Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “I know it sounds like small potatoes. But it can lead to big ones, Charlie. You can do it. And what about us? You owe me—the Party—all of us something for putting you on to the Lavins. Is this the time to let us down? I’m not too proud to beg if I have to. Stick with the Party, boy! We can make a real race of it. Media space and time—rallies—literature—sound trucks—street meetings—we’re in the running again, boy!”

  “Sorry, Del,” Mundin said patiently.

  “Charlie!”

  Mundin looked exasperated. “Del, you old crook, just what are you up to now? Suppose I did sink some time and some dough into the election—which I won’t. But suppose I did. You’d be in serious trouble if we won, Del. This is the year when the Regulars take a fall in the Council and the Reforms take a fall in the Statewide. What are you going to do, break the agreement?”

  THE politician leaned forward, his face completely changed. “I underestimated you, Charlie. I’ll tell you the God’s truth. No, normally I wouldn’t break the agreement; I’d be crazy. But something’s on the fire. I never miss on something like this. I feel it through the soles of my feet.”

  He had Mundin’s full attention now. “What do you feel?” Dworcas shrugged. “Little things. Jimmy Lyons, for instance. Remember him—the captain’s man at the precinct?”

  “Sure.”

  “He isn’t any more. Captain Kowalik transferred him out to Belly Rave. Why? I don’t know why, Charlie. Jimmy had it coming to him, sure. But why did it happen? And what’s happening to Kowalik? He’s losing weight. He can’t sleep nights. I asked him why and he wouldn’t tell me. So I asked somebody else and I found out. Kowalik’s trouble is that Commissioner Sabbatino doesn’t talk to him any more.”

  “And what’s the matter with Sabbatino?” Mundin was playing with a pencil.

  “Don’t kid me, Charlie. Sabbatino’s trouble is a man named Wheeler, who had a long, long talk with him one day. I don’t know what about. But I know Wheeler works for Hubble and Hubble is one of your clients.”

  Mundin put the pencil down. “So what else is new?” he asked.

  “Don’t joke, Charlie. What about the Ay-rabs? There’s a crazy rumor they’re all going to be moved into G-M-L Homes. The old folks don’t like the idea. Some of the young folks do, so there are family fights. A dozen riot calls a day in the 27th. So I asked my brother Arnie, the engineer with G-M-L. You met him, you know what a fathead he is. But even he feels something in his organization. What do we feel, Charlie?”

  A secretary person—with a start, Dworcas recognized his brother’s friend, Bligh—put his head in the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Mundin, but they phoned from the landing stage that they’re holding the D.C. ’copter for you.”

  Mundin nodded. “Look, thank them, Norvie, and ask them if they can give me five more minutes. I’ll be free shortly.” He glanced at Del Dworcas.

  Dworcas said, “You’re busy, Charlie. I’ll see you some other time. I just want you to remember that I’m leveling with you.”

  “Good-by, Del,” Mundin said cordially.

  Then to Bligh, after Dworcas was gone, he said, “Thanks, Norvie. You were very smooth. Let’s walk over to Mr. Ryan’s office.”

  Bligh said, “We can’t stay too long. The ’copter really does leave in twenty minutes.”

  RYAN, as usual, was snoozing with great dignity at his desk. He looked good, considering. His yen pox pills were rationed to him these days and he accepted it with good grace. His confusing explanation was, “As long as you know you can get your hands on them, you can say ‘no’ most of the time. It’s when you can’t possibly get them that you’ve got to have them.” As a consequence, his very able brain had cleared and he was able to work for as much as an intensive hour at a stretch. He had evolved personally most of the 78 basic steps of tackling G-M-L.

  Mundin reported Del’s conversation carefully. In effect, it was that steps one through twenty-four were clicking nicely.

  “A very pleasant miasma of doubt and confusion,” Ryan declared. “I am gratified, Charles. There is no public-opinion poll as sensitive as the judgment of a professional politician—but we will, of course, continue with the polling as a matter of course. You have reason to be proud.”

  “Have I?” Mundin asked glumly. “Spreading doubt and confusion? Knifings every night in the 27th ward?” He felt instant regret as the old man’s face drooped. “Excuse me, Mr. Ryan.

