by Algis Budrys
Claire licked her lips. "No one manages you worth a damn, do they?" she said.
Hawks turned and paced steadily toward the sloped driveway.
He had barely set foot on the downslope when Barker shouted something strained and unintelligible behind him, and the car sprang into life again and hurtled by him. Barker stared intently out over the short hood, and threw the car into a broadside. Spuming up dust and gravel, engine roaring, clutch in, rear wheels slack, it skidded down sideward, its nose toward the cliff wall. The instant its left front fender had cleared the angle of the cliff, Barker banged the clutch up. The right side hovered over the edge of the gut for an instant. Then the rear wheels bit and the car shot down the first angle of the drive, out of sight. There was an instant scream of brakes and a great, coughing scuff of tires.
Hawks walked steadily down, through the turbulent, knee-high swale of dust that gradually settled into two smoking furrows leading from the broad swathes that scarred the bend of the dogleg. Barker was staring out to sea, sitting with his hands clenched over the top of the steering wheel, his sweated face plastered with yellow dust. The car was begrimed, still shivering a little from spring tension as it stood beside the mailbox, separated from the ocean by only the width of the access road. As Hawks came up parallel to him, Barker, without moving his head, said distinctly, "That's the fastest I've ever done it."
Hawks turned into the access road and began walking down over the wooden bridge.
"Are you going to walk all the way back into town?" Barker bawled out hoarsely. "You chicken-hearted son of a bitch!"
Hawks turned around. He came back and stood with his hands on the edge of the passenger side, looking down at Barker. "I'll expect you at the main gate tomorrow at nine in the morning, sharp."
"What makes you think I'll be there? What makes you think I'll take orders from a man who won't do what I would?" Barker's eyes were sparkling with frustration. "What's the matter with you?"
"I'm one kind of man. You're another."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Barker began beating one palm against the steering wheel. What began as a gentle insistent nudge became a mechanical hammering. "I can't understand you!"
"You're a suicide," Hawks said. "I'm a murderer." Hawks turned to go. "I'm going to have to kill you over and over again, in various unbelievable ways. I can only hope that you will, indeed, bring as much love to it as you think. Nine sharp in the morning, Barker. Give my name at the gate. I'll have your pass."
He walked away.
Barker muttered, "Yeah." He rose up in his seat and shouted down the road, "He was right, you know it? He was right! We're a great pair!"
Sunlight danced into his face from the shattered reflections of the whisky bottle on the edge of the road. His expression changed abruptly and he threw the car into reverse, whining up the driveway as quickly as a chameleon drawing its tongue around and in out of sight beyond the dogleg.
CHAPTER TWO
Hawks came eventually to the general store which marked the junction of the sand road and the highway. He was carrying his suit coat over his arm, and his shirt, which he had opened at the throat, was wet and sticking to his gaunt body.
He stopped and looked at the store, which was a small, graying frame building with a squared-off false front and weathered cases of smeared, empty, soft-drink bottles stacked beside it.
He wiped his face with the edge of his palm, took off his shoes, and stood balancing like an egret while he spilled the accumulated sand out of each of them in turn. Then he walked up to the front of the store.
He looked past the peeling gasoline pumps, up and down the highway, which burned off into the distance, losing each slight dip in its surface under the shimmering pools of mirages. Only private cars were on it, soughing back and forth past him. The mirages clipped off their wheels as they hissed away through them, and melted the skirts of their fenders.
Hawks turned, pulled open the limply screened door with its grimy bread advertisement pressed through the weave, and stepped inside.
The store was crowded with shelves and cabinets filling almost every square foot of floor space, leaving only narrow aisles. He looked around, blinking sharply once or twice as he did so, and finally closed his eyes entirely, opening them after a moment with an impatient grimace. He looked around again, this time unwaveringly. There was no one in the store. A narrow, blank door opened into a back room from which no sound came. Hawks refastened his collar and straightened his necktie.
