She pulled her lip. “I don’t like it. 1 am the master of my fate,’ and so forth. I’ve got free will, Potty. I know I have — I can feel it."
“I imagine every little neutron in an atom bomb feels the same way. He can go spung! or he can sit still, just as he pleases. But statistical mechanics work out anyhow. And the bomb goes off — which is what I’m leading up to. See anything odd there, Meade?"
She studied the chart, trying not to let the curving lines confuse her. “They sort of bunch up over at the right end."
“You’re dern tootin’ they do! See that dotted vertical line? That’s right now — and things are bad enough. But take a look at that solid vertical; that’s about six months from now and that’s when we get it. Look at the cycles — the long ones, the short ones, all of them. Every single last one of them reaches either a trough or a crest exactly on — or almost on — that line."
“That’s bad?"
“What do you think? Three of the big ones troughed in 1929 and the depression almost ruined us … even with the big 54-year cycle supporting things. Now we’ve got the big one troughing — and the few crests are not things that help. I mean to say, tent caterpillars and influenza don’t do us any good, Meade, if statistics mean anything, this tired old planet hasn’t seen a jackpot like this since Eve went into the apple business. I’m scared."
She searched his face. “Potty — you’re not simply having fun with me? You know I can’t check up on you."
“I wish to heaven I were. No, Meade, I can’t fool about numbers; I wouldn’t know how. This is it. The Year of the Jackpot."
She was very silent as he drove her home. As they approached West Los Angeles, she said, “Potty?"
“Yes, Meade?"
“What do we do about it?"
“What do you do about a hurricane? You pull in your ears. What can you do about an atom bomb? You try to out-guess it, not be there when it goes off. What else can you do?"
“Oh." She was silent for a few moments, then added, “Potty? Will you tell me which way to jump?"
“Hub? Oh, sure! If I can figure it out."
He took her to her door, turned to go. She said, “Potty!"
He faced her. “Yes, Meade?"
She grabbed his head, shook it — then kissed him fiercely on the mouth. “There — is that just a statistic?"
“Uh, no."
“It had better not be," she said dangerously. “Potty, I think I’m going to have to change your curve."
Chapter Two
“RUSSIANS REJECT UN NOTE"
“MISSOURI FLOOD DAMAGE EXCEEDS 1951 RECORD"
“MISSISSIPPI MESSIAH DEFIES COURT"
“NUDIST CONVENTION STORMS BAILEY’S BEACH"
“BRITISH-IRAN TALKS STILL DEADLOCKED"
“FASTER-THAN-LIGHT WEAPON PROMISED"
“TYPHOON DOUBLING BACK ON MANILA"
“MARRIAGE SOLEMNIZED ON FLOOR OF HUDSON — New York, 13 July, In a specially-constructed diving suit built for two, Merydith Smithe, cafe society headline girl, and Prince Augie Schleswieg of New York and the Riviera were united today by Bishop Dalton in a service televised with the aid of the Navy’s ultra-new —"
As the Year of the Jackpot progressed Breen took melancholy pleasure in adding to the data which proved that the curve was sagging as predicted. The undeclared World War continued its bloody, blundering way at half a dozen spots around a tortured globe. Breen did not chart it; the headlines were there for anyone to read. He concentrated on the odd facts in the other pages of the papers, facts which, taken singly, meant nothing, but taken together showed a disastrous trend.
He listed stock market prices, rainfall, wheat futures, but it was the “silly season" items which fascinated him. To be sure, some humans were always doing silly things — but at what point had prime damfoolishness become commonplace? When, for example, had the zombie-like professional models become accepted ideals of American womanhood? What were the gradations between National Cancer Week and National Athlete’s Foot Week? On what day had the American people finally taken leave of horse sense?
