Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  He chanted wearily into the mike at the indifferent Ay-rabs of the 27th, “My friends, don’t miss the big free rally tonight at Republican Hall. Learn the truth, don’t be misled. The Regular Republican Party promises inside plumbing for every family. We promise stockyard workers paid time off for noon prayers and doubling the bonus for handling pork. My friends, don’t miss the big free rally. Don’t fail to miss the big free—”

  “Hey!” the driver cried.

  Mundin put his hand over the mike. “Damn! Right out of my subconscious, that one.” He uncovered the mike and said, “Don’t miss the big free rally. The Regular Republicans are the party of Lincoln, the party of Eisenhower. We stand for inside plumbing. Learn the truth at the big free rally . . .”

  The liquid eyes stared entirely without interest. Mundin subsided and turned on the sound tape.

  The speaker horns began to blare You and Me and the Moon. Apathetically, he rioted that one of the older Ay-rab women wore a veil. Unusual, nowadays.

  The driver leaned over and nudged him. “You’ll never get anywhere with the Ay-rabs, Mr. Mundin,” he said confidentially. “We had a good crowd in the 27th before the war. Poles and Irish. The Poles voted Republican—you only had one Republican party then, you know. And the Irish voted Democrat. But then the packers began flying in the Ay-rabs and now you don’t know where you stand.”

  Mundin nodded indifferently.

  They passed somebody’s G-M-L bubble house, obviously an early model, before the corporation figured out the bubble-city plan, and it was showing its age. Mundin could see the family taking their ease in the living room. He chuckled. Their polarizer was out of order and they didn’t know it.

  But the driver was shocked. He stopped the truck and honked, pointing indignantly through the wall. The man heard the honking and hastily strode to a manual control. The wall opaqued.

  The truck rolled on. The driver muttered something about goddam fishbowls. “I’m a married man,” he added indignantly and irrelevantly.

  “Yeah,” said Mundin. “Say, the hell with 85th Street. Turn around—let’s go back to the club.”

  He flicked off the speakers in mid-chorus. It made no difference to the dark, liquid eyes: they followed the silent truck as uncaringly as they had the blaring horns.

  “My friends,” Mundin said to the dead microphone, “vote for my opponent. He’s as big a liar as I am, but he can afford this and I can’t.”

  Which was also irrelevant, for he was stuck with it now.

  II

  THIS fellow Mundin might not not be much of a lawyer, Norvie Bligh told himself on the way back to his office, but at least he probably wouldn’t charge much. Arnie Dworcas had as much as promised him that.

  Anyway, who needed a legal eagle to put adoption papers through? The whole thing was downright silly. If only Ginny weren’t so touchy lately, you could explain to her that it was just an unwarranted expense, that nobody was going to take Alexandra away from them, that there wasn’t any question about who’d inherit his contract status and bubble house if he died.

  He considered that for a moment. Virginia had certainly seemed to take that part of it seriously, he thought. She had mentioned it half a dozen times. “Don’t forget to ask him about inheriting.” And, of course, he had forgotten. Well, there would be another chance on Friday.

  You couldn’t really blame Virginia if she felt a little—well, insecure. Life with that Tony must have been pure hell, living in Belly Rave from hand to mouth. That was why she was such a devoted wife.

  Of course she was a devoted wife, he told himself.

  Right now, though, the important thing was whether Candella was going to say anything about his being fifteen minutes late. Candella was pretty difficult lately. Naturally, you couldn’t blame him for being jumpy, with the big Fall Field Day coming up and all.

  Of course you couldn’t blame Candella. Of course you couldn’t blame Virginia, or Arnie Dworcas when his promises didn’t jell, or Alexandra when she was a little touchy, like any 14-year-old, of course.

  Of course you couldn’t blame anybody for anything. Not if you were Norvell Bligh.

  Fortunately, Candella didn’t notice what time he came back from lunch. But in the middle of the afternoon, the boss’s secretary came hurrying out to Norvie’s desk and said, “Mr. Candella would like to discuss your Field Day program with you.”

  He went in with a feeling of uneasiness.

