“It was a pleasure for me,” he said. “Feel free to come back whenever you like.”
She blinked at him. “Can I?”
He hadn’t meant it literally, but he said now, and meant it, “I want you to come back.” And then, “I don’t have many people to talk to, either.”
“Thank you,” she said, and then, as she went out into the winter noon, “That makes three of us, doesn’t it…?”
He did not know how many hours he would have before Newton arrived; but he knew he would have to act quickly if he were going to be ready in time. He felt terribly excited and nervous, and while he was dressing he kept muttering, “It can’t be Massachusetts, it has to be Mars. It has to be Mars….” Did he want it to be Mars?
When he was dressed he put on his overcoat and left the house for the laboratory—a five-minute walk. It was snowing outside now, and the coldness took his attention, for a moment, off the ideas whirling in his mind, the riddle that he was about to solve once and for all, if he could set up the apparatus properly, and set it up in time.
Three of his assistants were in the lab, and he spoke to them gruffly, refusing to answer their comments on the weather. He could feel their curiosity when he began dismantling the small apparatus in the metals lab—the device they used for X-ray stress and analysis—but he pretended not to notice the raised eyebrows. It did not take long; he merely had to remove the bolts that held the camera and the lightweight cathode ray generator to their frames. He was able to carry them easily enough by himself. He made certain the camera was loaded—loaded with W. E. Corporation high speed X-ray film—and then he left, carrying the camera in one hand, the cathode ray outfit in the other. Before closing the door he said to the other men, “Look, why don’t you three take the afternoon off? Okay?”
They looked a bit dazed, but one of them said, “Okay, sure, Doctor Bryce,” and looked at the others.
“Fine.” He shut the door and left.
Next to the imitation fireplace in Bryce’s living room was an air-conditioning vent, now unused. After twenty minutes of work, and some swearing, he managed to install the camera behind its grill-work, with the shutter wide open. Fortunately the W.E. film was, like so many of Newton’s patents, a vast technical improvement over its predecessors; it was totally unaffected by visible light. Only the X-rays could expose it.
The tube in the generator was also a W. E. Corporation device; it worked like a strobe light, giving one instant, concentrated flash of X-rays—extremely useful for high-speed vibration studies. It was even more useful, perhaps, for what Bryce now had in mind. He installed it in the bread drawer in his kitchen, aiming it, through the wall, toward the open-lensed camera. Then he brought the electric cord from the front of the drawer and plugged it into the appliance socket over the sink. He left the drawer partly open so that he could reach his hand in and flip the switch on the side of the little transformer that supplied power to the tube.
He went back into the living room and carefully placed his most comfortable chair directly between the camera and the cathode ray tube. Then he sat down, in another chair, to wait for Thomas Jerome Newton.
4
The wait was a long one. Bryce became hungry; he tried to eat a sandwich, but could not finish it. He paced the floor, picked up his detective novel again, could not concentrate on the reading. Every few minutes he would go into the kitchen and check the position of the cathode ray tube in the bread drawer. Once, deciding on impulse to make certain the instrument was working properly, he flicked the switch to “on,” waited for it to heat up, and then pressed the button that made the invisible flash—the flash that would go through the wall, through the chair, through the camera lens, and expose the film in its holder at the back of the camera. And, right after pressing the button, he cursed himself silently and viciously; by fooling around stupidly, he had exposed the film.
It took him twenty minutes to remove the grate from the air duct again and to get the camera out. Then he had to remove the film—it had the brownish color now that meant it had been exposed properly—and replaced it with another sheet from the camera’s magazine. Then, in a sweat for fear that Newton might knock on the door at any moment, he re-installed the camera in the duct, checked the lens, shakily but carefully pointed the camera toward the chair, and replaced the grill. He made sure the lens was lined up with a hole in the grill-work, so that no metal would interfere.
He had his sleeves rolled up and was washing his hands when the knock came at the front door. He forced himself to walk slowly to it, still carrying a towel in his hands, and opened the door.
Standing in the snow was T. J. Newton, wearing sunglasses and a light jacket. He was smiling slightly, almost ironically it seemed, and, unlike Betty Jo, he did not appear to be at all cold. Mars, Bryce thought, letting him in, Mars is a cold planet.
“Good afternoon,” Newton said. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”
Bryce tried to keep his voice steady, and was surprised at himself for being able to do so. “Not at all. I wasn’t doing anything. Won’t you sit down?” He made a gesture toward the chair by the air duct. He thought, as he did this, of Damocles, of the throne beneath the sword.
“No.” Newton said. “No, thank you. I’ve been sitting all morning.” He removed his jacket and placed it on the back of the chair. He was wearing, as always a short-sleeved shirt. The way the sleeves stood out at the sides made his arms look like pipestems.
“Let me fix you a drink.” If he had a drink he might sit down.
“No thank you. I’m… on the wagon right now.” Newton walked over to the side wall and examined Bryce’s picture. He stood for a moment, silently, while Bryce seated himself. Then he said, “A fine painting, Doctor Bryce. It’s a Brueghel, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Of course it was a Brueghel. Anybody would know it was a Brueghel. Why didn’t Newton sit down? Bryce began cracking his knuckles, and then stopped. Newton absently brushed some drops of melted snow from his hair. Had he been any taller the gesture would have scraped his knuckles on the ceiling.