  Perhaps I’ve been working too hard.”

  Ryan said slowly, “Yes, at the wrong things. You remember the state I was in when we first met?”

  Mundin did. The old man had been disheveled, very sick with withdrawal symptoms, in a smoke-filled Belly Rave slum.

  “It was partly Green, Charlesworth that brought me to that sorry state. Partly Green, Charlesworth and partly conscience. Don’t strain yours too far, Charles.”

  Mundin found himself engaged in an elaborate justification of the role he was playing, explaining to the gently smiling, nodding old man that of course there was a good end in sight, that he wouldn’t be touching the thing if it were just for money, that they were out to end the contract-rental system in G-M-L.

  Bligh touched his elbow and muttered, “I think Mr. Ryan is asleep again.” He was. “And we really ought to head for the ’copter deck now.”

  They did, and took their seats in the big Washington-bound craft. Mundin said fretfully, “We ought to have a couple of executive ships of our own. There’s going to be more and more ground to cover. Put somebody on it, will you, Norvie?”

  Bligh made a note.

  Mundin asked, “When do you get in touch with Del’s brother? We can’t stall on it any longer. We’ve got to have those serial numbers or today’s work—and the whole buildup to it—is wasted.”

  “Tomorrow all right?” Bligh inquired.

  “Fine, fine.”

  HE took a briefcase from Bligh, shuffled through reports he ought to read, memoranda he ought to sign, notes he ought to expand. He irritably stuffed them back into the case.

  Incredibly, Bligh said to him, “Conscience, Charles,” and winked.

  “You don’t know what it’s like, Norvie! You don’t have the responsibility, so don’t try to kid me out of it. Let’s just talk; I don’t have to be a criminal again until we walk in on the museum. How’ve things been with you?” Bligh considered. “Well,” he said, “Virginia’s pregnant.” Mundin was genuinely shocked. “Norvie, I am sorry! I hope you’re not going to do anything foolish—”

  Bligh grinned. “The kid’s mine. First thing I did was drag her to an immunochemist and get that settled. How’s your girl?”

  “Huh?”

  “Norma Lavin.”

  “You’re dead wrong there.

  We can’t stand each other. And on my side, there’s full justification.”

  “Sure,” said Bligh soothingly. “Say, can we boost the allowance for the Wabbits? Lana was hinting.”

  “Why not? But do you think it’s doing any good? A bunch of kids, after all. I don’t think the rumors they spread ever get over to grownups.”

  “We can test easily enough. Launch one through the Wabbits alone. See how it compares in the polling.”

  “Okay, Norvie, have it done. No raise for the Wabbits until then, though. How’s your fosterdaughter, by the way?”

  “I’m almost proud of her. Came home five days running, beaten to a pulp. Sixth day, not a mark! She’s a Burrow Leader in the Wabbits now. And she closes her mouth when she chews and calls me ‘sir.’ Why, I practically tike the little witch!”

  Mundin felt a sudden flash of insight. “That’s why you’re still living in Belly Rave, isn’t it?” Bligh got defensive. “Maybe that’s part of it. But there’s something to be said for Belly Rave. When you can install a water tank and a generating system and fix your place up—it’s kind of lively.” His voice rang with civic pride. “In our block, we’ve organized a real volunteer police force, not one of those shakedown squads, and there’s talk i
n the blocks around us of doing the same.”

  Mundin said, “One day, who knows? Norvell Bligh, first mayor of New Belly Rave!”

  The little man was suddenly gray; he fiddled with the earpiece of his hearing aid. “Make it a joke if you want to,” he said, hurt. “The fact is they like me. I’m doing something for them—in a small way at first—and something has got to be done for these millions of outcasts. From the inside. I’m a funny-looking little man and I’m deaf and you automatically thought what you did when I said Virginia was pregnant. So what are you doing for Belly Rave, big man?”

  “Norvie, I’m sorry! I didn’t dream you were that serious about it—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Here’s Washington.”

  THE Museum of the National Association of the Builders of the American Dream had once been a proud idea, built with the contributions of businessmen and schoolchildren. But the American Dream was mere history in this G-M-L era, like Pax Romana or Brittania’s rule of the waves—words that had meaning only for the dead. The Museum remained, as the Pyramids had, but with the difference that the Pyramids needed no maintenance or staff. Of all this Mundin was reminded when he entered the shabby building and found his way to the anteroom of the director’s office.

