Job: A Comedy

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "Alec, let's not do anything hasty."

  "I'm in no hurry. But I've got to have explanations. And money."

  "Alec, I tell you on my word of honor all I know about what happened to you is that this squarehead ship came into Portland and you ain't aboard. And I have to go all the way to Oregon f' God's sake to witness them breaking into your strong-box. And there's only a hundred thousand in it; the rest is missing. Who got it, Alec? Who got to you?"

  He had his eyes on me; I hope my face didn't show anything. But he had hulled me. Was this true? This shyster would lie as easily as he talked. Had my friend the purser, or the purser and the captain in cahoots, looted that lockbox?

  As a working hypothesis, always prefer the simpler explanation. This man was more likely to lie than the purser was to steal. And it was likely—no, certain— that the captain would have to be present before the purser would force his way into the lockbox of a missing passenger. If these two responsible officers, with careers and reputations to lose, nevertheless combined to steal, why would they leave a hundred thousand behind? Why not take, it all and be blandly ignorant about the contents of my. lockbox?—as indeed they should be. Something fishy here.

  "What are you implying was missing?"

  "Huh?" He glanced at Margrethe. "Uh— Well, damn it, there should have been nine hundred grand more. The money you didn't pass over in Tahiti."

  "Who says I didn't?"

  "What? Alec, don't make things worse. Mr. Z. says so. You tried to drown his bagman."

  I looked at him and laughed. "You mean those tropical gangsters? They tried to get the boodle without identifying themselves and without giving receipts. I told them an emphatic no—so the clever boy had his muscle throw me into the pool. Hmm— Sam, I see it now. Find out who came aboard the Konge Knut in Papeete. "

  "Why?"

  "That's your man. He not only got the boodle; he pushed me overboard. When you know, don't bother to try to get him extradited, just tell me his name. I'll arrange the rest myself. Personally."

  "Damn it, we want that million dollars."

  "Do you think you can get it? It wound up in Mr. Z.'s hands . . . but you got no receipt. And I got a lot of grief from asking for a receipt. Don't be silly, Sam; the nine hundred thousand is gone. But not my fee. So pass over that hundred grand. Now."

  "What? The Federal prosecutor in Portland kept that, impounded it as evidence."

  "Sam, Sam boy, don't try to teach your grandmother how to steal sheep. As evidence for what? Who is charged? Who is indicted? What crime is alleged? Am I charged with stealing something out of my own lockbox? What crime?"

  "'What crime?' Somebody stole that nine hundred grand, that's what!"

  "Really? Who's the complainant? Who asserts that there ever was nine hundred thousand in that lockbox? I certainly never told anyone that—so who says? Pick up that phone, Sam; call the Federal prosecutor in Portland. Ask him why he held that money—on whose complaint? Let's get to the bottom of this. Pick it up, Sam. If that Federal clown has my money, I want to shake it loose from him."

  "You're almighty anxious to talk to prosecutors! Strange talk from you."

  "Maybe I've had an acute attack of honesty. Sam, your unwillingness to call Portland tells me all I need to know. You were called out there to act on my behalf, as my attorney. American passenger lost overboard, ship of foreign registry, you betcha they get hold of the passenger's attorney to inventory his assets. Then they pass it all over to his attorney and he gives a receipt for it. Sam, what did you do with my clothes?"

  "Eh? Gave 'em to the Red Cross: Of course."

  "You did, eh?"

  "After the prosecutor released em, I mean."

  "Interesting. The Federal attorney keeps the money, although no one has complained that any money is missing . . . but lets the clothes out of his hands when the only probable crime is murder."

  "Huh?"

  "Me, I mean. Who pushed me and who hired him to? Sam, we both know where the money is." I stood up, pointed. "In that safe. That's where it logically has to be. You wouldn't bank it; there would be a record. You wouldn't hide it at home; your wife might find it. And you certainly didn't split with your partners. Sam, open it. I want to see whether there is a hundred thousand in there ... or a million."

