“You must be specific,” the White Rat said severely.
“Well, sir, let me contrast him with yourself. You always understand the capacity and potential of your students and treat them accordingly. Dr. Rapp was so crammed with education that he never bothered to understand us; he simply tried to fit us into the text book cases he’d read.”
“Hmmm. What was his school?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that, sir. You won’t like the answer. Abigail College.”
“What? What?”
“Abigail College, sir. Finished your milk?”
“Yes, and it was disgusting.”
“But you sound stronger already, sir.”
“Where is Abigail College?”
“In a state called Kansas.”
“Hmp! Fresh water college. No wonder.” The Professor’s speech began to slur. James began to rock back and forth in agony.
“What would you do if this… this Abigail made same proposal to you, James?”
“Oh, sir, that’s not a fair question. I don’t like or respect Dr. Rapp. I love you.”
“No place—f’love—in science.”
“No, sir. Always be objective. That’s what you taught me.”
“Gett’n sleepy… James… ‘bout Zunia.”
“What about Zunia, sir?”
“Like him?”
“Very much, sir. You’ll enjoy teaching him.”
“Don’t… D’not le’him… Came to us f’m Princeton, you know… D’nt let’m talk you into going Princeton. Yes?”
“Never, sir. Rutgers forever.”
There was a long, long pause. The painful rustling in the study stopped. James poked his head in. The cup of milk was empty. The Professor was peacefully dead. James reached in, picked him up, carried him across the beam and skinned down the oak column with the body in one hand. On the floor he stamped his foot hard, three times. He repeated the signal three times. At last Moe Mole appeared from the depths.
“That you, James?”
“Yes. Please come with me, Uncle Moe. I need your help.”
Moe shuffled alongside James James, blinking in the twilight.
“Trouble, James?”
“The Professor’s dead. We’ve got to bury him.”
“Now that’s a shame. And we never started my astronomy lessons. Where’s the body?”
“Right here. I’m carrying him.” James led Moe to the sundial on the south lawn. “Dig here, Uncle Moe. I want to bury the Professor under the center of the pedestal.”
“Easy,” Moe said. He tunneled down and disappeared; little flurries of earth sprayed out of the tunnel mouth. Presently Moe reappeared. “All set. Got a nice little chamber dead center. Where is he now?”
James placed the body at the mouth of the tunnel. Moe pushed it before him and was again lost from sight. He reappeared in another flurry of soil. “Just filling in,” he explained apologetically. “Got to pack it solid. Don’t want any grave robbers nosing around, do we?”
“No,” James said. “Bury him for keeps.”
Moe finished the job, mumbled a few words of condolence and shambled off. James stared hard at the sundial. “Militant,” he said at last and turned away. The weathered bronze plate of the sundial was engraved with a line from the immortal Thomas Henry Huxley: “The great end of life is not knowledge but action.”
* * *
The Flowered Thundermug
“We will conclude this first semester of Antiquities 107,” Professor Paul Muni said, “with a reconstruction of an average day in the life of a mid-twentieth-century inhabitant of the United States of America, as Great L.A. was known five hundred years ago.
“Let us refer to him as Jukes, one of the proudest names of the times, immortalized in the Kallikak-Jukes-feud sagas. It is now generally agreed that the mysterious code letters JU, found in the directories of Hollywood East, or New York City as it was called then—viz., JU 6-0600 or JU 2-1914—indicate in some manner a genealogical relationship to the powerful Jukes dynasty.
“The year is 1950. Mr. Jukes, a typical ‘loner’—i.e., ‘bachelor’—lives on a small ranch outside New York . He rises at dawn, dresses in spurred boots, Daks slacks, rawhide shirt, gray flannel waistcoat and black knit tie. He arms himself with a Police Positive revolver or a Frontier Six Shooter and goes out to the Bar-B-Q to prepare his breakfast of curried plankton or converted algae. He may or may not surprise juvenile delinquents or red Indians on his ranch in the act of lynching a victim or rustling his automobiles, of which he has a herd of perhaps one hundred and fifty.
