"Bucky boy!"
"Doc." Buck seemed somewhat ashamed to be seen with the coach, and looked hopefully at a vacant booth. He was behaving as though he were keeping an appointment with a dope peddler, and, in a way, Doctor Roseberry reflected cheerfully, he was.
"Buck, I'm not going to waste any words, because there isn't much time. This offer won't be open many more days. Maybe it'll be off tomorrow. It's all up to the alumni," he lied.
"Uh-huh," said Buck.
"I'm prepared to offer you thirty thousand, Buck, six hundred a week, all year round, startin' tomorrow. What do you say?"
Young's Adam's apple bobbed. He cleared his throat. "Every week?" he asked faintly.
"That's how much we think of you, boy. Don't sell yourself short."
"And I could study, too? You'd give me time off for classes and study?"
Roseberry frowned. "Well - there's some pretty stiff rulings about that. You can't play college football, and go to school. They tried that once, and you know what a silly mess that was."
Buck ran his blunt fingers through his hair. "Golly, I dunno. That's a lot of money, but my family'd be awful surprised and disappointed. I mean -"
"I'm not askin' it for me, Buck! Think of your schoolmates. You want them to lose a game this year?"
"No," he murmured.
"Thirty-five grand, Buck."
"Jesus, I -"
"I have heard every word you've said," said a young redhead thickly. He wasn't drinking benedictine and Pluto water, but sloshed instead a puddle of whisky and water on the table as he sat down by Buck, facing Doctor Roseberry, uninvited. Beneath his open-necked shirt the red of a Meadows T-shirt showed plainly. "Heard it all," he said, and he laid his hand on Buck's shoulder gravely. "Here you are at a crossroads, my boy. You're lucky. Not many crossroads left for people. Nothing but one-way streets with cliffs on both sides."
"Who the hell are you?" said Doctor Roseberry irritably.
"Doctor, Doctor, mind you, Edmond L. Harrison of the Ithaca Works. Call me Ed, or pay me five dollars."
"Let's get away from this lush," said Doctor Roseberry.
Harrison banged on the table with his fist. "Hear me out!" He appealed to Buck, whose exit he blocked. "The eminent Doctor Roseberry represents one road, and I the other. I am you, if you continue on your present course, five years from now."
His eyes were half closed, and after the fashion of benign drunks he seemed on the verge of tears, so powerfully was he compelled to love and help others. "If you are good," he said, "and if you are thoughtful, a fractured pelvis on the gridiron will pain you less than a life of engineering and management. In that life, believe me, the thoughtful, the sensitive, those who can recognize the ridiculous, die a thousand deaths."
Doctor Roseberry leaned back and folded his hands across his flat, hard belly. If he'd thought of it, he would have hired a professional actor to do what Doctor Harrison was doing for nothing. "How do you mean?" he asked helpfully.
"The best man I knew at the Meadows - "
"The Meadows?" said Buck in awe.
"The Meadows," said Harrison, "where the men at the head of the procession of civilization demonstrate in private that they are ten-year-olds at heart, that they haven't the vaguest notion of what they're doing to the world."
"They're opening new doors at the head of the procession!" said Buck hotly, shocked by the blunt, near-sabotage talk, and now fighting it, like the good citizen he was. He'd learned the resounding phrase about opening doors in a freshman orientation program, at which a Doctor Kroner had been the impressive chief speaker.
"Slamming doors in everybody's face," said Harrison. "That's what they're doing."
"Keep your voice down," warned Doctor Roseberry.
"I don't care," said Harrison stridently, "not after what they did to the only grownup there. They gave Proteus the sack, that's what they did."
"Proteus has been dead for years," said Buck, sure Harrison was a fake.
"His son, his son, Paul," said Harrison. "So let me say, my boy, go out and make your money on the gridiron, with blood and sweat and sinew. There's honor and glory in that - a little, anyway - and you'll never hate yourself. But keep the hell away from the head of the procession, where you'll get it in the neck if you can't get a lump in your throat over the ups and downs of a bunch of factories." He attempted to rise, failed once, made it the next time. "And now, goodbye."
"Where are you going?" said Doctor Roseberry. "Stick around, stick around."
