Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  The president, still seated, felt an opportunity was passing beyond recall. Words which would serve to clinch decisions had somehow remained unsaid. Surely there must be something more than this? He, too, stood. More needed to be said.

  “How does it look to you, over all?” the president asked. “I don’t think we’re being unreasonable, are we? What’re our chances?” Raleigh turned to the president, smiling. “I’m just the third secretary. All I can do is file my report, make my recommendations. You never know for sure what action will be taken. Experience has taught me not to try to commit the Federation in the field. You’ll be hearing in about two weeks, after my superiors have had a chance to go over everything with me. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “We’re not being unreasonable?” the president asked again. “Everything seems O.K. to you?” Raleigh, still smiling, said, “I was very impressed by the complete details you provided me today to document your requests; very impressed, indeed. I don’t think I can really say anything more than that at this time.”

  The president saw MacDonald, over Raleigh’s shoulder, make an O-sign with thumb and forefinger—symbol of confident victory.

  Tension departed. The president’s face relaxed into a smile. Everything was going to be all right. He wanted to laugh for joy and relief.

  “It has certainly been nice knowing you, Secretary Raleigh,” said the president. “I’d like to give you a little token, a little memo, of your trip here.” His hand went to the battered hat on the table. “I’d like to give you this hat here, this hat of mine, as a memento of your stay here. Something to remind you of Elanth.”

  Secretary Raleigh looked toward the hat. “I would very much appreciate having the hat,” he said.

  The president beamed. “I hoped you would accept it. I wanted to give it to you today, rather than at the field tomorrow, so we could get it packed for shipment. I’ll see it’s all packed up nice and that it makes your flight tomorrow.”

  “Very considerate of you, very thoughtful,” said Raleigh, still smiling, looking at his watch.

  MacDonald said, “I’ll have the car sent right around.”

  “No sense in bothering your Security Guards, Mr. President,” said Raleigh. “Just have your chauffeur drop me off.”

  “I wouldn’t think of not riding over with you,” said the president, dropping a huge hand over Raleigh’s shoulder. “Now you remember, for sure now, we can always make a good job in this administration for a man like you. I’m serious. If you ever think of giving up your present job, I want you to promise me we’ll have first chance at you.”

  VII

  Saturday, after takeoff, Raleigh relaxed for the first time in a week. Fatigue sat heavily upon his body, reminding him again that he was no longer young. His stay on Elanth had constituted a physical ordeal of some dimension. He had read omnivorously and wished now never to see another book, magazine, or newspaper. This would, of course, pass.

  Thoughts turned to his wife. She would be glad he had held his self-imposed schedule. Ten days out, this time. He could have let her come along. You never know, though, on these assignments. Next time.

  He closed his eyes. It was good to settle back, rest. Glad the ceremony at the field was over. It seemed to go on forever. He must have looked like a fool, smiling, accepting that damned hat for the second time. Houston must have quite a supply of them: the one packed with the luggage. The one at the field—what happened to it? There was one on Houston’s head. He probably gave one. to MacDonald at some time or other. That would be worth seeing, worth having a photograph of, MacDonald in one of Houston’s hats.

  The whole experience was melting away into memory and perspective. It was strange to think of them: Houston, Hayes, MacDonald, Johnson, Strickland, going about their business still. They were changing, always changing, as people everywhere are always changing, for better or for worse. Yet, to Raleigh, all of them were tacked in memory as they once were, cut-out figures on the bulletin board of his mind—motionless and devoid of life.

  And that damned formal statement, jointly issued. Houston’s draft, sprung on him at the banquet, had been totally unacceptable. Until two o’clock this morning, I stayed up working on that damned thing; then on the way to the field, practically arguing with MacDonald on some of the words. Imagine being trapped in a Christian Hell with MacDonald: the two of us debating three short paragraphs for eternity as if the words really mattered a damn.

