Last Night at the Brain Thieves Ball

by Scott Spencer

  There was another knock at the door. Three sharp raps, almost authoritative, causing Mr. Worthington and me to start in our seats. Without waiting for word from Mr. W., the door flew open and three NESTER maintenance men came in, in their dusty-blue NESTER jumpsuits, so attractive really. “We came for the rest of it,” announced the one with the darkest hair, and they began to stack cartons in each other’s arms. They moved swiftly and silently, as if auditioning to be Force Recruiters. They took books, file cabinets, paintings. Their agility and strength were impressive and I was glad to watch them for a while, suffering from moral vertigo as I was. Carl Stein, Carl Stein, the name clattered in my head like a castanet. I stared at the workingmen. Why do the stupid seem less doomed? And I stared at those dusty-blue jumpsuits—I hate to tell you this, but they were periwinkle. Periwinkle! With that brilliant embroidery on the sleeves. The N … the E … the S … Someday all of us will be wearing them. The way we dress now is so impractical, so unsuited for … jumping. They left the office with some difficulty, arms overloaded, struggling to get through the door. As they made their way out, I noticed the dark-haired one, who, because of the one sentence he spoke I took to be the leader, was wearing a small hairpiece near the back of his head and that this extremely dark brown toupee had somehow slipped to the side, making him look quite ridiculous. He also must have sensed his hair was askew. While still in the doorway he supported his load between his chest and the wall and with one free hand deftly straightened his wig. His two companions laughed immoderately. One of them closed the outer door with his foot. Slam.

  Mr. Worthington leaned back in his chair, evidently under some strain, and closed his eyes. He pulled a box of chocolate mints from his jacket pocket and popped two in his mouth, rudely forgetting to offer me one. Then he snapped forward, as if miraculously regenerated. “Well, you should be happy. Your potential importance here has increased. Of course, we all have potentials. But your potential is now potentially greater.” He laughed, perhaps maliciously, perhaps ironically, conceivably out of nervousness. The phone jingled meekly and he lifted it and dropped it in one easy motion.

  “We suspected Carl Stein of disloyalty. We were right. We hated to see him go. Perhaps it was partly my fault. None of us, certainly, none of us who gave him so much power—we were none of us blameless in the matter. It could have been worse, however. It could have been much worse. You see, he was not really traitorous, he was merely greedy. That was all there was to it. Warped and acquisitive. There was nothing”—Mr. W. shrugged and extended his lower lip—“ … political. Nothing like that. He was merely making commercial contacts on his own, on the outside.”

  Without even knowing I was going to speak, I blurted out, “Why? Miss Dorfman—my bloody secretary—can go out; Carl Stein, that violent crook, can go out. But I can’t. Is it fair? I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why some and not others? Pardon the interruption, but it’s important to know. I long for a subway ride. I’ve never gone fishing. I’d like to try that sometime. I feel cramped. It’s not fair that some should and others shouldn’t.”

  Mr. Worthington looked at me and let me know in a painfully silent way that I had overstepped my limits. He spoke evenly, patiently, hopelessly, as if he were explaining combustion engines to a duck. “It was necessary for Carl Stein to be outside at certain times. Not necessary for his soul, but necessary for his work. Just as it is necessary for me to spend a certain amount of time away from this installation. I don’t think really you should question such things. Your future here is incredibly bright. What lies in store for you can only be guessed and hinted at. Please, for all of our sakes, don’t throw it away out of petulance. Don’t throw it away, don’t throw it away.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, believing for that moment my humble vow.

  Mr. Worthington smiled at me and quickly glanced at his watch. “We’d better hurry this on,” he said. “This is a busy day. Let’s consider the Carl Stein case closed. Have you deposited that one-thousand-dollar money order in your account yet?” I told him I had. “Hmmm. Well, we should withdraw it. It was payment in advance for a job on which you were virtually useless. No offense. But that particular assignment could find no point of contingency with your particular talents.” Mr. W. sighed and looked at me with an almost fatherly smile. “But it is so tiresome to withdraw money once it is cozily ensconced in one’s little nest. Let’s see … why don’t you return a couple hundred this afternoon—give it to Mr. Delaney in bookkeeping—and keep the rest as payment for good intentions. That was a nasty bruise he inflicted on you. Yes. That is, I think, an equitable decision.”

  As I became more accustomed to speaking with Mr. Worthington, I grew more adept at recognizing the cues he would glide my way. It was somewhat the familiarity lovers are reported to feel. The partner arches his back: the young lady strokes it. The young lady closes her eyes: the partner kisses her forehead. Yes, I was becoming attuned to Mr. W., closely attuned. The pauses were less awesome, the ellipses less elusive. So I knew what my question was supposed to be and I asked it. “Just what was it that Carl Stein was doing, if I may ask?”

