Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  He had never forgotten it, but he admitted that sometimes he had allowed it to slip out of his mind for a while. This latest while seemed to have lasted quite a few years. Only C.S.B. had brought it back in his recollection.

  Because that was the question, the President thought, sipping his tinted soda-water. What was the use of C.S.B.? What was the use of any kind of shelters, be they deep as damn-all, if all you had to come out of them to was a burned-out Sahara?

  IV

  NOW that the simulated raid was over everybody was resuming their interrupted errands at once. Denzer was crammed in any-which-way with Maggie Frome wedged under an arm and that kook from the Institute—Venezuela?—gabbling in his ear about computer studies and myelin sheaths.

  The elevator jollied them all along. “Don’t forget tomorrow, folks. Be a lot of grandmothers buried tomorrow, eh?” It could not wink, but it giggled and, well, nudged them. Or at least it shook them. It was overloaded with the crowds from the shelter floors, and its compensators flagged, dropping it an inch below the sill of the lobby door, then lifting it. “Sorry, folks,” it apologized. “Good night, all!”

  Denzer grabbed Maggie’s arm.

  The laboratory man called after him, but he only nodded and tugged the girl away through the crowds, which were mumbling to each other: “Foxy Framish . . . slip ’em a couple thousand nook-yoular . . . caught off first . . . oh, hell.” The “oh, hells” became general as they reached the main lobby outside of the elevator bays.

  Civilian Air Wardens formed chains across the exits. Like fish weirs they chuted the exiting civilians into lines and passed each line through a checkpoint.

  “Denzer,” groaned Maggie, “I’m cooked. I never wear my dosimeter badge with this old green dress.”

  The wardens were checking every person for his compulsory air-raid equipment. Denzer swore handily, then brightened. They did have their press cards; this was official business. Aztec Wine of Coca was a powerful name in industry, and didn’t they have a right to take care of its affairs even if they overlooked a few formalities that nobody really took very seriously anyway? He said confidently: “Bet I get us out of it, Maggie. Watch this.” And he led her forcefully to the nearest warden. “You, there. Important morale business; here’s my card. I’m Denzer of Nature’s Way. This’s my assistant, Frome. I—”

  Briskly the warden nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Denzer. Just come this way.” He led them through the purse-seine of wardens, out of the building, into—why, Denzer saw, outraged, into a police cab.

  “You fixed us fine, Denzer,” gloomed Maggie at his side as they got in. He didn’t have the spirit to listen to her.

  THE roundup had bagged nearly fifty hardened criminals, like Denzer and Maggie, caught flagrantly naked of dosimeters and next-of-kin tags. They were a surly lot. Even the C.S.B. adherents among them belligerently protested their treatment; the sneak-punchers were incandescent about the whole thing. Office girls, executives, errand boys, even one hangdog A.R.P. guard himself; they were a motley assortment. The research man, Valendora, was among them, and so was the girl from the Institute’s reception room. Valendora saw Denzer and slipped through the crowd toward him, holding a manila envelope as though it contained diphtheria vaccine and he was the first man to arrive at the scene of an epidemic. “Mr. Denzer,” he said darkly, “I ask you to assist me. Eleven months of my time and twenty-two computer hours! And this is the only copy. Statist. Analysis Trans, expects this by tomorrow at the latest, and—”

  Denzer hardly heard. Statist.

  Analysis Trans, was not the only periodical expecting something from one of the fish in this net. With an inner ear Denzer was listening to what his Front Office would say. He was, he saw clearly, about to miss a deadline. Seven million paid-up subscribers would be complaining to the Front Office when their copies were late, and Denzer knew all too well who Front Office would complain to about that. He whimpered faintly and reached for an amphetamine tablet, but an A.R.P. cop caught his arm. “Watch it, Mac,” said the cop, not unkindly. “No getting rid of evidence there. You got to turn all that stuff in.”

  Denzer had never been arrested before. He was in a semidaze while they were waiting to be booked. Ahead of him in line a minor squabble arose—Valendora seemed to be clashing with a plump young fellow in a collegiate crew-cut—but Denzer was paying little attention as he numbly emptied his pockets and put all his possessions on the desk to be locked away for him.

