“What is it?”
“I wish I knew. I try to keep current, but the press of business—” He turned to Duff. “Phillip, I want to know what happened to Norton. I want to know if Spieler is involved. I need this information as quickly as possible. Engage Mr. Smith to help you. Do you understand?”
“Which Mr. Smith, sir?”
“Scarlyn.”
Duff looked away from the screen. I heard the sound of pages turning. He read something and looked up at Mr. Merryweather.
“Mr. Smith has been retired for ten years.”
An exasperated expression momentarily flickered across Mr. Merryweather’s face. “I am aware of that, Phillip. I said engage Mr.—”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Merryweather broke the connection, visibly irritated. “There are times when Phillip’s caution annoys me. Perhaps his relationship with Mrs. Norton has biased his judgment. A sense of protectiveness may be admirable in private affairs, but business is business, to coin a phrase.”
I had missed something. Mr. Merryweather’s request for information, though peculiar in itself—I still wondered why anyone cared about the missing Norton—seemed straightforward. His order to hire Smith, whoever he was, seemed clear. Duff’s response, that Smith was retired, sounded reasonable. Unless they knew something beyond what they said, Duff’s caution and Mr. Merryweather’s irritation seemed inappropriate. I asked about it.
“Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Merryweather, “is a man of absolute integrity.”
He said nothing more. Why anyone would be cautious about hiring a man of absolute integrity was beyond me. We discussed Norton’s reports. Mr. Merryweather seemed satisfied with my answers. Fifteen minutes later, warming to my subject, the intercom glowed, interrupting me.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Duff, again.”
“Put him on.” Duff came on, scowling. Mr. Merryweather nodded a curt greeting. “You talked to Scarlyn.”
“Not exactly.”
“I warn you, Phillip. Do not find excuses. I want Smith.”
“I called. A girl answered—his granddaughter, I think. I told her I wanted to talk to Smith concerning business. She said he was retired. I said I knew, but still wanted to talk to him. She brought him to the phone.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He listened. He nodded. That face, I remember it. It used to give me nightmares. What if he had made a mistake, Horace—excuse me, Mr. Merryweather. It could have been me!”
“He didn’t make a mistake.”
“But he could have. What would we have done?”
“It would have been difficult, Phillip. Now, tell me what he said.”
“He didn’t say anything. When I finished telling him about Norton, he laughed and hung up.”
I think Mr. Merryweather smiled. I was at the wrong angle to see his face.
“All right, Phillip. I want you to talk to Scarlyn in person. And take Mr. Collins with you.”
“Me?”
Mr. Merryweather looked at me. “You do want the job?”
“Ah—”
He waited.
He peered at me.
“I—yes.”
“Good. Scarlyn may have some technical questions. Phillip would be incapable of answering them. The girl will give you some papers to fill out at your leisure.”
“At my leisure.”
On the way out of the building with Duff, the blond, Pamela. winked at me.
“Ciao, Mr. Collins, and congratulations.”
IV
In the car with Duff, I felt shell-shocked. Duff drove, keeping the turbine Mercedes well, under the speed limit. I stared at the road, still slick with rain, thinking. I had expected more discussion, possibly a tour of the Merryweather Enterprize, talks with other employees, then time to think. Instead, I got action. One minute I was Robert Collins, hardcore unemployed. ‘The next minute I was still Robert Collins—that fact, at least, I remembered—chief project engineer on a project I had never seen. I asked Duff about it.
“Mr. M makes up his mind fast,” answered Duff, glancing at me. “You look a little shaken.”
“I am.”
“Frankly, Mr. Collins, I have my reservations. Even if I were in favor of this project, putting an untried twenty-seven-year-old—”
“Twenty-eight.”
“—in charge, notwithstanding his technical background, strikes me as folly. Some things require more than a purely technical understanding. Age and experience supply the judgment to handle those things.”
“Thanks for the confidence.”
“Nothing personal.”
