"You certainly took your time getting here," Doctor Flood complained. A sullen mound of a man, thick-fingered, with watery red eyes, he grinned a sour gold-toothed leer at Cartwright. "What were you doing—waiting for more members?" He chuckled wetly. "There won't be any because this is all there is. This is the total organization."
Cartwright and Rita O'Neill pushed open the metal door and entered the meeting chamber.
The people waiting glanced up as the door opened. Talk ceased abruptly and all eyes were on Cartwright. An eager hope mixed with fright shuddered through the room; relieved, a few people edged towards him. The murmur boiled up again and became a babble; now they were all trying to get his attention. A ring of excited, gesturing men and women formed round him as he moved through the room. For one another they had uneasy, hostile glares. The parallel-club system had been successful: to one another they were strangers.
"Can we start?" Ralf Butler demanded.
"Soon," Cartwright answered. He moved on among them, aware of the tension. But another ten minutes wouldn't make any difference.
Jack McLean glanced up and grinned at Cartwright. "Not long? It's about time."
Cartwright felt in his pockets. Somewhere he had a crumpled, often-folded list of names. And on the back was a short speech he planned to deliver before the line of cars hidden in the underground garage lumbered off.
"What are you looking for?" Mary Uzich asked. "A writer?"
He found the list and carefully unfolded it. Names had been entered, crossed off, and re-entered. He smoothed it out and made an attention-attracting sound. It was unnecessary; he was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.