by Carol
"He’s not lucky,” said John. "He’s unlucky, or he wouldn’t have done that. I feel the same way sometimes. Really, I do. Could I go up and talk to him?” John had learned which was the right card to show people when he wanted them to know who he was. He handed the policeman his card. "Please, may I go up and talk to him?”
The policeman looked at the card, then at John, then at the card again, then at the crowd, then up in the air to the ledge.
"F’Chrissake,” he said, "I thought you looked sincere! You’re the head of a store. Nice headline ... Sun Store Prez keeps little bastard from the big leap. Go on. Go on up. Nice work.”
John was led through a corridor to a hotel room. The room was so full of people that he felt frightened. But a TV newscaster recognized him. "And now,” said the newscaster in the same tremulous, excited voice he used to talk about laxatives, when he did voice-overs for commercials, "here comes John Sun, the most eligible bachelor in America, and the most dedicated human being these two eyes have looked upon. John ...” he turned and faced John Sun, who was being hustled through the crowd ... "what message do you have for Angel Garcia?”
"I don’t have any message,” said John. "I want to make him listen to me.”
He was allowed to go to the window and stick his head out. Representatives from the Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, Islam, and Ethical Culture blocs were all trying to call encouraging words to Angel Garcia. "Go away,” said John. "You frighten him.” Before they could do anything, John had gone out on the ledge, which meant having to balance backwards, holding by his fingertips to the tiny stone overhang of the window.
"Angel,” called John, as cameras and sound machines recorded the scene and the crowd beneath was yelling, “Jump!”
"Angel, listen to me. Listen. I know how you feel. Usually I feel the same way. But it’s different for me. Fm very rich and you are poor. That makes a big difference. But you don’t have to worry any more. If you come in, I’ll promise to get you a good job at my company, and you won’t have anything to worry about.”
Angel Garcia made no answer.
"Please listen,” yelled John. The TV people were beginning to talk about his golden hair in the breeze and the sheer humanity of the man, not to mention the sheer drop, and what a great—really fantastic-moment this was in history when a rich, beautiful Anglo-Saxon could take the time off from his important work to save the life of a little man of Hispanic origin.
"Please . . .” yelled John. Without thinking about it, he stretched out his hand and inched forward.
Angel Garcia, who was quite mad and unable to hear anything except certain inner voices, saw a representation of the Christ approaching. In full fear and in the sickness unto death, he leaned forward to meet his Lord, and fell to the sidewalk. A Mrs. Peter Succhi, of Teaneck, New Jersey, suffered a broken arm because she hadn’t moved fast enough. Most of the sidewalk crowd were like trained players in a game; they deftly avoided the descendant human missile.
. . . “That was also the day I dropped my eyeglass,” said Dix, fidgeting. The Teacher sighed.
“And also,” he pointed out, “the day in Earth-1853 that Sir David Brewster announced to the members of the British Association that he had discovered an object of so incredible a nature that it could not be explained. It was a ‘crystal lens found in the treasure-house at Nineveh.’ Incredible indeed. You lose an eyeglass, and let it turn up among your dolls. I believe it is in the British Museum at the moment, and quite forgotten. Not really as clumsy as your constant droppings of food—such as the Worcester Times reported in May of 1881, when thousands of periwinkles fell from the sky—but much more dangerous. A lens is something personal. You must really remember. . . .”
Dix folded his arms and waited for the rest of the lecture with half-closed eyes.
Little Brother was tuned in on the conversation. He was upset about Dix always getting the blame for things. He prodded the layers of atmosphere near the project (causing seismographs to panic) but then tried something else . . .
If too many things were dropping into the project, why not take some away? With great care, Little Brother removed a two-year-old baby from a stroller in front of a German supermarket. Then a very old man digging in his garden in Chirm, and a good many documents from their “safety” boxes in various vaults. He fooled around a little with the New York Stock Exchange, but stopped himself just in time. The baby and the old man were never heard of again, but Little Brother was doing his simple best to restore the “balance of nature,” one of Dix’s silly physical rules.
