, and immediately became wary.

"Do you work at this plant? Could you tell us anything about it?" He adjusted his cap and narrowed his eyes at the camera.

"What are you people snooping around for now?" His voice was rough and tired, though not openly hostile.

"You're the fifth bunch that's come through here this month."

"People want to know what's happening," Linda said gently.

"These are good developments, aren't they? Jobs, production…" The man gave a short grunt.

"Good developments? Yeah, sure as hell they are. What's there to say? Used to be closed. Now it's open. Pretty simple."

"What are you producing?"

"We all signed nondisclosure agreements." He spread his hands.

"So no offense, ma'am, but I'm not telling you anything." He turned to leave, then thought better of it, stopped, and looked back toward the camera.

"Actually, there is one thing I can say. The people working in these factories would be happy to tell both…" He paused, clearly remembering that the camera was running.

"…our former employers and their greed, the ones who shut everything down and ran south, and the damn unions that knew how to collect dues but were the first ones out the door when it came time to protect the workers, exactly what we think of them." He spat off to the side.

"Miller pays fair, treats people right, and there aren't any parasites standing between us and the job. I spent thirty years breaking my back in a steel mill, and never once—do you hear me, never once—did anybody treat me the way they do here. And this kid…" He waved toward the plant.

"He's young. Could've built anywhere he wanted. Texas, Florida, places where governors would roll out the red carpet for a man like him. Instead, he came here. To us. And he helped a hell of a lot." He paused.

"That's all I've got to say." Then he walked away without looking back or waiting for another question. Linda turned toward the camera.

"There you have it, unfiltered and unrehearsed. The voice of a man who has found work, and hope, again. Whatever these factories eventually produce, footwear, clothing, or something else entirely, that may already matter less to the people of Youngstown than the fact that they are needed again, and that someone was willing to believe in them." She paused, watching the worker disappear through the gate.

"This is Linda Carson, WKBN-TV, Youngstown, Ohio. Back to you in the studio." Later, in the editing room, the producer watched the footage and shook his head.

"We'll have to cut the part about the unions. They'll eat us alive." Linda shrugged.

"Cut it, but that kind of honest reaction is worth a lot. We really didn't set anything up. This was supposed to be a trial run. We hadn't arranged interviews with anyone beforehand."

The Deputy Director for Operations had an office on the sixth floor, high enough to make the rank clear, but not so high as to suggest ambitions beyond it. Heavy curtains covered the windows, an American flag stood in one corner, and a portrait of President Carter hung on the wall, all exactly as expected. Neat stacks of folders marked Secret and Top Secret sat on the massive oak desk, beside an ashtray holding a half-smoked cigar and a telephone with a direct line to the White House. William J.

Croft, fifty-eight years old, gray at the temples, wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit and the expression of a man who had seen too much and grown tired of it, stood by the window gripping a thin folder in one hand. His face was slowly turning red. Across the desk sat Robert Johnson, forty-three, an operative with twenty years of experience and a record stretching from Vietnam to Latin America. A good, reliable agent. Or at least Croft had thought so until this morning.

Croft hurled the folder onto the desk, sending papers flying.

"You think this is fucking normal?!" Johnson didn't even flinch.

"Sir, I don't understand what exactly concerns you. We conducted a full investigation, just as you requested. The results are in front of you." Croft turned from the window, a vein pulsing at his temple.

"Concerns me? CONCERNS ME?!" He slammed his palm against the desk.

"It concerned me a year ago, Johnson, when that damned kid first started buying companies faster than we could keep track of them. Now it SCARES me!" He snatched one of the scattered pages.

"I told you to expose him. Dig up everything you could on those fossils working for him. And what do I get?" He started reading aloud."'No suspicious activity detected. Subjects under observation are engaged in conventional corporate security. Aegis Security demonstrates a high level of training but operates within the law. Recommendation: continue passive surveillance.'" He crushed the page in his fist and threw it at Johnson.

"Continue passive surveillance?! Are you fucking kidding me?!" Johnson raised his hands defensively.

"Sir, I understand your concern, but facts are facts. We found nothing suspicious inside his security company. Yes, they're well trained. Yes, they have good equipment. But it's private security. They have the right to—""Are you actually serious right now?" Croft said it almost in a whisper, which was far more frightening than the shouting.

"A child could tell they made our people. They're feeding us exactly what they want us to see. And you bring me this... this…" He failed to find the word and simply shook the folder in the air.

