by Damon Knight
Mrs. Hartz wrote something slowly. "O-kay." She got up and came around the desk. "Have you ever used one of these gadgets?" she asked, indicating a dictation machine beside the typewriter.
"No, not that kind."
"It uses a little plastic disk, like this one. You put it in the machine here. Here's the 'on' button, here's reverse -- 'review,' they call it -- here's forward, and this counter keeps track of where you are." She touched a button, and a man's deep voice said, " . . . items number three seventy-five, three eighty-one, five ninety-seven, and please bill to my account." She pressed the "off" button. "Why don't you fool with this awhile till you get the hang of it, and then type the first letter on the disk. There's a foot pedal under here, and letterheads, envelopes, carbon paper, and all that stuff in these drawers. I'll be in the kitchen. You can bring the letter out when you're finished, or if you run into any trouble, you can call me on this intercom -- press number five." She turned and went out.
Margaret sat down, pressed the "review" button, then played the disk from the beginning. "J. R. Veillot Frčres, dear sirs, referring to your catalog dated November 1983, I would like to order items number one fifteen, two seventy, three seventy-five . . . " She stopped the machine; where was the address? She would feel like a fool to call Mrs. Hartz for help so soon, before she had even started.
There was a rotary file on the desk: she looked under 'V,' and found it: Veillot, with an address in New York. She typed the letter rapidly. The letterhead read "G. Anderson," and she put that under the space for his signature. She typed an envelope, looked over the letter and envelope for errors, and carried them back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Hartz was sitting where Margaret had first seen her; behind her, in an alcove, there was an intercom and a television screen. She looked up and smiled. "All done? Let's see." She took the letter and envelope. "Perfect," she said firmly. "Good as I could do. How's your shorthand?"
"Pretty poor."
"Well, let's try it." Mrs. Hartz picked up a stenographic notebook and pencil, handed them to her. "Ready?" She turned a page of the account book before her and began to read. "Two hundred twenty square yards wool carpeting at seventy-three dollars, sixteen thousand and sixty dollars. Four pairs damask drapes . . . " It was a long list. When she was done, Mrs. Hartz put out her hand for the notebook. "Can I see?"
Margaret handed it over: it was a mixture of half-remembered Gregg shorthand, abbreviations, and figures.
"That's a mess," Mrs. Hartz said, "but if you can read it back, what's the difference?" She handed Margaret the notebook again. "See if you can."
"Two hundred twenty square yards wool carpeting," Margaret began, and went through to the end of the list.
"Okay," said Mrs. Hartz. "Let's see if we can find the boss." She reached back to the intercom and pressed a button. "Gene, are you there?"
"Yes," said a voice promptly.
"You want to come in and meet Miss Morrow, or should I bring her out?"
A pause. "Bring her out. I'm too dirty to come in."
"Okay." Mrs. Hartz went to a closet, came back with a pair of sneakers without laces, and put them on. Margaret followed her through the sliding doors at the far end of the living room, across the colonnade to a long building behind the house. The interior was brilliantly lit by the glass panes in the north side of the roof. Down at the far end a bearded man stood at a workbench, cutting something on a jigsaw. Only when he turned off the saw and began walking toward them did she realize that perspective had misled her in that enormous room: the man was grotesquely, impossibly tall.
He picked up a bench casually with one hand as he approached; he put it down in front of them and sat on it. Even then, he loomed over the two women until he bent over to put his elbows on his knees, like a man leaning over to talk to children. That was almost worse, because his leonine head was so big and so close. His skin was deeply tanned, but not as dark as Richards'; bits of wood dust were clinging to his beard and to the bleached hairs of his arms and chest. He looked at Margaret attentively when Mrs. Hartz introduced them, and took her hand in his for a moment; his huge fingers were calloused and warm. His face was heavy-boned, perfectly in proportion except for his eyes, which were no larger than hers. His voice was unexpectedly quiet. "Three or four hours a day," he was saying. "Would that suit you?"
She stammered something.
"Fine, then. Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow."
Mrs. Hartz led her back through the garden." Didn't Pongo tell you?" she asked.
"What?"
"Pongo -- Bill Richards -- the man who brought you out. Didn't he say anything?"
"He said Mr. Anderson was a very big man."
Mrs. Hartz snorted. "That's Pongo." They crossed the living room again, went through the hall into the kitchen. It was cool here; Margaret sat down gratefully at the table. She looked at the huge Spanish chair at the far end where the floor was sunken. How could she not have understood?
"Second thoughts?" Mrs. Hartz asked, coming over with a cup and a pot of coffee. "This is dark Colombian. Would you rather have something else? Tea, or a Coke?"
"No, this is fine. Thank you."
Mrs. Hartz sat down and put her elbows on the table. "Well, you can have the job if you want it. He likes you."
"How could you tell ?"