Smith lived in Seal Beach. We drove up Pacific Coast Highway. I finally relaxed. The more I thought about it, the more 1 wanted to get started. People like Duff—actually, Duff in particular—annoyed me. Twenty-eight, I was. I considered that fact beyond my sphere of responsibility. If Duff wanted to complain, he could take the matter up with my parents. On the other hand, I was ready—unflinchingly, as they say—to take responsibility for my judgment and abilities. If he had doubts, he could trot me out to the Merryweather Enterprize and test them. Otherwise, he could shut up. I decided to change the subject. “Who’s Smith?”
Duff’s relaxed posture stiffened, his hands gripping the wheel. A fierce, thin-lipped expression suffused his face. “A menace.”
“Pardon me?”
“The man’s a menace.”
Mr. Merryweather seems to think highly of him.”
Duff slowed for a signal, looking up at it. It changed. He grunted and crossed the intersection. “Mr. M is not infallible.”
“Did Smith work for Merryweather Enterprises?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” said Duff and subsided into glaring at the road. I could see his jaw muscles flexing as his teeth ground.
“You don’t like Smith?”
“I said, I’d rather not talk about it.”
We passed into Sunset Beach. Signs on the broad highway divider advertised the upcoming Grunion Festival. I had once known a Grunion Queen. Attractive girl, in spite of it.
I wanted to know more about Smith, both because it irritated Duff and because I was about to meet him. Anyone so vehemently disliked by Duff must have several redeeming traits.
“I should know something,” I said, “about the man I’m meeting.”
“The less you know, the better. I had nightmares about that man for two years”—two fingers sprouted from his grip on the wheel—“after his last escapade.” Duff shivered, remembering it.
“He sounds like a wild man.”
“He is a wild man. See this?” He pointed to his right eyebrow. An old scar showed through a thin spot. “He gave me that. Permanent disfigurement!”
“What did he do?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
We found Smith jogging, heading toward us on the far side of the Seal Beach pier, a minute but visible speck, framed in the pier pilings. Duff had walked carefully across the beach, cursing about the sand and hoping they would pave it soon.
“It wouldn’t be much of a beach paved,” I said.
“It would be better than what they’ve got now,” he insisted, glancing from his shoes to the sand and back to his shoes. He pointed at the pier.
“There.”
“Sure it’s him?”
“It’s him,” answered Duff, moving down to the tideline and planting himself in Smith’s path. The speck enlarged into a man, arms pumping, chin extended. He passed under the pier, disappearing momentarily into the shadows, then emerging. Duff waved his entire arm overhead.
“Mr. Smith!”
Smith, sweat darkening his gray sweatsuit and matting his gray hair, jogged. He either failed to see Duff—an unlikely explanation considering the wag of Duff’s arm—or ignored him.
“Mr. Duff.” I said, leaning toward him. Smith was about ten yards away
, sneakers slapping on the wet sand, his expression set in a fierce charge. “I think we’d better get out of the—”
“Nonsense,” scoffed Duff. “He’ll stop. I—”
“OUT OF THE WAY, DUFF!” roared Smith, charging.
Panicked, Duff looked frantically from side to side, then hopped out of the way. Smith jogged between us, nodding curtly to me. “Morning.”
He looked about sixty. Scrawny, spindly, lanky—even in the baggy sweatsuit, any of them fit. Duff began trotting next to him. I followed.
“Mr. Smith.”
Smith jogged.
“I have to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
Duffs bobbing head barely reached Smith’s shoulder. His width emphasized it. A wave tumbled and broke, sliding up the beach toward us. We dodged, three athletes out for their morning roadwork, one in a sweatsuit, two in business suits. I began to taste the salt air, inhaling deeply.
“Here?” asked Duff.
“You’re getting fat, Duff.”
Duffs step faltered. He dropped back, giving me a shuddering look. Why, it asked, were the woes of Phillip Duff compounded by people like Smith. Smith’s shoulders, sweat-soaked, moved like a boxer’s in front of me. Duff caught up with him, starting to pant.