"Boss," Johnson said, still trying to remain calm, "I checked everything myself. Three weeks of surveillance, wiretaps, financial analysis. Yes, they employ former servicemen. Yes, they pay them well. Yes, their equipment is better than what half our field officers carry. But so what? A rich paranoid hires the best. Is that a crime?" Croft slowly lowered himself into his chair and squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to suppress a headache. Or the urge to strangle his subordinate.

"You really are an asshole, Johnson." Silence.

"You think an entire training ground for a private security detail is normal?" Croft's voice had gone cold.

"A three-hundred-yard range, obstacle courses, tactical exercises. Applegate as an instructor, and fucking Haney working for them now. Is this a businessman's security team, or are they training replacements for Captain America?" Johnson opened his mouth, but Croft didn't let him speak.

"You think a war with half the organized crime on the East Coast is normal? Italians, Irish, Puerto Ricans, everyone who tried to get close to him either ended up in prison, in the morgue, or so scared they're afraid to say his name. That's conventional corporate protection?"

"Sir, we have no evidence that Aegis itself was involved. We can say with reasonable confidence that they probably were, but we don't have proof. And broadly speaking, they haven't crossed any clear legal lines. A lot of what they did can still be classified as self-defense."

"Self-defense?!" Croft nearly exploded.

"Reliable sources tell us fifteen people disappeared during their last confrontation. You call that staying within the lines and acting in self-defense?"

"They were cartel gunmen…"

"Shut up!" Croft took a breath and continued more quietly.

"Or maybe you think it's normal for one goddamn company to employ FOUR INTELLIGENCE LEGENDS?" He grabbed another page from the folder.

"James Angleton. Thirty years with the Agency. Chief of Counterintelligence. The man was hunting Soviet moles before the Soviets even knew they had moles. Officially forced out in seventy-five after the scandal over his internal investigations. Now he's a 'security adviser' at Aegis Industries." Another page.

"Peter Wright. Legend of British MI5. Their greatest mole hunter on the other side of the Atlantic. A man who suspected his own prime minister of treason and, according to some reports, had good reason to." Another.

"Tennant Bagley. Twenty years on the Soviet desk. First-rate analyst, and now 'Director of Analysis' at Aegis." He threw the final page onto the desk.

"And William Hood. Old-school operator. Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, anywhere things got ugly, Hood was right there in the middle of it. You're not even supposed to know half of what that bastard did." Croft stared at Johnson.

"Four legends. Not good agents, Johnson. LEGENDS. Men who helped shape the intelligence profession itself over the last thirty years. Men who know our secrets, our methods, our weaknesses. And somehow every single one of them now works for a guy who was an insurance clerk five years ago. And you're telling me that's NORMAL?!" He struck the desk again.

"How many times have I told you to dig deeper and find out what the hell is going on? And you've brought me nothing!" Johnson swallowed.

"Well, sir, we've had plenty of other problems to deal with. Once we determined they weren't doing anything critical, we left them under passive observation. There was nothing solid to pursue, and we couldn't find any evidence pointing to some other activity." Croft stared at him as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"They're just retired men, sir," Johnson continued, clearly trying to justify himself.

"They're paid well, they handle corporate espionage issues, consult on security. What's critical about that? The private sector has been poaching our people for twenty years. It's nothing new."

"Just retired men," Croft almost hissed.

"Just ordinary fucking retirees. Angleton, Wright, Bagley, and Hood. Ordinary retirees." He stood so abruptly that his chair rolled backward and struck the wall.

"Do you understand that those four together know more about intelligence operations than half the current Directorate? That Angleton personally knows active station chiefs on three continents? That Wright can call MI6 and have somebody there answer whatever question he asks?" He leaned over Johnson.

"Why didn't you start pushing harder earlier? Now the entire leadership is worked up, and thanks to your passive surveillance this man's reputation is cleaner than glass. He's on the covers of Forbes and Fortune. CBS presents him as a national hero. He gets awards for charity, workers in Ohio adore him, housewives worship the smoke detectors he sells. We CAN'T touch him anymore without looking like the villains in some cheap movie!" He pointed a finger at Johnson.

"Someone built him a perfect reputation. And you don't even stop to ask WHY. He has four intelligence paranoids working for him. He has close to two hundred experienced fighters. Excellent equipment. A huge private company with no shareholders and no outside investors. Why is he fighting organized crime, and what does he expect to get out of it?" Johnson shifted in his chair.

