Cal went on, “This is another reason for the institution of expediters. The top executive can’t work surrounded by inferior salesmanship. He needs the stimulus and the luxury of receiving his data well packaged. The expediters can do it.” He leaned over confidentially. “I’ve heard them called backscratchers for that reason,” he whispered.
Albert was flattered that Cal admitted him to this trade joke.
Mr. Southfield looked up at the archway as someone came in—not Mr. Demarest, but a black-haired young woman. Albert looked inquiringly at Cal.
“Just a minute. I’ll soon know who she is.”
She stood facing Mr. Southfield, against the wall opposite Albert and Cal. Mr. Southfield said in a drowsy half whisper, “Yes, Miss Drury, the ore-distribution pattern. Go on.”
“She must be another expediter, on some other matter,” Cal decided. “Watch her work, Albert. You won’t get an opportunity like this often.”
Albert studied her. She was not at all like an Agency Model; she was older than most of them (about thirty); she was fully dressed, in a rather sober black and gray business suit, snug around the hips; and she wasn’t wearing makeup. She couldn’t be even an ex-Model, she wasn’t the type. Heavier in build, for one thing, and though she was very pretty it wasn’t that unhuman blinding beauty. On the contrary, Albert enjoyed looking at her (even lacking Mr. Southfield’s connoisseurship). He found Miss Drury’s warm dark eyes and confident posture very pleasant and relaxing.
She began to talk, gently and musically, something about how to compute the most efficient routing of metallic ore traffic in the Great Lakes Region. Her voice became a chant,
rising and falling, but with a little catch in it now and then. Lovely!
Her main device, though, sort of sneaked up on him, the way the chair had. It had been going on for some time before Albert was conscious of it. It was like the chair.
Miss Drury moved.
Her hips swung. Only a centimeter each way, but very, very sensuously. You could follow the motion in detail, because her dress was more than merely snug around the hips, you could see every muscle on her belly. The motion seemed entirely spontaneous, but Albert knew she must have worked hard on it.
The knowledge, however, didn’t spoil his enjoyment.
“Gee,” he marveled to Cal, “how can Mr. Southfield hear what she’s saying?”
“Huh? Oh—she lowers her voice from time to time on purpose so we won’t overhear Corporation secrets, but he’s much nearer her than we are.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“You mean why doesn’t her delivery distract him from the message? Albert,” Boersma said wisely, “if you were sitting in his chair you’d be getting the message, too—with crushing force. A superior presentation always directs attention to the message. But in Mr. Southfield’s case it actually stimulates critical consideration as well! Remarkable man. An expert and a connoisseur.”
Meanwhile Albert saw that Miss Drury had finished. Maybe she would stay and discuss her report with Mr. Southfield? No, after just a few words he dismissed her.
IV
In a few minutes the glow caused by Miss Drury had changed to a glow of excited pride.
Here was he, plain old Professor LaRue, witnessing the drama of the nerve center of the Lakes Region—the interplay of titanic personalities, deciding the fate of millions. Why, he was even going to be involved in one of the decisions! He hoped the next expediter to see Mr. Southfield would be Mr. Demarest!
Something bothered him. “Cal, how can Mr. Demarest possibly be as—well—persuasive as Miss Drury? I mean—”
“Now, Albert, you leave that to him. Sex is not the only possible vehicle. Experts can make strong appeals to the weakest and subtlest of human drives—even altruism! Oh yes, I know it’s surprising to the layman, but even altruism can be useful.”
“Really?” Albert was grateful for every tidbit.
“Real masters will sometimes prefer such a method out of sheer virtuosity,” whispered Cal.
Mr. Southfield stirred a little in his chair, and Albert snapped to total alertness.
Sure enough, it was Mr. Demarest who came through the archway.
Certainly his entrance was no letdown. He strode in even more eagerly than he had into Mr. Slick’s office. His costume glittered, his brown eyes glowed. He stood against the wall beyond Mr. Southfield; not quite straight, but with a slight wrestler’s crouch. A taut spring.