  Words. How to handle the report? Couple of days to knock it out. Recommendations are written in my head. Now, to document them. Used to have to go into details, details, details, until everything got washed out of perspective and lost: now, a twenty, twenty-five page summary, and they won’t even read that. Will anybody actually read the report at all? Or is everything simply decided over lunch?

  Back on Coueril, the first secretary was not immediately available. The appointment—a luncheon appointment, as Raleigh had expected—was set up for the third day. The report was in rough draft.

  Over cocktails, Raleigh said, “Anything important happen while I was gone?”

  “The petition from the Reiwelei has come up again. Nobody can seem to quite make up his mind. I honestly don’t know what to do about it myself. And to top it off, of course, half the file seems either to be lost or misplaced. How was it on Elanth, though? Did you have a good trip?”

  “The food seems to have improved on the Culter Lines. I had one of their ships going out. Coming in, it was Stellar Queen 27. The food on it was just as bad as I remembered it. On the way out, I was saddled with a religious nut from here. I’ve had better trips.”

  “Situation on Elanth about what we expected?” asked the first secretary.

  “Considerably worse. I won’t bore you with all the details.” Raleigh sipped his cocktail. “The Elanthians, those are the helpful indigenous population, the ones we found so puzzling, are probably about ready to revolt. If they do, I’m reasonably sure they’ll wipe out all the citizens. Fortunately, this is not our concern. No question at all that we couldn’t possibly approve the weapons requisition. They definitely want them in case the Elanthians do revolt.”

  “Obviously then,” said the first secretary, “we can’t let them have the weapons. And if there is going to be a revolt, somebody will catch hell for approving the purchase of that drug—”

  “Simeryl,” Raleigh supplied.

  “Simeryl. They’ll never be able to pay for that.”

  “You may as well write that off to experience—revolt or no revolt. Their economy is going to blow up in their face. That’s one hundred nineteen million three hundred thousand dollars up the tubes.”

  “Win one, lose one,” said the first secretary. “I’ll tell Rothman we’ll have to turn the whole package down, then. Is there anything constructive we can do?”

  “I’m going to cost us some money here,” Raleigh said, toying with his remaining drink. “I hate to come back and recommend we spend money on a lost cause, as far as the Federation is concerned, but that’s what I’ve got to do in this case.”

  The first secretary looked up from his drink, a combination of surprise and displeasure on his face. These emotions passed. He relaxed again. “O.K., John, let’s have the bad news. How much is it going to cost us?”

  “I have no idea,” said Raleigh. “There’s a rather large group of Elanthians they’ve addicted to Simeryl. I don’t see how we can escape at least the moral responsibility for that. We’re going to need something that reverses that addiction.”

  “That kind of research is expensive.”

  “Money’s got to be spent,” said Raleigh. “I want to see us drop the counter-drug in there at the first possible moment. That will be a job for Tenth Corps. Better let an R&D contract the sooner the better. I’d say, since this is pressing, commit us to a synthesis contract to the same firm, right from the beginning. Let’s not bargain hunt.”

  “Well,” said the first secretary, “If it’s got to be done
, it’s got to be. That’s that. Thanks a lot, John . . . Better give me some documentation to look over, in case I need it, just so I can sell Rothman on it.”

  “My report’s in rough draft. It’ll be about twenty minutes reading. I’ll get it over to you day after tomorrow.”

  The first secretary picked up the menu. “Special’s good today. Tell me, John, what fundamentally seems to have gone wrong out there with the settlers?”

  Raleigh finished his drink. “They bumped into a superior culture in the Elanthians and this gave them a horrible inferiority complex. It just permeates their whole society today, it just infects everything.” Raleigh picked up the menu and studied it. “The special, you say? I don’t care much for skew, unless it’s fixed just right. I think I’ll try the steak; that’s usually pretty good.”

  “I eat so damned many steaks,” said the first secretary.

  “You people with inside jobs,” said Raleigh. “A pretty soft life.” He put the menu down. “About the citizens of Elanth,” he said, “I’d say as high as seventy per cent of them, and maybe more, are certifiably insane.”