"Sir, with respect... maybe he's just a good businessman? People like that exist. Talented people. Lucky people. Some people like to do everything as well as they possibly can, and a strong security company fits that perfectly. And I'd say those paranoids probably helped him survive the Warner case in court too. There are reasonable explanations for all of it, and at the end of the day he isn't actually doing anything that extraordinary. As for those four... well, retirement gets boring. The money's good.

The work is interesting…"

"Get out."

"Sir?"

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY OFFICE!" Croft pointed at the door.

"If you don't shake this mess apart and expose him within one month, you're fired. Not transferred. Not demoted. FIRED. No pension, no recommendation, no farewell handshake. You'll be guarding parking lots for the rest of your life. Is that clear?" Johnson stood.

"Clear, sir."

"Then get out. And send Connors in. Maybe he hasn't forgotten how to think." Johnson left, quietly closing the door behind him.

The familiar orchestral theme played its final notes, applause rolled through the studio audience, and then there he was: Merv Griffin himself. Charming smile, perfect tan, a suit that cost more than half his viewers made in a month, and that effortless way of moving that came only after years of appearing in front of a camera every day.

"Good evening, good evening!" He spread his arms to greet the audience, and the camera picked out several delighted faces in the front rows.

"We have an incredible guest tonight, and I am not exaggerating when I say you adore her, I adore her, and all of America adores her! Please welcome the star of Goodbye, Darling and Strangers in the Night, Golden Globe nominee, the incomparable Susan Blakely!" The applause exploded again as a tall blonde emerged from backstage in an emerald dress that perfectly flattered her figure.

Twenty-eight years old, large blue eyes, a smile advertising agencies paid fortunes for, and the particular grace of a woman accustomed to being watched. She waved to the audience, blew a kiss to a woman in the front row, and gracefully settled into the chair opposite Merv, crossing one leg over the other.

"Merv, darling, you always embarrass me so much with those compliments that I spend half the night awake afterward, drunk on my own pride."

"I only speak the truth." Merv pressed a hand to his heart with the solemnity of a man taking an oath.

"You're beautiful, talented, and your latest picture has made so much money that the producers are probably still drinking champagne."

"Well, the critics weren't quite so unanimous." Susan grimaced slightly, though her eyes were laughing.

"One of them wrote that my performance 'lacked depth.' Can you imagine?"

"Critics!" Merv waved the idea away as though shooing off an annoying fly.

"What do they know about movies? They sit in dark theaters, scribble notes, and think that makes them experts. The audience loves you, they buy the tickets, and that's the only thing that matters."

"You always know exactly what to say to make a woman feel like a queen."

"That's my greatest talent, darling. Well, that and I sing pretty well, but we'll get to that later." The audience laughed, and Merv let himself enjoy the moment before continuing.

"Tell me about the shoot. I heard Mexico was so hot that your cameraman passed out right in the middle of a scene?"

"Oh, it was awful!" Susan threw up her hands, her bracelets chiming softly.

"We were filming in some little village outside Guadalajara, and it must have been a hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. Except there was no shade, because the sun was directly overhead. Poor Tony, our cameraman, had been carrying that camera around all day, and at some point he just folded in half and dropped. Right in the middle of my big scene, where I was supposed to be crying over my dead husband."

"And what did you do?"

"What could I do? I screamed, everybody ran to Tony, someone threw water in his face, and the director—can you imagine—the director was yelling, 'Don't stop the camera! Keep shooting!' Because the camera fell but didn't switch off, and he decided it might give the scene a documentary feel."

"Did that take make it into the movie?"

"No, of course not." Susan laughed.

"You could see me shouting, 'Tony, are you alive?' Not exactly the right line for a tragic scene." The audience roared with laughter, and Merv laughed with them, leaning back in his chair.

"What happened to Tony?"

"They brought him around, gave him water, and put him in the shade for three hours. He kept filming for another week afterward, but with a wet towel on his head."

"Hollywood isn't all glamour, as you can see." Merv turned toward the audience.

"Sometimes it's also heatstroke in Mexico."

"And mosquitoes," Susan added.

"The mosquitoes were the size of small birds. I still itch just thinking about them."

"But the film was worth it?"

"Absolutely. You know, Merv, there are some roles that make you willing to put up with the heat, the mosquitoes, and a director who makes you shoot the same scene fifteen times. This was one of those roles. A woman who loses everything and finds the strength to start over. I think people respond to that."

