“You can’t get good steaks anymore,” he remarked. “This one is tough. God knows I pay enough—and complain enough.”
Stevens did not answer. He thought his own steak had been tenderized too much; it almost fell apart. He was managing it with knife and fork, but the knife was superfluous. It appeared that Waldo did not expect his guests to make use of his own admittedly superior methods and utensils. Stevens ate from a platter clamped to his thighs, making a lap for it after Grimes’ example by squatting in midair. The platter itself had been thoughtfully provided with sharp little prongs on its service side.
Liquids were served in small flexible skins, equipped with nipples. Think of a baby’s plastic nursing bottle.
The food chest took the utensils away with a dolorous insufflation. “Will you smoke, sir?”
“Thank you.” He saw what a weight-free ash tray necessarily should be: a long tube with a bell-shaped receptacle on its end. A slight suction in the tube, and ashes knocked into the bell were swept away, out of sight and mind.
“About the matter—” Grimes commenced again. “Jimmie here is Chief Engineer for North American Power-Air.”
“What?” Waldo straightened himself, became rigid; his chest rose and fell. He ignored Stevens entirely. “Uncle Gus, do you mean to say that you have introduced an officer of that company into my—home?”
“Don’t get your dander up. Relax. Damn it, I’ve warned you not to do anything to raise your blood pressure.” Grimes propelled himself closer to his host and took him by the wrist in the age-old fashion of a physician counting pulse. “Breathe slower. Whatcha trying to do? Go on an oxygen jag?”
Waldo tried to shake himself loose. It was a rather pitiful gesture; the old man had ten times his strength. “Uncle Gus, you—”
“Shut up!”
The three maintained a silence for several minutes, uncomfortable for at least two of them. Grimes did not seem to mind it.
“There,” he said at last. “That’s better. Now keep your shirt on and listen to me. Jimmie is a nice kid, and he has never done anything to you. And he has behaved himself while he’s been here. You’ve got no right to be rude to him, no matter who he works for. Matter of fact, you owe him an apology.”
“Oh, really now, Doc,” Stevens protested. “I’m afraid I have been here somewhat under false colors. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. I didn’t intend it to be that way. I tried to explain when we arrived.”
Waldo’s face was hard to read. He was evidently trying hard to control himself. “Not at all, Mr. Stevens. I am sorry that I showed temper. It is perfectly true that I should not transfer to you any animus I feel for your employers . . . though God knows I bear no love for them.”
“I know it. Nevertheless, I am sorry to hear you say it.”
“I was cheated, do you understand? Cheated—by as rotten a piece of quasi-legal chicanery as has—”
“Easy, Waldo!”
“Sorry, Uncle Gus.” He continued, his voice less shrill. “You know of the so-called Hathaway patents?”
“Yes, of course.”
“ ‘So-called’ is putting it mildly. The man was a mere machinist. Those patents are mine.”
Waldo’s version, as he proceeded to give it, was reasonably factual, Stevens felt, but quite biased and unreasonable. Perhaps Hathaway had been working, as Waldo alleged, simply as a servant—a hired artisan, but there was nothing to prove it, no contract, no papers of any sort. The man had filed certain patents, the only ones he had ever filed and admittedly Waldo-ish in their cleverness. Hathaway had then promptly died, and his heirs, through their attorneys, had sold the patents to a firm which had been dickering with Hathaway.
Waldo alleged that this firm had put Hathaway up to stealing from him, had caused him to hire himself out to Waldo for that purpose. But the firm was defunct; its assets had been sold to North American Power-Air. NAPA had offered a settlement; Waldo had chosen to sue. The suit went against him.
Even if Waldo were right, Stevens could not see any means by which the directors of NAPA could, legally, grant him any relief. The officers of a corporation are trustees for other people’s money; if the directors of NAPA should attempt to give away property which had been adjudicated as belonging to the corporation, any stockholder could enjoin them before the act or recover from them personally after the act.