He frowned and looked around at the doorframe behind him. He found a bell, suspended from the frame where the swung-back main door would have brushed it. It had been noiselessly cleared by the smaller screen door. He reached up and bent the bracket downward. His precise gesture failed to disturb the bell enough to ring it, and he stood looking at it, his expression clouded. He half reached toward the bell, brought his hand back down, and turned around again. A number of cars passed back and forth on the highway, in rapid succession.
He had laid his coat on the lid of a Coca-Cola cooler beside him. He picked it up now and swung back the cooler's lid, looking down at the bottles inside. They were all some local brand, bright orange and glassy red, up to their crowns in dirty water. Saturated paper labels had crawled up the sides of some of them. A chunk of ice, streamlined down to a piece like a giant rat's head, bobbed in one corner, speckled through with the same kind of sediment that formed a scum on the bottles. He closed the lid, again with an automatically controlled gesture, and again there was no sound loud enough to reach the store's back room. He stood looking down at the cooler, each scratch on it filled in by rust, and took a deep breath. He glanced toward the back room door.
There was a soft crunch of gravel outside as a car rolled up to the gasoline pumps. Hawks looked out through the screen door. A girl driving an old business coupe looked back at him through her rolled-down window.
Hawks turned toward the rear room. There was no sound. He took a step toward it, awkwardly, opened his mouth and closed it again.
The car door opened and clicked shut as the girl stepped out. She came up to the screen door and peered in. She was a short, dark-haired girl with pale features and wide lips now a little pinched by indecision as she shaded her eyes with her hand. She looked directly at Hawks, and he half shrugged.
She opened the door, and the bell tinkled. She stepped in, and said to Hawks, "I'd like to buy some gasoline."
There was a sound of sudden movement in the back room — a heavy creak of bedsprings and an approaching shuffle of feet. Hawks gestured vaguely in that direction.
"Oh," the girl said. She looked at Hawks' clothes and smiled apologetically. "Excuse me. I thought you worked here."
Hawks shook his head.
A fat, balding man in an undershirt and khaki pants, with his swollen feet in beach slippers and with strands of wet, dirty-gray hair pressed in swirls against his head, came out of the back room. He rubbed the pillow creases on his face and said in a hoarse voice, "Just catchin' forty winks." He darted his eyes from their hands to the counter, saw nothing there, and muttered, "People could rob me." He cleared his throat and rubbed his neck. "What'll it be?" he said to both of them.
"Well, this gentleman was here first," the girl said.
The man looked at Hawks. "You been waitin'? I didn't hear nobody call." He looked sharply at the fold of Hawks' suit coat over his arm, and swept a glance along the shelves. "How long you been here?"
"I only want to know if a city bus goes by here."
"But you figured you'd just wait until I showed up? Suppose a bus had gone by while you was in here? Would o' felt pretty foolish, wouldn't you?"
Hawks sighed. "Does a bus pass by here?"
"Lots o' buses, friend. But don't none of them stop to pick up local passengers. Let you off anywhere, if you're comin' from the city, but won't pick you up 'less it's an official bus stop. Rules. Ain't you got no car?"
"No, I don't. How far is it to the nearest bus stop?"
"'Bout a mile and a half down the road, that way." He waved. "Gas station. Henry's Friendly Service."
Hawks wiped his face again. "Suppose you sell this young lady some gasoline while I think about that." He smiled briefly. "You can search me after you come back inside."
The man flushed. His eyes darted from Hawks to the doorframe. "You been scr — foolin' around with that bell? Pardon the French, miss."
"Yes, I adjusted it. So no one else could creep up on you."
The man muttered, "I gut a sawed-off shotgun back there'd blow you right out the front of the store." He glared at Hawks, then glanced aside toward the girl. "You want some gas, miss?" He grinned. "Fix you up in a jiffy." He shouldered past Hawks to the doorway, and awkwardly held the screen door open for her with his soft, extended white arm. He said to Hawks from the doorway, "You better figure out what you're gonna do, friend — walk, hitchhike, buy somethin' — I ain't got all day." He grinned again toward the girl. "Got to take care of the young lady, here."