"Judging by the box office, they certainly do."

"Well, I hope so." She lowered her eyes modestly, though the modesty was clearly practiced.

"I just tried to be honest in front of the camera. That's all an actress can do." Merv nodded with the expression of a man who had heard that line from a hundred actresses before and always pretended it was the first time.

"Tell me about working with Jack. I heard the two of you didn't exactly find your rhythm right away?"

"Oh, Jack!" Susan rolled her eyes.

"Jack Lemmon is a genius, no question about it, but working with him that first week was like trying to dance with a hurricane. He improvises in every scene, changes lines on the fly, and you either keep up or look like a stunned fish on screen."

"So how did you manage?"

"I drank a lot of coffee and learned not to sleep." She smiled.

"No, seriously, by the middle of the shoot we found our rhythm. He improvises, I pick it up, and the director just keeps the cameras rolling and chooses the best parts later in editing. It was exhausting, but incredibly exciting. I learned more about acting in those two months than I had in the five years before them."

"Did you stay friends?"

"We talk on the phone sometimes. He always asks if I want to work with him again, and I always tell him, 'Only if you promise not to improvise during the romantic scenes.' Because last time he suddenly decided his character should sneeze right before a kiss. The director loved it, and I had to pretend it didn't throw me off at all."

"Sneeze before a kiss?" Merv burst out laughing.

"That's certainly an unconventional approach to romance."

"That's Jack. Everything he does is unconventional." They talked for a while longer about her upcoming projects, about Susan wanting to play a historical role, perhaps one of the British queens, and about her agent already negotiating with several studios. The audience listened with interest, applauding now and then, laughing at the right moments, and everything went exactly the way a good evening talk show was supposed to go.

Then Merv narrowed his eyes mischievously, and those viewers who had watched him long enough immediately recognized the expression.

"Susan, I have to ask you something. And I have a feeling all of America wants to know the answer."

"Oh." She theatrically leaned back in her chair and pressed a hand to her chest.

"When you say it like that, I start getting nervous. Is this about my personal life?"

"In a manner of speaking." Merv smiled in a way that made it obvious he was enjoying every second.

"I heard a rumor. Something about a charity dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria a few weeks ago." Susan froze for just a moment, and her smile became slightly less natural, slightly more controlled, the expression of someone who had just realized she'd been caught.

"Merv…"

"I've been told"—he turned to the audience like a conspirator desperate to share a secret—"that our beautiful Susan was turned down there by a certain young businessman. And turned down so thoroughly that half of New York is apparently still talking about it. Is that true?" The audience stirred with laughter, and several people applauded, already anticipating a good story. Susan blushed, visible even beneath professional makeup.

"Good Lord, Merv, where did you hear that? I thought it stayed between me and the several hundred guests at that dinner."

"I have my sources, darling. So is it true?" Susan sighed, but there was a playful spark in her eyes now, making it clear she had decided to turn the whole thing into a joke.

"All right, all right. Yes, it's true. And it was probably the strangest evening of my life."

"Tell us!" Merv leaned forward, and the audience seemed to lean forward with him.

"Well, it was the Heart of New York charity gala. Very prestigious, all the cream of society. I was sitting at a table with the dullest bankers imaginable. They spent the entire evening discussing interest rates and something about bonds. I was dying of boredom and already thinking about escaping with a headache when they announced that the main award of the evening was going to some David Miller."

"Aegis Industries," Merv supplied.

"Yes, that one. Video games, smoke detectors, something else, I hadn't really been following him. But when he walked onto the stage…" She paused, and the audience went quiet.

"What?" Merv finally asked.

"Well, he isn't classically handsome. He's not Redford, not Beatty, not the kind of man women lose their heads over on sight. But there's something about him, Merv. Something that makes you look. He walked onto that stage and the entire room went silent. Not because anyone asked for silence. He just took over the space. Do you know what I mean?"

"Charisma?"

"Maybe. Or just absolute confidence. He spoke without notes, looked people straight in the eye, and it seemed as though he honestly didn't care that there were senators, billionaires, and celebrities sitting there. To him, we were all just people in expensive clothes."

"Bold."

"Very. And somehow without a trace of arrogance, which was the strangest part. Just a man who knows exactly who he is and what he's worth."

"So you decided to introduce yourself?" Susan laughed, and there was a note of self-mockery in it.

