"Did you?"
Helplessly Barchet nodded. Harker glared at him, then turned to Raymond and said, "There you have it, Mart. Mitchison heard he was getting canned, so he whipped this thing out now, while he could get fat on us. Well, we're stuck with this statement. There are two million reporters on the front lawn waiting for official word from us."
Raymond had not shaved that morning. He ran his fingers through a blue-stubbled growth of beard and then locked his hands over his forehead. In a sepulchral voice he said, "What do you suggest? Deny the Mitchison release?"
"Impossible," Harker said. "The word has gone out. If we nix it, the public will never believe a further word we say. Uh-uh."
"What then?"
"Don't worry about it. First thing is to prepare a release saying that the early announcement was premature, that Mitchison and Klaus are no longer connected with this organization—"
"Klaus has a contract."
"The contract has a clause in it about insubordination or else it isn't worth a damn. Have somebody send a special-delivery letter to Klaus informing him that his contract is voided. Keep a couple of carbons. Send a letter of dismissal to Mitchison, too."
Harker paused to wipe sweat from his face. In the small room, the air conditioners had little effect.
He went on, "Next thing: I'll draft a release confirming the fact that you've developed this technique, and I'll sign my name to it. When I'm done, have it mimeographed and distributed to everybody out there. That cancels out Mitchison's poop, anyway. After that"—he frowned—"do you have any human cadavers around the place? Revivable ones, I mean?"