Gladiator-At-Law

by Frederik Pohl

  Candella exploded, “Look, you fool!” He tossed a sheaf of reports at Norvell.

  They were all there. Names, dates, and places. Norvell looked up in horror. “Mis-ter Can-deMa,” he whispered. “It’s a doublecross!” His voice gained strength. “He wants a Fifteen rating. Just yesterday he tried to get me to recommend remission of his contract. I wouldn’t do it; this is his way of getting even.”

  “Bligh! That’s a serious charge!”

  “Oh, I’ll prove it, Mr. Candella. I’ve got the copies of his reports in my desk, under lock and key. Please, Mr. Candella —come into my office with me. Let me show you.”

  Candella stood up. “Show me,” he ordered.

  And ten minutes later he was saying grimly, “Thought I wouldn’t call your bluff, eh?”

  Norvell stared unbelievingly at the reports, face white as a sheet. They had been in his desk, locked with his key. …

  Arid they were not the reports he had seen. They sparkled with novelties; they showed all the magnificent new concepts in Stiminens’s outline, and much, much more.

  The papers shook in Norvell’s hands. How? He couldn’t have left the desk unlocked. Nobody had a key but him and Miss Dali—and she had no reason to do such a thing. There had been no chance for sleight of hand, no possibility his eyes had deceived him. Had he gone mad? Was it some chemical prank, the reports he saw in disappearing ink, the substituted ones then coming to light? How?

  Over Norvell’s desk set Candella was calling Stimmens in. The boy appeared, looking awed and deferential.

  Mr. Candella said briefly, “Congratulations, Stimmens. You’re the head of the department from this moment on. Move into your office whenever you like—this is your office. And throw this bum out.” To Norvell: “Your contract is canceled for cause. Don’t ever try to get a job in this line again; you’ll waste your time.” He left without another word.

  Norvell was entirely numb.

  Stimmens said uneasily, “You could have avoided this. Don’t think I enjoyed it. I’ve been working on it for six months, and I didn’t have the heart to go through with it. I had to give you a chance; you turned it down.”

  Norvell stared, just stared. Stimmens went on defensively: “It isn’t as if I just walked into it. Believe me, I earned this. What do I know about Field Days? Sweat, sweat, sweat; I haven’t had a moment’s peace.”

  Miss Dali walked in and kissed Stimmens, burbling: “Darling, I just heard! You wonderful Grade Fifteen you!”

  “Oh,” said Norvell hi a sick voice.

  They said more, but he didn’t hear; it was as if his hearing aid were turned off, but the switch was not hi his pocket but in his mind. He was out on the street before he realized what he was doing … and what had happened to the contract career of Norvell Bligh.

  The thing was, Virginia.

  Norvell came up to that point in his thinking as he had come a thousand times before and, like a thousand times before, he backed away from it. He ordered another drink.

  No contract status, no bubble-house. It would be Belly Rave, of course. Norvell took a deep swallow of the drink. Still, what was so bad about Belly Rave? You’d be out in the fresh air a lot, at the least. You wouldn’t starve—nobody ever starved, that much everybody knew. He could find something to do, probably. The allotments would take care of eating; his extra work—whatever it turned out to be—would give him a chance to save a little money, make a fresh start, maybe find a place in the old section of the city. Not like the bubble-houses, of course, but better than Belly Rave, from all he’d heard.

  He wished one more time that he knew a little more about Belly Rave. Funny, considering that Virginia had been born there; but she had never wanted to talk about it.

  And there he was, back on the subject of Virginia again.

  How she would take it was another matter. He really couldn’t guess. She had been so resolutely, reliably silent on

  the subject of Belly Rave and all it concerned. Her childhood, t her parents and even her husband, the power-cycle stunter whose crash in a long-ago Field Day had left young Nprvell Bligh with a tearless widow to jolly out of filing a claim. He had married her instead; and Candella had made an unforgivable joke… . No. He faced it. He hadn’t married her; she had married him—and not even him, really, but a contract job and a G.M.L. house.

  He dialed another drink.

