by The Cool War
“I just wanted to remind myself of some things I have to do tomorrow, Horny. And, to tell the truth, since we’ve got the air-conditioning and all—well, I like to be here. It’s pretty hot in my room.” Jessie lived in what had once been a beach motel, now more or less remodeled into one-room apartments. Its one significant advantage was that it was cheap. “Horny? I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but are you going to the library in New York tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ve been promising myself that I would for a couple of months, and I just decided to do it.”
“Can I go along? There’s—” She hesitated. “I know you don’t believe in it, Horny, but there’s some new material on UFOs out, and I’d like to look into it. I won’t be in your way.”
Hake said, “Well, I’d certainly be glad to have you,
Jessie, but it’s not my car.”
“Oh, I’m sure Alys won’t mind. Matter of fact,” she said archly, “I bet she’ll be glad for a chaperone, you know, so Ted and Walter won’t be worried. That’s wonderful, Horny! I’m going home right this minute, so I can get in early and take care of everything before we go.”
As it turned out, Alys didn’t mind at all, or said she didn’t, and all the way into New York Jessie Tunman primly rode the motherin-law seat in the back of the little charcoal-generator. It was a two-hour ride, the three-wheeler barely crawling as it climbed the long bridge ascents and the occasional hills; but on the level it chugged along at the double-nickels, and downhill it took off at terrifying speed. As they whined down the ramp into the Lincoln Tunnel, Alys slipping wildly between the sectional buses and the fat tractor-trailer trucks that were inching along, Hake was glad they were almost there, prayerful that their luck would hold out a few minutes more.
It had been smuggy-hot all the way in, and the tunnel itself was a gas chamber. “Roll up your windows,” Alys gagged. It didn’t help. By the time they broke into open air, even the open air of midtown Manhattan, Hake’s head was pounding and Alys’s driving had become even more capricious. They drove down to the Village, parked the three-wheeler in the three-deck parking garage that surrounded the arch in Washington Square and walked over to the library. It was bloody hot.
A drama was being enacted in New York City that day; dressing while watching his TV news program, Hake had seen shots of a tank-trucker from Great Kills, perched over the discharge hose of his gasoline truck with a lighted Davy lamp in his hand, holding Rockefeller Center hostage in the cause of returning Staten Island to the state of New Jersey. Ringed by police sharpshooters who dared not fire, giddy in the fumes of the gas that vented up past the wire-screen around his candle, the man had been haranguing twenty terrified captives, as well as the millions beyond who listened safely through the networks’ parabolic microphones. Breathing shallowly of the hot, carbonized air, feeling the asphalt suck at his shoes, stepping around dog-turds and less identifiable gobbets of filth, Hake understood how the man had gone mad, how a thousand city-dwellers a year raped, crucified, leaped from windows or set fire to themselves. It was an environment to madden anyone, especially in weather like this.
And when they walked in through the double revolving doors of the library, it was into dry, sweet spring. A room five stories high, and air-conditioned to perfection! “Power-pigs,” snarled Hake, but Alys laid her hand on his arm.
“It isn’t just for people, Horny, dear, it’s for all the computers here which would break down if they didn’t keep the air just right. Come on, we sign in here, and then they’ll give us a terminal.”
The library gave them more than that. They gave them a room-to themselves, glass-walled on three sides, looking out into the five-floor atrium on the fourth, with comfortable chairs, a desk, ashtrays, a thermos flask of ice-water… and the one thing that made it all real: a computer terminal. Alys escorted Jessie Tunman to her own cubicle, a few doors down the corridor, then came back and closed the door. “Now I’ve got you, Horny,” she said, touching her palm to his cheek. And passed by him, and sat down before the terminal. Expertly she ptinched in her signature number, taken from the card issued at the desk, and a series of codes. “I’ve ordered a citation index search for starters, Horny, keyed to any three of six or more subject phrases. You’ll have to tell me what the phrases are. Did you know you’re a very sexy man, Horny?”
Starting to ask what she meant by the first part of what she had said, Hake jumped the tracks as he tried to switch to the second. “Alys,” he said, “please remember that I’m your marriage counselor, as well as, I hope, your friend.”