"Where? First to shut off that part of the Ithaca works for which I am responsible, and then to an island, perhaps, a cabin in the north woods, a shack in the Everglades."
"And do what?" said Buck, baffled.
"Do?" said Harrison. "Do? That's just it, my boy. All of the doors have been closed. There's nothing to do but to find a womb suitable for an adult, and crawl into it. One without machines would suit me particularly."
"What have you got against machines?" said Buck.
"They're slaves."
"Well, what the heck," said Buck. "I mean, they aren't people. They don't suffer. They don't mind working."
"No. But they compete with people."
"That's a pretty good thing, isn't it - considering what a sloppy job most people do of anything?"
"Anybody that competes with slaves becomes a slave," said Harrison thickly, and he left.
A dark man, dressed like a student, but much older-looking, set down his untouched benedictine and Pluto water on the bar, studied the faces of Roseberry and Young as though memorizing them, and followed Harrison out of the building.
"Let's go out in the lobby, where we can talk," said Roseberry, as a cycle of songs began.
"Cheer, cheer, here we are again," cried the young voices, and Young and Roseberry moved into the lobby.
"Well?" said Doctor Roseberry.
"I -"
"Doctor Roseberry, I believe?"
Roseberry looked up at the intruder, a sandy-mustached gentleman, in a violet shirt, matching boutonniere, and a gay waistcoat contrasting with his dark suit. "Yes?"
"My name is Halyard, E. J., of the State Department. And these gentlemen here are the Shah of Bratpuhr, and his interpreter, Khashdrahr Miasma. We were just leaving for the president's house, and I happened to spot you."
"Charmed," said Doctor Roseberry.
"Brahous brahouna, bouna saki," said the Shah, bowing slightly.
Halyard laughed nervously. "Guess we have a little business tomorrow morning, eh?"
"Oh," said Roseberry, "you're the one - the one for the phys. ed. finals."
"Yes, yes indeed. Haven't had a cigarette in two weeks. Will it take long?"
"No, I don't think so. Fifteen minutes ought to do the trick."
"Oh? That short a time, eh? Well, well." The tennis shoes and shorts he'd bought that afternoon wouldn't get much wear in that time.
"Oh, 'scuse me, gents," said Roseberry. "This here's Buck Young. Student just now."
"Lakki-ti Takaru?" the Shah asked Buck.
" 'Like it here?' " translated Khashdrahr.
"Yessir. Very much, sir, your highness."
"A lot different from my day," said Halyard. "By gosh, we had to get up every morning bright and early, climb the hill in all kinds of weather, and sit there and listen to some of the dullest lectures you ever heard of. And, of course, some poor fish would have to get up in front of us and talk every day of the week, and chances are he wasn't much of a speaker, and anyway no showman."
"Yes, the professional actors and the television circuits are a big improvement, sir," said Buck.
"And the exams!" said Halyard. "Pretty cute, you know, punching out the answers, and then finding out right off if you passed or flunked. Boy, believe me, we used to have to write our arms off, and then we'd have to wait weeks for a prof to grade the exams. And plenty of times they made bad mistakes on the grades."
"Yessir," said Buck politely.
"Well, I'll see one of you
r assistants tomorrow, eh?" said Halyard to Roseberry.
"I intend I should give you the tests personal," said Roseberry.
"Well! I guess that's an honor, with the season just beginning."
"Sure," said Roseberry. He reached into his breast pocket and produced the letter and the memo. He handed the letter to Halyard. "Here's something you should oughta read before you come."
"Fine, thanks." Halyard took it, supposing it was a list of the things he would have to do. He smiled warmly at Roseberry, who had given every indication that Halyard would be given an exceedingly simple and short series of tests. A mere fifteen minutes, he'd said. That would do it.
Halyard glanced at the letter, and couldn't imagine what it was all about at first. It was addressed to the president of Cornell, Doctor Albert Herpers, not to him. Moreover, the date on it indicated that it was five years old.
Dear Doctor Herpers: he read -
I had occasion to see the wearers of the Red and White after the Penn game in Philadelphia this Thanksgiving, and I must say I was ashamed to admit to anyone that I had ever come within fifty miles of Ithaca.