He gave Albert and Cal only half a second’s glance, but that glance was a tingling communication of comradeship and joy of battle. Albert felt himself a participant in something heroic.
Mr. Demarest began releasing all that energy slowly. He gave the background of West Lapland, Great Slave, and Churchill. Maps were flashed on the wall beside him (exactly how, Albert didn’t follow), and the drama of arctic colonization was recreated by Mr. Demarest’s sports-caster’s voice. Albert would have thought Mr. Demarest was the over-modest hero of each project if he hadn’t known all three had been done simultaneously. No, it was hard to believe, but all these vivid facts must have been served to Mr. Demarest by some research flunky within the last few minutes. And yet, how he had transfigured them!
The stirring narrative was reaching Mr. Southfield, too. He had actually sat up out of the easy chair.
Mr. Demarest’s voice, like Miss Drury’s, dropped in volume now and then. Albert and Cal were just a few feet too far away to overhear Corporation secrets.
As the saga advanced, Mr. Demarest changed from Viking to Roman. His voice, by beautifully controlled stages, became bubbling and hedonistic. Now, he was talking about grandiose planned expansions—and, best of all, about how much money The Corporation expected to make from the three colonies. The figures drooled through loose lips. He clapped Mr. Southfield on the shoulder. He stroked Mr. Southfield’s arm; when he came to the estimated trade balances, he tickled his neck. Mr. Southfield showed his appreciation of the change in mood by lying back in his chair again.
This didn’t stop Mr. Demarest.
It seemed almost obscene. Albert covered his embarrassment by whispering, “I see why they call them backscratchers.”
Cal frowned, waved him silent, and went on watching.
Suddenly Mr. Demarest’s tone changed again: it became bleak, bitter, desperate. A threat to the calculated return on The Corporation’s investment—even to the capital investment itself!
Mr. Southfield sat forward attentively to hear about this danger. Was that good? He hadn’t done that with Miss Drury.
What Mr. Demarest said about the danger was, of course, essentially what Albert had told Mr. Blick, but Albert realized that it sounded a lot more frightening Mr. Demarest’s way. When he was through, Albert felt physically chilly.
Mr. Southfield sat saying nothing. What was he thinking? Could he fail to see the tragedy that threatened?
After a moment he nodded and said, “Nice presentation.” He hadn’t said that to Miss Drury, Albert exulted!
Mr. Demarest looked dedicated.
Mr. Southfield turned his whole body to face Albert, and looked him straight in the eyes. Albert was too alarmed to look away. Mr. Southfield’s formerly ordinary jaw now jutted, his chest swelled imposingly. “You, I understand, are a well-informed worker on plant metabolism.” His voice seemed to grow too, until it rolled in on Albert from all sides of the room. “Is it your opinion that the danger is great enough to justify taking up the time of the Regional Director?”
It wasn’t fair. Mr. Southfield against J. Albert LaRue was a ridiculous mismatch anyway! And now Albert was taken by surprise—after too long a stretch as an inactive spectator— and hit with the suggestion that he had been wasting Mr. Southfield’s time … that his proposition was not only not worth acting on, it was a waste of the Regional Director s time.
Albert struggled to speak.
Surely, after praising Mr. Demarest’s presentation, Mr. Southfield would be lenient; he would take into accoun
t Albert’s limited background; he wouldn’t expect too much. Albert struggled to say anything.
He couldn’t open his mouth.
As he sat staring at Mr. Southfield, he could feel his own shoulders drawing inward and all his muscles going limp.
Cal said, in almost a normal voice, “Yes.”
That was enough, just barely. Albert whispered, “Yes,” terrified at having found the courage.
Mr. Southfield glared down at him a moment more.
Then he said, “Very well, you may see the Regional Director. Mr. Demarest, take them there.”
