A Galaxy Of Strangers

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  “Where Miss Boltz is concerned, I have no confidence in any kind of a rating taken by our staff.”

  Pargrin elevated his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but if you’ve got doubts just send in that engineer of yours and let him help out. With this extra load the Trendex men probably would appreciate it.”

  “Is that satisfactory, Wilbings?” the president asked.

  Wilbings nodded. “Perfectly satisfactory.”

  “Very well. Miss Boltz’s class ends at eleven-fifteen. Can we have the results by eleven-thirty? Good. The board will meet tomorrow at eleven-thirty and make final disposition of this case.”

  The meeting broke up. Bernard Wallace patted Miss Boltz on the arm and whispered into her ear, “Now don’t you worry about a thing. You just carry on as usual and give us the best TV class you can. It’s going to be so tough it’ll be easy.”

  She returned to her class, where Lyle Stewart was filling in for her. “How did you make out?” he asked.

  “The issue is still in doubt,” she said. “But not very much in doubt, I’m afraid. Tomorrow may be our last day, so let’s see how much we can accomplish.”

  Her TV class that Wednesday morning was the best she’d ever had. The students performed brilliantly. As she watched them she thought with an aching heart of her lost thousands of students, who had abandoned her for jugglers and magicians and young female teachers in tights.

  The red light faded. Lyle Stewart came in. “Very nice,” he said.

  “You were wonderful!” Miss Boltz told her class.

  Sharon, the blind girl, said tearfully, “You’ll tell us what happens, won’t you? Right away?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as I know,” Miss Boltz said. She forced a smile, and then she turned away.

  As she hurried along the corridor a lanky figure moved to intercept her—tall, pale of face, frighteningly irrational in appearance. “Randy!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Boltz,” he blubbered. “I’m really sorry, and I won’t do it again. Can I come back?”

  “I’d love to have you back, Randy, but there may not be any class after today.”

  He seemed stunned. “No class?”

  She shook her head. “I’m very much afraid that I’m going to be dismissed. Fired, you might say.”

  He clenched his fists. Tears streaked his face, and he sobbed brokenly. She tried to comfort him, and some minutes passed before she understood why he was weeping. “Randy!” she exclaimed. “It isn’t your fault that I’m being dismissed. What you did had nothing to do with it.”

  “We won’t let them fire you,” he sobbed. “All of us—us kids—we won’t let them.” “We have to abide by the laws, Randy.”

  “But they won’t fire you.” His face brightened, and he nodded his head excitedly. “You’re the best teacher I ever saw. I know they won’t fire you. Can I come back to class?”

  “If there’s a class tomorrow, Randy, you may come back. I have to hurry, now. I’m going to be late.”

  She was already late when she reached the ground floor. She moved breathlessly along the corridor to the board room and stopped in front of the closed door. Her watch said fifteen minutes to twelve.

  She knocked timidly. There was no response.

  She knocked louder, and finally she opened the door a crack.

  The room was empty. There were no board members, no technician, no Wilbings, no attorney Wallace. It was over and done with, and they hadn’t even bothered to tell her the result.

  They knew that she would know. She brushed her eyes with her sleeve. “Courage,” she whispered and turned away.

  As she started back up the corridor, hurrying footsteps overtook her. It was Bernard Wallace, and he was grinning. “I wondered what kept you,” he said. “I went to check. Have you heard the news?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “Your Trendex was ninety-nine and a fraction. Wilbings took one look and nearly went through the ceiling. He wanted to scream ‘Fraud!’ but he didn’t dare, not with his own engineer on the job. The board took one look and dismissed the case. Think maybe they were in a mood to dismiss Wilbings, too, but they were in a hurry.”

  Miss Boltz caught her breath and found the friendly support of a wall. “It isn’t possible!”

  “It’s a fact. We kind of planned this. Jim and I pulled the names of all of your students, and we sent letters to them. Special class next Wednesday. Big deal. Don’t miss it. Darned few of them missed it. Wilbings played right into our hands, and we clobbered him.”

