The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Now, stopping on the sand before Mr. Lucca, he was ready for the second phase of his work. He did not believe in unnecessary deviousness. Mr. Lucca glanced up at him, and Mr. Henkle simply smiled and said, Nice morning. The young man agreed, and Mr. Henkle — glancing around at the clear blue sky, sniffing the sea air — amplified his remark. Again Mr. Lucca agreed, and then, of course — it would have been an act of simple rudeness not to — he invited him to sit down, and Mr. Henkle did so.

  They talked for some minutes, as strangers do, of nothing, of the pleasantness of their surroundings, the pleasures of being there, and of the miserable weather in the North. Presently they introduced themselves. And then — There is a question asked among American men meeting for the first time that is not only permissible but almost an obligatory act of courtesy, and after a proper interval Mr. Henkle asked it. What do you do? he said.

  The young man was leaning back on his elbows, watching the ocean now, his untanned skin white against the yellow sand. I'm an engineer, he replied.

  Mr. Henkle nodded. I envy you, he said, and meant it.

  Oh — the young man smiled deprecatingly — I'm only a mining engineer. Never built a bridge in my life, not even a skyscraper. But the look of genuine envy remained in Mr. Henkle's eyes, and the young man laughed a little. I know what you're thinking, he said. Prospecting. Rich veins of ore. Fabulous finds. Sudden wealth. Most people do. Mr. Henkle nodded in complete agreement, but the young man shook his head. Eighty per cent of our operation, he said, is reworking old diggings. They threw away good ore in those days, couldn't work it profitably. But today we can. His gaze returned to the ocean before them.

  Sounds profitable, Mr. Henkle said gently.

  For a moment the young man hesitated, then he nodded. Yes, he said briefly, it is. But dull, he added quickly. A steady yield with no chance of the unexpected. Strictly routine. No bonanzas, no fun. Again he smiled. Mr. Henkle didn't reply. He had learned what he'd come to learn; now it was time to teach. After a moment, as Mr. Henkle fully expected, the young man said politely, What do you do?

  It was almost the truth, as Mr. Henkle told it; he believed and felt what he was saying — for the moment — so completely. All his life, he answered, he had been a salaried inventor for a large industrial concern. He described, briefly and in entirely factual terms, what this involved, and yet somehow, underneath his words, in an occasional tone of voice, there was conveyed the merest suggestion of failure.

  Sounds interesting, Mr. Lucca said politely.

  But Mr. Henkle shook his head. Not really, he said. I worked almost entirely at improving existing inventions; refinements that, often as not, are buried inside a machine invisible to the eye. Oh, he said, and shrugged, it is possible that you read your newspaper a few minutes earlier partly because of my work. Or buy a book a few cents cheaper. Or see a printed photograph a bit more clearly reproduced. But only once, he said, and his voice was thoughtful and reminiscent now, did I ever actually perfect my own invention — complete, unique, and entirely original.

  There was a pause, and then of course the young man lying on the sand had to say, And what was that?

  Well — into Mr. Henkle's eyes and voice came the pleasure of a man asked to talk about himself and his work — it's not easy to explain, unless you're fairly well grounded in optics and light-refraction. But since printing began, the image has had to be transfered to wood, stone, metal, or rubber, which then reproduces it on paper. And however much man has refined that intermediate step, he has never eliminated it, and therefore printed reproductions have always been less than perfect. But I did it; I eliminated that intermediate step.

  For a moment, eyes wide and thoughtful, he was silent; then he said, Take the finest example of engraving, indistinguishable from the original to all but the expert eye. Then place them both under magnification, and the countless tiny differences stand boldly revealed. But I did this. I found a way to follow the lines, and every minute variations of those lines, in any piece of written, printed, drawn, or engraved matter, with a tiny beam of light, smaller than the finest hair. I found a way to cause this tiny beam to contract and expand, and actually alter in shape, with every microscopic variation in the lines it followed. And then I found a way to focus it without deviation on the surface of light-sensitized paper. It is easily possible, as you probably know, to light-sensitize nearly any good grade of paper. Finally, and this is the key, I learned to cause ink to follow those invisible sensitized lines — like tiny rivers flowing between precisely formed banks. Using my own spare time and money, I built a machine that will do those things. And I had invented a small, compact, and errorless printer.