“Mr. Smith,” persisted Duff. “I can’t … keep … this … up … for … long.”
“Back in a minute.”
Smith stretched out, loping down the beach. Duff’s all-out run, matching Smith’s jog, dribbled to a walk. He stopped. He leaned on his knees, breathless, speechless, incapacitated. I caught my breath, sweat beading on my forehead, and watched Smith run. He dwindled, passed the near edge of a line of houses and broke his stride. He started toward us, withdrawing something from the pocket of his sweatsuit and looking at it.
Duff, still leaning on his knees, made rasping noises and spat on the sand.
Smith approached, scrutinizing the object in his hand, a jogwatch, one of those hybrids, half pedometer and half stopwatch. He looked at me, his tan face glistening. The skin over his cheekbones had the yellowish sheen of polished mahogany.
“You people slowed me up,” complained Smith.
“Sorry.”
He nodded at Duff. “What’s his problem?”
“Winded.”
Smith snorted. Duff gurgled and spat.
“What did he want to talk to me about?”
“Norton, I think.”
Smith laughed, a gravelly, croaking sound that subsided into a growl. “Funniest thing I’ve heard all week.”
Duff, recovering, stood up, his face red from leaning on his knees. “Mr. Smith, it is not … in the least funny. It is … quite a serious mat … ter.”
“For you. Not me.”
Smith started across the beach toward his street, returning the jog-watch to his pocket. Duff followed him, still catching his breath. I followed Duff. Smith pulled a bent cigar from his pocket, straightening it with both hands.
“Mr. Merryweather,” began Duff, walking next to Smith, “is prepared to offer—”
“I’m retired,” interrupted Smith, clamping his teeth down on the cigar and talking around it. He struck a wooden match on his thumbnail. It flared. He lit the cigar, puffing, sweat still shining on his face.
“Mr. Smith—”
“No. Simple enough?”
“We can at least discuss the matter.”
Smith glanced at Duff, continuing to puff his cigar, and shook his head. He had said no. What more did Duff want? A stream of gray smoke trailed Smith. I tried to avoid the fumes. He paused near a deadend barrier on his street, smoking, listening, saying nothing. Duff talked quickly, trying to prevent Smith from interrupting. Smith seemed to have no intention of interrupting. When Duff ran down, Smith extracted the cigar from his mouth and spat. He pointed the wet end at his house.
“See that?”
Duff looked at the house, irritated at the diversion. “Yes.”
“Like it?”
“It’s a very nice little house, Mr. Smith, but—”
“Looks like a bank to me.”
The house, a wide, two-story structure in Neodoric style—plastone pillars spaced at intervals across the façade—did look like a bank. I wondered about the abrupt transition from Norton to Smith’s house. Then I remembered Smith had already given his answer, no. If Duff wanted to chat, Smith would chat. Smith, retired, had little else to do. All he asked was equal time. Duff wanted to talk about Norton. OK, Smith wanted to talk about the house. Duff missed the point.
“Mr. Smith,” said Duff, “I did not drive up here to discuss architecture.”
“Too bad,” said Smith, turning to me. “What do you think?”
“It looks like a bank.”
“My son-in-law owns it.” He paused, puffing. “Banker. Likes his buildings solid. Lives in a paper empire and likes his buildings solid.” Smith nodded at the house. “There’s something to it.”
I laughed. Duff tried to interrupt. Smith silenced him with a wave of the cigar. It was Smith’s turn.
“Harold’s mother—awful woman,” continued Smith, the cigar butt poised six inches from his mouth, “wanted him to be a banker. Can you imagine a mother wanting her son to be a banker. Security, she said. Build not thy house on sand. She had five husbands:” He looked at me. “Something in that, too.” He pointed with the cigar. “That’s Harold’s wife down there watching us!’
“Your daughter.”
“More or less.”
I looked at the house. The curtain of a side window was drawn slightly aside.