  He looked around the bar; he had never been in the place before. He didn’t even know where he was; he’d found himself wandering through the Ay-rab section of town, footsore. He had turned back and this place had been there, new and shiny and attractive. It looked like a nice place. Someday he might bring Arnie here, if Arnie would still——

  He squelched that thought before it was properly formed. Certainly he would bring Arnie here! Arnie wasn’t the kind of friend to look the other way when you were a little down on your luck—not even that, really, just temporarily in a little bit of a rough time due to a professional misunderstanding and a doublecross. Good old Arnie, Norvell thought sentimentally.

  He caught a glimpse of the time.

  Better face the music and get it over with. Maybe he could have it out with Virginia, and then go over and spend a little time with Arnie. The thought bucked him.

  He swallowed his drink and slipped his wallet into the bar slot. Having it out with Virginia might not be so tough at that. In a way, he thought, the fact that she had been born in Belly Rave was an advantage, if he could only make her see it that way. She would know the ropes. She’d have friends there; she’d have some ideas about pleasant, useful work he could do to supplement the allotment until he got on his feet again. She could save him plenty of time in making contacts, getting——•

  Something crushed his shoulder and spun him around. “Whaddya think you’re up to, Buster?” the policeman demanded in a bass snarl. He shook Norvell’s wallet under his nose. “You know the penalty for passing a bum credit card? You Belly Ravers are all alike; get a lapsed card and a front, and try to get a free load. Come along, Buster. The Captain wants to talk to you.”

  It was all quite horrible.

  Of course Candella had canceled his card at once—but it was a simple-enough oversight. Norvell spent a long time trying to make them believe him down at the precinct, before he realized that they did believe him—believed him, and just didn’t care.

  It was close to dinner time, and they put him in something they called “the Tank” to think things over until the desk sergeant got back from his meal. Norvell didn’t like the Tank, and he didn’t like the looks of the half-dozen other persons who occupied it with him. But still, he reminded himself, it could have been worse. It was only a question of his lapsed credit card; they could easily have added drunk and disorderly to the charge. And Norvell could have found himself logged for being without visible means of support, which meant getting a job, instanter, or getting jugged for quite a while. And there was only one kind of a job a man in police trouble could pick up a phone and get, every time. Usually you didn’t have to phone. The cops would drive you down to the Stadium’s service entrance themselves; Norvell knew the process, having seen enough “volunteers” delivered.

  “Hey, Bligh.”

  Norvell said, “Yes, sir?”

  ‘ The cop opened the door. “This way.” They came, to a dingy room. There was an embarrasing process of holding your hands over your head while someone ran his hands over you; you couldn’t blame them for searching you, Norvell told himself, there must be plenty of times they had desperate criminals here. There was a curiously interesting process of inking the fingers and rolling them across a piece of paper. There was a mildly painful process of looking into what seemed to be a binocular microscope; a light flashed, photographing the retina of his eyes, and Norvell had a little trouble seeing for some time afterward.

  While Norvell was blinking at the halo in his field of vision the cop said something. Norvell said, “What?”

  “I said do you want to call your lawyer?”


  Norvell shook his head automatically. Then he remembered: He had a lawyer. “Why, yes,” he said. He found Mundin’s phone number in the book with some difficulty; it was after hours, but he was lucky enough to get an answer—

  though Mundin himself wasn’t there, and the person who answered seemed, Norvell thought, to be drunk or) something. But he left a message, and then there was nothing to do but wait. /

  Curiously, the waiting was not unpleasant. Even the thought of what Virginia would say or do about this was not particularly terrifying; what could happen worse than had already happened?

  So he waited. Past six o’clock, past seven; and for a couple of hours more before he began to worry.

  It was almost ten o’clock; if he didn’t get out pretty soon, it would be too late to try to see good old Arnie.

  Chapter Nine

  “thank you very much, Mr. Mundin,” Norvell said. He looked back at the precinct house and shuddered.

  Mundin said, “Don’t thank me. I just put in a word with Del Dworcas, and he put in a word with the precinct. Thank him.”