At least so Stevens thought. But he was no lawyer, he admitted to himself. The important point was that he needed Waldo’s services, whereas Waldo held a bitter grudge against the firm he worked for.
He was forced to admit that it did not look as if Doc Grimes’ presence was enough to turn the trick. “All that happened before my time,” he began, “and naturally I know very little about it. I’m awfully sorry it happened. It’s pretty uncomfortable for me, for right now I find myself in a position where I need your services very badly indeed.”
Waldo did not seem displeased with the idea. “So? How does this come about?”
Stevens explained to him in some detail the trouble they had been having with the deKalb receptors. Waldo listened attentively. When Stevens had concluded he said, “Yes, that is much the same story your Mr. Gleason had to tell. Of course, as a technical man you have given a much more coherent picture than that money manipulator was capable of giving. But why do you come to me? I do not specialize in radiation engineering, nor do I have any degrees from fancy institutions.”
“I come to you,” Stevens said seriously, “for the same reason everybody else comes to you when they are really stuck with an engineering problem. So far as I know, you have an unbroken record of solving any problem you cared to tackle. Your record reminds me of another man—”
“Who?” Waldo’s tone was suddenly sharp.
“Edison. He did not bother with degrees either, but solved all the hard problems of his day.”
“Oh, Edison . . . I thought you were speaking of a contemporary. No doubt he was all right in his day,” he added with overt generosity.
“I was not comparing him to you. I was simply recalling that Edison was reputed to prefer hard problems to easy ones. I’ve heard the same about you; I had hopes that this problem might be hard enough to interest you.”
“It is mildly interesting,” Waldo conceded. “A little out of my line, but interesting. I must say, however, that I am surprised to hear you, an executive of North American Power-Air, express such a high opinion of my talents. One would think that, if the opinion were sincere, it would not have been difficult to convince your firm of my indisputable handiwork in the matter of the so-called Hathaway patents.”
Really, thought Stevens, the man is impossible. A mind like a weasel. Aloud, he said, “I suppose the matter was handled by the business management and the law staff. They would hardly be equipped to distinguish between routine engineering and inspired design.”
The answer seemed to mollify Waldo. He asked, “What does your own research staff say about the problem?”
Stevens looked wry. “Nothing helpful. Dr. Rambeau does not really seem to believe the data I bring him. He says it’s impossible, but it makes him unhappy. I really believe that he has been living on aspirin and Nembutal for a good many weeks.”
“Rambeau,” Waldo said slowly. “I recall the man. A mediocre mind. All memory and no intuition. I don’t think I would feel discouraged simply because Rambeau is puzzled.”
“You really feel that there is some hope?”
“It should not be too difficult. I had already given the matter some thought, after Mr. Gleason’s phone call. You have given me additional data, and I think I see at least two new lines of approach which may prove fruitful. In any case, there is always some approach—the correct one.”
“Does that mean you will accept?” Stevens demanded, nervous with relief.
“Accept?” Waldo’s eyebrows climbed up. “My dear sir, what in the world are you talking about? We were simply indulging in social conversation. I would not help your company under any circumstances whatsoe
ver. I hope to see your firm destroyed utterly, bankrupt and ruined. This may well be the occasion.”
Stevens fought to keep control of himself. Tricked! The fat slob had simply been playing with him, leading him on. There was no decency in him. In careful tones he continued, “I do not ask that you have any mercy on North American, Mr. Jones, but I appeal to your sense of duty. There is public interest involved. Millions of people are vitally dependent on the service we provide. Don’t you see that the service must continue, regardless of you or me?”
Waldo pursed his lips. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid that does not affect me. The welfare of those nameless swarms of Earth crawlers is, I fear, not my concern. I have done more for them already than there was any need to do. They hardly deserve help. Left to their own devices, most of them would sink back to caves and stone axes. Did you ever see a performing ape, Mr. Stevens, dressed in a man’s clothes and cutting capers on roller skates? Let me leave you with this thought: I am not a roller-skate mechanic for apes.”
