On the television screen, a middle-aged woman was counseling her teen-age son, whose hair and clothes were disordered and soiled.
"Fightin' don't help, Jimmy," she was saying sadly. "Lord knows nobody ever brought any more sunshine into the world by bloodyin' somebody's nose, or by havin' his own nose bloodied."
"I know--but he said my I.Q. was 59, Ma!" The boy was on the point of tears, he was so furious and hurt. "And he said Pop was a 53!"
"Now, now--that's just child's talk. Don't you pay it no mind, Jimmy."
"But it's true," said the boy brokenly. "Ma, it's true. I went down to the police station and looked it up! Fifty-nine, Ma! and poor Pop with a 53." He turned his back, and his voice was a bitter whisper: "And you with a 47, Ma. A 47."
She bit her lip and looked heartbroken, then, seeming to draw strength miraculously from somewhere above eye level, she gripped the kitchen table. "Jimmy, look at your mother."
He turned slowly.
"Jimmy, I.Q. isn't everything. Some of the unhappiest people in this world are the smartest ones."
Since the start of his week of idleness at home, Paul had learned that this, with variations, was the basic problem situation in afternoon dramas, with diseases and injuries of the optic nerve and locomotor apparatus close seconds. One program was an interminable exploration of the question: can a woman with a low I.Q. be happily married to a man with a high one? The answer seemed to be yes and no.
"Jimmy, boy, son--I.Q. won't get you happiness, and St. Peter don't give I.Q. tests before he lets you in those Pearly Gates. The wickedest people that ever lived was the smartest."
Jimmy looked suspicious, then surprised, then guardedly willing to be convinced. "You mean--a plain fellow like me, just another guy, folks like us, Ma, you mean we're as good as, as, as, well, Doctor Garson, the Works Manager?"
"Doctor Garson, with his 169 I.Q.? Doctor Garson, with his Ph.D., D.Sc., and his Ph. and D. I-don't-know-what-else? Him?"
"Yeah, Ma. Him."
"Him? Doctor Garson? Jimmy, son, boy--have you seen the bags under his eyes? Have you seen the lines in his face? He's carryin' the world around on his shoulders, Jimmy. That's what a high I.Q. got him, Doctor Garson. Do you know how old he is?"
"An awful old man, Ma."
"He's ten years younger than your Pa, Jimmy. That's what brains got him."
Pa came in at that moment, wearing the brassard of a Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps Asphalt Leveler, First Class. He was cheery, pink, in first-rate health. "Hi, there, folks," he said. "Everything hunky-dory in my little old home, eh?"
Jimmy exchanged glances with his mother, and smiled oddly. "Yessir, reckon it is. I mean, you're darn right it is!"
In came the organ music, the announcer, and the washless, rinseless wash powder, and Paul turned down the volume.
The door chimes were ringing, and Paul wondered how long they'd been at it. He might have turned on the televiewer, to see if the bell ringer was worth opening the door for, but he was hungry for companionship--just about any kind--and he went to the door gladly, gratefully.
A policeman looked at him coldly. "Doctor Proteus?"
"Yes?"
"I'm from the police."
"So I see."
"You haven't registered."
"Oh." Paul smiled. "Oh--I've been meaning to do that." And he had meant to do it, too.
The policeman did not smile. "Then why haven't you?"
"I haven't found the time."
"You better start looking for it, hard, Doc."
Paul was annoyed by this rude young man, and he was inclined, as he had been inclined with the bartender at the Meadows, to put him in his place. But he thought better of it this time. "All right. I'll be down to register tomorrow morning."
"You'll be down to register in an hour, today, Doc." The honorific Doc, Paul was learning, could be spoken in such a way as to make a man wish to God he'd never come within ten miles of a university.
"Yes--all right, whatever you say."
"And your industrial identification card--you've failed to turn that in."
"Sorry. I'll do that."
"And your firearms and ammunition permit."
"I'll bring that."
"And your club membership card."
"I'll find it."
"And your airline pass."
"All right."
"And your executive security and health policy. You'll have to get a regular one."
"Whatever you say."
"I think that's all. If anything else comes up, I'll let you know."
"I'm sure you will."
The young policeman's expression softened suddenly, and he shook his head. "Lo! How the mighty are fallen, eh, Doc?"
