Tomorrow Is Too Far

by James White

  ‘Lunch it is,’ said Carson, hanging up on the inevitable laughter.

  Before returning to his paperwork Carson paused for a few minutes to wonder what it was about Pebbles that was so unimportant yet urgent. Was it possible that Silverman was on to something--something so tenuous or circumstantial that he risked making a fool of himself by reporting it directly? Carson doubted it. At the same time he could not help thinking that it would be nice if, just once, he could catch himself a spy.

  Carson stared at his heaped IN tray without seeing it, sighed and slipped into his favourite day-dream.

  It need not be a Fuchs or a Pontecorvo or even one of the professionals for whom the other side would be willing to swap a couple of imprisoned amateurs. He would settle for a simple case of passing on classified information for sale to the newspapers or another company. If he could even interrupt a minor act of sabotage and apprehend the culprit, that would satisfy him and serve to make people take his department and himself just a little more seriously.

  Carson knew that he was not taken seriously, and neither was his department. That, of course, was nobody’s fault but his own. When he had first come to Hart-Ewing’s he had been very keen and just a little too smart--he had decided that to be a really efficient security officer he should project the image, not of an energetic new broom but of a rather average, bumbling character who was something of a fussy old woman. This meant that he could not take part in the many after-hours social and sporting activities sponsored by Hart-Ewing’s, that he could make a few if any close friends within the company and that he would probably grow fat through lack of strenuous exercise.

  He had told himself that being popular or even well-liked was not everything and, for the first year or so in the job, Carson had actually believed it. He had worked very hard to establish his ineffectual, milk-and-watery character, telling himself that he had, after all, a very responsible job and that it did not really matter if his Superman rig was permanently hidden under a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.

  As a result he was now treated by the majority of the company’s twelve thousand-odd personnel with a mixture of amusement, irritation and dislike--the ingredients varying in strength and quantity in direct relation to his activities at the time--while his men were looked on as something between members of the company Gestapo and characters out of Gilbert and Sullivan.

  They were the stupid, petty-minded officials who refused to allow a boy who had scarcely begun to shave to visit his girl during lunch-break in another part of the factory, just because his identity tag did not have the proper endorsements. When the level of pilfering rose above acceptable limits they subjected the workers to the monstrous indignity of opening the boots of their cars, causing a traffic pile-up at the gates and making everyone late for tea. And if a couple of windows were left open or a door left unlocked or, best of all, a cigarette left smouldering, the members of Carson’s Gestapo would become quite shrewish and a memo dripping with verbal acid would arrive on the department head’s desk first thing next morning...

  As usual, Carson thought angrily, his day-dream was turning into a nightmare. The real source of his trouble lay in the fact that, despite the aura of authority, danger and intrigue which was supposed to surround a chief security officer, he had one of the most boring jobs imaginable. He knew this and accepted it most of the time.

  But was he now finding it necessary to manufacture and chase will-o’-the-wisps like the ultra-secret space-drive project he had uncovered? Probably there was a simple explanation for the evidence he had found--provided it was considered separately, item by item, and not twisted into fantastic shapes to make it all fit together.

  Angrily he reached for the first item in his tray, determined to tranquillise himself with an overdose of routine. It was an application for permission to visit the guided weapons production line, the rocket engine test area and the module assembly building by a reporter and photographer from one of the dailies. The purpose of the visit was stated as gathering material for an illustrated feature on the Hart-Ewing contribution to the nation’s aerospace industry. Simpson of the publicity department would escort the two newsmen during the visit.

  The missile which they wanted to see being produced had been sold to so many different countries that the only thing secret about it was the name of the next customer, and the country concerned had already leaked even that for political reasons. The rocket engine test area did not worry him either--there was nothing to see but a lot of unclassified smoke and flames. In the module assembly area there were a few places which would have to be avoided for reasons of commercial rather than military security, certain processes which should not be photographed.

  Simpson was aware of these places and would co-operate by avoiding them. Unlike Simpson, the majority of people at Hart-Ewing’s did not co-operate or volunteer information or offer helpful advice to the security department. That was why Carson was becoming so curious about the Pebbles business.

  Curious but not suspicious.

  Chapter Three

  When he arrived for lunch Silverman was nowhere in sight, but Bill Savage was sitting at an otherwise empty table for four so he joined him. A few moments later Savage said, ‘Please do.’

  Carson grinned and said, ‘Thank you. I’m expecting company but before he comes I wonder if you could give me some information about an employee. I should ask one of your clerks instead of bothering you with it, but this isn’t official--I’m simply curious. The man’s name is Pebbles.’

  Savage had been watching Carson’s face while he spoke but suddenly he looked down at his plate. From experience Carson knew that the personnel officer was not avoiding his eyes through embarrassment or guilt or because he was about to tell a lie--Savage was not that kind of man. It was just that when a person or thing offended him he tried not to look at it. Carson, apparently, had become offensive.

  ‘This seems to be my week,’ he said finally, ‘for being asked unofficial questions about Mr Pebbles. What do you want to know, and whose side are you on?’