  “No,” Miss Boltz said. She shook her head and sighed. “No. There’s no use pretending. I’m grateful, of course, but it was a trick, and when the next Trendex comes out Mr. Wilbings will start over again.”

  “It was a trick,” Wallace agreed, “but it’s kind of a permanent trick. We figured it this way. The younger generation has never experienced anything like this real live class of yours. On the first day you told them all about school on Mars, and you fascinated them. You held their attention. Jim was telling me about that. Our hunch was that this TV class of yours would fascinate them, too. Wilbings took that special Trendex before you got your class going, but Jim has been sneaking one every day since then, and your rating has been moving up. It was above ten yesterday, and now that all of your kids know what you’re doing, it’ll jump way up and stay there. So—no more worries. Happy?”

  “Very happy. And very grateful.”

  “One more thing. The president of the board wants to talk to you about this class of yours. I had dinner with him last night and filled him in, and today he came early and watched it. He’s impressed. I’ve got a suspicion that he maybe has a personal doubt or two about this New Education. Of course, we won’t tear down TV teaching overnight, but we’re making a start. Now I have work to do. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Twirling his keys, he shuffled away.

  She turned again and saw Jim Pargrin coming toward her. She gripped his hand and said, “I owe it all to you.”

  “You owe it to nobody but yourself. I was up telling your class. They’re having a wild celebration.”

  “Goodness—I hope they don’t break anything!”

  “I’m glad for you. I’m a little sorry, too.” He was looking at her again in that way that made her feel younger—almost youthful. “I figured that if you lost your job maybe I could talk you into marrying

  me.” He looked away shyly. “You’d have missed your teaching, of course, but maybe we could have had some children of our own—”

  She blushed wildly. “Jim Pargrin! At our ages?”

  “Adopt some, I mean.”

  “Really—I’ve never given a thought to what I might have missed by not having my own children. I’ve had a family all my life, ever since I started teaching, and even if the children were different every year I’ve loved them all. And now I have another family waiting for me, and I was so nervous this morning I left my history notes in my office. I’ll have to run.” She took a few steps and turned to look back at him. “What made you think I wouldn’t marry you if I kept on teaching?”

  His startled exclamation was indistinct, but long after she turned a corner she heard him whistling.

  On the sixth floor she moved down the corridor toward her office, hurrying because her students were celebrating and she didn’t want to miss that. Looking ahead, she saw the door of her office open slowly. A face glanced in her direction, and suddenly a lanky figure flung the door aside and bolted away. It was Randy Stump.

  She came to an abrupt halt. “Randy!” she whispered.

  But what could he want in her office? There was nothing there but her notebooks, and some writing materials, and—her purse! She’d left her purse on her desk.

  “Randy!” she whispered again and walked forward slowly.

  She opened the office door and looked in. Suddenly she was laughing—laughing and crying—and she lean
ed against the door frame to steady herself as she exclaimed, “Now where would he get an idea like that?”

  Her purse lay on her desk, untouched. Beside it, glistening brilliantly in the soft overhead light, was a grotesquely large, polished apple.

  page 30

  THE DOUBLE-EDGED ROPE

  It was already several minutes past the hour of noon, and from the little restaurant came an outpouring of tantalizing, palate-tingling odors that brought the hungry passerby to a hypnotic halt and caused those who had just eaten to slow their steps and sniff enviously.

  In all other respects the restaurant was thoroughly unsavory—the square it faced upon, its appearance, its proprietor, its one tottering waiter, most of its customers, and the swarm of flies that passed freely through the open doorway. Its name, Le Favori des Rois, was more than merely disreputable. It was, in the enlightened atmosphere of a People’s Democracy, a treasonous reminder of hated royalty combined with a degraded capitalistic penchant for exaggeration.

  But the royal-blue letters had long since peeled and faded to illegibility. Few people noticed them and no one cared, least of all the proprietor, who was a capitalist himself and therefore politically suspect, the fact that his soup was the best to be had south of the Danube notwithstanding.