Take transvestism — male-and-female dress customs were arbitrary, but they had seemed to be deeply rooted in the culture. When did the breakdown start? With Marlene Dietrich’s tailored suits? By the late forties there was no “male" article of clothing that a woman could not wear in public — but when had men started to slip over the line? Should he count the psychological cripples who had made the word “drag" a byword in Greenwich Village and Hollywood long before this outbreak? Or were they “wild shots" not belonging on the curve? Did it start with some unknown normal man attending a masquerade and there discovering that skirts actually were more comfortable and practical than trousers? Or had it started with the resurgence of Scottish nationalism reflected in the wearing of kilts by many Scottish-Americans?
Ask a lemming to state his motives! The outcome was in front of him, a news story. Transvestism by draft-dodgers had at last resulted in a mass arrest in Chicago which was to have ended in a giant joint trial — only to have the deputy prosecutor show up in a pinafore and defy the judge to submit to an examination to determine the judge’s true sex. The judge suffered a stroke and died and the trial was postponed — postponed forever in Breen’s opinion; he doubted that this particular blue law would ever again be enforced.
Or the laws about indecent exposure, for that matter. The attempt to limit the Gypsy-Rose syndrome by ignoring it had taken the starch out of enforcement; now here was a report about the All Souls Community Church of Springfield: the pastor had reinstituted ceremonial nudity. Probably the first time this thousand years, Breen thought, aside from some screwball cults in Los Angeles. The reverend gentleman claimed that the ceremony was identical with the “dance of the high priestess" in the ancient temple of Kamak.
Could be — but Breen had private information that the “priestess" had been working the burlesque nightclub circuit before her present engagement. In any case the holy leader was packing them in and had not been arrested. Two weeks later a hundred and nine churches in thirty-three states offered equivalent attractions. Breen entered them on his curves.
This queasy oddity seemed to him to have no relation to the startling rise in the dissident evangelical cults throughout the country. These churches were sincere, earnest and poor — but growing, ever since the War. Now they were multiplying like yeast. It seemed a statistical cinch that the United States was about to become godstruck again. He correlated it with Transcendentalism and the trek of the Latter Day Saints — hmm … yes, it fitted. And the curve was pushing toward a crest.
Billions in war bonds were now falling due; wartime marriages were reflected in the swollen peak of the Los Angeles school population. The Colorado River was at a record low and the towers in Lake Mead stood high out of the water. But the Angelenos committed slow suicide by watering lawns as usual. The Metropolitan Water District commissioners tried to stop it — it fell between the stools of the police powers of fifty “sovereign" cities. The taps remained open, trickling away the life blood of the desert paradise.
The four regular party conventions — Dixiecrats, Regular Republicans, the other Regular Republicans, and the Democrats — attracted scant attention, as the Know-Nothings had not yet met. The fact that the “American Rally," as the Know-Nothings preferred to be called, claimed not to be a party but an educational society did not detract from their strength. But what was their strength? Their beginnings had been so obscure that Breen had had to go back and dig into the December 1951 files — but he had been approached twice this very week to join them, right inside his own office, once by his boss, once by the janitor.
He hadn’t been able to chart the Know-Nothings. They gave him chills in his spine. He kept column-inches on them, found that their publicity was shrinking while their numbers were obviously zooming.
Krakatau blew up on July i8th. It provided the first important transpacific TV-cast; its effect on sunsets, on solar constant, on mean temp
erature, and on rainfall would not be felt until later in the year. The San Andreas fault, its stresses unrelieved since the Long Beach disaster of 19331 continued to build up imbalance — an unhealed wound running the full length of the West Coast. Pelee and Etna erupted; Mauna Loa was still quiet.
Flying saucers seemed to be landing daily in every state. No one had exhibited one on the ground — or had the Department of Defense sat on them? Breen was unsatisfied with the off-the-record reports he had been able to get; the alcoholic content of some of them had been high. But the sea serpent on Ventura Beach was real; he had seen it. The troglodyte in Tennessee he was not in a position to verify.
Thirty-one domestic air crashes the last week in July … was it sabotage? Or was it a sagging curve on a chart? And that neo-polio epidemic that skipped from Seattle to New York? Time for a big epidemic? Breen’s chart said it was. But how about B.W.? Could a chart know that a Slav biochemist would perfect an efficient virus-and-vector at the right time? Nonsense!
