"Oh, Howard! Why didn't you let them?"
"I was willing enough. But one of the carriers was the little Fitzmartin, the electrostat man—his real name's Mudd, by the way—and he wasn't quite up to holding his half of my two hundred and some pounds. So the first thing I knew he was on the floor and I was sitting on top of him."
She laughed. "I'd like to have seen that!"
He laughed, too, though he didn't feel like laughing. He felt like hell. It was a very special kind of hell, new in his experience. "It looks as though I were cut out for politics. Jeepers, when I think of the snooty ignoramus I used to be! This may be the last time I'll wear the old suit." He patted the maple-leaf insignia on his breastplate affectionately. "I'm afraid my father won't approve of my program; I can just hear his remarks about people who are traitors to their class. But that can't be helped."
"Are you riding Paul Jones down?"
"Yes. My slat's just about mended, though I'm still wearing enough adhesive to stop a bolt from a Remington high-power. I don't mind it, but I hate to think of the day it'll have to be pulled off." He thought, come on, Van Slyck, you're only making it harder for yourself, standing here and gassing. Get it over with.
"You could go in one of the hopper vehicles, I should think."
"Thanks, but until I learn to run one myself I'm not risking my neck with any young spriggins who thinks he can drive just because he's seen it done." He added, "It was fun, wasn't it?"
"It certainly was."
It was time to go, now. He opened his mouth to say good-by. But she asked: "Do you expect to get down to New York?"
"Oh, certainly. I'll be there often, politicking."
"Will you come to see me?"
"Why, uh, yes, I suppose so."
"You don't have to if you don't want to."
"Oh, I want to all right. I want to worse than a fish wants water. But . . . you know . . . if you and Monsieur Lediacre . . . you mightn't want me—"
She looked puzzled, then burst out laughing. "Howard, you idiot! Ètienne's got a wife and four children in France, whom he's devoted to. Every chance he has he gets me off and tells me about them. Ètienne's a dear fellow, and he'd give you his shirt. But he bores me so with his darling little Josette, and his wonderful little Réné; such an intelligent child, Mamzelle, a prodigy! It was especially bad those last few weeks in camp; all the time I was wishing you'd butt in and interrupt his rhapsodies, and you never did."
"Well, I . . . I . . . I never."
"Were you really going to make it good-by forever on that account? I could never have looked at a maple leaf in the fall again without thinking of you."
"Well, I . . . in that case, of course I'll come. I was planning to be down in a couple of weeks; that's . . . To hell with that! Where can I get a passage on this boat of yours? Never mind, there's a ticket agency right here in the hotel. I hope they ship horses; they'll ship my horse if I have to smuggle him aboard in my duffel bag. I see I've got some lost time to make up for. You once remarked, Sally, that you thought I had brains. Well, I admit I'm not a great genius like your Uncle Homer. But I think I have sense enough not to make the same mistake twice, thank God! What's more, I think I see how we can have a perfect revenge on our friend Lediacre."
"What do you mean, Howard? The poor man can't help—"
"No. He's a nice chap and all that. But some day"—he smiled grimly—"I shall take the greatest pleasure in getting him in a corner and feeding him a dose of his own identical medicine!"
THE END
THE STOLEN DORMOUSE
1
The riot started during the Los Angeles Radio Exposition, in the third week of February, 2236. The foresighted managers of the Exposition had put the Crosley and Stromberg exhibits as far apart as possible. But they could not prevent the members of these companies from meeting occasionally.
Thus, on the day in question, His Integrity, Billiam Bickham-Smith, chairman of Stromberg, had passed into the recesses of the Stromberg booth, leaving a froth of lesser nobility and whitecollars in his wake, when a couple of Crosley whitecollars dropped an injudicious remark within hearing.
A Stromberg whitecollar said to one of these stiffly: "Did I hear you say our prefab houses leaked, sir?"
"You did, sir," replied one of the Crosleys evenly.
"Are you picking a fight with me, sir?" The Stromberg fingered his duelling stick.
"I am not. I am merely stating a fact, sir."
"Slandering our product is the same as picking a fight, sir."
"When I state a fact I state a fact, sir. Good day." The Crosley turned his back.