The girl smiled uneasily at Hawks and said, "Excuse me," softly, as she moved past him. As she stepped through the doorway, she brushed her left hip and shoulder against the frame to clear the owner's bulk on her other side.
The man pursed his lips with a spitting motion behind her back, ran measuring, deprived eyes over her skirt and blouse, and followed her.
Hawks watched through the window as she got back into the car and then asked for ten gallons of regular. The man banged the hose nozzle loose from its bracket and cranked the dial reset lever with an abrupt jerk of his arm. He stood glowering toward the front of the car, his hands in his pockets, while the automatic nozzle pumped gasoline into the tank. As the automatic surge valve tripped shut, while the pump's counter was passing nine and a half, the man immediately yanked the dribbling nozzle out and slammed it back on its bracket. He crumpled the five-dollar bill the girl held out through her window. "C'mon back in the store for your change," he growled, and strode away.
Hawks waited until the man was bent over the counter, fumbling in a cash drawer under its top. Then he said, "I'll take the lady's change back to her."
The man turned and stared at him, money clutched in his fist. Hawks looked toward the girl, who had the screen door half open, her face somewhat strained. "That'll be all right, won't it?" he said to her.
She nodded. "Yes," she said nervously.
The man slapped the change into Hawks' palm. Hawks looked down at it.
"Ain't that right for ten gallons, mister?" the man said belligerently. "You want to look and see what it says on that God-damned pump?"
"It's not right for four-tenths less than ten gallons. I did look." Hawks continued to face the man, who turned suddenly and scrabbled in the cash drawer again. He gave Hawks the rest of the change.
"Come in here and push a man around in his own store," the man said under his breath. "Go on — get out of here, you don't want to buy somethin'." He turned away toward the back of the store.
Hawks stepped outside and gave the girl her change. As the screen shut behind him, the bell tinkled. He shook his head. "I made him act that way. I upset him. I'm sorry he was so unpleasant to you."
The girl had brought her purse with her and was putting her money back into it. "You're not responsible for what he is." Without raising her face, she said with some effort, "Do — do you need a ride into the city?"
"To the bus stop, yes, thank you." He smiled gently as she looked up. "I forgot I wasn't a boy any more. I set out on a longer walk than I thought."
"You don't have to explain yourself to me," the girl said. "Why should you think you need a passport to ride with someone?"
Hawks shrugged. "People seem to want it." He shook his head again, a little bemused. "Why don't you?"
The girl frowned and shifted her feet. "I have to go all the way into the city," she said. "There's no point just dropping you at the bus stop."
Hawks plucked uneasily at the coat over his arm. Then he put it on and buttoned it. "All right." A trace of vertical shadow appeared in the coarse skin between his eyebrows and remained there. He smoothed the coat against his ribs. "Thank you."
"Let's go, then," the girl said. They got into the car and pulled out into the traffic stream on the highway.
They sat stiffly in the car as it rolled down the road, its tires thumping regularly over the oozing expansion joints in the concrete.
"I don't look like a pickup," the girl said.
Hawks looked at her, still frowning faintly. "You're very attractive."
"But I'm not easy! I'm only offering you a ride. Because you need it, I suppose." Her short hands clicked their scarlet nails against the steering wheel's worn, pitted plastic.
"I know that," he said quietly. "And I don't think you're doing it out of gratitude. That fellow wasn't anybody you couldn't have handled by yourself. I only spared you some effort. I'm not your gallant rescuer, and I haven't won your hand in mortal combat."
"Well, then," she said.
"We're trapping ourselves again," he said. "Neither of us knows quite what to do. We're talking in circles. If that fellow hadn't come out, we'd still be in that store, dancing a ritual dance around each other."
She nodded vehemently. "Oh, I'm sorry — I thought you worked here!" she mimicked herself.
"No — uh — I don't," he supplied.
"Well — uh — is anybody here?"
"I don't know. Do you suppose we should call out, or something … ?"
"What should we say?"
"'Hey, You!'?"