“I’d invite you in,” said Smith, “but they don’t allow me to smoke inside.” He puffed. “Might spill ashes on something in my dotage.”
I could see Smith enjoyed the pose, playing the old man.
“Mr. Smith,” said Duff, his expression agitated, “at least say you’ll think about it.”
“I’m retired, Duff. Why should I go traipsing around after this joker Norton’s carcass? I’ve got everything I need right here. All day to myself. Putter in the garden.” He paused, puffing. “If I liked puttering in gardens. No headaches. Feed the pigeons cigar butts—plenty of things to do. Got it made. I’ve got everything I need, money, cigars—” He looked at the house, still playing the old man. The curtain at the side window fell into place. When he spoke, the humor had drained from his voice. “A loving family.”
He broke off the pose, flicking the cigar butt into the street. “Nope. Sorry, Duff. Tell Horace I’m out of it. Tell him he ought to get out, too.” The humor returned. “Three hots and a cot. That’s all us old men need.”
“What can you lose,” persisted Duff, “by saying you’ll think about it?”
Smith exploded, now playing the cranky old man. “All right! Damn it! I’ll think about it! I’ll think about it and then I’ll say no!”
“Fine. Fine,” said Duff, reaching out and shaking Smith’s hand with both of his. “We’ll contact you later for your answer.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr., uh—”
“Collins.”
We left. Duff drove me home. In the car, turning off Smith’s block, I said, “So that’s your wild man,” trying to put as much irony in my voice as possible. Duff answered yes, firmly and clearly, cursed Smith, cursed Norton and fell silent.
When I got home, Dolores was talking to the refrigerator, mumbling about the effect of a plaintiff from Wisconsin suing joint tortfeasors from Hawaii and New York in Nevada for negligently transplanting a kidney in Florida. She does that, mumbles, paces, stops, explains the situation to herself again, paces, mumbles. I asked her where the kidney was from.
“Don’t confuse me—oh, Bobby!” She closed the refrigerator. I wondered how long she had been standing there, letting out the cold.
“Mr. Collins, please, or Chief if you prefer.”
“You got it!”
I nodded.
She grabbed me in a bear hug, pinning both my arms to my sides and hopping up and down.
She squealed. “I’m so happy!”
“At least you’ll be rid of me for a while. Let go, please.”
She stopped hopping, still hugging. Her expression looked blank. “Be rid of you?”
“You didn’t think I’d work down here, did you? Most of it will be up there.” I glanced at the ceiling. It needed painting. “Let go, please.”
“I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it. How long will you be”—she glanced at the ceiling—“up there?”
“Who knows?”
“Bobby.”
“Hm-m-m?”
“Are there any girls”—she looked at the ceiling, again—“up there?”
“Girls go to purgatory first. Let go.”
“Answer me. Are there any girls?”
I tried to shrug. “I don’t have any idea.”
She let go. “I hope not.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to lose you to some free-fall floozy.”
“Free-fall what?”
“Floozy.”
“Where did you get a word like that?”
“It was in an old case I read. Or maybe it was flivver. One of them was a car and the other one was a girl.”
“Flivver sounds more like a girl to me.”
“You’re distracting me. How long will you be gone?”
I tried to estimate. A matter transmission to the Tranquility relay station and from there to the Intraplanet station took a little over two seconds. A ship from there to the Merryweather Enterprize took a week. It would take several more weeks to familiarize myself with Norton’s project, the station, its crew and their assorted problems. Then, perhaps, I could take a break. Somewhere I had read that the standard Earthside rotation was three months.
“About three months.”
“Three months! What am I supposed to do for three months?”
“Study?”
“When I’m not studying?”
“Remember me?”
She made a noise something like harumpf. “I’m not so sure this job was a good idea.”
“It pays well.”
“I don’t care. What good’s money if there isn’t anyone to spend it with?”
“You’re the one who was going to walk out if I didn’t take the job.”
Stargate Page 4