  "You're out of your mind!"

  "Call the Federal prosecutor. Let him be our witness."

  I had him so angry he couldn't talk. His hands trembled. It isn't safe to get a little man too angry—and I topped him by six inches, weight and other measurements to match. He wouldn't attack me himself—he was a lawyer—but I would need to be careful going through doorways, and such.

  Time to try to cool him— "Sam, Sam, don't take it so seriously. You were leaning on me pretty heavily . . . so I leaned back. The good Lord alone knows why prosecutors do anything—the gonif most likely has stolen it by now ... in the belief that I am dead and will never complain. So I'll go to Portland and lean on him, hard."

  "There's paper out on you there."

  "Really? What charges?"

  "Seduction under promise of marriage. A female crewman of that ship." He had the grace to look apologetically at Margrethe. "Sorry, Mrs. Graham. But your husband asked me."

  "Quite all right," she answered crisply.

  "I do get around, don't I? What does she look like? Is she pretty? What's her name?"

  "I never saw her; she wasn't there. Her name? Some Swede name. Let me think. Gunderson, that was it. Margaret S. Gunderson."

  Margrethe, bless her heart, never let out a peep—not even at being called a Swede. I said in wonderment, "I'm accused of seducing this woman . . . aboard a foreign-flag vessel, somewhere in the South Seas. So there's a warrant out for me in Portland, Oregon. Sam, what kind of a lawyer are you? To let a client have paper slapped on him on that sort of charge."

  "I'm a smart lawyer, that's the kind I am. Just as you said, no telling what a Federal attorney will do; they take their brains out when they appoint em. It simply wasn't important enough to talk about, you being dead, or so we all thought. I'm just looking out for your interests, letting you know about it before you step in it. Gimme some time, I'll get it quashed—then you go to Portland."

  "Sounds reasonable. There aren't any charges outstanding on me here, are there?"

  "No. Well, yes and no. You know the deal; we assured them that you would not be coming back, so they turned the blind eye when you left. But here you are, back. Alec, you can't afford to be seen here. Or elsewhere in Texas. Or anywhere in the States, actually. Word gets around, and they'll dig up those old charges."

  "I was innocent!"

  He shrugged. "Alec, all my clients are innocent. I'm talking like a father, in your own interest. Get out of Dallas. If you go as far as Paraguay, so much the better."

  "How? I'm broke. Sam, I've got to have some dough."

  "Have I ever let you down?" He got out his wallet, counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills, laid them in front of me.

  I looked at them. "What's that? A tip?" I picked them up, pocketed them. "That much won't get us to Brownsville. Now let's see some money."

  "See me tomorrow."

  "Don't play games, Sam. Open that safe and get me some real money. Or I don't come here tomorrow; I go see the Federal man and sing like the birdies. After I get square with him—and I will; the Feds love a state's witness, it's the only way they ever win a case—then I go to Oregon and pick up that hundred grand."

  "Alec, are you threatening me?"

  "You play games, I play games. Sam, I need a car and I don't mean a beat-up Ford. A Cadillac. Doesn't have to be new, but a cream puff, clean, and a good engine. A Cadillac and a few grand and we'll be in Laredo by midnight, and in Monterrey by morning. I'll call you from Mexico City and give you an address. If you really want me to go to Paraguay and stay there, you send the money to D.F. for me to do it."

  It did not work out quite that way, but I settled for a used Pontiac and left with six thousand dol
lars in cash, and instructions to go to a particular used-car lot and accept the deal offered me—Sam would call and set it up. He agreed also to call the Hyatt and get us the bridal suite, and would see that they held it. Then I was to come back at ten the next morning.

  I refused to get up that early. "Make that eleven. We're still on our honeymoon."

  Sam chuckled, slapped me on the back, and agreed.

  ****

  Out in the corridor we headed toward the elevators but went ten feet farther and I opened the door to the fire-escape trunk. Margrethe followed me without comment but once inside the staircase trunk and out of earshot of others she said, "Alec, that man is not your friend."