  ‘I don’t know to both questions,’ Carson replied. ‘I’d just like to know what all the fuss is about.’

  Savage nodded and looked up. He said, ‘His name is John Pebbles. Unmarried. Age about thirty. Medically fit but mentally somewhat retarded. We accepted him because it is company policy to employ a proportion of disabled persons on our work force. For the past three years he has been doing odd jobs, mostly fetching and carrying and sweeping floors in various factories. Now he has applied for a clerical position in another department and unless something happens to mess things up for him the grapevine says he’ll get it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Carson. ‘Is his present job difficult or unpleasant ...?’

  ‘Let’s say it lacks status,’ said Silverman, laughing as he joined them. Savage stared silently at the remains of his steak.

  ‘Seriously, Bill,’ Silverman went on, ‘you really should go a bit easier on your “Opportunities for Advancement” speech when you’re processing new employees--especially an obvious half-wit like Pebbles. Probably you feel sorry for him and would like to see him get on. The feeling does you credit, but let’s face it, Bill, Pebbles is not quite right in the head. You are in danger of making a simple-minded, basically happy man thoroughly discontented and unhappy ...’

  Silverman was fairly radiating sincerity, but he rather spoiled the effect by addressing Carson as if he were a member of a jury, rather than Savage.

  ‘ ... With me he is doing a job well within his capabilities. Now, that is. In the early days he pulled some really stupid stunts like trying to ride an electric truck down two flights of stairs just because some other nitwit dared him to do it. Only I was sorry for him and he had managed to make friends in high places who asked me to let him stay … ‘

  ‘Who,’ said Carson suddenly, ‘asked you to let him stay?’

  Silverman became less genial at being put off his stride. ‘Oh, Tillotson, Reece, a
couple of people from the design office--until then I didn’t know they knew he existed. Maybe they were sorry for him, too, or maybe he isn’t as half-witted as he pretends. He certainly isn’t grateful--I gave him the job in the first place, kept him when he didn’t know left from right, trained him until he has become completely dependable and now I’m going to lose one of my best men because you, Bill, are too soft-hearted to treat men the way they should be treated in a big organisation like this, as productive units to be deployed with the greatest possible efficiency.

  ‘You know, Bill,’ Silverman ended with a great, bellowing laugh, ‘I sometimes think you should get a job in the MacNaughton Clinic where you can help handicapped people all the time … What’s wrong, Bill?’

  ‘I think I’ll skip dessert,’ said Savage, throwing his paper napkin at his half-finished lunch.

  When he had gone Silverman laughed and said, ‘I think Bill takes things too seriously. Pebbles isn’t so important that people in our position should quarrel about him. At the same time I don’t think he should move to another department … ‘

  ‘My interest,’ said Carson stiffly, ‘is purely in the security aspect ...’

  Silverman wagged his head in amusement. ‘Joe, now you’re taking things too seriously. You can handle this quietly and unofficially. Pebbles isn’t a Commie or anything--he hasn’t enough brains to think political thoughts!--and Donovan dramatises things. It is just that Pebbles is so gullible and childish that if he were to find out anything of a confidential nature he would tell it to the first person he met. His foot is permanently in his mouth ...’

  ‘Sounds like an interesting character,’ said Carson. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing him.’

  Silverman shook his head. ‘No need for that now you understand the position. We are more realistic about these things than is Bill. This really is the best thing for Pebbles, you’ll see.’

  ‘By the way,’ he added. ‘I didn’t see your car outside. Can I give you a lift back?’

  Carson did not reply at once. He was thinking that this was not a security matter and that it was an indication of how Silverman regarded Carson and his department that he would use it simply to keep a good if not particularly bright worker from moving out of his section. Carson had yet to meet Pebbles but he already knew where his sympathies lay.

  ‘I’m putting on weight,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ll walk ...’

  On the way back to the office he stopped for a moment to watch a production EH93, its violent yellow paint job indicating that it had just come off the line and had still to be given its customer livery, warming up its engines. He noted with approval that two of his crash tenders were already in position on the edge of the runway, their rotating beacons winking dully in the bright sunshine. But he did not stay to watch the take-off. Despite the sun there was a cold wind blowing across the airfield and he had been stupid to refuse that lift.

  On his return to the admin building his first call was at Personnel to ask Bill Savage for Pebbles’s location and a copy of his dossier ... ‘I want to see him as soon as possible,’ he went on. ‘And look at me, dammit! I’m on your side, but I still have to go through the motions.’

  Savage looked up and added. ‘I’m glad. But treat him gently, Joe--he isn’t exactly as Laughing Boy described him...’

  Pebbles worked in the large, bright room which was the nerve centre--if such a hypothetical plant could be said to possess one--of the company grapevine. The gory details of an accident to one of the operators in Factory Three, the latest news of a government missile contract, the real reason behind an impending strike of riveters and a truly shocking--in both senses of the word--quantity of scandal was the type of up-to-date and surprisingly accurate information constantly available in this room. Because of the overwhelming urge in most people to gossip and to impress each other with the quality of confidential information to which they were privy the room was, from the security standpoint, about as porous as a rabbit hutch. At times it was Carson’s biggest single headache and some of the names he called it were neither polite nor printable, although the sign on the door read simply MALE STAFF TOILET.