  It was not until Maggie Frome repeated his name for the fifth time that he realized she was talking to him. She indicated a lanky, homely woman talking into an autonoter, seemingly on terms of amiable mutual contempt with the police.

  “Denzer,” Maggie hissed urgently, “that girl over there. The reporter. Name’s Sue-Mary Gribb, and I know her. Used to work with her on the Herald.”

  “That’s nice. Say, Maggie,” he moaned, “what the devil are we going to do about the Aztec Wine of Coca piece? The Front Office’ll have our heads.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you, Denzer! Give her the lab report. She’ll take it in for us!”

  The sun rose in pink glory for Arturo Denzer.

  Half blinded by the radiance of sudden, unexpected hope, he staggered back to the desk. Valendora and the plump youth were still at it, but he pushed past them, picked up the Nature’s Way National Impartial Research Foundation envelope and clawed his way back to Maggie. “Pencil!” he snapped. She produced one and Denzer scribbled a note to Joe, in Production:

  Joe, we’re in a jam. Fix this up for us somehow. Run it pp 34-35, push it through soonest, I’ve already got all okays so just jam it in. God bless you. If Front Office asks where I am I’m dead.

  He thought of adding, “Will explain later,” but he wasn’t so very sure he could. He thought of kissing Sue-Mary Gribb; but she was another Female Integrationist, wearing slacks, carrying a corncob pipe; he only shook her hand briskly and watched her leave.

  It was not until she was out the door that he realized why she had been there in the first place.

  She was a reporter, gathering names. It was customary to run a list of A.R.P. violators in the newspapers. It was inevitable that someone who worked for Nature’s Way would see his and Maggie’s names on that list; and it was beyond hope that that someone would fail to show it to the Front Office.

  With the help of Sue-Mary Gribb he might have made his deadline, but his troubles were not over. Front Office was solid C.S.B.

  “Maggie,” he said faintly, “when you left the Herald, did you part friends? I mean, do you think they might give us a job?”

  THE next thing was that they had to wait for their hearing and, in the way of police courts, that took some time. Meanwhile they were all jammed together, noisy and fretful.

  The bull-pen roared: “Quiet down, you mokes! You think this is a debating society?” Denzer sighed and changed position slightly so as not to disturb Maggie Frome, again placidly dozing on his shoulder. (This could become a habit, he thought.)

  Well, that was something else the Century of the Common Woman had accomplished. They had integrated the lockups, for better or for worse. Not that Maggie, asleep, was deriving the benefit she might from the integrated, but still very loud, yammering of the inmates of the bull-pen.

  They weren’t all A.R.P. violators. A sizeable knot in one corner were clearly common drunks, bellowing about the All-Star Game when they were not singing raucously. They were the chief targets of the bull-pen’s repeated thunderings for quiet, as its volumetric ears registered an excessive noise level. They must wear out those tapes in a week, Denzer thought.

  A diffident finger touched his arm. “Mr. Denzer?” It was the research fellow from the Institute.

  Softly, to refrain from disturbing Maggie, he said: “Hello, Venezuela. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Valendora, Mr. Denzer.”

  “Sorry,” said Denzer absently, inhaling Maggie’s hair.

  “I ask you, Mr. Denzer,” Valendora said, ch
oosing his words with as much care as though he were taping a question for his computers, “is it proper that I should be arrested for being twenty-six feet away from where I would not be arrested?”

  Denzer stared at him. “Come again?” Maggie stirred restlessly on his shoulder.

  “I was two floors below the Foundation, Mr. Denzer, no more,” said the research man. “We are not required to wear dosimeters in the Institute itself. Two floors is twenty-six feet.”

  DENZER sighed. This was not a time when he had patience for nuts. The girl on his shoulder stirred and he said, “Good morning, Maggie.” Valendora swept on:

  “Naturally, Mr. Denzer, it did not occur to me to go back for my dosimeter. My probable error was more than twenty-four hours minus, though zero plus, and it might have been the real attack. I was carrying a most important document and I could not endanger it.”