  He turned to glance at the man beside him. With it you may take the finest, most delicate engraving man can make and reproduce it with absolute, precise, and final exactitude. Not the artist himself, and no expert, can select it from the original, for there is no difference. Compare them under magnification, to the point where seemingly sharp and perfectly defined lines fuzz and blur into enormous imperfection — and every microscopic blur and fuzz is precisely duplicated. No difference can be detected, because none exists. Or can possibly exist. After a moment he smiled wryly with a corner of his mouth. That is my monument, he said, the peak and achievement of my life.

  Mr. Lucca nodded slowly. Sounds good, he said, and nodded again.

  In certain places, times, and moods — and Mr. Henkle knew this extremely well — human beings will suddenly confide to strangers things they would never mention even to intimate friends. Traditionally it happens aboard ship. It happens too in Nevada, where strangers wait out, in communal loneliness, the residence requirements for divorce. It happens wherever people meet — in intimate leisure — strangers they are unlikely to see again elsewhere. It happens, Mr. Henkle knew, at beach resorts like the one he was now at. And this moment, he understood — the tropical water glinting before them, the sun lying warm on their skins, in a vacation aura of temporary irresponsibility — this moment, he knew, would be accepted by the young man beside him as just such a time.

  They fired me, he said quietly, staring out at the ocean. Then he shrugged. Or I quit; it's hard now to say which happened first. He smiled wryly at the man beside him. Under the terms of my employment contract, as with most salaried inventors, I was required to state in writing, on a prepared form, what I proposed working on, in the absence of a definite assignment. And obtain approval for it. I didn't do so — with the childlike notion, I suppose, of surprising the company with my genius. Of placing the finished invention on a desk, triumphantly demonstrating it, and at long last achieving the reputation — and salary — I had never had. Mr. Henkle's lips twisted in a bitter smile. Well, I demonstrated it. It worked. And I received the most scathing reprimand of my life. What good was it? my immediate superior demanded to know — he actually shouted it. Momentarily, Mr. Henkle turned to Mr. Lucca, and the naked hurt of a child lay in his eyes. And do you know, he murmured, I had no answer; the question simply hadn't occurred to me. Oh, I muttered something about fine art books, perfect reproduction. And the instant and obvious answer was that no such perfection was either needed or useful, for who could detect it? Present-day methods, as I surely ought to know, could produce reproductions the eye couldn't detect from the original; who looked at them under magnification? Furthermore, they could be produced at high speeds, while my poor machine took several seconds for each and every reproduction, which is commercially ridiculous. I was a fool — my boss said so in just those words — wasting time and money on something of no use whatsoever. And I actually had to prove, hunting up my receipted bills, that I had spent none of the company's money on my great invention; they'd have deducted it from my pay if I had. After a moment's silence, Mr. Henkle said softly, They never even bothered applying for a patent, though the invention, of course, was legally their property. And so I left, taking my little invention with me, and I am quite sure they have never missed it.

  Forearms locked ar
ound his knees, the young man was staring down at the sand as Mr. Henkle finished. Now, as he lifted his head to speak, Mr. Henkle smiled shyly and reached out to tap his knee. You've been very kind, young man, he said softly. You've allowed me to bore you — again Mr. Lucca tried to speak, but Mr. Henkle held up a palm — and now I am finished. We're here for pleasure, both of us — he glanced around him at the sun-soaked beach — and I intend to have it. I'm retired now, and enjoying it every moment, and I intend to continue. Abruptly he got to his feet. smiled down at Mr. Lucca, and said. I hope you'll have a drink with me soon. He nodded politely, then quickly turned, his eyes embarrassed, and began to plod through the sand toward the great hotel. After a step or two, he stopped to look back at the young man staring after him. Thank you, he called, his voice soft with apology. Thank you very much. Flicking his hand in farewell, he turned again, pleasantly aware that he was leaving this shrewd, prosperous young man with an interesting question: How could a low-salaried failure, fired from his job in middle age, retire to spend large amounts of time and money at one of America's most expensive resort hotels? Mr. Henkle smiled to himself and walked on, his work over for the next four days.