"Perhaps we should tap a coin on the counter?"
"I — uh — I only have a five-dollar bill."
"Well, then…" he trailed away in a tense imitation of an embarrassed mumble.
The girl thumped her left foot impatiently against the floorboards. "Yes, that's exactly how it would have been! And now we're doing it here, instead of there! Can't you do something about it?"
Hawks took a deep breath. "My name is Edward Hawks. I'm forty-two years old, unmarried, and I'm a college graduate. I work for Continental Electronics."
The girl said, "I'm Elizabeth Cummings. I'm just getting started as a fashion designer. Single. I'm twenty-five." She glanced aside at him. "Why were you walking?"
"I often walked when I was a boy," he said. "I had many things to think about. I couldn't understand the world, and I kept trying to discover the secret of living successfully in it. If I sat in a chair at home and thought, it worried my parents. There were times when they thought it was laziness, and times when they thought there was something wrong with me. I didn't know what it was. If I went somewhere else, there were other people who had to be accounted to. So I walked to be alone with myself. I walked miles. And I couldn't discover the secret of the world, or what was wrong with me. But I felt I was coming closer and closer. Then, when enough time had passed, I gradually learned how I could behave properly in the world as I saw it." He smiled. "That's why I was walking this afternoon."
"And where are you going now?"
"Back to work. I have to do some preliminary setting-up on a project we're starting tomorrow." He looked briefly out through the window, and then brought his glance back to Elizabeth. "Where are you going?"
"I have a studio downtown. I have to work late tonight, too."
"Will you give me your address and phone number, so I can call you tomorrow?"
"Yes," she said. "Tomorrow night?"
"If I may."
She said, "Don't ask me questions if you know the answers." She looked at him. "Don't tell me unimportant things just to pass the time."
"Then I'll have many more things to tell you."
She stopped the car in front of Continental Electronics' main gate, to let him out. "You're the Edward Hawks," she said.
"And you're the Elizabeth Cummings."
She gestured toward the sprawled white buildings. "You know what I mean."
He looked at her gravely. "I'm the Edward Hawks who's impor
tant to another human being. You're the Elizabeth Cummings."
She reached out and touched his sleeve as he opened the car door. "That's too hot to wear on a day like this."
He stopped beside the car, opened the jacket, took it off, and again folded it over his arm. Then he smiled, raised his hand in a tentative gesture, turned, and walked through the gate that a guard was holding open for him.
CHAPTER THREE
1
In the morning, at a quarter to nine, the phone rang in the laboratory. Sam Latourette took it from the technician who'd picked it up. He said, "Well, if he's like that, don't take any crap from him, Tom. Tell him to wait. I'll notify Ed Hawks." He hung up and padded in his old shoes across the floor, to where Hawks was with the crew of Navy dressers laying out the equipment Barker would wear.
The suit lay open on its long, adjustable table like a sectioned lobster, trailing disconnected air hoses from its sides, its crenelated joints bulging arthritically because of the embedded electric motors and hydraulic pistons that would move them. Hawks had run leads from a test power supply into the joints; the suit flexed and twitched, scraping its legs ponderously on the table's plastic facing, writhing the tool and pincer clusters at the ends of its arms. One of the Navy men wheeled up a compressed air cylinder and snapped the air hoses to it. At Hawks' nod, the helmet, crested with reinforcing ridges, its faceplate barred by a crosshatch of steel rods, hissed shrilly through its intakes while the table surface groaned.
"Leave it, Ed," Sam Latourette said. "These men can handle that."
Hawks looked apologetically at the Navy men, who had all turned their eyes on Latourette. "I know that, Sam."
"Are you going to wear it? Leave it alone!" Latourette burst out. "Nothing ever goes wrong with any of the equipment!"
Hawks said patiently, "I want to do it. The boys, here —" he gestured toward the dressers — "the boys don't mind my playing with their Erector set."
"Well, this fellow Barker's down at the gate. Give me his pass and stuff, and I'll go down and get him. He sounds like a real prize."