  Carson did not look at Pebbles until he was washing his hands. He had chosen a washbasin near enough for easy conversation but not so close that it would hamper the other’s work.

  Pebbles was dressed in neat blue overalls. Two highly polished but badly tied shoes projected from the lower ends and a clean collar and tie showed at the top. The tie had a quiet but distinctive pattern on it and the limp, slightly frayed appearance of a status symbol worn with pride but perhaps a little too often. Carson had a tie just like it at home. Pebbles was mopping the tiled floor and whistling part of the third movement from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade and doing both with enthusiasm.

  Taking a deep breath, Carson said pleasantly, ‘I prefer the last movement myself. Especially the ending--you know, where the solo violin holds that very high note. It’s so high I sometimes think my neighbour’s dog is the only one able to appreciate it...’

  He stopped, waiting for the other’s reaction.

  Pebbles looked up quickly but did not speak. His expression reflected an odd mixture of pleasure, confusion and wariness--the expression, perhaps, of one who is uncertain whether he is being praised or having his leg pulled. His features did not seem to be those of an idiot--the face had an innocent rather than a vacant look. It was the look of a child--a child with problems, perhaps, but not necessarily a stupid child. Carson tried again.

  ‘I hear that you may be going to a new job soon. You’re looking forward to that, I expect ...’

  Pebbles began to stammer and for several interminable seconds nothing came out. Carson had spent some time thinking about his approach and subsequent treatment of Pebbles. He had not wanted to unsettle or frighten the man nor did he want their meeting to appear contrived. He knew that children were sensitive to any trace of condescension or insincerity on the part of adults trying to communicate with them, and presumably people with childish or retarded minds would have a similar sensitivity. Rather than being guilty of condescension Carson felt that he had gone too far in the opposite direction by projecting the conversation several yards above the poor slob’s head.

  In any case he had come simply to satisfy his curiosity enough about the man to be able to move Donovan’s report from the in to the out tray marked ‘No Action Required’. The whole business was becoming downright embarrassing for both Pebbles and himself. Obviously he was wasting his time trying to start a conversation with the man and he had, after all, more important things to do.

  Carson turned to go. He said, ‘I ... ah ... hope you do well in the job ...’

  Pebbles was staring at him, still trying to speak, his expression apologetic and determined. He seemed to be apologising for the barrier that would not let his words come through and determined that they were going to get through anyway--he reminded Carson of a child given a difficult word to spell. Finally he succeeded.

  ‘I... I can do multiplication and division,’ he said, very proudly, ‘and I’ve been able to do joined-up writing, not block capitals, for over two years. I can work out a triangle of velocities and calculate...’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Carson, patting him on the shoulder as he headed for the door. He was wondering what a triangle of velocities was and how Pebbles had come by that tie.

  Chapter Four

  The telephone was ringing when he returned to the office. It was Patrol Officer Sands reporting that just before he was due to go off duty he had spoken to the man responsible for moving the waste to the storeroom.

  ‘... Before talking to him,’ Sands went on briskly, ‘I checked his clock card for last night. He clocked out nearly three hours before the fire was reported and so could not have been directly responsible for it. However, he admitted to working late and to moving a load of waste to the storeroom in response to a telephone call from Production Control. He also said that he had heard about the fire but
had not realised that it had been in that particular storeroom. He did not appear to be worried about the incident and he certainly did not look guilty. His name is Pebbles and if you were to speak to him, sir, you would understand why I don’t suspect him of … ‘

  ‘I already have, and do,’ said Carson, unable to resist the temptation of stealing the other’s thunder. ‘But you’ve done very well. Go on, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir. When I questioned him further about the telephone call … ‘

  Sands went on to report that the voice had sounded pleasant but authoritative; it had identified its department of origin but not itself and it had asked Pebbles if he would mind emptying the litter bins in Production Control and transferring their contents to a certain storeroom in Factory Three. Apparently one of the PC girls had lost the stone of her engagement ring and wanted a chance to search the litter thoroughly before the waste-disposal people took it away. Pebbles had been asked to avoid factory personnel as much as possible and speak to no one on the way because the girl concerned did not want her leg pulled about it.

  Pebbles added that he had been asked to do the same exercise for different departments on a great many occasions for very similar reasons, and suggested that the girl looking for her property might have been smoking at the time and the stub or ash could have smouldered for hours before setting fire to the waste.

  Nobody in Production Control admitted either to losing valuables or asking to have their litter removed, Sands said, but in the circumstances that was to be expected. Sands thought the whole affair was stupid and childish--the company did not know how lucky it was that the waste had not been moved to an empty refuelling bay!--but it explained everything and it was so ridiculous that it was almost certainly the true explanation.

  Carson agreed that it was very neat, thanked him for staying late to report and rang off. He got up from his desk, walked to the window and stared out across the busy airfield without seeing a thing.