“Oh, I do, Horny, I do. Now, the kind of phrases we give the computer are whatever subjects interest you. For instance,” she tapped the keys, “some of the things you were talking about in your sermon, like so.” The screen on the terminal typed out the words:
1. Major strikes.
2. Exotic plant and animal pests.
3. Currency manipulations.
“Got it?” she asked. “What else?”
“I could answer that better if I knew what you were doing.”
“Sorry, Horny, I thought I explained all that. You were real cute at the magic show.”
“Please, Alys.”
“Well, you were. It’s a real kind of turn-on, being hypnotized, isn’t it? Back at college we all took the psych courses just for kickiness. My goodness, Horny, the fun we had hypnotizing each other!… Oh, you want to get on with this, don’t you? Well, it’s simple. Once we program searches for six or eight subjects, the computer selects some basic sources in each of them—say, a newspaper story about the bus strike in London, or the police in New York, and one on those water-lilies you were talking about, and so on. Then it starts searching for works that cite sources from any three of those subjects. If you find somebody’s written a book that includes material on three of the things you’re interested in, then the chances are pretty good you’ll be interested in the book, right? Funny thing. When we were in Europe, the way you were being Big Daddy to those kids, it turned me right off. Did you know that?”
Half laughing, and half of the laughing from embarrassment, Hake said, “Let’s stick to one thing at a time, okay? I’m also interested in fads that keep people from working. How do you say that?” He was thinking of the hula-hoops, of course; and when they found a generic term for that, and for terrorism, and for filthy cities, and for dumping commodities and despoiling natural resources and two or three other things, Alys punched an “execute” code and they watched the screen generate titles, quick as a zipper, laying them line by line across the tube:
AAF Studies World Events, monograph, U.S. Govt. Prntg. Offc.
AAAS Symposium on Social Change, Am. Acdy. Adv. Sci. proceedings.
Aar und das schrecklichkeit von Erde, Der, 8vo, von E.T. Griindemeister, Koln.
Aback and Abeam, A Memoir, by C. Franklin Monscut-ter, N.Y.
Abandonment of Reason, by William Reichsleder, N.Y. Times Sun. Mag., XCIV, 22, 83-88.
Abasing the Environment—
“No good,” said Alys, leaning forward and hitting the switch that stopped the quick-time march of titles up the screen. “At that rate we’ll be here till winter and still in the As. I like manly men, Horny, that’s why I sometimes get just smothered with Walter and Ted, they’re so kind.”
“Alys, damn it!”
“Well, I just want you to know. So here’s what we’ll do. First, I’ll kill all the foreign-language entries; should have thought of that in the first place. Then I’ll set it to look for citations in five categories instead of three, how’s that?”
“You’re the expert,” Hake said. “What would happen if you programmed it for all, what is it, all nine?”
“Why not?” She tapped quickly and sat back. Nothing happened.
“Shouldn’t you start it?” he asked after a moment.
“I did start it, Horny. It’s sorting through maybe a thousand works a second, looking for one that has all the things you want. There can’t be very many, you know. You’re
a lot different now than you were in Europe.”
“Oh, God, Alys,” he said, not looking away from the screen. But that was not very rewarding. They sat for a full moment, and there was no flicker at all.
“I have a friend,” said Alys thoughtfully, “who has an apartment not far from here. I have a key. There’s always something in the refrigerator, or I could pick up some kind of salad stuff and maybe a bottle of wine—”
“I’m not hungry. Listen, suppose we do find something. What do I do then, read the whole book here?”
“If you want to, Horny. Or if you want hard copy to take home, there’s a selector switch on that black thing over there, it’ll make microfiche copies for you. Or you can order the book itself on inter-library. Usually takes about a week to get them. I’m really disappointed.”
“Well,” he said, “it isn’t that I don’t like you, Alys, but—”
She laughed affectionately. “Oh, Horny! I meant the way we’re not getting anything. Let me cut back to six items, and see if we come out with a manageable number.”