  1967

  BALLENGER’S PEOPLE

  Ballenger wasn’t crazy. He only followed simple majority rule!

  The radios in the wall came on with a click, and a moment later African drum music issued into the bedroom. Bart Ballenger was instantly awake.

  He took a vote, and the consensus was it’s Thursday.

  He arose and stood before the window and breathed deeply. Thursday was the day to settle accounts with a lawyer on Wilshire Blvd.

  Air and sunlight said spring. This, too, was verified democratically.

  Ballenger completed the early morning routine against the sound of music. He moved about his two-bedroom apartment, checking. All was as the previous evening. No one had entered during the night. The smaller bedroom was in order against the arrival of guests who never came.

  He sat at the counter-top divider, between living room and kitchen, eating eggs, drinking coffee. The radios around him, all switched on, played the same music as in the bedroom. He bobbed his head to the rhythm, visualized The Star Walkers. He was in love with the middle drummer, a girl named Angelique Roust.

  Ballenger had seen Angelique on TV and instantly fallen in love with her. She replaced his previous love, Miss Terri Paul, flutist, a person, in retrospect, with no bust worthy of mention.

  Now it seemed, over the eggs and coffee in the natural brightness of morning, fantastic that such a collection as Miss Terri Paul could have attracted even his momentary attention, much less captivated him for a single minute, let alone nearly five whole months. He vowed against eternity that he would never, never, never show Miss Terri Paul’s TV tapes again, and if he heard her on radio, he would refuse to listen. This would be proof of his love for Angelique.

  He finished his coffee. The news was coming on, blaring out over the sounds of cool jazz. There were, in the world, the nations of crime and the nations of law and order; he belonged to the latter. All were democracies, whether they knew it or not, but some were insane. This was scarcely surprising when you considered evolution.

  Out came the letter: Final

  Notice! The amount, including postage, was $23.47.

  “Ballenger—” began the letter, omitting the customary salutation “—your actions indicate you have no intention of paying the enclosed bill. If this bill is not paid immediately, I will be forced to institute legal action, which may involve your employer. You will be liable for all costs incurred in collection. To avoid embarrassment and the extra expense, your check in the amount of $23.47 must be received by return mail. I mean business. This is the last notice I will send before forwarding the bill to the California Courts for collection. F. Terrace Watson, Attorney at Law.”

  The bill was clearly illegal. Watson had been given every chance to prove his case: and had failed dismally.

  Item one: Jury trial.

  Item two: Superior court review.

  Item three: Supreme court decision.

  All favored Ballenger. Watson did not care enough even to present his case on the appeal, and Ballenger, out of a sense of fairness, had continued the proceedings on his own initiative. Now this man, Watson, was threatening the very nation itself.

  Ballenger folded the letter and replaced it in his inner suitcoat pocket. Breakfast finished, he put the, dishes in the machine. Seven twenty in the morning. Normally time to leave for work. Switchboard opens in exactly thirty-five minutes. Time was a rubber band, stretching out.

  He removed his credit-card receipts. We will audit the accounts this morning. Prudent financial management is the foundation of the nation. The Secretary of the Treasury was summoned.

  Two dollars and fifty-nine cents, plus tax, for a six-pack of half quart cans of beer. Five cans were still in the refrigerator. The supply would last another month. The Secretary of the Treasury waived the right to appeal and agreed the expense was reasonable. Three dollars and eighty-nine cents for dry cleaning: an unavoidable expense. Ten dollars, thirteen cents: a lube and oil job, rotors adjusted, fuel tank filled. No argument there. Forty-seven cents for a large chocolate bar. They called in the Surgeon General on that one. To the bathroom scale. Ballenger had picked up four ounces by the scale. Back to the accounts. Let’s watch that candy. Ballenger agreed.

