by Jerry
“And look what we lose if we do sit blindly on our dignity,” he went on with a rush. “The job at Midland’s running out. Times are tough. There’s not many openings for a bunch of wiring-assemblers. As it stands now, the choice is between Eltron Electric and Universal. Universal we can get with no strings, except that we have to go to Detroit—and except that it doesn’t pay very well.
“Eltron, on the other hand, is Graves; and Graves doesn’t like the clans. He’s never had anything to do with them. A Free-Laborite from way back. Only he’s got a daughter, Marcia; and Marcia, bless her sweet little soul, wants to join a clan. So the old man’s willing to take another look at things; he’ll give us a contract when Marcia’s a Vord, and it’ll be a good contract. In fact, he’ll damn near let us write it. What can we lose?”
“You think we should take her in,” Tom said.
“Yes I do,” Ricky answered. “Otherwise, we have to pull up stakes and move, and that job out at Universal is no picnic. We won’t do much more than break even on it, and maybe it’ll only last a few months; it’s that kind of a thing.”
TOM smiled suddenly. “You are not quite consistent,” he said. “You are worrying about Universal being temporary. And yet you brush aside the fact that Marcia may pull out. What would happen to us at Eltron if she did?”
“I don’t know,” Ricky answered, unabashed. “Maybe by that time we’d have Graves convinced. Most guys who run companies get to like the idea of contracting the clans, when they give it a try.”
“They should,” Tom grunted. “It’s the answer to their labor problems.”
“Sure,” Ricky answered. “Only there are still guys like Graves around who don’t see it. His pet topic of conversation is the Iltor Clan; he mentions it every time anyone suggests that the clans bring stability.”
“But the Iltor clan was wrong from the first,” Tom said. “The guys who put it together were unstable themselves; they tried to make the clan a small-size empire of their own—almost a bunch of slaves.
“So, eventually, they had a revolt. It had gotten to be a large outfit, since they were willing to accept anybody who would be a slave—and there are always lots of those—so the revolt was extensive and bloody. That’s not typical of the clans. Not of the better ones; not of those that are really clans—and not empires. With any new idea like the clans, you are bound to get some bad results. But do you hang the good examples for the bad ones?” He sounded irritated.
“Don’t argue with me,” Ricky said. “I’m just telling you what Graves has in mind. Of course, actually, there’s more to it than that. The thing is, he took over Eltron Electric when it was practically on the rocks; he salvaged it, built it up, made it what it is today. All by himself. Using his own wits and his own guts. It all came out of him. Oh, sure, he had help—some pretty able guys were in with him. But they were the same type: Each of them knowing his own value, depending on himself and not on any others. They worked together because that was where their self-interest lay. A bunch of Free-Traders in the best tradition of the word. Free-Trading’s been their life-blood; naturally none of them are apt to welcome the clan idea, and Graves least of all.”
“Do they really think they can hold out indefinitely?” Tom asked. “They must know they are being left behind, that they’re getting out of step.”
“I doubt it,” Ricky said. “Graves says that the world is off on a cock-eyed binge with this clan idea, and I’m quoting his words. He figures it’s going to come to its senses, eventually. At least that’s what he says; what he really believes deep down in his heart, I don’t know. Maybe, underneath, he’s convinced; maybe if you could get him to admit the truth, he knows he has to accept us if he’s going to survive. Maybe that’s why he’s letting Marcia twist his arm; it could be.”
Tom nodded. “In any case, we’re in the middle,” he said. He looked sardonic. “Caught between the hammer of present reality and the stubborn anvil of Graves.” He finished off his drink. “What do you propose to do?”
“I propose to let Graves pay our bills, in spite of his opinions,” Ricky said. “And if that includes Marcia, why I don’t really mind. One has to put up with some inconveniences; and when the inconvenience is a dish like her, I don’t really mind at all.” He leered in an exaggerated way.
Tom chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “I know what you mean.” He became serious. “But that’s my point; the girls will hardly take this point of view.”