  Maggie looked at him with faint curiosity and then twisted around to look at Denzer’s face. “The deadline, Denzer?” she muttered. He crossed his fingers and shrugged.

  “Mr. Denzer,” cried Valendora, “you are a man of influence. Statist. Analysis Trans, is waiting for this study—and besides,” he added wonderingly, “I suppose if the attack is to come tomorrow someone should do something about it. Can you not secure justice for me in this matter?”

  Rocked by the sudden vision of himself as a man of influence, Denzer hardly heard the rest of what the research man was saying. Maggie Frome pushed herself away from him and stared thoughtfully at Valendora.

  “We’re all in the same boat, friend,” she said kindly.

  Valendora scowled at the floor. “But what’s this about an attack?”

  With bitter sarcasm Valendora said, “Nothing at all, Miss Frome. Merely what I have spent eleven months of my time on. And twenty-two computer hours.”

  “I’m impressed, friend. You said something about an attack?” Valendora said, “You would not understand single-event prediction, Miss Frome. It is a statistical assessment of probabilities. Oh, nothing in itself that has not previously been studied, true; but it is in the establishing of quantitative values for subjective data that I have, I do know, made a contribution.” He shrugged moodily. “And by tomorrow? The event, you see. If I have not published before the event it is only a mathematical statement. The test of a theory is the predictions that can be made from it; I have made my prediction. During the All-Star Game, you see—”

  “There you are!” cried a new voice.

  It was the plump youth who had been quarreling with Valendora at the booking desk. He was still angry. “Baseball,” he snapped, “that’s all I hear. Can’t I make anyone understand that I am a special investigator on Senator Horton’s personal staff? The senator is waiting to interview me right now! And this man has stolen my thesis!” He put a hand out and briskly pumped Denzer’s. “Walter Chase, sir. M.A., C.E., and all the rest of that nonsense,” he twinkled, for he had made a quick estimate of Denzer’s well-cut clothes and hangdog look and pigeonholed him at once as second-string executive, subject to flattery.

  “Denzer. Nature’s Way,” he mumbled, trying to let go of the hand, but Chase hung on.

  “I’M in cement, Mr. Denzer,” he said. “Did a bit of research—my dissertation, actually—just received another degree—and Senator Horton is most taken by it. Most taken, Mr. Denzer. Unfortunately I’ve just the one copy, as it happens and it’s, well, rather important that it not be lost. It concerns cement, as it affects our shelter program—and, after all, what is a shelter but cement? Eh? Probably should’ve been classified at the start, but—” He shrugged with the faint amused distaste of the man of science for the bureaucrat. “Anyway, I must have it; the senator must see it with his own eyes before he’ll give me the j—before making final arrangements. And this man has stolen it.”

  “Stolen!” screamed Valendora. “Man! It is your fault, man! I was only—”

  “Be careful!” commanded Chase furiously. “Don’t blame me! I was merely—”

  Denzer felt a tug on his arm. Maggie Frome winked and led him away, near the group of singing drunks. They sat down again. “Quieter here!” she shouted in his ear. “Put your shoulder back, Denzer! I want to go back to sleep!”

  “All right!” he yelled, and helped her settle her head against him; but in a moment she raised it again.

  “Denzer!” she asked over the singing of the group, “did you hear what your friend from the Institute was saying? Something about an attack? I had the funny idea he meant missile attack—a real one, I mean.”

  “No,” he shouted back, “it was only baseball! All-Star Game, you know.”

  And he hardly heard the raucous bellowing of the drunks for the next half hour, inhaling the fragrance of her hair.

  They were released at last, Denzer making bail; the bail corresponded to the amount of their fines for A.R.P. violation, and small print at the bottom of their summons pointed out that they could forfeit it if they chose, thus paying their fines, simply by failing to appear at the magistrate’s trial. They got out just in time to get the bulldog edition of Nature’s Way from a sidewalk scriber.

  They looked at once on the spread, pages 34 and 35, expecting anything, even blank pages.

  Tragically, the pages were not blank at all.