  "No, he's not."

  "I am afraid for you."

  "I'm afraid for me, too."

  "Terribly afraid. I fear for your life."

  "My love, I fear for my life, too. And for yours. You are in danger as long as you are with me."

  "I will not leave you!"

  "I know. Whatever this is, we are in it together."

  "Yes. What are our plans now?"

  "Now we go to Kansas."

  "Oh, good! Then we are not driving to Mexico?"

  "Hon, I don't even know how to drive a car."

  We came out in a basement garage and walked up a ramp to a side street. There we walked several blocks away from the Smith Building, picked up a cruising taxi, rode it to the Texas & Pacific Station, there picked up a taxi at the taxi rank, and rode it to Fort Worth, twenty-five miles west. Margrethe was very quiet on the trip. I did not ask her what she was thinking about because I knew: It can't be happy-making to discover that a person you fell in love with was mixed up in some shenanigan that smelled of gangsters and rackets. I made myself a solemn promise never to mention the matter to her.

  ****

  In Fort Worth I had the hackie drop us on its most stylish shopping street, letting him pick it. Then I said to Marga, "Darling, I'm about to buy you a heavy gold chain."

  "Goodness, darling! I don't need a gold chain."

  "We need it. Marga, the first time I was in this world—with you, in Konge Knut—I learned that here the dollar was soft, not backed by gold, and every price I have seen today confirms that. So, if change comes again and we never know—even the hard money of this world, quarters and half dollars and dimes, won't be worth anything because they're not really silver. As for the paper money I got from Crumpacker—waste paper!

  "Unless I change it into something else. We'll start with that gold chain and from here on you wear it to bed, you even wear it to bathe—unless you hang it around my neck."

  "I see. Yes."

  "We'll buy some heavy gold jewelry for each of us, then I'm going to try to find a coin dealer—buy some silver cartwheels, maybe some gold coins. But my purpose is to get rid of most of this paper money in the next hour—all but the price of two bus tickets Wichita, Kansas, three-hundred and fifty miles north of here. Could you stand to ride a bus all night tonight? I want to get us out of Texas."

  "Certainly! Oh, dear, I do want to get out of Texas! Truly, I'm still frightened."

  "Truly, you are not alone."

  "But—"

  "'But what, dear? And quit looking sad."

  "Alec, I haven't had a bath for four days."

  ****

  We found the jewelry shop, we found the coin shop; I spent about half that fiat money and saved the rest for bus fare and other purposes in this world—such as dinner, which we ate as soon as the shops started to close. A hamburger we had eaten in Gainesville seemed an awfully long way off in time and space. Then I determined that there was a bus going north—Oklahoma City, Wichita, Salina—at ten o'clock that evening. I bought tickets and paid an extra dollar on each ticket to reserve seats. Then I threw money away like a drunken sailor—took a room in a hotel across from the bus station, knowing that we would be checking out in less than two hours.

  It was worth it. Hot baths for each of us, taking turns, each of us remaining fully dressed and carrying the other's clothing, jewelry, and all the money while the other was naked and wet. And carrying my razor, which had become a talisman of how to outwit Loki's playful tricks.

  And new, clean underwear for each of us, purchased in passing while we were converting paper money into valuta.

  I had hoped for time enough for love—but no; by the time I was clean and dry we had to dress and check out to catch that bus. Never mind, there would be other times. We climbed into the bus, put the backrests back, put Marga's head on my shoulder. As the bus headed north we fell asleep.

  I woke up sometime later because the road was so rough. We were seated right behind the driver, so I leaned forward and asked, "Is this a detour?" I could not recall a rough stretch when we had ridden south on this same road about twelve hours earlier.

  "No," he said. "We've crossed into Oklahoma, that's all. Not much pavement in Oklahoma. Some near Oke City and a little between there and Guthrie."

  The talk had wakened Margrethe; she straightened up. "What is it, dear?"