"Well, yes. I thought: young, successful, supposedly not seeing anyone. Maybe he just hadn't met the right woman yet?"

"A noble mission."

"That's what I thought! I went up to him after the ceremony, when he was already about to leave. I introduced myself, he politely shook my hand. I told him his speech had really moved me, especially what he said about volunteers and social workers. He thanked me, and I asked if he wanted to stay for dinner because I'd heard the steaks were excellent and the champagne even better."

"And?"

"And he looked at me like this…" Susan tried to imitate the expression, making her face serious and slightly distant.

"Very attentive, absolutely no interest whatsoever, like I was a waitress asking whether he wanted more water. Then he said, 'Thank you for the invitation, Miss Blakely, but I need to review some reports from the Ohio plant. Have a good evening.'" Merv burst out laughing, the audience joining him, and Susan laughed too, though her cheeks turned even pinker.

"Plant reports!"

"From Ohio!" She threw up her hands.

"Merv, I was standing in front of him in a three-thousand-dollar dress, with a hairstyle that took two hours, diamonds in my ears, and he chose reports over me."

"Maybe they were very interesting reports?"

"Maybe he has a calculator where his heart should be!" The audience kept laughing, and Merv let them enjoy the moment before continuing.

"So what did you do?"

"What could I do? I stood there like an idiot with my mouth open while he walked away. He didn't even look back, Merv. Just walked to the exit, got into his car, and left. And I was standing there in the middle of the ballroom while several people looked at me with so much pity I wanted the floor to swallow me."

"Poor thing."

"I spent the next half hour sitting at the bar drinking champagne and trying to understand what had just happened. The bartender, sweetest man in the world, kept topping up my glass for free and telling me that some men simply don't recognize their own good fortune."

"He was right."

"Maybe. But do you know what the strangest part is?"

"What?" Susan paused, and her face became thoughtful, almost serious.

"I asked about him afterward. Friends who had worked with him, or at least met him. And everybody says the same thing. He's always like that. Works from seven in the morning until eleven at night, doesn't go to parties, doesn't date women. It's as if he doesn't notice anything except whatever he's working on."

"Like a monk."

"Exactly! Except instead of prayers, he has plans and charts and whatever else he does. And I have to admit, there's something compelling about that."

"Compelling?"

"You know, Merv, in Hollywood all the men are the same. Compliments, courting, trying to impress you, flowers, dinners, hints. You know exactly what they want, and they know exactly what you want. It's a game we all play. But this man simply doesn't play. He has some goal he's moving toward no matter what, even with a beauty like me standing next to him."

"That's almost insulting."

"It's strangely attractive." Susan smiled.

"You meet people like that once in a lifetime. People so focused on one thing that the rest of the world is just background to them." Merv nodded thoughtfully.

"I've read about him. It really is an impressive story. They say he completely remade himself over the last three years."

"It's true. Someone showed me an old photograph of him from when he still worked at that insurance company. Completely different man. Slouched, forgettable, the kind of person you wouldn't remember a minute after meeting him. And now… you've seen the pictures."

"I have."

"There you go. It's like two different people. He didn't just get rich. He rebuilt himself from the ground up. His body, his posture, the way he looks at people. Everything."

"You respect him?"

"Strangely enough, yes." She shrugged.

"Though I'm still a little angry about those damn reports." The audience laughed, and the tension broke.

"And if he asked you out?" Merv asked with a sly smile.

"Hypothetically?" Susan thought about it, and this time it was obvious she was actually thinking rather than playing for the camera.

"You know, I probably would say yes. Not because he's rich or successful. I have plenty of that around me already. I'm curious about what goes on inside his head. What kind of person looks at Susan Blakely in an evening gown and thinks, 'No, thank you, I have reports.'""Maybe he's watching tonight and calls you tomorrow."

"Merv, darling, he is absolutely not watching this show." Susan laughed.

"At this hour he's probably sitting somewhere over sales charts or inventing a new product. Or sleeping, because he has to be back at work at seven tomorrow morning." Merv turned toward the camera with the smile America knew so well.

"Mr. Miller, if by some miracle you are watching, I have a message for you: Susan Blakely is still waiting for that dinner invitation. But be warned, she's jealous of your reports from Ohio!" The audience applauded. Susan laughed and wagged a finger at Merv.

"You're a terrible man, Merv Griffin."

"I'm charming and you know it. Now, ladies and gentlemen, let's talk about our guest's next project, because I hear there may be something very interesting coming…"