The Stromberg's stick hissed through the air and whacked the Crosley's skull. The Crosley's skull gave forth a muffled clang, whereupon the Stromberg knew that his enemy wore a steel cap disguised by a wig.
Now, no member of the nobility would have hit an enemy from behind. But the Stromberg was a mere low-born whitecollar, which somewhat excused his action in the eyes of his contemporaries.
The Crosley who had been hit, shrieked "Foul!" and broke his assailant's nose with a neat backhand. Strombergs boiled out of the exhibit, pulling on padded gloves and duelling goggles.
At that instant, Horace Crosley Juniper-Hallett passed on his way to the Crosley booth to take up his outhanding for the day. His job was to pass out catalogues, printed in bright colors on slick paper, describing the Crosley exhibits, and also the many commodities other than radios, such as automobiles and microscopes, manufactured by this "radio" company. Exhibit-goers, unable to resist the lure of something for nothing, would collect up to twenty pounds of these brochures in the course of their visit, and, like as not, drop them in a heap beside the gate on their way out. Horace Juniper-Hallett himself was of medium height and slim—skinny, if you want the brutal truth. His complexion was fair and his hair pale blond. He had twice given up trying to grow a mustache; after a month of trying, nobody could see the results of his cultivation except himself.
As he was barely twenty-two, and not too mature for his age, his behavior patterns had not yet hardened in the mold of experience. Just now, of the several conflicting impulses that seized him, that of playing peacemaker was uppermost. He ran up and pulled the nearest of the embattled partisans back. His eye caught that of Justin Lane-Walsh, heir to the Stromberg vice-presidential chair. He shouted: "Here, you help me separate 'em!"
"Bah!" roared the heir to the vice presidency. "I hate all Crosleys, 'specially you. Defend yourself!" And he advanced, whirling his duelling stick around his head. He and Juniper-Hallett were whacking away merrily, as were all the other members of the feuding companies in sight, when the police arrived.
A duelling stick, whose weight is regulated by the conventions, is no match for a three-foot night-stick. When the clatter had died down, and the physicians were doing emergency repairs on assorted skulls, collar bones, and so forth, the chief of police summoned the chairmen of the rival houses.
Billiam Bickham-Smith of Stromberg and Archwin Taylor-Thing of Crosley appeared, glaring.
"Aw right," said the chief. "I warned you 'bout this here feudin'. I said, the next time they's a scrap in a public place, I'd close up your show. I wouldn't say a word if you'd fight your duels out in the hills somewhere. But I got to proteck the innocent bystanders."
The chief of police was a small, sallow man. He wore the blue tunic of officialdom, with a shield bearing the motto of the Corporate State: Alle was nicht Pficht ist, ist verboten—"All that is not compulsory is forbidden." His trouser legs were gayly colored, in different patterns: one that of the American Empire, the other that of Los Angeles, the capital.
Archwin of Crosley looked through the head of the rival house as though Billiam of Stromberg were not there. He said to the chief: "You can't expect my men to submit to unprovoked assault. Unprovoked assault."
"Unprovoked!" snorted Billiam of Stromberg. "My lord chief, I've got all the witnesses you want that egghead's men struck first."
"
What?" yelled Archwin of Crosley. "Where's my stick?"
Whereas, Billiam of Stromberg had a beautiful head of silky white hair, Archwin of Crosley had no hair at all. He was sensitive to references to this fact.
"Won't do you no good to start a fight here," said the chief. "I'm going to close you up. I represent the plain citizens of Los Angeles, and we don't want no feudin' in the city limits. The Imperial Board of Control will back me up, too."
"Vulgar rabble," muttered Billiam of Stromberg.
"Have to travel all day to get out of the limits of this city," growled Archwin of Crosley.
The chairmen subsided, looking unhappy. They did not want the Exposition closed; neither, really, did the chief of police. Aside from the dangers of antagonizing two of the noblest clans of the American Empire, there was the loss of business.
He let them think for half a minute, then said: "Course, if you'd agree to discipline your men hard enough next time there's a fight, maybe we could let the show go on."