And in fact they did. Eight books, about fifteen magazine and journal pieces—and real pay-dirt. A dissertation by a political-science Ph.D. candidate called The Mechanisms of Covert Power. A Johns Hopkins conference on “External Forces in National Development.” And three or four theses and monographs, all right on Hake’s target. “What I really need,” he said, surveying the mounting stack of microfiche cards, “is one of these computers for myself. I’ll be a year reading all this.”
Alys leaned back, stretched and yawned prettily, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Hake averted his eyes from the deep-necked peasant blouse with its white lacing, and remembered to look at his watch. He was due at Curmudgeon’s in forty-five minutes, and how was he going to get rid of Alys? It was a convenience to have the question posed to him in that way, because it spared him the necessity of considering whether he really wanted to get rid of her. Wine, salad and a friendly apartment sounded actually pretty nice.
“Oh, hell,” said Alys crossly, bringing her arms down. “There’s Jessie.”
Hake leaped to his feet. “Come in, come in,” he said, astonishing Jessie with his cordiality. “Alys has been showing me how to work this thing and, I must say, she’s really been marvelous about it. How are you doing, Jessie? Need any help? I’m sure Alys will give you some pointers. As for me, I’ve got a couple of errands to run. Suppose I meet you back here at, let’s see, say three-thirty? That way we can miss most of the rush hour…”
The building was fifty stories tall in a block of smaller ones; the elevator was high-speed and did not rattle, and the name on the door of the suite of offices was Seskyn-Porterous Theatrical Agency, “Through These Doors Walk Tomorrow’s Stars”
The waiting room had seats for twenty people. All were full. A dozen other prospective stars of tomorrow were standing around, pretty dancers and bearded folk singers, nervous comedians and a lot of other people who did not look like performers at all. Hake didn’t have to wait. He was shown at once into a corner office with immense plate-glass windows, and Curmudgeon was sitting at a tiny, bare, glass-topped desk, his hands folded before him.
He got up and shook hands silently, shaking his hairy head as Hake said hello. “Just a minute,” he said, walking to the windows and turning on a strange little buzzer device that rattled irregularly against each of them, and then switching on a radio behind his desk. Just loudly enough to be heard over the classical-rock music, he said, “You’re punctual, and that’s a good way to be. Your physical came through, four-oh; you’re in as good shape as you’ve ever been in your life. What do you say? Are you about ready for an assignment?”
“Well,” said Hake, “I don’t know—”
“Course you don’t know. I haven’t told you yet Let me read you something.”
He unlocked one of the desk drawers and took out a single sheet of paper in a sealed folder. “Subject, H. Hornswell Hake,” he read. “Blah, blah, blah, physical status excellent, blah, here we are. ‘Subject has displayed commendable initiative and resourcefulness. He is rated superior in the performance of his duties, and will be recommended for promotion at the first opportunity.’” He dropped the sheet into a metal wastebasket, and watched as it abruptly sprang into flame and consumed itself. Stirring the ashes, he said, “What do you say to that, Hake?”
“I guess I say thank you. What does that mean about a promotion?”
“What it says. You do good work, we reward you. Simple’s that. Is there anything you want?”
“Well— New carpets for the church,” Hake said, remembering. “Maybe a little car. And, yes, I’d like a computer terminal of my own, if that’s not too—”
“Forget the computer,” said Curmudgeon. “For now, anyway. Car, all right. Carpets, sure.” He made a note for himself on the palm of his hand. Craning to see, Hake observed that the whole left palm was covered with cryptic scribbles. “Anyway,” he said, “you won’t be needing any of that right away. The church is going to close down for the summer in a couple of weeks.” He didn’t put it as a question; he knew it as a fact. “I’ll see that the carpets are ready before Labor Day. About a car, get it yourself. Whenever you want to. I’ll arrange for financing. But right now you’re going on a vacation to a dude ranch.”
“I am? Why am I?”
“Because you’ve been given it as a ministerial perquisite,” Curmudgeon explained. “Actually, you won’t be lounging around the swimming pool and making out with the divorcees. It’s basic training for future missions. You’ll like it; you’re a health nut anyway. You report to Fort Stockton, Texas, a week from Monday for three weeks. Bring jeans, shorts, hiking clothes; bring whatever you like to make it look good, but you won’t have much need for neckties or dancing shoes. Any questions?”