  Old man Candella slapped the papers down and roared. “Bligh, maybe you think a Field Day is a Boy Scout rally, where kids shoot arrows and run footraces around a tennis court. Maybe you think it’s a Ladies’ Aid pink tea. Maybe you just don’t know what a Field Day is supposed to be. Is that it?”

  NORVIE BLIGH swallowed. “No, sir,” he whispered.

  “ ‘No, sir,’ ” Candella mimicked. “Well, if you do know what a Field Day is, why isn’t there at least one good, exciting idea in this whole bloody script? I take back that word ‘bloody.’ There might be some complaints in the other direction, but I guarantee there wouldn’t be any complaints that there was too much blood.”

  He jabbed at the program with a hairy forefinger. “Listen to this. ‘Opening pageant—procession of jeeps through gauntlet of spearmen. First spectacle—fifty girl wrestlers versus fifty male boxers. First duet—sixty-year-old men with blowtorches.’ Ah, what’s the use of going on? This is supposed to be the big event of the year, Bligh. It isn’t a Friday-night show in the off season. This is the one that counts. It’s got to be special.”

  Norvie Bligh shifted miserably. “Gosh, Mr. Candella, I—I thought it was. It’s a classical motif, don’t you see? It’s like—”

  “I can tell what it’s like,” Candella bellowed. “I’ve been producing these shows for fifteen years. I don’t need anybody to tell me whether a script will play or it won’t—and I’m telling you this one won’t!”

  He stabbed a button on his console.

  Norvie felt the seat lurch warningly underneath him and barely managed to scramble to his feet as it disappeared into the wall.

  “Take this script away,” Candella growled. “We’ve got to start casting on Monday. Let’s see if we can have something by tomorrow night.” He didn’t even look up as Norvie cringed out the door.

  Norvie dictated and erased five tapes. He sent his three assistants on three different errands of research, to find the best spectacles on the highest-rated Field Days in every major city. Nothing they brought back was any help.

  When Miss Dali came in to pick up the afternoon’s dictation and he had to face the fact that there was no afternoon’s dictation, he grumbled to her, “What do they expect in that moldy gym they call a stadium here? Look at Pittsburgh—we’re twice as big and they have armored halftracks.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Miss Dali. “Mr. Stimmens would like to see you.”

  “All right,” he replied ungraciously and dialed a chair for his junior scriptwriter.

  “Excuse me, Chief,” Stimmens said hesitantly. “Can I see you for a moment?”

  “You’re seeing me.” Norvie had picked that bon mot up from Candella the week before.

  STIMMENS hesitated, then blurted much too rapidly, “You’ve got a great organization here, Chief, and I’m proud to be a part of it. But I’m having a little trouble—you know, trying to get ahead, hah-hah—and I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for you, Chief, as well as me if . . .” He went on through a tortuous story of a classification clerk’s mistakes when he had finished school, and an opening in Consumer Relations, and a girl who wouldn’t marry him until he got a Grade Fifteen rating.

  Long before Stimmens had come anywhere near the point, Norvie knew what he wanted and knew what the answer had to be. But Candella’s bruises were fresh on his back and he let Stimmens go on till he was dry. Then, briskly, “Stimmens, if I’m not in error, you signed the regular contract before you joined us.”

  “Well, yes, sir, but—”

  “It has the usual prov
ision for cancellation. I believe you know the company’s policy in regard to selling contracts. We simply cannot afford to sell unless the purchase price is high enough to reimburse us for the employee’s training time—which, in your case, is all the time you’ve spent with us, since you have clearly failed to master your job. I’m surprised you should come to me with such a request.”

  Stimmens stared at him. “You won’t let me go?”

  “I can’t. You’re at liberty to cancel your contract.”

  “Cancel! And go back to Belly Rave? Mr. Bligh, have you ever been in Belly Rave?” He shook his head like a man dispelling a nightmare. “Well, sorry, Mr. Bligh. Anything else for me to do today?”

  Norvie looked at his watch. “Tomorrow,” he growled. As Stimmens slumped away, Norvie, already feeling ashamed of himself, petulantly swept the chair back into the wall.