Albert followed Mr. Demarest blindly. His entire attention was concentrated on recovering from Mr. Southfield.
He had been one up, thanks to Mr. Demarest. Now, how could he have stayed one up? How should he have resisted Mr. Southfield’s dizzying display of personality?
He played the episode back mentally over and over, trying to correct it to run as it should have. Finally he succeeded, at least in his mind. He saw what his attitude should have been. He should have kept his shoulders squared and his vocal cords loose, and faced Mr. Southfield confidently. Now he saw how to do it.
He walked erectly and firmly behind Mr. Demarest, and allowed a haughty half-smile to play on his lips.
He felt armed to face Mr. Southfield all by himself—or, since it seemed Mr. Southfield was not the Regional Director after all, even to face the Regional Director!
They stopped in front of a large double door guarded by an absolutely motionless man with a gun.
“Men,” said Mr. Demarest with cheerful innocence, “I wish you luck. I wish you all the luck in the world.”
Cal looked suddenly stricken but said, with casualness that didn’t fool even Albert, “Wouldn’t you like to come in with us?”
“Oh, no. Mr. Southfield told me only to bring you here. I’d be overstepping my bounds if I did any more. But all the good luck in the world, men!”
Cal said hearty goodbyes. But when he turned back to Albert he said, despairing: “The brushoff.”
Albert could hardly take it in. “But—we get to make our presentation to the Regional Director, don’t we?”
Boersma shrugged hopelessly, “Don’t you see, Albert? Our presentation won’t be good enough, without Demarest. When Mr. Southfield sent us on alone he was giving us the brushoff.’’
“Cal—are you going to back out too?”
“I should say not! It’s a feather in our cap to have got
this far, Albert. We have to follow up just as far as our abilities will take us!”
Albert went to the double door. He worried about the armed guard for a moment, but they weren’t challenged. The guard hadn’t even blinked, in fact.
Albert asked Cal, “Then we do still have a chance?”
“No, we haven’t got a chance.”
He started to push the door open, then hesitated again. “But you’ll do your best?”
“I should say so! You don’t get to present a proposition to the Regional Director every day.”
With determination, Albert drew himself even straighter, and prepared himself to meet an onslaught twice as overbearing as Mr. Southfield’s. One single thought was uppermost in his mind: defending his sales resistance. He felt inches taller than before; he even slightly looked down at Cal and his pessimism.
Cal pushed the door open and they went in.
The Regional Director sat alone in a straight chair, at a plain desk in a very plain office about the size of most offices.
The Regional Director was a woman.
She was dressed about as any businesswoman might dress; as conservatively as Miss Drury. As a matter of fact, she looked like Miss Drury, fifteen years older. Certainly she had the same black hair and gentle oval face.
What a surprise! A pleasant surprise. Albert felt still bigger and more confident than he had outside. He would certainly get on well with this motherly, unthreatening person!
She was reading from a small microfilm viewer on an otherwise bare desk. Obviously she had only a little to do before she would be free. Albert patiently watched her read. She read very conscientiously, that was clear.
After a moment she glanced up at them briefly, with an
apologetic smile, then down again. Her shy dark eyes showed so much! You could see how sincerely she welcomed them, and how sorry she was that she had so much work to do-how much she would prefer to be talking with them. Albert pitied her. From the bottom of his heart, he pitied her. Why, that small microfilm viewer, he realized, could perfectly well contain volumes of complicated Corporation reports. Poor woman! The poor woman who happened to be Regional Director read on.
Once in a while she passed one hand, wearily but determinedly, across her face. There was a slight droop to her shoulders. Albert pitied her more all the time. She was not too strong—she had such a big job—and she was so courageously trying to do her best with all those reports in the viewer!
Finally she raised her head.
It was clear she was not through; there was no relief on her face. But she raised her head to them.
Her affection covered them like a warm bath. Albert realized he was in a position to do the kindest thing he had ever done. He felt growing in himself the resolution to do it. He would!