"Lo! indeed," said Paul.
And an hour later Paul reported politely at the police station, with a shoebox full of revoked privileges.
While he waited for someone to notice him, he interested himself in the radiophoto machine behind glass in one corner, which was fashioning a portrait of a fugitive, and noting beside it a brief biography. The portrait emerged from a slit in the top of the machine bit by bit--first the hair, then the brows, on line with the word WANTED, and then, on line with the large, fey eyes, the name: Edgar Rice Burroughs Hagstrohm, R&R-131313. Hagstrohm's sordid tale emerged along with his nose: "Hagstrohm cut up his M-17 home in Chicago with a blow-torch, went naked to the home of Mrs. Marion Frascati, the widow of an old friend, and demanded that she come to the woods with him. Mrs. Frascati refused, and he disappeared into the bird sanctuary bordering the housing development. There he eluded police, and is believed to have made his escape dropping from a tree onto a passing freight--"
"You!" said the desk sergeant. "Proteus!"
Registration involved the filling out of a long, annoyingly complicated form that started with his name and highest classification number, investigated his reasons for having fallen from grace, asked for the names of his closest friends and relatives, and ended with an oath of allegiance to the United States of America. Paul signed the document in the presence of two witnesses, and watched a coding clerk translate it, on a keyboard, into terms the machines could understand. Out came a card, freshly nicked and punched.
"That's all," said the police sergeant. He dropped the card into a slot, and the card went racing through a system of switches and sidings, until it came to rest against a thick pile of similar cards.
"What does that mean?" said Paul.
The sergeant looked at the pile without interest. "Potential saboteurs."
"Wait a minute--what's going on here? Who says I am?"
"No reflection on you," said the sergeant patiently. "Nobody's said you are. It's all automatic. The machines do it."
"What right have they got to say that about me?"
"Oh, they know, they know," said the sergeant. "They've been around. They do that with anybody who's got more'n four years of college and no job." He studied Paul through narrowed lids. "And you'd be surprised, Doc, how right they are."
A detective walked in, perspiring and discouraged.
"Any break on the Freeman case, Sid?" said the sergeant, losing interest in Paul.
"Nah. All the good suspects came off clean as a whistle on the lie detector."
"Did you check the tubes?"
"Sure. We put in a whole new set, had the circuits checked. Same thing. Innocent, every damn one of 'em. Not that every damn one of 'em wouldn't of liked to of knocked him off." He shrugged. "Well, more leg work. We've got one lead: the sister says she saw a strange man around the back of Freeman's house a half-hour before he got it."
"Got a description?"
"Partial." He turned to the coding clerk. "Ready, Mac?"
"All set. Shoot."
"Medium height. Black shoes, blue suit. No tie. Wedding ring. Black hair, combed straight back. Clean-shaven. Warts on hands and back of neck. Slight limp."
The clerk, expressionless, punched keys as he talked.
"Dinga-dinga-
dinga-ding!" went the machine, and out came a card.
"Herbert J. van Antwerp," said Mac. "Forty-nine fifty-six Collester Boulevard."
"Nice work," said the sergeant. He picked up a microphone. "Car 57, car 57--proceed to ..."
As Paul walked into the bright sunlight of the street, a Black Maria, its siren silent, its tires humming the song of new rubber on hot tar, turned into the alleyway that ran behind the station house.
Paul peered curiously at it as it stopped by a barred door.
A policeman dismounted from the back of the shiny black vehicle and waved a riot gun at Paul. "All right, all right, no loitering there!"
Paul started to move on, lingering an instant longer for a glimpse of the prisoner, who sat deep in the wagon's dark interior, misty, futile, between two more men with riot guns.
"Go on, beat it!" shouted the policeman at Paul again.
Paul couldn't believe that the man would actually loose his terrible hail of buckshot on a loiterer, and so loitered a moment longer. His awe of the riot gun's yawning bore was tempered by his eagerness to see someone who had made a worse botch of getting along in society than he had.
The iron door of the station house clanged open, and three more armed policemen waited to receive the desperado. The prospect of his being at large in the alley for even a few seconds was so harrowing, seemingly, that the policeman who had been badgering Paul now gave his full attention to covering the eight or ten square feet the prisoner would cross in an instant. Paul saw his thumb release the safety catch by the trigger guard.
