“Oh, sir,” grieved Oliver, “I’ll never prevail.”
“Nonsense,” said the Dean, adding kindly, “son. These shorter jokes are, by all odds, the most difficult to master. They must be cogent, precise; must say something of pith and moment.”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Oliver.
“Check with Wojciechowski and Sforzini,” said the Dean. “Also Ahmed El-Hakim. They’ll brief you on use of the Master Index. Eh?” He patted Oliver’s back.
“Yes, sir.” Oliver managed a smile and returned to his cubicle. The Dean sighed.
“A somber business,” he declared. “He’ll never be Class-A. He really shouldn’t be in the composing end of it at all but—” He gestured meaningfully, “—there is sentiment involved.”
“Oh?” said Talbert.
“Yes,” said the Dean. “It was his great grandfather who, on June 23, 1848, wrote the first Traveling Salesman joke, American strain.”
The Dean and the Colonel lowered their heads a moment in reverent commemoration. Talbert did the same.
~ * ~
“And so we have it,” said the Dean. They were back downstairs, sitting in the great living room, sherry having been served.
“Perhaps you wish to know more,” said the Dean.
“Only one thing,” said Talbert.
“And that is, sir?”
“Why have you shown it to me?”
“Yes,” said the Colonel, fingering at his armpit holster, “why indeed?”
The Dean looked at Talbert carefully as if balancing his reply.
“You haven’t guessed?” he said, at last. “No, I can see you haven’t. Mr. Bean . . . you are not unknown to us. Who has not heard of your work, your unflagging devotion to sometimes obscure but always worthy causes? What man can help but admire your selflessness, your dedication, your proud defiance of convention and prejudice?” The Dean paused and leaned forward.
“Mr. Bean,” he said softly. “Talbert—may I call you that?—we want you on our team.”
Talbert gaped. His hands began to tremble. The Colonel, relieved, grunted and sank back into his chair.
No reply came from the flustered Talbert, so the Dean continued, “Think it over. Consider the merits of our work. With all due modesty, I think I may say that here is your opportunity to ally yourself with the greatest cause of your life.”
“I’m speechless,” said Talbert. “I hardly—that is— how can I . . .”
But, already, the light of consecration was stealing into his eyes.
<
~ * ~
LEMMINGS
“Where do they all come from?” Reordon asked.
“Everywhere,” said Carmack.
They were standing on the coast highway. As far as they could see there was nothing but cars. Thousands of cars were jammed bumper to bumper and pressed side to side. The highway was solid with them.
“There come some more,” said Carmack.
The two policemen looked at the crowd of people walking toward the beach. Many of them talked and laughed. Some of them were very quiet and serious. But they all walked toward the beach.
Reordon shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said for the hundredth time that week. “I just don’t get it.”
Carmack shrugged.
“Don’t think about it,” he said. “It’s happening. What else is there?”
“But it’s crazy.”
“Well, there they go,” said Carmack.
As the two policemen watched, the crowd of people moved across the gray sands of the beach and walked into the water. Some of them started swimming. Most of them couldn’t because of their clothes. Carmack saw a young woman flailing at the water and dragged down by the fur coat she was wearing.
In several minutes they were all gone. The two policemen stared at the place where the people had walked into the water.
“How long does it go on?” Reordon asked.
“Until they’re gone, I guess,” said Carmack.
“But why?”
“You ever read about the lemmings?” Carmack asked.
“No.”
“They’re rodents who live in the Scandinavian countries. They keep breeding until all their food supply is gone. Ihen they move across the country, ravaging everything in their way. When they reach the sea they keep going. They swim until their strength is gone. Millions of them.”
“You think that’s what this is?” asked Reordon.
“Maybe,” said Carmack.
“People aren’t rodents!” Reordon said angrily.
Carmack didn’t answer.
They stood on the edge of the highway waiting but nobody appeared.
“Where are they?” asked Reordon.
“Maybe they’ve all gone in,” Carmack said.
“All of them?”
“It’s been going on for more than a week,” Carmack said. “People could have gotten here from all over. Then there are the lakes.”
Reordon shuddered. “All of them,” he said.
“I don’t know,” said Carmack, “but they’ve been coming right along until now.”
“Oh, God,” said Reordon.
Carmack took out a cigarette and lit it. “Well,” he said, “what now?”
Reordon sighed. “Us?” he said.
“You go,” Carmack said. “I’ll wait a while and see if there’s anyone else.”
