Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He took his raincoat from her, hung it up, and said, “Sit down, Meade."

  She said uncertainly, “I had better go."

  “Go if you must — but I had hoped to talk with you."

  “Well —" She sat down on the edge of his couch and looked around. The room was small but as neat as his necktie, clean as his collar. The fireplace was swept; the floor was bare and polished. Books crowded bookshelves in every possible space. One corner was filled by an elderly flat-top desk; the papers on it were neatly in order. Near it, on its own stand, was a small electric calculator. To her right, French windows gave out on a tiny porch over the garage. Beyond it she could see the sprawling city; a few neon signs were already blinking.

  She sat back a little. “This is a nice room — Potiphar. It looks like you."

  “I take that as a compliment. Thank you." She did not answer; he went on, “Would you like a drink?"

  “Oh, would I!" She shivered. “I guess I’ve got the jitters."

  He got up. “Not surprising. What’ll it be?"

  She took Scotch and water, no ice; he was a Bourbon-and-gingerale man. She had soaked up half her highball in silence, then put it down, squared her shoulders and said, “Potiphar?"

  “Yes, Meade?"

  “Look — if you brought me here to make a pass, I wish you’d go ahead and make it. It won’t do you a bit of good, but it makes me nervous to wait for it."

  He said nothing and did not change his expression. She went on uneasily, “Not that I’d blame you for trying — under the circumstances. And I am grateful. But … well it’s just that I don’t —"

  He came over and took both her hands. “My dear, I haven’t the slightest thought of making a pass at you. Nor need you feel grateful. I butted in because I was interested in your case."

  “My case? Are you a doctor? A psychiatrist?"

  He shook his head. “I’m a mathematician. A statistician, to be precise."

  “Hub? I don’t get it." “Don’t worry about it. But I would like to ask some questions. May I?"

  “Uh, sure, sure! I owe you that much — and then some."

  “You owe me nothing. Want your drink sweetened?"

  She gulped it and handed him her glass, then followed him out into the kitchen. He did an exact job of measuring and gave it back. “Now tell me why you took your clothes off?"

  She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I guess I just went crazy." She added round-eyed, “But I don’t feel crazy. Could I go off my rocker and not know it?" “You’re not crazy … not more so than the rest of us," he amended. “Tell me, where did you see someone else do this?"

  “Huh? But I never have."

  “Where did you read about it?"

  “But I haven’t. Wait a minute — those people up in Canada. Dookasomethings."

  “Doukhobors. That’s all? No bareskin swimming parties? No strip poker?"

  She shook her head. “No. You may not believe it but I was the kind of a little girl who undressed under her nightie." She colored and added, “I still do — unless I remember to tell myself it’s silly."

  “I believe it. No news stories?"

  “No. Yes, there was too! About two weeks ago, I think it was. Some girl in a theater, in the audience, I mean. But I thought it was just publicity. You know the stunts they pull here."

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t. February 3rd, the Grand Theater, Mrs. Alvin Copley. Charges dismissed."

  “Huh? How did you know?"

  “Excuse me." He went to his desk, dialed the City News Bureau. “Alf? This is Pot Breen. They still sitting on that story? … yes, yes, the Gypsy Rose file. Any new ones today?" He waited; Meade thought that she could make out swearing. “Take it easy, Alf — this hot weather can’t last forever. Nine, eh? Well, add another — Santa Monica Boulevard, late this afternoon. No arrest." He added, “Nope, nobody got her name — a middle-aged woman with a cast in one eye. I happened to see it … who, me? Why would I want to get mixed up? But it’s rounding up into a very, very interesting picture." He put the phone down.

  Meade said, “Cast in one eye, indeed!"

  “Shall I call him back and give him your name?"

  “Oh, no!"

  “Very well. Now, Meade, we seemed to have located the point of contagion in your case — Mrs. Copley. What I’d like to know next is how you felt, what you were thinking about, when you did it?"

  She was frowning intently. “Wait a minute, Potiphar — do I understand that nine other girls have pulled the stunt I pulled?"