But the curves, if they meant anything at all, included “free will"; they averaged in all the individual “wills" of a statistical universe — and came out as a smooth function, Every morning three million “free wills" flowed toward the center of the New York megapolis; every evening they flowed out again — all by “free will," and on a smooth and predictable curve.
Ask a lemming! Ask all the lemmings, dead and alive — let them take a vote on it! Breen tossed his notebook aside and called Meade, “Is this my favorite statistic?"
“Potty! I was thinking about you."
“Naturally. This is your night off."
“Yes, but another reason, too. Potiphar, have you ever taken a look at the Great Pyramid?"
“I haven’t even been to Niagara Falls. I’m looking for a rich woman, so I can travel."
“Yes, yes, I’ll let you know when I get my first million, but —"
“That’s the first time you’ve proposed to me this week."
“Shut up. Have you ever looked into the prophecies they found inside the pyramid?"
“Huh? Look, Meade, that’s in the same class with astrology — strictly for squirrels. Grow up."
“Yes, of course. But Potty, I thought you were interested in anything odd. This is odd."
“Oh. Sorry. If it’s 'silly season’ stuff, let’s see it."
“All right. Am I cooking for you tonight?"
“It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?"
“How soon?"
He glanced at his watch. “Pick you up in eleven minutes." He felt his whiskers. “No, twelve and a half."
“I’ll be ready. Mrs. Megeath says that these regular dates mean that you are going to marry me."
“Pay no attention to her. She’s just a statistic. And I’m a wild datum."
“Oh, well, I’ve got two hundred and forty-seven dollars toward that million. 'Bye!"
Meade’s prize was the usual Rosicrucian come-on, elaborately printed, and including a photograph (retouched, he was sure) of the much disputed line on the corridor wall which was alleged to prophesy, by its various discontinuities, the entire future. This one had an unusual time scale but the major events were all marked on it — the fall of Rome, the Norman Invasion, the Discovery of America, Napoleon, the World Wars.
What made it interesting was that it suddenly stopped — now.
“What about it. Potty?"
“I guess the stonecutter got tired. Or got fired. Or they got a new head priest with new ideas." He tucked it into his desk. “Thanks. I’ll think about how to list it." But he got it out again, applied dividers and a magnifying glass. “It says here," he announced, “that the end comes late in August — unless that’s a fly speck."
“Morning or afternoon? I have to know how to dress."
“Shoes will be worn. All God’s chilluns got shoes." He put it away.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Potty, isn’t it about time to jump?"
“Huh? Girl, don’t let that thing affect you! That’s 'silly season’ stuff."
“Yes. But take a look at your chart."
Nevertheless he took the next afternoon off, spent it in the reference room of the main library, confirmed his opinion of soothsayers. Nostradamus was pretentiously silly, Mother Shippey was worse. In any of them you could find what you looked for.
He did find one item in Nostradamus that he liked: “The Oriental shall come forth from his seat … he shall pass through the sky, through the waters and the snow, and he shall strike each one with his weapon."
That sounded like what the Department of Defense expected the commies to try to do to the Western Allies. But it was also a description of every invasion that had come out of the “heartland" in the memory of mankind. Nuts!
When he got home he found himself taking down his father’s Bible and turning to Revelations. He could not find anything that he could understand but he got fascinated by the recurring use of precise numbers. Presently he thumbed through the Book at random; his eye lit on: “Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." He put the Book away, feeling humbled but not cheered.
The rains started the next morning. The Master Plumbers elected Miss Star Morning “Miss Sanitary Engineering" on the same day that the morticians designated her as “The Body I would Like Best to Prepare," and her option was dropped by Fragrant Features. Congress voted $1.37 to compensate Thomas Jefferson Meeks for losses incurred while an emergency postman for the Christmas rush of 1936, approved the appointment of five lieutenant generals and one ambassador and adjourned in eight minutes. The fire extinguishers in a midwest orphanage turned out to be filled with air. The chancellor of the leading football institution sponsored a fund to send peace messages and vitamins to the Politburo. The stock market slumped nineteen points and the tickers ran two hours late. Wichita, Kansas, remained flooded while Phoenix, Arizona, cut off drinking water to areas outside city limits. And Potiphar Breen found that he had left his raincoat at Meade Barstow’s rooming house.