  It was Johnny's turn now. Johnny was an accomplished man; he could swim and dive, play golf, tennis, bridge, poker, gin, hearts, canasta, old maid, or any other game known to man as brilliantly, mediocrely, or poorly as the circumstances required. Now, since Mr. Lucca, as it turned out, liked the races, Johnny appeared in the track clubhouse each day, binoculars around his neck, racing form and pencil in hand. Casual acquaintanceships at a resort track are easy, and Johnny was an affable young man. Presently he and Mr. Lucca were making their selections together.

  There are times to act and times to wait; now Mr. Henkle did not seek out Mr. Lucca. When they met in and around the great hotel, he spoke pleasantly; and at one such encounter, he invited Mr. Lucca to have a drink. But it was Mr. Henkle, rising from the bar stool, who left first; he paid for the drinks with a crisp, new, ten-dollar bill. Once they met at the lobby cigar counter, where Mr. Henkle was buying cigarettes. But Mr. Henkle merely nodded pleasantly at Mr. Lucca without speaking, paid for his cigarettes with a crisp, new, ten-dollar bill, and left. These encounters, while Mr. Henkle expected them, were genuinely accidental.

  But on Friday morning he sought Mr. Lucca out. Strolling first through the lobby, then the cardroom, then along the beach, he turned, next, into the swimming-pool area, and there found young Mr. Lucca and Johnny at a table beside the pool. He greeted them, they responded, and Mr. Henkle said to Johnny, You spoke of canasta the other day. I was wondering if perhaps this afternoon —

  Oh, I'm sorry, said Johnny, as they had agreed he would say the night before, but we're going out to the track today. He hesitated, giving Mr. Lucca a chance to speak; if he hadn't taken it, Johnny would then have issued the invitation.

  But Mr. Lucca said pleasantly, Why don't you come with us?

  Well — Mr. Henkle considered what seemed obviously a new idea to him — all right; I've never been to a race track. Sure you don't mind?

  Of course not, said Mr. Lucca, while Johnny turned away, bored. Glad to have you; we'll leave around one.

  Mr. Henkle nodded. Fine. Maybe you'll both meet me for a drink first? Say in the Surf Room bar, at twelve thirty? They accepted, and Mr. Henkle resumed his stroll, ready for the third and final phase of his work.

  At twelve twenty-eight, by separate doors, Mr. Henkle and Mr. Lucca entered the Surf Room bar almost simultaneously, Mr. Henkle wearing a white doublebreasted suit, white shoes, and a Panama hat; Mr. Lucca in gray trousers, a white open-collared shirt, a lightweight blue coat, and white shoes. Mr. Henkle ordered their drinks, and as they were set on the bar, he brought out his wallet. It was for this moment that Johnny had spent the last three afternoons at the track making Mr. Lucca's acquaintance, at a cost of $240 in losing bets, and for this moment that Mr. Henkle had sought out Johnny and Mr. Lucca at the pool that morning.

  Mr. Henkle opened his wallet and made a small exclamation of annoyance. Good heavens, he murmured, his voice and face exquisitely embarrassed, and as Mr. Lucca turned toward him, he slowly spread the wallet, his face flushing, to show that it was empty. Hastily, he started to rise, saying, I'll be back in a mo—, but as he had expected, Mr. Lucca interrupted.

  Sit down, he said, I'll take care of them, and after a moment's hesitation, Mr. Henkle nodded his embarrassed acceptance.

  At three minutes of one Johnny appeared, walking in rapidly, apologizing for his lateness (he had been sitting in his room waiting out the time). Mr. Lucca invited him to have a drink, but Johnny shook his head, glancing at his watch. We haven't time, he said. Mr. Lucca nodded, finished his drink, and rose.