  Four dollars and ten cents, including tips, for dinner in the restaurant last night. This Wednesday’s expense was sanctioned by tradition, and recent polls showed it was approved by eighty-three per cent of the citizens. Of the $25 he allowed himself for the period, he still had three dollars plus change. Close enough. The Secretary of the Treasury was satisfied.

  Snap! went the rubber band. Five minutes before eight.

  Ballenger phoned the switchboard.

  “Thank you for calling Meritt and Finch,” said the recording.

  “Space research is our specialty.”

  He said, “Ballenger from Accounting. I have some personal business to take care of this morning. I’ll be in after lunch.”

  “Thank you for your message, Mr. Ballenger,” said the machine.

  Traffic above Los Angeles would begin breaking in another fifteen minutes. It was a twenty-minute flight to the office of F. Terrace Watson, Attorney at Law. Leave at eight fifteen, be there at twenty-five before nine.

  Ballenger checked the day-shift workers. Everyone seemed at his job. Pulse was good, heartbeat steady, respiration normal. Swing shift would be going to bed in another hour. Most of the night shift probably hadn’t gone back to sleep after voting on the day of the week. They should be up stirring. Should try to get all of today’s major business out of the way before nine, nine-thirty, so the swing shift could get their rest.

  Some sort of a proxy agreement really must be worked out, if it can be done democratically. We’ve got to send legislation to that effect up to the next Congress. Note: Cabinet meeting on Sunday should discuss this.

  Meanwhile, one of the problems was too many important decisions. The executive himself could do something about that. Should definitely cut down on the number of major decisions, keep them to a bare minimum, try to get them all out of the way before nine o’clock. No excuse for decisions in the middle of the day. A well run country shouldn’t have emergencies.

  Yet the evils of dictatorships are too well known to review: an evolutionary failure of the organism. Strange so few saw this very point with the clarity of Ballenger.

  Promptly at eight twelve, he buzzed the garage of his departure and left the apartment, checking to be sure the door latch was set to lock. Two minutes later, he was on the roof. The morning rush having passed, the mechanical attendant had already assembled the blades. He stepped in, and the radios came on with the ignition. He hummed in time, tapping the control bar.

  Airborne, the Security Forces relaxed. Once again he had remembered to lock the door. The day-shift technicians, well rested, began to supervise the complicated motor activity connected with flying. T
he pilot stood at the bridge, in command, studying meaningful lights as they flashed their careful traffic patterns, responding with the necessary movements.

  Ballenger again wished there were some way to introduce more automation. Perhaps he should take it up with his Scientific Advisory Group. But if the SAG could work out a way, what about unemployment, long solved among nations, but an ever-present internal danger?

  No! Better to have jobs for all than to have to worry about chronic unemployment. The thing to avoid was overtime. The union was very difficult when it came to overtime. Four hours off for each hour on. Once, after a very difficult week at the office, he had spent all of Friday in bed to catch up.

  The blades joined traffic.

  At eight thirty, between commercials, came the news-break. It was the one thing he really did not like about the station. Ballenger frowned in annoyance. The nations of crime seemed to have the upper hand: an aggression in Florida, a war on the streets of Los Angeles. Incomprehensible. Pointless.

  He checked again with his legal staff. There was no possible question that Watson’s demand was completely illegal. There was no legal way Ballenger could be made to pay. Still, this being a foreign affair, rather than a domestic one, you could never foe entirely sure of results.

  Ballenger had long fought a mental battle with other nations for territorial integrity. To the things of the flesh, flesh; to the things of the spirit, spirit. It was difficult to know whether or not he was being ignored completely, for no other nation ever made a sign of having heard him on this matter. He called in the Secretary of State. We’ll rest our case, said the Secretary, on external law. We will negotiate, but we will not arbitrate.

  Music came back on. He wished they’d play one of Angelique’s records. It would be good to know she was backing him in this matter.

  But of course she was. Angelique was a nation like himself: a hater of injustice everywhere. Hadn’t she already proved that, time after time? Hadn’t she whispered it to him over TV? Of course she supported him. With the total resources of her body.