  It was almost quitting time.

  He made a phone call. “Mr. Arnold Dworcas, please . . . Arnie? Hello, how’re you? Fine. Say, I saw that attorney, Mundin, today. Looks like everything will be all right . . . Uh-huh.

  Thanks a lot, Arnie . . . This evening? Sure. I was hoping you’d ask me. All right if I go home first? Ginny’ll want to hear about the lawyer . . . About eight, then.”

  ARNIE Dworcas had a way of chewing a topic interminably and regurgitating it in flavorless pellets of words. Lately he had been preoccupied with what he called the ingratitude of the beneficiaries of science.

  At their frequent get-togethers, he would snarl at Norvie, “Not that it matters to Us Engineers. Don’t think I take it personally, just because I happen to be essential to the happiness and comfort of everybody in the city. No, Norvie, We Engineers don’t expect a word of thanks. We Engineers work because there’s a job to do, and we’re trained for it. But that doesn’t alter the fact that people are lousy ingrates.” At which point, Norvie would cock his head a little in the nervous reflex he had acquired with the hearing aid and agree, “Of course, Arnie. Hell, fifty years ago, when the first bubble cities went up, women used to burst out crying when they got a look at one. My mother did. Coming out of Belly Rave, knowing she’d never have to go back—”

  “Yeah. Not that that’s evidence, as We Engineers understand evidence. It’s just your untrained recollection of what an untrained woman told you. But it gives you an idea of how those lousy ingrates settled down and got smug. They’d change their tune damn fast if We Engineers weren’t on the job. But you’re an artist, Norvell. You can’t be expected to understand.” And he would gloomily drink beer.

  Going home from work and looking forward to seeing his best friend later that night, Norvie was not so sure he didn’t understand. He even felt inclined to argue that he wasn’t an artist like some crackpot oil painter or novelist in a filthy Belly Rave hovel, but a technician in his own right. Well, kind of—his medium was the emotional fluxes of a Field Day crowd, rather than torques, forces and electrons.

  He had an important job, Norvie told himself—Associate Producer, Monmouth Stadium Field Days. Of course, Arnie far outstripped him in title. Arnie was Engineer Supervising Rotary and Reciprocal Pump Installations and Maintenance for Monmouth G-M-L City.

  Not that Arnie was the kind of guy to stand on rank. Hell, look at how Arnie was always doing things for you—like finding you a lawyer when you needed one, and . . . Well, he was always doing things for you.

  It was a privilege to know a man like Arnie Dworcas.

  III

  CHARLES Mundin, Ll.B., just parked the truck for the sheriff’s man—he was too busy—and entered Republican Hall through the back way.

  He found Del Dworcas in the balcony—the Hall was a slightly remodeled movie house—telling the cameramen how to place their cameras, the sound men how to line up their parabolic mikes, the electricians how to use their lights.

  Mundin stood on the sidelines, faintly hoping one of the cameramen would extract a few of Dworcas’ front teeth with a tripod leg, but they kept their tempers admirably. He sighed and tapped the chairman on the shoulder.

  Dworcas gave him the big hello and asked him to wait in the manager’s office—he had to get these TV people squared away, but it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. “Did you see that fellow Bligh?” he asked. “Yeah? Good. Soak him, Charley; you got to make a living, you know. Some friend of my brother Arnie’s. Now go on down to the office. Couple of people there for you to talk to.” He looked annoyingly mysterious.

  Mundin sighed again. At the foot of the stairs, he yelled in astonishment, “Great God Almighty! Prince Wilhelm the Fourth!”

  William Choate IV jerked around and looked confused, then stuck out a hand for Mundin to grasp. He was a pudgy little man of Mundin’s age, a classmate from John Marshall Law School, heir to a mighty corporate practice, a tidy dresser, former friend, solid citizen and four-star jerk. “Why, hello, Charles,” he said uncertainly. “Good to see you.”

  “Likewise. What are you doing here?”

  Choate made a mighty effort and produced a shrug. “Oh,” he said, “you know.”

  “Meaning that even a corporation lawyer has political dealings once in a while?” Mundin helped him out.