  Mr. Henkle stood too, then suddenly, it seemed, recalled that his wallet was empty and began to stammer, his face flushing again. I'm sorry, he said, I've got to, ah — go to my room. Take several minutes or more, I'm afraid. Ah — you two go on.

  Again, if Mr. Lucca hadn't spoken, Johnny would have, but Mr. Lucca said, Take your time; we don't have to see the first race. Meet us here. Johnny allowed himself, then, to look annoyed.

  In his room Mr. Henkle took a second wallet, long and slim, from his inside coat pocket and opened it; it was thick with a sheaf of crisp, new, ten-dollar bills. He tucked a half-inch stack of them into his empty hip-pocket wallet, then took off his coat, lighted a cigarette, and sat down. Not until a full 15 minutes had passed did he stand. Then, from a dresser drawer, he took a small, unlabeled bottle of green ink, uncapped it, dipped the end of his little finger into the ink, recapped the bottle, and replaced it. Turning to his coat lying on the bed, he drew an inch-long streak of green ink on its back with his finger. Then he washed his hands carefully, put on his coat, and returned to the Surf Room bar.

  He lost just over $600 that afternoon at the track, betting haphazardly, picking his horses by name or by hunch, and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. When the last race ended and they moved slowly out of the crowd, he seemed in fine spirits, and was; Mr. Henkle was quite certain that at least half a dozen times Mr. Lucca had had full opportunity to see the little inch-long streak of green on the snowy back of his coat. On their way home, he refused a dinner invitation from Johnny; tonight, he explained, he absolutely had to write some letters.

  By seven o'clock his room was prepared. Several hotel envelopes, fictitiously addressed and enclosing blank paper, lay sealed on the desk. A half-finished letter lay beside them, together with the desk pen. Taped to the underside of the desk's front edge, out of sight, were two tiny squares of sponge rubber — one damp with green ink, the other with black. In shirt sleeves, Mr. Henkle sat at the desk, smoking and waiting.

  At eight twenty Mr. Lucca arrived. A knock sounded; Mr. Henkle picked up the desk pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and laid it, the point shiny with wet ink, on the desk top. Come in, he called, and when the door opened and Mr. Lucca stepped in, he widened his eyes in surprise and pleasure. Well, he said, nice to see you; sit down, and he got to his feet, his face showing pleasure and curiosity over this visit.

  Glancing at the desk top and the evidences of letter writing, Mr. Lucca simply said, I want to see it. Mr. Henkle's brows then rose in puzzlement, and young Mr. Lucca sighed and said, Look, we can do this however you like. I can explain in detail just how I know what you're doing with the machine — until you admit you have to show it to me. Or we can save time and skip all that. Let's save time; I want to see the machine, and I'm going to.

  For several ticks of his watch, Mr. Henkle stood staring at Mr. Lucca. Then, slowly and reluctantly, voice soft, he said, I guess I've been careless.

  Eyes ruthless, Mr. Lucca said, A little.

  From where he stood to the closet door it was perhaps eight or ten steps, and Mr. Henkle walked them slowly; once he stopped, turned to look back at the young man with the predatorily grooved cheeks, then walked reluctantly on. But from the moment he opened the closet door, his manner changed pro
foundly. Quite plainly, having faced and accepted the inescapable, Mr. Henkle was simply unable to resist the enormous pleasure — no matter what the circumstances or consequences — of exhibiting the pride and achievement of his life.

  As he turned back into the room, the carrying case in his hand, his eyes had come to life; and when he set the case on the desk top and opened it, they actually flashed with pleasure and excitement. A beauty, isn't it? he said, voice quiet with pride, then stooped to plug in the cord. He actually hurried, then, to bring out and plug in a portable electric iron and spread a hotel towel on the dresser. His steps rapid, his nostrils flaring with eagerness, he brought out a small suitcase, spread it open on the bed, and lifted out a thick packet of small, rectangular, white sheets of paper.