“All right.” Reordon put his hand out. “Goodbye, Carmack,” he said.
They shook hands. “Goodbye, Reordon,” Carmack said.
He stood smoking his cigarette and watching his friend walk across the gray sand of the beach and into the water until it was over his head. He saw Reordon swim a few dozen yards before he disappeared.
After a while he put out his cigarette and looked around. Then he walked into the water too.
A million cars stood empty along the beach.
<
~ * ~
THE EDGE
It was almost two before there was a chance for lunch. Until then his desk was snow-banked with demanding papers, his telephone rang constantly and an army of insistent visitors attacked his walls. By twelve, his nerves were pulled like violin strings knobbed to their tightest. By one, the strings drew close to shearing; by one-thirty they began to snap. He had to get away; now, immediately; flee to some shadowy restaurant booth, have a cocktail and leisurely meal; listen to somnolent music. He had to.
Down on the street, he walked beyond the zone of eating places he usually frequented, not wishing to risk seeing anyone he knew. About a quarter of a mile from the office he found a cellar restaurant named Franco’s. At his request, the hostess led him to a rear booth where he ordered a martini; then, as the woman turned away, he stretched out his legs beneath the table and closed his eyes. A grateful sigh murmured from him. This was the ticket. Dimlit comfort, Muzak thrumming at the bottom fringe of audibility, a curative drink. He sighed again. A few more days like this, he thought, and I’m gone.
“Hi, Don.”
He opened his eyes in time to see the man drop down across from him. “How goes it?” asked the man.
“What?” Donald Marshall stared at him.
“Gawd,” said the man. “What a day, what a day.” He grinned tiredly. “You, too?”
“I don’t believe—” began Marshall.
“Ah,” the man said, nodding, pleased, as a waitress brought the martini. “That for me. Another, please; dryer than dry.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waitress and was gone.
“There,” said the man, stretching. “No place like Franco’s for getting away from it all, eh?”
“Look here,” said Marshall, smiling awkwardly. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”
“Hmmm?” The man leaned forward, smiling back.
“I say I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”
“I have?” The man grunted. “What’d I do, forget to shave? I’m liable to. No?” he said as Marshall frowned. “Wr
ong tie?”
“You don’t understand,” said Marshall.
“What?”
Marshall cleared his throat. “I’m—not who you think I am,” he said.
“Huh?” The man leaned forward again, squinting. He straightened up, chuckling. “What’s the story, Don?” he asked.
Marshall fingered at the stem of his glass. “Yes, what is the story?” he said, less politely now.
“I don’t get you,” said the man.
“Who do you think I am?” asked Marshall, his voice rising a little.
The man began to speak, gaped a trifle, then began to speak again. “What do you mean who do I—?” He broke off as the waitress brought the second martini. They both sat quietly until she was gone.
“Now,” said the man curiously.
“Look, I’m not going to accuse you of anything,” said Marshall, “but you don’t know me. You’ve never met me in your whole life.”
“I don’t—!” The man couldn’t finish; he looked flabbergasted. “I don’t know you?” he said.
Marshall had to laugh. “Oh, this is ludicrous,” he said.
The man smiled appreciatively. “I knew you were ribbing me,” he admitted, “but—” He shook his head. “You had me going there for a second.”
Marshall put down his glass, the skin beginning to tighten across his cheeks.
“I’d say this had gone about far enough,” he said. “I’m in no mood for—”
“Don,” the man broke in. “What’s wrong?”
Marshall drew in a deep breath, then let it waver out. “Oh, well,” he said, “I suppose it’s an honest mistake.” He forced a smile. “Who do you think I am?”
The man didn’t answer. He looked at Marshall intently.
“Well’?” asked Marshall, beginning to lose patience.
“This isn’t a joke?” said the man.
“Now, look—”
“No, wait, wait,” said the man, raising one hand. “I. . . suppose it’s possible there could be two men who look so much alike they—”
He stopped abruptly and looked at Marshall. “Don, you’re not ribbing me, are you?”
“Now listen to me-—!”
“All right, I apologize,” said the man. He sat gazing at Marshall for a moment; then he shrugged and smiled perplexedly. “I could have sworn you were Don Marshall,” he said.
Marshall felt something cold gathering around his heart.
“I am,” he heard himself say.
The only sound in the restaurant was that of the music and the delicate clink of silverware.
“What is this?” asked the man.
“You tell me,” said Marshall in a thin voice.
“You—” The man looked carefully at him. “This is not a joke,” he said.