I was dining in the Club Cybernetics after the game, when the team, led by this new man, Doctor Roseberry, arrived en masse . . .
The letter went on to describe the bacchanal that followed, with particular emphasis on the crudities of Roseberry's behavior -
while, mind you, all were wearing what I, perhaps in my old-fashioned way, consider sacred, the C of the Big Red. . . .
In view of this, Doctor Herpers, I feel constrained to point out, as a loyal alumnus, that Doctor Roseberry, in his first year with the Big Red, is off to an extremely poor start. In the brief time of his incumbency, I have no doubt that the shockingly public moral turpitude of the team has made a worse name for what I was once proud to claim as my Alma Mater than a lifetime of gridiron victories can possibly offset. . .
It is my fervent hope that Roseberry will be forced to resign forthwith, or, failing that, that outraged alumni sell him to some Grade C school forthwith.
To this end, I am sending copies of this letter to the Alumni Secretary, to each of the local alumni chapters, to the Trustees, and to the Secretary of Athletics in Washington, D. C.
Very truly yours,
Doctor Ewing J. Halyard
"Oh," said Halyard, his poise gone, suddenly looking ridiculous in the clothes that had been high fashion a moment before. "Saw this, did you?"
"Doctor Herpers thought I'd be interested."
A sickly grin framed Halyard's white teeth. "Long time ago, wasn't it, Doctor? Seems like a hundred years."
"Like yesterday."
"Ha ha. Lot of water under the dam since those days, eh?"
The Shah looked questioningly at Khashdrahr for an explanation of what made Halyard so gray suddenly. Khashdrahr shrugged.
"Over the dam," said Buck Young, filling the grim void in the conversation. "Or under the bridge."
"Yes. Quite so," said Halyard hollowly. "Well, best we should go. See you in the morning."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Doctor Roseberry turned back to Buck Young, as Halyard, his face somber, shepherded the Shah and Khashdrahr into the Ithaca night. The Shah was sneezing violently.
"Well, kid," said Roseberry. "What say to thirty-five grand? Yes or no?"
"I -"
"Thirty-six."
"Yes," whispered Buck. "Hell yes."
When the two went back into The Dutch to drink to the deal, Purdy and McCloud were still talking gloomily in their dark corner.
"Sure," said Purdy, "Roseberry's a tough guy to work for, but thank God you ain't workin' for Harvard."
McCloud nodded. "Yeah, work there, and 'ey won't letch wear nothin' but dark-gray flannels in the winter, and seersucker in the summer."
They both shuddered, and furtively refilled their glasses from a half-case hidden under the table.
"Wit'out shoulders," said Purdy.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DOCTOR PAUL PROTEUS, to all practical purposes Mr. Paul Proteus, dreamed of nothing but pleasant things under the benign drug, and spoke simultaneously, without reflection but truthfully, on whatever subject was brought to his attention. The talking he did, the answering of questions, went on as though it were being done by a person hired to represent him, while Paul personally gave his attention to entertaining phantasmagoria within the privacy of his closed eyelids.
"Did you really get fired, or was it a pretense?" said the voice.
"Pretense. Supposed to get into the Ghost Shirt Society and find out what they're up to. Only I quit, and they don't know that, yet." Paul chuckled.
And in his dream, Paul danced powerfully, gracefully, to the hectic rhythms of the Building 58 Suite.
"Furrazz-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ak! ting!" went lathe group three, and Paul leapt and spun among the machines, while, pink amid the gray machines in the building's center, Anita lay invitingly in a rainbow-colored nest of control wires. Her part in the dance called for her only to lie there motionless, while Paul approached and fled, approached and fled in frenzied, random action.
"Why are you quitting?"
"Sick of my job."
"Because what you were doing was morally bad?" suggested the voice.
"Because it wasn't getting anybody anywhere. Because it was getting everybody nowhere."
"Because it was evil?" insisted the voice.
"Because it was pointless," said Paul's representative, as Kroner joined the ballet, ponderously, earthbound, with a methodical marching to the voices of the punch presses in the basement: "Aw-grumph! tonka-tonka. Aw-grumph! tonka-tonka . . ."