  “That’s it exactly!” Choate was pleased. It was just like old times. Mundin had always helped him out, all the way through John Marshall Law.

  Mundin looked at his former protégé with emotions that were only distantly related to envy. “It’s a pleasure to run into you, Willie,” he said. “They keeping you busy?”

  “Busy? Whew! You’ll never know, Charles.” That was a very unfortunate remark, Mundin thought. “You know the I.G. Farben reorganization?”

  “By reputation,” Mundin said acidly. “I’m in criminal practice right now. Incidentally, I had an interesting case today—”

  “Yes,” Choate said. “Well, you might say I’ve won my spurs. The old man made me counsel for the Group E Debenture Holder’s Protective Committee. Old Haskell died in harness, you know. Think of it—forty years as counsel for the Protective Committee! And with a hearing before the Referee in Receivership coming up. Well, I won my spurs, as you might say. I argued before the referee this morning, and I got a four-year stay!”

  “Well,” Charles Mundin said. “To use a figure of speech, you certainly won your spurs, didn’t you?”

  CHOATE beamed. “I thought you’d see it that way. I simply pointed out to old Roseheaver that rushing through an immediate execution of receivership would work a hardship on the committee and I asked for more time to prepare our suits for the trust offices. Old Roseheaver thought it over and decided it would be in the public interest to grant a stay. And, Charles, he congratulated me on my presentation! He said he had never heard the argument read better!”

  “Well done,” said Mundin. It was impossible to resent this imbecile. A faint spark of technical interest made him ask, “How did you prove hardship?”

  Choate waved airily. “Oh, that was easy. We have this smart little fellow in the office, some kind of distant cousin of mine, I guess. He handles all the briefs. A real specialist—not much at the Big Picture, you know, but he could prove old man Winthrop was starving in the gutter if you told him to. I’m joking, of course,” he added hastily.

  Poor Willie, thought Mundin. Too dumb for Harvard Law, too dumb for Columbia, though he was rich enough to buy and sell them both. That was how he wound up at John Marshall, which had carried him for eight years of conditions and repeats until memorizing had worn grooves in his brain that carried him through his exams. Mundin compassionately had written most of his papers.

  And poor dumb Willie glowed : “You know what that little job is worth? The firm’s putting in for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, Charles! And as counsel of record, I get half!”

  That did it. Poor Willie thought he was just letting good old Charles know that the protégé at last was a success on his own. But his kindly idiocy broke Mundin.

  “Willie,” he begged hoarsely, “give me a job. You kno
w I’ve got the brains. You know you never would have got through school if it hadn’t been for me, and I never asked for a nickel. There were plenty of sharks around who would have soaked you plenty and still not got you through. Please, Willie. I can be a smart little fellow in your office just as well as somebody’s cousin. Give me a chance. Law clerk. The bottom. Anything!”

  WILLIE said dismally, “Gosh, Charles, I don’t think we can do that. The old man wouldn’t understand at all if I asked for somebody who wasn’t in the family. Be fair, Charles. What would you do in my place?” Mundin hopelessly knew what he would do. He would keep the lucrative practice of corporate law right in the grip of the family. He would sit on top of his practice with a shotgun in his lap.

  “I understand, Willie,” he said heavily.

  Willie glowed. “I knew you would, Charles. After all, it’s got to be a family affair. Why, with any luck, I’ll hand the Group E Debenture Holders’ Protective Committee down to William Choate the Fifth!”

  “Thank you, Willie,” Mundin said gently. “Must you go now?”

  “Must I? Oh. I guess I must.

  It’s been good seeing you, Charles. Keep up the good work.”

  Mundin stared impotently at his pudgy back. Then he turned wearily and went on to Dworcas’ office.

  Dworcas had still not arrived. The manager’s office, behind the closed-up ticket booth, was tiny and crowded with bales of literature in Arabic and English. Two people were waiting there—a young man and a young woman—obviously brother and sister. Big sister, kid brother; they were maybe twenty-eight and twenty-two.

  The girl got up from behind one of the battered desks. No lipstick, cropped hair, green slacks, a loose plaid shirt.