“The whole rotten mess is getting on my nerves,” said Wanger. He rubbed his knuckle against his nose and glared at Branch. "I don't know about you, but Im sick of all this sweetness crap. Why doesn't somebody kidnap him? Why can't he get a government position ... maybe something nice and cheery in the Cabinet . . . why can't the Republicans run him for President?”
“How do you know he's a Republican?” asked Branch.
Wanger was too smart to let himself get dragged into a net like that. Branch was such a low, conniving rat that he couldn't understand natural, normal processes like bugging; luckily, Wanger knew how to keep his wits about him.
They were having lunch in the hotel dining room on the day John and Lydia were at the nursing home. Both had formed a temporary and retractable state of trust: they openly ordered martinis. So long as each had four, same as the other fellow, there was no danger of security leaks.
“Mind you, it isn't as if I don't appreciate his good qualities,” said Branch. “You've got to admit that everybody likes him. He's the best thing that ever happened to us, public relations-wise. Half the time he doesn't even sound real. Only time I ever heard him sound like a regular human being is when he was fooling around with my kids. At my house, that time ...” he peered at Wanger, hoping Wanger knew the difference between having a big man at a party and having a big man visit a lovely home in Larchhaven, getting a firsthand look at a personal life full of significant values.
‘How's the wife and kids?” mumbled Wanger. He hated children.
“Oh, just fine. My wife wants to take the kids abroad, so they can soak up some real culture, not just this local stuff. I told her there's no point talking about it now because we still don't know when the
London store will be ready, and naturally all the officers and directors will have to go over when...”
Wanger and Branch eyed each other. It was like a religious ritual. The first meeting of eyes lasted only a second; each glanced back at his drink. Then another meeting of eyes—three or four seconds. Back to the drinks. Then a longer look.
“Do you think?” said Wanger and stopped. He’d be damned if he was going to say it first.
“Well...” said Branch.
“It couldn’t come from us. I mean, the minute one of us said he ought to head the London operation he’d think something was up. You know, just between you and me and the lamppost”—Branch looked around, then realized Wanger was being symbolic— “... I don’t think the bastard trusts me!”
Branch shook his head in sympathy. “I’ve had that same feeling once or twice myself,” he admitted.
“How can a big corporation survive if there is a lack of confidence in the men who guide its destiny? Destiny, that is. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the New York operation would be much better off—in the last analysis, that is—if we got back to the old footing. You take all this sweetness and light, it can only add up to trouble. Sincerity!”
“Innocence!” laughed Branch.
“Be kind to the public! Look, it may be okay on the surface, I admit the stock’s going up and the figures are good so far this year, but it’s no way to run a railroad.”
“No way at all to run a railroad,” said Branch. He frowned and fingered the stem of his martini glass. “How can we work it?”
They were silent for a while. Each was visualizing himself as chairman of the board of the New York store. Branch saw his children in caps and gowns,
making commencement speeches that would be picked up by the media ... “everything we’ve done is because of our father and mother” ... “my father is in the great tradition of the American dream. He was a—” well, no, that could be checked out, they couldn't say poor-rich boy, who in spite of having to ride to school every morning and live in luxury, surmounted these disadvantages to become what he is today, the inspiration of every advantaged minority child in this grand country ..." He saw himself on a weekly TV show, giving words of advice to every decently-brought-up kid ... “Mrs. Branch and I have often had our little disagreements, yes, we have—but because of our meaningful relationship and the example we have tried to set for one and all ...'' He saw himself at the White House ... “now, Ted, Harry, Howie, Jack, Louis, Everett, Whatever, I can speak only as a man who has made it in a world of commerce. But that world of commerce is a microcosm, and so I feel it does not behoove" . . . no, probably “unbehoove me to apply the simple set of rules I live by to the situations that arise in a gradually shrinking world. We are all closer together, and—" Tears sprang to Branch's eyes. Damn it, he'd be terrific at it.