  The foreigner was seated at his usual table when Serge Marzoff entered the restaurant. Of all the population of this teeming capital city, only the obscure Mr. Jones rated the privilege of a reserved table at Le Favori des Rois. He arrived in a taxi at the same hour each day, and he tipped well—a combination of circumstances that not only guaranteed him his favorite table, but even, on occasion, procured for him a wilted bunch of flowers for a centerpiece. Mr. Jones was indeed the favorite of The Favorite of Kings. For all Marzoff knew, he may have been the only patron of that filthy little restaurant who bothered to tip at all.

  Marzoff’s own entrance was carefully timed. Mr. Jones had arrived, he’d had time to order his meal and to light one of his expensive foreign cigars, and from this point all would proceed according to custom: Marzoff would look about the crowded restaurant in dismay. Mr. Jones would leap to his feet and offer to share his table. Marzoff would decline to inconvenience his distinguished friend. Mr. Jones would insist and would lead the protesting Marzoff to the side of the room and get him seated. Then they would eat together and talk.

  It happened thus once each week—though not, to be sure, on the same day. Mr. Jones possessed an easygoing joviality and sometimes he seemed a bit simple-minded, but it would not do to stretch his credulity that much.

  Unfortunately, the events of this day did not follow their usual smooth pattern. Mr. Jones was reading his mail, and he did not see Marzoff enter. Marzoff gave the room a casual survey and to his horror he found an empty table directly in front of him. He cursed his bad luck and pretended not to see it.

  The vulture-eyed proprietor moved to meet him, executing a complicated series of starts, stops, and sidesteps to maneuver his protruding stomach through the narrow gaps between tables. He touched Marzoff’s arm and indicated the vacant table. Marzoff ignored him. Mr. Jones continued to read his mail.

  The proprietor jerked at Marzoff’s arm. Marzoff nodded condescendingly. “I prefer a table at the rear,” he said. The proprietor swept the room with a glance and threw up his hands. Into this impasse darted two new customers, a man and a woman, who saw the empty table and pounced upon it. The proprietor turned away, and at that moment Mr. Jones looked up, saw Marzoff, and leaped to his feet.

  The relieved Marzoff permitted Mr. Jones to lead him away. He had narrowly averted disaster—double disaster. Had he allowed the proprietor to seat him at that unfortunately vacant table, he should have failed in his assignment and also committed himself to pay for his own meal.

  “Nice to see you again,” Mr. Jones murmured. He gathered up his letters and stuffed them into an inside pocket. He was a pleasant, gray-haired man with a ready smile, and Marzoff liked him more than his conscience would permit him to admit, even to himself.

  “Nice to see you,” Marzoff said. He could relax, now, and order from the top of the menu, with the assurance that the food would be paid for by the amazing device that Mr. Jones called an expense account. “And have you news from home?” he asked, ducking as the waiter unsteadily negotiated the passage by their table with a heavily laden tray.

  “Nothing sensational,” Mr. Jones said. “My daughter informs me that I am to be a grandfather—for the fifth time. There is a heat wave in my hometown and they would like some rain. Who wouldn’t? A third cousin on my mother’s side, whom I do not remember, has had a heart attack. My young nephew is interested in flying saucers and would like me to find a cheap telescope for him so he can watch for them. What’s the matter?”

  Marzoff had made a face. “Capitalistic nonsense,” he said.

  Jones puffed peacefully on his cigar. “I seem to recall hearing something about flying saucers over this country. Rumors, of course. You people at the Censorship Bureau wouldn’t allow anything like that to get into print.”

  “The purpose of the Censorship Bureau,” Marzoff said stiffly, “is to see that the people are not deluded by lies and idle rumors.”

  Jones made a conciliatory gesture with his cigar. “Of course. What other purpose would justify the existence of a Censorship Bureau? Nevertheless, a lie sometimes is a relative thing. There are degrees of falsehood, just as there are degrees of truth. Surely of all people a censor should be aware of that.”

  Jones’s blue eyes fixed upon Marzoff with an expression that seemed guileless, but Marzoff twisted uneasily in his chair. He liked this foreigner, but he did not trust him. Jones always seemed to be joking when he was most serious, and serious when he was joking, and in either instance he could talk the bone out of a dog’s mouth.