  “He had gone into business for himself. He was investing in various firms and then pumping the firm’s message into his subjects. He was no longer banking with us. Numbered Swiss accounts. Very sordid. One simple example will suffice. He had thrown in with an independent electrical power company. The most ruthless kinds of capital-lusts.” We had a brief enjoyable laugh, Mr. W. and me. “Name of the firm was Southwest Independent Power Company. A young, rather attractive firm run out of Arizona. We sent somebody out there to check on it. Our most pessimistic theories proved true. He had not only been acting as a consultant but he had been doing a fantastic neuron-to- neuron promotion job for them as well. NESTER had given him considerable clout out there in Cowboy Land, as he used to call it, the bastard. People were, quite naturally, clay pigeons for his incessant prodding. I mean, it was the crudest thing imaginable. It wasn’t bad enough that he was selling Southwest information; no, that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t bad enough that he gave them a scientific basis for a regional campaign—and a brilliant campaign at that. No, he didn’t stop there. He must have been insane. Truly mad. He actually began to send messages to his subjects. ‘Switch to the Southwest Independent Power Company,’ he would tell his subjects. ‘Switch now, tell your friends.’ How many people could he influence that way? Fifty? Two hundred? A thousand? What was the point? A penny-ante mentality. He must have been out of his mind. What else could it have been?”

  “That night in his room,” I said, “when he punched me. Even before that. He was eating seeded crackers and drinking schnapps. I thought he was insane.”

  “Did you?” Mr. Worthington cast a cold and humiliating glance my way. How quickly people change. How few friends a divorced man really has. And then, as abruptly as he froze, he melted. “Well, I’m glad that it’s over and glad there are people like you with NESTER, dedicated and brilliant men, forward-looking, selfless, and shrewd. It is a bad day for Mr. Stein and a good day for you and, let us pray, a good day for all of us.” Mr. Worthington stood up and stretched. He yawned voluptuously; his pale gray eyes went all milky. “We had better call it a day. I have several meetings today and you must be absolutely famished. If you hurry down to the cafeteria you can perhaps get some curried shrimp—I believe that’s what they’re serving today.” He leaned over his desk and wrote something on a note pad, tore the top piece from the pack, and handed it to me. “And if you are too late to eat there, then call this number and lunch will be brought to your office. This has been a good talk, hasn’t it? I think we are becoming quite attuned to one another. That’s important. And if your future in NESTER is to be what we all think it will be, it will grow more and more important. If not crucial.” He offered me his spotted hand and I took it tenderly and said good-bye.

  As I walked toward the outer door I once again noticed the remainder of the picture frames, file cabinets, and cardboard boxes
that were strewn about. I turned around to question Mr. W., who was already on the telephone. “What’s happening?” I asked, waving my hand over the clutter.

  He looked up at me, startled to see I had not yet left. He put his hand over the receiver and whispered loudly. “I’m changing offices. This place gives me the creeps.”

  I walked directly back to my office, opened the door, and saw Mr. Worthington sitting at my desk, his old hands folded in front of him. “How did you get here?” I blurted.

  He smiled slightly and directed me to sit down with the merest flickering of his eyes. “I want to ask you a question,” he said.

  I have built a barrier between consciousness and hysteria and my thoughts flew against that flimsy screen like a thousand suicidal June bugs. For example: Did a secret passage connect my office to Mr. W.’s? Had a chunk of time been embezzled from me? I figured maybe 90 seconds had separated my departure from Mr. W.’s office and my entrance to my own, but perhaps an hour or two had passed, miserable, mute minutes during which I had been subjected to untold, inexorable indignities. Or maybe Mr. W. was some kind of sensational sprinter. “What is it?” I finally asked.

  “Do you like working here? Is this what you wanted?” He stood up and wrung his long white hands. He moved past me and stood briefly at the door. His back was to me now and he waited for a moment while I struggled for a reply. Then he was gone.

  5

  I TOOK THE REST of that day off and slept for sixteen hours. I had eleven dreams and I remember each one vividly. I was up at 7:30 A.M. and took a long shower, shifting the temperature of the water from hot to cold to hot again. Marvelous. A long leisurely shave, still naked. I turned to see if the bruises had faded from the middle of my back. Yes, gone. As mysteriously as Carl himself.

  I thought about what shirt I would wear, what tie. This successfully occupied me for an hour as I tried every shirt and tie combination in my wardrobe—which is quite meager and only serves to remind me that I must get to Boston soon and spend some of this fabulous money I’m making. I finally settled on an ultra-moody dark royal blue shirt and a parochial- school green tie. Somber yet threatening, I thought. I also wore a nicely cut herringbone-tweed jacket and black pants. To show that I was serious but not depressed I put on my brown Hush Puppies. Nudity as a life-style would never do for me. I look so much better with clothes on. I appraised myself approvingly in the mirror and, just for the fun, leaned over impulsively and gave my reflection a little kiss on the nose.

  There must have been a time lapse or something. Something must have sneaked up on and startled 8:30 and caused it to jump all the way to 9:20, because all of a sudden the lime green light above my bed was blinking on and off telling me that not only was I late for work but someone was waiting for me in my office. Jesus.

  I ran down the two flights of stairs, zipped through the ever-echoing corridor, and was in my office in less than two minutes. To no one’s surprise, Tom “Mock Justice” Simon was waiting for me. I closed the door behind me and leaned on it as I tried to catch my breath. Tom watched me huff and puff and then, in a mournful voice, asked me, “Why are you so hostile to the schedules we’ve set for you?”