If I stick around here much longer, Stevens advised himself, there will be hell to pay. Aloud, he said, “I take it that is your last word?”
“You may so take it. Good day, sir. I enjoyed your visit. Thank you.”
“Good-by. Thanks for the dinner.”
“Not at all.”
As Stevens turned away and prepared to shove himself toward the exit, Grimes called after him, “Jimmie, wait for me in the reception room.”
As soon as Stevens was out of earshot, Grimes turned to Waldo and looked him up and down. “Waldo,” he said slowly, “I always did know that you were one of the meanest, orneriest men alive, but—”
“Your compliments don’t faze me, Uncle Gus.”
“Shut up and listen to me. As I was saying, I knew you were too rotten selfish to live with, but this is the first time I ever knew you to be a four-flusher to boot.”
“What do you mean by that? Explain yourself.”
“Shucks! You haven’t any more idea of how to crack the problem that boy is up against than I have. You traded on your reputation as a miracle man just to make him unhappy. Why, you cheap tinhorn bluffer, if you—”
“Stop it!”
“Go ahead,” Grimes said quietly. “Run up your blood pressure. I won’t interfere with you. The sooner you blow a gasket the better.”
Waldo calmed down. “Uncle Gus—what makes you think I was bluffing?”
“Because I know you. If you had felt able to deliver the goods, you would have looked the situation over and worked out a plan to get NAPA by the short hair, through having something they had to have. That way you would have proved your revenge.”
Waldo shook his head. “You underestimate the intensity of my feeling in the matter.”
“I do like hell! I hadn’t finished. About that sweet little talk you gave him concerning your responsibility to the race. You’ve got a head on you. You know damned well, and so do I, that of all people you can least afford to have anything serious happen to the setup down on Earth. That means you don’t see any way to prevent it.”
“Why, what do you mean? I have no interest in such troubles; I’m independent of such things. You know me better than that.”
“Independent, eh? Who mined the steel in these walls? Who raised that steer you dined on tonight? You’re as independent as a queen bee, and about as helpless.”
Waldo looked startled. He recovered himself and answered, “Oh no, Uncle Gus. I really am independent. Why, I have supplies here for years.”
“How many years?”
“Why . . . uh, five, about.”
“And then what? You may live another fifty—if you have regular supply service. How do you prefer to die—starvation or thirst?”
“Water is no problem,” Waldo said thoughtfully. “As for supplies, I suppose I could use hydroponics a little more and stock up with some meat animals—”
Grimes cut him short with a nasty laugh. “Proved my point. You don’t know how to avert it, so you are figuring some way to save your own skin. I know you. You wouldn’t talk about starting a truck garden if you knew the answers.”
Waldo looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s not entirely true. I don’t know the solution, but I do have some ideas about it. I’ll bet you a half-interest in hell that I can crack it. Now that you have called my attention to it, I must admit I am rather tied in with the economic system down below, and”—he smiled faintly—“I was never one to neglect my own interests. Just a moment—I’ll call your friend.”
“Not so fast. I came along for another reason besides introducing Jimmie to you. It can’t be just any solution; it’s got to be a particular solution.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s got to be a solution that will do away with the need for filling up the air with radiant energy.”
“Oh, that. See here, Uncle Gus, I know how interested you are in theory, and I’ve never disputed the possibility that you may be right, but you can’t expect me to mix that into another and very difficult problem.”
“Take another look. You’re in this for self-interest. Suppose everybody was in the shape you are in.”
“You mean my physical condition?”
“I mean just that. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but we blamed well need to. If everybody was as weak as you are—presto! No coffee and cakes for Waldo. And that’s just what I see coming. You’re the only man I know of who can appreciate what it means.”
“It seems fantastic.”
“It is. But the signs are there for anybody to read who wants to. Epidemic myasthenia, not necessarily acute, but enough to raise hell with our mechanical civilization. Enough to play hob with your supply lines. I’ve been collating my data since I saw you last and drawing some curves. You should see ’em.”