  The withered secretary said to the gentlemen from New York, “Dr. Proctor is a very busy man. You must write or telephone for an appointment.”

  Mundin said gently, “Please tell the director that it is in connection with a rather substantial bequest. If it isn’t convenient for him to see us now, we’ll be glad to come back at some other time—although we don’t expect to be in the city long . . .”

  The director came flying out of his office, beaming.

  The attorney introduced himself.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Munsen! Even here, even in our remote and dedicated corner of the world, we have heard of your firm. Might one ask the name of—”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, I quite understand, Mr. Munchkin! And the—ah—amount?”

  “Flexible,” Mundin said firmly. “My client has commissioned me to inspect the Museum and report to him on which departments seem most deserving of additional support.”

  “Ah! Pray allow me to guide you, sir. Just through here is the Collection of—”

  Mundin said blandly, “I think we would prefer to see the Hall of Basics first.”

  Dr. Proctor very nearly frowned. At the last minute, he changed and merely looked confidential. “For the general public,” he said, nudging Mundin. “Gimmicks and gadgets. Not important, though perhaps of some limited interest to the engineer, the sociologist, that sort of person. Now our collection of Coelenterates, just through—”

  “The Hall of Basics, please?”

  “Mr. Monkton! A tourist trap, I assure you. On the other hand, the Coelenterata—which happen to be my specialty, I might add—”

  Mundin said sadly, “Norvell, I’m afraid Dr. Proctor isn’t really interested in our client’s bequest.”

  “Too bad,” Bligh said. “Well, luckily the ’copter’s waiting.”

  DR. Proctor sputtered and led them to the Hall of Basics. They gravely studied the spinning jenny, the sewing machine, the telegraph, the telephone, the airplane, the Model T, the atomic pile.

  They stopped before the G-M-L bubble house, beaming approvingly—except for Dr. Proctor. A tourist family of five was hogging the descriptive plaque. It was a minute or so before they could get close enough to read it.

  No. 342371

  THE FIRST G-M-L HOME

  Donated by Mr. Hamilton Moffatt

  “Father of the Bubble House”

  This G-M-L Home, moved to the Museum from its original site in Coshocton, Ohio, was fabricated in the plastics factory of Donald Lavin. Electrical circuitry and mechanisms were designed and installed by Bernard Gorman. It has stood for more than five decades without a scar or a malfunction. Chemists and engineers estimate that, without any sort of maintenance, it will last at least 1,000 more years, standing virtually forever as a tribute to the immortal genius of

  MR. HAMILTON MOFFATT

  “Do tell,” murmured the attorney. The director glumly started to lead them through the bubble house.

  “Hell with it,” said Mundin. “Let’s go back to your place.”

  In Dr. Proctor’s private office, Mundin looked at the small, dusty bottle the director exhumed from an umbrella rack. He shuddered and said decisively, “No, nothing to drink, thanks. Dr. Proctor, I think I can definitely state that my client would be interested in donating twenty thousand dollars as a fund to be divided at your discretion between the Hall of Basics and the Coelenterata collection.”

  “Dear me!” Dr. Proctor leaned back in his chair, fondling the bottle, his face wreathed in smiles. “Dear me! Are you sure you wouldn’t care to—just a very small—no? Do you know, perhaps I will, just to celebrate. A very wise decision, sir! It is, believe me, most unusual to find a layman who, like yourself, can at once perceive the ecological significance and thrilling morphology of the humble coelenterate!” He tipped the bottle into a dusty water tumbler and raised it in a toast. “The Coelenterata!” he cried.

  MUNDIN was fumbling in his briefcase. He produced a check, already made out, a typed document in duplicate, and a flat can that gurgled.

  “Now,” he said matter-of-factly, “pay close attention, Doctor. You, personally, are to dilute the contents of this can with one quart of ordinary tap water, fill an ordinary garden sprayer with the solution, and spray the G-M-L Home in the Hall of Basics with it, covering all plastic parts from the outside. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, if you have a good sprayer. Naturally, you will make sure nobody sees you doing it. That should be easy enough, in your position, but make absolutely sure of it. And that will be that.”