“They don’t seem to object particularly,” Ricky said. “Why should they? They’re only six to our seven—so Marcia will just round things out, nice and even-like.
“Marcia, as you say, is a ‘dish’,” Tom agreed “and I can’t quite see her rounding anything out to make it come out even. I think you’re a damned optimist. Besides, I’m not so sure the girls don’t mind. They joke about it, yes, but some of the jokes bite. I think maybe they hope they won’t have to object. Afraid we’ll call them jealous. After all, what would you do in their place?”
“I don’t know,” Ricky said. “But if that is a factor, then I think they ought to argue their own case. Where are they?”
“Oh, Betsy and Rita have taken the kids down to the beach. Sandy is out shopping for food. She figured she’d go down to Mark’s Place, so she’ll be a bit late. Esther went over to see about shoes; she thinks she may get a better bargain at a place she heard of down the line. Polly and Joan went in with the boys to work; they’re trying to wind up the contract with Midland by this week. Decided there’s no point in stringing it out. Get it wound up and then take a vacation. I’ve been over at Midland finishing up the legal details. Also had to go downtown this morning to see the Income Tax people. When do you suppose they’re going to get a system set up that’s reasonable for the clans?” His voice betrayed a chronic irritation.
RICKY shrugged. “When the clans carry most of the votes. The whole idea of a clan is too new in society for the law to have caught up with it. If the clans had a majority, they could force things—and eventually they will. But not yet. Particularly, since the most vocal part of the non-clan majority considers us immoral. Destroyers of the family, mockers of the sacrament of marriage.”
The sarcasm was heavy in his voice. “Someday, they’ll see we’ve saved the home and the family—not destroyed it. We’ve brought it into line with the social facts of today, rescued it from the perennial frustrations that filled the divorce courts. Aye, and the insane asylums, too. Damn few people used to get out of marriage anything like what they ought to. Take the average Free-Trader and Monogamist: His family is just one small part of his life. Separate, distinct. It should be a solid rock on which he can build his life outside. But it isn’t, except maybe in a very rare case. Mostly, it’s just a thing that occupies some certain hours of his day, with no relation to the rest. He is left without an anchor. And the girl? She is boxed into a small sphere of activity, bound by her duties to an inexorable frustration of limited horizons.”
He jumped up and started pacing up and down, gesturing with his arms. “Is this the great and beautiful thing they want to preserve? Or will they admit the realities? Will they admit the truths of anthropology? Realize that the idea of the family unit has had real meaning only when it has been the economic unit as well? And that in the modern world the economic unit is larger—and, therefore, the family must be, too? In the modern world, the economic unit is a team of workers; therefore, the family must be large enough to include the team. What’s immoral about this? It gives the family meaning in the modern world, and it gives the individual something to live by. It gives him a reality that he could not have alone.”
“Clear, concise, and possibly illuminating if I didn’t know it already,” Tom smiled at the younger one’s missionary instincts. “Why don’t you tell Graves this? Maybe we would not have to absorb his daughter.”
“What do you think I’ve been telling him?” Ricky asked. He looked a trifle abashed, knowing that his enthusiasm had run away with him. “He h
it the ceiling when Marcia first started talking up the clan idea, vowed that no daughter of his would ever disgrace the family name. I managed to talk him out of that, anyway. But, I’m no magician; he’s still a Free-Trader of the old school. So my convincing him meant that he was willing to use his power to get his daughter what she wants. Which is us.”
“In other words,” Tom said, “you talked him out of thinking the clans are immoral, so he decided to buy one.” He bit the sentence off.
“Well, yes,” Ricky admitted; “that’s one way of looking at it. But let’s look at it another way. The rules of the clan are that a new member is provisional for a year. Any time in that year, we can always throw her out if we have to. And even afterwards—when we can no longer throw her out, and it could be we won’t want to—there’ll still be no reason why we should have to bow down to the old man. We can walk out on him, at least, any time. If Marcia doesn’t want to come, then she can stay behind; and neither Graves nor anybody else can stop us.”