  Norvell brightened. “Oh, I want to! I’ve wanted to meet Mr. Dworcas for a long time. Arnie—you know his brother Arnie is a very close friend of mine—has told me so much about him.”

  Mundin shrugged. “Come on, then,” he said. “I’m going to the Hall anyhow.”

  It was only a short walk to the Hall, and the rain discouraged conversation. Mundin stalked sourly ahead of his client, his mind on G.M.L. Homes. The hope kept hammering at his good sense: Maybe he could pull it off—maybe… .

  Norvell followed contentedly enough. Every thing was being ordered for him; he was out of a job, he had been in jail, he was hours and hours late for Virginia without a word of explanation—but none of it had been bis own decision.

  Decisions would come later. That would be the hard part.

  Norvell stared around the Hall curiously. It wasn’t as impressive as one might expect—though maybe, he thought, you

  had to admire the Regular Republicans for then-common touch. There was certainly nothing showy about Republican Hall.

  Norvell stopped, politely out of earshot, as Mundin spoke to a dark, sharp-featured man in shirtsleeves. Some kind of janitor, he guessed; he was astonished when Mundin called him over and introduced him to Del Dworcas.

  Norvell said with a certain pride, “I’m really delighted to meet you, Mr. Dworcas. Your brother, Arnie, is very proud of you; we’re very good friends.”

  Dworcas studied hirn thoughtfully. He asked irrelevantly, “Live around here?”

  “Oh, no. Quite some distance away, but——” Dworcas seemed to lose interest. “Glad to meet you,” he said, turning away. “You want to see Arnie, he’s in Hussein’s across the street. Now, Charles, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

  Norvell was left standing with his hand extended. He blinked a little, but—after all, he reminded himself, Mr. Dworcas was a busy man. And Arnie—lucky day!—was in some place called Hussein’s across the street.

  On the way downstairs he caught a glimpse of the tune. After eleven!

  Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he told himself recklessly. He turned his coat collar up and plunged out into the rain, almost into the arms of a policeman escorting a scrawny young girl into the Hall. His heart pounded, but the policeman paid him no attention; he crossed the street to the coffee shop.

  Arnie was at a table by himself, reading. He looked up as Norvell came close, and hastily put the magazine away. He said nothing, except with his incredulous eyes.

  Norvell slipped into a vacant seat, smiling at his little joke on Arnie. “Surprised to see me?” Arnie frowned. “What are you doing here?” Norvell lost his smile. “Can—can I have some coffee, Arnie?” he asked. “I came out without any money.” Arnie looked mildly outraged, but beckoned the grinning waiter.

  Then Norvell told him—about the jail, and Mundin, and Del Dworcas. Arnie took it in without emotion—until Norvell stopped for breath, when Arnie permitted himself a smile.

  “You’ve had a busy day,” he said humorously! “I’m glad you met Del, though; he’s a prince. Incidentally/ I’ve taken the liberty of asking a couple of his associate^ to the Field Day. So when you get the tickets———”

  Norvell licked his lips. “Arnie———”

  “When you get the tickets, will you get three extras?”

  Norvell shook his head. “Arnie, listen to me. I can’t get the

  tickets.”

  Arnie’s chin went up. “You what?” “I got fired today. That’s why I didn’t have any money.” There was a pause. Dworcas began looking through his pockets for a cigarette. He found the pack and put it absently on the table in front of him without lighting one. He said

  nothing.

  Norvell said apologetically, “It—it wasn’t my fault, Arnie. This rat Stimmens——” He told the story from beginning to end. He said, “It’s going to be all right, Arnie. Don’t worry about me. It’s like you said. Maybe I should have canceled long ago. I’ll make a fresh start in Belly Rave. Virginia can help me; she knows her way around. We’ll find some place that isn’t too bad, you know, and get it fixed up. Some of those old houses are pretty interesting. And it’s only a question of time until——”

  Dworcas nodded. “I see. You’ve taken an important step, Norvell. Naturally, I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Thanks, Arnie,” Norvell said eagerly. “I don’t think it’ll be

  so bad. I——”

  “Of course,” Arnie went on meditatively, “it does put me in

  kind of a spot.”