  Dr. Proctor, eyes bulging, coughed an ounce of tinted grain neutral spirits over his desk. Choking and wheezing, he at last got out, “My dear sir! What on earth are you talking about? What is in that container? Why should I do any such preposterous thing?”

  “I’ll take your questions in order. I am talking about twenty thousand dollars. What is in that container is something worth twenty thousand dollars. You should do it because of twenty thousand dollars.”

  Dr. Proctor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, almost speechless. “But—but if you assured me that the fluid would be entirely harmless—”

  “I’ll do no such thing. Where I come from, you can get away with quite a lot for twenty thousand dollars.” Mundin smiled frostily. “Come now, Doctor. Think of twenty thousand dollars! Think of the ecological significance and the thrilling morphology. And then sign this receipt—and then take the check.”

  Dr. Proctor looked at the check. “It’s post-dated a month,” he said tremulously.

  Mundin shrugged and began to repack his briefcase. “Well, if you’re going to quibble—”

  Dr. Proctor snatched the check.

  He scribbled his name on the receipt and, with a quick, furtive movement, dropped the flat can of fluid into his desk.

  In the return ’copter, Mundin and Bligh looked at each other. “He’ll do it,” Norvie Bligh said gravely.

  “He will. And that means we’ve got to have the serial numbers from the G-M-L files fast. You’d better see your friend Arnie Dworcas tonight.”

  Bligh choked down a protest. This part was his job.

  ARNIE Dworcas let him in, for he was old Norvell, the true friend, the shy acolyte. Sitting there with Arnie, listening to Arnie’s explanations of world affairs, it seemed to Norvie that Belly Rave was a nightmare and Mundin a figure from a dream. Nothing had changed, nothing would ever change, as long as he could sit and drink Arnie’s beer. But there were changes . . . Arnie drained his glass of beer, wiped his mouth and dialed another.

  “No, Norvell,” he said meditatively, “I wouldn’t say that you have succeeded. Not as we Engineers understand success. To us Engineers, a mechanism—and all of us are mechanisms, I, you, ever
ybody—a mechanism is a success when it is functioning at maximum efficiency. Frankly, in my little experiment of suggesting that you try Belly Rave, I was attempting to perform what we call ‘destructive testing’—the only way in which maximum efficiency can be determined. But what happened? By pure fortuitousness, you made a connection and are now a really able man’s secretary.” He sipped his beer sorrowfully. “To use an analogy, it’s as if my slipstick were to take credit for the computations I make on it.”

  “I’m sorry, Arnie,” Norvell said. It was very difficult to decide whether he wanted to laugh in Arnie’s face or take out some of those front teeth with a beer glass. “Mr. Mundin thinks a great deal of you and your brother, too, you know. You impressed him very much when you met him.”

  “Naturally. That’s one of the things you’ll have to learn. Like seeks like, in human relations as well as electrostatics.”

  “I thought in electrostatics like repelled—”

  “There you go!” yelled Arnie violently. “The dogmatic, argumentative layman! It’s people like you that—”

  “I’m sorry, Arnie!”

  “All right. Don’t get so excited. Really able people never lose control of themselves, Norvell! That was a stupid thing for you to get all upset about.”

  “I’m sorry, Arnie. That’s what I was telling Mr. Mundin.” Arnie, raising his glass irritatedly, stopped it in mid-air. He peered suspiciously at Norvie over the rim. “What were you telling Mr. Mundin?”

  “Why, that you never lost control in an emergency. That you would be a damned good man to put in charge of—oh! I shouldn’t have said anything!” Norvell covered his mouth with both hands.

  Arnie Dworcas said sternly, “Norvell, stop stammering and come out with it! In charge of what?”

  NORVIE, who had been fighting back a tendency to retch, removed his hands from his mouth. “Well—well, it isn’t as if I couldn’t trust you, Arnie. It’s G-M-L.”

  “What about G-M-L?”

  Norvie said rapidly, “It’s too soon to say anything definite and, please, Arnie, don’t let a word of it get out. But you’ve heard the rumors about G-M-L, naturally.”