“It sounds good,” Tom said. “It’s just that I don’t believe it. The strength of the clan is its independence. We thirteen, and our children, against the world. One unit, free, and in a sense, complete. If we let anyone else decide who shall be in us and who shall not, then we are less free by that much. And by that much we are less strong. Maybe I’m a stubborn fool, Ricky, but that’s the way I see it.”
Ricky leaned against the porch railing. His face was thoughtful. “I wish I could convince you,” he said. “The trouble is, I haven’t got time. Graves has to have his answer now, to plan his production. Anyway, Marcia’s getting restless; I think I’ll have to tell them yes or no tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Tom looked startled. “What are you going to do? Caucus it tonight?”
Ricky nodded. “I have to, Tom. It isn’t that I want to bull it through you. But if we don’t get a vote on it tonight, then we’ve given up. Graves has said he has to know, so he can plan; we can’t keep it in the air any longer. And I think the clan has a right to vote on the problem.” He looked apologetic.
Tom sighed. “We seem to have agreed to disagree,” he said. “So maybe it’s better to get the showdown over with.” He got up, walked over to Ricky, and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Let’s break clean and come out fighting at the bell.” And he walked back inside the house to his room.
2
IT WAS only a short time later that Tom heard the sound of tires on the drive. He went out to find that it was Sandy in the beach-wagon. The name Sandy fitted her, even if it was short for Sandra. Blonde, with something of a tendency to freckle, she had a quick alertness that was almost tomboyish. Almost, but not quite, for she was very much a woman.
“Need help?” Tom asked, giving her a quick kiss and moving to the back to start unloading the bundles. “How did you make out?”
“Not bad,” she said; “In fact, it was fun. I don’t know whether it was worth it or not; it’s a long drive down there. Maybe I saved enough to pay for the gasoline. But they’re more used to dealing with the clans. The stores around here play both sides of the fence. Much more congenial atmosphere down there.”
Tom could guess what she meant. The clans, buying in semi-quantity for their groups of people, could demand and get preferential treatment of a sort. But a number of the stores that still wanted the business of private individuals—many of whom were bitterly anti-clan—did their best to balance the issue with a lack of courtesy. He looked at the girl with sympathy but she seemed cheerfully unconcerned. She was, he thought, the kind to take that kind of treatment without a murmur of complaint, and without giving any overt recognition to it. And yet she was also the kind to feel it deep inside her.
When the car was unloaded, they sat down at the kitchen table to rest a moment. Tom sat back in his chair, eyes brooding. It was not for several minutes that he noticed that Sandy was watching him, her chin on her palms, her elbows on the table. And he knew that she knew he was troubled and was waiting to see if he wanted to talk about it. “Ricky thinks we ought to decide about Marcia, tonight,” he said, his voice sounding blunt even to himself.
“You mean whether we should take her in or not?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Tom answered. “He thinks we should, whether she fits or not—just so we can get the contract with Eltron Electric. Because otherwise we would have to pull up stakes and go take that thing at Universal.”
“And you don’t think we should?” she prompted.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “It seems to me like we’d be selling out if we did that. Maybe I’m being a purist about it, but damn it all. . . .”
“But you can stop it easily,” she said. “According to the charter, a vote of membership has to be unanimous. All you have to do is say no.”
“Yeah—well, that’s true,” he said. “Only this is more than that. That rule is just about ordinary members, the idea being to keep feuds out. If somebody isn’t going to be able to get along with a new member, why let’s find it out at the start. And, since the old member is more important than the new one, let’s block the new one.
“But this thing’s different; this isn’t just a case of whether she’s compatible or not. I have nothing against Marcia, personally; I just don’t like this way of doing business. But this ties up our whole future, economic and everything else. If I blackball her, I’m blackballing our contract with Eltron; and matters of contract, or economics, or whatall, are not supposed to be subject to veto. No . . . I won’t vote against her all by my lonesome. If the clan is pretty well split, maybe I will pull a technicality. But I won’t just up and blackball her all by myself, just because I think I’m right.”