Kroner looked lovingly at Paul, caught him as he bounded past, and carried him in a bearlike embrace toward Anita. Paul squirmed free in the nick of time, and off he went again, leaving Kroner in tears, urging Anita to follow him into the out-of-doors.
"Then you're against the organization now?"
"I'm not with them now."
Shepherd, clumsily but energetically, entered the growing tableau from the basement, choosing as his theme the hoarse voices of the welders: "Vaaaaaaa-zuzip! Vaaaaaaa-zuzip!" Shepherd marked time with one foot, watching Paul's gyrations, another rejection of Kroner, another effort to coax the dead-panned Anita from her nest amid the machines. Shepherd watched with puzzlement and disdain, shrugged, and walked straight to Kroner and Anita. The three settled in the nest of wires, and together followed Paul's movements with baffled, censorious eyes.
Suddenly, a window by which Paul was bounding flew open, and Finnerty's face was thrust into the opening.
"Paul!"
"Yes, Ed?"
"You're on our side now!"
The Building 58 Suite stopped abruptly, and a black curtain fell between Paul and the rest of the cast, save Finnerty.
"Hmmm?" said Paul.
"You're on our side," said Finnerty. "If you're not with them, you're with us!"
Paul's head was aching now, and his lips were dry. He opened his eyes and saw Finnerty's face, gross, caricatured by its closeness.
"With who? Whom?"
"The Ghost Shirt Society, Paul."
"Oh, them. What do they think, Ed?" he asked drowsily. He was on a mattress, he realized, in a chamber whose air was still and damp, dense with the feel of dead mass pressing down from above. "What they think, Ed?"
"That the world should be restored to the people."
"By all means," said Paul, trying to nod. His muscles were only faintly connected to his will, and his will, in turn, was a fuzzy, ineffectual thing. "People oughta get it back."
"You're going to help."
"Yup," murmured Paul. He was in a highly tolerant mood, full of admiration and well-wishing for anyone with convictions, and cheerfully hors de combat under the influence of the drug. Obviously, he couldn't be expected to do anything. And Finnerty began to fade again, and Paul danced once more in Building 58, danced God knows why, uncertain that there was an audience anywhere
to appreciate his exertions.
"What do you think?" he heard Finnerty say.
"He'll do nicely," he heard another voice reply, and he recognized the voice as Lasher's.
"What's a ghost shirt?" murmured Paul between prickling lips.
"Toward the end of the nineteenth century," said Lasher, "a new religious movement swept the Indians in this country, Doctor."
"The Ghost Dance, Paul," said Finnerty.
"The white man had broken promise after promise to the Indians, killed off most of the game, taken most of the Indians' land, and handed the Indians bad beatings every time they'd offered any resistance," said Lasher.
"Poor Injuns," murmured Paul.
"This is serious," said Finnerty. "Listen to what he's telling you."
"With the game and land and ability to defend themselves gone," said Lasher, "the Indians found out that all the things they used to take pride in doing, all the things that had made them feel important, all the things that used to gain them prestige, all the ways in which they used to justify their existence - they found that all those things were going or gone. Great hunters had nothing to hunt. Great fighters did not come back from charging into repeating-arms fire. Great leaders could lead the people nowhere but into death in hopeless attack, or deeper into wastelands. Great religious leaders could no longer show that the old religious beliefs were the way to victory and plenty."
Paul, suggestible under the drug, was deeply disturbed by the plight of the redskins. "Golly."
"The world had changed radically for the Indians," said Lasher. "It had become a white man's world, and Indian ways in a white man's world were irrelevant. It was impossible to hold the old Indian values in the changed world. The only thing they could do in the changed world was to become second-rate white men or wards of the white men."
"Or they could make one last fight for the old values," said Finnerty with relish.
"And the Ghost Dance religion," said Lasher, "was that last, desperate defense of the old values. Messiahs appeared, the way they're always ready to appear, to preach magic that would restore the game, the old values, the old reasons for being. There were new rituals and new songs that were supposed to get rid of the white men by magic. And some of the more warlike tribes that still had a little physical fight left in them added a flourish of their own - the Ghost Shirt."
Player Piano (Utopia 14) Page 27