“Now see here!”
“All right, all right.” The man raised both his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s not a joke. You claim I don’t know you. All right. Granting that leaves us with—with this: a man who not only looks exactly like my friend but has exactly the same name. Is this possible?”
“Apparently so,” said Marshall.
Abruptly, he picked up his glass and took momentary escape in the martini. The man did the same. The waitress came for their orders and Marshall told her to come back later.
“What’s your name?” he asked then.
“Arthur Nolan,” said the man.
Marshall gestured conclusively. “I don’t know you,” he said. There was a slight loosening of tension in his stomach.
The man leaned back and stared at Marshall. “This is fantastic,” he said. He shook his head. “Utterly fantastic.”
Marshall smiled and lowered his eyes to the glass.
“Where do you work?” asked the man.
“American-Pacific Steamship,” Marshall answered, glancing up. He felt a beginning of enjoyment in himself. This was certainly something to take one’s mind off the wrack of the day.
The man looked examiningly at him; and Marshall sensed the enjoyment fading.
Suddenly the man laughed.
“You must have had one sweet hell of a morning, buddy,” he said.
“What?”
“No more,” said the man.
“Listen—”
“I capitulate,” said Nolan, grinning. “You’re curdling my gin.”
“Listen to me, damn it!” snapped Marshall.
The man looked startled. His mouth fell open and he put his drink down. “Don, what is it?” he asked, concerned now.
“You do not know me,” said Marshall, very carefully. “I do not know you. Will you kindly accept that?”
The man looked around as if for help. Then he leaned in close and spoke, his voice soft and worried.
“Don, listen. Honestly. You don’t know me?”
Marshall drew in a deep breath, teeth clenched against rising fury. The man drew back. The look on his face was, suddenly, frightening to Marshall.
“One of us is out of his mind,” Marshall said. The levity he’d intended never appeared in his voice.
Nolan swallowed raggedly. He looked down at his drink as if unable to face the other man.
Marshall suddenly laughed. “Dear Lord,” he said, “what a scene. You really think you know me, don’t you?”
The man grimaced. “The Don Marshall I know,” he said, “also works for American-Pacific.”
Marshall shuddered. “That’s impossible,” he said.
“No,” said the man flatly.
For a moment Marshall got the notion that this was some sort of insidious plot against him; but the distraught expression on the man’s face weakened the suspicion. He took a sip of his martini, then, carefully, set down the glass and laid his palms on the table as if seeking the reinforcement of its presence.
“American-Pacific Steamship Lines?” he asked.
The man nodded once. “Yes.”
Marshall shook his head obdurately. “No,” he said. “There’s no other Marshall in our office. Unless,” he added, quickly, “one of our clerks downstairs—”
“You’re an—” The man broke off nervously. “He’s an executive,” he said.
Marshall drew his hands in slowly and put them in his lap. “Then I don’t understand,” he said. He wished, instantly, he hadn’t said it.
“This . . . man told you he worked there?” he asked quickly.
“Yes.”
“Can you prove he works there?” Marshall challenged, his voice breaking. “Can you prove his name is really Don Marshall?”
“Don, I—”
“Well, can you?”
“Are you married?” asked the man.
Marshall hesitated. Then, clearing his throat, he said, 1 am.
Nolan leaned forward. “To Ruth Foster?” he asked. Marshall couldn’t hide his involuntary gasp.
“Do you live on the Island?” Nolan pressed.
“Yes,” said Marshall weakly, “but—”
“In Huntington?”
Marshall hadn’t even the strength to nod.
“Did you go to Columbia University?”
“Yes, but—” His teeth were on edge now.
“Did you graduate in June, nineteen forty?”
“No!” Marshal! clutched at this. “I graduated in January, nineteen forty-one. Forty-one!”
“Were you a lieutenant in the Army?” asked Nolan, paying no attention.
Marshall felt himself slipping. “Yes,” he muttered, “but you said—”
“In the Eighty-Seventh Division?”
Now wait a minute!” Marshall pushed aside the nearly empty glass as if to make room for his rebuttal. “I can give you two very good explanations for this . . .this fool confusion. One: a man who looks like me and knows a few things about me is pretending to be me; Lord knows why. Two: you know about me and you’re trying to snare me into something. No, you can argue all you like!” he persisted, almost frantically, as the man began to object. “You can ask all the questions you li
ke; but I know who I am and I know who I know!”
Steel and other stories [SSC] Page 15