Sandy was thoughtful. “What about this job at Eltron,” she asked, finally. “Can we swing it? It’s bigger than the job here at Midland, and bigger than the one at Universal. Is it too big?”
“No,” Tom said. “We can handle it. Oh, we may have to hire a few private citizens, but we can do most of it ourselves. If we can average nine people a week, we’ll be all right. And we can’ do that if we leave two to take care of the kids, one to manage the house and cook and all, and one to fill in, taking care of other outside matters, having babies, and whatnot. But even if we can only average eight ourselves, it is still reasonable with a couple of private citizens. No, I’m not afraid of the job.”
“It’ll be funny working alongside of private citizens,” Sandy said, musingly; “I hope we pick better ones than those guys at Sanford Radio.”
TOM laughed. “We will,” he said. “The trouble there was that we didn’t hire them; the company did. And the guys were good enough—they just didn’t like the clans.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Sandy said. “They just had some preconceived ideas as to what kind of woman would join a clan. Happens they were wrong, but it took a bit of jiujitsu to convince them.”
“Well, that won’t happen here,” Tom said. “We’ll be hiring them ourselves, and we’ll probably be able to pick up all we want from the other assembly clans. Times are rough all over, and they’re not too loaded with work, either. Of course, the rest of the plant is another matter; but I don’t think there’ll be any open trouble. Things have gotten a little better since those early days. People know a little more about the clans, even if they don’t approve.”
“So there is just the question of whether we want to do it, or not,” she said. He nodded but said nothing. “And you would much rather we didn’t want to . . . . Tell me, what’s she like? I’ve only seen her the couple of times that Ricky’s brought her to lunch.”
“That’s about all I have,” Tom answered. “Oh, I’ve seen her out at her old man’s place a couple of times, too, but then I was working on the old man. As far as I know, she is what she seems to be. Beautiful in a way. A bit of a mantrap. Probably spoiled. I don’t know. What did you think of her?”
“That’s a damning sketch if I ever heard one,” Sandy said. “I wonder if that’s all there is to her. Is she ju
st a spoiled brat with a well-developed body? Is that all she is? What’s her background like? I mean aside from money?”
“Background?” Tom hesitated. “Well, she went through college, somewheres or other. She’s traveled in Europe a bit Generally circulated around. Cultured, I guess you’d call it.
“Certainly her old man knows what it’s about. He’s quite a character, you know. Very dignified, very polished. Fine oak paneling in his study. Lots of books, and he’s probably read them, too. Quite a collection of classical music, and he knows his way around it too—at least he knows more about it than I do. The very picture of a cultured gentleman. And it is with a perfectly gentlemanly manner that he tears you apart into little pieces.”
“Oh?” Sandy raised her eyebrow. “What happened?”
Tom smiled ruefully; “We had an argument.” He shrugged. “The clans versus Free-Trading. He has a fine and delicate hand with sarcasm. No, I take that back. I don’t know whether it was sarcasm or not; maybe he was just leading me out. Anyway, I came out of there feeling as if I’d been wrung dry.”
He was silent a moment, and Sandy made no move to break his thoughts. “The logical question here, of course, is to what extent this makes me think the way I do. And maybe it does, I don’t know. I’m afraid of the guy; I got the feeling he knows exactly what he’s doing and why. And I think he may be too strong for us.”
“You think we might end up as his puppets?” Sandy said, her voice neutral.
“Something like that,” Tom admitted. “Oh, I know that’s probably a foolish thought. In fact, now that I look at it, I know it is. The guy just impressed me; frankly I came out feeling somewhat awed by him. I’m not used to the feeling. I guess it’s just that he comes from a background that I don’t know anything about.”
Sandy pursed her lips and nodded. There was a pixyish gleam to her eyes as she got up and started towards the door. As she left she asked him: “And Marcia, is she anything like her old man?” She was out the door and gone before he realized what her question meant.