“Did you bring them?”
“No, but I’ll send ’em up. In the meantime, you can take my word for it.” He waited. “Well, how about it?”
“I’ll accept it as a tentative working hypothesis,” Waldo said slowly, “until I see your figures. I shall probably want you to conduct some further research for me, on the ground—if your data is what you say it is.”
“Fair enough. G’by.” Grimes kicked the air a couple of times as he absent-mindedly tried to walk.
Stevens’ frame of mind as he waited for Grimes is better left undescribed. The mildest thought that passed through his mind was a plaintive one about the things a man had to put up with to hold down what seemed like a simple job of engineering. Well, he wouldn’t have the job very long. But he decided not to resign—he’d wait until they fired him; he wouldn’t run out.
But he would damn well get that vacation before he looked for another job.
He spent several minutes wishing that Waldo were strong enough for him to be able to take a poke at him. Or kick him in the belly—that would be more fun!
He was startled when the dummy suddenly came to life and called him by name. “Oh, Mr. Stevens.”
“Huh? Yes?”
“I have decided to accept the commission. My attorneys will arrange the details with your business office.”
He was too surprised to answer for a couple of seconds; when he did so the dummy had already gone dead. He waited impatiently for Grimes to show up.
“Doc!” he said, when the old man swam into view. “What got into him? How did you do it?”
“He thought it over and reconsidered,” Grimes said succinctly. “Let’s get going.”
Stevens dropped Dr. Augustus Grimes at the doctor’s home, then proceeded to his office. He had no more than parked his car and entered the tunnel leading toward the zone plant when he ran into his assistant. McLeod seemed a little out of breath. “Gee, chief,” he said, “I hoped that was you. I’ve had ’em watching for you. I need to see you.”
“What’s busted now?” Stevens demanded apprehensively. “One of the cities?”
“No. What made you think so?”
“Go ah
ead with your story.”
“So far as I know ground power is humming sweet as can be. No trouble with the cities. What I had on my mind is this: I fixed my heap”
“Huh? You mean you fixed the ship you crashed in?”
“It wasn’t exactly a crash. I had plenty of power in the reserve banks; when reception cut off, I switched to emergency and landed her.”
“But you fixed it? Was it the deKalbs? Or something else?”
“It was the deKalbs all right. And they’re fixed. But I didn’t exactly do it myself. I got it done. You see—”
“What was the matter with them?”
“I don’t know exactly. You see I decided that there was no point in hiring another skycar and maybe having another forced landing on the way home. Besides, it was my own crate I was flying, and I didn’t want to dismantle her just to get the deKalbs out and have her spread out all over the countryside. So I hired a crawler, with the idea of taking her back all in one piece. I struck a deal with a guy who had a twelve-ton semi-tractor combination, and we—”
“For criminy’s sake, make it march! What happened?”
“I’m trying to tell you. We pushed on into Pennsylvania and we were making pretty fair time when the crawler broke down. The right lead wheel, ahead of the treads. Honest to goodness, Jim, those roads are something fierce.”
“Never mind that. Why waste taxes on roads when 90 percent of the traffic is in the air? You messed up a wheel. So then what?”
“Just the same, those roads are a disgrace,” McLeod maintained stubbornly. “I was brought up in that part of the country. When I was a kid the road we were on was six lanes wide and smooth as a baby’s fanny. They ought to be kept up; we might need ’em someday.” Seeing the look in his senior’s eye, he went on hastily: “The driver mugged in with his home office, and they promised to send a repair car out from the next town. All told, it would take three, four hours—maybe more. Well, we were laid up in the county I grew up in. I says to myself, ‘McLeod, this is a wonderful chance to return to the scenes of your childhood and the room where the sun came peeping in the morn.’ Figuratively speaking, of course. Matter of fact, our house didn’t have any windows.”
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