"I'll go as far as that old goat will," said Archwin of Crosley.
"What's your plan?" asked Billiam of Stromberg, controlling himself with visible effort.
"This," said the chief. "Any man who gets in a scrap gets degraded, if he belongs to one of the orders, and read out of his company."
The chairmen looked startled. This was drastic. Billiam Bickham-Smith asked: "Even if he's of the rank of executive?"
"Even if he's of the rank of entrepreneur."
"Whew!" That was little short of sacrilege.
Archwin of Crosley asked: "Even if he's the innocent party?"
"Even if he's the innocent party. 'Count of both of 'em would claim they was innocent, and the only thing we could do would be give 'em a trial by liedetector, and everybody knows how to beat the liedetector nowadays. Do you agree on your honor as an entrepreneur, Lord Archwin?"
"I agree."
"You. Your Integrity of Stromberg?"
"Uh-huh."
Back at the Crosley exhibit, Archwin Taylor-Thing searched out Horace Juniper-Hallett. His Integrity's eye had the sparkle of one who bears devastatingly good news.
He said: "Horace, that was a fine piece of work you did this morning. A fine piece of work. That was just the right course to follow; just the right course. Try to prevent trouble, but if your honor's attacked, give back better than you get. I've had my eye on you for some time. But, until today, you minded your own affairs and didn't do anything to businessman you for." The chairman raised his voice: "Come gather round, all you loyal Crosleys. Gimme a stick, somebody. Thanks, Kneel, Whitecollar Juniper-Hallett." He tapped Juniper-Hallett on the shoulder and said: "Rise, Horace Juniper-Hallett, Esquire. You are now of the rank of businessman, with all the privileges and responsibilities of that honorable rank. I hereby present to you the gold-inlaid fountain pen and the briefcase that are the insignia of your new status. Guard them with your life."
It was over. The Crosleys crowded around, slapping Juniper-Hallett's back and wringing his hand. Dimly, he heard Lord Archwin's voice telling him he could have the rest of the day off.
Then he was instructing a still younger whitecollar, Wilmot Dunn-Terry, in the duties of the outhander. "You encourage 'em to take one of each of the catalogues," he said, "but not more than one. Some of these birds'll try to walk off with half a dozen of each, just because they're free." He lowered his voice. "Along around fifteen o'clock, your feet will begin to hurt. If there's a lull in the business, look around carefully to see that none of the nobles is in sight, and sit down. But don't stay sat long, and don't get to reading or talking. Keep your eyes open for visitors and nobles, especially nobles. Got it?"
Dunn-Terry grinned at him. "Thanks, Horace. Can I still call you Horace, now that you're a businessman and all? Say, what's this about the theft of a dormouse from Sleepers' Crypt?"
"Huh? I haven't heard. Haven't seen a paper this morning."
"One of 'em's disappeared," said Dunn-Terry. "I overheard some of the nobility talking about it. They sounded all worked up. There was some talk about the Hawaiians, too."
Juniper-Hallett shrugged. His head was too full of his recent good fortune to pay much attention. The clock hands reached ten; the gates opened; the visitors started to trickle in. A still slightly dazed Horace Juniper-Hallett wandered off.
His hand still tingled from the squeezing it had received. He wondered what on earth he had done to deserve his elevation to businessmanhood. He was young for the rank, he knew. True, he was of noble blood on his mother's side, but Archwin of Crosley had the reputation of leaning over backward to avoid favoring members of the ruling class in dealing out businessmanhoods; he had even been known to elevate proletarians.
What Juniper-Hallett did not know was that the chairman was trying to build him up as a possible heir to the presidency. His Acumen, the president of Crosley, was getting on; he had two sons, one a moron and the other a young hellion. Next in line, by relationship, was Juniper-Hallett himself. Though, as the relationship was remote, and Juniper-Hallett was of noble blood on his mother's side only, he had not given the prospect any thought. His Acumen, the president, father of the precious pair of misfits, did not know the chairman's plans, either.
Juniper-Hallett, in his happy daze, noted casually the scowls of the Stromberg whitecollars. But the briefcase and the fancy fountain pen in his breast pocket gave him the feeling that the hostility of such rabble could no longer affect him.