"If he didn't, he would've let me know. Then it would be up to me to tell you to leave your number and pretend we'd call you later. Gene won't tell a lie if he can help it, but he doesn't care if I do."
Margaret sipped her coffee, put it down. "Mrs. Hartz -- "
"Irma."
"Irma, would you take this job if you were me?"
"Sure. I'm here, aren't I? Any dumbbell could do the work; I did it myself until last week. But it doesn't hurt to be smart, no matter what you're doing, unless it bores you out of your mind."
"You're no dumbbell. Why only until last week?"
"We were living in the cottages in back, until the big house was finished. Then Gene wanted me to be the housekeeper, and I couldn't do both. Now, take your time, but tell me if you want it. He'll pay you twice what you're worth. What would you say you're worth?"
"Oh -- I don't know. Ten dollars an hour?"
"Okay, twenty then, and he'll pay you for a full week no matter how much you work, so that's eight hundred."
"Eight hundred a week? That's too much!"
"I know it, but he doesn't care. Deal?"
"Okay."
"All right, now. about transportation. You haven't got a car?"
"No."
"Pongo can take you back and forth until you get some wheels of your own. Don't know where he is now, though. I'll try his cottage." She leaned back to the intercom, pushed a button. "Pongo?"
"Yeah."
"You want to run Miss Morrow back into town?"
There was a perceptible pause. "Okay. Five minutes."
"Mrs. Hartz; I can just as well get a taxi -- "
"It would take half an hour to get out here. Where are you living, in town?"
"No, on the beach, at Indian Rocks."
"Well, that's a forty-dollar fare. Relax, Pongo can do it -- he likes to drive."
Margaret was waiting at the kitchen door when the Lincoln pulled up, looking dustier than ever. Pongo grinned at her around his cigar when she got in. "Make out okay?"
"I got the job."
"All right." The gate opened for them and they wheeled onto the long dusty road. "Surprised when you met the boss?"
She smiled. "Yes."
He glanced at her to see her expression. "He's not a bad guy to work for."
"Have you known him long?" she asked.
"Ten years, on Sea Sprite. She's decommissioned now, over in Tampa. Needs new rigging and some work on the engines. We went all over the world in her. Australia, India, Japan, everywhere. He says he's all done cruising now. Maybe he is."
Pongo let her out at the entrance to the cottages and asked what time she wanted to be picked up in
the morning.
"Mrs. Hartz said she'd like me to start around ten, but please don't come. Honestly. I'm going to rent a car -- you have so much to do already."
"Aw, that's all right," he said, but she could tell he was pleased.
Chapter Eighteen
When she arrived at the house the next morning, she found the gate open. Up by the kitchen door three black women in maids' uniforms were getting into a station wagon, and beyond that was a huge delivery van. Margaret pulled over to make room for the station wagon; the driver, a black man, gave her an expressionless glance as he drove past.
She parked her rented Mazda in the garage; Pongo's Lincoln was not there, but there were two other cars, a black Mercedes and a green BMW station wagon, plus a vast cream-colored motor home.
At the back of the house, two men in blue work clothes were carrying a crate from the moving van through an open doorway. A metallic screech came from somewhere inside, then another. She peered in and saw Anderson, bare-chested as before, surrounded by crates, with a wrecking bar in his hand. He waved when he saw her. "Margaret, I've got my hands full this morning. If you can go on and get started by yourself, I'll be able to talk to you later."
"That'll be fine," she said, and retreated around the corner to the kitchen door.
Irma Hartz covered the telephone mouthpiece with her hand when Margaret went in. "Can't talk now," she said. "Go on in, honey, and if you have any problems, punch number five on the intercom." As Margaret left, she was saying in a steady voice, "I understand all that, Mr. Galloway, but Mr. Anderson prefers to handle his business affairs through an agent."
Margaret put her bag on the desk and sat down. The intercom on the wall had a great many buttons. There was a whisper of air conditioning; she felt the sweat drying on her forearms.
The disk was still in the machine. She rolled paper and carbons into the typewriter and began the first letter. Like the one she had typed yesterday, it was an order for items from a catalog, and so was the next. The third was a personal letter to someone named Justin, full of names she was not sure how to spell. She looked them all up in the rotary file, found only one. The fourth was a business letter about investments, and that was all. She turned the disk over, but got nothing but a hiss.
In the basket behind the dictation machine there was a disorderly stack of papers. Margaret lifted them out and began to sort them. There was a click from the intercom, and Mrs. Hartz's voice said, "Maggie, everything okay?"
"Yes," she answered, startled. "Good," said the voice, and the intercom clicked off.
The file folders in the drawers were neatly labeled, but there did not seem to be files for about a third of the letters she had. She filed what she could, put the others aside, and began to make a list of the file headings. She was typing it when the intercom clicked again and Mrs. Hartz's voice said, "Lunch in fifteen minutes, Maggie. In the kitchen."
"All right, thank you." She looked at her watch; it was a quarter after twelve. She finished the list, combed her hair, and put the finished letters into a folder.