"All righty, no funny stuff, you hear?" said a nervous voice in the wagon. "Out you go!"
A moment later, Doctor Fred Garth, wearing a badly torn Blue Team shirt, unshaven, his eyes wide, emerged into the daylight, manacled and sneering.
Before Paul could believe in the senseless scene, his old tent-and teammate, his buddy, the man next in line for Pittsburgh, was inside.
Paul hurried around to the front, and back into the office where he'd filled out the papers and turned in his credentials.
The sergeant looked up at him superciliously. "Yes?"
"Doctor Garth--what's he doing here?" said Paul.
"Garth? We got no Garth here."
"I saw them bring him in the back door."
"Naah." The sergeant went back to his reading.
"Look--he's one of my best friends."
"Should of stuck with your dog and your mother," said the sergeant without looking up. "Beat it."
Bewildered, Paul wandered back to the street, left his old car parked in front of the station house, and walked up the hill to the main street of Homestead, to the saloon at the foot of the bridge.
The town hall clock struck four. It might have struck midnight or seven or one, for all the difference it made to Paul. He didn't have to be anywhere at any time any more--ever, he supposed. He made up his own reasons for going somewhere, or he went without reasons. Nobody had anything for him to do anywhere. The economy was no longer interested. His card was of interest now only to the police machines, who regarded him, the instant his card was introduced, with instinctive distrust.
The hydrant was going as usual, and Paul joined the crowd. He found himself soothed by the cool spray from the water. He waited with eagerness for the small boy to finish fashioning his paper boat, and enjoyed the craft's jolting progress toward certain destruction in the dark, gurgling unknown of the storm sewer.
"Interesting, Doc?"
Paul turned to find Alfy, the television shark, at his elbow. "Well! Thought you were at the Meadows."
"Thought you were. How's the lip?"
"Healing. Tender."
"If it's any consolation, Doc, the bartender's still sneezing."
"Good, wonderful. Did you get fired?"
"Didn't you know? Everybody got sacked, the whole service staff, after that tree business." He laughed. "They're doing their own cooking, making their own beds, raking the horseshoe pits, and all, all by theirselves."
"Everybody?"
"Everybody below works manager."
"They're cleaning their own latrines, too?"
"The dumb bunnies, Doc, with I.Q.'s under 140."
"What a thing. Still play games, do they?"
"Yep. Last I heard, Blue was way out ahead."
"You don't mean it!"
"Yeah, they were so ashamed of you, they just about killed theirselves to win."
"And Green?"
"Cellar."
"In spite of Shepherd?"
"You mean Jim Thorpe? Yeah, he entered everything, and tried to make every point."
"So--"
"So nobody made any points. Last I heard, his team was trying to convince him he had virus pneumonia and ought to spend a couple of days in the infirmary. He's got something, that's for sure." Alfy looked at his watch. "Say, there's some chamber music on channel seven. Care to play?"
"Not with you."
"Just for the hell of it. No money. I'm just getting checked out on chamber music. A whole new field. C'mon, Doc, we'll learn together. You watch the cello and bass, and I'll watch the viola and violin. O.K.? Then we'll compare notes and pool our knowledge."
"I'll buy you a beer. How's that?"
"That's good; that's very good."
In the bar's damp twilight, Paul saw a teen-ager looking at him hopefully from a booth. Before him, on the table top, were three rows of matches: three in the first row, five in the second, seven in the third.
"Hello," said the young man uneasily, hopefully. "Very interesting game here. The object of the game is to make the other guy take the last match. You can take as many or as few as you want from any given row at each turn."
"Well--" said Paul.
"Go ahead," said Alfy.
"For two dollars?" said the youngster nervously.
"All right, for two." Paul took a match from the longest row.
The youngster frowned and looked worried, and countered. Three moves later, Paul left him looking disconsolately at the last match. "Goddammit, Alfy," he said miserably, "look at that. I lost."
"This is your first day!" said Alfy sharply. "Don't get discouraged. All right, so you lost. So you're just starting out." Alfy clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Doc, this is my kid brother, Joe. He's just starting out. The Army and the Reeks and Wrecks are hot for his body, but I'm trying to set him up in business for hisself instead. We'll see how this match business works out, and if it doesn't, we'll think of something else."