“Well—”
Curmudgeon stood up. “It’s good you don’t have any questions,” he said, “because I’ve got another appointment in two minutes. Watch your mail for tickets and travel information—and when you find out you’ve won the trip, be sure you act surprised. Meanwhile— What the hell?”
There was a muffled thunder-roll outside the windows, which rattled in a more somber rhythm than that of the buzzers at their bases. Curmudgeon sprang to look out, Hake right behind him. East and north, a dozen blocks away, tiny black things were sailing through the sky, followed by a ropy cloud of black smoke shot through with flame.
“Christ,” said Hake. Some of those black things looked like bodies!
Curmudgeon stared at him narrowly, then relaxed. He took his hand away from the .45 at his hip, where it had flown at once, and said, “See what we’re up against? That was the guy with the gas truck, I bet. He was one of the New Dorp Irredentists. And that was Madrid money that got them going, you know. We’ll fix the sons of bitches when that Dutch-elm beetle Haversford’s got gets into their— Well, never mind that. Just remember what you just saw. It’ll do more for your morale than fifty lectures Under the Wire.”
New Dorp Irredenists? Dutch-elm beetle in Spain? “Under the Wire”? But before Hake could ask about any of these confusing things he was out in the anteroom again, threading his way through the starlets and tap dancers, with all the questions unasked; especially including that central question that went, What made the gas-truck driver do it?
VI
When Hake emerged from the slow-jet at Fort Stockton the heat wrapped itself around him at once. He was sweating before he got to the bottom of the ladder, panting as he walked the twenty yards from aircraft to the opening in the fence marked “Gate 1.” (There was no Gate 2.) He was met by a young black woman—black as to ethnicity, not skin color, which was a sort of sunny beige. There was no exchange of recognition signals. Clearly she had been briefed with description and photograph, perhaps also with fingerprints, genetic code and retina-prints, for all Hake knew. There was also the consideration that no one else got off the slow-jet. She came up to him unhesitatingly and said, “You�
�re Hornswell Hake and I’m Deena Fairless. Let’s go to the plane.” Also unhesitatingly, he went along. She didn’t ask if he had checked any baggage. She knew he had not. He had been instructed to take only toilet articles and personal items not to exceed four kilograms, and she assumed he had complied. Fairless pointed to the passenger side of what looked like an old electric golf cart, got in on the driver’s side and was in motion before Hake had fully settled himself in. There was no top. The drive to the end of an auxiliary runway, where a small plane was waiting for them, was only about two minutes, but it was long enough for Hake to think of sunstroke. He followed the woman up a retractable ladder into what he recognized as some sort of old military plane; he did not know enough to be sure of model or function, but it seemed to be one of the vertical-takeoff counter-insurgency gunships that had been popular in the old brushfire wars.
Hake’s guide turned out to be Hake’s pilot as well. She checked Hake’s seat belt, spoke briefly into the radio, went through a thirty-second checkoff against a printed list, and launched the plane in a climbing turn that made no use of the runway at all. It was a brute-force takeoff in a brute-force kind of airplane, and Hake knew that the fuel that got them into the air would have been enough to have kept his rectory warm all the last winter.
It stuck in his craw. He leaned over and yelled in the pilot’s ear, “Isn’t this a terrible waste of fuel?”
She looked at him with mild astonishment. “You mean this SHORTOL? Depends on how you look at it, Hake,” she yelled. “These are the planes we’ve got.”
“But a lighter plane—”
“Sit on it, Hake,” she yelled good-humoredly. “I knew you were a conscientious type the minute I saw you, but you haven’t worked out the figures. How much energy do you think it takes to build a plane? Don’t guess. I’ll tell you. Quarter-million kilowatt-hours or so, so if we junk this to get a little one it’s like peeing away ten thousand gallons of fuel. Anyway,” she finished obscurely, “every now and then you need what this plane can give you. Now shut up and let me fly.”