  “I’m … I’m … ”—still winded, you see—“I’m not hos—hostile. I’m just late. Two”—swallowing hard; a lump of something had risen in my throat—“two different things, Tommy.”

  “You are always late.”

  “That’s not true and it’s not your business.”

  “It is and it is.”

  “Not and not,” I intoned, showing my big teeth as I spoke.

  He was evidently taken with this. He rose from his perch on the corner of my poor, weakened desk and sat on the couch. He lighted a mentholated cigarette and sucked in deeply. “Where is Mr. Worthington?” he asked me.

  “How should I know?” I growled, still ready for the kill.

  “I repeat. Where is Mr. Worthington?”

  I became concerned. “Is he missing?”

  “Missing? Did you expect him to be? Have you heard or seen anything that would suggest such an eventuality?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you suspect something foul has happened to him.”

  “I suspect absolutely nothing of the sort. You came in here and asked me where Mr. Worthington was.”

  “First of all, it was you who came in here. I was already here. I was waiting for you. Secondly, I didn’t ask you where Mr. Worthington was. I asked you if you knew where he was.”

  “Tom,” I said, “you are a complete asshole.”

  Tom heaved a long, disgusted sigh. Mock Justice made way for Mock Suffering. “Let’s start from the top. Do you know where Mr. Worthington is?”

  “No.”

  “What would you do if it were imperative to see him?”

  “I would ring his number.”

  “And if it’s been changed?”

  “I’d call personnel.”

  “And if it’s unlisted?”

  “I’d ask around.”

  “Oh, that would be bright. That would be absolutely brilliant. That would be in strict accordance with security precautions.”

  “All right, Tom. I have no idea what I’d do. I’d probably just shoot myself.”

  Tom looked startled for an instant and then heaved another suffering sigh. “Well, Mr. Worthington has asked that I show you to his new office. You’d better take a jacket. There’s still a draft.”

  We took an elevator down to the ground floor and then a special elevator into the basement, where the computer and the computer programmers and the computer technicians live. We came to an immense, windowless, lime green door. Tom put a card, which bore his picture, into the aluminum-colored slot and, after a buzz of recognition, the door opened to us. “Do you have one of these?” Tom asked, showing me his card. He knew I didn’t. I told him of course I did. He snorted at my lie. We hated each other.

  We walked past two dozen scarcely partitioned officettes. Programmers were busy with the precious personality print-outs created by folks like me. I stopped to look at a young, extremely striking Korean boy who was sitting immobile at his desk, a salmon-colored rubber ball in his slender hand, squeezing and unsqueezing, staring straight ahead, immersed in the abstractions of the day. Around the chrome base of his swivel chair were three yellow pencils, broken in perfect halves. Tom was staring at me, hands on hips, furious at the moment’s delay.

  We came to the room that houses the giant computer, Magic Martha. A huge concoction of whirling reels and flashing lights. It was half as long as a city bus and ten feet high. Looking at her reminded me of how closely related are our concepts of time and our understanding of human limitations. Our smallest unit of time is the second—we just don’t do things faster than that. For Magic Martha a second is a long time. Last time I asked, she was making most of her decisions in a nanosecond (which is one billionth of a second) and many of them in a picosecond (one trillionth of a second). Since then, I am told, she has become much more efficient.

  There were about fifteen computer technicians wearing lime green smocks hovering around MM, feeding her, consulting her, listening very attentively to her every beep and squeak. It seemed that not one of them had ever spoken a word to anyone, so completely did the ceaselessly spewing machine occupy their every moment.

  Tom and I continued our little stroll. Past a few smaller computers, a row of memory banks, and into the computer workers’ cafeteria, where they were preparing turkey noodle soup. At the far end of the cafeteria we came to another immense lime green door which Tom again opened by gratifying the electronic device with his identification card. It opened up to a wall of elevators, each one initialed with a different letter. There was a P, a McG, an S, a B, and a few others. The W was on the far left and was freshly painted. As soon as Tom pressed the sparkling white doors the elevator opened up and we entered it. Inside, the elevator was carpeted with fur and lined with mirrors, except for the north wall which was covered with lights that snapped
on and off. These lights, I was later to learn, took our picture and filed it permanently, searched our person for concealed objects, and got a general idea of our state of health.

  In less than a minute the elevator opened up again and we walked out to a dark brown tunnel and the whistling of high winds. There was a small yellow and black car—not a car, really, for it ran on tracks and the tracks led to God knows where. It was not shaped like a normal vehicle. It was a thin yet sturdy-looking yellow metal bar that adhered to the tracks by two grooved wheels. On either end of the bar were two black cubes, hollowed out. Since it was too noisy (from the howling wind) to speak, Tom motioned me into one of the cubes. He was trying to be abrupt and officious but it was apparent that he was terrified—he had only made this trip a couple of times and he was far from used to it. Both of us settled into our seats and, God knows how, the vehicle whizzed down the darkening path.