"I used to play it in college," said Paul apologetically. "I've had a lot of experience."
"College!" said Joe, awed, and he smiled and seemed to feel better. "Jesus, no wonder." He sighed and sat back, depressed again. "But I don't know, Alfy--I'm about ready to throw in the towel. Let's face it, I haven't got the brains." He lined up the matches again, and picked at them, playing a game with himself. "I work at it, and I just don't seem to get any better at it."
"Sure you work!" said Alfy. "Everybody works at something. Getting out of bed's work! Getting food off your plate and into your mouth's work! But there's two kinds of work, kid, work and hard work. If you want to stand out, have something to sell, you got to do hard work. Pick out something impossible and do it, or be a bum the rest of your life. Sure, everybody worked in George Washington's time, but George Washington worked hard. Everybody worked in Shakespeare's time, but Shakespeare worked hard. I'm who I am because I work hard."
"O.K., O.K., O.K.," said Joe. "Me, Alfy, I haven't got the brains, the eye, the push. Maybe I better go down to the Army."
"You can change your name before you do, kid, and don't bother me again," said Alfy tensely. "Anybody by the name of Tucci stands on his own two feet. It's always been that way, and that's the way it's always going to be."
"O.K.," said Joe, coloring. "Awri. So I give it a try for a couple more days."
"O.K.!" said Alfy. "See that you do."
As Alfy hurried to the television set, Paul stayed at his side. "Listen, d
o you happen to know who Fred Garth is?"
"Garth?" He laughed. "I didn't at first, but I sure as hell do now. He's the one that ringbarked the oak."
"No!"
"Yep. And they never even thought of questioning him. He was on the committee that was supposed to do the questioning."
"How'd they catch him?"
"Gave hisself away. When the tree surgeon got there to patch up the tree, Garth tossed his tools in the drink."
"Alfy!" said the bartender. "You missed the first number."
Alfy pulled up a bar stool.
Paul sat down next to him and engaged the bartender in conversation. Their talk was disjointed, as Alfy kept the man busy twisting the television set's volume knob.
"Ever see Finnerty around?" said Paul.
"The piano player?"
"Yeah."
"What if I have?"
"I'd just like to see him, is all. A friend of mine."
"Lot's of people'd like to see Finnerty these days."
"Uh-huh. Where's he keep himself?"
The bartender looked at him appraisingly. "Nobody sees Finnerty these days."
"Oh? He's not living with Lasher any more?"
"Full of questions today, aren't you? Nobody sees Lasher these days."
"I see." Paul didn't. "They leave town?"
"Who knows? Come on, I haven't got all day. What'll it be?"
"Bourbon and water."
The bartender mixed the drink, set it before Paul, and turned his back.
Paul drank the health of his hostile or apathetic companions in the new life he'd chosen, coughed, smiled, smacked his lips judiciously, trying to determine what wasn't quite right about the drink, and fell senseless from the bar-stool.
28
"FROM BLUE CAYUGA," piped the young voices in the autumn evening--
"From hill and dell,
Far rings the story of the glory of Cornell--"
Doctor Harold Roseberry, PE-002, laid two documents side by side on the naked, waxy expanse of the top of his rosewood desk. The desk, big enough for a helicopter to land on, was a gift from the Cornell alumni, and a silver plate on one corner said so. Justification of the lavish gift was inlaid in precious woods on the desk top: the football scores run up by the Big Red during the past five seasons. The why and wherefore of this object, at least, would leave no questions in the minds of future archaeologists.
"From East and West the crashing echoes answering call," cried the young voices, and Doctor Roseberry found it extremely difficult to concentrate on the two documents before him: a memo from the dean of the School of Arts and Sciences, a quaint, antique man in a quaint, antique part of the university; and a five-year-old letter from a carping alumnus who objected to the deportment of the team when off the playing field. The memo from the dean said that a Mr. Ewing J. Halyard had arrived in town in order to show the university to the Shah of Bratpuhr, and, incidentally, to make up a seventeen-year-old credit deficiency in physical education. The memo asked that Doctor Roseberry assign one of his staff to the chore of giving Halyard the final physical-education tests the next morning.
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