Then he saw a girl. The daze cleared instantly, to be replaced by one of pinkish hue. She was a stunning brunette, and she wore the Stromberg colors of green, brown, and yellow. She was leaning against part of one of the Stromberg booths. Juniper-Hallett had seen her picture, and knew she was the daughter of His Integrity Billiam Bickham-Smith, chairman of Stromberg. Her name was Janet Bickham-Coates, "Coates" being her mother's father's family name.
Juniper-Hallett stood very still, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, and looking, not at the girl, but at a point three meters to the left of her. He ran over what he knew of her—she was just about his age; went in for sports—
He was determined to do something about her. At the moment, he could not think what. If the Strombergs had been friendly, it would have been simple; some of them undoubtedly knew her to speak to. But as things were, she'd probably be no more ingratiated by the sight of the Crosley colors—a blue-and yellow-striped coat and red pants—than the rest of them.
Nor would it be simple to get a suit of Stromberg colors. First, the obligations of businessmanhood forbade it. Second, the salesman in the clothing department of the drugstore would make you identify yourself. He'd want no trouble with the genuine Strombergs for having sold a suit of their colors to an outsider.
And the Strombergs were throwing a big dinner that night.
Justin Lane-Walsh appeared. He put his hat on his head of copper-wire curls and walked past Juniper-Hallett. He slowed down as he passed, growling: "If it weren't for the old man's orders, you dirty Crosley, I'd finish what we started, sir."
Juniper-Hallett fell into step beside him. "I'm sorry I can't oblige you, you dirty Stromberg. I'd like nothing better, sir."
"I'm sorry, too. Don't know what we can do about it."
Juniper-Hallett felt an idea coming. He said: "Let's grab some lunch, and then go somewhere and drink to our mutual sorrow."
"By the great god Service, that's an idea!" Lane-Walsh looked down at his enemy with an almost friendly expression. "Come along, sister."
"Coming, you big louse." They went.
"Sir," said Lane-Walsh over his third drink, "I can just imagine my stick crunching through that baby face of yours. Swell thought, huh?"
"I don't know," said Juniper-Hallett. He winced every time Lane-Walsh made a crack like that about his looks. But he was learning, somewhat late in life, not to let such taunts drive him into a fury. "I find the idea of knocking those big ears loose a lot nicer. Why do all Strombergs have ears that stick out?"
L
ane-Walsh shrugged. "Why are all Crosleys baby-faced shrimps?"
"I wouldn't call Lord Archwin baby-faced," said Juniper-Hallett judiciously. "Any baby with a face like his would probably scare its parents to death."
"That's so. Maybe I judge the rest of 'em by you. Well," he held up his glass, "here's to an early and bloody settlement of our differences."
"Right," said Juniper-Hallett. "May the worst man get all his teeth knocked out. Look, Justin old scum, what have you heard about the stealing of a dormouse from the Crypt?"
Lane-Walsh's face went elaborately blank. "Not a thing, sister, not a thing."
"I heard the Hawaiians might be mixed up in it."
"Might be," said Lane-Walsh. "The dormouse that was stolen, a guy named Arnold Ryan, was half Hawaiian, they say."
"He must date back to the days of single surnames. Wasn't he the original inventor of hibernine?"
"He—" Lane-Walsh's face went through a perfect double-take, as he realized that he had fallen over his own mental feet. He covered his confusion with a big gulp of rye-and-soda. Then he said: "You never know what those devilish Hawaiians are up to. Loafers, pirates, blasphemers against the good god Service. They've stopped another shipment of tungsten from New Caledonia."
"Sure," said Juniper-Hallett. "But about this dormouse Ryan, whom you just said you didn't know anything about—"
"I said I didn't know," said Lane-Walsh angrily. "I may have heard a few things. Now, I say these Hawaiians ought to be wiped out. What's the matter with our admirals? Scared of a few flying torpedoes? I—"
"Pipe down," said Juniper-Hallett.
Lane-Walsh saw that he was attracting attention, and lowered his brassy voice. "Right. Say, I'll be getting drunk at this rate. And I've got to be at the speakers' table tonight."
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