  “Oh, no — nine others today. You are —" He paused briefly. “— the three hundred and nineteenth case in Los Angeles county since the first of the year. I don’t have figures on the rest of the country, but the suggestion to clamp down on the stories came from the eastern news services when the papers here put our first cases on the wire. That proves that it’s a problem elsewhere, too."

  “You mean that women all over the country are peeling off their clothes in public? Why, how shocking!"

  He said nothing. She blushed again and insisted, “Well, it is shocking, even if it was me, this time."

  “No, Meade. One case is shocking; over three hundred makes it scientifically interesting. That’s why I want to know how it felt. Tell me about it."

  “But — All right, I’ll try. I told you I don’t know why I did it; I still don’t. I —"

  “You remember it?"

  “Oh, yes! I remember getting up off the bench and pulling up my sweater. I remember unzipping my skirt. I remember thinking I would have to hurry as I could see my bus stopped two blocks down the street. I remember how good it felt when I finally, uh —" She paused and looked puzzled. “But I still don’t know why."

  “What were you thinking about just before you stood up?"

  “I don’t remember."

  “Visualize the street. What was passing by? Where were your hands? Were your legs crossed or uncrossed? Was there anybody near you? What were you thinking about?"

  “Uh … nobody was on the bench with me. I had my hands in my lap. Those characters in the mixed-up clothes were standing near by, but I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t thinking much except that my feet hurt and I wanted to get home-and how unbearably hot and sultry it was. Then —" Her eyes became distant, “— suddenly I knew what I had to do and it was very urgent that I do it. So I stood up and I … and I —" Her voice became shrill.

  “Take it easy!" he said. “Don’t do it again."

  “Huh? Why, Mr. Breen! I wouldn’t do anything like that."

  “Of course not. Then what?"

  “Why, you put your raincoat around me and you know the rest." She faced him. “Say, Potiphar, what were you doing with a raincoat? It hasn’t rained in weeks — this is the driest, hottest rainy season in years."

  “In sixty-eight years, to be exact."

  “Huh?"

  “I carry a raincoat anyhow. Uh, just a notion of mine, but I feel that when it does rain, it’s going to rain awfully hard." He added, “Forty days and forty nights, maybe."

  She decided that he was being humorous and laughed.

  He went on, “Can you remember how you got the idea?"

  She swirled her glass and thought. “I simply don’t know."

  He nodded. “That’s what I expected."

  “I don’t understand you — unless you think I’m crazy. Do you?"

  “No. I think you had to do it and could not help it and don’t know why and can’t know why."

  “But you know." She said it accusingly.

  “Maybe. At least I have some figures. Ever take any interest in statistics, Meade?"

  She shook her head. “Figures confuse me. Never mind statistics — I want to know why I did what I did!"

  He looked at her very soberly. “I think we’re lemmings, Meade."

  She looked puzzled, then horrified. “You mean those little furry mouselike creatures? The ones that —"

  “Yes. The ones that per
iodically make a death migration, until millions, hundreds of millions of them drown themselves in the sea. Ask a lemming why he does it. If you could get him to slow up his rush toward death, even money says he would rationalize his answer as well as any college graduate. But he does it because he has to — and so do we."

  “That’s a horrid idea, Potiphar."

  “Maybe. Come here, Meade. I’ll show you figures that confuse me, too." He went to his desk and opened a drawer, took out a packet of cards. “Here’s one. Two weeks ago a man sues an entire state legislature for alienation of his wife’s affection — and the judge lets the suit be tried. Or this one — a patent application for a device to lay the globe over on its side and warm up the arctic regions. Patent denied, but the inventor took in over three hundred thousand dollars in down payments on South Pole real estate before the postal authorities stepped in. Now he’s fighting the case and it looks as if he might win. And here-prominent bishop proposes applied courses in the so-called facts of life in high schools." He put the card away hastily. “Here’s a dilly: a bill introduced in the Alabama lower house to repeal the laws of atomic energy — not the present statutes, but the natural laws concerning nuclear physics; the wording makes that plain." He shrugged. “How silly can you get?"

  “They’re crazy."