“These hooligans he disperses after single combat with his fists. Like all twentieth-century Americans, Jukes is a brute of fantastic strength, giving and receiving sledgehammer blows, or being battered by articles of furniture with inexhaustible resilience. He rarely uses his gun on such occasions; it is usually reserved for ceremonial rituals.
“Mr. Jukes journeys to his job in New York City on horseback; in a sports car (a kind of open automobile), or on an electric trolley car. He reads his morning newspaper, which will feature such stories as: ‘The Discovery of the North Pole,’ ‘The Sinking of the Luxury Liner Titanic,’ ‘The Successful Orbiting of Mars by Manned Space Capsule,’ or ‘The Strange Death of President Harding.’
“Jukes works in an advertising agency situated on Madison Avenue (now Sunset Boulevard East), which, in those days, was a rough muddy highway, traversed by stagecoaches, lined with gin mills and populated by bullies, corpses and beautiful night-club performers in abbreviated dresses. Jukes is an agency man, dedicated to the guidance of taste, the improvement of culture, the election of public officers and the selection of national heroes.
“His office on the twentieth floor of a towering skyscraper is decorated in the characteristic style of the mid-twentieth century. He has a roll-top desk, a Null-G, or Free Fall chair and a brass spittoon. Illumination is by Optical Maser light pumps. Large fans suspended from the ceiling cool him in the summer, and an infrared Franklin stove warms him in the winter.
“The walls are decorated with rare pictures executed by such famous painters as Michelangelo, Renoir and Sunday. Alongside the desk is a tape recorder, which he uses for dictation. His words are later written down by a secretary using a pen and carbon ink. (It has, by now, been clearly demonstrated that the typewriting machine was not developed until the onset of the Computer Age at the end of the twentieth century.)
“Mr. Jukes’s work involves the creation of the spiritual slogans that uplift the consumer half of the nation. A few of these have come down to us in more or less fragmentary condition, and those of you who have taken Professor Rex Harrison’s course, Linguistics 916, know the extraordinary difficulties we are encountering in our attempts to interpret: ‘Good to the Last Drop’ (for ‘good’ read ‘God’?); ‘Does She or Doesn’t She?’ (what?); and Ì Dreamed I Went to the Circus in My Maidenform Bra’ (incomprehensible).
“At midday , Mr. Jukes takes a second meal, usually a community affair with thousands of others in a giant stadium. He returns to his office and resumes work, but you must understand that conditions were not ideal for concentration, which is why he was forced to labor as much as four and six hours a day. In those deplorable times there was a constant uproar of highway robberies, hijackings, gang wars and other brutalities. The air was filled with falling bodies as despairing brokers leaped from their office windows.
“Consequently it is only natural for Mr. Jukes to seek spiritual peace at the end of the day. This he finds at a ritual called a cocktail party.’ He and many other believers stand close-packed in a small room, praying aloud, and filling the air with the sacred residues of marijuana and mescaline.
The women worshipers often wear vestments called ‘cocktail dresses,’ otherwise known as ‘basic black.’
“Afterward, Mr. Jukes may take his last meal of the day in a night club, an underground place of entertainment where rare shows are presented. He is often accompanied by his expense acc
ount,’ a phrase difficult to interpret. Dr. David Niven argues most cogently that it was cant for à woman of easy virtue,’ but Professor Nelson Eddy points out that this merely compounds the difficulty, since no one today knows what a woman of easy virtue’ was.
“Finally, Mr. Jukes returns to his ranch on a ‘commuters’ special,’ a species of steam car, on which he plays games of chance with the professional gamblers who infested all the transportation systems of the times At home, he builds a small outdoor fire, calculates the day’s expenses on his abacus, plays sad music on his guitar, makes love to one of the thousands of strange women who made it a practice of intruding on campfires at odd hours, rolls up in a blanket and goes to sleep.