Wanger's vision was of a beneficent kingdom (the Constitution was tottering now; everyone needed a kindly despot) where closed-circuit television would work two ways in every home; yes, every home in America would have at least three of these sets; no move would be made that could not be approved or, what was more likely, disapproved by Augustus I. He would rule with an iron hand in an iron glove: send all the Commies and rebels back to where they came from, censor all books and entertainment and art-hell, what did anybody need with art? That would be a popular take-away, and would save millions that were wasted now on museums and crap like that. He would have a staff of loyal Protectors of the Person, and he would establish Enlightened Polygamy and Reasonable Worship of Idols. He felt a surge of strength ... it did a man good to get out of himself and devote his God-given brain to humanity. This was what he was headed for, once they got that psalm-singing nut out of the country.
“Easy way,” Wanger said finally. “Easy way is the best way. Just have a meeting. Tell him we cant trust anybody else with a project that big. Ifs his Christian American duty to go over there and show the Limies how to behave. We can talk him into it.”
Branch shook his head. He tossed off the last of his drink. “Nope. He wouldn’t listen to us. We have to kind of bring it up real sudden, like, and everybody vote. No speeches. Just tell him what he has to do. Only way to get to him. He’s like a kid, you know, in some ways. He wants people to tell him what to do. But I guess it better be other people, not us.”
“Yeah, okay, but we are agreed? Sun goes to London to be there for the opening of the new store.” “Agreed.” Branch signaled for the check and made up his mind that the first official act of his chairmanship would be to fire Wanger.
Wanger was wondering how he could frame Branch for embezzlement. I shouldn’t be too hard; he’d put a bug in Branch’s office ... and without John Sun around it would be a far better world.
Their judgment was confirmed when the news broadcasts showed John on the ledge with Angel Garcia. “Good God—he’s helping some nobody, some nobody who’s dead, anyway. He probably wasn’t even a customer of the Sun stores! What kind of public relations is that? We can’t afford to have a nut like that around the premises, endangering people’s fives like that.”
Lydia and Alice Bloover took John over to the television studio. Wanger managed to arrive a half hour earlier so he could “turn on the charm,” which meant asking each receptionist and secretary "What's your name? How do you spell that?” He had once used the phrase about his charm in John’s presence, and John had said, “Like turning on the water?” Martin Branch had snickered as John went on: “But if you don’t have any water, you can’t turn it on.”
“I’ll have to give him credit, he’s a damn devious bastard,” Wanger had mumbled. He was taking no chances. Within fifteen minutes he had managed to build up an incredible amount of hostility and surliness among the network employees of Channel 18.
“Mr. Wanger is in makeup now,” said a young woman when John arrived. “You can go in when he’s . . .” she looked at John more carefully. “Oh. You have your makeup on.”
The show was called “Rickie Ronson Raps.” Rickie Ronson, like most hosts of television talk shows, was an Instant Mix. His private life had been so carelessly assembled by Dix that photographs of him with his wife and two amorphous babies looked faked; and his own image kept fading on the screens of the nation as he talked to singers, actors, authors, comics: anyone who had something to sell, about nothing at all. Since the shows were packaged and played at different times in different cities, the promotion of the guests’ wares often led to confusion. “We’re looking forward to next week as the greatest Christmas show in years” might be said in the middle of summer, but no one really paid much attention. Sometimes Dix had to use his tranquilizer darts, which acted on people much the same as they did on wild animals. A tiger has no way of knowing that a sudden penetration of his body is for his own good, that he is being captured to be let loose in a nicer area; no more did television viewers know that they were subject to a less traumatic stoppage of mental and physical capacities. They tended to think of these spells as “commercials,” the times when they stared transfixed at the TV screen with all thought and reason and movement suspended.
Rickie Ronson found John in a dressing room.
"Hello,” said John.