“What is it called?” Newton said. “The painting.”
Newton should know that; the picture was famous enough.
“It’s called The Fall of Icarus. That’s Icarus in the water.”
Newton continued looking at it. “It’s very fine,” he said. “And the landscape is much like ours is. The mountains, snow, and the water.” He turned, looking now at Bryce. “But of course, in the picture, someone is ploughing a field and the sun is lower. It must be later in the day…”
Annoyed, still nervous, Bryce’s voice was snappish. “Why not earlier?” he said.
Newton’s smile was very strange. His eyes seemed focused on something distant. “It couldn’t very well have been in the morning, could it?”
Bryce did not answer. But Newton was right, of course. The sun was at noon when Icarus fell. He must have fallen a long way. In the picture, the sun was halfway below the horizon, and Icarus, leg and knee flailing above the water—the water in which he was about to drown, unnoticed, for his foolhardiness—was shown at the moment after impact. He must have been falling since noon.
Newton interrupted this speculation. “Betty Jo told me that you’re willing to go to Chicago with me.”
“Yes. But tell me, why are you going to Chicago?”
Newton made a gesture that seemed very strange for him—he shrugged his shoulders and held his palms outward. He must have picked that up from Brinnarde. Then he said, “Oh, I need more chemists. I thought it would be a good way to hire them.”
“And me?”
“You’re a chemist. Or a chemical engineer, rather.”
Bryce hesitated before he spoke. What he was going to say would be rude, but Newton seemed not to mind candor. “You have a lot of personnel men, Mr. Newton,” he said. Then he forced a laugh. “I had to fight my way through an army of them before I was able to meet you.”
“Yes,” Newton said. He turned and gl
anced again at the picture momentarily, and then he said, “Perhaps what I really want is a… vacation. A visit to a new place.”
“You’ve never been to Chicago before?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m something of a recluse in this world.”
Bryce almost blushed at the remark. He turned toward the artificial fire and said, “Chicago at Christmas time is not the best place in the world for a vacation.”
“I don’t really object to the cold weather,” Newton said. “Do you?”
Bryce laughed nervously. “I’m not as immune to it as you seem to be. But I can stand it.”
“Good.” He went over to the chair, picked up his jacket and began putting it on. “I’m glad you’ll be going with me.”
Seeing the other man—or was he a man?—preparing to leave, Bryce became panicky. He might never have another chance. “Just a minute,” he said lamely, “I’m going to… to fix myself a drink.”
Newton said nothing. Bryce left the room and walked into the kitchen. Going through the door he turned to see if Newton might still be standing behind the chair. His heart sank: Newton had walked back over to the picture, was standing in front of it again, gazing gravely. He was half bent over, since his head was at least a foot higher than the picture itself.
Bryce poured himself a double Scotch and filled the glass with tap water. He did not like ice in his drinks. He tossed off a swallow of it, standing by the sink, silently cursing the bad luck that had made Newton decide to stand.
Then, when he walked back into the living room, he saw that Newton was seated.
His head was turned, so that he could look at Bryce. “I suppose I’d better stay,” he said. “We should discuss our plans.”
“Sure,” Bryce said. “I guess we should.” He stood as if frozen for a moment and then he said, hastily, “I… I forgot to get ice. For my drink. Excuse me.” He went back into the kitchen.
His hand shook as he reached inside the bread drawer and turned on the switch. While the thing was warming up he went to the refrigerator and took ice from the basket. For one of the few times in his life he was grateful for improved technology; thank God it was no longer necessary to fight with ice jammed into stuck trays. He put two cubes in his drink, splashing some of it on his shirt front. Then he went back to the bread drawer, took a deep breath, and pressed the button.
There was an almost imperceptible, momentary hum, and then silence.
He turned the switch off and went back into the living room. Newton was still in the chair, staring now at the fire. For a while Bryce could not take his eyes from the air duct, behind which the camera was sitting, its film now exposed.
He shook his head, trying to get the feeling of anxiety out of it. It would be ridiculous to betray himself now that the thing was done. And, he realized, he felt like a traitor—a man who has just betrayed a friend.
Newton said, “I suppose we’ll fly.”
He couldn’t help it. “Like Icarus?” he said, wryly.
Newton laughed. “More like Daedalus, I hope. I wouldn’t relish drowning.”
It was Bryce’s turn now to stand. He did not want to sit and be forced to face Newton. “In your plane?” he said.
“Yes. I thought we would go Christmas morning. That is, if Brinnarde can arrange for space at the airport in Chicago then. I suspect there’ll be a rush.”
Bryce was finishing his drink—far more quickly than usual, for him. “Not necessarily on Christmas itself,” he said. “It’s sort of in between the rushed times.” Then he said, not knowing exactly why he should ask it, “Will Betty Jo be going along?”
Newton hesitated. “No,” he said. “Only the two of us.”