  “No, Meade. One such is crazy; a lot of them is a lemming death march. No, don’t object — I’ve plotted them on a curve. The last time we had anything like this was the so-called Era of Wonderful Nonsense. But this one is much worse." He delved into a lower drawer, hauled out a graph. “The amplitude is more than twice as great and we haven’t reached peak. What the peak will be I don’t dare guess three separate rhythms, reinforcing."

  She peered at the curves. “You mean that the laddy with the artic real estate deal is somewhere on this line?"

  “He adds to it. And back here on the last crest are the flag-pole sitters and the goldfish swallowers and the Ponzi hoax and the marathon dancers and the man who pushed a peanut up Pikes Peak with his nose. You’re on the new crest — or you will be when I add you in."

  She made a face. “I don’t like it."

  “Neither do 1. But it’s as clear as a bank statement. This year the human race is letting down its hair, flipping its lip with a finger, and saying, 'Wubba, wubba, wubba’."

  She shivered. “Do you suppose I could have another drink? Then I’ll go."

  “I have a better idea. I owe you a dinner for answering questions. Pick a place and we’ll have a cocktail before."

  She chewed her lip. “You don’t owe me anything. And I don’t feel up to facing a restaurant crowd. I might … I might —"

  “No, you wouldn’t," he said sharply. “It doesn’t hit twice."

  “You’re sure? Anyhow, I don’t want to face a crowd." She glanced at his kitchen door. “Have you anything to eat in there? I can cook."

  “Um, breakfast things. And there’s a pound of ground round in the freezer compartment and some rolls. I sometimes make hamburgers when I don’t want to go out."

  She headed for the kitchen. “Drunk or sober, fully dressed or — or naked, I can cook. You’ll see."

  He did see. Open-faced sandwiches with the meat married to toasted buns and the flavor garnished rather than suppressed by scraped Bermuda onion and thin-sliced dill, a salad made from things she had scrounged out of his refrigerator, potatoes crisp but not vulcanized. They ate it on the tiny balcony, sopping it down with cold beer.

  He sighed and wiped his mouth. “Yes, Meade, you can cook."

  '“Some day I’ll arrive with proper materials and pay you back. Then I’ll prove it."

  “You’ve already proved it. Nevertheless I accept. But I tell you three times, you owe me nothing."

  “No? If you hadn’t been a Boy Scout, I’d be in jail."

  Breen shook his head. “The police have orders to keep it quiet at all costs — to keep it from growing. You saw that. And, my dear, you weren’t a person to me at the time. I didn’t even see your face; I —"

  “You saw plenty else!"

  “Truthfully, I didn’t look. You were just a — a statistic."

  She toyed with her knife and said slowly, “I’m not sure, but I think I’ve just been insulted. In all the twenty-five years that I’ve fought men off, more or less successfully, I’ve been called a lot of names — but a 'statistic’ — why I ought to take your slide rule and beat you to death with it."

  “My dear young lady —"

  “I’m not a lady, that’s for sure. But I’m not a statistic."

  “My dear Meade, then. I wanted to tell you, before you did anything hasty, that in college I wrestled varsity middleweight."

  She grinned and dimpled. “That’s more the talk a girl likes to hear. I was beginning to be afraid you had been assembled in an adding machine factory. Potty, you’re rather a dear."

  “If that is a diminutive of my given name, I like it. But if it refers to my waist line, I resent it."

  She reached across and patted his stomach. “I like your waist line; lean and hungry men are difficult. If I were cooking for you regularly, I’d really pad it."

  “Is that a proposal?"

  “Let it lie, let it lie — Potty, do you really think the whole country is losing its buttons?"

  He sobered at once. “It’s worse than that."

  “Huh?"

  “Come inside. I’ll show you." They gathered up dishes and dumped them in the sink, Breen talking all the while. “As a kid I was fascinated by numbers. Numbers are pretty things and they combine in such interesting configurations. I took my degree in math, of course, and got a job as a junior actuary with Midwestern Mutual — the insurance outfit. That was fun — no way on earth to tell when a particular man is going to die, but an absolute certainty that so many men of a certain age group would die before a certain date. The curves were so lovely — and they always worked out. Always. You didn’t have to know why; you could predict with dead certainty and never know why. The equations worked; the curves were right.