Mrs. Hartz was sitting at the kitchen table; Pongo was doing something at the counter beside the stove. "Sit here, honey," said Mrs. Hartz. "Do you like this kitchen?"
"It's beautiful," said Margaret, and in fact, whether it was because the table was set with napkins and china, or because she had got the job and felt she was not quite a stranger here any longer, the room had a quiet beauty that she had not noticed before. The floor was red Spanish tile with a dull sheen, the walls cream-colored; black hand-hewn beams supported the ceiling. Copper and iron pots hung on either side of the stoves -- two of them, side by side, each bigger than any kitchen range Margaret had ever seen before. Gadgets were lined up at one end of the counter -- a Cuisinart, an espresso machine, two little convection ovens, and others that she did not recognize.
"I always wanted a big kitchen," said Irma Hartz. "It you knew how many meals I've cooked in the back of a trailer."
"Not enough cabinets," said Pongo. He put a little pastry shell filled with something pink at each place, sat down, and picked up his fork.
"Mm, this is great," said Irma with her mouth full. "What's in it?"
Margaret tried a bite; it was shrimp in some kind of sauce, meltingly delicious; the pastry was light as air.
"Shrimp," said Pongo, "truffles, shrimp butter." He swallowed a mouthful and looked meditative. "Could use more tarragon."
Gene Anderson came in quietly and sat down at the end of the table. He was wearing a short-sleeved white cotton shirt and white trousers. The plate and silverware in front of him looked of ordinary size until Margaret compared them with the others, and then she saw that they were a third again as large; the heavy silver knife was almost a foot long.
Pongo, who had got up when Anderson came in, put down a much bigger pastry in front of him. He poured wine from a chilled bottle and slipped away again; in a moment Margaret heard the sizzle of meat on the grill.
Anderson had already finished half his pastry. "Maggie, did you have any problems?" He pointed with his fork to the folder beside her on the table.
"Yes, a few. There's one letter that has names in it I'm not sure how to spell. I typed it anyhow, and I thought you could look it over -- "
"Okay, let's do that right after lunch."
Pongo was up again, turning the meat on the grill, then collecting their plates. He put fresh ones down, went to the oven and came back with a steaming platter. "Red snapper," he said. "Irma, you want to serve it?"
The fish, of a kind unfamiliar to Margaret, had a delicate flavor of garlic and thyme. "Mr. Richards, where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Here and there," said Pongo. "Mostly there," He was up again, bringing an enormous steak from the grill.
"He's a sea cook," said Irma. "Call him Pongo, or he'll think you're mad at him."
"Wait till you see what he can do when he makes an effort," said Anderson. "Who'd like some of this steak?"
No one replied; Anderson put the steak on his plate and proceeded to cut it up and eat it. Margaret tried not to watch him, but she could not help being fascinated by the unhurried way he made the food disappear. He forked up a bleeding chunk, his strong jaws chewed it, and he was ready for another. When the steak was gone, he took a helping of fish and ate that.
"Sit still, Pongo, I'll bring the dessert," said Irma. She took their plates, brought a cool green mousse, and served coffee. Anderson's mousse was the same size as the others; he ate it in two bites and said," Let's see that letter, Maggie."
She brought it to him and handed him a pencil from the counter; it looked like a dance-card pencil in his fingers. "This is all right," he said, "this is wrong, and this one." He crossed out two names and corrected them.
A bell sounded; Irma swiveled her chair to the intercom panel, glanced at the screen. "Expecting anybody?" she said to the room. No one replied.
"Yes, can I help you?" she said to the microphone. In the screen, Margaret could see a man in the open window of a car. A voice said, "Ma'am, I'm J. A. Coburn, of Smith and Barrows, here to see Mr. Anderson."
"Mr. Anderson doesn't see anybody without an appointment."
"Well, ma'am, I did write asking for an appointment, but unfortunately I didn't get an answer, so I just figured -- "
"I'm sorry your letter wasn't answered. If you'll just go home and be patient, we'll take care of that as soon as we can." She turned off the microphone.
"Was there anything from him in that stack?" she asked Margaret.
"No."
"This whole county is full of people that would just love to sell Gene something. We try to stay out of sight, but you can't hide a place like this. People will talk. There's the builder and all the contractors, the cleaning women, the lawyers -- "
"Irma, try to keep that damn gate closed, too, will you?" Anderson's hand was clenched around his napkin. "I know it's hard, when people are going in and out, but I hate to think somebody could just walk in here."
"Yes, sir," said Irma, in a tone nicely balanced between respect and irony.
Anderson got up. "See you all later." He walked out.
Pongo asked, "More coffee?"
Margaret took the misspelled letter back to her office and retyped it. When she was finished, she put the new copy in the folder with the other letters and carried it back to the kitchen. Irma was at the table as usual; Pongo was banging pots in the sink.