“Such was the barbarism of that age—an age so hysteric that few men lived beyond one hundred years. And yet romantics today yearn for that monstrous era of turmoil and terror. Twentieth-century Americana is all the vogue. Only recently, a single copy of Life, a sort of mail-order catalogue, was bought at auction by the noted collector Clifton Webb for $150,000. I might mention, in passing, that in my analysis of that curio in the current Phil. Trans. I cast grave doubts on its authenticity. Certain anachronisms in the text indicate a possible forgery.
“And now a final word about your term examinations. There has been some talk about bias on the part of the computer. It has been suggested that when this department took over the Multi-III from Biochemistry, various circuits were overlooked and left operative, prejudicing the computer in favor of the mathematical approach. This is utter nonsense. Our computer psychiatrist assures me that the Multi-III was completely brainwashed and reindoctrinated. Exhaustive checks have shown that all errors were the result of student carelessness.
“I urge you to observe the standard sterilization procedures before taking your examination. Do not scamp your wash-up. Make sure your surgical caps, gowns, masks and gloves are properly adjusted. Be certain that your punching tools are in register and sterile. Remember that one speck of contamination on your answer card can wreck your results. The Multi-III is not a machine, it is a brain, and requires the same care and consideration you give your own bodies. Thank you, good luck, and I hope to see you all again next semester.”
Coming out of the lecture hall, Professor Muni was met in the crowded corridor by his secretary, Ann Sothern. She was wearing a polka dot bikini, carried a tray of drinks and had a pair of the professor’s swim trunks draped over her arm. Muni nodded in appreciation, swallowed a quick one and frowned at the traditional musical production number with which the students moved from class to class. He began reassembling his lecture notes as they hurried from the building.
“No time for a dip, Miss Sothern,” he said. “I’m scheduled to sneer at a revolutionary discovery in the Medical Arts Building this afternoon.”
“It’s not on your calendar, Dr. Muni.”
“I know. I know. But Raymond Massey is sick, and I’m standing in for him. Ray says he’ll substitute for me the next time I’m due to advise a young genius to give up poetry.”
They left the Sociology Building, passed the teardrop swimming pool, the book-shaped library, the heart-shaped Heart Clinic, and came to the faculty-shaped Faculty-Building. It was in a grove of royal palms through which a miniature golf course meandered, its air conditioners emitting a sibilant sound. Inside the Faculty Building, concealed loudspeakers were broadcasting the latest noise-hit.
“What is it—Caruso’s ‘Niagara’?” Professor Muni asked absently.
“No, Callas’s ‘Johnstown Flood,’“ Miss Sothern answered, opening the door of Muni’s office. “Why, that’s odd. I could have sworn I left the lights on.” She felt for the light switch.
“Stop,” Professor Muni snapped. “There’s more here than meets the eye, Miss Sothern.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Who does one traditionally encounter on a surprise visit in a darkened room? I mean, whom.”
“Th-the Bad Guys?”
“Precisely.”
A nasal voice spoke. “You are so right, my dear professor, but I assure you this is purely a private business matter.”
“Dr. Muni,” Miss Sothern gasped. “There’s someone in your office.”
“Do come in, professor,” the nasal voice said. “That is, if you will permit me to invite you into your own office. There is no use trying to turn on the lights, Miss Sothern. They have been—attended to.”
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Professor Muni demanded.
“Come in. Come in. Boris, guide the professor to a chair.
The goon who is taking your arm, Professor Muni, is my ruthless bodyguard, Boris Karloff. I am Peter Lorre.”
“I demand an explanation,” Muni shouted. “Why have you invaded my office? Why are the lights out? By what right do you—”
“The lights are out because it is best that people do not see Boris. He is a most useful man, but not, shall we say, an aesthetic delight. Why I have invaded your office will be made known to you after you have answered one or two trifling questions.”
“I will do nothing of the sort. Miss Sothern, get the dean.”
“You will remain where you are, Miss Sothern.”
“Do as you’re told, Miss Sothern. I will not permit this—”
“Boris, light something.”
Something was lit. Miss Sothern screamed. Professor Muni was dumb-struck.
