And Arnie: “Yeah. Not that that’s evidence, as We Engineers understand evidence. It’s just your untrained recollection of what an untrained woman told you. But it gives you an idea of how those lousy ingrates nettled down and got smug. They’d change their tune damn fast if We Engineers weren’t on the job. But you’re an artist, Norvell. You can’t be expected to understand.” And he would gloomily drink beer.
Going home from work and looking forward to seeing his best friend later that night, Norvie was not so sure he didn’t understand. He even felt a little grieved that Arnie had insisted on it. He even felt inclined to argue that he wasn’t an artist like some crackpot oil painter or novelist in a filthy Belly Rave hovel, but a technician in his own right. Well, kind of; his medium was the emotional fluxes of a Field Day crowd rather than torques, forces, and electrons.
He had an important job, Norvie told himself: Associate Producer, Monmouth Stadium Field Days. Of course, Arnie far outstripped him in title. Arnie was Engineer Supervising Rotary and Reciprocal Pump Installations and Maintenance for Monmouth G.M.L. City. . . .
Not that Arnie was the kind of guy to stand on rank. Hell, look at how Arnie was always doing things for you—like finding you a lawyer when you needed one—and—well, he was always doing things for you. It was a privilege to know a man like Arnie Dworcas.
Knowing a fellow like Arnie made life a great deal more enjoyable for a fellow like Norvie.
Norvie smiled internally at the thought of Arnie, right up to the moment when he arrived at the door of his bubble-bouse and the scanner recognized him and opened the door, and he went in to join his wife and child.
Chapter Three
charles mundin, LL.B., entered Republican Hall through the back way.
He found Del Dworcas in the balcony—the Hall was a busted, slightly remodeled movie house—telling the cameramen how to place their cameras, the sound men how to line up their parabolic mikes and the electricians how to use their lights. For that was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was.
Mundin stood on the sidelines faintly hoping that one of the cameramen would take out a few of Dworcas’s front teeth with a tripod leg, but they kept their tempers admirably. He sighed and tapped the chairman on the shoulder.
Dworcas gave him the big hello and asked him to wait in the manager’s office for him—he had to get these TV people squared away, but it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. “Did you see that fellow Bligh?” he asked. “Yeah? Good. Soak him, Charlie; you got to make a living, you know. Some friend of my kid brother’s. Now go on down to the office. Couple of people there for you to talk to.” He looked palpably mysterious.
Mundin sighed again; but that, too, was the kind of hairpin Del Dworcas was. At the foot of the stairs he yelled in astonishment: “Great God Almighty! Prince Wilhelm the Fourth!”
William Choate IV jerked around and looked confused, then stuck out a hand for Mundin to grasp. He was a pudgy little man of Mundin’s age, classmate from John Marshall, heir to a mighty corporate practice, tidy dresser, former friend, solid citizen, four-star jerk. “Why, hello, Charles,” he said uncertainly. “Good to see you.”
“Likewise. What are you doing here?”
Choate made a mighty effort and produced a shrug. “Oh,” he said, “you know.”
“Meaning that even a corporation lawyer has political dealings once in a while?” Mundin helped him out.
“That’s it exactly!” Choate was pleased; it was just like old times. Mundin had always helped him out, all the way through John Marshall Law.
Mundin looked at his former prot6g6 with emotions that were only distantly related to envy. “It’s a pleasure to run into you, Willie,” he said. “They keeping you busy?”
“Busy? Whew! You’ll never know, Charles.” That was an unfortunate remark, Mundin admitted to himself. Busy—— “You know the I. G. Farben reorganization?”
“By reputation,” Mundin said bitterly. “I’m in criminal practice right now. Incidentally, I had an interesting case today——”