  “You, Arnie?” Norvell cried, aghast.

  Dworcas shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. It’s just that the fellows at the shop warned me. They said you were probably stringing me along about the tickets. I don’t know what 111 tell them that won’t make you look pretty bad, Norvell.”

  Norvell squeezed his eyes shut in an agony of self-flagellation. Loyal Arniel Concerned about his status in the eyes of the other engineers, when it would have been so easy simply to let them think the worst.

  “Well, that’s the way the ball bounces, Norvell,” Arnie went on. “/ don’t blame you. Forget it. I can’t blame you for

  putting your own problems first.” He looked ostentatiously at his watch. “I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “I’d better be getting back to the Hall in any case; my brother has something he wants to consult with me about. Oh, nothing too special—but it’s every citizen’s duty, of course, to do what he can.” He dropped a bill on the table and piloted Norvell to the door.

  Under the dingy marquee, he patted Norvell’s shoulder. “Drop me a line once in a while, won’t you?” he urged. “I’m the world’s worst letter-writer, but I’ll always be glad to hear how you’re getting along.”

  Norvell stopped dead and planted his feet; the rain spun in on them from the tempest outside. “Write you a letter, Arnie?” he demanded urgently. “I’ll be seeing you, won’t I?”

  “Of course you will.” Dworcas frowned at the rain. He said patiently, “It’s just that, naturally, you won’t want to make that long trip from Belly Rave too often. Hell, I can’t blame you for that! And for that matter I’ll be kind of tied up evenings myself until I get this thing for my brother over with… . Look, Norvell, no sense standing here. Drop me a line when you get a chance. And the best of luck, fellow!” And he was gone.

  Norvell sloshed through the drowned streets. With his credit card canceled and no cash in his pockets, it was a long, wet way home. After the second block he thought of going back and borrowing cab fare from Arnie; but, after all, he told himself, you couldn’t do a thing like that, when Arnie had been so nice about the tickets and all… .

  He had plenty of time to rehearse what he was going to say to Virginia.

  He said it.

  When it was over, he stared at his wife less in relief than in wonder. His walk home in the gusty rain had been a hell of apprehension. Sh
e would scream at him. She might throw things. She would call him names—horrible, cutting, hit-be-k>w-the-belt names.

  But she didn’t.

  Fortunately the daughter was asleep; it would have been harder with her around. He changed his clothes without a

  I

  …__. came down, looked her in the eye and told her—directly and brutally. /

  Then he waited. The explosion didn’t come. Virginia seemed almost not to have heard him. She sat there, blank-faced, and ran her fingers caressingly over the soft arms of the chair. She rose and wandered to the wall patterner wordlessly. Typical of her sloppy housework, the morning-cheer pattern was still on. With gentle fingers she reset the wall to a glowing old rose and dimmed the lights to a romantic, intimate amber. She drifted to a wall and mirrorized it, looking long at herself. Norvell looked too. Under the flattering lights her skin was gold-touched and flawless, the harsh scowl lines magicked

  away.

  She sat on the warm, textured floor and began to sob. Norvell found himself squatting awkwardly beside her. “Please, honey,” he said. “Please don’t cry.” She didn’t stop. But she didn’t push him away. He was cradling her shoulders uncomfortably in his arms, her head on his chest. He was talking to her in a way he had never been able to before. It would be hard, of course. But it would be real. It would be a life that people could stand—weren’t thousands of people standing it right now? Maybe things had been physically too easy for them, maybe it took pressure to weld two personalities together, maybe their marriage would . turn into shared toil and shared happiness and—— Alexandra giggled from the head of the stairs. Norvell sat bolt upright. The girl tittered sleepily, “Well! Excuse me. I didn’t dream there was anything intimate going on.”

  Virginia got quickly to her feet, bowling Norvefl over. He felt his neck flaming a dull red as he got up.

  He swallowed and made the effort. “Sandy,” he said gently, using the almost-forgotten pet name that had seemed so much more appropriate when she was small and cuddly and not so much of a si—hold on! “Sandy, please come down. I have something important to tell you.”