  "Nothing. Just Loki having fun with us. Go back to sleep."

  XXI

  What are these which are arrayed in white robes? And whence came they? And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said unto me, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple.

  Revelation 8:13-15

  ****

  I WAS DRIVING a horse and buggy and not enjoying it. The day was hot, the dust kicked up by horse's hooves stuck to sweaty skin, flies were bad, there was no breeze. We were somewhere near the corner of Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma, but I was not sure where. I had not seen a map for days and the roads were no longer marked with highway signs for the guidance of automobilists—there were no automobiles.

  The last two weeks (more or less—I had lost track of the days) had been endless torments of Sisyphus, one ridiculous frustration after another. Sell silver dollars to a local dealer in exchange for that world's paper?—no trouble; I did it several times. But it didn't always help. Once I had sold silver for local paper money and we had ordered dinner—when, boom, another world change and we went hungry. Another time I was cheated outrageously and when I complained, I was told: "Neighbor, possession of that coin is illegal and you know it. I've offered you a price anyhow because I like you. Will you take it? Or shall I do my plain duty as a citizen?"

  I took it. The paper money he gave us for five ounces of silver would not buy dinner for Marga and me at a backwoods gourmet spot called "Mom's Diner."

  That was in a charming community called (by a sign at its outskirts):

  THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

  A Clean Community

  Blackamoors, Kikes, Papists

  Keep Moving!

  We kept moving. That whole two weeks had been spent trying to travel the two hundred miles from Oklahoma City to Joplin, Missouri. I had been forced to give up the notion of avoiding Kansas City. I still had no intention of staying in or near Kansas City, not when a sudden change of worlds could land us in Abigail's lap. But I had learned in Oklahoma City that the fastest and indeed the only practical route to Wichita was a long detour through Kansas City. We had retrogressed to the horse-and-buggy era.

  When you consider the total age of the earth, from Creation in 4004 B.C. to the year of Our Lord 1994, or 5998 years—call it 6000—in a period of 6000 years, 80 or 90 years is nothing much. And that is how short a time it has been since the horse-and-buggy day in my world. My father was born in that day (1909) and my paternal grandfather not only never owned an automobile but refused to ride in one. He claimed that they were spawn of the Devil, and used to quote passages from Ezekiel to prove it. Perhaps he was right.

  But the horse-and-buggy era does have shortcomings. There are obvious ones such as no inside plumbing, no air conditioning, no modern medicine. But for us there was an unobvious but
major one; where there are no trucks and no cars there is effectively no hitchhiking. Oh, it is sometimes possible to hitch rides on farm wagons—but the difference in speed between a human's walk and a horse's walk is not great. We rode when we could but, either way, fifteen miles was a good day's progress—too good; it left no time to work for meals and a place to sleep.

  There is an old paradox, Achilles and the Tortoise, in which the remaining distance to your goal is halved at each step. The question is: How long does it take to reach your goal? The answer is: You can't get there from here.

  That is the way we "progressed" from Oklahoma City to Joplin.

  Something else compounded my frustration: I became increasingly persuaded that we were indeed in the latter days, and we could expect the return of Jesus and the Final Judgment at any moment—and my darling, my necessary one, was not yet back in the arms of Jesus. I refrained from nagging her about it, although it took all my will power to respect her wish to handle it alone. I began to sleep badly through worrying about her.

  I became a bit crazy, too (in addition to my paranoid belief that these world changes were aimed at me personally)—crazy in that I acquired an unfounded but compelling belief that finishing this journey was essential to the safety of my darling's immortal soul. Just let us get as far as Kansas, dear Lord, and I will pray without ceasing until I have converted her and brought her to grace. O Lord God of Israel, grant me this boon!

  I continued to look for dishwashing jobs (or anything) even while we still had silver and gold to trade for local money. But motels disappeared entirely; hotels became scarce and restaurants decreased in numbers and size to fit an economy in which travel was rare and almost all meals were eaten at home.