  They were interrupted by the waiter, who stood over them silently until Marzoff gave him his order.

  “Rumors,” Jones said, when the waiter had tottered out of hearing, “are a natural creative expression of the people. It isn’t wise to stifle such an important form of communication, for in most rumors there is at least an ingredient of truth. Is this not so?”

  Marzoff shrugged his shoulders. He was not going to be trapped into admitting anything.

  “Supposing,” Jones went on, “that one of your peasants were to see a flying saucer land in some out-of-the-way place. What would he do?”

  “Nothing,” Marzoff said. “Because he wouldn’t see it. Such things do not exist.”

  “How do you know?” Mr. Jones asked, pointing his cigar at Marzoff. “But you probably are correct that your peasant would do nothing. He has been told that such things do not exist. Therefore he would not believe his own eyes. If he were startled enough to run to the police, what would happen? Either he would be tossed into prison for discussing a forbidden subject, or he would be ridiculed. Naturally he would never mention flying saucers again.

  “In my country it would be different. Word would spread quickly. Newspapermen would come with cameras. The authorities would investigate. Scientists would investigate. Even if they suspected that the man was lying, they would investigate. The truth would be confirmed or the hoax exposed, and quickly. I think this much the better way. Censorship is a two-edged sword. Or perhaps it is a two-edged rope. It can stifle that which it is supposed to protect.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Marzoff protested. “Who needs protection against a thing that does not exist?”

  To his intense relief he saw the waiter approaching. The old man placed a steaming plate of goulash in front of Jones, wiped his hands upon an apron that would never wear out from too-frequent washings, and silently limped away.

  “Think it over,” Jones said. “If this planet is ever invaded from outer space, it won’t be my country that suffers the first blow. It’ll be one of your People’s Democracies—though not, I think, your friends the Soviets, because of their admirable technology. It’ll be a country such as yours, backward, wit
h an imperfect communications system, and with a people long trained to believe only what they are told to believe and do what they are told to do.” He took a spoonful of goulash and sighed. “Amazing. In Paris or New York that cook could earn a fortune. Yet he labors in a place like this.”

  Marzoff sighed also, in his relief that Jones finally had changed the subject. His own food arrived. They ate; they discussed the weather, which had been warm; they considered the possibility of rain, which seemed remote; they talked at length about the restaurant’s wine, which was very bad. They finished eating. Jones gave Marzoff a foreign cigar and insisted upon paying his bill. Marzoff protested, and Jones explained once again about the magic of his expense account. They parted at the door of the restaurant, Marzoff to walk back to his office and Jones to look for a taxi.

  Marzoff felt disturbed. Uneasily he rolled a form into his typewriter, the same form that he filled out after each of his weekly meetings with Jones, and then he paused and gazed thoughtfully at his keyboard. Why this sudden interest in flying saucers, and where would Jones get the idea that a peasant would be afraid to mention a flying saucer even if he saw one?

  Such a suggestion reflected on the morale of the populace and therefore was treasonable. If he reported the details of that conversation, Jones undoubtedly would be thrown out of the country. He would be sent home a failure, to whatever fate the capitalistic rulers dealt out to failures. Probably he would be shot, which would be a Pity-On an impulse Marzoff walked over to the board where new regulations were posted. He had been out of the office all morning, and it was possible-Flying saucers.

  Marzoff read and recoiled in honor. Flying saucers … written or verbal discussion … public or private … the death penalty! And he, Serge Marzoff, had just been discussing flying saucers in a public restaurant with a foreigner!

  He staggered back to his desk and buried his face in his hands. Could they have been overheard? As usual they had kept their voices low, and in the noise and confusion of the restaurant—no, he thought not. But he was obligated to report their conversation, and if he did, was it not possible that he would be arrested along with Jones? Such things had happened. He would have to write an innocuous report and hope for the best. And the next time he saw Mr. Jones he would speak sharply to him for all but placing his silly double-edged rope around both their necks.