He felt a little irrational—as he had felt that other day when the two of them had drunk gin and talked, by the lake. “Won’t she miss you?” he asked. It was, of course, none of his business.
“Probably.” Newton did not seem offended by the question. “I imagine I’ll miss her as well, Doctor Bryce. But she’s not going.” He looked at the fire a moment longer, in silence. “Can you be ready to leave on Christmas morning at eight o’clock? I’ll have Brinnarde pick you up—at the house, if you’d like.”
“Fine.” Head back, he tossed off the rest of the Scotch. “How long will we be staying?”
“At least two or three days.” Newton stood up, began putting on his jacket again. Bryce felt a wave of relief; he had begun to feel as if he could not contain himself anymore. The film…
“I suppose you’ll need a few clean shirts,” Newton was saying. “I’ll take care of the expenses.”
“Why not?” Bryce laughed a little nervously. “You’re a millionaire.”
“Exactly.” Newton said, zipping up his jacket. Bryce was still seated and, looking up, he saw how Newton, suntanned and skinny, towered over him like a statue. “Exactly. I’m a millionaire.”
Then he left, stooping under the door frame, and walked lightly out into the snow….
His fingers shaking with excitement, and his mind ashamed of the fingers for being so excited, Bryce got the air-duct grill off, took out the camera, set it on the couch, and unloaded it. Then he put on his overcoat, put the film carefully in his pocket, and headed through the snow, which was now quite thick on the ground, for the lab. It was all he could do to keep from running.
The lab was empty—thank God he had chased his assistants out earlier! He headed straight for the developing and projection room. He did not stop to turn on the heaters, although the lab had become very cold. He left his overcoat on.
When he took the negative from the gaseous development bin his hands were shaking so much that it was almost impossible for him to get the film into the machine. But he managed it.
Then, when he turned the switch on the projector, and looked at the screen on the far wall, his hands stopped trembling and the breath caught in his throat. He stared at it for a full minute. Then, abruptly, he turned and walked from the projection room into the lab itself—the huge, long room empty now, and very cold. He was whistling through his teeth, and for some reason the tune was, If you knew Susie, like I know Susie…
Then, alone in the lab, he began laughing aloud, but softly. “Yes,” he said, and the word bounced back at him from the distant wall at the end of the room, bounced back somewhat hollowly, over the test tube racks and Bunsen burners, glassware and crucibles and kilns and testing machines. “Yes,” he said, “Yes sir, Rumplestiltskin.”
Before he withdrew the film from the projector he stared again at the image on the wall—the image, framed by the faint outline of an armchair, of an impossible bone structure in an impossible body—no sternum, no coccyx, no floating ribs, cartilaginous cervical vertebrae, tiny, pointed scapulae, fused second and third ribs. My God, he thought, my God. Venus. Uranus, Jupiter, Neptune, or Mars. My God!
And he saw, down in the corner of the film, the small, hardly noticeable image of the words, W. E. Corp. And their meaning, known to him since he had first inquired about the source of that color film, more than a year before, came back to him with a frightening series of implications: World Enterprises Corporation.
5
They talked very little on the plane. Bryce attempted to read some pamphlets on metallurgical research, but he would find himself fidgeting, his mind wandering. Every now and then he would glance across the narrow lounge to where Newton was sitting, serene, a glass of water in one hand, a book in the other. The book was The Collected Poetry of Wallace Stevens. Newton’s face was placid; he seemed absorbed. The walls of the lounge were decorated with large colored photographs of water birds—cranes, flamingoes, herons, ducks. The other time he had been aboard the plane, on his first trip to the project site, Bryce had admired the pictures for the taste that had put them there; now they made him feel uncomfortable, seemed almost sinister. Newton sipped his water, turned pages, smiled once or twice toward Bryce, but said nothing. Through a small window behind Newton, Bryce could see a rectangle of dirty gray sky.
A snub-nosed truck towed the plane from the field. The graceful little jet seemed to follow the truck sullenly, as if bitter at the ignominy of being on the ground. Someone shouted, “Merry Christmas!” at someone else, and Bryce realized with a start that the day was, indeed, Christmas. Newton passed him, preoccupied, and he began to follow, walking slowly and with care over the plateaux and craters of ice, like dirty gray stone beneath his feet, with a surface like the surface of the moon.
The terminal building was hot, sweaty, noisy, crowded. In the center of the waiting room, stood a gigantic, revolving Christmas tree, made of plastic, covered with plastic snow, plastic icicles, and evil, winking lights. White Christmas, sung by an invisible, saccharine choir, with bells and electronic organ, rose, at intervals, above the din of the crowd: “I’m dream–ing of a white Chrisss–mass…” That fine old yuletide song. From hidden ducts somewhere was wafted the scent of pine—or of pine oil, like the kind used in public washrooms. Shrill women in furs stood in groups; men walked purposely through the room, carrying briefcases, packages, cameras. A drunk was slumped in an imitation leather armchair, his face blotchy. A child, near Bryce, said to another child, with great intensity, “And you’re one, too.” Bryce did not catch the reply. “May your day be merry and bright, and may all your Chrisss–massss–esss be whiiite!”
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