He started toward the door.
Before he left she met his eyes once more, and her smile showed such appreciation for his understanding!
Albert felt there could be no greater reward.
Out in the park again he realized for the first time that Cal was right behind him.
They looked at each other for a long time.
Then Cal started walking again, toward the subway. “The brushoff,” he said.
“I thought you said you’d do your best,” said Albert. But he knew that Cal’s “I did’’ was the truth.
They walked on slowly. Cal said, “Remarkable woman… . A real master. Sheer virtuosity!’’
Albert said, “Our society certainly rewards its most deserving members.”
That one single thought was uppermost in his mind, all the long way home.
THE BLACK CLOUD
FRED HOYLE
One of the most brilliant—and beyond doubt one of the most controversial—figures in present-day science is the English astronomer, Fred Hoyle. His greatest contribution to astronomical thought, perhaps, is his theory of the ^steady-state” universe—the universe which has neither beginning nor end, but continually re-creates itself in the spaces between the stars. Violently supported and violently condemned, the theory rests on a remarkable chain of flawless mathematical logic . . . and on the interpretation of certain events occurring at the very furthest limit of human investigation, the most distant nebulae visible in the 200-inch telescope at Mount Palomar. Needless to say, both sides find support for their beliefs in these phenomena.
Not by chance, the hero of his science fiction novel, The Black Cloud, is brilliant—and controversial. The Cloud has come from interstellar space to shut out the Suns light; it behaves oddly; a group of scientists are gathered in a sort of English Manhattan Project to study it . . . and here is what they discover.
During November the pulse of mankind quickened. And as governments got matters more and more in hand the desire for communication between the various pockets of humanity strengthened. Telephone lines and cables were repaired. But it was to radio that men turned in the main. Long wave radio transmitters were soon working normally, but of course they were useless for long distance communication. For this, short wave transmitters were put into operation. But the short wave transmitters failed to work, and for a reason that was soon discovered. The ionization of the atmospheric gases at a height of about fifty miles turned out to be abnormally high. This was giving rise to an excessive amount of collisional damping, as the radio engineers called it. The excessive ionization was caused by the radiation from the very hot upper reaches of the atmosphere, the hot upper reaches that were still producing the blue shimmering nig
hts. In short, radio fade-out conditions were operative.
There was only one thing to be done: to shorten the transmitting wavelength. This was tried down to a wavelength of about one meter, but still the fade-out continued; and no suitable transmitters on still lower wavelengths were available, since lower wavelengths were never widely used before the coming of the Cloud. Then it was remembered that Nortonstowe possessed transmitters that would work from one meter down as far as one centimeter. Moreover the Nortonstowe transmitters were capable of handling an enormous quantity of information, as Kingsley was not slow to point out. It was accordingly decided to make Nortonstowe a world information clearing house. Kingsley’s plan had borne fruit at last.
Intricate calculations had to be performed and, as they had to be done quickly, the electronic computer was put into operation. The problem was to find the best wavelength. If the wavelength was too long the fade-out trouble would continue. If the wavelength was too short the radio waves would stream out of the atmosphere away into space instead of being bent round the Earth, as they must be to travel from London to Australia, let us say. The problem was to compromise between these extremes. Eventually a wavelength of twenty-five centimeters was decided on. This was thought to be short enough to overcome the worst of the fade-out difficulty, and yet not to be so short that too much power would get squirted out into space, although it was recognized that some loss must occur.
The Nortonstowe transmitters were switched on during the first week of December… .
One afternoon, Leicester, who had organized the building of the transmission system, rang Kingsley and asked him to come along to the transmitting lab.
“What’s the panic, Harry?” asked Kingsley.
“We’ve done a fade!”
“What!”
“Yes, right out. You can see it over here. A message was coming through from Brazil. Look how the signal has gone completely.”
The Expert Dreamers (1962) Anthology Page 15