“Hi, there, you,” said Rickie Ronson. He was a small man, with wavy white hair, pink face makeup, and high heels. “I’m crazy about the Sun store. My wife buys everything there. You’re doing a really terrific job. Nelson Rockefeller told me last week that. . .”
“Nelson Rockefeller?” said John.
Ronson stared for a moment, then guffawed. “Got me,” he said, and patted John’s shoulder. “Look, I suppose you’ve been told what to do . .. just be yourself, be natural, and the whole point is the new London store and why you’re going over. Don’t try to sell. I mean, hey, I can’t tell you anything about personal promotion, you’re The Man; but play it like for real, you know? Just be casual.”
“Casual,” said John.
“I knew you’d get it. Right on! I mean, the truth is, the hardest thing in the world is this natural bit you’re so good at. Here we are, we work like dogs .. .”
“Like dogs?” said John. “A dog doesn't work, unless he pulls a sled. A dog has a nice, easy life if he lives with good people ana they take care of him. He only works when he’s digging up a bone or something like that. He is taken care of and he leads a very nice life. I wish I had a dog.”
Augustus Wanger walked by at that moment. He pushed Ronson’s elbow. “See what I mean,” he muttered. “Watch out for him. Watch out for old Simple here. He’ll make a moron out of you. Lay off anything about dogs.”
“Now, I’ll signal you when it’s time for a commercial break,” said Ronson, ignoring Wanger. He had enough Wangers on his own staff. “I’ll look at any one of you when I want you to talk, but don’t interrupt when I’m saying anything. I’ll guide the thing. Not to worry, you’ll all come off fine. How about a sandwich? Small drink? Everybody got makeup on now?”
“I don’t have any makeup on,” said John. “Lydia does, though, and so does Alice.”
Ronson stared at him for a moment and then broke into a false hearty laugh.
“How about a discount at that London store?” he asked. “My wife and I love London. It’s so damn civilized. You don’t see all the wheeling and dealing that’s around in New York. I’d love to live there—soon as I get it all together.”
“I’m going to live in London for three months,” said John. “I’m going to open a store there and live in Knightsbridge. Will I be able to see myself on television?”
“Oh, sure, we’ll let you know when the show is on. This is just a taping,” said Ronson’s assistant, a formidable woman with a pale, tired face. “And you can
watch yourself on the monitor while we rap.”
“Oh, good,” said John. “I have to go to the bathroom now.”
The formidable tired woman showed him where to go, and watched him walk off. “Think he’ll be able to find his way out?” she asked, sighing a little.
Wanger laughed. “He could find his way out of a dungeon, a dungeon in the wilds of—of Brooklyn! I think I will have a small drinkie before we go on. It clears my throat.” He poured four fingers of bourbon into a paper cup. The formidable woman watched him and mumbled something. Then the semicircle of chairs was spotlighted and Rickie Ronson took his place behind a block mounted on an invisible block. His chair was five inches higher than the guests’ chairs, and he never stood up to greet anyone.
“How do those cameras work,” asked John, as he was shown to the chair on Ronson’s right. “Why are there so many? Why is it so bright? Why do I have to wear this thing around my neck?”
Ronson fiddled with some papers on his desk. “That’s right... loosen up... talk... now ...”
For most of the program, everyone kept talking at once. During the first lull John looked up into the bright lights, touching the microphone that was his necklace. He had thought of something no one else appeared to have considered in all the conversation about going to another country and leaving the familiar security of his apartment.
“Who is going to take care of me?” he asked clearly, on mike, but before the question was really out everyone began talking at once all over again.
Part II
Anthea Evan lived in a suburb half an hour away by train from London. Her house was a battered one, standing by itself with an old row of brick cottages many yards behind it. There was a little garden in front and a vegetable patch in back; there was also an ancient shed containing old implements, bicycle parts, pools of permanently stagnant water and mysterious smells. There was a front door and a back door, but since the world had long ago ceased to put a house between a tradesman's entrance and that of a gentleman the doors were used at anyone's convenience.