“All right, Boris, put it out. Now, my dear professor, to business. First, let me inform you that it will be worth your while to answer my questions honestly. Be good enough to put out your hand.” Professor Muni extended his hand. A sheaf of bills was placed in it. “Here is one thousand dollars; your consultation fee. Would you care to count it? Shall I have Boris light something?”
“I believe you,” Muni muttered.
“Very good. Professor Muni, where and how long did you study American history?”
“That’s an odd question, Mr. Lorre.”
“You have been paid, Professor Muni.”
“Very true. Well . . . I studied at Hollywood High, Harvard High, Yale High and the College of the Pacific.”
“What is ‘college’?”
“The old name for a high. They’re traditionalists at Pacific—hidebound reactionaries.”
“And how long did you study?”
“Some twenty years.”
“How long have you been teaching here at Columbia High?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Then that adds up to thirty-five years of experience. Would you say that you had an extensive knowledge of the merits and qualifications of the various living historians?”
“Fairly extensive. Yes.”
“Then who, in your opinion, is the leading authority on twentieth-century Americana?”
“Ah. So. Very interesting. Harrison, of course, on advertising copy, newspaper headlines, and photo captions. Taylor on domestic science—that’s Dr. Elizabeth Taylor. Gable is probably your best bet for transportation. Clark’s at Cambridge High now, but he—”
“Excuse me, Professor Muni. I put the question badly. I should have asked: Who is the leading authority on twentieth-century objects of virtu? Antiques, paintings, furniture, curios, objets d’art, and so forth . . .”
“Ah! I have no hesitation in answering that, Mr. Lorre. Myself.”
“Very good. Very good. Now listen carefully, Professor Muni. I have been delegated by a little group of powerful men to hire your professional services. You will be paid ten thousand dollars in advance. You will give your word that the transaction will be kept secret. And it must be understood that if your mission fails, we will do nothing to help you.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Professor Muni said slowly. “How can I be sure that this offer is from the Good Guys?”
“You have my assurance that it is for freedom and justice, the man on the street, the underdogs and the L.A. Way of Life. Of course, you can refuse this dangerous assignment, and it will not be held against you
, but you are the one man in all Great L.A. who can carry it out.”
“Well,” Professor Muni said, “seeing that I have nothing better to do than mistakenly sneer at a cancer cure today, I might as well accept.”
“I knew we could depend on you. You are the sort of little man that makes L.A. great. Boris, sing the national anthem.”
“Thank you, but I need no praise. I’m just doing what any loyal, red-blooded, one-hundred-percent Angelino would do.”
“Very good. I will pick you up at midnight. You will be wearing rough tweeds, a felt hat pulled down over your face and stout shoes. You will carry one hundred feet of mountaineering rope, prism binoculars and an ugly snub-nosed fission gun. Your code identity will be .369.”
“This,” Peter Lorre said, “is .369. .369, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to X, Y and Z?”
“Good evening, Professor Muni,” the Italian-looking gentleman said. “I am Vittorio De Sica. This is Miss Garbo. That is Edward Everett Horton. Thank you, Peter. You may go.”
Mr. Lorre exited. Muni stared around. He was in a sumptuous penthouse apartment decorated entirely in white. Even the fire burning in the grate was, by some miracle of chemistry, composed entirely of milk-white flames. Mr. Horton was pacing nervously before the fire. Miss Garbo reclined languidly on a polar-bear skin, an ivory cigarette holder drooping from her hand.
“Let me relieve you of that rope, professor,” De Sica said.
“And the customary binoculars and snub-nosed pistol, I presume? I’ll take them too. Do make yourself comfortable. You must forgive our being in faultless evening dress; our cover identities, you understand. We operate the gambling hell downstairs. Actually we are—”
“No!” Mr. Horton cried in alarm.
“Unless we have full faith in Professor Muni and are perfectly candid, we will get nowhere, my dear Horton. You agree, Greta?” Miss Garbo nodded.
“Actually,” De Sica continued, “we are a little group of powerful art dealers.”
Muni stammered, “Th-then . . . Then you’re the De Sica, and the Garbo, and the Horton?”
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 43