  PAGES 34 and 35 had nothing to do with Aztec Wine of Coca. It was a straight news story, headlined:

  U.S. MISSILE VULNERABILITY TOTAL IN ALL-STAR GAME, SAYS GOVERNMENT STATISTICS EXPERT

  From there it got worse. Maggie screamed faintly over Denzer’s shoulder as she read parts of it aloud: “ ‘The obsessive preoccupation of the American public with baseball stems from a bread-and-circuses analogy with ancient Rome. Now, as then, it may lead to our destruction.’ Denzer! Does this maniac want us to get lynched?”

  “Read on,” moaned Denzer, already several laps ahead of her. Neatly boxed on the second page was a digested, sexed-up version of something Denzer recognized faintly as the study of cement in the shelter program Chase had mentioned. What the Nature’s Way semantic-digester had made of it was:

  SHELTERS DEATH TRAPS

  Study of the approved construction codes of all American shelter projects indicates that they will not withstand even large chemical explosives.

  “I think,” sobbed Arturo Denzer, “that I’ll cut my throat.”

  “Not here, Mac,” snapped the news-scribing machine. “Move on, will you? Hey! Late! Whaddya read?”

  Shaking, the couple moved on. “Denzer,” Maggie gasped, “where do you think Joe got this stuff?” “Why, from us, Maggie.” Denzer tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “Didn’t you hear Chase before? That was the mix-up at the desk; we must have got his papers, and I suppose what’s his-name’s, Venezuela’s, and bundled them off to Joe. Nice job of rush typography, though,” he added absently, staring into space. “Say, Maggie. What Venezuela was talking about. You think there’s any truth to it?”

  “To what, Denzer?”

  “What it says here. Optimum time for the Other Side to strike—during the All-Star Game, it says. You think—?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think, Denzer,” she said, and they walked on for a moment.

  They heard their names called, turned, and were overtaken rapidly by Valendora and the cement engineer. “You!” cried Chase. “You have my thesis!”

  “And you have my study!” cried Valendora.

  “Not I but humanity,” said Denzer sadly, holding out the damp faxed edition of Nature’s Way.

  Valendora, after one whitefaced oath in Spanish, took it calmly. He glanced up at the sky for a second, then shrugged. “Someone will not like this. I should estimate,” he said thoughtfully, “that within five minutes we will all be back in the calabozo.”

  But he was wrong.

  It was actually less than three.

  V

  IT was the third inning, and Craffany had just benched Little Joe Fliederwick. In spite of the sudden ban on air travel the stadium wa
s full. Every television screen in the country followed Little Joe’s trudging walk to the dugout.

  In the White House President Braden, shoes off, sipping a can of beer, ignored the insistent buzzing in his ear as long as he could. He wanted to watch the game. “—and the crowd is roaring,” roared the announcer, “just a-boiling, folks! What’s Craffany up to? What will he do next? Man, don’t we have one going here today? Folks, was that the all-important turning point in today’s all-in—in today’s record-breaking All-Star Game, folks? Well, we’ll see. In sixty seconds we’ll return to the field, but meanwhile—”

  The President allowed his attention to slip away from the commercial and took another pull at his beer. Baseball, now. That was something he could get his teeth into. He’d been a fan since the age of five. All his life. Even during the Century of the Common Woman, when that madman Danton had listened to the Female Lobby and put girls on every second base in the nation. But it had never been this good. This Fliederwick, now, he was good.

  Diverted, he glanced at the screen. The camera was on Little Joe again, standing at the steps to the dugout, looking up. So were his teammates; and the announcer was saying: “Looks like some more of those air-to-air missile-busters, folks. A huge flight of them. Way up. Well, it’s good to know our country’s defense is being looked after and, say, speaking of defense, what do you suppose Craffany’s going to do now that—”

  The buzzing returned. The President sighed and spoke to his invisible microphones. “What? Oh. Well, damn it . . . all right.”

  With a resentful heart he put down the beer can and snapped off the television set. He debated putting his shoes back on. He decided against it, and pulled his chair close to the desk to hide his socks.

  The door opened and Senator Horton came in.