  “I was interested in astronomy too; it was the one science where individual figures worked out neatly, completely, and accurately, down to the last decimal point the instruments were good for. Compared with astronomy the other sciences were mere carpentry and kitchen chemistry.

  “I found there were nooks and crannies in astronomy where individual numbers won’t do, where you have to go over to statistics, and I became even more interested. I joined the Variable Star Association and I might have gone into astronomy professionally, instead of what I’m in now — business consultation — if I hadn’t gotten interested in something else."

  '“Business consultation’?" repeated Meade. “Income tax work?"

  “Oh, no — that’s too elementary. I’m the numbers boy for a firm of industrial engineers. I can tell a rancher exactly how many of his Hereford bull calves will be sterile. Or I tell a motion picture producer how much rain insurance to carry on location. Or maybe how big a company in a particular line must be to carry its own risk in industrial accidents. And I’m right, I’m always right."

  “Wait a minute. Seems to me a big company would have to have insurance."

  “Contrariwise. A really big corporation begins to resemble a statistical universe."

  “Huh?"

  “Never mind. I got interested in something else — cycles. Cycles are everything, Meade. And everywhere. The tides. The seasons. Wars. Love. Everybody knows that in the spring the young man’s fancy lightly turns to what the girls never stopped thinking about, but did you know that it runs in an eighteen-year-plus cycle as well? And that a girl born at the wrong swing of the curve doesn’t stand nearly as good a chance as her older or younger sister?"

  “What? Is that why I’m a doddering old maid?"

  “You’re twenty-five?" He pondered. “Maybe — but your chances are picking up again; the curve is swinging up. Anyhow, remember you are just one statistic; the curve applies to the group. Some girls get marr
ied every year anyhow."

  “Don’t call me a statistic."

  “Sorry. And marriages match up with acreage planted to wheat, with wheat cresting ahead. You could almost say that planting wheat makes people get married."

  “Sounds silly."

  “It is silly. The whole notion of cause-and-effect is probably superstition. But the same cycle shows a peak in house building right after a peak in marriages, every time."

  “Now that makes sense."

  “Does it? How many newlyweds do you know who can afford to build a house? You might as well blame it on wheat acreage. We don’t know why; it just is."

  “Sun spots, maybe?"

  “You can correlate sun spots with stock prices, or Columbia River salmon, or women’s skirts. And you are just as much justified in blaming short skirts for sun spots as you are in blaming sun spots for salmon. We don’t know. But the curves go on just the same."

  “But there has to be some reason behind it."

  “Does there? That’s mere assumption. A fact has no 'why.’ There it stands, self demonstrating. Why did you take your clothes off today?"

  She frowned. “That’s not fair."

  “Maybe not. But I want to show you why I’m worried."

  He went into the bedroom, came out with a large roll of tracing paper. “We’ll spread it on the floor. Here they are, all of them. The 54-year cycle — see the Civil War there? See how it matches in? The 18 1/3 year cycle, the 9-plus cycle, the 41-month shorty, the three rhythms of sunspots — everything, all combined in one grand chart. Mississippi River floods, fur catches in Canada, stock market prices, marriages, epidemics, freight-car loadings, bank clearings, locust plagues, divorces, tree growth, wars, rainfall, earth magnetism, building construction patents applied for, murders — you name it; I’ve got it there."

  She stared at the bewildering array of wavy lines. “But, Potty, what does it mean?"

  “It means that these things all happen, in regular rhythm, whether we like. it or not. It means that when skirts are due to go up, all the stylists in Paris can’t make 'em go down. It means that when prices are going down, all the controls and supports and government planning can’t make 'em go up." He pointed to a curve. “Take a look at the grocery ads. Then turn to the financial page and read how the Big Brains try to double-talk their way out of it. It means that when an epidemic is due, it happens, despite all the public health efforts. It means we’re lemmings."