He phoned her landlady, but Mrs. Megeath turned him over to Meade. “What are you doing home on a Friday?" he demanded.
“The theater manager laid me off. Now you’ll have to marry me."
“You can’t afford me. Meade — seriously, baby, what happened?"
“I was ready to leave the dump anyway. For the last six weeks the popcorn machine has been carrying the place. Today I sat through I Was A TeenAge Beatnik twice. Nothing to do."
“I’ll be along."
“Eleven minutes?"
“It’s raining. Twenty — with luck."
It was more nearly sixty. Santa Monica Boulevard was a navigable stream; Sunset Boulevard was a subway jam. When he tried to ford the streams leading to Mrs. Megeath’s house, he found that changing tires with the wheel wedged against a storm drain presented problems.
“Potty! You look like a drowned rat."
“I’ll live," But presently he found himself wrapped in a blanket robe belonging to the late Mr. Megeath and sipping hot cocoa while Mrs. Megeath dried his clothing in the kitchen.
“Meade … I’m 'at liberty,’ too."
“Hub? You quit your job?"
“Not exactly. Old Man Wiley and I have been having differences of opinion about my answers for months — too much 'Jackpot factor’ in the figures I give him to turn over to clients. Not that I call it that, but he has felt that I was unduly pessimistic."
“But you were right!"
“Since when has being right endeared a man to his boss? But that wasn’t why he fired me; that was just the excuse. He wants a man willing to back up the Know-Nothing program with scientific double-talk. And I wouldn’t join." He went to the window. “It’s raining harder."
“But they haven’t got any program."
“I know that."
“Potty, you should have joined. It doesn’t mean anything — I joined three months ago."
“The hell you did!"
She shrugged. “You pay your do
llar and you turn up for two meetings and they leave you alone. It kept my job for another three months. What of it?"
“Uh, well — I’m sorry you did it; that’s all. Forget it. Meade, the water is over the curbs out there."
“You had better stay here overnight."
“Mmm … I don’t like to leave 'Entropy’ parked out in this stuff all night. Meade?"
“Yes, Potty?"
“We’re both out of jobs. How would you like to duck north into the Mojave and find a dry spot?"
“I’d love it. But look, Potty — is this a proposal, or just a proposition?"
“Don’t pull that 'either-or’ stuff on me. It’s just a suggestion for a vacation. Do you want to take a chaperone?"
“No."
“Then pack a bag."
“Right away. But look, Potiphar — pack a bag how? Are you trying to tell me it’s time to jump?"
He faced her, then looked back at the window. “I don’t know," he said slowly, “but this rain might go on quite a while. Don’t take anything you don’t have to have — but don’t leave anything behind you can’t get along without."
He repossessed his clothing from Mrs. Megeath while Meade was upstairs, She came down dressed in slacks and carrying two large bags; under one arm was a battered and rakish Teddy bear. “This is Winnie."
“Winnie the Pooh?"
“No, Winnie Churchill. When I feel bad he promises me 'blood, toil, tears, and sweat’; then I feel better. You said to bring anything I couldn’t do without?" She looked at him anxiously.
“Right." He took the bags. Mrs. Megeath had seemed satisfied with his explanation that they were going to visit his (mythical) aunt in Bakersfield before looking for jobs; nevertheless she embarrassed him by kissing him good-by and telling him to “take care of my little girl."
Santa Monica Boulevard was blocked off from use. While stalled in traffic in Beverly Hills he fiddled with the car radio, getting squawks and crackling noises, then finally one station nearby: “— in effect," a harsh, high, staccato voice was saying, “the Kremlin has given us till sundown to get out of town. This is your New York Reporter, who thinks that in days like these every American must personally keep his powder dry. And now for a word from —" Breen switched it off and glanced at her face. “Don’t worry," he said. “They’ve been talking that way for years,"
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